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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 53772 ***</div>

<hr class="chap" />


<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">1</span></p>

<div class="transnote">
<p>Transcriber’s note: table of contents added by the transcriber.</p>
</div>

<p class="toc">

<a href="#THE_POLITICAL_SITUATION_OF_EUROPE">THE POLITICAL SITUATION OF EUROPE.</a><br />
<a href="#ORGANIC_NATURES_RIDDLE">ORGANIC NATURE’S RIDDLE.</a><br />
<a href="#A_VERY_OLD_MASTER">A VERY OLD MASTER.</a><br />
<a href="#THE_ORGANIZATION_OF_DEMOCRACY">THE ORGANIZATION OF DEMOCRACY.</a><br />
<a href="#SIR_WILLIAM_SIEMENS8">SIR WILLIAM SIEMENS.</a><br />
<a href="#A_FRENCH_DRAMA_UPON_ABELARD">A FRENCH DRAMA UPON ABELARD.</a><br />
<a href="#THE_UNITY_OF_THE_EMPIRE">THE UNITY OF THE EMPIRE.</a><br />
<a href="#ODD_QUARTERS">ODD QUARTERS.</a><br />
<a href="#SIR_TRISTRAM_DE_LYONESSE">SIR TRISTRAM DE LYONESSE.</a><br />
<a href="#OLD_MYTHOLOGY_IN_NEW_APPAREL">OLD MYTHOLOGY IN NEW APPAREL.</a><br />
<a href="#OUTWITTED">OUTWITTED.</a><br />
<a href="#THE_BANK_OF_ENGLAND">THE BANK OF ENGLAND.</a><br />
<a href="#EXPLORATION_IN_A_NEW_DIRECTION">EXPLORATION IN A NEW DIRECTION.</a><br />
<a href="#A_RUSSIAN_PHILOSOPHER_ON_ENGLISH_POLITICS">A RUSSIAN PHILOSOPHER ON ENGLISH POLITICS.</a><br />
<a href="#BLACKSTONE">BLACKSTONE.</a><br />
<a href="#LITERARY_NOTICES">LITERARY NOTICES.</a><br />
<a href="#FOREIGN_LITERARY_NOTES">FOREIGN LITERARY NOTES.</a><br />
<a href="#MISCELLANY">MISCELLANY.</a><br />
</p>
<hr class="chap" />

<div class="figcenter">
<img src="images/masthead.jpg" alt="Masthead" />
</div>


<hr class="chap" />
<h1>
Eclectic Magazine<br />

<span class="xs">OF</span><br />

<small>FOREIGN LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART</small>.</h1>


<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<col width="30%" /><col width="40%" /><col width="30%" />
<tr>
  <td align="center" colspan="3"><img src="images/001.jpg" alt="――――――" /></td>
</tr>
<tr>
  <td align="center"><small>New Series.<br />Vol. XLI., No. 5.</small></td>
  <td align="center">MAY, 1885.</td>
  <td align="center"><small>Old Series complete<br />in 63 vols.</small></td>
</tr>
<tr>
  <td align="center" colspan="3"><img src="images/001.jpg" alt="――――――" /></td>
</tr>
</table></div>



<hr class="chap" />




<h2><a name="THE_POLITICAL_SITUATION_OF_EUROPE" id="THE_POLITICAL_SITUATION_OF_EUROPE">THE POLITICAL SITUATION OF EUROPE.</a><br />

<small>BY F. NOBILI-VITELLESCHI, SENATOR OF ITALY.</small></h2>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">2</span></p>


<h3>I.</h3>

<p>It is a matter worthy of consideration
why the progress which is in our time so
unexpectedly rapid in all which concerns
the physical world, should be so
slow, or rather so limited, in the sphere
of morals. We might almost say that,
like a line ascending in a spiral form,
progress can in each historical period
only be made within the given orbit in
which the period itself revolves.</p>

<p>With respect to the two principal
questions which interest mankind in its
complex—that is, in its political and social—existence,
the orbit in which the
historical period preceding our own
revolved, as far as politics are concerned,
circled round what we may term
the State, although this does not precisely
correspond to our present conception
of the word; and socially it re<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">3</span>volved
round an absolute system of proprietorship,
together with the rights and
duties which were to a varying extent
attached to it, and which included a relative
and practically obsolete exercise
of charitable customs.</p>

<p>That which was called a State was not
always a combination which had, in accordance
with the modern conception,
the public welfare as its sole and supreme
object, but it generally depended
on certain rights which had their origin
in facts of extreme antiquity. These
combinations were of two kinds. The
most usual, which was indeed almost
universal in Europe, was the monarchy,
in which a given family governed and represented
the interests of a more or less
extensive number of peoples, which in
virtue of ancient rights, of conquests, of
treaties, or in any other way belonged
to her. In a few rare instances these<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">4</span>
monarchies were elective, and the rulers,
who were elected by a college, a caste,
or in some other manner, found themselves
in the same conditions as hereditary
sovereigns. The least common,
but not the least important and successful,
form of government was that of the
communities which governed themselves.
But even this form relied for its existence
on the same elements as the monarchies—that
is, on rights, conquests,
and treaties, or similar reasons—on
which alone the political state of Europe
was based up to the year 1815.</p>

<p>By this we mean that up to 1815 no
right was recognised in political life except
that which derived its origin from
some fact or facts which were supposed
to constitute rights, such as successions,
conquests, concessions, or gifts. Spain,
in virtue of one or other of these titles,
ruled the Low Countries and the kingdom
of Naples, nor did it occur to any
one to discuss the fitness of this strange
aggregation of different peoples, united
in a single State. It would be tedious
to cite all the instances of curious combinations
to which the ancient European
rights gave rise. Although they
had a tendency to dissolve under the
influence of recent times, yet the system
was maintained up to 1815, the date of
the last great treaty which was made on
this basis, and of which the effect remained
up to 1845.</p>

<p>Throughout this protracted period, of
which the beginning is confounded with
that of European civilisation, a certain
progress did, however, take place in the
conditions of European society, which
advanced from the capitulations of
Charles the Great to the English Great
Charter, from arbitrary decrees to the
statutes of the republic of Florence, and
finally, to the legislative acts of Joseph
the Second in Austria, of Leopold in
Tuscany, Charles the Third in the kingdom
of Naples, and of all the contemporary
governments which uttered their
last word on such progress as was possible
to politicians of that period, and
which consisted in adapting as far as
possible the inflexible exigencies of ancient
rights to the necessities of modern
facts, and in inducing those who governed
by divine right to consider the interests
of the people. But this was only
up to a certain point, and the relative<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">5</span>
conditions of the governors and the governed
did not cease to be the basis of
European policy.</p>

<p>Speaking of these things at this day
is like speaking of another world. A
State which is not governed in the interests
of those of whom it consists
would be a tyranny. It is held to be an
iniquity to hold a people subject to a
rule which is independent of ethnographical,
geographical, or economical
considerations, and such a people would
be considered justified in throwing off
the yoke, if possible. A war undertaken
to maintain a purely dynastic title would
be regarded as an intolerable burden, to
which no nation is bound to submit.</p>

<p>The arguments which are used to stigmatise
and condemn the old system as
unjust and out of date are naturally
derived from its evils, dangers, and inconveniences.
The people were subject
to laws, taxation, and wars, for causes
which did not concern them, and which
for that very reason multiplied without
control. The Thirty Years’ War and
the War of Succession cut down whole
peoples, not for their own benefit, but in
order to decide to whom they should
belong. A permanent state of war appeared
to be the inevitable result of the
conflagration of all these rights, which
were contested at the expense of the
happiness of peoples. Meanwhile science
had changed the basis of rights, and the
famous principles of 1789, which had
their birth in the intoxication of the
nascent revolution and were nourished
by the blood of its maturer age, found
their way into codes and constitutions.
The old system, condemned both in
theory and practice, was anathematised
by the rising generation, which claimed
to have discovered the secret of true
policy, and the grand panacea for all the
evils of humanity.</p>

<p>Nor was it otherwise with social questions.
The conception that every man
might do what he pleased with his own,
and might transmit it to others both
before and after his death, was more or
less present in the constitution of all
civil societies. But this system deprived
of the enjoyments of life all those
who were unable to acquire property for
themselves, and to whom no one could
or would transmit it. In one word, in
this system there were no official disposi<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">6</span>tions
for the poor, who nevertheless
constitute the eternal problem of human
society. In fact, money enough for
the permanent and complete relief of the
poor could not be found, nor the mode
of useful legislation on this subject. But
an appeal beneath the beneficent influence
of Christianity was made to the
most refined sentiments of humanity,
and created duties which, however imperfectly
fulfilled, were imperious, and
relied on a divine sanction. In this
way charity provided for the variable
and indefinite needs which exist in all
human societies, from the richest and
most fortunate to the poorest and most
unhappy, and did so with the buoyant
and indefinite force inspired by sentiment,
which contrasts strongly with
similar laws and provisions enacted by
the State.</p>

<p>The modern phase of thought does
not venture openly to attack socially
property, as politically it has attacked
divine right, because it has not known
what to substitute in its place. It was
less difficult to sustain universal suffrage,
which met with fewer obstacles
in its translation into fact than communism
or socialism. There has therefore
been no direct attack on property, but
for a long while circuitous means have
been taken to undermine its rights. By
the destruction of the feudal system,
the bonds which connected property
with the exercise of political power were
burst asunder, and another blow was
struck at its stability by the abolition of
the rights of eldest sons, and of all the
other privileges belonging to it, according
to ancient usage. Later, legitimate
successions and those of intestate persons
have been regulated, and thus the
disintegration has been gradually prepared.
Finally, the laws of taxation for
purposes of the State or of public welfare
have further confiscated a large
portion of private property. Hence it
may be said that on great part of the
Continent property of every kind—rural,
urban, movable, or immovable—has become
a merchandise, great part of which
is administered by trustees for the benefit
of the State, while the rest is subject
to a number of laws, contracts, and combinations
which cause it to pass from
one person to another with the utmost
rapidity, so that its enjoyment may be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">7</span>
extended to as large a number as possible,
since the mode of distributing it
to all has not yet been discovered.</p>

<p>Charity has been overthrown by the
same blow. It has shared the unpopularity
of her preachers, and it also,
without being directly attacked, has
been subjected, under different pretexts,
to the destruction and conversion of a
very large number of institutions founded
under its banner, and discredit has
been thrown on its practices and provisions,
while the struggle for existence
has been brutally substituted for charity.
So much the worse for the man who cannot
help himself out of a difficulty. The
motto of our time is a species of <i lang="fr">sauve
qui peut</i>, which begins in the transactions
of the money market and leads some to
the temple of fortune and others to the
river or to the lunatic asylum.</p>

<p>We do not, however, assert that the
inexhaustible source of human kindness
with which God has mercifully endowed
our nature does not still find means of
doing good, and great good. Institutions,
which are for the most part beneficent,
abound on every side, and supply
the place of the ancient foundations
which have disappeared. But the conception
and its mode of execution are
different and do not correspond with the
old usage. Everything is done according
to rule in modern philanthropy.
There are free municipal schools in which
instruction is given to those who do or
do not desire it. There are hospitals in
which a definite number of patients afflicted
by certain diseases are collected,
and if the number is exceeded or the
symptoms are not the same, they are left
to die until a hospital is founded which
is intended for such cases. If a man is in
want of bread he receives a garment, because
the institution which might help
him only provides clothes; and if a whole
family is dying of hunger they will receive
a mattress if directed to an institution
which only supplies beds. The liberal
charity which is personal and intelligent,
and which corresponds to the infinite
variety and combinations of human
necessities, lingers, thank God! in the
hearts of the beneficent, but its form is
discredited and its means are abridged.
The great mass of the funds which were
devoted to charity is now diverted into
the official and semi-official channels of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">8</span>
modern philanthropy. In my opinion,
the relief which is now given does good
without remedying the evil, since a dinner
for to-day is always welcome, but it
will not prevent a man from dying of
hunger next week, or of cold if he has
not wherewithal to cover himself; while
a loaf or a cloak given at a propitious
moment may save the life of a man or of
a whole family. So it may be said that
the place of charity has been taken by
the struggle for existence, only modified
by administrative philanthropy.</p>

<p>This second revolution was produced
by the growing discredit which resulted
from the evils and inconveniences which
had their source in the ancient conception
of property, and from those which
were attributed to the free and sentimental
charity. Property, when in the
hands of a few privileged classes, made
few happy while the many were unhappy.
Charity created miseries by encouraging
idleness. Such were the principal arguments
which overthrew the old system.</p>

<p>Thus political power of an exclusive
and egotistic character, which was
founded on divine right, was destroyed
in order to constitute governments on a
popular basis; labor was substituted for
charity. It appeared to the philosophers
who carried out this great revolution
that nothing more was needed to inaugurate
a new golden age in which the rivers
would flow with milk, and ripe fruits
would fall on every man’s table. It is
needless to add that peace and general
satisfaction were to be the results of this
profound and laborious revolution.</p>


<h3>II.</h3>

<p>The old order of things was, however,
hardly demolished before two distinct
and menacing questions were raised upon
its ruins—Nationality and Socialism.
Let us begin with the first.</p>

<p>Since the country (<i lang="la">patria</i>), in the
limited sense of the word, had disappeared—that
is, the political unity which
was represented by the dynasty or flag
or even simply a steeple, the early
symbol of the old societies—the sentiment
of association took its concrete
form in a fresh combination, more in
harmony with the democratic tendencies
of our times. It assumed the widest
possible basis—to constitute a society
which should unite all common interests,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">9</span>
and should be governed in conformity
with these. It is, indeed, not surprising
that men who speak the same language,
inhabit the same zone, who are alike in
their customs and dispositions, who are,
in short, what is now called a nation,
should present all these characteristics,
and should therefore become the new
political unit both of the present and
the future, thus replacing the earlier
units formed by heredity or conquests
without respect to the interests of all
the component elements.</p>

<p>Nothing in nature is produced at one
stroke; and some races had already advanced
towards nationality, and especially
France, which had laboriously
constituted herself into a nation, before
the word was used in its political meaning.
But the country to which it was
allotted to assert loudly and explicitly
this new form of political life was Italy
in 1859. The formula of nationality as
the basis of right was first proposed by
her and obtained acceptance by international
jurisprudence, and this basis had
scarcely been established before it led
to the overthrow of six thrones which
boasted of different origins, among
which was the most ancient and most
venerable of all—the temporal power of
the Popes. The experiment was favorably
received, and Germany lost no
time in adopting it, since the old system
had produced in that country the same
conditions of divisions and of relative
weakness which had occurred in Italy.
The campaigns of 1866 and of 1870
served to contribute to the new theory
the force which was necessary to convince
European diplomacy.</p>

<p>Even those who most reluctantly accept
modern ideas do not now speak
of anything but nationality. It might
be supposed that there had never been
any other basis for politics, since this
has in a very short time been so completely
and universally accepted.</p>

<p>The production of these nationalities
has, however, been accompanied by all
the defects of the system which preceded
them. They have brought with
them all the rancours of ancient Europe.
The rancours of Francis I. and
of Charles V. have been transmuted into
the deadly enmity which exists between
French and Germans. The testament
of Frederic II. has led to the pro<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">10</span>gramme
of the German people, and the
ambitious projects of Catherine II. have
issued in the aspirations of the Slave
race. So though the new era which
began with nationality indicates a real
progress in the internal constitution of
the different States, and in the fundamental
reasons for their several governments;
still with respect to their international
relations to universal justice and
to general peace, in a word, with respect
to the progress of the human race in
morals, we find ourselves—to make use
of the metaphor we employed at first—in
a fresh spiral, equally limited in
space, in which there is a relative progress,
but it has only a slight influence
on the general progress of humanity.
And, to turn from abstract principles to
the concrete limits of politics, the present
state of things is not promising nor
hopeful for the peace of Europe.</p>

<p>The first and most curious phenomenon
which accompanied the affirmation
of different nationalities as a guarantee
of peace in Europe, has been compulsory
service—a euphemism which implies
that the whole male population of
Europe is trained and educated for war;
thus men are fashioned into as deadly
instruments as were ever found in barbarous
ages and during the warfare of
the old system. Military education,
both technical and gymnastic, is brought
to such perfection that whole generations
are trained like hounds for mortal
conflict, and each man may on an average
kill ten others in the course of a
minute. Even in traversing Europe by
the railway we may observe near the
fortresses, and indeed in the great
centres of population, arenas, gymnasia,
drilling grounds, and young men clothed
in the prescribed warlike uniform. This
strange spectacle is unnoticed because it
is concealed and confounded with the
attractions of modern civilisation; but
it must strike all who seek to penetrate
its external phenomena: and certainly
those who established the present civilisation
did not anticipate such a result.</p>

<p>We must, however, leave the speculative
side of the question to philosophers,
since what concerns us in the interests
of this same civilisation is to examine
the practical results of the situation in
Europe in its political aspect, with which
we are at this moment occupied. Brief<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">11</span>ly,
we wish to ascertain what is now the
political situation of Europe, in consequence
and in presence of the new basis
on which European rights are established.</p>

<p>And primarily, since the application
of these new rights, all nationalities,
if they do not feel the present necessity,
yet they have potentially a tendency to
assimilate the elements which properly
belong to them. And each forms a
judgment of the situation in accordance
with his standard and purpose.</p>

<p>Thus, for example, Russia, under the
pretext of consisting for the most part
of Slav peoples, begins to nourish in her
bosom the ambition of uniting all the
Slav races under the well-known name
of Pan-Slavism. No matter that the
Slavs of Poland and Bohemia differ
widely from those of Russia proper in
their language, religion, and habits, perhaps
more widely than from those of
another nationality. Panslavists extend
to the race the privileges of the nation,
and as it would be difficult to define
logically where the one begins and the
other ends, so among them, and especially
among those who believe, perhaps
rightly, that they speak in the name of
Russia, the Slav nation consists of a
third of Europe, reaching from the North
Pole to the Adriatic. In order to unite
it under Russian rule, it would be necessary
to overthrow, or at any rate seriously
to mutilate, the dominions of Turkey
and of Austrian Hungary.</p>

<p>The demolition of the Turkish empire
and the diminution of Austrian Hungary
would be carried still further by the
nationality of Greece, which requires
for its proper development to absorb
another portion of Turkey, and to deprive
Austria of such access to the sea
as the Slavs might leave to her.</p>

<p>The Italian nationality would also propose
some modifications of the geography
of Europe, less searching than the
above, but not without their importance.</p>

<p>France and Spain are the countries
which have least to ask in the way of
expansion; the former because her territory
was acquired before the enunciation
of the principle was formulated, the
latter because of her limited proportions,
unless, following the interpretations of
Russia, she should entertain the ambition,
which up to this time is scarcely<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">12</span>
perceptible if it exists at all, of acquiring
the whole Iberian peninsula.</p>

<p>If we continue our circuit of the continent
we come to the two small nationalities
of Flanders and Scandinavia.
These two, although their populations
are the least numerous, seem less sensible
of the necessity of political reunion.
It is certain that no one in Belgium and
Holland has seriously formulated the
idea of a fusion, nor yet among the
Scandinavians. These States enjoy a
certain ease of circumstances and unusual
prosperity, without being tormented
by the demon of aggrandisement;
they allow the claims of nationality to
remain dormant in order that they may
enjoy in prosperity and contentment
what they have acquired by political
shrewdness and indefatigable labor; but
it may be said that in these conditions
they stand alone in Europe.</p>

<p>The circuit we have made from the
extreme north to the centre of Europe
includes the most complete, successful,
and indisputable instance of a compact
and homogeneous nationality in that
of Germany. Twenty-five years ago
this was hardly regarded as an ethnographical
or historical designation, and
it was certainly not political, since the
tendencies and interests of the different
States of Germany were quite dissimilar,
even when, as in many of the
most important questions, they were
not altogether opposed to each other.
Now that the nationality has arisen, has
grown and reached maturity, and in two
memorable campaigns has swept all obstacles
from its path, it would be as useless
to try to arrest its development and
divert it from its path as to try and make
the Rhine flow back to its source.</p>

<p>The German nation must absorb a
few more States in order to constitute
itself into a political unity, but since
the most important would shake to its
foundations the Austro-Hungarian empire,
this last annexation will be deferred
as long as possible. The fraction
of Germans which remains to be
absorbed into the empire would only
augment the number of its constituents
by some millions, and its territory by
some provinces; meanwhile in its present
condition it fulfils the mission of
a colony detached from the parent
nation, impressed with the same char<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">13</span>acteristics,
and adhering to the same
interests, and thus constituting a weighty
instrument for carrying out the national
views throughout the Austro-Hungarian
empire, which, amidst the
conflict of the different nationalities of
which it consists, is clearly and irresistibly
impelled towards that which is the
nearest, the most energetic, and the
most powerful. This state of things is
too favorable to Germany to allow her
to hasten to exchange her independent
colonies in Austria into faithful subjects
of the German Emperor. There remain
other tendencies to assimilation
on the side of Russia and of Switzerland.
The first are so problematical
that they may be regarded as a pretext
rather than a claim. The second have
not, up to this time, acquired any appearance
of probability, since Switzerland
has had the privilege of constituting
an artificial and political nationality
out of such as are truly geographical
and ethnographical, and has gallantly
resisted any encroachment, so that on
this side also any assimilation must be
regarded as immature. We must not,
however, forget the homogeneity of race,
if Germany should be for any cause impelled
to approach or to cross the Alps.
In such a case the effects of this homogeneity
must make themselves felt.</p>

<p>These tendencies are not, however,
all equally active, nor have they all the
same intensity. Up to this time some
of them are still latent, and give no
sign of their existence, nor are they the
only factors of the political state of Europe.
Besides their tendencies to become
complete, nationalities have certain other
tendencies, objects, and ends, which may
be said to be peculiar to each of them,
since they correspond with their special
needs, relate to certain conditions, and
are in conformity with the mission which
each State has, or thinks it has, in the
political concert of nations.</p>

<p>Since, therefore, we are considering
the subject from the political point of
view, as it now exists, we shall only
regard those tendencies which actually
demand satisfaction, and which, therefore,
constitute an element and a factor
of contemporary politics. The more
important tendencies may be reduced to
few, intense in character, and wielding
mighty forces. The others may be con<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">14</span>sidered
as depending by those which
are greater and stronger, only differing
in degree of intensity and power. They
generally take an intermediate place,
and receive their satisfaction second-hand,
according to their position on the
right or wrong side in the great conflict
of interests. They usually follow the
fortune of the conquered or conquering
leaders.</p>

<p>Russia, the dominant Slav race of the
north, in addition to the desire of assimilation
with her brethren, tends towards
the sun, in order to exert an influence
over the temperate zone, in which the
most vital interests of Europe are at
issue. This is the popular tradition
which goes by the name of the testament
of Peter the Great. Russia has persistently
and indefatigably extended her
conquests in the direction of the East.
If this movement appears to be at present
less decided, it is because her want
of success in the last war and last treaty
has reacted on the constitution of the
empire, which is thus weakened and
hindered in its efforts at expansion.
But as soon as this impulse of internal
dissatisfaction is subdued, her activity
abroad will be renewed. The man or
the government which is able to lead
Russia back into her old course will
solve the enigma by which she is now
agitated.</p>

<p>She advances towards the east from
two sides—the north and west. In the
former direction she is impelled by the
force of circumstances. The only element
of order amid the nomadic and
barbarous peoples which overspread the
country extending from the sides of the
Caucasus to the interior of Asia, the
endless controversies about frontiers
enable her to advance stealthily and
insensibly, owing, as we have said,
to the very nature of things. On the
western side she makes her way deliberately,
and in spite of all the obstacles
opposed to her. These are of two
kinds—the resistance of the Ottoman
empire; and that of the European
Powers, which are either interested in
maintaining it or desire to succeed to
its territory. England stands first in
the first category, Austria in the second,
if, indeed, she is not alone in the desire
to succeed to Turkey.</p>

<p>Russia would have overcome the first<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">15</span>
obstacle, in spite of the tenacity of the
Ottoman policy and the bravery of the
army, if it were not complicated by the
second. The great and moribund empire
of Turkey has still vitality enough
to respond to the affectionate care of
the more or less interested physicians
who take charge of her.</p>

<p>But since 1870 the political attitude
of Europe with respect to Turkey has
completely changed. Each of the three
Powers which with a somewhat elaborate
disinterestedness assumed her defence
in 1855 has modified its views.
Italy, to whom it was hardly more than
a pretext for inaugurating her political
constitution, has attained her object and
will no longer apply herself with the
same tenacity of purpose to the maintenance
of the Ottoman empire. France
and England have abandoned their office
of guardians, to assume the more profitable
one of heirs—the one in Tunis,
the other in Egypt. As for Russia, with
which we are now occupied, her position
is also different. Now that France has
taken her share, she has no great interest
in upholding the tottering giant
against whom she has directed one of
the most recent and most decisive blows;
and, on the other hand, she is by no
means interested in opposing the plans
of Russia or in offending her, since she
recognises in this Power the only hope
of vengeance remaining to her in the
present state of things.</p>

<p>England, on the other hand, who has
taken her share of the succession, wishes,
if possible, to prolong the existence of
the dying man, especially since Russia
is with more or less reason considered
by a certain section of public opinion
in England to menace her influence and
even her possessions in the East, as well
as in the West. The influences of Russia
and England are so heterogeneous, one
to the other, that whenever they come in
contact, although it may be in the distant
future, it must be a reciprocal
source of danger. But now that England
has secured Egypt, she has perhaps
no longer the same intense interest in
the preservation of the Turkish empire
by which she was actuated in 1855.</p>

<p>From 1870 onwards, a new and very
important actor appeared on the Oriental
stage. Austria, repulsed by the different
nationalities—by Italy in 1859,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">16</span>
by Germany in 1866—for the very reason
that she was the only European State
which did not rely on nationality, that
exclusive and jealous factor of modern
politics, has been obliged to depend
on one of those already in existence,
and also to create for herself a scope
and office which might justify her own
existence. She has found these two
objects fulfilled by the Oriental question.</p>

<p>Since the Hapsburg dynasty found
itself placed on the confines of German
nationality, and close to all the fractions
of different nationalities which the
storms of past ages had thrown on the
shores of the Danube on one side, and
on the Balkan peninsula on the other,
it quickly took the part of ruling all these
different nationalities, which, owing to
their insignificance, could not aspire to
form a political unit, and therefore relied
on the great German nationality
which was behind them. But, as we
have said, this did not suffice; another
object was presented to them, dictated
by the nature of things—that is, to substitute
the Mohammedans in the supremacy
of Eastern Europe, as they were
incompatible with European civilisation,
and at the same time to prevent this,
which is commonly called the key of
Europe, from falling into the hands of a
really numerous nationality, which would
on many accounts have excited the fears
of all European interests.</p>

<p>Through this act, dictated, as we have
said, by the necessities of things, Austria
has found herself inextricably bound to
Germany and opposed to Russia, with
whom she contests the two objects most
dear to the latter—the acquisition of
the Catholic Slav races which Austria
jealously cherishes in her bosom, and
her progress towards the sun, or towards
whatever obstructs her advance to the
East. The indissoluble bonds which
unite the policy of Germany with that
of the Austro-Hungarian empire enable
the former country to enjoy the inestimable
advantage of exerting a powerful
influence on Eastern diplomacy without,
however, showing the hand which she
neither could nor would withdraw.</p>

<p>Consequently, Russia finds in the German
nationality upon her western frontier
a much more serious and permanent
barrier than that which was raised by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">17</span>
the political combinations of 1855. Her
development in the East is opposed, as
well as the expansion of her influence in
Europe, which is still more important.
We see these two great nationalities
fatally opposed to each other by their
most vital necessities, and in the objects
they most ardently desire. The wise
and prudent combinations of the statesmen
of these two great countries are
applied to smooth difficulties and distract
attention from these fatal conditions;
and owing to the calm temperament
of these nations, and to the discipline
still maintained by their Governments,
they have been successful up to
a certain point. The ancient alliance of
the three emperors has, however, already
become that of two. On the one side
there is a true and serious alliance established
between the two houses of Germany
and Austria; on the other, a close,
warm, and probably sincere friendship
between the houses of Germany and Russia.
But none such can be firmly established
between the three; and as for the
two most numerous and powerful nationalities
of Europe, they may (and the God
of Peace will reward them for it) dissimulate,
soften, temporise—do everything
in their power to avert too rapid
or too violent a collision of the important
interests of their subjects, but they
cannot change the nature of things.
The two great nationalities, Slav and
German, are essentially rivals, both in
geographical position and in their political
aims.</p>

<p>These considerations naturally lead
us to speak of the German nationality.</p>

<p>This nationality, like all those of recent
origin, desires to feel itself secure.
On the one side there is an instinctive
fear of the possible conflagrations to
which the influence of their powerful
neighbor may give rise; on the other,
it cannot lose sight of the strong antagonism
between Germany and France
which dates from 1870. It will for a
long period be difficult to overcome
this antagonism, since it is founded on
the great frontier interests which have
been contested on both sides. As long
as France is deprived of her traditional
frontier she will never feel herself secure,
and if it were surrendered by Germany,
she would lose all the fruits of her loss
and bloodshed in 1870. Even if it were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">18</span>
only a contest for influence and supremacy,
it is not in the French nature
to submit to defeat without feeling from
time to time the desire for revenge.
This impulse alone in so excitable a nation
is enough to keep Germany watchful
in this direction. Certainly such an
occurrence is not at present either certain
or threatening, but it is always possible
that their two formidable neighbors
may combine, and this would re-act also
on the different nationalities which compose
the Austro-Hungarian empire. It
is this danger which keeps the German
nation in an indefinite and indefinable
state of uneasiness, to her own economical
ruin, as well as to that of all the
European States which are compelled to
imitate her.</p>

<p>To this feeling of uneasiness must be
referred the feverish activity of the Imperial
<em>Cabinet</em>, who never ceases to make
and unmake plans and combinations,
dominated by the single idea which was
cherished by the rival nationality of
France from the time of Louis the Fourteenth
to that of Thiers—namely, to
keep all Europe in a divided state.
This is not only in order to carry out
the famous maxim, <i lang="la">Divide et impera</i>, but
because among all the possible combinations,
some might be, if not fatal, yet
dangerous to the existence of Germany.</p>

<p>This possibly was foreseen in 1870,
and it is known that lengthy negotiations
secured the neutrality of Russia
in that war. The concessions made to
Russia in the East were part of the
price of that neutrality, and chief among
these was the revision of the Treaty of
Paris.</p>

<p>It was readily believed that the opportunity
of securing predominance in
Europe, for which Germany had been
so elaborately prepared, and which a
chance unlikely to occur twice in the
lifetime of peoples so liberally offered
her, would not be let slip by the German
Government. The war with France
has been justly called a Punic War, or
a deadly strife for supremacy in Europe.
And therefore the second Punic War
was looked for in a period in which it
should not be possible for Russia to intervene.
According to the plan by which
the Roman Horatius fought with his
rivals one by one, it seemed that the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">19</span>
dominion, if not of the world, at any rate
of Europe, was secured to Germany.</p>

<p>This opinion was confirmed, inasmuch
as the first question which arose after
1870 was the Eastern question. The
part taken by Germany is well known,
and certainly the peace was concluded
at Berlin, where the Treaty of San
Stefano, which had secured to Russia
the price of her action, was cancelled.
Russia issued from the struggle seriously
shaken, nor has she yet recovered
from the shock. The Russian nation,
deluded in its most cherished expectations,
has been given up to a state of
discontent which it is not necessary to
study in its forms but in its essence.
The people are conscious of having
been misdirected in their course, and
are displeased with whoever has failed
to interpret their wishes.</p>

<p>It seemed as if this might have been
the moment for a second war with
France, and especially since it was unlikely
that Russia would forget, when
her strength returned, the <i lang="pt">auto da fé</i>
made at Berlin of the Treaty of San
Stefano. To this end all the manœuvres
of the Berlin Cabinet seem to have
tended, as if the powerful hand of the
German Chancellor had only been exerted
to effect its conclusion.</p>

<p>The mountain did not, however,
bring forth a mouse but a <i lang="fr">canard</i>, for
such it must appear to our calmer judgment,
in the unexpected rumor of a
Franco-German alliance. We are not
now in a position to examine the reasons
of this abortive birth. It only concerns
us to show that when the hypothesis of
this solution was overthrown by the
power so ably and opportunely exerted,
the question was reproduced to the
German nation in its integrity. Placed
between and in collision with the interests
of two great nationalities, the one
consisting of nearly sixty and the other
of forty million inhabitants, Germany
was still uneasy and insecure. Her people
are, however, strictly disciplined,
trained for conflict, and of a naturally
brave temperament, and all means have
been used to develop this quality in
them. We know that when men conscious
of strength are uncomfortable or
of evil humor they soon try to mend
their condition, and that they expend
their wrath on some thing or person<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">20</span>
until they have regained security and
calmness. This constitutes one of the
most serious questions now presented to
Europe, and whence issues much of the
uncertainty and dangers which menace
its peace.</p>

<p>The Chancellor, with the ability and
diplomatic genius which no one can dispute
that he possesses, involves this phantasm
in all sorts of wrappings, with the
double aim of appeasing it and of rendering
it less alarming to Europe. He
expends all the energy which was accumulated
in the violent struggle in diplomatic
combinations. Hence the friendly
relations with Russia have continually
become closer; hence the triple alliance
again, the courteous treatment of
Spain, the favorable recognition of the
French occupation of Tunis, so acceptable
to France, although received with
dissatisfaction by Italy; hence also the
English occupation of Egypt was not
opposed by Germany from the first,
while it was very displeasing to France.
All this incessant activity of German
diplomacy, which appeared to be ably
directed, and very probably really was
so directed, to procure the isolation of
France, was on that account supposed
to lead the way to a second Franco-German
war. But at the present it
should rather be regarded as a long succession
of manœuvres and a complicated
diplomatic strategy, which had
lost sight of its immediate object and
had for the time no other interests than
those which the episodes of this grave
question present to the curiosity of all
Europe—a question of which the issue
is so uncertain and indefinite that at
the moment when the object in view
appeared to be obtained in the complete
isolation of France, we hear of a Franco-German
alliance. Incredible as it may
appear, this is the fact. The alliance is
spoken of, and this is enough to show
that everything is possible in the state
of tension in which things are in Central
Europe.</p>

<p>The sudden transition from a state
of mortal war to that of an alliance
might have been contemplated in the
political exigencies of the times of Cardinal
Richelieu—that is, when foreign
politics were of a kind of sacerdotalism,
only transacted by Cabinets, on which
public opinion exercised little or no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">21</span>
influence. But it is difficult to believe,
in the present state and exigencies of
public opinion, and especially in France,
that it would be easy or possible to
stifle in a diplomatic combination, however
able and useful, the memories of
Metz and Sedan, the loss of the Rhine
Provinces and the occupation of Paris.</p>

<p>Such an opinion may be to some
extent accepted by the victors, but not
by those on whom the burden of the
war of 1870 fell. We mean by this that
when such combinations are contemplated
and the attempt is made to carry
them into effect, they will not change
the actual state of things. The rivalry,
incompatibility, and rancours produced
by interests which are different and in
many cases opposed to each other in
two neighboring and powerful nations,
may be subdued for a while, but they
must sooner or later revive until the
question is substantially resolved by the
triumph of one side or the other. It is
precisely because she has been unwilling
or unable to resolve it, that Germany
remains in this condition of profound
disquietude—a condition which has
taken no certain and definite direction,
but which is pregnant with possible dangers
for the rest of Europe.</p>

<p>We have said that the movement has
not yet taken a definite direction, but
not that its tendency does not begin to
declare itself. While setting aside for
a little and adjourning to a more or less
distant future the question of its own
safety, the German nation, in common
with others, has certain objects in view
beyond that of mere existence; it has
natural aspirations which give a purpose
to life. We have said that the
Slav races of Russia are drawn towards
the sun, and the Germans are as strongly
attracted towards the sea.</p>

<p>The people of Germany are very poor,
owing to the natural conditions of the
soil and climate, poor also owing to
compulsory military service, to which,
however, they willingly submit for the
sake of their national existence. If a
strong people does not long tolerate an
uneasy condition, neither can it tolerate
poverty. One which is strong and poor
is a dangerous neighbor to richer peoples.
Now, from whatever side we cross
the German frontier, we are struck by
the prosperity and riches of the neigh<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">22</span>boring
nations, whether agricultural,
manufacturing, or mercantile. The
only advertisement posted up in every
German village is the name of the company,
battalion, and regiment to which
it belongs, instead of the numerous advertisements
which we find in similar
villages of Belgium, France, and Holland,
announcing transactions of trade,
commerce, and manufactures. When
we see the poor and humble villages
which are thus classified, we might say
that the German nation is merely encamped
in the midst of Europe.</p>

<p>In the present conditions of Europe,
and precisely on account of the nationalities
to which the credit must be
given, territorial acquisitions among
neighbors and the subjection of one
people to another have become hardly
possible except in a few limited cases
which cannot enter the mind of any
statesman as having any large significance
in the political future. Since
European nations can no longer, as of
old, obtain expansion at the expense of
one another, they now seek for it in distant
lands, amid lower civilisations and
in societies which are less firmly constituted.
This is done not only by conquest,
but by colonisation and commercial
establishments of every kind,
which assure influence, and still more
riches and prosperity to their founders.
For this end, it is important that a
nation should have easy access to the
sea. The German nation is eminently
continental and has only an inconsiderable
extent of seaboard. Hence Germany
has need of the sea, and this
tendency attracts her equally towards
the north and east of Europe. This
has probably influenced her policy in
the late Eastern war, and this subsidiary
necessity is the complement of the more
important need of securing her own
safety which has been the object of the
policy of the German Chancellor in its
varying transitions. It agrees with the
colonising tendencies which have come
openly to a head within the last few
months.</p>

<p>We have thus briefly indicated the
tendencies of two among the principal
nationalities. France comes next in
importance, and since she is in fact the
most ancient, so that her customs and
interests are firmly welded in spite of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">23</span>
all her misfortunes, she need not greatly
concern herself about the fact of her
existence. It would be difficult to
make any breach in the unity of France,
since the traces of her ancient divisions
no longer exist. Her external borders
may be enlarged or restricted wherever
the popular characteristics are less marked,
or even ambiguous, so that their
affections and interests may oscillate
towards neighborly nations. But the
great nucleus of the people has no fear
of being other than it is, and this is not
now the source of agitation in France.
It is precisely because she has long been
secure in the enjoyment and free exercise
of all her faculties as a nation that
her tendencies are more clearly and
explicitly displayed.</p>

<p>Unfortunately these tendencies are
towards domination and empire as the
scope and means of her prosperity. As
soon as France was constituted into a
nation, or from the Revolution onwards,
her history is only a history of aggressions
which nothing but superior force
from without and exhaustion within
could arrest. The necessity of expansion
by warlike means is so intense in
the French nation that she is hardly subjected
to foreign compulsion before
there is an outbreak of internal disturbances.
France, conquered in 1815,
only remained quiet until she had recovered
strength. The blood hardly begins
to circulate in her veins when she either
overthrows her Government or makes
war on foreign Powers. The dilemma
imposed like an incubus on all the rulers
of France for the last hundred years issues
in this—either war or revolution.</p>

<p>The present Government, instinctively
conscious of this state of things, and
not feeling strong enough to make war
on its more powerful neighbors lest it
should be ruined in its turn, has invented
a diversion by transposing the problem—waging
war in Asia and Africa,
and carrying fire and flames into all
parts of the world which could offer no
resistance. The first idea of this policy
must be ascribed to Louis Philippe,
who owed the tranquillity of the early
years of his reign to the conquest of
Algeria. Other European nations have
undertaken colonisation or conquest of
distant lands with reference to their
material prosperity, but conquest has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">24</span>
been the primary object of France.
Economic views take a secondary place,
out of proportion with the scale of the
enterprise, and are, indeed, rather a
pretext. This constitutional restlessness
of France, which is only arrested
by force, has long constituted one of
the gravest perils which threaten the
peace of Europe.</p>

<p>Italy, as well as Germany, feels the
need of security, and this common need
has, since 1870, united the interests
of the two countries. There are insuperable
obstacles in the tendency natural
to all nationalities to absorb unconsciously
the congenial elements of other
States. The only symptoms of this
tendency have been displayed on the
side of Austria, which is not herself a
nation, but those who so improvidently
in any respect promoted it were also
perhaps not aware that behind Austria
stands Germany, and that Trieste on the
Adriatic corresponds to that nation’s
tendency towards the sea. But as far
as her own existence is concerned, Italy
is irrevocably bound to all the combinations
which may secure her, and is the
irreconcilable enemy of all those who
threaten her.</p>

<p>The path of Greece is equally barred
by Austria and Russia, nor has she
much hope of making way against these
two great Powers, unless their antagonism
can nourish such hopes.</p>

<p>We have reserved England to the last,
because her political condition as it
concerns her nationality is altogether
distinct from those with which we have
been hitherto occupied. If by nationality
we mean homogeneous characteristics
of race, a similarity in language,
religion, and customs, the Anglo-Saxon
nationality extends beyond the United
Kingdom into both hemispheres. If, on
the other hand, we regard the United
Kingdom as an actual political unit,
we find that it is composed of different
races, in which are included the English,
Scotch, and Irish, which have
nothing in common with each other but
their official language. And yet, while
the English nation has for good reasons
never posed, morally speaking, as the
champion of nationalities, she presides
over the most cultured, numerous, and
energetic nationality in the world. But
the Anglo-Saxon nationality does not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">25</span>
need nor desire, and indeed is unable,
to be a political unit. It may be said
that the Anglo-Saxon race has passed
through the historical period of a nationality
without observing it. It has
advanced beyond this period to attain
to the ideal of a civilisation forming
whole parts of the world, in which only
one language is spoken, in which we
find the same customs, interests, and
religion, or, at any rate, the faculty of
accepting, each man for himself, what
seems good to him, without allowing
this diversity to produce, either in theory
or practice, a distinction which has any
political efficacy.</p>

<p>In those parts of the world there are
not five or six groups of men which look
askance at each other with a hostile air,
and which, because they speak a different
language, have a different history
and religion, believe themselves to be
justified as a matter of duty and honor
in exterminating each other two or three
times in a century. Because a scrap of
ground belongs to one set of people, does
not that appear to be a sufficient reason
to the others to maintain millions of
armed men trained for their reciprocal
destruction? Geographical degrees do
not suffice to create different and conflicting
interests which may justify them
in mutual injuries, and in inflicting on
one another the long series of small
and great miseries which begin with protracted
wars and fiscal duties and end in
the imposition of quarantine.</p>

<p>This fact gives to the English people,
which represents that nationality in Europe,
an exceptional power and authority.
The English people may become
decadent as an European Power, but
as a nationality it will be unmenaced,
since it does not represent a limited
political unit, but the half of the world.
If the German nationality should ever
be baffled in the political combination
made since 1870, she would lose her
political importance in the world. But
if Britain were attacked and conquered,
the Anglo-Saxon nationality would
still remain the greatest political power
in the universe. Hence this nationality
or race is exalted above all the narrow
sentiments which underlie the policy of
the different European States; but
England herself as a State and political
unit is jealous of the power which has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">26</span>
in less than two centuries produced the
miraculous development of the Anglo-Saxon
race to its present extent; but if
this jealousy is shown by the legitimate
defence of a greatness achieved by what
was, comparatively speaking, a handful
of men from a remote island in the
Atlantic, it does not express itself in the
palpitations of a whole people struggling
for their existence, which is the case
with continental nations.</p>

<p>It follows from her exceptional circumstances
that the aims of England in
Europe are few, and different from those
of other States, and that her policy has
gradually become more disinterested in
the contests which divide continental
Europe. She has witnessed the supremacy
of France, as she now witnesses
the supremacy of Germany; she has
watched the rise of Italy and the decline
of the Mussulman empire, to which she
formerly appeared so warmly attached,
and it has not affected her political position.
The political vicissitudes of this
half of the century have disturbed the
balance of all the States of Europe,
while England has during the same half
century pursued her unalterable course
through all these changes, not only without
adopting compulsory service, but
also without adopting conscription, and
with an army which a continental Power
would scarcely consider sufficient for a
grand review. One point, however,
England holds it necessary for her honor
and interests to maintain—namely, her
maritime supremacy and the free action
of her eminently commercial people, in
order to carry on her mission of civilisation,
which is at once noble and lucrative.
She will strive for this object with
her last penny and with the last drop of
her blood, and it is on this side only that
the English nation takes its place as a
great factor in European politics. She
will strive for this object with her accumulated
materials of character, power,
and wealth, and at all events she will for
a long time strive with the success and
efficacy which no one can deny that she
possesses. But with this exception her
points of contact with Europe are few,
and there is little probability of friction
since her object is remote. Instead of
striving for her nationality in Europe, she
carries on without a conflict the advance
of civilisation throughout the world.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">27</span></p>

<p>But she cannot, we have said, be indifferent
to any attacks on her maritime
supremacy, nor to the serious rivalry
with her colonial policy displayed by
the European States. For this reason,
and with a recollection of all which the
continental blockade cost her, she regards
with displeasure the excessive preponderance
of any one of the great European
Powers. England consists of a
belly and brain nourished by scattered
members which include in their manifold
organism all parts of the world. If
any one member is severed or paralysed,
the blow is felt in the centre. The inclination
to found colonies aroused in
different European nationalities, which
is, indeed, the necessary consequence of
their development, naturally interests
England in the highest degree, nor can
the cases be rare when these new aspirations
must be checked by the appearance
of the British flag.</p>

<p>We have now indicated all the perils
and difficulties which threaten the peace
of Europe under the present political
conditions that come from the principles
established with so much difficulty by
philosophers who were actuated by humanitarian
motives, and who inscribed
on the banner which floated above the
ancient citadel of their cherished theories,
the magic word “Fraternity.”</p>

<p>On their banner there was also inscribed
“Equality,” which would lead
me to speak of socialism, if space allowed
it: as in Europe the progress in
social questions has not been more fortunate.
And just as monarchy had hardly
been called in question before it was
face to face with the republic, so the
rights of property have hardly been discussed
before riches and poverty are
confronted, and the whole problem of
the distribution of wealth rises again like
a phantom before society. But this
article has already reached such a length
that I must postpone to a future occasion
the treatment of that important and
extensive subject. What I have said,
however, is quite enough to show that
if in Europe the present state of opinion
on these subjects should not be modified,
national wars as well as civil wars
could eventually carry us at least through
a temporary period of barbarism.</p>

<p>Yet we do not believe that we should
lose confidence in progress, and repudi<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">28</span>ate
it in order to revert to the old state
of things, nor yet that the principles and
ideas of which we have spoken are not
really progressive. Progress is a law of
humanity which, if it were not, as it undoubtedly
is, beneficial, must be fatal to
it; and it is certainly a mark of progress
that community of language, customs,
and tendencies is regarded as a reason
for political union rather than certain
arbitrary or fortuitous combinations of
successions, treaties, conquests, and the
like. Above all, it is well to have substituted
the right of good government for
that which is merely arbitrary. We must
again regard as progressive some of the
modifications introduced in the laws relating
to property. I say some of them,
since it was perhaps dangerous to shake
prematurely the foundations of the systems
by which it has been ordered up
to this time, when those which are to replace
them are still imperfect and untried.</p>

<p>But a long process of moral discipline
is required, which may by instruction
modify the ideas about the two great
modern conceptions of politics and
society.</p>

<p>Besides, and in the meantime as a
compensation, our gentler customs, a
real progress in the education of sentiments
and general culture, greatly neutralise
the effect of this violent state
of things. After the Russian has made
a long tirade on the future of the Slav
race, he sets out for the Rhine or Paris,
and forgets the mystical and obscure
visions of Holy Russia in the genuine
pleasures of civilisation. When the German
lays aside his deadly arms in order
to re-enter civic life, his prejudices
against the Latin race often fade before
the amenity of a Frenchman and the
glorious sun of Italy. Undoubtedly the
multiplicity, the facility and gentleness
of intercourse produced by modern civilisation,
are of great efficacy in paralysing
the effects of national antagonism
and of social hatreds, but our watchfulness
must not therefore relax. But,
notwithstanding all these considerations,
we persist in believing that until European
opinion is modified on these important
subjects, European policy must
always take account of them, constantly
on the watch lest she should be surprised
by wars and unforeseen catastrophes,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">29</span>
which would compromise the long and
laborious work of her refined civilisation.</p>

<p>As long as nationalities are compelled
to be rivals, it is necessary to find some
compensation for this rivalry. The ancient
system of the balance and equilibrium
of power, which has seemed to
be old and disused armour, was perhaps
never more opportune than now. If a
general confederation after the American
manner seems visionary, as opposed to
the actual state of things in Europe, it
might be practical and efficacious to
substitute this system of equilibrium
for partial alliance, and to establish the
political balance of Europe in a normal
position. But it is necessary that this
work should be effected in time, before
the preponderance of different Powers
should become more marked, and especially
before the ambitions and greed
which are now upon the surface should
strike deeply into the basis of international
policy. A well-planned system
of approximating those elements which
are in any sense homogeneous or guided
by common interests would tend to
secure peace and strengthen governments,
and would at the same time keep
in check the social discontent which is
nourished by political dissensions, gathers
strength from the uncertainty and
weakness of our present institutions, and
triumphs in our misfortunes.</p>

<p>Here we must break off on the brink
of conclusions and remedies. A few
words will not suffice to sum up the
moral of this long dissertation, nor was
it our intention to do so either in few
words or many. The question is too
large for solution in the pages of a
Review.</p>

<p>It simply appeared to be an opportune
moment for pointing out the singular
situation created by the progress of
modern ideas, and to indicate the dangers
involved in it.</p>

<p>We do not wish to exaggerate these
dangers, and have ourselves pointed out
that modern civilisation also includes
their correctives, and that they do not
imply the end of all things, nor that
another flood of Deucalion is needed to
renovate the human race from its very
beginnings.</p>

<p>But precisely because European civilisation
is so elaborate and complex, it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">30</span>
would be an error to suppose that catastrophic
causes are needed in order seriously
to affect the conditions of our comparative
civility. Feudal and tyrannical
wars took place in barren lands, amid
rude castles and squalid villages; those
which are national and social must be
fought out amidst gardens and the monuments
of art and manufacture. The last
wars recorded by history had Lombardy
and Champagne as their theatre, or were
fought in the streets of Paris. Any of
the tendencies indicated by us in the foregoing
considerations which should terminate
in a conflict would take place
under analogous conditions and in the
same degree of civilisation which, while
it might mitigate the modes of warfare,
must make its effects more grievous.
And the same ambition to possess distant
countries which are more or less
civilised may also be equally full of danger
to commerce, international relations,
the peace of Europe, and the interests of
civilisation.</p>

<p>The privileged rules of the policy of
the old world imposed upon themselves
a limit to excessive power, and used the
saying, <i lang="fr">Noblesse oblige</i>. A new motto
might be proposed to the builders and
destroyers of Governments in our day,
which would be equally noble and might
be more fertile of results—<i lang="fr">Progrès
oblige</i>.—<cite>Nineteenth Century.</cite></p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h2><a name="ORGANIC_NATURES_RIDDLE" id="ORGANIC_NATURES_RIDDLE">ORGANIC NATURE’S RIDDLE.</a><br />

<small>BY ST. GEORGE MIVART.</small></h2>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">31</span></p>


<p>Amongst the many sagacious sayings
of the patient and profound thinkers of
Germany, not the least noteworthy was
Schelling’s affirmation that the phenomena
of instinct are some of the most
important of all phenomena, and capable
of serving as a very touch-stone
whereby the value of competing theories
of the universe may be effectually tested.
His prescience has been justified by
our experience. The greatest scientific
event of the present time is the wide
acceptance of the theory of evolution,
and its use as a weapon of offence and
defence. It is used both against the
belief that intelligent purpose is, as it
were, incarnate in the living world about
us, and also in favor of a merely mechanical
theory of nature. Now it would
be difficult to find a more searching test
of that theory’s truth than is supplied
by a careful study of instinct. The
essence of that view of nature which is
associated with the name of Professor
Haeckel,<a id="FNanchor_1_1" href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">1</a> a negation of the doctrine of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">32</span>
final causes and an assertion of what he
calls “Dysteleology,” that is, the doctrine
of the purposelessness of the
organs and organisms which people a
purposeless planet. That doctrine may
be called the gospel of the irrationality
of the universe, and it is a doctrine to
which a proof of the real existence of
such a thing as “instinct” must necessarily
be fatal. Instinct has been defined<a id="FNanchor_2_2" href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">2</a>
as a “special internal impulse,
urging animals to the performance of
certain actions which are useful to them
or to their kind, but the use of which
they do not themselves perceive, and
their performance of which is a necessary
consequence of their being placed
in certain circumstances.” Such an
impulse is always understood to be the
result of sensations: actions which
take place in response to <em>unfelt</em> stimuli
being referred, not to instinct, but to
what is termed <em>reflex action</em>. In such
action it is commonly supposed that
the mechanism of a living body occasions
a prompt responsive muscular
movement upon the occurrence of some
unfelt stimulation of the nervous system.
The nervous system, or total mass of
nerve-stuff—which is technically called
“nerve-tissue”—in the body of an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">33</span>
animal, such as a beast, bird, reptile, or
fish, is composed of two parts or divisions.
One of these divisions consists
of a voluminous and continuous mass—the
brain and spinal cord (or spinal
marrow), which form what is called the
central part of the nervous system.
The second division consists of a multitude
of white threads or cords—the
nerves, which form what is called the
peripheral part of the nervous system.
Of these nerves one set proceed forth
from the central part of the nervous
system to the different muscles, which
they can cause to contract by a peculiar
action they exert upon them, thus producing
motion. Another set of nerves
proceed inwards, from the skin to the
central part of the nervous system, and
by their peculiar action give rise to
various sensations, according as different
influences or stimulations are brought
to bear upon the skin at, or in the vicinity
of, their peripheral extremities.
Under ordinary circumstances, different
stimulations of the surface of the body
convey an influence inwards, which produces
sensation, and give rise to an
outwardly proceeding influence to the
muscles, resulting in definite and appropriate
motions.</p>

<p>There are cases in which responsive
actions take place under very abnormal
conditions—as after a rupture of part of
a man’s spinal cord, or the removal of
the whole brain in lower animals, such
as the frog. A man so injured may
have utterly lost the power of feeling
any stimulation—pricking, cutting, or
burning—of his legs and feet, the injury
preventing the conveyance upwards to
the brain of the influence necessary to
ordinary sensation, and stopping short
at the spinal cord below the point of injury.
Nevertheless, such a man may
execute movements in response to stimuli
just as if he did feel, and often in an
exaggerated manner. He will withdraw
his foot if tickled with a feather just as
if he felt the tickling, which he is utterly
incapable of feeling. Similarly a decapitated
frog will make with his hind
legs the most appropriate movements
to remove any irritating object applied
to the hinder part of its body. Such
action is termed “reflex action,” on
the supposition that the influence conveyed
inwards by nerves going from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">34</span>
the skin to the spinal cord is reflected
back from that cord to the muscles by
the other set of nerves without any
intervention of sensation. This action
of the frog may be carried to a very
singular extreme. At the breeding
season the male frog tightly grasps the
female behind her arms, and to enable
him the more securely to maintain his
hold, a warty prominence is then developed
on the inner side of each of
his hands. Now if such a male frog
be taken, and not only decapitated, but
the whole hinder part of the body removed
also, so that nothing remains but
the fragment of the trunk from which
the two arms with their nerves proceed,
and if under these circumstances the
warty prominences be touched, the two
arms will immediately close together
like a spring, thus affording a most perfect
example of reflex action. It has
been objected by the late Mr. G. H.
Lewes and others that we cannot be
sure but that the spinal cord itself
“feels.” But there is often an ambiguity
in the use of the term “to feel.”
By it we ordinarily mean a “modification
of consciousness;” but experiences
such as those just adverted to, and
others in ourselves to which I shall next
advert, show clearly that surrounding
agents may act upon our sense organs
without the intervention of anything
like consciousness, and yet produce
effects otherwise similar to those which
occur when they do arouse consciousness.
Without, then, entering into
any discussion as to whether “sentiency”
may or may not be attributed
to the spinal cord, it seems evident that
some definite term is required to denote
such affections or modifications of living
beings as those just referred to. Inasmuch
as they are affections of creatures
possessing a nervous system, which is
the essential organ of sensation, and as
they resemble sensation in their causes
and effects though feeling itself may be
absent, they may be provisionally distinguished
as “unfelt sensations.” Such
are some of the actions with which instinct
is contrasted, because, unlike instinct,
they are not carried on by the aid
of felt sensations, the highest of such insentient
action being reflex action.</p>

<p>There are also a number of actions
which constantly recur in ourselves,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">35</span>
which more or less nearly approximate
to reflex action. Thus the respiratory
movements, the various muscular motions
by the aid of which we breathe,
are ordinarily performed by us without
advertence, though we can, if we will,
perform them with self-conscious deliberation.
It is well also to note that
when our mind is entirely directed upon
some external object, or when we are
almost in a state of somnolent unconsciousness,
we have but a vague feeling
of our existence—a feeling resulting
from the unobserved synthesis of our
sensations of all orders and degrees.
This unintellectual sense of “self”
may be conveniently distinguished from
intellectual consciousness as “consentience.”
We may also, as everybody
knows, suddenly recollect sights or
sounds which were quite unnoticed at
the time we experienced them; yet our
very recollection of them proves that
they must, nevertheless, have affected
our sensorium. Such unnoticed modifications
of our sense organs may also
be provisionally included in the category
of those actions of the lower animals,
before provisionally denominated “unfelt
sensations.” It is not, however,
with such inferior activities as reflex and
other insentient actions that instinct is
commonly contrasted, but with “reason.”
Now “reasonable,” “consciously
intelligent”conduct is understood by
all men to mean conduct in which there
is a more or less wise adaptation of
means to ends—a conscious, deliberate
adaptation, not one due to accident only.
No one would call an act done blindly
a reasonable or intelligent action on the
part of him who did it, however fortunate
might be its result. Instinctive
actions, then, hold a middle place between
(1) those which are rational, or
truly intelligent, and (2) those in which
sensation has no place. But a great
variety of actions of different kinds
occupy this intermediate position, and
we must next proceed to separate off
from the others, such actions as may be
deemed <em>truly</em> instinctive.</p>

<p>M. Albert Lemoine, who has written
the best treatise<a id="FNanchor_3_3" href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">3</a> known to us on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">36</span>
instinct and habit, distinguishes instinctive
actions as those which are neither
due to mechanical or chemical causes,
nor to intelligence, experience, or will.
They are actions which take place with
a general fixity and precision, are generally
present in all the individuals of
each species, and can be perfectly
performed the very first time their action
is called for, so that they cannot be due
to habit. Instinct, he very truly says,
is more than a want and less than a desire.
Instinct is a certain felt internal
stimulus to definite actions which has
its foundation in a certain sense of want,
but is not definite feeling of want of the
particular end to be attained. Were
that recognised, it would not be <em>instinct</em>,
but <em>desire</em>. It is but a vague craving
to exercise certain activities the exercise
of which conduces to useful or needful,
but unforeseen, end. Instinct often sets
in motion organs quite different from
those which feel the prick of want, and
which do not (experience apart) seem
to have relation with it. Hunger does
not stimulate to action the organs of
digestion which suffer from it, but excites
the limbs and jaws to perform acts
by which food may be obtained and
eaten. In examining into instinct, we
must be careful not to omit the consideration
of it as it exists in man, since
we can know no creature so well as we
can, by the help of language and reflection,
know ourselves and our own
species. Nevertheless, it may be well
to begin by calling attention to certain
apparently undeniable cases of instinct
in other animals, since in them instinct
is much more apparent and complex
than in man, in whom it is indeed reduced
to a minimum. It might naturally
be expected to be so reduced in
him—if it is a power serving to bridge
over the gulf which exists between such
almost mechanical action as reflex action,
and true intelligence—since in man
acts of intelligence, or habits originated
through intelligence, come so constantly
into play. But before enumerating cases
of animal instinct, a word should be
said as to one character which M.
Lemoine attributes to instinctive action,
namely, “consciousness,” This term
is an exceedingly ambiguous one, as it
is often referred, not only to our distinct<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">37</span>
intellectual perception of our own being
and acts, but also to every state of feeling
however rudimentary it may be. I
would therefore avoid the use of so
equivocal a term, while fully admitting
that no sensation in any animal is possible
without some subjective psychical
state analogous to what I have before
denominated “consentience.” Now,
as to the lower animals: birds unquestionably
possess instinctive powers.
Chickens, two minutes after they have
left the egg,<a id="FNanchor_4_4" href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">4</a> will follow with their eyes
the movements of crawling insects, and
peck at them, judging distance and
direction with almost infallible accuracy.
They will instinctively appreciate
sounds, readily running towards an invisible
hen hidden in a box, when they
hear her “call.” Some young birds,
also, have an innate, instinctive horror
of the sight of a hawk and of the sound
of its voice. Swallows, titmice, tomtits,
and wrens, after having been confined
from birth, are capable of flying successfully
at once, when liberated, on
their wings having attained the necessary
growth to render flight possible. The
Duke of Argyll<a id="FNanchor_5_5" href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">5</a> relates some very
interesting particulars about the instincts
of birds, especially of the water ousel,
the merganser, and the wild duck. Even
as to the class of beasts I find recorded:<a id="FNanchor_6_6" href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">6</a>
“Five young polecats were found
comfortably embedded in dry withered
grass; and in a side hole, of proper
dimensions for such a larder, were forty
frogs and two toads, all alive, but merely
capable of sprawling a little. On examination
the whole number, toads and
all, proved to have been purposely and
dexterously bitten through the brain.”
Evidently the parent polecat had thus
provided the young with food which
could be kept perfectly fresh, because
alive, and yet was rendered quite unable
to escape. This singular instinct is
like others which are yet more fully developed
amongst insects—a class of animals
the instincts of which are so numerous,
wonderful, and notorious that it will
be, probably, enough to refer to one or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">38</span>
two examples. The female carpenter
bee, in order to protect her eggs, excavates,
in some piece of wood, a series
of chambers, in special order with a view
to a peculiar mode of exit for her young:
but the young mother can have no conscious
knowledge of the series of actions
subsequently to ensue. The female of
the wasp, <i>sphex</i>, affords another well-known
but very remarkable example of
a complex instinct closely related to that
already mentioned in the case of the
polecat. The female wasp has to provide
fresh, living animal food for her
progeny, which, when it quits its egg,
quits it in the form of an almost helpless
grub, utterly unable to catch, retain, or
kill an active, struggling prey. Accordingly
the mother insect has only to provide
and place beside her eggs suitable
living prey, but so to treat it that it
may be a helpless, unresisting victim.
That victim may be a mere caterpillar,
or it may be a great, powerful grasshopper,
or even that most fierce, active,
and rapacious of insect tyrants, a fell
and venomous spider. Whichever it
may be, the wasp adroitly stings it at
the spot which induces, or in the several
spots which induce, complete paralysis
as to motion, let us hope as to sensation
also. This done, the wasp entombs
the helpless being with its own
egg, and leaves it for the support of the
future grub. Another species feeds
her young one from time to time with
fresh food, visiting at suitable intervals
the nest she has made and carefully
covered and concealed with earth, which
she removes and replaces, as far as
necessary, at each visit. If the opening
be made ready for her, this, instead of
helping her to get at her young,
altogether puzzles her, and she no
longer seems to recognise her young,
thus showing how thoroughly “instinctive”
her proceedings are. Other
instances of instinct, such as those of the
stag-beetle and emperor moth, I will
refer to presently. But most wonderful,
perhaps, of all are the instincts
of social insects, such as bees, where
there are not only males and females,
but a large population of practically
neuter insects, the special instincts and
peculiarities of which have of course
to be transmitted, not directly by an
antecedent set of neuter animals, but by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">39</span>
females, the instincts and peculiarities
of which are very different from those
of the neutral portion of their progeny.</p>

<p>The instincts we have hitherto noticed,
and, I may say briefly, the instincts
of animals generally, are destined to
subserve two functions, (1) the preservation
and, mainly, the nutrition, of
the individual, and (2) the reproduction
of the species. Armed with the facts
we have now noticed, let us turn to
consider instinct as it displays itself in
ourselves. As one example, there is
the instinct action by which an infant
first sucks the nipple, and then swallows
the thence-extracted nourishment
with which its mouth is filled. This
action must be reckoned as instinctive,
because it is done directly after birth,
when there has been no time for learning
to perform the action; it is one
absolutely necessary for the life of the
infant; it is an action which is definite
and precise, similarly performed by all
the individuals of the species, though
effected by a very complex mechanism,
and is effected prior to experience. Yet
it is not as mechanical as reflex action,
for not only sensation, but consentience,
accompanies the act. Thus sucking in
man is an instinctive action, while spitting,
on the other hand, is an art. The
latter is not necessary to life, and the
power of performing it is slowly acquired
by experience, as are also our powers of
walking and feeding ourselves. But
the action of sucking in an adult human
being is of course not instinctive; and
because the child learns to walk, it by
no means follows that the insect learns
to fly. It is thus plain that actions
may be instinctive in one animal and
not in another; or at one period of life
in the same animal and not at another.
In a child, however, sucking, deglutition,
inspiration, and expiration are
instinctive actions, as are also those by
which the products of excretion are
removed from the body. The second
class of instincts, those which ensure
the continuance of the race, show
themselves of course, only much later.
Yet, long before the little girl can
represent to herself future tributes to
her charms, she seeks to decorate her
tiny body with the arts of infant
coquetry. Still less does she look forward
to the pains and pleasures of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">40</span>
maternity when she begins to caress
and chastise, to soothe and cherish, her
first doll, and fondly presses it to that
region whence her future offspring will
draw its nourishment. Again, when the
lapse of a few years having made her a
young woman and the boy a youth, they
first feel the influence of love, however
ignorant they may be of the physiology
of their race, they will none the less,
circumstances permitting, be surely
impelled towards the performance of
very definite actions. In the more refined
individuals of the highest races of
mankind, the material, merely animal,
consummation of sexual love is most
certainly far from being the one great
end distinctly looked forward to by each
pair of lovers. Yet every incident of
affectionate intercourse, every tender
glance, every contact of hand or lip,
infallibly leads on towards the one useful
end, indispensable to the race, which
nature has in view. Such actions fully
merit to be called “instinctive.” Indeed
the act of generation is ministered to in
nature by the most manifold, imperious,
general, and inexplicable of all the instincts,
and its instinctive character is
the most strongly marked of all. It has
emphatically for its origin a rigorously
determined and precise want, partly
painful, partly pleasurable—a mixture
of a feeling of privation with a sense of
power. Its end is unknown to the
agent, or if known is disregarded, and
in almost all animals it demands the
concurrent and reciprocal action of
two diverse organisms. If anyone would
deny that it is instinctive in man, I
would advise him to study the sad
phenomena connected therewith which
may be observed in our asylums for the
insane.</p>

<p>There are other human actions which
are sometimes reckoned as instinctive,
such as guarding the eye against injury
by suddenly closing the eyelids. This
action, however, appears to be an acquired
art, though the habitual act of
winking to keep clean the surface of the
eye may be instinctive. Some other
actions, however, not generally regarded
as instinctive, I should be disposed so
to regard. Such are the first <em>active</em>
exercises of the senses of seeing, hearing,
smelling, tasting, and feeling (the first
“looking,” the first “listening,” etc.)<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">41</span>
which the child performs at the very
beginning of its learning to perform
them. It would seem, then, as if no
one could deny the existence of such a
thing as instinct, and yet it has been
denied, not only in recent times, but
centuries ago. Thus Montaigne sought
to explain instinct as but a form of
intelligence, while Descartes taught
that it was but mechanism. Condillac
regarded it as the result of individual
experience, and Lemarck considered it
to be merely “habit” which had become
hereditary. In our own day
Darwin has sought to explain it as partly
the result of accidental variations of
activity, which variations have become
naturally selected, and partly the result
of intelligent, purposive action which
has become habitual and inherited. Let
us consider these attempts at explanation
seriatim. First as to mechanism:
This is an hypothesis no one at present
entertains, as everyone now credits
animals with sensitivity. Moreover,
instincts are not absolutely invariable,
but are modifiable according to the
degree of “intelligence” which animals
possess. They cannot, therefore, be due
merely to a mechanism. The attempt
to explain “Instinct” by mere “reflex
action” is equivalent to an attempt to
explain a phenomenon by omitting its
most striking characteristic. In “reflex
action” we have a sudden response to
a stimulus, which response is more or
less purposive as regards the time of its
occurrence, but has no reference to
future events to occur long after the
faintest waves of the stimulating action
have died out. The very essence of
“instinct,” however, <cite>is</cite> to provide for
a more or less distant future, often, as
we have seen, the future of another
generation. It is essentially <cite>telic</cite>, and
directed to a future unforeseen, but
generally useful, end. This explanation,
then, is fundamentally and necessarily
inadequate. It is like an explanation
of the building of a house, by
“bricks, mortar, bricklayers, and hodmen,”
with the omission of all reference
to any influence governing their motions
and directing them towards a common
and predetermined end which is
not theirs. But though we cannot
<cite>explain</cite> “instinct” by “reflex action,”
there is none the less a certain obvious<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">42</span>
affinity between these two forms of
animal activity, and it is in part my
object to point out the nature of this
very affinity.</p>

<p>Next we may pass in review the two
hypotheses that instinct is but (1) a
form of intelligence, or (2) individual
experience. As to the first, I have
already given instances of unquestionably
instinctive actions performed by
birds as soon as they quit the eggshell,
and it would be but waste of time to
argue against the view that the human
infant is guided by intelligent purpose
and conscious foresight in his very first
acts of sucking, swallowing, and defecation.
Actual intelligence, therefore, is
a radically insufficient explanation, as
also, for the very same reasons, is Condillac’s
hypothesis as to individual experience.
About “lapsed intelligence”
I will speak later on. Lemarck’s hypothesis,
that instinct is but inherited habit,
is one which is much more worthy of
careful consideration than any we have
yet considered. For it may be admitted
at once that habits may be inherited.
There are many instances of such inheritance
in human beings, and as
regards the lower animals, the barking
of dogs may be taken as an instance of
a habit thus perpetuated. In fact
“habit,” when inherited, so simulates
instinct, that their confusion is far
from surprising. There is, however,
this radical difference between them:
“habit” enables an agent to repeat
with facility and precision an act which
has been done before, but “instinct”
determines with precision the first performance
of such act. Referring instinct
to habit, but temporarily relieves the
difficulty of those who object to instinct,
by putting it a step back. It is impossible
to believe that any of the progenitors
of an infant of to-day first acquired,
during his or her lifetime, the habit of
sucking, or that the habits of neuter
insects thus arose. But after all, if we
<cite>could</cite> explain “instinct” by “habit,”
should we thereby make the phenomena
less mysterious? “Habit” is due to
an internal spontaneity of living things.
A living thing no doubt requires some
internal solicitation, in order that it
should move, but when it does move
that movement is <cite>its own</cite>. All living
organisms tend to act. With them ac<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">43</span>tion
is not only their nature, ’tis a want;
and, within limits, their powers and
energies increase with action, and diminish
and finally perish through repose.
The power of generating any “habits,”
lies in the very first act of the kind an
organism performs, and it is only the
first act which owes nothing to habit.
If such were not the case, an act might
be performed a thousand times and yet
not generate habit. It is this mysterious
internal active tendency which distinguishes
all living organisms from inorganic
bodies. The latter tend simply
to persist as they are, and have no relations
with the past or the future. They
have, therefore, no relations with time
at all—for the actual present ever evades
us. Organisms, on the other hand,
which are permanently more or less
changed, through habit, by every new
motion and sensation, have their future
prepared by their past, and thus, as it
were, at every present moment they live
both in the past and in the future, a
mode of existence which attains its
fullest development in the highest living
organism—man, the creature looking
before and after! Thus those who
would do away with mystery in nature
would gain little by explaining instinct
through habit, though, as we have seen,
the phenomena presented to us by the
human infant and by neuter insects
absolutely bar any such explanation.
Moreover, the attempt to explain “instinct”
through “inheritance” is a
contradiction, since “inheritance” supposes
something already obtained, otherwise
it could not be transmitted. So far,
then, from “hereditary transmission”
explaining “instinct,” instinct, in whatever
remote ancestor it first arose, must
have been a violation of the law of hereditary
transmission.</p>

<p>Now as to “lapsed intelligence:”
This hypothesis assumes that a conscious
deliberate, discriminating faculty must
have once been exercised by wasps,
bees, ants, and other much more lowly
animals, in the performance of all those
actions which are now instinctive. But
could the adult female insect be supposed
to foresee the future needs of her
progeny, often so totally different from
her own wants? It would surely be too
much to ask us to believe that she could
distinctly recollect all her past experi<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">44</span>ence
as a chrysalis and as a grub from
the moment she first quitted the egg.
Can we suppose that the generative acts
of male insects, such as bees, could have
been due to deliberate and rational
choice, when every such act is necessarily
fatal to him who performs it?</p>

<p>Nevertheless, persuaded as I am that
“lapsed intelligence” will not explain
“instinct” generally, I should be the
last to deny that certain apparently instinctive
actions may be so explained,
and I fully admit that intelligent action
in ourselves does tend to become practically
though not really instinctive.
It is, moreover, very fortunate for us
that such is the case, as thereby we are
saved great mental friction. Our intellect
has first to be laboriously applied to
learn what afterwards becomes almost
automatic, as the actions of reading,
writing, etc. Sensations and bodily
actions having been duly kneaded
together, the intellect becomes free to
withdraw and apply itself to other work—fresh
conquests of mere animality—leaving
the organism to carry on automatically
the new faculties thus acquired.
Were it not for this power which we
have of withdrawing our attention, our
intellect would be absorbed and wasted
in the merest routine work, instead of
being set free to appropriate and render
practically instinctive, a continually
wider and more important range of deliberate
purposive actions. We come
now to the sixth and last attempt to explain
instinct, namely, Mr. Darwin’s
attempt. He has recognised the futility
of seeking to explain many instinctive
actions in any of the modes we have yet
considered, and he has proposed, as before
said, to explain such residual instinctive
phenomena by the play of
natural selection, <i>i.e.</i> of the destructive
forces of nature upon small, accidental
abnormalities of action on the part of
individuals of a species; such abnormalities,
when favorable to the existence of
the individual, being preserved and perpetuated
by the destruction of the other
individuals of the same species who adhered
to their ancestral tendencies. But
this proposed explanation is not an explanation
of the <em>origin</em> of instincts, but
only of the changes and transformations
of instincts already acquired. But putting
back the date or modifying the form<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">45</span>
of the original instinct, in no way alters
the essential nature of instincts or diminishes
its mystery. Let us look at one
or two strong cases of instinct, and see
if it is credible that they should be due
to mere accidental, haphazard, minute
changes in habits already acquired. In
the first place, there is the wonderful
instinct of the duck, which feigns to
have an injured wing, in order to entice
a dog away from the pursuit of her
ducklings. Is it conceivable that such
an act was first done by pure accident,
and that the descendants of her who so
acted, having inherited the tendency,
have been alone selected and preserved?
Again, there is the case of the wasp,
sphex, which stings spiders, caterpillars,
and grasshoppers exactly in the spot,
or spots, where their nervous ganglia
lie, and so paralyses them. Even the
strongest advocate of the intelligence of
insects would not affirm that the mother
sphex has a knowledge of the comparative
anatomy of the nervous system of
these very diversely formed insects.
According to the doctrine of natural
selection, either an ancestral wasp must
have accidentally stung them each in the
right places, and so our sphex of to-day
is the naturally selected descendant of
a line of insects which inherited this
lucky tendency to sting different insects
differently, but always in the exact situation
of their nervous ganglia; or else
the young of the ancestral sphex originally
fed on dead food, but the offspring
of some individuals who happened to
sting their prey so as to paralyse but not
kill them, were better nourished and so
the habit grew. But the incredible supposition
that the ancestor should accidentally
have acquired the habit of stinging
different insects differently, but
always in the right spot, is not eliminated
by the latter hypothesis.</p>

<p>There is, again, the case of neuter
insects and the highly complex instincts
of insects living in communities, such
as bees, ants, and termites. The Darwinian
theory has the great advantage
of only needing for its support the suggestion
of some possible utility in each
case; and as all structures and functions
in nature have their utility, the
task is not a difficult one for an ingenious,
patient, and accomplished thinker.
Yet Mr. Darwin, with all his ingenuity,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">46</span>
patience, and accomplishments, has
been unable to suggest a rational explanation
for the accidental origin of
these insect communities with their
marvellously complex instincts. I will
confine myself to one more instance of
a highly noteworthy instinct, which no
one has in any way succeeded in explaining.
The instance I refer to is that
by which an animal, when an enemy approaches,
lies quite quiescent and apparently
helpless, an action often spoken
of as “shamming death.” To evade
the force of this remarkable case of
instinct, it has been objected that the
disposition of the limbs adopted by
insects which thus act, is not the same
as that which the limbs assume when
such insects are really dead, and that
all species are not when thus acting equally
quiescent. The first observation,
however, does not concern the
matter really at issue. The remarkable
thing is not that a helpless insect should
assume the position of its own dead, but
that such a creature, instead of trying
to escape, should adopt a mode of procedure
utterly hopeless unless the
enemy’s attention is thereby effectually
eluded. It is impossible that this
instinct could have been gradually
gained by the elimination of all those
individuals who did not practice it, for
if the quiescence, whether absolutely
complete or not, were not sufficient at
once to make the creature elude observation,
its destruction would be only
the more fully insured by such ineffectual
quiescence. The same argument
applies to birds which seem to feign
lameness or other injury. Yet even if
we could account for these cases, which
as a fact are as yet entirely unaccounted
for, it would not do away with the need
of recognising the real existence and
peculiar nature of instinct. It would
not do so on account both of man’s
highest and of man’s lowest instinctive
powers. To speak first of the former:
as instinct, such as we have hitherto discovered,
is the appointed bridge between
mere organic and intellectual animal
life, so there is in man a further development
of instinct, peculiar to him, and
serving to bridge over the gulf between
mere intelligent animal faculty and distinctly
human reflective intellectual
activity. Such special intellectual in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">47</span>stinct
is that which impels man to the
external manifestation by voice or gesture
of the mental abstractions which his
intellect spontaneously forms, and which
are not formed by the lower animals,
which give no evidence of this power of
abstraction. Language could never
have been deliberately invented nor
have arisen by a mere accidental individual
variation, for vocal and gesture
signs are essentially conventional, and
require more or less comprehension on
the part of those to whom they are addressed
as well as on the part of those
who use them. Analogous considerations
apply to the first beginnings of
what cannot be reckoned as merely instinctive
activities, but the origins of
which must have been akin to instincts.
I refer to the beginnings of literature,
art, science and politics, which were
never deliberately invented. Even men
who supposed they were inventing and
constructing a certain new order of
things with full purpose and much intelligence,
have really been all the time so
dominated by influences beyond their
consciousness, that they really evolved
something very different from what they
supposed or intended. This fact has
been most instructively shown by De
Tocqueville and Taine with respect to
the men who promoted and carried
through the great French Revolution.
So much, then, for man’s highest instinctive
powers: but our argument has no
need to refer to them, for a consideration
of man’s lowest instinctive powers
alone suffices to show that they cannot
be due to “natural selection,” even
when aided by “lapsed intelligence.”
Can it be for a moment seriously maintained
that such actions of the infant as
those of the sucking, deglutition, and
defecation, or the sexual instincts of
later life, ever arose through the accidental
conservation of haphazard variations
of habit in ancestral animals? If
it cannot be maintained, as I am confident
it cannot, then it is absolutely
impossible successfully to evade the
difficulty of the existence of instinct.
However far we may put back the
beginnings of instinct, the question as
to its origin (with its subsequent modifications)
ever returns, and indeed with
increased importunity. How did the
first sentient creatures obtain and swal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">48</span>low
their food? How did they first
come to fecundate their ova or suitably
to deposit them? How did they first
effect such movements as might be
necessary for their respiratory processes?
Wherever such phenomena first
manifested themselves in sentient organisms,
we are compelled therein to recognise
the manifest presence of instinct—the
appointed means (as before said) of
bridging over the interval between the
purely vegetative functions and the
intelligent activities of sentient animal
life. “Natural selection” is manifestly
impotent to account for the existence of
such a faculty as that of “instinct.”
We have already seen that the hypothesis
of “lapsed intelligence” is also impotent
to account for it. Thus the most
recently attempted explanation falls altogether
to the ground. Nevertheless
the theory of evolution renders it necessary
to assume that as new species of
animals were from time to time evolved,
so also were new and appropriate instincts.
How then are we to account
for the origin of such new instincts?
That a certain mystery attends such origin
cannot be denied, but a parallel mystery
attends all other kinds of vital phenomena.
What can be more mysterious
than the purely organic functions of animals?
Though not truly instinctive,
they are full of unconscious purpose, and
so are akin to instinct. Our nutrition is
a process of self-generation by which the
various bodies which constitute our food
become transformed into our own substance.
This process is effected by
what is called assimilation, by which
process the ultimate substance, or parenchyma,
of our own body and of the
bodies transforms part of what is immediately
external to it, into the parenchyma
itself. Again, the process of
secretion is, as it were, parallel to the
process of alimentation or nutrition. In
secretion, the body extracts from the
blood new substances (the secretions)
which do not exist <em>as such</em> within it. In
nutrition, the body extracts from the
blood new substances (the various tissues)
which do not exist <em>as such</em> within
it. The blood is not the only source of
our nutrition, since it has the power of
replenishing itself. Thus the living
particles which form the ultimate substance
of our body exercise a certain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">49</span>
power of choice with respect to the contents
of the fluids which come in contact
with them. Such particles are not
passive bodies; they are active living
agents, and their action no one has yet
really explained. Here, then, are a set
of activities which, if duly pondered
over, will be found to be fully as
mysterious and inexplicable in their unconscious
teleology as any phenomena
of instinct as ordinarily understood. But
there is another class of organic vital
actions which also seem to have a decided
affinity both to reflex action and to
instinct, though they are not to be
regarded as actual instances of either of
these faculties. The actions I refer to
are those which bring about the repair
of injuries and the reproduction of lost
parts. They are like reflex action inasmuch
as they take place in perfect unconsciousness
and without the will having
any power over them. They are
like instinct inasmuch as they are
directed towards a useful and unforeseen
end. In the process of healing and
repair of a wounded part of the body, a
fluid, perfectly structureless substance,
is secreted, or poured forth, from the
parts about the wound. In this substance,
cells arise and become abundant;
so that the substance, at first structureless,
becomes what is called cellular
tissue. Then, by degrees, this structure
transforms itself into vessels, tendons,
nerves, bone, and membrane—into some
or all of such parts—according to the
circumstances of the case. In a case of
broken bone, the two broken ends of
the bone soften, the sharp edges thus
disappearing. Then a soft substance is
secreted, and this becomes at first gelatinous,
often afterwards cartilaginous,
and, finally, osseous or bony. But not
only do these different kinds of substance—these
distinct tissues—thus arise
and develop themselves in this neutral
or, as it is called, “undifferentiated”
substance, but very complex structures,
appropriately formed and nicely adjusted
for the performance of complex functions,
may also be developed. We see
this in the production of admirably
formed joints in parts which were at first
devoid of anything of the kind. I may
quote, as an example, the case of a
railway guard, whose arm had been so
injured that he had been compelled to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">50</span>
have the elbow with its joint cut out,
but who afterwards developed a new
joint almost as good as the old one. In
the uninjured condition the outer bone
of the lower arm—the radius—ends
above in a smooth-surfaced cup, which
plays against part of the lower end of
the bone of the upper arm, or humerus,
while its side also plays against the side
of the other bone of the lower arm, the
ulna, with the interposition of a cartilaginous
surface. The radius and ulna
are united to the humerus by dense and
strong membranes or ligaments, which
pass between it and them, anteriorly,
posteriorly, and on each side, and are
attached to projecting processes, one
on each side of the humerus. Such was
the condition of the parts which were
removed by the surgeon. Nine years
after the operation the patient died, and
Mr. Syme had the opportunity of dissecting
the arm, which in the meantime
had served the poor man perfectly well,
he having been in the habit of swinging
himself by it from one carriage to
another, while the train was in motion,
quite as easily and securely as with the
other arm. On examination, Mr. Syme
found that the amputated end of the
radius had formed a fresh polished surface,
and played both on the humerus
and the ulna, a material something like
cartilage being interposed. The ends
of the bones of the forearm were locked
in by two processes projecting downwards
from the humerus, and also strong
lateral and still stronger anterior and
posterior ligaments again bound them
fast to the last-named bone.<a id="FNanchor_7_7" href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">7</a> It would
be easy to bring forward a number of
more or less similar cases. The amount
of reproduction of lost parts which may
take place in many of the lower animals
is astonishing. Thus the tails of lizards,
if broken off, will grow again, and the
limbs of newts will be reproduced, with
their bones, muscles, blood-vessels,
and nerves. Even the eye and the lower
jaw have been seen to be reproduced in
the last-named animals. If certain
worms be cut in two, each half will
become a perfect animal, the head producing
a new tail, and the tail a new
head; and a worm called a <i>nais</i> has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">51</span>
been cut into as many as twenty-five
parts with a like result. But the most
remarkable animal for its power of repairing
injuries is the fresh-water hydra,
almost any fragment of which will,
under favorable circumstances, grow
into a new and entire fresh animal. It
is also a notorious and very noteworthy
fact that, in both man and the lower
animals, the processes of repair take
place the more readily the younger the
age of the injured individual may be.
But these unconscious but practically
teleological processes of repair, are often
preceded by actions which everyone
would call instinctive.</p>

<p>There is yet another class of organic
vital actions to which I must advert,
which are at once utterly unconscious,
while the fact that they are directed to
a distinct end is indisputable; in fact
they are purposive in the very highest
degree that any unconscious actions
can be purposive. They are the actions
of true reproduction, and they come
before us naturally here, since a consideration
of the process of remedial
reproduction in the individual, naturally
leads us on to the consideration <em>of the
reproduction of the species itself</em>. In the
cases of the frog and the butterfly, everyone
knows that the creature which
comes forth from the egg is very different
from the parent. Animals, in fact,
mostly attain their adult condition by
passing through a series of development
changes; only as a rule that series is
not abruptly interrupted by plainly
marked pauses, as it is in the frog and
butterfly, and, therefore, such changes,
instead of being obvious, are only to be
detected with difficulty and through patient
research. Almost every animal
thus goes through a series of very remarkable
changes during its individual
process of development or, as it is called,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">52</span>
during its “ontogeny.” This process,
in its perfect unconsciousness, is like
reflex action, but it is far more wonderful,
since in the earliest stages even
nerve-tissue is absent and has itself to
be formed. In the accuracy of its
direction towards a useful end, it is the
very counterpart of the most developed
instinct; nor, if the impulses by which
adult individuals are led to seek and to
perform those processes which give rise
to the embryo, are to be called instinctive,
is it easy to see how the analogical
use of the term “instinctive” can be
refused to that impulse by which each
developing embryo is led to go through
those processes which give rise to the
adult. The action of each organism
during its individual development may
be compared, and has evidently much
affinity with, the processes of nutrition
and the repair and reproduction of parts
lost through some injury. These processes
of nutrition and repair have also
evidently a close relation to reflex action
and reflex action has also a close affinity
to instinctive action. Instead, however,
of explaining “instinct” by “reflex
action,” I would rather explain reflex
action, processes of nutrition, processes
of repair, processes of individual development,
by instinct—using this term
in a wide analogical sense. For we know
the wonderful action and nature of
instinct as it exists in our own human
activity, standing, as it were, at the
head of the various unconsciously intelligent
vital processes. These processes
seem to me to be all diverse manifestations
of what is fundamentally one kind
of activity. Of these manifestations,
instinctive action is the best type,
because by it we can, to a certain extent,
understand the others, whereas none of
the others enable us to understand instinct.—<cite>Fortnightly
Review.</cite></p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">53</span></p>




<h2 id="A_VERY_OLD_MASTER">A VERY OLD MASTER.</h2>


<p>The work of art which lies before me
is old, unquestionably old; a good deal
older, in fact, than Archbishop Ussher
(who invented all out of his own archiepiscopal
head the date commonly assigned
for the creation of the world)
would by any means have been ready to
admit. It is a bas-relief by an old master,
considerably more antique in origin
than the most archaic gem or intaglio in
the Museo Borbonico at Naples, the
mildly decorous Louvre in Paris, or the
eminently respectable British Museum,
which is the glory of our own smoky London
in the spectacled eyes of German professors,
all put together. When Assyrian<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">54</span>
sculptors carved in fresh white alabaster
the flowing curls of Sennacherib’s hair,
just like a modern coachman’s wig, this
work of primæval art was already hoary
with the rime of ages. When Memphian
artists were busy in the morning twilight
of time with the towering coiffure of
Ramses or Sesostris, this far more ancient
relic of plastic handicraft was lying,
already fossil and forgotten, beneath
the concreted floor of a cave in the Dordogne.
If we were to divide the period
for which we possess authentic records
of man’s abode upon this oblate spheroid
into ten epochs—an epoch being a
good high-sounding word which doesn’t
commit one to any definite chronology
in particular—then it is probable that all
known art, from the Egyptian onward,
would fall into the tenth of the epochs
thus loosely demarcated, while my old
French bas-relief would fall into the
first. To put the date quite succinctly,
I should say it was most likely about
244,000 years before the creation of
Adam according to Ussher.</p>

<p>The work of the old master is lightly
incised on reindeer horn, and represents
two horses, of a very early and heavy
type, following one another, with heads
stretched forward, as if sniffing the air
suspiciously in search of enemies. The
horses would certainly excite unfavorable
comment at Newmarket. Their
“points” are undoubtedly coarse and
clumsy: their heads are big, thick, stupid,
and ungainly; their manes are
bushy and ill-defined; their legs are distinctly
feeble and spindle-shaped; their
tails more closely resemble the tail of the
domestic pig than that of the noble animal
beloved with a love passing the love
of women by the English aristocracy.
Nevertheless there is little (if any) reason
to doubt that my very old master did, on
the whole, accurately represent the ancestral
steed of his own exceedingly remote
period. There were once horses
even as is the horse of the prehistoric
Dordognian artist. Such clumsy, big-headed
brutes, dun in hue and striped
down the back like modern donkeys, did
actually once roam over the low plains
where Paris now stands, and browse off
lush grass and tall water-plants around
the quays of Bordeaux and Lyons. Not
only do the bones of the contemporary
horses, dug up in caves, prove this, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">55</span>
quite recently the Russian traveller
Prjevalsky (whose name is so much
easier to spell than to pronounce) has
discovered a similar living horse, which
drags on an obscure existence somewhere
in the high table-lands of Central
Asia. Prjevalsky’s horse (you see, as I
have only to write the word, without uttering
it, I don’t mind how often or how
intrepidly I use it) is so singularly like
the clumsy brutes that sat, or rather
stood, for their portraits to my old master
that we can’t do better than begin
by describing him <i lang="la">in propria persona</i>.</p>

<p>The horse family of the present day is
divided, like most other families, into
two factions, which may be described
for variety’s sake as those of the true
horses and the donkeys, these latter including
also the zebras, quaggas, and
various other unfamiliar creatures whose
names, in very choice Latin, are only
known to the more diligent visitors at
the Sunday Zoo. Now everybody must
have noticed that the chief broad distinction
between these two great groups
consists in the feathering of the tail.
The domestic donkey, with his near congeners,
the zebra and co., have smooth
short-haired tails, ending in a single
bunch or fly-whisk of long hairs collected
together in a tufted bundle at the
extreme tip. The horse, on the other
hand, besides having horny patches or
callosities on both fore and hind legs,
while the donkeys have them on the fore
legs only, has a hairy tail, in which the
long hairs are almost equally distributed
from top to bottom, thus giving it its
peculiarly bushy and brushy appearance.
But Prjevalsky’s horse, as one would
naturally expect from an early intermediate
form, stands halfway in this respect
between the two groups, and acts the
thankless part of a family mediator; for
it has most of its long tail-hairs collected
in a final flourish, like the donkey, but
several of them spring from the middle
distance, as in the genuine Arab, though
never from the very top, thus showing
an approach to the true horsey habit
without actually attaining that final pinnacle
of equine glory. So far as one
can make out from the somewhat rude
handicraft of my prehistoric Phidias the
horse of the quaternary epoch had much
the same caudal peculiarity; his tail
was bushy, but only in the lower half.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">56</span>
He was still in the intermediate stage
between horse and donkey, a natural
mule still struggling up aspiringly toward
perfect horsehood. In all other matters
the two creatures—the cave man’s horse
and Prjevalsky’s—closely agree. Both
display large heads, thick necks, coarse
manes, and a general disregard of
“points” which would strike disgust
and dismay into the stout breasts of
Messrs. Tattersall. In fact over a
T.Y.C. it may be confidently asserted,
in the pure Saxon of the sporting papers,
that Prjevalsky’s and the cave
man’s lot wouldn’t be in it. Nevertheless
a candid critic would be forced to
admit that, in spite of clumsiness, they
both mean staying.</p>

<p>So much for the two sitters; now let
us turn to the artist who sketched them.
Who was he, and when did he live?
Well, his name, like that of many other
old masters, is quite unknown to us;
but what does that matter so long as his
work itself lives and survives? Like the
Comtists he has managed to obtain objective
immortality. The work, after all,
is for the most part all we ever have to
go upon. “I have my own theory about
the authorship of the Iliad and Odyssey,”
said Lewis Carroll (of “Alice in
Wonderland”) once in Christ Church
common room: “it is that they weren’t
really written by Homer, but by another
person of the same name.” There you
have the Iliad in a nutshell as regards
the authenticity of great works. All we
know about the supposed Homer (if anything)
is that he was the reputed author
of the two unapproachable Greek epics;
and all we know directly about my old
master, viewed personally, is that he
once carved with a rude flint flake on
a fragment of reindeer horn these two
clumsy prehistoric horses. Yet by putting
two and two together we can make,
not four, as might be naturally expected,
but a fairly connected history of the old
master himself and what Mr. Herbert
Spencer would no doubt playfully term
“his environment.”</p>

<p>The work of art was dug up from under
the firm concreted floor of a cave in
the Dordogne. That cave was once inhabited
by the nameless artist himself,
his wife, and family. It had been previously
tenanted by various other early
families, as well as by bears, who seem<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">57</span>
to have lived there in the intervals between
the different human occupiers.
Probably the bears ejected the men, and
the men in turn ejected the bears, by
the summary process of eating one another
up. In any case the freehold of
the cave was at last settled upon our
early French artist. But the date of
his occupancy is by no means recent;
for since he lived there the long cold
spell known as the Great Ice Age, or
Glacial Epoch, has swept over the whole
of Northern Europe, and swept before
it the shivering descendants of my poor
prehistoric old master. Now, how long
ago was the Great Ice Age? As a
rule, if you ask a geologist for a definite
date, you will find him very chary
of giving you a distinct answer. He
knows that chalk is older than the London
clay, and the oolite than the chalk,
and the red marl than the oolite; and he
knows also that each of them took a very
long time indeed to lay down, but exactly
how long he has no notion. If
you say to him, “Is it a million years
since the chalk was deposited?” he
will answer, like the old lady of Prague,
whose ideas were excessively vague,
“Perhaps,” If you suggest five millions,
he will answer oracularly once
more, “Perhaps;” and if you go on
to twenty millions, “Perhaps,” with a
broad smile, is still the only confession
of faith that torture will wring out of
him. But in the matter of the Glacial
Epoch, a comparatively late and almost
historical event, geologists have broken
through their usual reserve on this chronological
question and condescended to
give us a numerical determination. And
here is how Dr. Croll gets at it.</p>

<p>Every now and again, geological evidence
goes to show us, a long cold spell
occurs in a northern or southern hemisphere.
During these long cold spells
the ice cap at the poles increases largely,
till it spreads over a great part of
what are now the temperate regions of
the globe, and makes ice a mere drug
in the market as far south as Covent
Garden or the Halles at Paris. During
the greatest extension of this ice sheet
in the last glacial epoch, in fact, all
England except a small south-western
corner (about Torquay and Bournemouth)
was completely covered by one
enormous mass of glaciers, as is still the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">58</span>
case with almost the whole of Greenland.
The ice sheet, grinding slowly over the
hills and rocks, smoothed and polished
and striated their surfaces in many
places till they resembled the <i lang="fr">roches
moutonnées</i> similarly ground down in
our own day by the moving ice rivers
of Chamouni and Grindelwald. Now,
since these great glaciations have occurred
at various intervals in the world’s
past history, they must depend upon
some frequently recurring cause. Such
a cause, therefore, Dr. Croll began ingeniously
to hunt about for.</p>

<p>He found it at last in the eccentricity
of the earth’s orbit. This world of ours,
though usually steady enough in its
movements, is at times decidedly eccentric.
Not that I mean to impute to
our old and exceedingly respectable
planet any occasional aberrations of intellect,
or still less of morals (such as
might be expected from Mars and Venus);
the word is here to be accepted
strictly in its scientific or Pickwickian
sense as implying merely an irregularity
of movement, a slight wobbling out of
the established path, a deviation from
exact circularity. Owing to a combination
of astronomical revolutions, the
precession of the equinoxes and the
motion of the aphelion (I am not going
to explain them here; the names alone
will be quite sufficient for most people;
they will take the rest on trust)—owing
to the combination of these profoundly
interesting causes, I say, there occur
certain periods in the world’s life when
for a very long time together (10,500
years, to be quite precise) the northern
hemisphere is warmer than the southern,
or <i lang="la">vice versa</i>. Now Dr. Croll has calculated
that about 250,000 years ago this
eccentricity of the earth’s orbit was at
its highest, so that a cycle of recurring
cold and warm epochs in either hemisphere
alternately then set in; and such
cold spells it was that produced the
Great Ice Age in Northern Europe.
They went on till about 80,000 years
ago, when they stopped short for the
present, leaving the climate of Britain
and the neighboring continent with its
existing inconvenient Laodicean temperature.
And, as there are good reasons
for believing that my old master and his
contemporaries lived just before the
greatest cold of the Glacial Epoch, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">59</span>
that his immediate descendants, with
the animals on which they feasted, were
driven out of Europe, or out of existence,
by the slow approach of the enormous
ice sheet, we may, I think, fairly
conclude that his date was somewhere
about <span class="smcap lowercase">B.C.</span> 248,000. In any case we
must at least admit, with Mr. Andrew
Lang, the laureate of the twenty-five
thousandth century, that</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">He lived in the long long agoes;</div>
<div class="verse">’Twas the manner of primitive man.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>The old master, then, carved his
bas-relief in pre-Glacial Europe, just at
the moment before the temporary extinction
of his race in France by the
coming on of the Great Ice Age. We
can infer this fact from the character
of the fauna by which he was surrounded,
a fauna in which species of cold and
warm climates are at times quite capriciously
intermingled. We get the reindeer
and the mammoth side by side with
the hippopotamus and the hyena; we
find the chilly cave bear and the Norway
lemming, the musk sheep and the
Arctic fox in the same deposits with
the lion and the lynx, the leopard and
the rhinoceros. The fact is, as Mr.
Alfred Russel Wallace has pointed out,
we live to-day in a zoologically impoverished
world, from which all the largest,
fiercest, and most remarkable animals
have lately been weeded out. And
it was in all probability the coming on
of the Ice Age that did the weeding.
Our Zoo can boast no mammoth and
no mastodon. The sabre-toothed lion
has gone the way of all flesh; the
deinotherium and the colossal ruminants
of the Pliocene Age no longer browse
beside the banks of Seine. But our old
master saw the last of some at least
among those gigantic quadrupeds; it
was his hand or that of one among his
fellows that scratched the famous mammoth
etching on the ivory of La Madelaine
and carved the figure of the extinct
cave bear on the reindeer-horn ornaments
of Laugerie Basse. Probably,
therefore, he lived in the period immediately
preceding the Great Ice Age, or
else perhaps in one of the warm interglacial
spells with which the long secular
winter of the northern hemisphere was
then from time to time agreeably diversified.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">60</span></p>

<p>And what did the old master himself
look like? Well, painters have always
been fond of reproducing their own lineaments.
Have we not the familiar
young Raffael, painted by himself, and
the Rembrandt, and the Titian, and the
Rubens, and a hundred other self-drawn
portraits, all flattering and all famous?
Even so primitive man has drawn himself
many times over, not indeed on this
particular piece of reindeer horn, but on
several other media to be seen elsewhere,
in the original or in good copies. One
of the best portraits is that discovered
in the old cave at Laugerie Basse by M.
Elie Massénat, where a very early pre-Glacial
man is represented in the act of
hunting an aurochs, at which he is casting
a flint-tipped javelin. In this as in all
other pictures of the same epoch I regret
to say that the ancient hunter is represented
in the costume of Adam before
the fall. Our old master’s studies, in
fact, are all in the nude. Primitive man
was evidently unacquainted as yet with
the use of clothing, though primitive
woman, while still unclad, had already
learnt how to heighten her natural
charms by the simple addition of a
necklace and bracelets. Indeed, though
dresses were still wholly unknown, rouge
was even then extremely fashionable
among French ladies, and lumps of the
ruddle with which primitive woman made
herself beautiful for ever are now to
be discovered in the corner of the cave
where she had her little prehistoric
boudoir. To return to our hunter, however,
who for aught we know to the contrary
may be our old master himself in
person, he is a rather crouching and
semi-erect savage, with an arched back,
recalling somewhat that of the gorilla, a
round head, long neck, pointed beard,
and weak, shambling, ill-developed legs.
I fear we must admit that pre-Glacial
man cut, on the whole, a very sorry and
awkward figure.</p>

<p>Was he black? That we don’t certainly
know, but all analogy would lead
one to answer positively, Yes. White
men seem, on the whole, to be a very
recent and novel improvement on the
original evolutionary pattern. At any
rate he was distinctly hairy, like the
Ainos, or aborigines of Japan, in our
own day, of whom Miss Isabella Bird
has drawn so startling and sensational a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">61</span>
picture. Several of the pre-Glacial
sketches show us lank and gawky savages
with the body covered with long
scratches, answering exactly to the
scratches which represent the hanging
hair of the mammoth, and suggesting
that man then still retained his old original
hairy covering. The few skulls and
other fragments of skeletons now preserved
to us also indicate that our old
master and his contemporaries much
resembled in shape and build the Australian
black fellows, though their foreheads
were lower and more receding,
while their front teeth still projected
in huge fangs, faintly recalling the immense
canines of the male gorilla. Quite
apart from any theoretical considerations
as to our probable descent (or
ascent) from Mr. Darwin’s hypothetical
“hairy arboreal quadrumanous ancestor,”
whose existence may or may not
be really true, there can be no doubt
that the actual historical remains set before
us pre-Glacial man as evidently
approaching in several important respects
the higher monkeys.</p>

<p>It is interesting to note too that while
the Men of the Time still retained (to
be frankly evolutionary) many traces of
the old monkey-like progenitor, the
horses which our old master has so
cleverly delineated for us on his scrap of
horn similarly retained many traces
of the earlier united horse-and-donkey
ancestor. Professor Huxley has admirably
reconstructed for us the pedigree
of the horse, beginning with a little
creature from the Eocene beds of New
Mexico, with five toes to each hind foot,
and ending with the modern horse,
whose hoof is now practically reduced
to a single and solid-nailed toe. Intermediate
stages show us an Upper
Eocene animal as big as a fox, with
four toes on his front feet and three
behind; a Miocene kind as big as a
sheep, with only three toes on the front
foot, the two outer of which are smaller
than the big middle one; and finally a
Pliocene form, as big as a donkey, with
one stout middle toe, the real hoof,
flanked by two smaller ones, too short
by far to reach the ground. In our own
horse these lateral toes have become reduced
to what are known by veterinaries
as splint bones, combined with the
canon in a single solidly morticed piece.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">62</span>
But in the pre-Glacial horses the splint
bones still generally remained quite
distinct, thus pointing back to the still
earlier period when they existed as two
separate and independent side toes in
the ancestral quadruped. In a few cave
specimens, however, the splints are
found united with the canons in a single
piece, while conversely horses are sometimes,
though very rarely, born at the
present day with three-toed feet, exactly
resembling those of their half-forgotten
ancestor the Pliocene hipparion.</p>

<p>The reason why we know so much
about the horses of the cave period is,
I am bound to admit, simply and solely
because the man of the period ate them.
Hippophagy has always been popular in
France; it was practised by pre-Glacial
man in the caves of Périgord, and revived
with immense enthusiasm by the
gourmets of the Boulevards after the
siege of Paris and the hunger of the
Commune. The cave men hunted and
killed the wild horse of their own times,
and one of the best of their remaining
works of art represents a naked hunter
attacking two horses, while a huge snake
winds itself unperceived behind close
to his heel. In this rough prehistoric
sketch one seems to catch some faint
antique foreshadowing of the rude
humor of the “Petit Journal pour
Rire.” Some archæologists even believe
that the horse was domesticated by the
cave men as a source of food, and argue
that the familiarity with its form shown
in the drawings could only have been
acquired by people who knew the animal
in its domesticated state; they declare
that the cave man was obviously horsey.
But all the indications seem to me to
show that tame animals were quite unknown
in the age of the cave men. The
mammoth certainly was never domesticated;
yet there is a famous sketch of
the huge beast upon a piece of his own
ivory, discovered in the cave of La Madelaine
by Messrs. Lartet and Christy,
and engraved a hundred times in works
on archæology, which forms one of the
finest existing relics of pre-Glacial art.
In another sketch, less well known, but
not unworthy of admiration, the early
artist has given us with a few rapid but
admirable strokes his own reminiscence
of the effect produced upon him by the
sudden onslaught of the hairy brute,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">63</span>
tusks erect and mouth wide open, a perfect
glimpse of elephantine fury. It
forms a capital example of early impressionism,
respectfully recommended
to the favorable attention of Mr. J. M.
Whistler.</p>

<p>The reindeer, however, formed the
favorite food and favorite model of the
pre-Glacial artists. Perhaps it was a
better sitter than the mammoth; certainly
it is much more frequently represented
on these early prehistoric bas-reliefs.
The high-water mark of palæolithic
art is undoubtedly to be found in
the reindeer of the cave of Thayngen,
in Switzerland, a capital and spirited
representation of a buck grazing, in
which the perspective of the two horns
is better managed than a Chinese artist
would manage it at the present day.
Another drawing of two reindeer fighting,
scratched on a fragment of schistose
rock and unearthed in one of the
caves of Périgord, though far inferior to
the Swiss specimen in spirit and execution,
is yet not without real merit. The
perspective, however, displays one
marked infantile trait, for the head and
legs of one deer are seen distinctly
through the body of another. Cave
bears, fish, musk sheep, foxes, and
many other extinct or existing animals
are also found among the archaic sculptures.
Probably all these creatures were
used as food; and it is even doubtful
whether the artistic troglodytes were
not also confirmed cannibals. To quote
Mr. Andrew Lang once more on primitive
man, “he lived in a cave by the
seas; he lived upon oysters and foes.”
The oysters are quite undoubted and
the foes may be inferred with considerable
certainty.</p>

<p>I have spoken of our old master more
than once under this rather question-begging
style and title of primitive man.
In reality, however, the very facts which
I have here been detailing serve themselves
to show how extremely far our
hero was from being truly primitive.
You can’t speak of a distinguished artist,
who draws the portraits of extinct animals
with grace and accuracy, as in any
proper sense primordial. Grant that
our good troglodytes were indeed light-hearted
cannibals; nevertheless they
could design far better than the modern
Esquimaux or Polynesians, and carve<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">64</span>
far better than the civilized being who
is now calmly discoursing about their
personal peculiarities in his own study.
Between the cave men of the pre-Glacial
age and the hypothetical hairy quadrumanous
ancestor aforesaid there must
have intervened innumerable generations
of gradually improving intermediate
forms. The old master, when he
first makes his bow to us, naked and not
ashamed, in his Swiss or French grotto,
flint scalpel in hand and necklet of
bear’s teeth dropping loosely on his
hairy bosom, is nevertheless in all essentials
a completely evolved human being,
with a whole past of slowly acquired
culture lying dimly and mysteriously behind
him. Already he had invented the
bow with its flint-tipped arrow, the neatly
chipped javelin-head, the bone harpoon,
the barbed fish-hook, the axe, the
lance, the dagger, and the needle. Already
he had learnt how to decorate his
implements with artistic skill, and to
carve the handles of his knives with the
figures of animals. I have no doubt
that he even knew how to brew and to
distil; and he was probably acquainted
with the noble art of cookery as applied
to the persons of his human fellow creatures.
Such a personage cannot reasonably
be called primitive; cannibalism,
as somebody has rightly remarked, is
the first step on the road to civilisation.</p>

<p>No, if we want to get at genuine, unadulterated
primitive man we must go
much further back in time than the
mere trifle of 250,000 years, with which
Dr. Croll and the cosmic astronomers
so generously provide us for pre-Glacial
humanity. We must turn away to the
immeasurably earlier fire-split flints
which the Abbé Bourgeois—undaunted
mortal!—ventured to discover among
the Miocene strata of the <i lang="fr">calcaire de
Beauce</i>. Those flints, if of human origin
at all, were fashioned by some naked
and still more hairy creature who might
fairly claim to be considered as genuinely
primitive. So rude are they that,
though evidently artificial, one distinguished
archæologist will not admit
they can be in any way human; he will
have it that they were really the handiwork
of the great European anthropoid
ape of that early period. This, however,
is nothing more than very delicate
hair-splitting; for what does it matter<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">65</span>
whether you call the animal that fashioned
these exceedingly rough and fire-marked
implements a man-like ape or
an ape-like human being? The fact remains
quite unaltered, whichever name
you choose to give to it. When you
have got to a monkey who can light a
fire and proceed to manufacture himself
a convenient implement, you may be
sure that man, noble man, with all his
glorious and admirable faculties—cannibal
or otherwise—is lurking somewhere
very close just round the corner. The
more we examine the work of our old
master, in fact, the more does the conviction
force itself upon us that he was
very far indeed from being primitive—that
we must push back the early history
of our race not for 250,000 winters
alone, but perhaps for two or three
million years into the dim past of Tertiary
ages.</p>

<p>But if pre-Glacial man is thus separated
from the origin of the race by a
very long interval indeed, it is none the
less true that he is separated from our
own time by the intervention of a vast
blank space, the space occupied by the
coming on and passing away of the Glacial
Epoch. A great gap cuts him off
from what we may consider as the relatively
modern age of the mound-builders,
whose grassy barrows still cap the
summits of our southern chalk downs.
When the great ice sheet drove away
palæolithic man—the man of the caves
and the unwrought flint axes—from
Northern Europe, he was still nothing
more than a naked savage in the hunting
stage, divinely gifted for art, indeed,
but armed only with roughly chipped
stone implements, and wholly ignorant
of taming animals or of the very rudiments
of agriculture. He knew nothing
of the use of metals—<i lang="la">aurum irrepertum
spernere fortior</i>—and he had not
even learnt how to grind and polish his
rude stone tomahawks to a finished
edge. He couldn’t make himself a
bowl of sun-baked pottery, and if he
had discovered the almost universal art
of manufacturing an intoxicating liquor
from grain or berries (for, as Byron, with
too great anthropological truth, justly
remarks, “man, being reasonable, <em>must</em>
get drunk”) he at least drank his aboriginal
beer or toddy from the capacious
horn of a slaughtered aurochs.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">66</span>
That was the kind of human being who
alone inhabited France and England
during the later pre-Glacial period.</p>

<p>A hundred and seventy thousand
years elapse (as the play bills put it),
and then the curtain rises afresh upon
neolithic Europe. Man meanwhile,
loitering somewhere behind the scenes
in Asia or Africa (as yet imperfectly explored
from this point of view), had acquired
the important arts of sharpening
his tomahawks and producing hand-made
pottery for his kitchen utensils.
When the great ice sheet cleared away
he followed the returning summer into
Northern Europe, another man, physically,
intellectually, and morally, with
all the slow accumulations of nearly two
thousand centuries (how easily one
writes the words! how hard to realise
them!) upon his maturer shoulders.
Then comes the age of what older antiquaries
used to regard as primitive antiquity—the
age of the English barrows,
of the Danish kitchen middens, of the
Swiss lake dwellings. The men who
lived in it had domesticated the dog,
the cow, the sheep, the goat, and the
invaluable pig; they had begun to sow
small ancestral wheat and undeveloped
barley; they had learnt to weave flax
and wear decent clothing; in a word,
they had passed from the savage hunting
condition to the stage of barbaric
herdsmen and agriculturists. That is
a comparatively modern period, and yet
I suppose we must conclude with Dr.
James Geikie that it isn’t to be measured
by mere calculations of ten or
twenty centuries, but of ten or twenty
thousand years. The perspective of
the past is opening up rapidly before
us; what looked quite close yesterday
is shown to-day to lie away off somewhere
in the dim distance. Like our
palæolithic artists, we fail to get the
reindeer fairly behind the ox in the foreground,
as we ought to do if we saw the
whole scene properly foreshortened.</p>

<p>On the table where I write there lie
two paper weights, preserving from the
fate of the sibylline leaves the sheets of
foolscap to which this article is now being
committed. One of them is a very
rude flint hatchet, produced by merely
chipping off flakes from its side by dexterous
blows, and utterly unpolished or
unground in any way. It belongs to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">67</span>
the age of the very old master (or possibly
even to a slightly earlier epoch),
and it was sent me from Ightham, in
Kent, by that indefatigable unearther of
prehistoric memorials, Mr. Benjamin
Harrison. That flint, which now serves
me in the office of a paper weight, is far
ruder, simpler, and more ineffective
than any weapon or implement at present
in use among the lowest savages.
Yet with it, I doubt not, some naked
black fellow by the banks of the Thames
has hunted the mammoth among unbroken
forests two hundred thousand years
ago and more; with it he has faced the
angry cave bear and the original and
only genuine British lion (for everybody
knows that the existing mongrel heraldic
beast is nothing better than a bastard
modification of the leopard of the Plantagenets).
Nay, I have very little doubt
in my own mind that with it some
æsthetic ancestor has brained and cut
up for use his next-door neighbor in the
nearest cavern, and then carved upon
his well-picked bones an interesting
sketch of the entire performance. The
Du Mauriers of that remote age, in
fact, habitually drew their society pictures
upon the personal remains of the
mammoth or the man whom they wished
to caricature in deathless bone-cuts.
The other paper weight is a polished
neolithic tomahawk, belonging to the
period of the mound-builders, who succeeded
the Glacial Epoch, and it measures
the distance between the two levels
of civilisation with great accuracy. It
is the military weapon of a trained barbaric
warrior as opposed to the universal
implement and utensil of a rude, solitary,
savage hunter. Yet how curious
it is that even in the midst of this “so-called
nineteenth century,” which perpetually
proclaims itself an age of progress,
men should still prefer to believe
themselves inferior to their original ancestors,
instead of being superior to
them! The idea that man has risen is
considered base, degrading, and positively
wicked; the idea that he has
fallen is considered to be immensely inspiring,
ennobling, and beautiful. For
myself, I have somehow always preferred
the boast of the Homeric Glaucus
that we indeed maintain ourselves to be
much better men that ever were our
fathers.—<cite>Cornhill Magazine.</cite></p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">68</span></p>




<h2><a name="THE_ORGANIZATION_OF_DEMOCRACY" id="THE_ORGANIZATION_OF_DEMOCRACY">THE ORGANIZATION OF DEMOCRACY.</a><br />

<small>BY GOLDWIN SMITH.</small></h2>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">69</span></p>

<p>In the Colonies, at least in Canada,
there are a good many of us who believe,
not in the expansion of England,
but in the multiplication of Englands,
and to whom Imperial Federation, or
any scheme for the political re-absorption
of an adult and distant Colony into
its Mother Country, appears totally impracticable.
Yet we regard the Mother
Country not only as the object of our
filial affection and pride, but as the
centre of our civilization, feel a practical
as well as a sentimental interest in
everything that touches her, and tremble
at her danger as at our own.</p>

<p>We look on from a distance, it is
true; and though the cable transmits to
us the news, it does not, nor do even
the newspapers and the correspondents,
transmit to us the mind of England.
In this respect our judgment may be at
fault. On the other hand, we are out
of the fray; we stand clear of English
parties; we care for nothing but the
country; we see, while those immediately
engaged do not see, the heady
current of faction, ambition, chimerical
aspiration, political fatalism, and disunionist
conspiracy hurrying the nation
towards a bourne which all the speakers
and writers on the Franchise Bill and
the Redistribution Bill, by the vagueness
of their speculations on the practical
results, proclaim to be unknown.</p>

<p>The electorate, that is to say, the
government—at least the body by which
the government is appointed and its
policy is determined—is undergoing reconstruction
on the largest scale. Yet
we look in vain, even in the speeches of
the great statesman who is the author
of these measures, for any forecast of
their practical effect, of the influence
which they will have on the character of
government, or of the sort of policy
which they will produce. Able and impressive
as the speeches may be, there
is little in them but philanthropy and
arithmetic, neither of which is politics.
The effect of the Redistribution Bill
especially is evidently a matter of the
merest conjecture. Lord Salisbury
thinks that it will act in one way, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">70</span>
Mr. Chamberlain that it will act in another.
The first considers it favorable
to aristocratic reaction, the second considers
it favorable to authoritative democracy.
The Bill is a leap in the
dark. In any case less important than
that of a reconstruction of the national
institutions, safe experiments would
probably precede sweeping change. A
new mode of paving would be tried first
in one or two streets; a new mode of
cultivation would be tried first in one or
two fields. But if you proposed to try
the Redistribution Bill in one or two
specimen districts, a chorus of scornful
reprobation would arise from all parties,
sects, and ambitions. Nor would any
voices be louder than those of some who
are foremost in hailing the advent of
political science, and preaching the
necessity of a scientific method in all
things. This is not a deliberation on
the amendment of national institutions;
it is a battle of parties. Each party is
seeking not so much to improve the
government as to make it the instrument
of particular theories or passions. But
this surely is what a government, an
executive government at least, ought not
to be. A government ought to be the
impartial guardian for the whole nation
of law, order, property, personal rights,
and the public safety; while opinion is
left to shape itself by discussion, reach
maturity, and at length impress itself
on legislation. This whole movement
is pre-eminently the work of party, and
inspired by its passions. Reform in
1832 was really national; the nation
earnestly desired liberation from a corrupt
oligarchy. But the subsequent
suffrage agitations have been mainly set
on foot by the politicians for the purposes
of their party war.</p>

<p>Democracy has come. By all reflecting
men its advent seems to be acknowledged,
by most it is welcomed as bringing,
so far as we can see or so far as experience,
though chequered, informs us,
an increase of happiness to the masses
of mankind, and therefore, in the highest
sense, to all. But it requires to be
organized and regulated; otherwise the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">71</span>
end will be anarchy and, as the inevitable
consequence of anarchy, a relapse
into a government of force. Republics,
as we have more than once seen, are
capable of suicide. The people is no
more divine than kings, though its divinity
was proclaimed by the Maratists;
it is capable of governing itself as
wrongly as any king can govern it. The
ignorance, the passions, the self-interest,
not only of particular classes, but of all
of us alike, need to be controlled, as far
as institutions can control them, and
eliminated from the Councils of the
State. The Americans, as was said before,
have tried to organize and regulate
democracy. The framers of the American
Constitution—no veil of illusion being
spread before their eyes by the surviving
forms and names of an old monarchy—saw
the problem which destiny
had set before them. It was not such a
problem as would be presented to them
by the America of the present day, with
its New York and its Chicago, its flood
of foreign immigrants, and its enfranchised
negroes; far less is it such a
problem as Great Britain, with the populace
of its great cities, its host of Radical
and Secularist artisans, its uninstructed
millions of farm laborers, and
its disaffected Irishry presents to the
British statesman. They had to deal
only with the Puritan freeholders of
New England and the planters of the
South. Still they saw the necessity of
providing a solution, and a solution
they produced—one not in all respects
correct, even in its day (for the mode
adopted of electing the President was a
fatal error), yet effective as well as deliberate,
and such as has sufficed, notwithstanding
the great increase of the
strain upon the machinery, to shelter
civilization and avert anarchy. They
instituted an executive government invested
with actual power and existing
independently of parties in Congress, a
real though suspensive veto, a Senate
elected on a Conservative principle, a
written constitution in the keeping of a
Supreme Court, by which all powers
and jurisdictions are strictly defined
and limited, and which can be amended
only with the deliberate consent of the
nation at large. Besides, as was said
before, the Federal system itself, by
localizing questions and breaking the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">72</span>
sweep of agitation, has a highly Conservative
effect. These safeguards, with
the political qualities of the Anglo-Americans
and the Germans, prevent a
catastrophe which without them would
certainly come. But England has nothing
like them. She has nothing but an
“ancient throne,” now stripped of the
last vestige of political power, and an
aristocracy which is evidently doomed,
and, by its struggles to retain its obsolete
privilege, stimulates revolution.
The only Conservative institution which
is really effective is the non-payment of
Members of Parliament; and this Democracy
has already marked for abolition.</p>

<p>One could wish for a blast of the
Fontarabian horn to awaken British
statesmen, in this decisive hour, to the
fact that England, though she has the
consecrated form, has no longer the
substance of monarchical government.
Her only government is the House of
Commons, or a committee of leaders of
the dominant party, holding their offices
during the pleasure of that House. In
the electorate is the supreme power;
this is now not only the fact but a
recognized fact. Twice the Ministry,
after submitting its policy to the judgment
of the constituencies by a dissolution
of Parliament, has resigned in deference
to the verdict. Yet these same
statesmen go on dealing with the electorate
as though they were not dealing
with the government or with the sovereign
power, but only with a representation
of the people convened for the purpose
of assenting to taxation. They
seem to fancy that flood the electorate
as they will with ignorance, passion,
and all the elements of violence and anarchy,
the government will still be carried
on calmly and wisely by the occupant
and the Ministers of the “ancient
throne.” Is it possible that the mere
phrase “servants of the Crown” can
cast such a spell over practical minds?</p>

<p>Down to this time the political history
of England has been a long revolution,
of which the Whig or Liberal party in
its successive phases has been the organ,
and by which, after many oscillations
and vicissitudes, supreme power has
been drawn from the Crown and the
aristocracy to the Commons. The destructive
part of the process is now all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">73</span>
but complete, only a small remnant of
precarious power being retained by the
House of Lords. The constructive part
remains to be performed. The task of
British statesmen at the present day is,
in effect, to found a Democratic Government.
The ground has been cleared
for the new edifice, but the edifice has
yet to be built. Its foundations have
hardly yet been laid.</p>

<p>Without giving way to reactionary
panic, it may surely be said that the
times are critical. They are not evil;
they are full, on the contrary, of the
unripe promise of good; but they are
critical. Statesmen cannot afford to act
blindfold. Democracy comes, as it was
likely that it would come, not by itself,
but as part of a general revolution, political,
social, and religious. Nihilism
marks, by its all-embracing lust of destruction,
the connection between the
different revolutionary forces, while it
exhibits them in their delirious excess.
The English reform movement in the
early part of the century was almost exclusively
political; other agitations were
called into being by the general disturbance,
but they were secondary and subsided;
the main object sought was the
removal of abuses in government; the
leaders were strict economists, and, far
from seeking a social revolution, would
have recoiled from the idea. But a
momentous change has taken place since
that time. The fermentation is now
not only political but general. Political
power is sought by the masses and their
leaders, not merely for the sake of purifying
the administration and reducing
its cost, but in the hope that it may be
used to effect a great social change.
Secularism has become an important
factor in the situation. Rate religious
influence, and that of faith in a future
state as low as you will, it can hardly
be denied that the patience of the masses
under the inequalities of the social system
has hitherto been largely sustained
by the belief that the system was a providential
ordinance, and that those who
did their duty in it, even if they suffered
here, would be in some way made happy
in the sum of things.</p>

<p>Nor has the doctrine of spiritual
equality been without its effect in consoling
the lowly for their inferiority of
rank. Hereafter scientific conviction,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">74</span>
derived from the study of the social organism,
may supply the place of religious
impressions as a motive for acquiescence
in things as they are. At present
it is the destructive process of science
that has almost exclusively taken
place in the mind of the Radical proletarian.
Believing now that this world is
all, he naturally desires to grasp his full
share of its good things without delay.
His sensibility having been quickened
with his intelligence, he feels inferiority
as well as privation, and is impelled by
social envy as well as by desire. His
education has advanced just far enough
to enable him to imbibe theories which
coincide with his wishes. If he cannot
understand the fine reasonings of Mr.
George, he can understand the confiscation,
and he thinks that so much fine
reasoning must make the confiscation
moral. Communism and semi-communism
are rife; there is a tendency to
them even at the Universities, and in
other high places. Perhaps the loss of
faith in the Church leads some to see an
indemnity for it in a communistic polity.
If there is not in England, as there is in
Germany, a strong Socialistic party,
there appears to be a growing disposition
to make a Socialistic use of the
suffrage. There is certainly in many
quarters an exaggerated idea of the
powers and duties of the fictitious being
styled the State. One conspicuous candidate
for the succession to the leadership,
at all events, is evidently holding
out hopes of a Socialistic system of high
taxation for the benefit of those who
produce least, and he appears inclined
to head a crusade against the property
of all landowners, and of all owners of
houses in towns. Nor is he without
rivals in this quest of popularity on the
Tory side. The ball of agrarianism
which has been set rolling by recent
legislation in Ireland, rolls on, and its
course is not likely to stop in Skye.
All this may be working for good. The
writer of this paper, at all events, has
no inclination to take the despondent
view. But surely there is enough to
warn statesmen that they must exercise
forecast, that they must try, while they
can, to secure to the nation a stable and
rational government; that they must
not hastily divorce power from intelligence
and responsibility; that they must<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">75</span>
not plunge the country headlong into
unorganized and unregulated democracy.
If this Parliament comes to an
end without having created any conservative
safeguards, while it has instituted
a suffrage destined evidently soon to be
universal, the reins will have been
thrown on the necks of the horses, and
the last leverage of Conservatism will
be gone. M. Taine has just shown us
whither horses with the reins upon their
necks may run, and what wreck they
may make of their own hopes. It is
true that great resignation, and even
apathy, has been sometimes shown by
the masses in times of suffering from
dearth. No doubt the masses move
slowly; but you incite them to move
when you thrust into their hand the
vote and send among them people to
teach them that by a violent use of it
they can raise themselves to the level of
the rich. Able and powerful men of
the ruling class itself are now, either
from philanthropy or from party motives,
doing their utmost to pave the
way for a Socialistic revolution.</p>

<p>Of all the calamities that ever befell
the human race, the greatest was the
French Revolution. Wide, happily, is
the difference between the France of a
century ago and the England of the
present day. In the case of England
there is no Versailles, no deficit, no gulf
between the aristocracy and the middle
classes; while there is diffused intelligence
instead of a night of political
ignorance in which all sorts of spectres
stalked, general habits of self-government
in place of a paralyzing centralization,
and a political character, as we
may flatter ourselves, stronger and sounder
than was that of the French. Still
there are some points of similarity,
especially the dangerous conjunction of
social or agrarian with political revolution.
In England, as in the France of
the eighteenth century, scepticism has
gained the minds of the ruling class;
with their convictions their nerve is
shaken, and it is difficult to see who
would stop the avalanche if once it
should begin to slide. Nor is there
wanting a sybaritic Jacobinism which
ominously reminds us of the Palais
Royal. Pleasure-hunting and frivolity,
athletic and of other kinds, appear to
have reached a great height, and to pub<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">76</span>lic
questions a sort of careless fatalism
seems to prevail. No doubt there is
still plenty of force and of seriousness
in the country; but something like a
convulsion may be needed to bring
them to the front. The masses in
France, though galled by the burdens of
feudal lordship were not, properly speaking,
Socialistic. Socialism proper can
hardly be said to have shown its head
before the conspiracy of Babœuf; and
the nation was still at the core monarchical
and Catholic, as was proved by
the ease with which both monarchy and
Church were restored by Napoleon.
Should the manufacturing and maritime
supremacy of England be still more
severely challenged and continue to decline,
an amount of suffering might be
produced among her people hardly less
than was, in reality, that of the people
in France. If Socialistic legislation
commences in earnest, and, as the inevitable
consequence, property begins
to shrink from circulation and investment,
stoppage of industry and dearth
of bread cannot fail to ensue, and we
know what the effects of these would be
in the middle of a Socialistic revolution.
Much ought to be risked, if there were
real hope of equalizing, by any political
action, the human lot. But who seriously
believes this to be possible? Who
does not know that the things which we
deplore and are slowly mending will
only be made worse by convulsions?</p>

<p>Surely, if this work were in the hands
of patriotic and comprehensive statesmanship,
not in those of party, there
would be, instead of a mere extension of
the Franchise, a revision of the Constitution.
Before, by the admission of a
large popular element, the strain upon
the conservative and regulative parts of
the machine was increased, those parts
would be looked over and put in order;
this question of the Second Chamber
would be settled, and if the result was a
determination to reform the House of
Lords, that determination would be carried
into effect, and the institution
would be placed in a condition to do its
work, before the next general election.</p>

<p>In a reform of the House of Lords it
is difficult to feel any confidence. The
hereditary principle seems to be thoroughly
dead. In the Middle Ages it
had a root in the faith and in the igno<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">77</span>rance
of mankind; it had its temporary
uses, and at the same time it had its
correctives. A mediæval lord was
obliged to exert himself that his lordship
might not be taken by another. A
mediæval king was obliged to exert himself
if he wished to keep his crown upon
his head. Now, except in the rare
cases of men moulded of Nature’s finest
clay, with whom nobility acts really as
an obligation, hereditary rank and wealth
kill duty in the cradle. It is found impossible
to get a decent attendance in
the House of Lords. In answer to Lord
Rosebery’s appeal, a Peer says that he
will be happy to attend if the nation will
re-enact the Corn Laws, so as to enable
him to keep a house in town. To indulge
a mere whim, the hereditary wearers
of the crown refuse to visit Ireland,
and thus fling away the affections of the
Irish people. The historical cause has
been tried during this controversy and
the issue is not doubtful. We have
seen how the House of Lords, since it
assumed its present character, which it
did under the second Tudor, has worked.
That it has acted as a court of mature
wisdom, revising on grounds of impartial
statesmanship the rash decisions of
the popular House, is as complete a
fable as its Norman pedigree. It has
simply opposed the selfish resistance of
a privileged order to change of every
kind. Could it have its way, not only
Rotten Boroughs and Sinecurism, but
the old Criminal Code, Religious Intolerance,
Arbitrary Imprisonment, the
Censorship of the Press, the Paper Duty,
even Slavery and the Slave Trade, would
still be cumbering the earth; or, rather,
long ago, the nation would have been
compelled to choose between political
death and revolution. To fear, on
questions which caused national excitement,
the House of Lords has at last
given way; but not to reason and justice.
A multitude of minor reforms it
has strangled, by its obstructiveness,
altogether. The only great measure of
change which this organ of mature wisdom
ever readily passed was the Franchise
Bill of 1867, which was described
by its own author as a leap in the dark,
and had been devised with the view of
swamping progressive intelligence in a
flood of ignorance and beer. Nor has
obstruction been the only sin of that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">78</span>
order of which the House of Lords is
the organ; it has given to the general
policy of England a class bias; it stimulated
the crusade against the French
Revolution, and unlike the crusading
Barons of the Middle Ages, it stayed at
home revelling in high rents and in a
mass of sinecures, of which it sacrificed
not one penny, while the people bled
and starved in a cause which was not
theirs. It has fostered militarism generally
as a diversion from domestic reform.
On economic questions the legislation
of the Lords has been mere landlordism.
As mere landlords they have
acted, from the day on which they sold
the national religion to the Pope for a
quiet title to the Church lands, to the
day on which they passed the Arrears
Bill, after showing their sense of its
character, in order that they might recover
some of their back rents. If
twice in the course of their long history
they have been for a moment on the
side of freedom, fear for their Church
lands, combined with jealousy of ecclesiastical
favorites, was the cause. The
period of their most complete ascendency,
in the last century, was the epoch
of political corruption; and the conduct
of the House at the time of the
railway mania, when it formed a Ring
in the landlord interest, was, to say the
least, not a proof that hereditary wealth
lifts its possessor above commercial motives.
Many histories are darker than
that of the House of Lords; few are less
heroic; and the facts are now deeply
imprinted on the minds of the people.
Faith in the “noble blood” of the
scapegrace son of a law lord, once dissipated,
is not likely to return. The
hereditary wealth itself, which is the
real basis of aristocratic influence, and
without which the Peerage would be a
thing of shreds and patches, is reduced
by agricultural depression, and will be
greatly broken up by the abolition of
primogeniture and entail,—a change
which is sure to come, for it will be
found that the only antidote to agrarian
communism is the free acquisition of
land. The hereditary principle is dead,
and can serve England or civilized humanity
no more. Introduced into, or
retained in, any Senate, it will carry
with it the seeds of death. As soon as
it obeys, as obey it certainly will, its<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">79</span>
obstructive instinct, the cry against it
will be renewed. It will not become
less odious by becoming weaker. If the
life element which it is proposed to introduce
remains antagonistic to the hereditary
element, the tribunal of mature
wisdom will be divided against itself
and fresh conflicts will ensue. If it is
assimilated, you will have the House of
Lords over again, and more odious than
ever, since the life element will be regarded
as having apostatized and betrayed
its trust.</p>

<p>Yet the whole theory of a Second
Chamber as a necessary part of Parliamentary
institutions appears to have no
other origin nor any sounder basis than
a mistaken view of the nature of the
House of Lords, which all the world has
supposed to be a Senate, when in fact it
was an estate of the feudal realm, representing
not a higher grade of deliberative
wisdom but simply the special interest
of the great landowners. The only
valid argument in favor of the retention
of the House of Lords is, in fact, the
difficulty which the Bicamerists find in
devising anything to be put in its place.
Nomination is a total failure; the nominated
Senate of Canada is a legislative
cypher, the debates of which are not
even reported, and the places in it are a
mere addition to the bribery fund of the
party leader. If both Chambers are
elective, as in Victoria, the result is a
collision and a deadlock, out of which,
in the case of sovereign assemblies,
there would be no colonial officer or
governor to point a way. Co-option in
any form, or election by an order, would
give us the oligarchy over again, perhaps
in a worse shape than ever, since
the members would have to cultivate the
good graces of a privileged and reactionary
electorate. Not only as to the mode
in which their Senate is to be elected
are the Bicamerists at fault; they are
equally at fault as to the special materials
of which it is to be composed. If
age or wealth is to be the qualification,
impotence or odium will be the result.
If the wisest are to have their seats in
the Senate, the popular House will be
deprived of its best leaders. Supreme
power must centre somewhere; it will
centre in that body which most directly
represents the national will. Let the
assembly, then, which is the seat of su<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">80</span>preme
power, be the seat of collective
wisdom. Concentrate in it, as far as
possible, all the best available elements,
those of a conservative character as well
as the rest. Frankly recognize its authority,
and invest it at the same time
with a full measure of responsibility.
Notoriously the existence of a Senate
diminishes the sense of responsibility in
the popular chamber, and diminishes it
out of proportion to the control really
exercised; for a Senate soon gets tired
of incurring the unpopularity of rejection.
This surely is a more rational and
hopeful plan than that of abandoning
the seat of supreme power to popular
impulse, and affixing by way of safeguard
an artificial regulator to its side.
Checks and balances belong to mechanics,
not to politics; in mechanics you
can apportion force, in politics force
cannot be apportioned, though nominal
authority may. That there are good
and useful elements in the House of
Lords, especially among the new creations,
nobody doubts. Let them be
transferred, with any social influence
which in these democratic times may
adhere to them, to a sphere where they
can act with effect. At present they are
ostracized by seclusion, as is clearly perceived
by some Radicals, who on that
ground deprecate a reform of the House
of Lords. Let Lord Salisbury go to the
Commons and Lord Hartington stay
there. The Lords are warned by their
partisans against imitating the foolish
abdication of the French aristocracy in
the famous holocaust of feudal titles.
To that it may come, if they do not take
care. But this is an earlier stage of the
revolution, and the day of grace has not
yet expired. Let the Lords do that
which the French aristocracy ought to
have done, and by doing which they
might have averted the catastrophe.
Let them at once go over frankly to the
<i lang="fr">Tiers Etat</i>, and strengthen by their accession
the conservative forces in the
national assembly. Convulsive efforts
to retain an obnoxious privilege only inflame
the revolutionary spirit, and at
the same time make it still more desperately
difficult for rational statesmanship
to deal with the situation. Tory democracy
is apparently a plea for founding
aristocracy on demagogism, and for
stemming Socialism by heading it and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">81</span>
combining it with a foreign policy of
violence. Can the House of Lords be
so blind as not to see in what such a
course must end? What has been the
end of other attempts of privilege to
save itself by an alliance with extreme
Radicalism against moderate reform?</p>

<p>Not in a Second Chamber, patched
up or newly created, but in a well-regulated
franchise and a rational mode of
election, are effectual securities for the
permanent ascendancy of national reason
over passion in the legislature to be
found. The electorate has been dealt
with by successive reformers in the belief
that its functions, and therefore the
necessary qualifications for it, have remained
unchanged. But its functions
have been greatly changed, and have
become infinitely more important and
difficult than they originally were. Instead
of merely choosing delegates to
give his assent to taxation, the elector is
now called upon to choose a ruler, and,
at the same time, virtually to decide
upon the general policy of the country.
This is beyond the capacity of any ordinary
voter. Everybody knows what
happens, and until an immense progress
shall have been made in popular education,
must happen—how the intelligent
elector, even supposing him to escape
bribery and all other corrupt influences,
votes at best for the Blue or Yellow
ticket, and too often votes not even for
the Blue or Yellow ticket, but with reference
to some merely local or personal
question, some fancy or antipathy, leaving
the broad interests of the country
and the qualifications essential to a
legislator altogether out of sight. The
author of “Round My House” tells us
how opinion among the French peasantry
in certain districts was swept by
an angry fancy about a reduction in the
value of a coin. What chance would
Chatham or Peel, representing a great
national policy, have stood against the
lowest demagogue if he had been on the
unpopular side of the question about
the Cider Tax or Wood’s halfpence?
An ordinary citizen, occupied in trade or
manual labor, has not the leisure, if he
had the knowledge and capacity, to
study the complex questions put before
him. Yet there are reformers who desire
to set Hodge to choose not only out
of the worthies of his own neighbor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">82</span>hood,
but out of all the notabilities of
the country, among whom the largest
vote would probably be polled by the
Tichborne Claimant. From selfishness
the poor are at least as free as the rich;
they would vote at least as well if they
knew how; but the knowledge is to
them unattainable. In no sphere but
that of politics does anybody propose
to thrust upon people power of which it
is manifestly impossible that they should
make an intelligent use. Not only is it
manifestly impossible that the people
should make an intelligent use of the
power of direct election to the governing
assembly and of determining its
policy: it is morally impossible that
they should really make use of it at all.
They are unorganized, and, though they
live in the same district, unconnected as
a rule with each other: they have no
means of taking counsel together for the
selection of a member. The selection
must therefore be made for them by
some self-constituted agency. That
agency is the Caucus, into the hands of
whose managers and masters the representation,
styled popular, really falls.</p>

<p>Both the party organizations in England
are now adopting the system, and
thus confiscating the suffrage which they
profess by legislation to bestow. One
of them at least already has the Boss,
and both of them will soon have the
complete machine, with a host of professional
politicians, recruited from the
class which prefers place-hunting to
honest trades. Government, in a word,
will fall into the hands of irresponsible
intriguers, and will be dominated in
ever-increasing measure by Knavery and
corruption. Nor is there any assignable
remedy for the evil; the wire-pullers
and professional politicians alone can
give their time to the elections, and
therefore it is hardly possible to organize
the means of casting off their yoke.
Attending “primaries” is often preached
as the duty of the patriotic citizen; but
the patriotic citizen who does attend the
primary finds everything arranged by
the wire-pullers beforehand and himself
impotent and a laughing-stock. This
will not appear in the first flush of a
revolutionary movement, while the present
leaders retain their ascendancy, but
it will appear as soon as the revolution
settles down. Public education, it is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">83</span>
true, has been introduced in England;
but it has always existed in the United
States, and it has not saved that country
from the Boss. To save the country
from the Boss is now the highest aim of
the best citizens; but they will hardly
succeed without a constitutional change.</p>

<p>American reformers, if they want to
go to the root of the evil, have a light
to guide their efforts in the successful
working of their Senate, which, being
elected indirectly, through the State
Legislatures, is a body of remarkable
ability, and possesses the general confidence
of the nation; while the House
of Representatives, elected directly by
the people, that is, by the wire-puller,
who usurps the functions of the people,
presents a most unfavorable contrast.
Those who have sat in both say the
difference between the two political atmospheres
is immense. Rid the Senate
of Party, and it would be about as good
a governing body as any nation could
reasonably desire. Indirect elections
through local councils is the plan which
seems to promise the best central legislature;
and it takes from the primary
elector nothing which at present is
really his. Ordinary knowledge and
intelligence ought to suffice to enable a
man to choose from among his neighbors
those who are fittest to manage his
local affairs. But the local councillors
would be a comparatively picked body;
they might reasonably be expected to
give their minds to the central election;
they would not be too many for concert;
and they would exercise their power as
a trust under the eyes of the people.
As permanent bodies they could not,
like the College of Presidential Electors,
be reduced to the mere bearers of a
mandate. A high trust, by adding to
the importance and dignity of local
councils, would be likely to draw into
them better men. Through such an organization,
apparently, opinion might
freely and quietly flow from the people
to the depository of power. Local and
social influences would no doubt be
strong; but they are more wholesome
than that of the Boss, and, as was said
before, it is easier to enlarge the parochial
than to make the wire-puller honest.
Parochialism, however, has been
pretty well broken up by the press and
the telegraph. Hardly anybody can<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">84</span>
now live in intellectual isolation. The
Caucus itself, so far as it works fairly,
is a tribute to the principle of indirect
election.</p>

<p>To begin by passing a measure of
Home Rule, not for Ireland alone, but
for the United Kingdom, to reconstruct
the local institutions, unloading upon
them part of the now crushing burden
of the central legislature, and then to
base the central institutions upon them,
is a policy which might at least claim
attention, and, perhaps, deserve partial
experiment, as an alternative to central
revolution, if the nation and its leaders
had not surrendered themselves to the
revolutionary current.</p>

<p>Like the mode of election, the qualification
for the franchise has never undergone
any rational consideration with
reference to the changed status and duties
of the elector, who, instead of being
really a subject, is now a participant in
sovereign power. Nothing has been
thought of the property qualification,
which by successive agitations has been
reduced to the vanishing point, and the
next time anybody wants to raise the
political wind will finally disappear.
The broader the basis of electoral institutions
can safely be made the better,
and with indirect instead of direct election
to the central legislature, it would
be safe to make it very broad. Still
some qualifications are necessary, even
for the primary elector; nor, if the
writer may trust his own observation, is
there any indisposition on the part of
the intelligent working-classes to look
at the matter in that light. A common
education is now placed within everybody’s
reach by the help of the State,
and it entails corresponding obligations.
A mode of ascertaining that the elector
could read and write, or at least read,
by means of a certificate or test, might
surely be devised. Personal application
for registration would also be a fair requirement,
since a man would hardly be
fit to share the sovereign power who did
not care enough about his vote to ask
for it; and it would probably act as a
useful criterion, self-applied. With the
full powers of a citizen should also go,
in reason, the full duties—liability to
serve on juries, to assist in the enforcement
of the law, to take part, if called
upon, in the defence of the country.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">85</span>
There is a vague notion that all human
beings, or all who pay taxes (which,
directly or indirectly, everybody does),
have a natural right to a vote, and this
is carried so far that votes are about to
be given to a multitude of Irish who
openly profess themselves the enemies
of the State, and announce that they
will use the votes for its destruction.
Perhaps this Irish experiment may help
to bring us all to reason, and convince
us that nobody has a right to the means
of doing mischief to himself and his fellows,
or to anything but that form of
government which is practically the best
for all.</p>

<p>Considering how our morality and
happiness depend on the maintenance
of right relations between the sexes, it is
surely a proof of the desperate recklessness
of party that the Conservative leaders
should be willing to fling female
character and ultimately the home into
the political caldron for the sake of
gaining the female vote. Their calculation
may prove unfounded; at least on
this continent the women of Conservative
temperament seem to stay at home,
while the revolutionary Megæra mounts
the platform and, brandishing her torch
among the Anarchists of Chicago, bids
the poor trust in dynamite instead of
trusting in God. That gentleness and
purity will come with woman into public
life is certainly not the decisive verdict
of experience, so far as experience has
gone. It rather seems that her gentleness
and purity depended on her absence
from the political arena. Will the
government be improved by being made
feminine? That is the question to be
answered in the common interest of
both sexes. The male nature, though
not higher, is the more practical. Men,
as a rule, alone are brought into daily
contact with the world of action by the
varied experiences and exigencies of
which the balance of political character
is formed. Men alone can be said to
be fully responsible. Unless sentiment
should undergo a total change, a female
Member of Parliament or office-holder
could not be called to account like a
man. In this rough world how will a
nation prosper which is swayed by the
emotions of its women? The sexes may
be co-equal, and yet, having different
natures, they may have different parts<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">86</span>
to play in the community as they certainly
have in the family. Laws have
been made by man, because law, to take
effect, must have force behind it, and
the force of the community is male. If
women made such laws as some of them
threaten to make in the interest of their
sex, men would refuse to execute the
law. If women voted a war for some
object of female enthusiasm, as the
French women would for the defence of
the Pope, men would refuse to march.
The authority of government would
then fall. A woman cannot support the
police or take part in the defence of the
country. Women are not a class with
separate interests of its own, but a sex,
the political interests of which are identical
with those of their husbands and
brothers. Their property is not of a
special kind, nor can it be alleged to
have suffered any wrong by general legislation.
Assuredly general legislation
has of late not been unfavorable to
woman. Perhaps they get more from
the chivalry of male legislation than
they would get if, armed with political
power, they were fighting for themselves.
To the argument that property
held by them is unrepresented, the answer
is that no property is represented
in any hands beyond the minimum required
for a qualification in each case.
This is a small hardship compared with
the practical exclusion from voting of
all our sailors, the flower of our industry,
and of a large number of those employed
by commerce in the work of distribution.
Woman, if she has her disabilities,
has also her privileges, which,
with the general guardianship of affection,
the majority of the sex would probably
be unwilling to renounce for the
sake of gratifying the ambition of a few.
Conservatives especially may be expected
to consider the effects likely to be
produced on female character and on
domestic life by the introduction of
women into politics and the general revolution
in the relations between the sexes
of which that measure is an integral
part. Female aspirations begin to take
a new turn. An American apostle of
woman’s rights told us plainly the other
day that she considered maternity a
poor aim for a woman’s ambition. Nature
answers by dooming the race to decay.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">87</span></p>

<p>A stable, though responsible, executive,
invested with a reasonable amount
of authority, commanding the general
confidence of the people, and capable of
exercising forecast and governing on a
plan, especially with regard to foreign
affairs, is a necessity of civilized life.
How is it to be secured for the future
to England? Have reforming statesmen
asked themselves that momentous
question, or has the necessity of answering
it been hidden from their eyes by
the illusion which surrounds the “ancient
throne?” What basis has Government
at present but party? Is not
that crisis crumbling to pieces? Is not
the Liberal party in the House of Commons
split up into discordant sections
and held together solely by the authority
of a leader in his seventy-fifth year
and without any visible heir of his
power? Have not the Irish entirely
severed themselves from it and taken
up a position which renders a reunion
with them hopeless? Is not even the
Tory party, though as a party of reaction
less exposed to disintegration than
a party of progress, went by divergent
tendencies towards Conservatism on one
side and Tory democracy on the other?
Is not everybody at a loss to conceive
how, after next election, and when the
number of Parnellites shall have been
increased, a party broad and strong
enough to support a government is to be
formed? The disintegration is not confined
to England; it extends to all
countries in which Parliamentary institutions
prevail. It is extending now to
the United States, where the reforming
Republicans voted in the Presidential
election; and the other day the Liberal
party in Belgium suddenly split in two.
The consequences everywhere are the
fatal instability and weakness of government,
the only exception being Germany,
where Bismarck holds himself
above party, governs on a principle
really monarchical, and makes up a majority
from any quarter that he can?
France, with her Chamber full of Sectionalism,
cabal and unruly ambition,
lives always on the brink of administrative
anarchy: industry and commerce
never knowing whether next day they
will have the shelter of a government
over their heads. The Executive in the
United States stands on an independent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">88</span>
though elective footing; if it depended
for its existence from day to day on the
factions of Congress, chaos would soon
come. Is there any prospect of a return
to party union and solidity? As intellects
grow more active, idiosyncracies
more pronounced, ambitions more numerous
and keen, is it likely that divergences
will become fewer and that patient
submission to party discipline will
increase? Is not the tendency everywhere
the opposite way? What permanent
claim has party on the allegiance
of a moral being? What is it but a soft
name for faction, the bane of States?
Why should a good citizen surrender his
conscience to it? Why should good
citizens for ever divide themselves into
two hostile camps, and wage political
war against each other? Is an unpatriotic
and anti-social principle to be accepted
as the last word of politics?
The supply of organic questions cannot
be inexhaustible. When it is exhausted
and divisions of principle have disappeared,
on what ground of reason or
moral motive are parties to rest? Must
they not thenceforth become factions
pure and simple? Have they not become
factions pure and simple, whenever
organic questions have ceased to
be at issue? Party has been the organ
by which in England the Long Revolution
has been conducted to its issue,
and power has been gradually wrested
from the Crown and transferred to the
Commons. Hence the belief, shared
by the whole of Europe, that party was
inseparable from Parliamentary institutions,
and that in no other way could
free government be carried on. If free
government can be carried on in no
other way, the prospect is dark, for
party is apparently doomed, alike by
morality and by the growing tendencies
of the age. But there is obviously one
other way at least in which free government
can be carried on. Instead of
making office the prize of a perpetual
faction fight, the members of the Executive
Council of State may be regularly
elected by the Members of the Legislature
for a term certain, under such a
system with regard to the rotation of
vacancies as may at once secure sufficient
harmony between the two bodies
and a sufficient continuity in the executive
government. The responsibility of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">89</span>
the Executive for the decisions of the
Legislature, and its obligation to resign
upon every Legislative defeat, which is
a mere accident of English history and
devoid of rational foundation, would
then cease. The Legislature and the
Executive would be at liberty each to
do its own work. The Executive would
be national, and would receive the general
support of the community instead
of being an object of organized hostility
to half of it; it would be stable instead
of being as it is now throughout Europe
ephemeral as well as weak. Responsibility
on the part of its members instead
of being diminished would be increased.
It would become individual, whereas
now it is only collective, the whole Cabinet
and the party majority being bound
to support each Minister whatever may
be his failure in duty. Personal aptitude
might be considered in the elections
to the offices, whereas at present
little can be considered beyond the
necessity of providing for all the leaders,
and a good financier or Minister of Marine
would not be turned out because he
was in the minority on a Franchise Bill.</p>

<p>The nations have been so much engaged
in taking authority out of bad
hands, that they have forgotten that it
is a good and necessary thing in itself.
Government has become dangerously
weak. The greater part of its energy is
now expended, not in the work of administration,
but in preserving its own
existence. Not only is it exposed to
the incessant attacks of an Opposition
whose business is to traduce and harass
it, but it is now hardly able to sustain
itself against the irresponsible power of
the press, wielded nobody knows by
whom, but often under secret influences,
which are a great and growing danger in
all communities. To keep the popular
favor, which is to them the breath of
life, the members of the Cabinet have
to be always on the stump, reserving to
themselves little time for rest or reflection,
and the stump orator is rapidly superseding
the statesman. This vacillation
of policy on the Egyptian question,
the consequences of which all have been
deploring, has not been so much that of
the Government as that of the nation itself
worrying and distracting the Government
through the press. A country
with an Empire and a world-wide diplo<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">90</span>macy
cannot afford to have an Executive,
the policy of which is always shifting
with the wind of opinion, and which
can exercise no forecast, because it is
not sure of its existence for an hour.
In India, the danger is not so much
from native disaffection as from British
agitation, which the Company managed
to exclude, but which, since India has
been driven into the vortex of British
politics, a party Government has no
power to control. Those who are as far
as is the writer of this paper from being
Imperialists, must see, nevertheless, that
while the Empire exists it creates a special
necessity for a strong and undemagogic
Government, and that on any hypothesis,
a disruption, or general dissolution
from a collapse of the central authority,
is not the thing to be desired.
The Radicals themselves are saying that
what the country now wants is a strong
government, by which, however, people
often mean a government strongly imbued
with their own ideas.</p>

<p>England ought not to be very much
in love with the party system at this
moment, for it has well-nigh laid her,
with all her greatness and her glory, at
the feet of Messrs. Healy and Biggar.
Faction and nothing but faction has
brought her to the verge of a dismemberment,
which, by carving a hostile Republic
out of her side, would reduce her
to a second-rate Power, and condemn
her to play a subordinate instead of a
leading part in the march of European
civilization. “England has lost heart”
is the exalting cry of Mr. Parnell. She
has lost heart because she is betrayed
by faction, seeking under highly philanthropic
and philosophic pretences to
climb into power by bartering the unity
of the nation for the Irish vote. With
a truly national government she would
soon be herself again.</p>

<p>There is another point which, while
time for consideration remains to them,
British statesmen will surely do well to
consider. It would seem paradoxical
to say that England, the parent of constitutional
government, has no constitution;
but it will be admitted at once
that she has no legal constitution, at
least that her legal constitution is not
actual. Actually she has nothing but a
balance of power, or rather the power
no longer balanced of the House of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">91</span>
Commons, which if the Crown attempted
to govern would stop the supplies,
and if the Lords attempted to vote
would force the Crown to coerce them
by a swamping creation, or incite the
people to terrify them into submission.
The term “Constitutional,” though it
seems full of mysterious and august
meaning, has never really denoted anything
but the limit of practical force.
If it has been unconstitutional for the
Lords to amend a money Bill, but constitutional
for them to reject a Bill respecting
a tax, as in the noted case of
the paper duty, the reason was that the
rejection was final, whereas the amended
Bill would go back to the Commons,
who would throw it out. But while the
Commons have annihilated the power
of the Crown, and reduced that of the
Lords almost to a cipher, they remain
themselves liable to dissolution at the
will of the party leader into whose hands
that prerogative has come, and who can
thus suspend at any moment the existence
of the supreme government, reduce
its members to private citizens,
and, if they resist, deal with them as
common rioters through the police. In
the ordinary course of things the existence
of the supreme government is suspended,
and an interregnum ensues,
whenever the regular Parliamentary
term expires. This is hardly the sort
of ship with which it is wise to put out
on the wide waters of democracy. England,
like other nations under the elective
system, needs a written constitution,
defining all powers and duties, guarding
against any usurpation, and entrusted
to the keeping of a court of law. Traditions
and understandings, which may
be maintained and serve their purpose
so long as the government is in the
hands of a family group of statesmen
walking in the ancestral paths, will not
command the same respect in a far
different order of things. The written
constitution is the political Bible of the
United States, and without it all would
soon be usurpation and confusion. A
written constitution in no way interferes
with the freedom of development which
is the supposed privilege of the unwritten.
It only provides that development
shall proceed in the way of regular and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">92</span>
legal amendment, and not in that of violent
collision and intimidation by street
parades. The system of constitutional
amendment works perfectly well in the
United States. The power might be
safely reposed in the people at large.
Men who are not competent to vote on
the complex question of the general
policy of the country, and at the same
time on the merits of the candidate, are
competent to vote on a single question
submitted by itself, and with regard to
which, moreover, there is little danger
of corruption or illicit influence. But
the nation at large ought, by petition
sufficiently signed or in some other way,
to have the power of initiating constitutional
amendments or compelling their
submission by the Government as well
as of rejecting them when submitted.
Elective rulers, once installed in power,
are no more willing to part with it than
kings. Such a body as the American
House of Representatives, though it
might become a sheer political nuisance,
would never take the first step in reform.
There ought to be a power of enforcing
change, when the necessity for it has
become apparent to the nation, without
having recourse to a violent revolution,
or even to intimidation such as is being
used in default of a better means to
wrest the veto from the House of Lords.</p>

<p>These are the views of one who has
long been convinced that the day of
hereditary institutions had closed, that
the day of elective institutions had fully
come, that the appointed task of political
science was to study the liabilities,
weaknesses and dangers of the elective
system with a view to their correction or
prevention, and that the mission of the
Liberal party in England was to conduct
the critical transition and guide Europe
in accomplishing it without revolution.
If such views are condemned as Conservative
by Radicals, and as Republican
by Conservatives, neither charge
can well be repelled. They certainly
cannot be congenial to any who exult in
the prospect of a socialistic revolution.
But the upshot of all that has been here
said is that Democracy must be organized
and regulated. Unorganized and
unregulated, it will probably end in confusion.—<cite>Contemporary
Magazine.</cite></p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">93</span></p>




<h2><a name="SIR_WILLIAM_SIEMENS8" id="SIR_WILLIAM_SIEMENS8">SIR WILLIAM SIEMENS.</a><a id="FNanchor_8_8" href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">8</a><br />

<small>BY WILLIAM LANT CARPENTER.</small></h2>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">94</span></p>

<p>I am about to endeavor to set forth
the life and work of Sir William Siemens,
who was not only an ardent scientific
discoverer, but one whose work
for the last five or six years has interested
the general public to a degree that
has perhaps never before been the case
with any man so devoted to science as
he was. Of him it may be said, without
fear of contradiction, that he has, beyond
all his contemporaries, promoted the
practical application of scientific discovery
to industrial purposes. It has
also been said by one who had the privilege
of his friendship, that “no one
could know him without feeling how
lovely his character was. Wonderful as
were the qualities of his mind, they were
equalled by the nobleness of his heart.”</p>

<p>These two sentences, then, will serve
to indicate my purpose. In telling,
with necessary brevity, the story of the
life of Sir William Siemens, I shall try to
keep in view the fact that even his great
powers, without his large heart, would
never have produced the impression
which he did upon the national mind.
Hence, after I have given a sketch of
some of the more important discoveries
of the inventor, and their consequences
to the national life, I shall, with the help
of materials most kindly and liberally
placed at my disposal by his family, try
to show what manner of man he was,
and what impression he made upon
those who had the very great advantage
of personal communion with him.</p>

<p>Charles William Siemens was born at
Lenthe in Hanover on April 4, 1823,
and was one among many of a family
eminent for their scientific knowledge
and practical skill. The possession of
such unusual talents by a whole family
is rarer, perhaps, in the intellectual life
of England than in that of Germany; at
any rate, in the absence of definite statistics
such as those compiled with so much
care by Mr. Francis Galton, the general
impression is that such is the case. It is
not difficult to discern in the scientific<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">95</span>
career of the Brothers Siemens some
prominent characteristics of their race;
and in the life of Sir William, the sympathy
of the German mind for general
principles, and the tenacity with which
it clings to them, are well illustrated, and
stand out in strongly-marked contrast to
the usual indifference of the average
English mind to theoretic conclusions,
as opposed to so-called practical ones.
It would be well-nigh impossible to find
among Englishmen one instance in which
an inventor has been so confident of the
possible utility of a few grand general
principles, that he has worked out from
them several great inventions; and that
he felt himself justified in this confidence
after years of hard work is evidenced by
his own saying that “the farther we advance,
the more thoroughly do we approach
the indications of pure science in
our practical results.”</p>

<p>William Siemens received his early
educational training at Lübeck, and in
the course of it the stimulus afforded to
excellence of workmanship by the German
guild system made an early and
lasting impression upon his mind, for
he repeatedly referred to it in after
life. From Lübeck he went to the Polytechnical
School at Magdeburg, where
he studied physical science with apparatus
of the most primitive kind, and
under great disadvantages, as compared
with the facilities of our modern laboratories.
After this he studied at Göttingen
University, where, under Wöhler
and Himly, he first got that insight into
chemical laws which laid the foundation
of his metallurgical knowledge, and
here began to develop in him that wonderful
thirst for discovery, which abundant
success never quenched. Here, also,
occurred what he has himself described
as “the determining incident of his
life.” Mr. Elkington, of Birmingham,
utilising the discoveries of Davy, Faraday,
and Jacobi, had devised the first
practical application of that form of
energy which we now call the electric
current, and in 1842 he established a
practical process of electro-plating. In
the following year, as the result of his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">96</span>
own and his brother Werner’s work,
William Siemens presented himself before
Mr. Elkington with an improvement
in his process, which was adopted.
This is the first on the list of inventions
on the diagram behind me. Speaking
of his first landing in London he
says:</p>

<p>“I expected to find some office in
which inventions were examined, and
rewarded if found meritorious; but no
one could direct me to such a place. In
walking along Finsbury Pavement, I saw
written up in large letters so-and-so (I
forget the name) ‘undertaker,’ and the
thought struck me that this must be the
place I was in quest of. At any rate I
thought that a person advertising himself
as an undertaker would not refuse
to look into my invention, with a view
of obtaining for me the sought-for recognition
or reward. On entering the
place I soon convinced myself, however,
that I had come decidedly too soon for
the kind of enterprise there contemplated,
and finding myself confronted
with the proprietor of the establishment,
I covered my retreat by what he must
have thought a very inadequate excuse.”</p>

<p>Returning to Germany, he became a
pupil in the engine works of Count Stolberg,
to study mechanical engineering.
While there he worked out a great improvement
upon Watt’s centrifugal governor
for regulating the supply of steam
to an engine, and in 1844 he returned to
England with his invention, and soon
decided to stay here. His object in doing
so was to enjoy the security which
the English patent law afforded to inventors,
for in his own country there
were then no such laws. This chronometric
governor, though not very successful
commercially, introduced him to the
engineering world; it was originally intended
for steam engines, but its chief
application has been to regulate the
movement of the great transit instrument
at Greenwich. Then followed in quick
succession several minor inventions
which met with varying practical success,
such as the process of anastatic
printing, which was made the subject of
a Royal Institution lecture in 1845 by
Faraday; a water meter, which has
since been in general use; an air pump,
&amp;c., &amp;c.</p>

<p>About this time the researches of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">97</span>
Joule, Carnot, and Mayer upon the relations
between heat and mechanical work
were attracting much attention among
scientific men, and at the age of twenty-three,
William Siemens adopted the
hypothesis now known as the dynamical
theory of heat. More than once I have
drawn attention to the exact numerical
relation between units of heat and units
of work established by Joule, viz., that
772 foot-pounds of work is required to
generate heat enough to raise the temperature
of 1 lb. of water 1° Fah., and I
have pointed out here and elsewhere
that this was the first well-authenticated
example of that grandest of modern
generalisations, the doctrine of the Conservation
of Energy, the truth of which
is constantly receiving new illustrations.</p>

<p>With a mind thoroughly pervaded by
this important principle, Siemens applied
himself to the study of steam and
caloric engines, and saw at once that
there was an enormous difference between
the theoretical and the actual
power gained from the heat developed
by the combustion of a given quantity
of coal, and hence that there was a very
large margin for improvement. He at
once determined to try to utilise some
of this wasted heat, and he conceived
the idea (to which I invite your particular
attention) of making a regenerator,
or an accumulator, which should retain
or store a limited quantity of heat, and
be capable of yielding it up again when
required for the performance of any
work. In the factory of Mr. John
Hicks, of Bolton, he first constructed
an engine on this plan; the saving in
fuel was great, but it was attended by
mechanical difficulties which at that time
he was unable to solve. The Society of
Arts, however, recognised the value of
the principle by awarding him a gold
medal in 1850. Three years afterwards,
his paper “On the Conversion of Heat
into Mechanical Effect,” before the Institution
of Civil Engineers, gained him
the Telford premium (awarded only
once in five years) and the medal of the
Institution. In 1856 he gave a lecture
upon his engine at the Royal Institution,
considered as the result of ten
years’ experimental work, and as the
first practical application of the mechanical
theory of heat; he then indicated
the economic considerations which en<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">98</span>couraged
him to persevere in his experiments,
pointing out that the total national
expenditure for steam-coal alone
amounted to eight millions sterling per
year, of which at least two-thirds might
be saved!</p>

<p>His efforts to improve the steam-engine,
however, were speedily followed
by a still more important application of
the mechanical theory of heat to industrial
purposes. In 1857 his younger
brother, and then pupil, Frederick
(who, since the death of Sir William,
has undertaken the sole charge of the
development of this branch of his elder
brother’s work), suggested to him the
employment of regenerators for the purpose
of saving some of the heat wasted
in metallurgical operations, and for four
years he labored to attain this result,
constructing several different forms of
furnace. His chief practical difficulties
arose from the use of solid fuel—coal or
coke—but when, in 1859, he hit upon
the plan of converting the solid fuel into
gaseous, which he did by the aid of his
gas-producer, he found that the results
obtained with his regenerators exceeded
his most sanguine expectations. In
1861 the first practical regenerative gas
furnace was erected at the glass works
of Messrs. Chance Bros. in Manchester,
and it was found to be very economical
in its results. Early in 1862 the attention
of Faraday was drawn to this matter,
and on June 20 of the same year,
that prince of experimentalists appeared
before the Royal Institution audience
for the last time to explain the wonderful
simplicity, economy, and power of
the Siemens regenerative gas furnace.
Age and experience have not diminished
the high estimation in which it is held;
after nearly twenty years of continuous
working and extended application, Sir
Henry Bessemer described it in 1880 as
an “invention which was at once the
most philosophic in principle, the most
powerful in action, and the most economic,
of all the contrivances for producing
heat by the combustion of coal.”</p>

<p>The furnace consists essentially of
three parts; (1) the gas producer, which
converts the solid coal into gaseous
fuel; (2) the regenerators, usually four
in number, which are filled with fire-brick
piled in such a way as to break up
into many parts a current of air or gas<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">99</span>
passing through them; (3) the furnace
proper, where the combustion is actually
accomplished. In using the furnace,
the gaseous fuel and air are conducted
through one pair of regenerators to the
combustion chamber; the heated gases
from this, on their way to the chimney,
pass through the other pair of regenerators,
heating them in their passage. In
the course of, say, one hour, the currents
are reversed, so that the comparatively
cold gas and air pass over these heated
regenerators before entering the furnace,
and rob them of their heat. While this
is going on, the first pair of regenerators
is being heated again, and thus, by
working them in alternate pairs, nearly
all the heat, which would otherwise have
escaped unused into the chimney, is
utilised.</p>

<p>By this process of accumulation the
highest possible temperature (only limited
by the point at which its materials
begin to melt), can be obtained in the
furnace chamber, without an intensified
draft, and with inferior fuel.</p>

<p>It has been found that this furnace is
capable of making a ton of crucible steel
with <em>one-sixth</em> of the fuel required without
it, and that while the temperature of
the furnace chamber exceeded 4,000°
Fahrenheit, the waste products of combustion
escaped into the chimney at
240° Fahrenheit, or very little above the
temperature at which water boils in the
open air.</p>

<p>At the locomotive works of the London
and North Western Railway at
Crewe, where these furnaces have long
been used, it was formerly the practice
to lock a piece of pitch pine into the
flue leading to the chimney, and if at the
end of the week the wood was charred,
it was evidence that more heat had been
wasted than ought to have been, and the
men in charge of the furnace were fined.</p>

<p>This all-important national question,
the waste of fuel, which in modern
phraseology may be truly called the
waste of energy, was constantly before
the mind of Sir William Siemens, who
lost no opportunity, in his public utterances,
of impressing his hearers, and
that still wider circle which he reached
through the medium of the press, with a
sense of the weighty consequences which
it involved. In an address at Liverpool
in 1872, as President of the Institution<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">100</span>
of Mechanical Engineers, he estimated
the total coal consumption of this country
at one hundred and twenty million
tons, which at 10s. per ton amounted to
sixty millions sterling. He strongly asserted
that one-half of this might be
saved by the general adoption of improved
appliances which were within the
range of actual knowledge; and he
went on to speak of outside speculations,
which would lead to the expectation
of accomplishing these ends with
one-eighth or even one-tenth of the
actual expenditure. In 1873 he delivered
a famous lecture on Fuel to the
operative classes at Bradford, on behalf
of the British Association, in which he
illustrated how fuel should be used by
three examples, typical of the three
great branches of consumption: <i>a</i>, the
production of steam power; <i>b</i>, the domestic
hearth; <i>c</i>, the metallurgical furnace.
In connection with the last
point he mentioned that the Sheffield
pot steel-melting furnace only utilised
<em>one-seventieth</em> part of the theoretical heat
developed in the combustion, and contrasted
with it his own furnace for melting
steel. In discussing the question of
the duration of our coal supply, he indicated
what should be our national aim
in the following suggestive and inspiring
passage:</p>

<p>“In working through the statistical
returns of the progressive increase of
population, of steam power employed,
and of production of iron and steel,
&amp;c., I find that our necessities increase
at a rate of not less than 8 per cent. per
annum, whereas our coal consumption
increases only at the rate of 4 per cent.,
showing that the balance of 4 per cent.
is met by what may be called our ‘intellectual
progress.’ Now, considering the
enormous margin for improvement before
us, I contend that we should not be
satisfied with this rate of intellectual
progress, involving as it does an annual
deficit of four million tons to be met by
increased coal production, but that we
should bring our intellectual progress up
to the rate of our industrial progress, by
which means we should make the coal
production nearly a constant quantity
for several generations to come.”</p>

<p>One of the direct results of this lecture,
which was read and warmly commended
by some of the most eminent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">101</span>
men of the time, was that Dr. Siemens
was consulted by Mr. Mundella in reference
to parliamentary action by the
Board of Trade in regard to the coal
question.</p>

<p>In 1874 he received the Albert Gold
Medal from the Society of Arts “for
his researches in connection with the
laws of heat, and for services rendered
by him in the economisation of fuel in
its various applications to manufactures
and the arts,” and in 1877 he devoted
nearly the whole of his address to the
Iron and Steel Institute, of which he
was then President, to the same subject,
in which, as regards the probable duration
of our coal supply, he had been for
some time engaged in a controversy
with the late Professor Jevons, maintaining
that “the ratio of increase of
population and output of manufactured
goods would be nearly balanced for
many years to come by the further introduction
of economical processes, and
that our annual production would remain
substantially the same within that
period, which would probably be a
period of comparatively cheap coal.”</p>

<p>One of the most important applications
of the regenerative furnace has
been to the manufacture of steel, and he
soon perceived that it was necessary for
himself to solve the various difficulties
which others regarded as practically insuperable.
“Having,” he says, “been
so often disappointed by the indifference
of manufacturers and the antagonism
of their workmen, I determined in
1865 to erect experimental or ‘sample
steel works’ of my own at Birmingham,
for the purpose of maturing the details
of these processes, before inviting manufacturers
to adopt them.” The success
of experiments in 1867-68, in making
steel rails, brought about the formation
of the Landore Siemens Steel Co.,
whose works were opened in 1874.
When Dr. Siemens was knighted, the
employés of this company embodied
their congratulations in an address, and
had prepared for him a very beautiful
model of a steel furnace in ivory and
silver; the presentation of these was
prevented by his premature death, but
the address stated that “the quantity of
steel made here to the end of last year
on your process was upwards of 400,000
tons!” In the ten years ending in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">102</span>
1882, the annual production of open-hearth
steel in the United Kingdom increased
from 77,500 tons to 436,000
tons. During an action in the Superior
Courts of the United States, it was
stated that the inventor had received a
million dollars in royalties, the annual
saving in that country by his process
being 3&frac34; millions of dollars! These
statements refer mainly, I believe, to
the conversion of cast or wrought iron
into steel, either by the “direct” process
of acting on pig-iron with iron ore
in an open hearth, or by the “scrap
process” (Siemens-Martin) of melting
wrought-iron and steel scrap in a bath
of pig-metal. Both of these require the
preliminary treatment of the blast furnace,
and in speaking of them in 1873,
Dr. Siemens said that “however satisfactory
these results might appear, I
have never considered them in the light
of final achievements. On the contrary,
I have always looked upon the direct
conversion of iron and steel from the
ore, without the intervention of blast
furnaces and the refinery, as the great
object to be attained.” How far he
succeeded in this may be gathered from
the fact that in a paper read on April
29, 1883, before the Iron and Steel Institute,
on the “Manufacture of Iron
and Steel by the Direct Process,” he
showed how to produce 15 cwt. of
wrought iron direct from the ore in three
hours, with a consumption of 25 cwt. of
coal per ton of metal, which is one-half
the quantity previously required for the
production of a ton of pig-iron only, in
the blast furnace! The long and costly
experiments which ended in the realisation
of his views extended over twenty-five
years; and it is worthy of note that
he told the Parliamentary Committee on
Patents that he would not have continued
them if the English patent law had
not insured such a period of protection
as would repay him for his labor.</p>

<p>Great, however, as the economic results
of the gas-producer have been, its
inventor looked forward to still more
remarkable applications of it. In 1882
he told the British Association, in his
presidential address, that he thought<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">103</span>
“the time is not far distant when both
rich and poor will largely resort to gas as
the most convenient, the cleanest, and
the cheapest of heating agents, and
when raw coal will be seen only at the
colliery or the gas-works. In all cases
where the town to be supplied is within,
say, thirty miles of the colliery, the gas-works
may with advantage be planted at
the mouth, or, still better, at the bottom
of the pit, whereby all haulage of fuel
would be avoided, and the gas, in its
ascent from the bottom of the colliery,
would acquire an onward pressure sufficient
probably to impel it to its destination.
The possibility of transporting
combustible gas through pipes for such
a distance has been proved at Pittsburg,
where natural gas from the oil district
is used in large quantities.” It may be
well to point out here that as a step
towards this, it was a favorite project of
his—practically carried out in some
places—to divide the gaseous products
of the ordinary distillation of coal into
two, the middle portions being illuminating
gas of 18 to 20 candle power instead
of 16, and the first and last portions,
which under this system may be
largely increased, being heating gas;
such gas he expected to see sold at 1<i>s.</i>
per 1,000 cubic feet. The obvious and
only practicable objection to the plan is
the necessity for doubling all the mains
and service-pipes. That we shall eventually
burn gaseous fuel on the domestic
hearth, as we have lately learnt to do
on the metallurgical, I have not the
smallest doubt; it is a mere question of
the time necessary for the education of
the public mind upon the question; the
apter the pupil, the more speedy will be
the desired result. Let it be thoroughly
understood by every one that the soot
which hangs in a pall over London in a
single day is <em>equivalent to at least fifty
tons of coal</em>, and then there will be no
difficulty in seeing that the true and the
only remedy for our London fogs, with
all their attendant ills, is—gaseous fuel.
May we not hope that, though Sir William
Siemens has gone from among us,
the great movement for smoke abatement,
in which he so earnestly labored
during the last three years of his life,
may have full effect?</p>

<p>If I have dwelt thus long upon this
particular branch of my subject, it is
because I know of no other which so
well illustrates two points in Sir William
Siemens’ character which I have alluded
to at the outset: his unwavering devo<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">104</span>tion
to general principles and their consequences,
and his ardent desire to promote
the practical welfare of mankind.
There is, however, as the late Professor
Rolleston remarked to him, no subject
which more impresses the minds even of
persons who are laymen as regards science,
than the history of Telegraphy
(and I may perhaps be permitted to add,
of Electrical Engineering generally),
now so inseparably connected with his
name. The University of Göttingen, at
which he studied, was the cradle, if not
the birthplace, of the electric telegraph
in 1833. Shortly after, Sir Charles
Wheatstone in England, and Mr. Morse
in the United States, were simultaneously
working at the same problem, and
each claimed the honor of having solved
it.</p>

<p>The telegraph, however, was still in
a very undeveloped state when the Brothers
Siemens began to study it, and their
series of inventions, especially for long-distance
telegraphy, largely aided in
bringing it to its present condition.
One of their first was the Relay, an
electro-magnet so delicate that it will
move with the weakest current. By the
use of five of Siemens’ polarised relays,
a message can be sent by the Indo-European
Telegraph from London to Teherán,
a distance of 3,800 miles, without
any retransmission by hand, and during
the Shah of Persia’s visit in 1873, Dr.
Siemens arranged for messages to be
thus regularly despatched from a room
in Buckingham Palace. In 1858, Messrs.
Siemens Brothers established near London
the well-known telegraph works,
and the construction by them in 1868
and following years of the Indo-European
Telegraph—the overland double
line to India through Prussia, Southern
Russia, and Persia—was the first great
undertaking of the kind. Writing of it
in August, 1882, during the first Egyptian
campaign, Dr. Siemens said, “At
the present time our communication
with India, Australia, and the Cape depends,
notwithstanding the nominal existence
of the line through Turkey, on
the Indo-European Telegraph.”</p>

<p>The Messrs. Siemens were also pioneers
in submarine telegraphy, the first
cable covered with gutta-percha having
been laid across the Rhine by Dr. Werner
Siemens in 1847. The invention of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">105</span>
the machine for coating the conducting
wire with the insulating material, gutta-percha,
or india rubber, is entirely due
to Dr. William Siemens, who also subsequently
designed the steamship <i>Faraday</i>
for the special work of laying and repairing
submarine cables. This unique
vessel was launched on Feb. 16, 1874,
and when she was completed, Dr. Siemens
invited all his scientific friends to
inspect her, and challenged them to suggest
any improvements in her arrangements.
She was first used in laying the
Direct United States Cable, which is
above 3,000 miles in length. In this
connection I may perhaps be permitted
to relate a very characteristic anecdote.
When Dr. Siemens took a contract for a
cable, the electrical tests of which were
specified, it was his invariable habit to
give out to the works a considerably
higher test, which every section of the
cable had to pass, or be rejected <i lang="la">in toto</i>.
In the case of this cable, probably during
manipulation on board ship, a minute
piece of wire penetrated the insulating
material, bringing down the electrical
test to a point below the “works” test,
but still decidedly above the contract
test. The discovery was not made until
so late that to cut out the faulty piece
involved a delay of some days in the
middle of the Atlantic, but Dr. Siemens
insisted upon its being done; after this,
stormy weather came on, and the cable
had to be cut and buoyed, while the
<i>Faraday</i> had to winter on the American
side, and resume operations next spring.
The money loss involved amounted, I
am told, to more than £30,000. Perhaps
the most remarkable of the later
feats was the fulfilment of a contract
with the Compagnie Française du Telegraphe
de Paris à New York, who ordered
a cable 3,000 miles long from the
Messrs. Siemens in March, 1879, and it
was handed over to them in perfect
working order in September of the same
year! There are now nearly 90,000
miles of submarine cable at work, costing
about £32,000,000, and a fleet of
thirty-two ships are employed in laying,
watching, and repairing these cables, of
which there are now eleven across the
Atlantic alone.</p>

<p>In connection with the subject of telegraphy,
and as an instance of the versatility
of Dr. Siemens’s inventive powers,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">106</span>
I may point out that in 1876 he brought
out the pneumatic postal telegraph tube,
by which, as is pretty generally known,
written messages are blown or sucked
through tubes on various metropolitan
routes, instead of being transmitted electrically.
About the same time, also, he
constructed his ingenious bathometer,
for ascertaining the depth of the sea at
any given point, without the tedious
operation of sounding; and some years
previously he worked out his electrical
thermometer or pyrometer, enabling the
observer to read the temperature (whenever
he desired) at any distant and inaccessible
point, such as the top of a
mountain, the bottom of the sea, the air
between the layers of a cable, or the interior
of a furnace.</p>

<p>Probably the most prominent idea associated
in the public mind with the
name of Siemens is that of electric lighting,
and perhaps electric tram and railroads.
As I have more than once pointed
out in this room, the dynamo-machine,
by which mechanical energy is
converted into that form of energy
known as electricity (which may be used
both for lighting and for the transmission
of power), is derived from a principle
discovered by Faraday in 1831. Sir
William Siemens’ devotion to this, and
the important practical consequences
which he deduced from it, constitute
another example of that mental characteristic
to which I have already alluded.
Faraday’s discovery, briefly described,
was that when a bar magnet was suddenly
inserted into a coil of wire, or
when a wire was suddenly moved through
a magnetic field, a momentary current
of electricity was developed in the wire.
Although this current is exceedingly
small and brief, it is capable of unlimited
multiplication by mechanical arrangements
of a simple kind. One means for
accomplishing this multiplication was
the Siemens armature of 1857, which
consisted, at first, of a piece of iron with
wire wound round it longitudinally, not
transversely, the whole to be rotated between
the poles of a powerful magnet;
in its present form it is one of the most
powerful and perfect things of its kind,
and the evolution of the Siemens armature,
as we now have it, from the rudimentary
type of a quarter of a century
ago, has been characterised by Sir W.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">107</span>
Thomson as one of the most beautiful
products of inventive genius, and more
like the growth of a flower than to
almost anything else in the way of
mechanism made by man.</p>

<p>Ten years afterwards came his classical
paper “On the Conversion of Dynamical
into Electrical Force, without
the use of permanent Magnetism,” which
was read before the Royal Society on
February 14, 1867. Strangely enough,
the discovery of the same principle was
enunciated at the same meeting by Sir
Charles Wheatstone, while there is yet a
third claimant in the person of Mr.
Cromwell Varley, who had previously
applied for a patent in which the idea
was embodied. It can never be quite
certain, therefore, who was the first discoverer
of the principle upon which
modern dynamo-machines are constructed.
I need not describe here the
way in which this principle is carried
out in all dynamo-machines. Suffice it
to say that they differ from Faraday’s
magneto-electric machines in having
electro-magnets in the place of permanent
steel magnets, and that these electro-magnets
are, if I may be allowed the
expression, self-excited by the play of
mutual give and take between the armature
and the magnet.</p>

<p>It was the invention of the dynamo-machine
which made practicable the application
of electricity to industrial purposes.
Experiments have shown that it
is capable of transforming into electrical
work 90 per cent. of the mechanical
energy employed as motive power. Its
practical application is still in its infancy.
In 1785 Watt completed his
“improvements” in the steam-engine,
and the century which has since elapsed
has not sufficed to demonstrate the full
extent of its utility. What may we not
expect in the next hundred years from
the extension of the dynamo-machine to
practical purposes?</p>

<p>In the development of appliances for
the production of the electric light Sir
William Siemens took a leading part,
and, as is well known, his firm has been
<i lang="la">facile princeps</i> at all the important electrical
exhibitions. But while ever zealous
to promote its progress, he never
took a partisan view of its utility, candidly
admitting that gas must continue
to be the poor man’s friend. In 1882<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">108</span>
he told the Society of Arts that “Electricity
must win the day <em>as the light of
luxury</em>, but gas will find an ever-increasing
application for the more humble
purposes of diffusing light.”</p>

<p>In the hands of Dr. Siemens the enormous
energy displayed in the Electric
Arc was applied to other purposes than
mere lighting. In June, 1880, he greatly
astonished the Society of Telegraph
Engineers by exhibiting the power of an
electrical furnace designed by him to
melt considerable quantities of such exceedingly
refractory metals as platinum,
iridium, &amp;c. He explained that he was
led to undertake experiments with this
end in view by the consideration that a
good steam-engine converts 15 per cent.
of the energy of coal into mechanical
effect, while a good dynamo-machine is
capable of converting 80 per cent. of
the mechanical into electrical energy.
If the latter could be expended without
loss in an electric furnace, it would
doubtless far exceed in economy any
known air furnace.</p>

<p>Moreover Sir William Siemens may
fairly be described as the creator of
electro-horticulture. Some experiments
which he made early in 1880 led him to
the conclusion that the electric light
could influence the production of coloring
matter in leaves, and promote the
ripening of fruit at all seasons of the
year, and at all hours of the day and
night. In the following winter he put
these conclusions to the test of experience
on a large scale at his country
house, Sherwood, near Tunbridge Wells,
and the results obtained were communicated
to the British Association at York
in 1881, in a paper, the value of which
was recognised by its receiving the rare
distinction of being printed in full in
the annual report.</p>

<p>Some photographs, which he kindly
allowed me to take, represent the difference
between three kinds of corn grown
under ordinary conditions, and the same
corn, under the same conditions, with
the added stimulus of the electric light
from sunset to sunrise. He came to
the conclusion that, although periodic
darkness evidently favors growth in the
sense of elongating the stalks of plants,
the <em>continuous</em> stimulus of light was favorable
to a healthy development at a
greatly accelerated pace, through all the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">109</span>
stages of the annual life of the plant,
from the early leaf to the ripened fruit.</p>

<p>I have left until the last any notice of
a field of work which the Messrs. Siemens
may be truly said to have made
peculiarly their own, viz., the electrical
transmission and distribution of power;
for I firmly believe that in the future,
although not perhaps in the near future,
the practical consequences of this will
be such as are little dreamed of now;
and this opinion is, I know, held by men
far more competent to judge than I am.</p>

<p>In March, 1877, Dr. Siemens startled
the world, in his address to the Iron and
Steel Institute, by his proposal to transmit
to distant points some of the energy
of the Falls of Niagara. As I have before
explained in this room, the electrical
transmission of energy depends
upon the fact that a dynamo-machine
may be used either to convert mechanical
into electrical energy, <em>or to effect the
reverse change</em>. Hence to transmit power
in this way, two dynamo-machines, connected
by a metallic conducting rod, or
cable, are necessary; the first, at the
water-fall or other source of power, produces
the electrical energy, which, in its
turn, is reconverted into mechanical
power by the second dynamo at the
other end of the line. In his own
grounds at Tunbridge Wells he made
numerous experiments in this subject,
distributing the power from a central
steam-engine over various parts of his
farm, there to perform different functions.
The most interesting practical
examples, as yet, are to be seen in the
electric railroads erected and worked by
Siemens Brothers in Paris, Berlin, Vienna,
&amp;c., and in the Electric Tramroad
at Portrush. The special interest
of this line lies in the fact that it was the
first real application to railroads of
“waste energy,” inasmuch as the cars
are propelled by the power of a water-fall
eight miles off! The last occasion on
which I had the privilege of meeting Sir
William Siemens was when, honored by
his invitation, I was present at the opening
of this line in September 28, 1883.
On that occasion, which, half-a-century
hence, will be as memorable as the opening
of the Stockton and Darlington railroad,
the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland
recognised the fact that this was an entirely
new departure in the development<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">110</span>
of the resources of Ireland, and Sir
William Siemens, in a most characteristic
speech, admitted that, had he
known the difficulties before him, he
should have thought twice before he
said “Yes” to Dr. Traill’s question as
to whether the proposed line could be
worked electrically, but that, having said
“Yes,” he was determined to carry out
the project. As illustrating the character
of the man, I may here quote the
saying common in his workshops, that
as soon as any particular problem had
been given up by everybody as a bad job,
it had only to be taken to Dr. Siemens
for him to suggest half-a-dozen ways of
solving it, two of which would be complicated
and impracticable, two difficult,
and two perfectly satisfactory.</p>

<p>His extraordinary mental activity is
shown in the fact that between 1845 and
1883 no less than 133 patents were
granted in England to the Messrs. Siemens,
1846 and 1851 being the only
years in which none were taken out.
During the same period he contributed
as many as 128 papers on scientific subjects
to various journals, only three
years in this case also being without
such evidences of work, and in 1882 the
number of these papers reached seventeen,
the average being about seven patents
and original scientific papers per
year for more than the third of a century,
a truly wonderful record of untiring
industry. To show the impression his
work made upon the world, I quote the
following passage from the many which
appeared in the newspapers at the time
of his death. It is headed:</p>


<p class="center"><span class="smcap">One Man’s Intellect.</span></p>

<blockquote>

<p>Siemens telegraph wires gird the earth, and
the Siemens cable steamer <i>Faraday</i> is continually
engaged in laying new ones. By the
Siemens method has been solved the problem
of fishing out from the stormy ocean, from a
depth comparable to that of the vale of Chamounix,
the ends of a broken cable. Electrical
resistance is measured by the Siemens mercury
unit. “Siemens” is written on water
meters, and Russian and German revenue
officers are assisted by Siemens apparatus in
levying their assessments. The Siemens
process for silvering and gilding, and the
Siemens anastatic printing, mark stages in the
development of these branches of industry.
Siemens differential regulators control the action
of the steam-engines that forge the English
arms at Woolwich, and that of the chronographs
on which the transits of the stars are
marked at Greenwich. The Siemens cast<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">111</span>steel
works and glasshouses, with their regenerative
furnaces, are admired by all artisans.
The Siemens electric light shines in assembly-rooms
and public places, and the Siemens gas
light competes with it, while the Siemens electro-culture
in greenhouses bids defiance to our
long winter nights. The Siemens electric railway
is destined to rule in cities and tunnels.
The Siemens electric furnace, melting three
pounds of platinum in twenty minutes, was the
wonder of the Paris Exposition, which might
well have been called an exposition of Siemens
apparatus and productions, so prominent were
they there.</p></blockquote>

<p>Almost alone among all these results,
his theory of the “Conservation of Solar
Energy” dealt with a question not
affecting, or at least not immediately
affecting, human welfare. A great authority
has characterised this as “one
of the highest and most brilliant flights
that the scientific imagination has ever
made.” While astronomers quietly accepted
the conclusion that the sun is
cooling down, and will become at some
distant but calculable epoch a mere cinder
hung in space, he endeavored to
show that energy can no more be lost in
the solar system than it is in the laboratory
or the factory. Sir William Siemens’s
theory assumed that the interplanetary
spaces are filled with an exceedingly
thin or rare atmosphere of the
compounds of carbon, hydrogen, and
oxygen, such for example as aqueous
vapor and hydro-carbons. In this atmosphere
the sun is revolving with a
velocity four times that of the earth, and
hence the solar atmosphere at his equator
is thrown out to an enormous distance
from his surface. One consequence
of this is a perpetual indraught,
at the poles of the sun, of the surrounding
atmosphere. Thus the sun is everlastingly
being fed, and everlastingly
sending out its light and heat, which
thus recuperate themselves: in this way
the solar energy, which is sometimes assumed
to be lost in the empty void of
interstellar space, really acts upon the
rare vapors therein, and converts the
universe into a kind of vast regenerative
furnace! Had the author of this ingenious
theory lived but a few years
longer, he would doubtless have labored
to strengthen it with further observations
and arguments. As it is, it must
remain as a daring and original suggestion,
the effort of a keen and sagacious
mind to bring to fresh subjects the ex<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">112</span>perience
and the knowledge accumulated
by work of quite a different kind. It is
more scientific to believe, with him, that
there is some restorative and conservative
agency at work, than to suppose
that the universe is gradually cooling
down into a ball of slag, were it only
because his theory does not require an
effort of creation at once tremendous
and futile. It leaves us free to avoid
contemplating a time when the solar system
was not, and another when it will
cease to be.</p>

<p>Let us now take a brief glance at one
or two of Sir William Siemens’s public
addresses on more general subjects. His
interest in education was so keen, and
especially in that branch of education
known as technical or technological,
that these addresses almost invariably
had this for their subject, and were frequently
given at some public ceremony
in connection with it, such for example
as distributions of prizes. The most
important of them, perhaps, was given
on October 20, 1881, at the re-opening
of the Midland Institute in Birmingham.
He there surprised his audience by depreciating
the German polytechnic system
of colleges, on the ground that their
students were wanting in originality and
adaptability to new conditions. After
recounting at some length the recent industrial
applications of electricity, he
said:</p>

<p>“My chief object in dwelling, perhaps
unduly, upon these practical questions,
is to present to your minds in a
concrete form the hopelessness of looking
upon any of the practical processes
of the present day as permanent, to be
acquired in youth and to be the staple
occupation of a lifetime.... The
practical man of former days will have
to yield his place to the unbiassed
worker who with open mind is prepared
for every step forward as it arises. For
this purpose it is necessary that he
should possess, beyond the mere practical
knowledge of his trade, a clear appreciation
of the principles of action
underlying each operation, and such
general acquaintance with the laws of
chemical and physical science as will
make it easy for him to adapt himself to
the new order of things.”</p>

<p>He urged the prime importance of
the teaching of science being included<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">113</span>
in the curriculum of <em>every</em> school, and
of an adequate supply of trained teachers,
as well as of properly equipped
laboratories of all kinds, wherein to
train them. Replying to the proverb,
“A little knowledge is a dangerous
thing,” he said: “A little knowledge
is an <em>excellent</em> thing, only it must be understood
that this little is fundamental
knowledge,” and he endorsed Lord
Brougham’s pithy saying, “Try to know
something about everything, and everything
about something.”</p>

<p>In 1878 and 1879 he gave addresses
on the same subject in Liverpool, Tunbridge
Wells, Paris, and elsewhere. In
pointing out the results of the superior
French system of technical education,
he urged that we should not servilely
copy it, but that we should imitate the
French example with due regard to the
idiosyncrasies of our own country. He
approved the spontaneous and self-supporting
nature of the English system, as
more adaptable to free and vigorous development
than a governmental system.
His address to the Coventry Science
Classes in October, 1882, upon <em>Waste</em>,
in which he took as examples, waste of
time, of food, of personal energy, of
mechanical energy, and of fuel, was full
of wise and sound practical advice,
clothed in the simplest language.</p>

<p>In conclusion, let me try, with the aid
of private letters and papers which it
has been my privilege to peruse, to bring
before you some of the personal characteristics
of the man whose life-work we
have been considering. Of his extraordinary
perseverance in overcoming obstacles
I have already spoken, and it has
been well remarked that, to a mind and
body requiring almost perpetual exercise,
these difficulties supplied only a
wholesome quantity of resistance. In
the two valuable qualities of tenacity
and pliancy of intellect he has perhaps
never been surpassed. Suppleness and
nimbleness of mind are rarely allied
with that persistent “grip,” which,
without them, is not unlikely to degenerate
into obstinacy. In Sir William
Siemens these qualities were happily
balanced. His talents were the admiration
of his contemporaries, and his
memory will ever be respected and honored
by all, friends and rivals alike; for
the facility with which he applied his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">114</span>
powers to the solution of the most difficult
problems was equalled by the modesty
with which he presented the successful
result of his efforts. An eminent
engineer said of him, “With all his
great work, no envious word was ever
mixed!” At the time when he received
his honorary degree from the University
of Oxford, a distinguished Oxonian
wrote: “I believe an alumnus more
distinguished by great ability, and by a
high and honorable determination to
use it for the good of his fellowmen, and
to help forward man’s law of existence,
‘Subdue the earth and have dominion
over it,’ never received a degree from
the University of Oxford.” Of the
other distinctions heaped upon him, it
was often said that the Society rather
than Dr. Siemens was honored; and
when he was knighted, a well-known
man of science, writing to congratulate
him, said: “At the same time I feel
that the ennobling of three such men as
yourself, Abel, and Playfair confers
more honor on the order of knighthood
than even it does on science.”</p>

<p>The fame of Sir William Siemens was
world-wide, as it deserved to be; but
those who knew him best will be the
most ready to acknowledge that the qualities
of his heart were no less conspicuous
than those of his intellect. Hear
what his pupils and assistants said of
him:—“How my dear old master will
be missed, and what a gap in many walks
of life will be unfilled!” “There are
many younger members of our profession
who will look elsewhere in vain for such
genial uniform kindness and sympathy
as his invariably was.”“The seven
years I spent in his service were the happiest
in my life.” “It was the loss of
the kindest and best friend I ever had,
and I have not known such sorrow since
the loss of my older brother. The keenest
incentive I had in my new work was
the desire of showing him that his kindly
recommendation was justified by the
event.”In acknowledging the gift from
Lady Siemens of some objects of remembrance,
one writes:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">115</span> “They, as visible
objects on which his eyes must have
rested frequently, will, I feel certain,
when I shall look at them, tend to
encourage me in overcoming difficulties,
of which there exist always plenty for
those who wish to contribute their share,
however small, to the progress of things
of this world. It is this example which
Sir William Siemens has given to all the
world, which will, I believe, be the most
beneficial for future generations, and for
those who are wise enough to follow it.”</p>

<p>Of his character as a man of business
let Messrs. Chance Bros. speak, as one
testimony out of many: “Our firm
having been the first to carry out in
England on a large scale the Siemens
regenerative process, we were brought
into close and frequent communication
with him, and had the opportunity of
appreciating not only his extraordinary
inventive powers, but also his thorough
straightforwardness and integrity of
character.”</p>

<p>I have spoken of his interest in education,
and I quote two opinions thereon.
Lord Sherbrooke, in conversation with a
mutual friend, regretted immensely that
he had not been a pupil of Sir W. Siemens,
and spoke of him, and of those
who were working with him to enlarge
our sphere of knowledge, as the salt of
the earth. A distinguished American
expressed himself as strongly impressed
not only with a sense of his great learning,
but with admiration of the native
strength of his mind, and the soundness
of his educational views.</p>

<p>Many testified to his great benevolence.
The German Athenæum wrote:
“If the world of science has lost in your
late husband one of its brightest stars,
the poor, the striving student, as well as
the struggling artist, have lost a liberal
benefactor and a patron; and on hearing
of his sad and but too early death,
many will have exclaimed, ‘We ne’er
shall look upon his like again!’” An
eminent man spoke of him as one “whose
life has been spent in an unselfish and
unceasing devotion to God’s creatures.”
Many of the letters which I have read
convey the thoughts of some of his
friends on hearing of his death, in language
such as this:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">116</span> “We all felt struck
down; realising how much poorer his
loss had left the world, leaving us as he
did when full of the vigor of his endless
interests, and brightening all around him,
not only by his genius and high intellect,
but by his marvellous benevolence and
tender consideration, so full was he of
kind feeling and thought for others. He
was in a high degree the possessor of
those sweet domestic virtues which, while
so simple and unostentatious, were so
spontaneous and charming. What an
eminently well-rounded life was his!
Our children will always remember how
he was held up to them as a man almost
without an equal.” A confidential servant,
who had lived in his family many
years, wrote of him as the most Christ-like
man she had ever met; and that he
always reminded her of the Arab prince
who asked the recording angel, when
writing in his book the names of those
who loved the Lord, to write him as one
who loved his fellowmen; the angel
wrote and carried the book to heaven,
bringing it back again to show; and when
the prince looked, lo, his name led all
the rest!</p>

<p>Of his family relations, the Rev. Mr.
Haweis thus wrote, in a sermon on
“Friends!” “What a beautiful sight,
too, was the friendship of the late Sir
William Siemens for his brothers, and
theirs for him! not less beautiful because
lived out unconsciously in the full glare
and publicity of the commercial world,
into which questions of amity are not
supposed to enter, especially when they
interfere with business. But here were
several brothers, each with his large firm,
his inventions, his speculations, yet each
at the other’s disposal; never eager to
claim his own, never a rival! These
men were often separated by time and
space, but they were one in heart.”</p>

<p>One who had exceptional opportunities
of knowing him wrote:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">117</span> “His characteristic
of intensity in whatever he was
engaged in was remarkable. Even in his
relaxations he entered into them with his
whole heart; indeed, it did one good to
hear his ringing laugh when witnessing
some amusing play—the face lit up with
well-nigh childlike pleasure—no trace of
the weariness which had been visible after
a long day of work of such varied
kinds, all demanding his most serious
attention, involving often momentous
world-wide results. As a travelling
companion he was indeed the light and
happiness of those who had the privilege
to be with him. Everything that could
lessen fatigue, or add to the enjoyment
and interest of the journey, was thought
of, and tenderly carried out, and the
knowledge of the pleasure he was giving
was his sweet reward. Young people
and children clustered round him, and
he spared no trouble to explain simply
and clearly any question they asked
him.”</p>

<p>The Rev. D. Fraser, in a funeral address,
said: “The combination of
mental power with moral uprightness and
strength is always impressive. And this
is what signally characterised him whose
death we mourn. There have been very
few more active and inquiring minds in
this generation: the keenness and swiftness
of his intellectual processes were
even more surprising than the extent and
variety of his scientific attainments. But
such powers and such acquirements have,
alas! been sometimes in unworthy alliance
with jealous dispositions and a low
moral tone. What will endear to us the
memory of William Siemens is that he
was, while so able and skilful, also so
modest, so upright, so generous, and so
totally free from all narrowness and
paltriness of spirit. And God, whose
wisdom and power he reverently owned,
has taken him from us!”</p>

<p>Yes, God has taken him from us to a
deeper insight into, and a greater work
amongst and beyond, those works of His
which he so loved and studied here. Can
we imagine a greater fulness of joy than
that which must now be his in the vast
increase of his knowledge, and the satisfying
of every wish of the great warm
heart and noble nature which was so
plainly but the beginning of better things?
How can we doubt that for a nature so
richly endowed there is higher scope
alike for knowledge and for service in
the great Eternity? Such beauty and
grandeur and energy and power cannot
be laid low—they are not destroyed,
nothing is lost, but all will live again
in ever-growing splendor! A noble,
beautiful, and gifted spirit has passed to
the higher and fuller life, and with us is
left an influence for good which cannot
die. Just as this generation is now profiting
by the solar radiation which fell on
the earth countless ages ago, so will the
labors of Charles William Siemens form
a store of knowledge, potential with respect
to this and succeeding generations,
and destined to confer advantages, greater
than we can now estimate, on the ever-advancing
cause of science, and on the
moral, intellectual, and material progress
of humanity!—<cite>Gentleman’s Magazine.</cite></p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">118</span></p>




<h2><a name="A_FRENCH_DRAMA_UPON_ABELARD" id="A_FRENCH_DRAMA_UPON_ABELARD">A FRENCH DRAMA UPON ABELARD.</a><br />

<small>BY A CONCEPTUALIST.</small></h2>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">119</span></p>

<p>One warm evening in the summer of
1836, the late Count Charles De Rémusat,
sauntering through the streets of
Paris in that frame of mind which the
French describe by the expressive word
<i lang="fr">desœuvrement</i>, was arrested by the <i lang="fr">affiche</i>
on the portals of the Ambigu-Comique.
It announced a drama by MM. Anicet
Bourgeois and François cornue, called
<cite>Heloïse et Abelard</cite>. It had been running
for several months; and the vacant politician
entered the house and settled himself
in a <i lang="fr">fauteuil d’orchestre</i>. The future
friend and colleague of Thiers, whom
he preceded to the grave only by a narrow
interval, was already a person of
some distinction; but though in many
respects a severe critic, he was singularly
tolerant of the literary defects and the
artistic shortcomings of dramas intended
to propitiate the popular taste by
fertility of incident and freshness of invention.
That evening, however, he
confessed himself displeased. The play
violated familiar records without either
heightening or purifying passion, and
sacrificed history to fiction, without rendering
it more philosophical.</p>

<p>But though he walked homeward with
that sense of dissatisfaction which is
generally experienced by persons of education
and sensibility after a visit to
the modern theatre, the play continued
to haunt him. With its subject he must
have been already thoroughly familiar,
for are not Eloisa and Abelard the most
celebrated lovers in history? But though
at college he had been distinguished by
the elegance of his lyrics, De Rémusat
had attained the meridian of life without
acquiring, or even attempting to acquire,
a distinct reputation as a man of letters.
Like most of the aspiring spirits of his
time, he had betaken himself to political
journalism, trusting that it would conduct
to parliamentary honors, and obtain
for him a share in the direction of
affairs of State. At first a somewhat
docile pupil of Guizot, by the time the
famous <i>Globe</i> was started he had shaken
himself entirely free from the influence
of that doctrinaire statesman, and he
shortly became one of its most indefati<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">120</span>gable
contributors. How successfully
he had employed his pen may be surmised
from the fact that his name appears
in the list of signatures to the
famous Protest against the <i>Ordonnances</i>
of Polignac, which caused the Revolution
of July. The first Parliament
summoned after the accession of Louis
Philippe found him, at the age of thirty-three,
Member for Muret a constituency
in the Haute Garonne which he continued
to represent till the Revolution of
1848. Justifiably ambitious of power,
that he might advance the cause of
Constitutional Government, he abstained
from associating his reputation with
non-political compositions; and this
sternly practical resolve seemed, through
long persistence, at length to have weaned
him from all interest in the more
subtle workings of the intellect.</p>

<p>But there is something stronger than
the resolves of the most resolute man,
and that is innate disposition, or natural
bent, which, try to rid himself of it as
he may, <i lang="la">tamen usque recurret</i>. De
Rémusat flattered himself that, in strenuously
devoting his faculties to political
journalism, in writing leading articles on
the current topics of the hour, in examining
Parliamentary Bills, and in composing
Legislative Reports, he had
stifled in himself the original taint of an
evil passion for literature. That accidental
visit to the Ambigu-Comique,
the representation of that inferior and
distorted play, stirred in him afresh his
native passion. He could not get rid of
the figure of that strange personage, at
once exalted philosopher and frensied
lover, belonging unquestionably to history,
yet made, it would seem, expressly
for the purposes of romance. On the
very morrow of that eventful evening,
he might have been seen in the library
of the Chamber of Deputies, asking for
the volume that contained the correspondence
of Abelard and Eloisa. The
chamber was not sitting, for it was vacation
time; and he carried the book with
him to Lafitte, in the Haute Garonne,
where he had recently established his
household gods. He perused it without<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">121</span>
delay or intermission; for the man who,
taking up the correspondence of the
separated lovers of the Paraclete, could
lay it down unfinished, may rest assured
that he has little genuine interest in the
more romantic workings of human
nature. But on the 6th of September
the Ministry of Casimir-Périer was overthrown,
and Count Molé was summoned
to form a Cabinet. His Minister of the
Interior was M. Gasparin, and De
Rémusat was appointed Under-Secretary
of State for the same department. Had
the career of the new Ministry been a
protracted one, it is possible that time
would have divorced his attention from
Abelard and mediæval philosophy. But
in less than a twelvemonth Molé’s Cabinet
was overthrown, and the liberated
Under-Secretary buried himself once
more in the passions and dialectics of
the twelfth century. He spent much of
the winter of 1837 in studying the period
in which the Gallic Socrates—Gallorum
Socrates, it was the pleasure of
Abelard’s followers to designate him—had
lived, triumphed, and suffered; and
in the course of the summer of the following
year a “Philosophical Drama”
on the subject was completed. For
nearly forty years it lay in manuscript
in the author’s drawer, though he occasionally
permitted himself the indulgence
of reading portions of it in the
intellectual salons of Paris which he
frequented. Its success in those select
but critical circles was considerable;
and it was probably the encouragement
thus extended to him that led to his
writing <cite>Abélard, sa Vie, sa Philosophie,
et sa Theologie</cite>, the best account extant
of the great Conceptualist, his metaphysics,
and his fate.</p>

<p>The latter work was published as long
ago as 1845. Why, then, was the drama
kept back? The reason is a curious
one. Perhaps in foraging so extensively
among the records of the twelfth century,
De Rémusat had become impressed
with the mediæval motto, “Beware
the man of one book.” He was afraid,
so his son assures us, to risk his reputation
with the public as a statesman
and a man of affairs, by appearing before
it as the writer of a drama, even a
“philosophical” one, on a subject notoriously
romantic.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">122</span></p>

<blockquote>

<p>“Il faut bien dire,” says M. Paul De
Rémusat, “que la première raison de mon père
pour refuser de publier le drame d’Abélard,
c’était la pensée que, dans notre pays, les
hommes sont d’avance et dès leur début, et
qu’il ne voulait point sortir de la situation
littéraire et politique où il s’était d’abord placé.
Il avait vu trop souvent la défiance accuellir
une œuvre nouvelle et étrangère aux premiers
essais d’un écrivain. L’idée d’un homme
universel, ou seulement doué de talents variés,
est rarement acceptée, et ce qu’on gagne en
étendu paraît presque toujours perdu en profondeur.
L’example de Voltaire, qui était si
longtemps discuté et contesté, est plus effrayant
pour les audacieux que rassurant pour les
timides. Mon père n’espérait pas que l’on fit
en sa faveur une exception à la loi commune
de la spécialité de l’esprit. Il lui semblait qu’il
n’eût acquit en littérature quelque réputation
qu’au dépens de son autorité politique.”</p></blockquote>

<p>These scruples, at least in the case of
De Rémusat, seem excessive. The
French <i lang="fr">bourgeoisie</i> have never had that
rooted antipathy to men of genius which
is characteristic of the middle class in
England; and it certainly would not
have taken the better part of fifty years
to convince them that the author of
<cite>Vivian Grey</cite> had in him the stuff of a
practical and hard-headed statesman.
Moreover, a philosophical drama, by
the very sobriety of its title, protects its
author against the charge of excessive
literary levity. Finally, the political
career of the author of <cite>Abélard</cite>, though
not devoid of distinction, was hardly of
that commanding sort which might console
some men, at its close, for the sacrifice
of more congenial tastes and more
enduring fame. He became Minister of
the Interior, for a brief period, in Thiers’
Cabinet of 1840, and after the Revolution
of 1848 he remained a member of
the Constituent and Legislative Assemblies.
But the <i lang="fr">Coup d’état</i> practically
put an end to his political prospects.
It is true he reappeared, for a short interval,
as the <i lang="la">fides Achates</i> of Thiers during
that statesman’s brief tenure of power
after the Franco-German War. But he
was too advanced in years, and too completely
overshadowed by his conspicuous
friend, who concentrated all business
and all distinction in his own person,
to add anything to his former reputation
as a politician. His son observes that,
in withholding the publication of his
drama upon Abélard, he perhaps remembered
one of the most touching observa<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">123</span>tions
of his hero, “<i lang="fr">Dieu punit en moi la
présomption des lettrés</i>.” I read the
moral of De Rémusat’s life differently.
The penalty attached to the presumption
of men-of-letters he undoubtedly escaped.
It was the politician whom Heaven
punished, for presuming to think that a
man can arrange and map out his career
irrespectively of the gifts with which it
has endowed him, or that it is permissible,
in deference to the prejudices of
the vulgar, to protect one’s brow against
the imperishable bays of the poet, lest
they should be denied the tinsel and
quickly-fading wreaths of the popular
politician. He lived, we will trust, to
estimate the relative value of things more
wisely, though he might have learnt,
while studying the fate of Abélard, that
notoriety, which is the nearest approach
to fame to be secured by a politician, is
“fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain.”
But if he learned the lesson, he learned
it in long years of exclusion from worthless
power. He returned to his books
when universal suffrage, allied with despotism,
brought forth that atrocious
bastard, Imperial Democracy; and he
found in pursuits, his native passion for
which he had once been half ashamed to
own, something more than compensation
for the loss of personal rivalries and
sterile debates.</p>

<p>At the same time, let us beware of
doing De Rémusat an injustice. That
he was one of those men who caress their
reputation, and, in doing so, too often
mar it, is certain; for we have his own
avowal of the infirmity, corroborated by
the statements of his son. But, in
accounting for the suppression of his
drama upon Abélard, we must allow
something to genuine and, let me hasten
to add, excessive modesty. It is not the
voice of the literary coquette, but of the
diffident literary workman, that we overhear
in these charming sentences, to be
found in the preface to his prose labors
upon Abélard:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>Changeant de but et de travail, je m’occupai
alors de mieux connaître l’Abélard de la réalité,
d’apprendre sa vie, de pénétrer ses écrits, d’approfondir
ses doctrines; et voilà comme s’est
fait le livre que je soumets en ce moment au
jugement du public. Destiné à servir d’accompagnement
et presque de compensation à
une tentative hasardeuse, il paraît seul aujour
d’hui. Des illusions téméraires sont à demi
dissipées; une sage voix que je voudrais<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">124</span>
écouter toujours, me conseille de renoncer
aux fictions passionnées et de dire tristement
adieu à la muse qui les inspire.</p></blockquote>


<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">. &nbsp; . &nbsp; . &nbsp; . &nbsp; . &nbsp; . Abi</div>
<div class="verse">Quo blandi juvenum te revocant preces.</div>
</div></div></div>


<p class="p2">No doubt a mere literary <i lang="fr">succès d’estime</i>
would not have satisfied one who had
been an Under-Secretary of State; and
great literary reputations were being
made in France at the time this resolution
was taken. But De Rémusat goes
on to say that he “tenait à expier en
quelque sorte une composition d’un
genre moins sévère,” and frankly stating
that the drama was “une de ces
œuvres enfin qui n’ont qu’une excuse
possible, celle du talent,” he, with sincere
humility, put it back in his drawer.</p>

<p>Was he right? Having read his
Philosophical Drama, I am of opinion
that he was wrong. It exhibits literary
faculty of a high order, and it is deficient
in none of those penetrating qualities of
intelligence which serve to render the
imagination at once free and efficient
when engaged in dramatic work. We
do not say that it reaches the heaven of
invention; and, indeed, its author was
inspired by no such soaring ambition.
He writes in prose, and prose which,
though always classical and often eloquent,
never seeks to pass the boundary
between prose and poetry invariably respected
by the judicious. But he had
saturated himself with the atmosphere
of the time in which the action of his
drama is laid; and he had represented
to himself in clear and well-defined outlines
the character of his central figure.
To do all this is surely to write a work
of no little difficulty with no little success.</p>

<p>Shortly after quitting Nantes by the
post-road that conducts to Poitiers, the
traveller passes, before reaching Clisson,
a village consisting of one long street,
which, if he thinks it worth while to inquire,
he will be told is called Le Pallet.
No one, however, will concern himself
to add that behind the unpretending but
venerable church which stands on a slight
elevation to the left, above the last cottages
in the place, are to be seen some
all but submerged walls, and here and
there the choked vestiges of an ancient
moat. These are all that remain of the
castle of Le Pallet, which was levelled
with the ground more than four centuries<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">125</span>
and a half ago, in the course of the wars
that succeeded the attack directed by
Marguerite de Clisson against John V.,
Duke of Brittany. Hard by is an insignificant
stream, known as the Sanguèze,
and which evidently owes its name, like
the Italian Sanguinetto that flows into
the Lake of Thrasymene, to the blood of
battle that is recorded to have once dyed
its waters.</p>

<p>In 1079, the Castle of Le Pallet stood
intact on its little eminence; and in that
year, though on what day of the calendar
cannot be said, the famous dialectician,
Pierre Abélard, was born within its
walls. His father, its lord, was called
Bérenger; his mother’s name was Lucie.
This much may be asserted, with every
probability that it is true; but these
bare facts are about all that tradition
has preserved, or literary industry unearthed.
Bérenger, though inured, like
everyone in his position in those warlike
times, to the exercise of arms, manifested
a predilection for letters rarely encountered
in his class, and is said to
have intentionally inspired his sons with
a love for philosophical studies, not
easily reconciled with the performance
of knightly duties. There were, at least,
three other sons of the marriage, Raoul,
Porcaire, and Dagobert, and a daughter,
Dényse; and if we may trust the testimony
of the first of the Letters which
compose the famous correspondence of
Eloisa and Abelard, into all Bérenger’s
sons alike was inculcated the notion that
distinction in knowledge is a worthier
object of ambition than the trophies of
war. Pierre manifested a much readier
disposition than his brothers to accept
the paternal estimate of the relative
value of courage and culture; and
though he was the eldest-born, he waived
his rights of inheritance in order more
freely to pursue the path indicated by
his parent. The story is a strange, not
to say an incredible one, for times when
the sword was the only true badge of
honor; and we are driven to conclude
either that Abelard sought to remove
from himself the stigma which he would
have incurred by such a choice, had he
not surrounded it with the halo of filial
duty, or that his biographers were determined
that dramatic completeness should
attend his character from the very outset
of his career. His own words are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">126</span>
that he deliberately abandoned the court
of Mars in order to shelter himself in
the lap of Minerva. Probably the only
conclusion that can safely be drawn
from all the statements respecting his
selection is, that he developed at an
early age extraordinary talents for the
acquisition of learning and the conduct
of philosophical discussion, and that he
was freely permitted to indulge his bent
by parents who had no interest in thwarting
him.</p>

<p>It was impossible, however, that he
should cultivate his passion for letters
and philosophy within the boundaries of
Brittany, then, as now, perhaps the least
instructed portion of what was not yet
territorially known as France. He
travelled from place to place in search
of persons who taught dialectics, and
even thus early he prided himself upon
imitating the ancient philosophers to
the extent of being a peripatician or vagrant.
Among his preceptors at this
period, the name of one only is known
to us; nor is it possible to say where it
was that Abelard reaped the benefit of
his teaching. Jean Roscelin, Canon of
Compiègne, was already under ecclesiastical
ban for his uncompromising Nominalism,
when Abelard entered upon his
teens, and for a time at least had to
take refuge in England. Some have
contended that Abelard must have
passed a portion of his youth upon our
shores; but the supposition is as utterly
without proof as the assertion of Otho
of Frisingen that Roscelin was Abelard’s
first instructor in philosophy. It is
more probable that the young catechumen
encountered the ostracised teacher
in some of those more hidden and remote
conferences of learning, to which the
hostility of his ecclesiastical superiors
had compelled him to limit his philosophical
energy.</p>

<p>But what was that which Abelard
wished to learn and that Roscelin, or
any teacher, or, as we should say, Professor
of the period, had to communicate?
And how was the knowledge,
which some sought to impart and many
to acquire, conserved? Universities
had not yet been called into being; and
no great centres of recognized learning
drew to themselves the youth or crystallized
the opinions of an entire nation.
In their stead, and operating as yet as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">127</span>
sole substitute, were Episcopal Schools,
under the immediate protection and supervision
of the Archbishop or Bishop
of the diocese; and it depended almost
as much on the ambition of a Prelate as
upon the importance of his See, whether
his School acquired a wide renown, or
remained the obscure head-quarters of
local instruction. Deriving his faculties
from the Bishop, there presided over
each Episcopal School a clerical lecturer,
or “scholastic”; and all those who attended
his classes, or course, were
termed his scholars. The success of his
teaching and the number of his followers
necessarily shed lustre on his episcopal
superior and upon the province in which
the latter resided; and the emulation
which burned among the more intelligent
and aspiring members of the Episcopate,
in their endeavors to secure for
their respective schools Masters of erudition
and eloquence, was almost an exact
anticipation of the spirit of honorable
rivalry that subsists among the Governing
Bodies of modern German Universities.
Those who favor the doctrine
that there is nothing new under the sun,
will perhaps be disposed to look backward
rather than forward for a parallel
to the influence of the Scholastics of
the Middle Ages. Hippias, Prodikos,
Gorgias, and other less famous men,
whose names have been preserved to us
by Plato, passed from city to city in
ancient Greece, teaching and disputing.
Some, we are told, amassed considerable
fortunes; while one and all gathered
about them the restless brains of their
generation, who carried through the
land the fame of their doctrines and the
brilliance of their rhetoric.</p>

<p>De Rémusat’s drama opens in the
cloister of Nôtre-Dame, where a number
of scholars are assembled to hear a
lecture by Guillaume de Champeaux.
The master has not yet arrived; and
the first scene is passed in what the
undergraduates of the nineteenth century
call chaff. Finally, the great lecturer
makes his appearance; the scholars
crowd around him, and he proceeds
to expound his thesis of the reality of
Universals, or the substantiality of abstract
ideas. In a word, he is the
champion of Realism as opposed to
Nominalism, and maintains, for example,
that Man exists as really and es<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">128</span>sentially
as any individual man, and that
Humanity is not a mere name or intellectual
abstraction, but just as much
an entity as a building composed of so
many stones. At the end of his discourse
he says, “Are you all satisfied,
or is anyone present harassed by doubt?
If so, let him speak, and I will answer
him.”</p>

<p>Abelard rises. He is unknown equally
to master and to scholars, but he soon
enchains attention by the vigor of his
dialectic. He involves the lecturer in a
series of contradictions, and ends by
establishing his proposition that Universals
are neither realities, nor mere names,
but Conceptions, and by winning over
the whole class to his views. In vain
Guillaume de Champeaux pronounces
the word heresy, and points out that
Abelard bases his theories on the dangerous
foundation of human reason.
The remainder of the First Act, which is
entitled “La Philosophie,” is devoted
to depicting the supremacy gradually
obtained by the brilliant young Breton
over the students of Nôtre-Dame, until,
Guillaume de Champeaux finally abandoned
by his scholars, Abelard can
exclaim, “<i lang="fr">Maintenant l’Ecole de Paris,
c’est moi!</i>”</p>

<p>The Second Act, the scene of which
is laid at Laon a year later, is headed
“La Théologie”; and in it Abelard
acquires over Anselme of Laon, in
theological controversy, a victory analogous
to that he had previously won over
Guillaume de Champeaux in the realm
of metaphysics. The audience is the
same, for the students of Nôtre-Dame
have followed Abelard to Laon; and
the same is the weapon with which his
triumph is achieved. “When theology,”
he exclaims in the course of a warm disputation
with Anselme, “is not seconded
by dialectic, vainly does it knock at
the door of the spirit; it is reason that
holds the key, and opens to the truth.”
Anselme replies with anathemas. Then
Abelard bursts out:—</p>

<blockquote>

<p>“You hear him. My friends, he is old and
feeble. Be good to him, but lead him away.
His advanced age unfits him for these wrestlings
with science. Take him into the air.
Alas! Saint Matthew was right when he said
you may not put new wine into old bottles.”</p></blockquote>

<p>His words are received with acclamation;
and the overthrow of Anselme de<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">129</span>
Laon, in spite of his friendship with
Saint Bernard, is as complete as the
dethronement of Guillaume de Champeaux.
In an incredibly short space of
time, Abelard has seen the fulfilment
of his most ambitious dreams, and he
finds himself surrounded by a band of
scholars who regard him as the oracle of
his age. Yet in the midst of these
astounding triumphs, he experiences “a
mixture of impatience and weakness, of
ardor and weariness,” and thus soliloquizes:—</p>

<blockquote>

<p>“My fondest hopes have been surpassed.
Withal a secret disquietude, the source of
which escapes me, leaves me dissatisfied. I
feel agitated, fatigued, worn out. Everything
with me has succeeded; nothing is wanting to
me that I can name, and yet I am not happy.
A vague sense of irritation, which I cannot overcome,
prevents me from delighting in anything;
this life of struggle is arid and devouring,
and in the glowing eyes of my scholars I
often discern more joy than I can attain by
all the efforts of my intellect.”</p></blockquote>

<p>It is not difficult to surmise the disease
from which Abelard was suffering.
It was</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">The dreary desert of the mind,</div>
<div class="verse">The waste of feelings unemployed;</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>and it is just as easy to guess the cure
that is forthcoming. The Third Act is
called “L’Amour,” and we find Abelard
installed, for so many hours a day,
in the house of Fulbert, Canon of Nôtre
Dame—for the scene has again shifted
to Paris—indoctrinating his erudite
niece Eloisa into all the learning of the
time. In De Rémusat’s drama she is
represented as already in love, if not
with the person, with the renown of
Abelard; and before his second visit
she thus communes with her thoughts:—</p>

<blockquote>

<p>He is coming. I cannot read, except with
him. I understand nothing, except through
him. Before he came I fancied I knew something,
appreciated the ancients, and felt what
is beautiful. I was a child feeding upon
memory; that is all. It is he, he alone, who
has revealed to me the secret of things, who
has shown me the essence of my thoughts,
who has initiated me into the mysteries of the
spirit.</p></blockquote>

<p>He arrives, and the lesson begins.
She is all attention. But Abelard
wanders from the theme. He would
fain, he says, tear himself from the
crowd, and study with her.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">130</span> “We
would read, we would work together—or
rather, for what avails this study that
consumes the soul—we would enjoy
tranquillity, long walks, a bright sun, a
beautiful country, a boat upon the river,
or the fire-side, even as we are now.
Should we not be happy?” Her answers
do not satisfy him, for they are
modest and measured. “You do not
understand me,” he exclaims, with impatience,
and she begs to be forgiven for
being so inapt a scholar. No, it is not
that. They resume the lesson, but this
time it is the <cite>Heroides</cite> of Ovid that lie before
them. Together they read <cite>Hero to
Leander</cite>, and <cite>Leander to Hero</cite>, those
two exquisite Love Letters, which will
always make Ovid a contemporary.
“Galeotto fu il libro e chi lo scrisse,”
says Dante, in that unmatched description
of the <i lang="it">Tempo de’ dolci sospiri</i>, and
<i lang="it">Di dubbiosi desiri</i>; and what happened
to Francesca dà Polenta and Paolo
Malatesta when reading</p>

<p class="center">
Di Lancilotto, come amor lo strinse,<br />
</p>

<p>happened equally to Abelard and Eloisa
when reading the imaginary correspondence
of Hero and Leander. “O, tu
es si belle!” “C’est toi qui es beau.”
“Beau de notre amour.”</p>

<p>Very French, no doubt. But it is
done with considerable skill, and occupies
almost as many pages as I have devoted
to its words. Love scenes cannot
be compressed. They are, of necessity,
long, except to those who figure in them.
Whether this was the portion of his
philosophical drama which the serious
statesman was fond of reading aloud in
the intellectual <i lang="fr">salons</i> of Paris, I cannot
say. But, if it was, I suspect that some
of the more staid matrons among his
audience repeated the words put by the
author into the mouth of his heroine,
“C’est comme la vapeur de l’encens,
cela enivre.”</p>

<p>Meanwhile, Abelard neglects his public
duties, and his attachment to one
fair student becomes the subject of
speculation and banter among his scholars.
By degrees the weakness of the
great Scholastic is bruited in the streets,
and ballads are sung at night in the public
places associating his name with the
niece of Fulbert. One of these Abelard
himself overhears. Here is one strophe
with its refrain:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">C’est l’histoire singulière</div>
<div class="verse">A se raconter le soir,</div>
<div class="verse">Du maître et l’ecolière,</div>
<div class="verse">De l’amour et du savoir.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">131</span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Fillettes, fillettes,</div>
<div class="verse">Trop lire est mauvais.</div>
<div class="verse">Cueillez des violettes</div>
<div class="verse">Au prè Saint-Gervais.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>He is alarmed, and his consternation
is increased when he learns from Eloisa
that the suspicions of her uncle have
been aroused. There is but one remedy—marriage.
Eloisa protests; for will
not marriage rob Abelard of glory and
preferment? At last she consents, but
with the utmost reluctance, to secret
nuptials. Abelard himself, in the celebrated
letter written by him, <cite>Ad Amicum</cite>,
declares that Fulbert was privy to
their union, and that it was the self-sacrificing
denial by Eloisa, after the marriage,
that any union had taken place,
which roused the vindictiveness of her
uncle. De Rémusat, I suppose for the
sake of dramatic effect, represents Fulbert
as ignorant of the marriage, until
the mutilated body of Abelard lies at
her feet:—</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent12"><i>Fulbert.</i></div>

<div class="verse indent6">Tenez, voilà votre fiancé.</div>

<div class="verse"><i>Heloise</i> (se jetant sur son amant).</div>

<div class="verse indent2">Mon mari!</div>

<div class="verse indent12"><i>Fulbert.</i></div>

<div class="verse indent4">Son mari! Je suis perdu.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>So ends the Third Act. The fourth
is called, somewhat arbitrarily, “La
Politique,” and is mainly concerned
with the condemnation of Abelard by
the Council of Soissons. True, the
authority of the King is invoked against
him; but the enemies by whom Abelard
is pursued are theologians, and it is
they who humiliated him by compelling
him publicly to burn his treatise on the
Trinity. But for the reappearance of
Eloisa at this critical juncture, the
Fourth Act would be somewhat tedious.
There is no historical foundation for her
intervention; but it is strictly in harmony
with what we know of her character,
and De Rémusat turns it to admirable
account. Abelard asks why
she seeks out one who is condemned,
who is proscribed, who is silenced?
She replies that she has come to be with
him on the greatest day of his life.
Nothing was wanting to his glory but
martyrdom; and now he has obtained it.
His work is finished; let him abjure the
world that has treated him so ill.</p>

<blockquote>

<p>Viens, allons-nous-en, quittons le siècle,
fuyons ce pays, la France, le monde chrétien.
Chez les infidèles nous trouverons plus de<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">132</span>
repos, nous serons plus ignorés, nous vivrons
plus heureux. Cherchons la retraite la plus
profonde, la plus lointaine, la plus perdue;
cachons à tous notre vie et notre bonheur.</p></blockquote>

<p>Next she invokes the seductive allurements
of nature, and presents to him
a picture of rural loveliness and felicity,
recalling the famous invitation to sunny
climes in <cite>The Lady of Lyons</cite>:—</p>

<blockquote>

<p>Nous irons vers ces climats vantés où le
ciel est si pur, l’air si doux, la fleur si embaumée....
Ensemble, nous verrons
se lever l’aurore; ensemble, nous verrons le
jour finir, et ta main dans ma main, mon cœur
sur ton cœur, nous n’aurons qu’une vie pour
deux âmes?</p></blockquote>

<p>Is it that these glowing words recall
to Abelard what she has utterly forgotten,
and what she was too tender and disinterested
a spirit even to remember?
He cannot rise to the height of her
great argument. “Fuyez, que je ne
vous revoie jamais,” he replies. “Votre
présence est un supplice, laissez moi!”
Her answer reveals the secret of her
whole nature:—</p>

<blockquote>

<p>En vérité, je ne vous comprends pas. Vous
êtes malheureux, opprimé, abandonné, et
vous repoussez le seul être au monde qui vous
aime et qui vous reste.</p></blockquote>

<p>But it is all in vain. She still fails to
understand him, and, with the faith and
humility of all true love, she asks if she
has offended him:—</p>

<blockquote>

<p>Non, je ne suis pas offensé, remettez-vous,
je vous remercie. Héloïse, vous êtes bonne
et dévouée, je suis profondement touché de
vos soins. Vous allez retourner à votre monastère.
Vous savez combien cette maison a
besoin de votre présence; ne m’oubliez pas,
priez pour moi, vous et vos religieuses.</p></blockquote>

<p>Growing still colder, his last words
are, “Adieu, Madame, je me recommande
à vos prières.” She kisses his
hand, and exclaims, “Et qui priera
pour moi?”</p>

<p>The Fifth Act, entitled “La Mort,”
is passed in the Convent of Cluny,
where Abelard is a sort of ecclesiastical
prisoner under the supervision of Saint
Bernard. His one sole desire is to
make a pilgrimage to Rome, to explain
his doctrines to the Pope, and to get
the ban of heresy removed from his
teaching. But he is broken in health,
and troubled in brain. His mind
wanders. In sleep he murmurs the
name of Eloisa. His sole consolation
is the faithful attachment of a former<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">133</span>
pupil, who brings him ever and anon
news of her who is living and praying
at Paracleta. At last he expires; and
the drama closes with the tolling of the
convent bell.</p>

<p>I have given, I fear, but an inadequate
idea of the merits of the play;
for its chief value is in the full and
varied picture it presents of the life
and manners of the time. It is almost
needless to say that it is not a stage but
a closet drama, and it has the necessary
defect of every such composition; it is
a little wearisome. But no form, and
no treatment, could blunt the interest
that must ever cling to the pathetic
story of Abelard and Eloisa; and I
should be surprised to hear that any
reader could close the book without
feeling that it is suffused with the <i lang="la">lachrymæ
rerum</i> that unfailingly touch the
human heart.</p>

<p>For the rest, I do not know that anyone
could treat the story of the unhappy
lovers of the Paraclete, imaginatively,
in such a way as to disarm criticism. I
do not refer to any technical difficulty,
arising out of the central catastrophe in
Abelard’s life. To the true imaginative
artist, that would mean as little as it
meant to Eloisa. Indeed, it would assist
him to obtain compassion for Abelard,
just as it made Eloisa love him only all
the more. It is the something beyond
compassion of which Abelard stands
in need, that would baffle the most skilful
artistic handling. He would necessarily
have to be the hero, and, unfortunately,
he is not heroic. Were it not
that such a woman as Eloisa loved him,
I should be inclined to say that he was
hateful. I doubt if there ever lived the
man altogether worthy of such a love as
hers; yet one would be sorry to think
that hundreds of men do not exist more
worthy of it than he was. One forgives
him much for her sake; yet it is her
perfection that makes him look the
more imperfect. The contrast between
her simplicity and his complexity, between
her single-minded devotion to
him and his many-sided calculations of
what would be best for himself, ends by
making him odious; and one is compelled
to acknowledge the truth of
that bitter saying of Rousseau, “Tout
homme réflechi est méchant.”</p>

<p>It is to no man-of-letters, recent or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">134</span>
remote, neither to Bussy-Rabutin nor
to Colardeau, neither to Pope nor to De
Rémusat, but to the famous Correspondence
of the pathetic pair, that we must
turn if we are to understand either their
character or their story. The first letter
is written by Abelard, not to Eloisa,
but to “a Friend,” and relates the
leading incidents of his life. Nowhere,
it has often been remarked, does a man
so thoroughly, because so unconsciously,
betray the secret of his disposition as in
his letters. <i lang="fr">Raconter mon histoire</i> is, to
this day, a favorite occupation with
Frenchmen; and Abelard is garrulous
about his own merits, his own grief, his
own successes. He speaks contemptuously
of William of Champeaux, and
with just as little respect of Anselm of
Laon. It was, however, customary in
the Middle Ages for controversialists to
treat each other with scant courtesy;
the flattering consideration which people
who sneer at each other in private nowadays
exhibit towards each other in
public not having yet come into fashion.
It is when Abelard narrates how he
made the acquaintance of Eloisa that
we get the full measure of his fundamentally
coarse and selfish nature.
Fancy a man writing of a woman who
had loved him, and loved him as Eloisa
loved Abelard, that she was <i lang="la">per faciem
non infima</i>, or, as we should say in English,
“not bad-looking”! Fancy his
being able to remember, let alone to describe
without intolerable shame, that,
having heard of her accomplishments,
he deliberately planned to win her affections,
adding that he felt sure this
would be easy, because “tanti quippe
tunc nominis eram, et juventutis et
formæ gratia præeminebam, ut quamcunque
feminarum nostro dignarer amore
nullam vererer repulsam,” that he was
so celebrated, so young, and so good-looking,
that he had no fear of being
repulsed by any woman whom he honored
with his love! The repugnance inspired
by such language would be great,
even if he had afterwards appreciated
the prize he had begun by coveting so
basely. It is not easy to forgive Saint
Augustine for his conduct towards the
mother of Deodatus. But he, at least,
describes the passions of his youth with
sincere humility and profound remorse;
whilst Abelard recalls without a pang<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">135</span>
the colloquies and correspondence he
planned in order to influence Eloisa.
In the same spirit he narrates the tender,
passionate passages that ensued. He is
equally ignoble when Fulbert discovers
their attachment. He excuses himself
by reminding her uncle “quanta ruina
summos quoque viros ab ipso statim
humani generis exordio mulieres dejecerint,”
how many of the greatest men,
from the beginning of time, have been
ruined by the seductions of women. By
way of compensation, he tells us that he
offered to marry Eloisa on condition
that their union should be kept secret,
<i lang="la">ne famæ detrimentum caperem</i>, lest, forsooth,
his fame should suffer detriment.
If, instead of hiring a couple of bravos
Fulbert had taken him by the heels and
flung him into the Seine, one’s sense of
justice would have been better satisfied.</p>

<p>Turn we a moment from the composed
reminiscences of this circumspect dialectician,
to the woman <i lang="la">per faciem non
infima</i>, whose heart he had broken and
whose life he had ruined. In obedience
to his wish she had taken the veil, and
writes to him from the Convent of the
Paraclete, made over to her by him, and
of which she was now the Lady Abbess.
She has read his letter “To a friend,”
of which she says, with unconscious
irony, that though it was composed to
soothe that friend’s sorrows, it is full of
the sorrows of the writer himself. She
finds this the most natural thing in the
world; and all she asks is that to her,
too, he will write, and that he will instruct
her, who gave herself entirely to
him, how to direct those who have given
themselves entirely to God. She reminds
him, not reproachfully, but in
order to convince him that she has need
of him still, that at a word from him she
had completed her own ruin, and that,
though he was the only object of her
love, she had promptly taken the veil
at his bidding, “ut te tam corporis mei
quam animi unicum possessorum ostenderem,”
in order to show that she belonged
to him, and to him alone, body,
heart, and soul. “God is my witness,”
she goes on, “that in loving you I loved
yourself only, not anything you could
give or bring me.” Then, going to the
utmost limit and horizon of feminine love
and self-sacrifice, she adds:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">136</span> “Et si
uxoris nomen sanctius ac validus videtur,
dulcius mihi semper extitit amicæ vocabulum;
aut, si non indigneris, concubinæ
vel scorti; ut, quo me videlicet
pro te amplius humiliarem, ampliorem
apud te consequerer gratiam, et sic etiam
excellentiæ tuæ gloriam minus læderem.”
How completely Pope has falsified this
sentiment in his famous paraphrase!
His Epistle of <cite>Eloisa to Abelard</cite> is, no
doubt, an admirable composition; but
it is unfair to Eloisa, since its main note
is passion, not self-sacrifice, and self-sacrifice
was the beginning, middle, and
end of her love for Abelard. Once only
she reproaches him. He had made her
take the religious habit before assuming
it himself. Why? Did he doubt her?
She is overwhelmed with grief at the
thought; for does he not know that she
would have gladly either preceded or
followed him into the jaws of hell?
Nay, she must perforce have done so,
for her heart was not hers, but his.
Why, then, does he not write and console
her? Was it concupiscence, rather
than affection, that made them one?
For her part, she has no difficulty in
answering the question. “Dum tecum
carnali fruerer voluptate, utrum id
amore vel libidine agerem incertum pluribus
habebatur.” Can they, she asks,
be in any doubt now? “Nunc enim
finis indicat quo id inchoaverrim principio.”
The end surely shows by what
motive she was impelled at the beginning.
Everything she has given up—himself,
the world, pleasure, and freedom; reserving
to herself nothing but the luxury
of still executing his will. Of a truth,
it was so; and reading this extraordinary
correspondence, anyone who is curious
on the subject may discover for himself
the eternal distinction between</p>

<p class="center">
Short-memoried lust and long-remembering love.<br />
</p>

<p>With an utter unconsciousness of his
own baseness, Abelard recalls the arguments
employed by Eloisa to dissuade
him from the marriage insisted on by
him solely from dread of the anger of
Fulbert and the reproaches of the world.
She invoked, he tells us, the name of
every writer, Pagan and Christian, in
whose pages are portrayed the drawbacks
and disadvantages domestic life
presents to a man of genius and ambition.
Cicero, Theophrastus, St. Paul,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">137</span>
St. Jerome, all are pressed into the service
to prove that a man cannot attend
both to a wife and to philosophy.
“Where is he,” she asks, “that, wishing
to dedicate himself to meditations
upon the Scriptures or upon philosophy,
can put up with the cries of the nursery,
the songs of the nurse that lulls a babe
to sleep, the perpetual coming and going
of domestics?” Rich men can sometimes
avoid these interruptions and inconveniences;
but philosophers are never
rich, and she cites Seneca to convince him
that she would be a chain round his neck,
a tether to his feet. The title of lover
would be more honorable and more safe
for him; and as for her, she cares not
what she is called, so long as he loves her.
Her sole ambition is to retain his affection
by tenderness, and not by worldly
ties. Finding him unconvinced—for
Abelard well knew that such arguments
would have no weight with Fulbert—she
declared, with sobs and tears, that it was
the one step to be taken if they wanted
to destroy their happiness and to prepare
for themselves a sorrow as profound
and lasting as their love. After recalling
this outburst of tender desperation,
he observes, with the fine tranquillity
of a truly critical spirit, that Eloisa thereby
demonstrated, as the whole world
has since acknowledged, that she was
endowed with the gift of prophecy!</p>

<p>In order to understand and appreciate
what some persons will perhaps consider
the perverse and even unfeminine
expostulations of Eloisa, it must be
remembered that, in the twelfth century,
marriage was supposed to disqualify a
man for a career of distinction. The
celibacy of the clergy, for which Hildebrand
had battled so unremittingly, was
now definitively established, and all
who aspired to employment in or about
the precincts of the Church had to sanction,
by their practice, the slur thus
passed upon women. When Abelard
first met Eloisa he was not an ecclesiastic.
But he was saturated with ecclesiastic
ideas; and if he was to pursue his
study and exposition of Theology, he
could do so only under episcopal protection,
which would never have entrusted
the defence of spiritual truths to one
who had openly contracted a carnal
union. It is easy to perceive what immense
value Abelard attached to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">138</span>
recognition of his powers, and to the
establishment of his fame; nor is there
any difficulty in surmising that he often
expatiated to Eloisa on a theme so interesting
to them both. It has been
said—</p>

<p class="center">
Man dreams of fame, but woman wakes to love.<br />
</p>

<p>But, waking or dreaming, Eloisa thought
only of Abelard’s glory, Abelard’s advancement.
Her secret, unacknowleged
love was to feed his fame, as the
hidden root and unnoticed tendrils
feed the swelling trunk, impelling it
into blossom and leaf and fruit. Well
might Mr. Cousin declare, when a discussion
was once raised as to who is the
greatest woman that ever lived, that
Eloisa towers above all competitors.
But for the self-obliterating tenderness
of her heart, the self-asserting strength
of Abelard’s intellect would long since
have been forgotten. Fancy a man
worrying himself to death in order to
establish that he is not heterodox in his
views concerning the reality of Universals,
while such a woman offers him, in
her own particular person, the sum and
abstract of all that is worth having in
the world!</p>

<p>Yet, in some sort, Abelard expiated
his faults. I fail to see in him the passionate
champion of free thought, which
De Rémusat and others sometimes appear
disposed to represent him, or it
would be more easy to extend to him
the indulgence which, for that reason,
has to be yielded to a tortuous egotist
like Voltaire, or to a cold-hearted sentimentalist
like Rousseau. As far as I
can see, he entertained certain metaphysical
opinions, which, whether sound
or otherwise, are not of the smallest
practical importance, and upon which the
dignity and happiness of mankind in no
degree turn. Accused of heresy, he was
condemned; and the condemnation was
peculiarly wounding to his vanity. But
he made his peace with the Church, and
in one of the latest of his letters to
Eloisa is particularly anxious to convince
her that he has done so. No
doubt it was not easy to battle with the
strongly-organized Theology of the
times; but if anyone should ask what
Abelard was to do when accused of
heresy, the answer might be that of the
mother of Horatius, who, when asked,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">139</span>
“Que voulez vous qu’il fasse contre
trois?” replied: “Qu’il mourût!”
Eloisa had died a thousand times over
for his sake. Could he not die once for
his precious Universals and his tenets
on the Trinity, if he really thought them
true, and so very important!</p>

<p>No; the only hold he has upon our
indulgence is that time and suffering at
length awakened in his heart a tardy tenderness
for Eloisa, and inspired him with
something like an appreciation of her
unrivalled goodness. He handed over
to her his refuge of the Paraclete; and
when she wrote to him for comfort, for
counsel, for spiritual explanations, he
did not withhold them. He could not
be so blind, or so unmindful of the past,
as not to read between the lines, and
not to perceive that under the exposition
of the difficulties she was experiencing
in directing the community of which
she had become the head, there still palpitated
the recollection of the earliest
instruction she had received at his hands.
Then he expounded Ovid. Now he
comments on the Scriptures. But the
master was the same, and the same the
pupil; and over and over again the
Abbess of the Paraclete recalls the niece
of Fulbert. We feel that she almost<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">140</span>
invents doubts, that she multiplies scruples,
and that she entangles herself in
perplexities, in order that he may solve
them. In a word, she is as unchangeably
in love with him as ever. He is
measured and circumspect in his replies;
but a certain vein of spiritual tenderness
underlies them, and we feel that his
nature has grown nobler, and his heart
is, at last, less pre-occupied with self.
Perhaps he had discerned now, when it
was too late, the value of a woman’s
love, and the worthlessness of worldly
notoriety. Before he died, he begged
that his body might be carried to the
Paraclete. Thither, accordingly, it was
secretly transported and lovingly interred
by her who, as the Chronicle of
Tours says, “<i lang="fr">était veritablement son amie</i>.”</p>

<p>For twenty years more, Eloisa lived
on, a model of sanctity and wisdom.
Even Villon, in one of his ballads,
speaks of her as “la très sage Heloïse.”
When she died, her sole request was
that she might be laid by the side of
Abelard. Her injunction was obeyed;
and as her body was being lowered into
the grave, that of Abelard was for an
instant reanimated, so tradition affirms,
and he opened his arms to receive her.—<cite>National
Review.</cite></p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">141</span></p>




<h2><a name="THE_UNITY_OF_THE_EMPIRE" id="THE_UNITY_OF_THE_EMPIRE">THE UNITY OF THE EMPIRE.</a><br />

<small>BY THE MARQUIS OF LORNE.</small></h2>


<p>Lord Beaconsfield called the English
an enthusiastic people, and there is
some danger that we may hastily infer
that if our fit of enthusiasm for new
schemes of Imperial Federation be not
at once caught up by the colonies, a permanent
union with them is impossible.
It must be “either a closer union or disintegration,”
say some. But let us not
be too hasty in assuming that sudden
developments are necessary.</p>

<p>If Mr. Goschen will allow us to say so,
“after all” it is no bad thing that the
Federation League should have been
formed, although it may produce just
now more “fads” than federation. The
formation of the Society shows that
men’s minds are alive to the value of the
colonies. It is to be hoped that there will
be less said of drawing “the bonds between
us and our children closer,” and
more of confirming their position where
satisfactory, and of securing their commercial
aims. The position of a listening
and helpful friend should be ours,
rather than that of a dictatorial parent.
Where colonists have spoken of federation,
they have often meant reciprocity
in trade. Where Englishmen have
spoken of it, they have often meant only
colonial contribution to common defence.
Our long-established trade has
taught us that defence means defence of
trade-interests, wherever they lead. Our
sons’ minds have been more set on creating
industries at home, and they have
hardly begun to think of wars which
come from opening new markets.
Although the different lines of thought
lead to the same conclusion, namely,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">142</span>
organised union for common interests,
we may be somewhat premature in laying
down plans for Imperial co-operation.
They who have as yet spoken of
these plans are, for the most part,
British politicians. It is, however, significant
that the Prime Minister of Canada
was present at a meeting of the “Imperial
Federation League,” and gave a
general promise of Canadian aid in any
“wars of defence.” It remains to be
seen how far Canada would be willing
to impose a permanent charge on her
Treasury for other than home defence.
As yet she has had too much to do in
developing public works to attain to
more than the maintenance, in a poorly
organised and badly officered condition,
of a force of about 20,000, out of a
nominal roll of 40,000 militia, whose
fine physique and great individual intelligence
make them worth a great deal
more than their small numbers imply.
She has shown that she looks to England
to do armed marine duty for her,
and she is not desirous to garrison her
one important fortress near her Atlantic
coaling stations—namely, Halifax. But
she is showing her knowledge of her inadequate
military condition, and is training
officers and is voting larger sums for
the annual drilling of the militia. Her
population, expanding over vast surfaces,
is being strengthened both for civil and
military cohesion by a thorough railway
system; but she will need all the consciousness
her best men have, that defence
means preparation and organisation,
if she wishes to inspire respect for
her ever-increasing and ever more vulnerable
possessions. One of her statesmen,
formerly her High Commissioner
to England, has suggested that a tonnage
duty, levied on all ships sailing
under the British flag, be devoted to
fortification of coaling stations. It is to
be feared that the shipowning provinces
of the Dominion would object to this
excellent proposal, although it might
meet with the approval of those who
are less directly interested in marine
property, and would be an indirect tax
which might commend itself to inland
provinces and to some of the Australian
colonies.</p>

<p>If Canada, then, has but recently
shown striking aptitude to realise the
conditions necessary for adequate de<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">143</span>fence,
how does it stand with Australia
and the Cape? The Cape Government’s
past attitude may be described in few
words: “Be always taking what you
can, and seeking how you can get more;
our contribution towards necessary expenses
being one corps of Rangers.”
With Australia it is different. She has
shown a natural desire to prevent her
neighborhood from being garrisoned by
convicts or the forces of warlike States,
and she has been quite ready to pay handsomely
for any English assistance she
requires. Some of her colonies have
exhibited a most spirited desire to share
the expenses of maritime as well as land
defence, and have even offered their vessels
for offensive operations. The excitement
attending the outbreak of war,
with the sympathy for the mother-country,
may be depended on to produce
offers of assistance whenever England
needs them. It is the permanent contribution
for a common policy in the
piping times of peace which presents
more difficulty. Her division into several
colonies, often showing a good deal
of jealousy of one another, has prevented
any combined scheme of national
defence; but she, like Canada,
may be relied upon to slowly improve
her opportunities. The spirit is willing,
but the stress is weak. She has not
known the pinch of danger. Until a
Customs Union exists throughout her
continent, and railways bind her together,
she will not be able to do justice to
the patriotism so conspicuous among
her people, or take the place due to herself
in the Imperial union of States.</p>

<p>There is always a minority among all
English-speaking peoples who deem
military expenditure so much waste, a
mere thing of vanity, of fuss and feathers.
There is in the colonies a certain minority
who, as with us, deem patriotism to
mean anxiety for the welfare of those
only who may for the time have identical
ideas as to trade, or who may reside
within easy distance of certain centres,
geographical or manufacturing. Their
ideas are not to be left out of account,
for they embody one of the most powerful
of human sentiments—namely, the
imagination (for it is not the reality) of
immediate interest. It is important to
show such parties that anything proposed
to be done is devised not only for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">144</span>
Australian, or Canadian, or British purposes,
but for mutual and general good.
We adopt free trade because we think it
suits us. The colonies have no direct
taxes, and have a high revenue tariff
because they think such arrangements
suit them. It does not follow that we
need not care for them because they are
not free traders. In giving us more
favored treatment than they give to foreigners,
and in taking far more of our
goods than they take of foreign goods,
they yield to us more than we yield to
them, for we treat them and foreigners
equally. Our gain from their affections
and trade connection far outweighs the
cost of the navy we keep to protect the
ships which carry the commerce. But
in asking them to look to their own defence
we exercise a legitimate moral influence,
which is not for British interests
only, but for theirs also. We must not
ask too much or more than their legislatures
will freely sanction. There has
been no sign as yet that Colonial Parliaments
desire to shirk the legitimate expenses
of common defence. They have
much to do with their money, but will
listen to any reasonable representation
for the general weal. It is probable
that maritime war, except as regards
shore-torpedoes, can be best and most
cheaply undertaken by the British Navy,
while it may be reasonable to ask the
colony requiring the service of the ships
for any special duty affecting their coasts
to contribute to the expense of maintenance
during the time they are so engaged.
War is becoming a common danger
for all parts of the empire. It is so
in a greater degree, the more the colonies
develop, and possess, or are connected
with, great areas around the original
settlements. Any hostile force would in
the Pacific attack at once the Australasian
cities and the valuable coaling
stations of Vancouver, thus injuring at
once Australia and Canada. It is the
same in case of war with Russia. These
colonies have, therefore, a right to have
their wishes consulted, to be informed
of all that is passing that may lead to
war, and in case of the non-observance
of that consideration which should be
shown by the Imperial Executive, would
acquire a right to refuse supplies and
declare neutrality. The only way to reduce
the danger of temptation to such<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">145</span>
action is to admit them in some form
into Imperial Councils. It should not
be possible that a Secretary of State can
settle payment to America for alleged
outrages by New England fishermen,
without consulting Canada and Newfoundland,
and then expect these colonies
to pay the damage assessed without
their knowledge. It should not be
possible for Downing Street to negotiate
with France about the abrogation of
her fishing rights in Newfoundland, without
informing Canada of what is contemplated.
It should not be possible
for British Ministers to propose that
France be given islands in the Pacific in
lieu of rights in Newfoundland, without
consulting Australia. If we take powers
of attorney, it should be by express commission.</p>

<p>In commercial matters we have ceased
to assume the power of attorney. It is
a mark of the great change which has
been wrought by the growth of our so-called
dependencies that Lord Grey,
who twenty years ago specially claimed
for the mother-country the right of directing
the fiscal policy of the colonies,
should be the first to propose the immediate
adoption of the suggestion,
made at the Colonial Institute in 1884,
to have a “council of envoys.” The
Board of Advice he proposes is nothing
else. It would be a Committee of Privy
Council holding regular meetings, and
able to advise, check, and direct the
Secretary of State. It would advise the
consummation of different commercial
bargains made for the advantage of different
parts of the Empire with foreign
nations. Made under the auspices of
England, these would always give to
England the most favored nation treatment.
But they would not be made on
England’s basis of free trade, and hence
the dislike of some among us to the proposal.
The council or board would
further agree how best to defend the interests
created by such treaties. It cannot
be too strongly stated that the
making of such separate treaties is no
new thing. Since the appointment by
Canada of a High Commissioner to represent
her in England, she has had the
fullest latitude given to her to send her
envoy to make separate bargains with
Spain and France, the English ambassador
acting as introducer and coadjutor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">146</span>
in the negotiations undertaken by the
Canadian. This was a great and new
departure at the time, but it marked a
recognition by England of actual facts,
which will grow clearer and clearer to
the eyes of all men every year. The
situation of our Empire is an entirely
new one. Nothing like it has ever existed
since the world began. There is no
precedent for it. Our union with our
sons must be strengthened, not by tying
them to our commercial programme, but
by helping them to realise that which
they desire to adopt. The partners in
the Imperial firm must pursue each his
own line to benefit himself, and so raise
the reputation of the partnership as being
composed of men of wealth and enterprise.
In affairs affecting the standing
and credit of the whole number, or of
several, they may meet the senior in
consultation, and, as each represents
important property, a new policy is not
likely to be adopted lightly, nor will any
project calculated to enhance profits lack
good backing. The statesmen in Canada,
who have been in office since this
new departure has been fully inaugurated,
are perfectly satisfied with the position
of their country in this most important
of all matters. The leader of the
Opposition, before he knew of this freedom
given to the Canadian envoy, spoke
of his countrymen as “the subjects of
subjects,” for that was indeed the position
in which the old British policy placed
them, and it was one which could not
survive an increase in their own power.
“We want,” said Sir John MacDonald
last month at Montreal—“we want no
independence in this country, except
the independence that we have at this
moment. What country in the world is
more independent than we are? We
have perfect independence; we have a
Sovereign who allows us to do as we
please. We have an Imperial Government
that casts on ourselves the responsibilities
as well as the privileges of self-government.
We may govern ourselves
as we please; we may misgovern ourselves
as we please. We put a tax on
the industries of our fellow subjects in
England, Ireland, and Scotland. If we
are attacked, if our shores are assailed,
the mighty powers of England on land
and sea are used in our defence.” And
under this so-called “protection” gov<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">147</span>ernment
the tariff against English goods
is one-half less than that imposed against
us by the Americans; and the merchandise
bought from us is immense in
quantity, Australia taking even more
proportionately than does Canada. Australia,
probably owing to the want of
a common tariff, has not as yet shown a
wish to have her representatives put on
the same footing as that secured, by
Canada’s desire, to her envoy. The
Sydney Convention, indeed, rather gave
the Agents General to understand that
they were not sent in any way as quasi-ambassadors.
This alone shows the unreadiness
to undertake common action
and to push common interests, for there
is no strong central government having
any definite will and policy which it is
necessary to have explained and illustrated
and pushed by personal conference
and contact with the Home authority in
Downing Street. I fear that the Cobden
Club have more tribulation in store,
for it is highly probable that all Australia
will have a common high revenue tariff.
Then will come, as has already come
in British North America, the desire to
push a national commercial policy in
alliance with England.</p>

<p>The work, then, of any friends of
Imperial Union should be first to ascertain
the desires of the colonists. If any
special scheme be thought good here, it
should be submitted to the colonial governments
by the Association before it is
pressed on the public for acceptance.
We can form, as it has been suggested,
a vigilance committee in Parliament at
home to take cognisance of anything
affecting the colonies, and this we can
do without consulting anybody but the
men who may desire to serve. But it is
difficult to believe that any Australian or
other administration can have been consulted
and can have given a favorable
reply to such proposals as the following,
namely:—1. The proportional representation
in one unwieldy Parliament of the
colonies. The House of Commons has
too much to do now, and hardly attends
to Indian affairs. It is not to be imagined
that colonial M.P.’s would like to
be constantly out-voted by a British majority,
nor is it conceivable that, when
the colonial population is larger than
ours, England would submit to be out-voted
by the colonies. Mere difficulties<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">148</span>
of personal attendance would make the
scheme hard of execution, and its unpopularity
makes it impossible.</p>

<p>2. Nomination to the House of Lords
of prominent politicians from distant
parts of the Empire. It may be sufficient
to ask what politician, having good
influence in his native Parliament, would
leave it to sit in a House which has little
weight even in England, and less in
deciding Imperial issues? And if any
man chose a seat in the House of Peers
in preference to a place in his own
Parliament, how could he be considered
a representative of the Government in
power in his own country? If he be
not that, he would have no right to
speak in the name of his own country,
nor could his vote bind her action. If
not a prominent man, his acceptance of
such a nomination would only excite
ridicule. Who would be a Viscount
Wagga-Wagga or Marquis of Massa Wippi?
A man elected to sit in the present
House of Lords would only be one
voter in an assembly of several hundred,
and would have no special weight.</p>

<p>3. Conference of Trades Unions.
This would be useful as indicating where
the unemployed or well-provided emigrants
had best direct their steps. It
may be safely assumed that the workmen
of towns where high wages may be had
would not invite others to come and
thus depress the standard of the remuneration
earned by labor.</p>

<p>4. A council like that of the German
“Reich.” This would be more easily
accepted than the sending of a contingent
to either House of Parliament, but
it has not been discussed.</p>

<p>Other suggestions might be mentioned
which all partake too much of the fault
of looking at Federation as a means of
making more powerful the British vote
in a general union, and in not being endorsed
by colonial voices. We should
make vocal their desires rather than
press upon them our own. The idea
of a Board of Advice, composed of
their representatives, has the merit of
giving them opportunity of speech and
of knowledge. It would not “draw
closer the bonds” so much as prevent
any strain on those which exist. Do
not let us do anything “behind the
backs” of those whom our action in
their behalf may touch, however indirect<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">149</span>ly.
Let no Minister in a colonial
Parliament be able to say, “We are
threatened with this or that in consequence
of Imperial action; but it was
not until the danger had been incurred
that we knew there was any likelihood
that it would arise.” We need have no
misgiving that the colonies would be
unreasonable in their fears, or averse to
incur the danger if fully informed, any
more than we apprehend from an English
House of Commons repudiation
of the responsibility of the Executive
charged with the responsibility of war or
peace. But the danger of repudiation
becomes less, the more those affected by
the determination are taken into confidence.
The revival in some form of a
Committee of the Privy Council, to advise
“on trade and the plantations,”
would be the most certain method of
giving for the present knowledge and
voice to the combined colonial representatives.
If the colonial Governments
do not care for this, the “question falls”
for the time, and we may patiently
await the demand, taking care in the
meantime to fully inform each individual
representative of our rising “auxiliary
kingdoms” of what is passing, and granting
them free access to all persons and
papers they desire to see, if these may
be shown to Parliament. It has been
objected that delay would be caused by
any council. If the council be small,
this is not likely, because telegraphic
communication makes Australia as near
to the Colonial Office as is Victoria
Street. The time, if there be any delay,
may be well spent in avoiding future
misunderstanding. There is hardly any
conjuncture where a Secretary of State
must act with lightning rapidity in colonial
affairs; but, if the necessity arose,
the British Government must, as they do
now, take the responsibility. It is also
said against the plan that in most cases
the members of the council whose countries
are not affected by the business
would only sit twirling their thumbs.
This objection applies to all boards,
councils, and Parliaments, and is an
argument for autocracy. It is also alleged
that the Indian Council Board is
an analogy, and has been proved a nuisance.
But the Indian councillors represent
only their own opinions, and these
often formed on past experience, where<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">150</span>as
the men on the Privy Council Board
of Advice would represent those whose
voices would be potent factors in deciding
questions submitted, because they
are the mouthpieces of living nations
and of living policy. A minute drawn
up by Australia, dissenting from a given
policy, would not be looked at so lightly
as is a minute by an Indian councillor
who may object to an addition to a salt
tax. We should therefore consult with
the colonial cabinets, and ask them if
they do not think that we can obtain, by
regular and recognised conference with
their envoys, more intimate knowledge
of the desires of their people; further
opportunity for them to bring their wishes
directly to the notice of England and
of brother colonists; a better chance
for them to combine to further the views
of one of their number, or to declare
against any impracticable project; less
danger that any imprudent course shall
be entered on by any one colony without
consultation with others and with
Britain; a time of discussion for any
schemes for joint defence—in short, less<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">151</span>
isolation, and consequently greater
strength for any policy taken up with
forethought. The Secretary of State
would be supported in adopting any
given line by knowing he had the Empire
at his back, or, by finding himself alone,
would know when to advise withdrawal.
But it is a question whether the day for
any such plan is yet come. It is only
yesterday that Canada became a Pacific
Power. It is only to-day that the Australians
are being united by railroads,
and they are still sundered in fiscal
policy. The Cape has not yet become
possessed of a people sufficiently powerful
to make themselves felt. In any
case let the colonies speak out, and we
can wait, for “all’s well” at present with
the loyal sentiments of our scattered
brethren.</p>

<p>During this last fortnight they have
again proved that they are heart and
hand with us in time of trouble. Let
us, if they desire it, make their voices
be heard in council. They have told us
that their cannon shall speak for us in
the field.—<cite>Nineteenth Century.</cite></p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">152</span></p>




<h2><a name="ODD_QUARTERS" id="ODD_QUARTERS">ODD QUARTERS.</a><br />

<small>BY FREDERICK BOYLE.</small></h2>


<p>My record of campaigns and outlandish
travel includes in its barest
shape, Borneo, Upper Egypt, Central
America, the Cape, the West Coast of
Africa, the Danubian Principalities,
Afghanistan, India, Turkey, Greece,
Egypt a third time; were I to count
the episodes, it would swell into a geographic
catalogue. In such journeying
I have found many odd billets, a
few of which I purpose to sketch just
as they occur to mind in writing, without
story or connection. But, so far
as may be, I shall avoid those scenes
which have been made familiar to the
public through historic events, and
through the descriptions furnished by
my own “Special” fraternity.</p>

<p>No eccentricity of fortune surprises
me now, though it brings vastly more
discomfort for the time than in earlier
days; and my recollections grow weaker
proportionately. However strange
one’s quarters, however distressed or
frightened one may be, an abiding consciousness
dwells in the soul that one
has seen and done and gone through
the same experience already. The power
of observation is not dulled, nor the
sense of fun, still less that of alarm;
but the circumstances do not seem
worth remembering particularly. If one
reflects more, one feels less. After his
first visit to the Antipodes, so to speak,
a boy has stories inexhaustible of anecdote,
remark, and adventure; but
from each succeeding journey he brings
back shorter and drier reports, until a
trip to the moon would seem hardly
worth telling at length: after stating
the facts, he has done. Last week I
entertained a confrère just returned
from El Teb and Tamasi; we have
served together in divers parts, and the
public, I understand, has been interested
in our stories; but all through the
evening not fifty words were exchanged
touching on matters personal in his late<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">153</span>
vicissitudes. It seems less and less worth
while to dwell upon impressions and to
carry them away, the more impressions
one gathers. This is not the common
belief. We read of men in novels, who
having been everywhere and done everything,
are always ready with a tale of
adventure that thrills the heroine. I
will venture to say that such a personage
has not been far into terra incognita,
nor has served in many wars,
unless, of course, he is a professional
talker.</p>

<p>Thus it happens that a man’s earliest
memories of travel are the strongest,
though they be insignificant compared
with others he might have collected on
the same ground at a later date. I have
a hundred cabinet pictures of Egypt as I
knew it, an idle boy, but not one worth
sketching from the late campaign. That
was a very big business;—one recorded
the facts, stored them for use, and forgot
the incidents. It is only by an effort
that I recall scenes therein quite
otherwise impressive than that unforgotten
experience of Esné by night, which
struck me twenty-one years ago, and
still remains fresh of color. At that
time the banished sisterhood of Almeh,
Ghawazee, dancing and singing women,
still dwelt at the spot assigned them—or
many did. We had seen a performance
in going up, and had ordered something
more special for our return. An
old negress who kept what one may describe
as the box office, in a vile mud
hut, assured us with conviction that the
best dancer and the loveliest woman in
those parts would attend at nightfall. A
respectable Arab addressed us returning
to the dabeah, and asked permission to
go with our party. In the evening he
followed to a hut, somewhat larger but
not less vile than the box office. The
only lights were set on the mud floor,
one by each of the musicians, who
squatted there smoking <i>hasheesh</i> to
nerve them for special exertions. In a
line across the back, their faces hardly
to be distinguished, sat the Ghawazee,
arrayed in silks and muslins of the brightest
hue, the coins that decked their
heads twinkling and faintly jingling
as they moved restlessly. The police-officer
sat beside us, on one of our
chairs, in snowy uniform and gold belt.
Everybody smoked, including specially<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">154</span>
the candles, and the spiral cloud from
every mouth had a curious effect so long
as it was visible.</p>

<p>The band struck up, with voice and
instrument—a metallic hum, a nasal
scream, a twang of strings so loose that
they seemed to take their note from
the wood itself, a dull beat of tomtoms.
Presently a Ghawazee arose. You have
all read descriptions of the performance,
but it must be seen in its natural habitat,
as here, to keep any sort of interest. I
have never beheld it, that I recollect, in
the pitiless glow of gas, when, no doubt,
it is grotesque. But in that dim and
ruddy twilight, the long robes and full
trousers of the Ghawazee, quivering to
the tremulous movement of her limbs,
have sudden strange effects of sheen and
shadow. The arms out-curved, with small
castanets betwixt the index and the
thumb, the head thrown back, the closed
eyelashes, the white teeth gleaming, have
significance and charm also in that misty
air, though they seem prurient affectation
under strong light. But the entertainment
is monotonous. Before our programme
was half through, we called for
the <i>prima ballerina</i>, and she came forward—a
good-looking woman, helmeted
with coins—put out her small bare foot,
the toes turned up, rounded her arms,
and tinkled her castanets with the air of
a mistress. At the instant our guest
sprang by and seized her, shouting—the
musicians tumbled this way and that—the
candles upset—a woman took fire—the
police-officer bawled—and we were
a struggling mass in the doorway! The
dragoman afterwards explained that this
man’s son had married the dancer, on
an understanding, of course, that she
dropped her profession. He heard that
the box-keeper had tempted her, with
her husband’s consent, to perform for
our benefit, and hence the interruption.</p>

<p>A series of earthquakes alarmed Nicaragua
in January, 1866, and the municipality
of the capital asked us to explore
Mombacho, an ancient crater from which
the disturbance was supposed to come.
My companion and I rode out, with
guides, and at nightfall reached Dirioma,
an Indian village. A superb avenue
of organo cactus leads to that secluded
settlement; the trunks, ten feet high,
looked like fluted pillars of marble
in the pale glow of starlight. Dirioma<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">155</span>
is much the same now, probably, as
the Conquistadores found it, a marvel
of color, softness, and grace of form.
Each dwelling, framed of bamboos and
sticks, like a bird-cage, stands in its
own compound; the road runs straight
and broad and smooth in front; palms
droop over the cactus hedge, black
against the night sky as ostrich plumes,
and behind them lies a dusky mass of
foliage, gleaming red in the glow of the
hearth. All day and all night the place
is still, for Indian children, if they play,
are silent.</p>

<p>Our billet assigned was such a hut,
hung round with hollow logs used as
beehives; in dismounting we upset one,
but the insects were familiar with disasters
of the sort, and they took it kindly.
We asked about “Carib Stones,” as
usual—all antiquities are called Carib
Stones in Nicaragua—and the guide
led us into another compound, where
a very old man crouched beside an
enormous fire, with three or four Indians
about him. When our inquiries
were explained, with difficulty, the veteran
brightened and began talking like
a machine. Some feathers of the quetzal
bird lay beside him; these he snatched
up, waved, and shook to emphasise his
statements. We could understand very
little of the patois, more than half Indian;
but the naked old man’s shadow
played grotesquely on the lattice wall
behind, the brandished plumes flashed
emerald and sapphire, the elders sat
round like wrinkled effigies in bronze,
their small eyes fixed upon us with never
a wink. The ancient hero did not tell
much—he spoke of the golden temple
which, as everybody knows, is hid somewhere
in the neighboring woods; but
gave no precise information. Afterwards
we learned that this was a lineal descendant
of the old caciques of Dirioma, who
gave four thousand axes of gold—or
whatever the number may have been—to
Gil Gonzalez de Avila. Though
he worked as a slave before the emancipation,
the Indians revere and obey
him to such degree that a Secretary
of State thought worth while to ask
of us what his remarks had been.</p>

<p>Many odd quarters we knew on the
West Coast, where men and circumstances
have a character all their own.
Quisa recurs to my mind just now;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">156</span>
I could not tell why, for we saw places
as strange under more exciting conditions.
This is the first town, or was,
within the Ashanti realm proper. It
looked almost civilized to us, marching
from the coast—for refinement
is comparative—and decidedly picturesque.
Quisa might be called a town,
its ways streets, its dwellings cottages
of unusual form. A row of fine shade-trees
in the middle of the chief thoroughfare
had earthen benches at their
feet, where the elders sat for council
and gossip. The king’s house stood
at the intersection of the main streets.
It had not the alcove or box in the
outer wall, so conspicuous in the architecture
of Coomassie, but the façade, of
polished stucco, was broken by niches,
and moulded arabesques, two inches in
relief, covered it all over. What they
represented or signified we could not
make out with confidence, so thoroughly
had the style been “conventionalized”
by generations of artists; but
in the original idea they were human
figures probably, engaged in war and
ceremonies of state. The wall was colored
in Venetian red, with a pleasing
gloss upon it, and it stretched twenty
yards or so on either side the doorway.
This was a Moorish arch, of wood,
the same in type as those we are familiar
with at Sydenham, and gaily painted.
Inside and out all was clean and perfect.</p>

<p>Through this doorway a passage,
smoothly coated with chunam, and tinted
red, opened into the <i lang="fr">cour d’honneur</i>.
On the right hand, just inside the door,
stood a fetich niche, very like an exaggerated
font for holy water. It contained
the usual medley of rubbish—bones and
sticks and teeth and roots and tangles of
string; a lot of eggshells also, pierced
and tied together. Opposite to this
niche was a hollow in the wall, two
steps above the ground, just long enough
and broad enough for a man to lie; the
quarters, doubtless, of a slave who kept
the door. What I have termed the <i lang="fr">cour
d’honneur</i> was a small quadrangle, unroofed,
with alcoves much like boxes at
a theatre on three of its sides. The
middle one, that fronting the entrance,
occupied the full breadth of the wall,
saving a doorway that led through to
the next court; the others were smaller.
These boxes stood on a level, perhaps<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">157</span>
five feet above the floor of the yard.
They had no way in from the back,
but access was gained by steps from
below, and the parapet, of mud and
chunam, was cut away at that point.
Wooden columns and arches, of Moorish
design and color, marked the king’s
box—that in the middle. They had
hangings apparently, for pegs were there,
and I found a silk “cloth” on the
ground.</p>

<p>It was not difficult, with our experience,
to refill this courtyard with the
pride and pomp and circumstance of
Quisa royalty. There sat the king on
his earthen bench, wrapped in a spotless
robe of cotton, home-spun, and home-dyed
in graceful patterns. His sandals,
with a golden sole and little, solid,
golden figures for ornament, rested on
a patchwork carpet of silk. His
arms were bare, but loaded with bracelets;
some of the costly Aggry bead,
some a bristling string of nuggets unworked.
Arab charms, wrapped in small
leather cases, sewn with gold, encircled
his wrists and elbows and knees, and
they dangled from the arch above. On
the floor at either hand crouched a
page, one holding his pipe, silver-bound,
one his drinking calabash, mounted in
gold and carved. Behind these favorites
squatted the bearer of the toddy jar,
Dutch earthenware, set in silver, and
the drinking calabash, carved and bound
in gold; of the silver-mounted stool
and gun, the silver spittoon, and knives
with silver hafts in a belt of leopard-skin—in
short, the retinue essential to
his majesty’s comfort. Nearest of all
stood the executioner, with his four-handled
sword of office, looking like a
toy-stool of gold with a clumsy blade
thrust through the seat. The royal
councillors sat upon the cross-benches,
and the smaller alcoves were occupied
by wives and slaves, handsome enough,
many of them, their lips full but not
thick, their noses straight, their skins
brown with a shade of gold. A mass
of ornaments, in bullion or filagree,
decked the long wool of these ladies,
combed to all manner of fantastic shapes:
eccentricity has no bounds in dealing
with that stiff and elastic material,
which grows to a surprising length
amongst Ashantis and Fantis. I have
seen it drawn out, kinkles and all,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">158</span>
eighteen inches from the skull, and
thus remain stark on end, until the
lady had time to get it arranged in,
for instance, the exact similitude of a
pine-apple, divided into lozenges, with
a neat curl in the centre of each.</p>

<p>So the king of Quisa sat to display
his magnificence daily, and to administer
justice. It is the inclination of
us superior beings to imagine that “off
with his head,” is the monotonous
refrain of every judgment pronounced
by negro royalty. The notion is gathered
perhaps rather from burlesques
and comic songs than from inquiry,
and I suspect that shrewd comment
and patient debate were often heard
in that pretty court. The general effect
of it, even empty, astonished us all, from
Sir Garnet to Tommy Atkins. But we
showed our emotion in various ways. I
entered with two young doctors, who
had their billet at the palace. After
going through and surveying it in silence,
one of them hurriedly unpacked
a trunk, produced his everlasting banjo,
and sang an air of the day: “You
know it all depends upon the way in
which it’s done!” This exercise finished,
he was equal to discussion.</p>

<p>A natural halting-place, as one may
say, at the end of the first march from
Jellalabad is the castle of a great Ghilzai
chief, whose name I forget. He had been
an active enemy in the late war; but for
reasons unknown the political department
long refused to let us take possession
of this building, which is called
Rosarbad, though it was empty; nor
would they even permit us to encamp in
the fields and groves about it. Accordingly
a very small post was established
on a bleak hillside in the neighborhood,
a spot so stony and barren that pegs
would not hold in the soil. Two nights
I passed there are scored in the blackest
of chalk among my experiences of mere
wretchedness; for a gale was always
blowing and tents were always collapsing:
if one’s own escaped, the yelling and
roaring of other sufferers made life almost
as miserable. As for the horses,
they enjoyed a battle scarcely interrupted,
and the squealing all night, with
the shouting of furious troopers, banished
sleep. A detachment which had three
weeks’ duty at that outpost lost a quarter
of its strength by invaliding, the re<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">159</span>sult
of sheer fatigue. When I add that
a night attack was always probable, and
often threatened, the least fanciful of
readers may conceive that existence at
Boulé camp was not happy.</p>

<p>It was an aggravation and a mockery
for these unfortunates to see the great
tower of Rosarbad above the cypresses
and planes but a thousand yards away, to
know that it was confiscated by the laws
of war, and that no human being dwelt
in those comfortable quarters. The
state of things became unbearable at
last, the Politicals were overruled, and
when I came down country from Gandamuck
I found the castle occupied. It
was late in the month of April. Quitting
the barren, rocky highway, we rode
across a bridge, rough but neat, through
a screen of trees, and found ourselves in
a landscape thoroughly and charmingly
English. The crops were strange, no
doubt, but they looked familiar. The
stalwart peasantry who toiled there had
dark faces and outlandish dress; but,
buried to the waist in green, stooping
above their work, they passed, at a
glance, for English husbandmen. And
the trees that bordered these pleasant
fields, full-leaved, deepshadowed, resembled
our native elm. Even the atmosphere
was English, the still golden haze
of a midsummer evening. We pulled
up, each struck with thoughts not lightly
to be breathed. The foreign landscape,
the parched hills and dusty road
behind, were all shut out. One might
fondly dream for an instant that war
and exile had come to an end, that
these ruddy turrets peeping above the
trees marked the ancient, hospitable
home where we were eagerly expected.
Our orderly looked and stared, and
gazed and muttered—the stupid exclamation
does not signify; it was meant
to suggest wonder and delight and feeling
beyond an honest trooper’s power of
expression.</p>

<p>Envious fancy had done its utmost
among those poor fellows camped at
Boulé, in picturing the spot they were
forbidden to approach. But it surpassed
anticipation. I am not going to describe
the scene, for I made no sketch, and
some who will read this did, whilst every
one who halted there keeps a recollection
of Rosarbad. Nothing like it did we
see in any part of Afghanistan. Though<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">160</span>
built of mud, its lofty walls, brand new,
had almost the sharpness of granite, and
they were thick enough to stand some
pounding of solid shot. Frosts have
tried them now, doubtless, rains have
channeled them, the battlements are ruinous,
and not one right angle remains;
but it was mighty handsome in our day,
looking like a feudal fortress, with a
gate-tower almost majestic overlooking
a grove of cypresses on the other side the
moat: so dense was the foliage of this
copse that daylight could not pierce it.
A miscellaneous throng of bunniahs
had converted its twilight arcades into
a bazaar, hanging bright cottons from
trunk to trunk, and establishing booths
full of cheap glitter. Sowars and sepoys,
in flowing, picturesque undress,
strolled hand in hand through the chiaroscuro.
Giant Pathans prowled up and
down, all beard and eyes and dirt, gazing
with rapt, vulture-like expression at
the luxury displayed. Sometimes a yell
arose, a sound of scuffling, a rush of
frightened traders and of sepoys to the
rescue; then from the struggling mass a
prisoner was dragged, and perhaps a
groaning comrade was borne to the
gate.</p>

<p>Within the portcullis and the vaulted
approach lay a garden, actually a garden,
bordered on one side by the durbar
hall, on another by a row of small latticed
chambers. In the hall, which was
raised several feet above the level, stood
an enormous tub, into which a column of
water fell by a shoot. It was forced to
the upper story, and thence descended.
Of all surprises that befell a visitor to
Rosarbad, none equalled this. A soothing
cataract, a shower-bath, and a fish-pond
all in one make a convenience for
the drawing-room hardly known in
Europe. After the first enthusiasm,
however, certain disadvantages betrayed
themselves. The middle of the hall was
a quagmire, and if in the zeal of admiration
one approached too near, the mud
held one fast while the shower wet one
through. But this made part of the day’s
fun. The officers of the little garrison
cherished their odd quarters, and they
applied their leisure to gardening, with
such success that visitors were sometimes
presented with a rose. I need scarcely
say that the name of the castle has no
connection with botany. The Pathan<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">161</span>
seems to be acquainted with five flowers
only—jasmine, rose, chrysanthemum,
iris, and narcissus. Painful to an enthusiast
is the most successful of Oriental
gardens. Though they bear a mass of
flowers so that Peshawur, for instance,
has an air laden with scents, the individual
bloom is mean and the tree pitiful.</p>

<p>In contrast to the glories of Rosarbad,
I recall a billet on the other side of
Afghanistan. We had been snowed up
in the Kojak pass—a miserable time, and
when a thaw released us I pushed on
with a comrade towards Quetta—a
ride to try one’s good humor; for with
the thaw came rain, which made that
bare desert as slippery as ice—a peculiar
condition dreaded under the name of
‘put.’ We got off the track somehow
beyond Abdallah Karez, and very glad
were we to find an empty village, where
a Baboo go-master was posted to collect
stores of forage and grain. He had
three sepoys to protect him—a guard
much less formidable than a score of
Pathan dogs, left by their masters, I
suppose, which fed upon the carcasses
of camels lying all around. This Baboo
was an ingenious man. The mud huts
had been dismantled perhaps; anyhow,
they were roofless and badly gapped.
In the long frost our go-master had a
bad time; the thermometer below zero
at night, or always close upon it, and
no better protection than a tent for his
southern limbs. Moreover, there was
some chance that the enemy might swoop
down, or he thought so. Superstition
loses its awful power in the extremity of
wretchedness. The Baboo, who was
forbidden to touch a dead insect or even
to look at it, employed sepoys and muleteers,
and anyone he could catch, in
building a fortification of dead camels
all round his store-house; and he lived
therein, shuddering with remorse, but
warm and secure. While the frost lasted
it was mighty comfortable, but the
thaw had reduced that Baboo to sore
distress. His wall was decaying visibly
under conditions which I need not suggest,
and to enter the enclosure needed
more heroism and more cotton wool than
the average mortal is provided with. A
camel’s is a heavy and unwieldy carcass
when frozen hard: a regiment of scavengers
could not have cleared away those
scores of bodies when loosed by the thaw.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">162</span>
The Government stores were protected
after a fashion hitherto thought peculiar
to Chinese warfare, by “stink-pot” torpedos
in effect, and neither friend nor
foe dared approach. I do not know the
end of that story. If it is the traveller’s
privilege to see queer incidents, it is too
often his ill-luck to miss the explanation
and the catastrophe.</p>

<p>A scene I cherish with especial tenderness
is that passed at Changhi, behind
Singapore. A Malay fishing village lay
beneath our bungalow, upon a broad
and snowy beach. In barbarous regions
of the North men live underground, but
these dwellings were suspended in the
sunny air amongst plumes of cocoanut
and betel; behind them rose the
shadowy jungle. There was no cultivated
land in sight, for the Malay finds
his harvest and his garden in the sea.
The smooth sand below high-water mark
was a parterre of sponges, green and
red, and purple blue, intermixed with
coral. Old-fashioned people in Europe
cherish certain round masses of limestone,
daintily fluted, and put them under
a glass case for ornament. Imagine
their beauty in the spot where nature
places them, every lip and hollow on the
cream-white surface traced out in vividest
pencilling of green, with the seaflowers
of sponge around them.</p>

<p>But after the first impulse of delight,
one almost comes to overlook this charming
foreground; for beneath the water
lies a tangle and a maze of all things
lovely for shape and color and growth
and motion. Coral takes a hundred
flowery forms, weeds branch like trees
or wave like serpents, sponges are cups
of amethyst and ruby. When waves lie
still, one sees just as clearly into the
depths below as into the air above, and
almost as far, as it seems. The vegetation
is gigantic in its loveliness. There
are coral growths shaped like an Egyptian
lily and as white, but three feet in
diameter, wherein a mermaid might take
her bath. Others break into a thicket,
each twig covered with snowy rosettes
which bear a morsel of green velvet in
their bosoms. Others are great round
hillocks diapered with emerald, with
here and there a bush of scarlet thorn
springing from their sides. Through
and over the garden, long silvery weeds
tremble and quiver in a net. Small fish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">163</span>
as quick as humming-birds, and almost
as gay, dart to and fro. Water snakes
float past in coils like Indian enamel of
every shade, in red and brown and yellow
and purple. I am grateful that fate allowed
me three weeks of life at Changhi.</p>

<p>But I have dwelt also, too long, with
those northern people referred to who
burrow in the earth, and with those
southerners, not half long enough, who
inhabit the trees. Not to be forgotten
are our quarters before Plevna, in the
compound of a Bulgar farm-house. The
floor of its single room lay perhaps two
feet beneath the soil, and one entered by
a steep incline—that is to say, the inhabitants
entered. The ends of the roof
descended just so low as to give room
for a foot-square window at the level of
the earth; but on the incline mentioned,
it rose. One of my comrades in this
hostelry was poor MacGahan, who lay
on his back and sang the whole day
through when at home. He had laid
some hay upon the “stoop” beside the
entrance, and from amongst it his bright
eyes watched and his voice resounded.
I lived in a waggon. One day the gudewife
interviewed my dragoman. She expressed
her belief that it was MacGahan’s
songs that brought the rain, which,
indeed, was perennial. She clung to
her point with vehemence. Her husband
arrived, and so did some Cossacks.
They listened with great interest for a
while, understanding not a word, and
then, with a happy impulse, hustled the
Bulgar head first into his den. The
motive of this proceeding lay beyond our
comprehension, and theirs also, no
doubt; but the Cossack is an irresponsible
being. When we laughed they
roared, crinkling their jolly, ugly faces
until the eyes vanished altogether. I
gave them a drink, but not a many-bladed
knife, which was lost to human sight
in that hour.</p>

<p>The dirtiest experience to which mankind
may be subjected is a campaign;
but when Russ meets Turk on Bulgarian
fields you have a conjuncture of men
and circumstances not to be realised elsewhere.
The country was sodden at that
time, the camps mid-leg deep in puddled
clay. General Zortoff, who had the
command, occupied a hut much like
ours, a couple of hundred yards away;
but we always mounted to pay a call,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">164</span>
for the space round head-quarters was
an actual bog. Officers waiting on the
general sat perched upon fences round
his yard, in a manner very drolly miserable.
The staff had their office in a
cowshed which had not been cleaned for
years.</p>

<p>A month in a Dyak house is another
pleasing recollection. For that space of
time, barring nights camped out, my
quarters lay besides the council fire. A
hoop of human heads hung above it,
within arm’s length of my own. Ugly
were they as valued—precious ugly, one
might say with literal truth—but the
ghosts never visited my dreams. All
the inhabitants of a Dyak village dwell
under one roof, more than a thousand
feet in length sometimes. The whole
building stands twenty to sixty feet in
air on massive posts. Every family has
its single apartment side by side, the
chief’s in the middle, and every door
opens on a clear, sheltered space running
from end to end, which we call the
inner verandah, for there is a second
beyond the eave. Opposite the chief’s
door lie the big stones of the council
hearth, the heads, belonging to the clan,
strung on hoops, and details of common
property. That month spent with
savages, living their life, noting the
thousand small events of every day,
about which the most thoughtful of men
would hardly think of asking speculative
questions—the experience of that time
taught me much that has been useful
since: for the naked barbarian and the
æsthetic philosopher are one. He who
knows by practice the instincts of human
nature understands a thousand mysteries
inscrutable to one who has only its acquired
customs to guide him.</p>

<p>Pleasant was the teaching. Fog alone
was visible from the top of the ladder
when the house began to stir—a sea of
mist from which arose, with no trunks
perceptible, the crowns of fruit trees and
feathered crests of palms. First the
married men turned out, and then the
bachelors appeared from their separate
quarter; shivering under his bark blanket,
each cut a plug of betel and chewed
it. Then graceful girls came out with
long shovel baskets, some leisurely and
composed, others bustling; these had
not winnowed the paddy over night, and
certain of the youths knew why. After<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">165</span>
a while the housewife opened her door,
and in that defiant voice which belongs
to hard-working mothers everywhere,
summoned her family to breakfast. When
they reappeared the fog was lifting, the
sky dappled like an opal. Cheered by
the growing warmth men moved briskly,
arranging their tools and arms and gear.
The young women and maidens followed,
a pleasing bevy, with loads strapped to
their backs, and all the villagers descended
to the lower earth.</p>

<p>Only the chief and his old councillors
remained—sitting over their eternal fire,
chewing their eternal betel—the grandames,
and the sick. Towards sunset
the laboring folk returned, and the males
sat to chew and gossip, but the girls had
still their hardest work to do. Presently
all the house resounded with the thud
of pestles, and the air was filled with
husks from the pounded rice. A silence
of interest and hunger followed whilst
the meal was cooking, and then the pleasure
of the day began. For the elders
it was only talk, always the same, as far
as I could gather, of bad times and good
times, and the prospect of the year;
seldom personal, and never gossiping, at
the chief’s fire, where all heads of families
assembled. No one paid attention
to the youth or to the maidens, so soon
as their household duties were complete.
By this time darkness had quite fallen,
and there was no light excepting the low
fires. Shoulders glossy as brown silk
were faintly luminous in the twilight,
as we looked down the house; from
time to time a fire shot out, revealing
the seated group around, lively enough,
but subdued. Shadows stalked from
hearth to hearth, tinkling and sparkling
in brazen finery, and vanished with the
gloom;—then the whispered chatter of
girls, the smothered merriment, became
more loud, with expostulations and
mirthful appeals for help. A very pleasant
scene; but I loved also to awake
at midnight, and observe that different
picture. The councillors, taking no
exercise, never turned in; all the night
through they maundered, and dozed,
and coughed, and chewed betel. Above
them the teeth of the weazened “heads”
glimmered through the smoke. A labyrinth
of posts and beams was faintly outlined
in their rear. Now and again a
young form passed stealthily, for in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">166</span>
hours of darkness courtship is seriously
pursued. Beneath the cave I caught a
glimpse of azure sky, and palm fronds
gleaming in the moonlight. Of all the
odd quarters I have known this is still
the dearest to memory.</p>

<p>Once upon a time I lost myself in
the veldt, somewhere by the Vaal river.
Leaving Pniel in a “spider cart,” with
a mulatto groom, I inspected the wet-diggings
as far as Gong-Gong, and then
got off the track. They told me that
to go wrong would be impossible, with
an Africander to steer my course, but
I contrived to do it. Some philosophers
would have you think that every
savage has an instinctive mastery of
woodcraft, but experience leads me to
think that fools are almost as common
in Barbarie as in Christendom.
We lost ourselves, and wandered two
days, heading direct for the Atlantic—and
for nothing else in particular, besides
the Namaqualand desert. Settlements
are very few in that veldt, and
the only one we came across was Jantje’s
kraal on the second evening;—Jantje
has since rebelled, and is now
an outlaw, I believe. It had some forty
huts on the top of a mound, encompassed
by raging brooks;—for the sky
had been little better than a sieve
since we started. There was no sign
of life, but a swelling roar of voices
directed me to a wooden church, which
I entered. All the population were there,
and the vehemence of their devotions
was deafening. A fat man hurried up,
not ceasing to howl with the rest—his
mouth opened from ear to ear and
nose to chin. He took my arm, and
led me out like a stray dog, whilst
the congregation bellowed and stared
without a pause. So many white lips—and
teeth—fixed on me, in a gathering
darkness that obscured the black faces,
had an effect indescribably gruesome
and absurd.</p>

<p>Outside the church this personage
turned to resume his place, singing all
the time as loud as he could bawl.
My groom coming up arrested certain
demands of explanation, which began
to take a serious form, but no help
could be got from Jantje’s people. We
annexed an empty hut and camped there
supperless, wet through. My first experience
of tompans was made that night.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">167</span>
This curious insect dwells in deserted
Kaffir buildings and nowhere else, I believe.
He is armed after the best and
newest suggestions of science for naval
equipment—his vital parts and locomotive
machinery protected by the cuirass,
his artillery, of great weight and superior
rifling, on the Moncrieff system,
swift to attack and agile to retreat.
You cannot crush him with any weapon
less ponderous than a hammer; to ignore
a beast as large and as flat as a
threepenny bit is impossible, and moral
influence seems to be quite ineffective.
To sing hymns and cultivate tompans
was the only visible employment of
Jantje’s kraal. I cannot affect to regret
that its inhabitants have been scattered
to the winds. Wherever they have
fled they have found an opportunity to
study better manners.</p>

<p>But I was going to recall the odd
quarters at Jacobsdaal which brought
this adventure to a fitting close. We
had no treaty of extradition with the
Free State at that time—I do not know
that we have one now. All sorts of criminals
took refuge at Jacobsdaal, a tiny but
prosperous settlement lying just across
the frontier. During my absence a gust
of indignation had swept over the Diamond
Fields, and all the guilty, the
suspected, and the alarmed had fled.
The landlady of the best “Accommodation
House” declared to me, almost
with tears, that her dwelling,
hitherto inveterate in virtue, was become
a rendezvous of malefactors. She
advised me to try the other shop for
once, since even thieves would not go
there by choice—naturally. I did so,
and found the guests sitting down. In<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">168</span>
the place of honor was a canteen
man, badly wanted by the New Rush
police. I also recognized an acquaintance
accused of cheating at cards in
the “Pig and Whistle;” another who
had been lately described to the magistrate
as “tremendous delirious;” an
American gentleman whom the police
had vainly besought to render an account
to his partners. One of these latter,
in attendance on his fugitive associate,
identified for me a man charged
with murder, and two common thieves.
The conversation was most polite.
The chairman’s suasive tones in proposing
a “leetle mutton” were as good
as testimony to character. He had a
trick of cocking the old smoking-cap
upon his head before every observation,
as if to point it with knowingness. The
extreme propriety with which he guided
the conversation so overawed the thieves
that they were too hoarse to talk. My
poor “tremendous” friend yielded to
the same wholesome influence, and addressed
everyone in the third person
as “the honorable gentleman on my
right,” or left, or opposite. As for
the manslaughterer, he showed warm
philanthropy, arguing with vehemence
that black people have as good rights
as white, and better in their own country.
Circumstances made this topic
embarrassing to the chairman. He
cocked his smoking-cap from side to
side, imploring everyone to take some
more of everything. After supper he
made a little speech, ending with a toast—“Home,
lads, mothers and dads.”
The company drank it with deep emotion.—<cite>Belgravia.</cite></p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">169</span></p>




<h2><a name="SIR_TRISTRAM_DE_LYONESSE" id="SIR_TRISTRAM_DE_LYONESSE">SIR TRISTRAM DE LYONESSE.</a><br />

<small>BY E. M. SMITH.</small></h2>


<p>The ancient adage that “there is no
new thing under the sun,” has been
recently applied by a popular writer of
fiction to the romantic stories of the day.
But surely nowhere are the words of
the Preacher more abundantly illustrated
than in the realm of narrative poetry.
With whom did “The Canterbury
Tales,” “The Fairy Queen,”“The
Idylls of the King,” originate? Certainly
not with Chaucer, Spenser, or
Tennyson. The hidden sources of
those delightful rivers of song lie far
away, so far that few care to trace them.
The same, or nearly the same, story is
handed down from one man to another,
till at last some master-mind catches its
true significance, tells it for once as it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">170</span>
was never told before, and links his name
with it through all the ages. Sometimes
though more rarely, different capabilities
of the same story will strike more than
one master-mind, and then the comparisons
are full of interest, and bring
out into sharp relief the idiosyncrasies
of each narrator. It has been so with
portions of the “Iliad,” of the “Nibelungen
Lied,” and of our own “Morte
D’Arthur.” It is so still with the story
of Sir Tristram de Lyonesse, who, of
all King Arthur’s Knights of the Round
Table, seems to have gone the farthest
and fared the best. Rarely indeed has
the homage of poets so far apart in time,
and varying so widely in spirit and conception,
been tendered so persistently
to one object. Arthur may pass away
in peace to the cool valley of Avilion,
Launcelot to his grave in Joyous Guard,
Galahad to the Blessed Vision which
last he saw with mortal eyes in the city
of Estorause; but Tristram is of the
earth, earthy, and on the earth he abides.
Twelve centuries have not quenched the
ardor of his love for fair Iseult, nor
traced one wrinkle on his brow.</p>

<p>Briefly, the legend of his life is this:
Sir Tristram de Lyonesse as his first
great exploit slew Sir Marhaus, the
deadly foe of his uncle, King Mark, but
was by him so desperately wounded that
he sailed to Ireland under the name of
Tamtris, to be cured of his wound by
the surgical arts of the Queen of Ireland,
sister to Sir Marhaus, and mother
of the beautiful Princess Iseult. On
his return to Cornwall he described the
Princess in words so glowing that King
Mark resolved to marry her, and sent
his nephew back to escort her over the
sea. Fearful lest all should not go well,
the Queen gave to her daughter’s faithful
maid, Bragwaine, a magic potion,
which the bride was to drink on the
night of her marriage with King Mark,
to ensure their mutual love. Unwittingly,
however, Tristram and Iseult
drank of it together on board the vessel;
and, all their lives, it wrought them woe
and misery, until at length they died
together, and were buried side by side.
The facts are always much the same—but
the hero alters so completely as to
change the whole aspect of the story,
and make the interpretation put upon it
different in every age.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">171</span></p>

<p>When we first meet with him among
the Welsh bards of the sixth century, he
is simply Drystan, or Trystan, the Tumultuous;
his name has not already
doomed him to that <em>triste</em> existence,
which grows consistently more and more
tragic throughout the later records of his
life. He is the son, not of King Meliodas,
but of Talwz; his lady is Essylt;
his uncle, Mark Meirzion; and the chief
points in his character are curiously
brought out by his association with
Greidial and Gwgon, as one of the three
heralds of Britain; with Gwair and Cai,
the diademed princes; with Call and
Pryderi, the mighty swineherds; with
Gwair and Eiddillig, the stubborn chiefs;
with Caswallan and Cynon, the faithful
lovers. Heraldry, obstinacy, fidelity—no
very promising material for a hero
nowadays; but then the lines on which
a poet worked were simpler.</p>

<p>For three years this tumultuous being
withdrew from Arthur’s Court in disgust
at the issue of one of his quarrels,
and the King, with almost incredible
folly, instead of rejoicing at the deliverance,
sent after him twenty-eight warriors
in succession, all of whom Trystan
overthrew. At last, Gwalzmai with
the Golden Tongue (the Gawaine of
later days) tried his fortune, accosting
the fierce chieftain in these words:</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Tumultuous is the wave naturally</div>
<div class="verse">When the sea is its base:</div>
<div class="verse">Who art thou, warrior incomprehensible?</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>To which Trystan Ossianically replies:</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Tumultuous be a wave and a thunderstorm:</div>
<div class="verse">While they be tumultuous in their course,</div>
<div class="verse">In the day of conflict I am Trystan.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>Finally the Golden-tongued prevails,
and they return together.</p>

<p>Our next glimpse of him is in the
kingdom of the <i lang="fr">trouvères</i> and <i lang="fr">troubadours</i>,
with whom he is a great favorite. The
famous Mademoiselle Marie, in her
translation, the “Lai Dee Chevrefoil,”
written about the middle of the twelfth
century, sings of a pretty episode in his
love, which none of her successors have
improved upon, and which most of them
have omitted. There are allusions to
him in Chrestien de Troyes, who wrote
before the year 1191, and in the works
of a poetical king of Navarre, about
1226. The date of the Auchinleck MS.,
“Sir Tristram,” which Scott raised such<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">172</span>
a tempest by ascribing to Thomas the
Rhymer of Ercildoune, is said to be
1330. It is written in a curious and very
effective metre; the short abrupt line of
two syllables falling regularly near the
end of each stanza reins in the full swing
of the rest with great force and directness.
The poem is full of life and
vigor, and there are touches of naïf
insight here and there in strange contrast
with the rough, matter-of-fact tone
of the whole. Many and quaint are the
adventures of the hero, especially when
he kills a dragon in Ireland for the sake
of Iseult, that “brid bright, as blood
upon snoweing,” and her mother cures
him of the pain caused by its poisonous
tongue, with treacle; or when, having
overcome a terrible “geaunt” in Brittany,
he requires him to adorn the walls
of his castle with “images” of Iseult and
Bragwaine, the beauty of which so astounds
his young brother-in-law, evidently
a novice in works of art, that he
straightway falls backward and breaks
his head!</p>

<p>This poem, or another much like it,
was celebrated both at home and abroad,
where “Thomas of Britain” was henceforth
quoted as the great authority on
the subject. About the same time lived
Raoul de Beauvais, who also made it
his study; Rusticien de Puise, whose
work is in prose; and the authors of
two metrical fragments in French, from
one of which Scott completed the Auchinleck
MS., though its end had not been
unearthed when he became its editor.
The translation, which carried the name
of Tristram northward as far as Iceland,
is still kept in the library at Copenhagen;
and G. de le Flamma tells us that when
the tomb of a Lombard king was opened
in 1339, there was found inscribed on
his sword, “This was the sword of Sir
Tristram, who killed Amoroyt of Ireland.”
Seghart von Bamberg wrote of
him in 1403, and also Eylhard von
Habergen. Of the same period is the
Romance by Gotfried of Strasburg, who
died in the midst of his work, leaving it
to be finished in a less poetical spirit by
Ulrich von Turheim and Heinrich von
Vribert.</p>

<p>Our own Geoffrey of Monmouth was
the first to draw Sir Tristram into the
magic circle of Arthur’s knights, in whose
good company he has ever since remain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">173</span>ed.
Lady Juliana Berners mentions him
as the inventor of “venery” or terms of
hunting; and his name occurs in “The
Temple of Glass,” and in Gower, who
states that he fell by King Mark’s own
hand, a tradition followed only by Sir
Thomas Malory and Tennyson. In the
“Orlando Furioso” we hear of the
“Rocca di Tristano,” and Ariosto and
Boiardo drew from his legend, old even
then, their fountains of love and hatred.
Dante places him next to Paris among
the lovers flitting by like cranes in his
“Inferno.” In 1485 Sir Thomas
Malory, himself a knight, published his
noble “Morte D’Arthur,” in which
Tristram is one of the most striking
figures; and it is remarkable that
although he never seems to have thought
there was anything to condemn greatly
in the nephew’s conduct, he palliates it
by defaming the uncle as much as possible—a
moral concession not to be
found in either of the earlier romances,
which he must have consulted for his
work. But we will not multiply references,
lest the reader should be fain to
cry with the author of “Sir Hain and
Dame Anieuse,”</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Or pues tu chanter de Tristan,</div>
<div class="verse">Ou de plus longue, se tu sez.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>The theme was getting wearisome. Le
Seigneur Luce du château de Gast had
exhausted it in his prose Romance
(where, for the first time, Palamides,
the Paynim lover of Iseult, and Dinadan,
the foolish, knight, appear); and,
besides this, there was a “Romance of
Meliodas,” Tristram’s father, and afterwards
a “Romance of Ysaie le Triste,”
his son; so that all the details of his
private life were nearly as well known as
those of Mr. Carlyle’s to the present
generation. “Ysaie le Triste” appeared
in 1522; and in 1554, when no
imagination, however vivid, could possibly
add a single exploit to those which
had been recounted already, Jean Maugin
took a new departure, and turned
the whole thing into an allegory, in which
Sir Tristram became the type of Christian
chivalry. His queer attempt is
justly ridiculed by Scott; but it is not
altogether without interest, as the first
indication of the symbolic spirit in which
modern poets have treated the legend—with
the exception of Scott himself,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">174</span>
whose beautiful Conclusion and Ballad
are pure imitations of the mediæval
spirit as well as of the mediæval form,
and have nothing modern about them.
Towards the end of the sixteenth century
the taste for chivalrous romance
died out in Europe—or rather fell asleep—and
the name of Tristram was no
more heard for more than two hundred
years, except in a glowing stanza or two
of Spenser’s “Fairy Queen.” Then
came the revival of Scott and Southey
to prepare the way, and lastly that signal
triumph of the ancient story in our
own day, when four of the greatest living
poets singled it out for illustration, and
it became a living power again in the
hands of Wagner, Tennyson, Swinburne,
and Matthew Arnold. But its power is
of a different kind, for a change has
come over the spirit of the dream, since
it was first dreamed long ago among the
Welsh mountains.</p>

<p>Accordingly Tristram, once the mere
sport of existing circumstances, becomes
a highly responsible person with correctly
oppressive notions of duty. He has
grown old along with the rest of the
world; he rides no more light-hearted
through the forest, sails no more gaily
across the sea, forgetful of all but life
and its deliciousness, woos no more
whom he would. Nor, in the modern
versions, does he die merrily, as he died
in the “Morte D’Arthur” and in the
“Book of Howth,” “harping afore his
lady La Belle Isoud.”Wagner, to
whom one might have fancied, <i lang="la">à priori</i>,
that such an exit for his tenor would
have been most welcome, sentences
him to lingering death of a wound
given him by the traitor Melot; Tennyson
fells him with a blow of King
Mark’s from behind; in Matthew
Arnold he dies naturally; in Swinburne
the false words of Iseult Les Blanches
Mains finish the work of sickness. His
love, his death, are all-important now;
whereas of old the first was but an interesting
episode in the life of a man
who was second only to Sir Launcelot
at a tourney, and the last so insignificant
as to be disposed of in a single sentence.
We hear nothing now of the Castle of
Maidens, or of Lonazep; nothing of the
wife of Sir Segwarides, or of other fair
ladies; nothing at all of that great crisis
in his life when he met Sir Launcelot at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">175</span>
the peron, “and either wounded other
wonderly sore, that the blood ran out
upon the grass.”</p>

<p>Of course there may be a reason for
this in the fact that we look upon Tristram
as a hero by himself, and therefore
have no need to illustrate his inferiority
to Launcelot, and to Launcelot only,
in love and in war. But where are ye
now, Sir Palamides, Sir Bruno, and Sir
Elias? Your very names have a forgotten
sound.</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">The knights’ bones are dust,</div>
<div class="verse">And their good swords rust,</div>
<div class="verse">Their souls are with the saints, I trust.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>But he who wishes to find any record of
their doings with Sir Tristram must
search through the length and breadth
of Malory’s twenty-one books ere he
find it. Nor is there any trace in the
modern poems of the sweet old story,
how after that “deep draughts of death”
had taken the Lady Elizabeth, Tristram’s
mother, and his father, King
Maliodas, had “let call him Tristram,
the sorrowful-born child,” and had
actually, for love of her, “endured
seven years without a wife,” he married
a wicked lady, who tried to poison Tristram;
and how she was condemned to
death for the attempt, and he rescued
her from his father’s wrath, and made
them accorded, and how she “loved
him ever after, and gave Tristram many
great gifts.”</p>

<p>All these things, which relieved the
sombre hues of the picture have faded
into dimness. The martial glory of
Tristram has passed away; nothing but
tragedy remains—the sin, the sorrow,
the inexplicable fate which linked two
separated lives together. Long ago it
was a bit of witchcraft pure and simple;
now the magic drink has become the
symbol of mystery and doom, and what
not. Like Paolo and Francesca da
Rimini, the guilty souls are hurried
round and round without a moment’s
respite by the whirlwind of their passion,
in that wonderful opera which the
most devoted followers of Wagner esteem
his masterpiece of blended poetry and
music. The fierce, dark, rapturous
rejoicing of love on the very edge of
death lights it up with a lurid glare,
which makes everything else look pale
and fanciful by comparison; it has no
parallel in art, even among Wagne<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">176</span>r’s
other works, nor can any one desire that
it should have. The great difficulties
which stand in the way of its representation
may prevent it from ever becoming
popular in the sense in which “Lohengrin”
and “Tannhäuser” are popular;
but those who have had the good fortune
to hear it will not easily forget its unique
and terrible power. It is strange that
Wagner should have made King Mark
an ideal uncle, tender and forgiving to
the last degree, and so full of self-denial
that had he but known of the fatal drink
in time, he would have resigned his
bride to his nephew with the best grace
in the world. Dramatically the action
loses by this change; the sympathies of
the audience are baffled and divided;
do what we will, the conduct of the hero
seems mean and treacherous, and his
death more arbitrary than it need have
been, since Melot, the traitor who gives
him his mortal wound, had far less reason
to hate him than had the injured
bridegroom. Indeed, it is difficult to
see what Wagner himself thought that
he gained by this amendment, unless
that tragedy itself becomes more tragic
by the needless suffering inflicted on a
high and noble soul, ready to sacrifice
its dearest hopes rather than undergo
the agony of seeing another’s virtue
tempted beyond endurance. There is
also one dire offence against good taste,
worthy of Wagner’s earliest models (and
of Shakespeare in “King Lear”,) in
the scene where Tristram tears the bandage
from his wounds. But if the hero
fares rather badly, until we forgive him
for the sake of his death-cry, “Liebe!”
the heroine has never in the course of
her long life found such an interpreter.
She has lost, indeed, her old, light-hearted
innocence; but she has lost it
to become one of the grandest and most
original creations in the whole range of
the drama. She surpasses even the
bounds of passion; the very <em>fury</em> of love
is upon her, from the moment when,
foreseeing that she can no longer live
without him, she resolves to make Tristram
drink with her of the death-drink,
and the charm begins to work, to the
moment when she falls dead besides his
body. The magic only reveals what
shame forbade her to confess. The key
to her whole character lies in her answer
to Bragwaine’s entreaty that she will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">177</span>
not give the signal for Tristram’s approach
by extinguishing the torch in the
window of her tower in King Mark’s
palace—</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Und wär ’es meines Lebens Licht,</div>
<div class="verse">Lachend es zu löschen</div>
<div class="verse">Zag ’ich nicht.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>Wagner showed his wisdom when he
left her alone in her glory, and made
no attempt to introduce that other
Iseult of Brittany, who certainly interferes
with any conception of Tristram
as the most faithful of lovers. “And
for because that Sir Tristram had
such cheer and riches, and all other
pleasures that he had, almost he had
forsaken La Beale Isoud. And so upon
a time Sir Tristram agreed to wed Isoud
les Blanches Mains. And at the last
they were wedded, and solemnly held
their marriage,” But this is far too
natural and unheroic for the nineteenth
century; and poor Iseult the Second
fares ill at the hands of our poets—excepting
Matthew Arnold who, with unwonted
chivalry, has taken up the cause
of this distressed damsel (this “snowdrop
by the sea,” whose own brother
forsook her for her namesake), and made
of her one of those meek, motherly,
sweet little women, who are ready to
forgive any one they love anything;
and who, too weak either to make or
mar the lives with which they come in
contact, yet hold their own by the power
of that clinging, lasting devotedness,
which is all their innocent natures let
them know of passion. Very sweet is
his picture of her, standing in her gorgeous
robes by the chimney-piece with
the firelight flickering on her white face
and her white hands, and her jewelled
clasp, ready to vanish gracefully the
moment her rival enters; and it is with
a gentle feeling of regret that we lose
sight of her at last, wandering on the
seashore with her children, while she
tells them the old story of Merlin and
Vivien to beguile the weary hours of
her widowhood. Here and here only
the pure, white-handed maiden-wife
bears away the palm from the old Iseult
of Tristram’s dreams, with</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent8">Her proud, dark eyes,</div>
<div class="verse">And her petulant, quick replies;</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>and we rather resent her intrusion than
welcome her, when she comes back to
nurse him, very repentant indeed, like a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">178</span>
sort of queenly Sister of Mercy. His
dying request is also a great innovation:</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Close mine eyes, then seek the princess Iseult;</div>
<div class="verse">Speak her fair, she is of royal blood!</div>
<div class="verse">Say, I charged her, that thou stay beside me—</div>
<div class="verse">She will grant it; she is kind and good.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>The hero of “the last tournament”
is a very different being. Of all those
who have told the story, Tennyson alone
seems to have looked upon Tristram as
thoroughly base and unworthy. Such a
knight as this, so rough, licentious, and
wanting in courtesy, could never have
been Launcelot’s second; and indeed
Tennyson lays no stress whatever on
the strong friendship which existed between
them—so strong that neither
would ever wittingly harm any relation
or friend of the other. As Wagner has
made the legend a symbol of that strife
between man, his passions, and his circumstances,
which is the complex motive
of our latest tragedy,—as Matthew
Arnold has drawn from it the lesson, that
quiet and neglected lives often do more
to make the world lovely than great and
brilliant ones (a lesson which chivalry
would never have found there),—so Tennyson
has made it a symbol of that degradation
of the whole nature, which
follows the conscious surrender of the
spirit to the flesh, and has drawn from
it the lesson that the very happiness of
partners in guilt is tainted with bitterness
and turns to ashes in their mouths.
Nowhere else is there such a sharp contrast
implied between Launcelot, the
sinner who repented and was given time
for repentance, and Tristram, the sinner
who repented not and was cut off in the
midst of his sin. There is a great gulf
between them, across which they do not
even join their hands.</p>

<p>Iseult stands in much the same relation
to Guinevere; she is coarser, more
ironical, free from any feeling of remorse;
but she surpasses Tristram as
Launcelot surpasses Guinevere, in “faith
unfaithful,” and one has a strong compassion
for her in her lonely home,
looking out over the wild sea, with that
stealthy spy of a husband, dogging her
every footstep. How full of compressed,
dramatic force the last lines are!</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">He rose, he turn’d, then, flinging round her neck,</div>
<div class="verse">Claspt it; and cried “Thine Order, O my Queen!”</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">179</span>
<div class="verse">But while he bow’d to kiss the jewel’d throat,</div>
<div class="verse">Out of the dark, just as the lips had touch’d,</div>
<div class="verse">Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek—</div>
<div class="verse">“Mark’s way,” said Mark, and clove him through the brain.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>Not so has Swinburne read the character.
His Tristram of Lyonesse is
once more the free, open-handed, light-hearted
hero, or rather he would be if
he had not inevitably contracted some
of the <i lang="de">Zeit-Geist</i>, its weariness, its languor,
its power of analysis. His gaiety
is not spontaneous—his song is as labored
as if he had had to send it up for an
examination; his love is over-heavy
with its own sweetness. The long-drawn,
honied lines drag on and on
through pages of description, till we
almost long for a rough, dissonant note
to break the eternal, soft, alliterative
hissing and kissing. But Iseult bears
the wealth of jewelled epithets lavished
upon her, and it is easy enough to
understand them when we are under
the spell of her fascination, or when she
is finely contrasted with the cruel, cold-blooded
Iseult of Brittany, who in her
jealous anger kills her husband, by telling
him that the sails of the ship which
is bringing his love to him are black instead
of white, so that he thinks she
has refused to come:</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">And fain he would have raised himself and seen</div>
<div class="verse">And spoken, but strong death struck sheer between,</div>
<div class="verse">And darkness closed as iron round his head,</div>
<div class="verse">And smitten through the heart lay Tristan dead.</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>So there he lies. But he may yet be
born again, and fight, and love, and die,
for who knows what shall be in the days
to come, or to what ancient songs the
houses of our children’s children may
echo? It may be there is yet a further
interpretation of the riddle, the outlines
of which we cannot even guess; and
that the two Iseults may come to like
each other. Things even more strange
than this have happened. It was said
that out of Tristram’s grave there grew
an eglantine, which turned itself around
Iseult’s; and although it was cut three
times by order of the king, the eglantine
was ever fair and fresh. By this time it
has grown into a mighty tree, and, for
all we know, it has not done growing
yet.—<cite>Merry England.</cite></p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">180</span></p>




<h2><a name="OLD_MYTHOLOGY_IN_NEW_APPAREL" id="OLD_MYTHOLOGY_IN_NEW_APPAREL">OLD MYTHOLOGY IN NEW APPAREL.</a><br />

<small>BY J. THEODORE BENT.</small></h2>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">181</span></p>

<p>We are generally accustomed to consider
mythology as a bygone episode of
<i lang="la">juventus mundi</i>; it may seem at first
sight strange to realize that what we
have read of in Homer exists to-day.
But so it is, and the following facts
collected during lengthened tours in
remote corners of Greece will prove, I
hope, that the mystic beings of classical
Greece are present now, when the world
is supposed to be growing old. All my
instances are from the islands of the
Ægean Sea, the Cyclades and the Sporades,
where communication with the
outer world has never been great, and
over which the various waves of Goths,
Italians, Turks, which in a measure destroyed
the identity of continental
Greece, had, comparatively speaking,
slight influence, and that only in the
towns near the coast, whereas up in the
mountains of Naxos, Amorgos, &amp;c., pure
Greek blood still flows.</p>

<p>Here the mythology of their ancestors
is deeply ingrained in the inhabitants,
both in the ritual of their Church, and
in their manners and customs; the ritual,
indeed, of the Eastern Church is but
an intellectual adaptation under Christian
guidance of the problems propounded
by the later philosophers to the popular
doctrines of polytheism.</p>

<p>I was in the island of Keos, or Zia,
one of the Cyclades, when the idea of
forming this collection struck me, and it
was on the occasion of being told that
here St. Artemidos is considered as the
patron saint of weakly children. The
church dedicated to this saint is some
little way from the town on the hill
slopes; thither a mother will take a
child afflicted by any mysterious wasting,
“struck by the Nereids,” as they say;
she then strips off its clothes, and puts
on new ones blessed by the priest, leaving
the old ones as a perquisite for the
church; and then if perchance the child
grows strong, she will thank St. Artemidos
for the blessing vouchsafed, unconscious
that she is perpetuating the archaic
worship of Artemis. The Ionian idea
of the fructifying and nourishing properties
of the Ephesian Artemis has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">182</span>
been transferred to her Christian namesake.</p>

<p>About these Nereids, too, we hear
much in modern Greece, and they have
the properties of many of our mythological
friends, those of Keos, for example,
are supposed to live on cliffs and in
trees; if a man sleeps under the shadow
of a cliff or tree, and is taken with a cold
sweat, they say “the goddess of the
tree has injured him,” and accordingly
to appease her they spread on the place
a clean white cloth, and put on it new-made
bread, a plate with honey, another
with sweetmeats, a bottle of good wine,
a knife and fork and an empty glass,
an unburnt candle, and an incense pot;
an old woman utters some mystic words,
and then all go away, “that the Nereids
may eat and the sufferer regain his
health.” We have here a ceremony very
like that anciently performed at Athens
to appease the Eumenides when a banquet
was laid near the caves they were
supposed to haunt, of which honey and
milk were the necessary ingredients.</p>

<p>The Nereids in many cases correspond
to the nymphs of antiquity; they
preside over healing streams, and they
wash in them at night when the waters
sleep, and no one at that time dares to
approach for fear of becoming frenzied
(νυμφόληπτος).</p>

<p>The cloak of Phœbus Apollo has fallen
on the prophet Elias. As of old
temples on all the highest hills of the
islands are dedicated to the sun-god;
the reason is obvious. Ἡλιος, the sun
deity (the <i>h</i> not being aspirated), at once
suggested Elias to the easily accommodating
divines, and to all intents and
purposes the prophet supplies the place
of the sun-god of antiquity. Prophet
Elias has power over rain; in times of
drought people assemble in crowds in
his church to pray for rain, and in this
he has the attribute of ὄμβριος or ὑέτιος
Ζεῦς. When it thunders they say the
prophet is driving in his chariot in pursuit
of demons.</p>

<p>To pass on to another analogy. There
is a curious parallel between St. Anarguris,
the patron saint in some parts of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">183</span>
flocks and herds, and the god Pan of
ancient days. On the island of Thermià
(Κύθνος) I saw a church dedicated to
St. Anarguris built over the mouth of a
cavern, as the protecting saint of the
place, instead of Pan, the ancient god of
grottos. But a still more marked instance
of the continuation of Pan worship
occurs to-day on Keos at the little church
of St. Anarguris, at a remote hamlet
called 'στὸ μακρινὸ. Whenever an ox
is ailing they take it to this church and
pray for its recovery; if the cock crows
when they start, or they hear the voice
of a man or the grunt of a pig, there is
every hope that the animal will be cured;
but on the contrary, if they hear a cat,
a dog, or a woman, it is looked upon as
an evil omen. When at the church of
St. Anarguris they solemnly register a
vow that if the ox recovers they will present
it to the saint when its days of work
are over; accordingly, every year on the
1st of July, the day on which they
celebrate the feast of St. Anarguris,
numbers of aged oxen may be seen on
the road to this church, where they are
slaughtered on the threshold and the
flesh distributed amongst the poor.</p>

<p>St. Nicholas, again, is the lineal descendant
of Poseidon; he is the sailor’s
god. Wherever in ancient times there
existed a temple to the honor of Poseidon
we now find an insignificant white-washed
edifice dedicated to St. Nicholas.
This is especially noticeable at Tenos,
where was in antiquity the famous shrine
and feast of Poseidon. On this island
the chief town is now called St. Nicholas,
and hither yearly assemble to worship
thousands of Greeks from all parts of
the world before a miracle-working
shrine. Modern priestcraft, in short,
has cleverly arranged that Tenos should
be the modern Delos where the topic of
independent panhellenism can be freely
discussed.</p>

<p>Everything nautical has to do with St.
Nicholas; in Mykenos a little church
built on a rock out in the harbor is dedicated
to him; another on the sea shore
at Paros is dedicated to Ἅγιος Νικόλαος
Θαλασσίτης; his picture, or εἰκὼν is
painted on the inside of crabs’ backs,
which are gilded outside and worshipped.
In nautical songs St. Nicholas is always
alluded to as the inventor of the rudder,
and is represented as seated at the helm,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">184</span>
whilst Christ sits at the prow and the
Virgin in the middle. In a storm sailors
call on him for assistance, as the ancients
did on the Dioscouri, whom they thought
to have power to allay storms direct from
Poseidon himself.</p>

<p>We always find St. Dionysius as the
successor of Dionysos in the Christian
ritual. The island of Naxos was a chief
centre of the worship of the wine-loving
god in antiquity; and a fable about St.
Dionysius, still told in the islands and
on the mainland, clearly points to the
continuity of the myth. It is as follows:—</p>

<p>St. Dionysius was on his way one day
from his monastery on Mount Olympus
to Naxos, and he sat down to rest during
the heat of the day. Close to him
he saw a pretty plant which he wished to
take with him, and, lest it should wither
by the way, he put it into the leg bone
of a bird, and to his surprise at his next
halting-place he found it had sprouted;
so, accordingly, he put it into the leg
bone of a lion, and the same thing occurred;
finally, he put it into the leg of an
ass, and in reaching Naxos he found the
plant so rooted in the bones that he
planted them altogether. And up came
a vine, from the fruit of which he made
the first wine, a little of which made the
saint sing like a bird, a little more made
him strong as a lion, and yet a little
more made him as foolish as an ass.</p>

<p>At Melos they have a curious feast
which recalls a Bacchic revelry. Every
landowner who wishes to plant a vineyard
calls together, on a certain day,
fifty or more men, when church is over;
to these he gives a spade apiece, and
slaughters some goats and fills skins
with wine. Then they all start off together
to their work, preceded by a
standard-bearer holding a white banner.
In the field they eat the food, drink
the wine, and plant the vineyard, all in
the space of one day, and return home
again, most of them in a decided state
of intoxication. This is followed by a
dance and further revelry in front of
the church, which doubtless the village
priest will hallow with his presence.
The Greeks, taken as a whole, are a
sober race, but on certain occasions and
festivals it is almost a religious duty to
drink heavily. In the island of Paros
there actually exists a church dedicated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">185</span>
to the drunken St. George, whose feast-day
is on the 3rd of November. The
priest thereof, in answer to my inquiries
about this strange name, remarked that
the 3rd of November is the anniversary
of St. George’s burial, and then the inhabitants
usually tap their new-made
wine and get drunk; but why they
should on such a solemn occasion speak
of Ἅγιος ΓἍοργιος μεθύστης I could not
divine, unless we take into account the
hereditary tendency of the Greeks to
deify passions.</p>

<p>A curious instance of the survival of
the mythical Titans I met at Chios, at
the southern point of which island exists
a colossal white rock; this the natives
told me was a stone which Samson had
once hurled against God, and it had
fallen here. But of all the myths of
antiquity which exist to-day none is
more marked than the belief in Charon,
the Styx, and Hades. In Thermià they
believe that in Charon’s infernal kingdom
are lamps which represent the life
of men, and when each man’s lamp is
extinguished for want of oil he will die.</p>

<p>A Greek peasant looks upon death
quite differently from what a peasant of
the western world is taught to believe.
To him it is the end of all joy and gladness;
the songs over his body (myriologues)
speak of the black earth, the
end of light and brilliancy. A popular
Klephtic song on the death of Zedros,
when read by the side of Sophocles’ description
of the death of Ajax, shows
how curiously alike are the ideas of death
as painted in the two poems. Charon is
still believed to be a white-haired old
man with long and fearful nails, and in
myriologues or lamentations, which are
still of every-day occurrence in the islands,
you actually hear of Charon’s caïque.
He is now spoken of as Charos. I had
been told that, in some parts of Greece
they still put money on the mouth of a
deceased person to pay the passage
(ναὗλον). I sought in vain for instances
of it in the islands; but one day, whilst
attending a child’s funeral in a mountain
village of Naxos, I saw a wax cross put
on the childs’ mouth by the priest, and
on inquiry I was told it was the ναὗλον,
<i>i.e.</i>, freight money—so completely has
the Eastern Church incorporated into
itself the ancient ideas.</p>

<p>In a popular song I have heard Cha<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">186</span>ron
spoken of as a “bird like unto a
black swallow,” which compares curiously
with the passage in the twenty-second
<cite>Odyssey</cite>, where Athena is represented
as sitting on the roof of the palace
at Ithaca like a swallow, on the day of
vengeance for Penelope’s suitors.</p>

<p>It will be apparent from the above remarks
that at the time of the change of
religion from paganism to Christianity,
names were given to saints to supply
wants felt by the abandonment of polytheism.
There are many instances of
this. For example, St. Eleutherius is
the saint called upon by women in
childbirth to deliver them; deaf people
are recommended to consult St. Jacob
(Ἄκουφος as he is called, κουφος—deaf),
and in Lesbos I was told that St.
Therapon could heal all manner of diseases.
In the same way young married
people who wish for a numerous progeny
chose St. Polycarp as their patron
saint, so that they may have many teeth
in their house, as the saying goes (πολὺ
'δοντια 'στὸ σπίτι).</p>

<p>St. Charalambos is, however, the
Æsculapius of modern days. He used
to hold jurisdiction over the plague,
and is represented as a hideous wizard,
trampling under foot a serpent with
smoke issuing out of its mouth; and in
fever-stricken, marshy districts St. Charalambos
still reigns supreme. In many
places it is the custom on the outbreak
of a pestilence for forty women to make
a garment in one day, which is hung up
in the saint’s church. For instance, at
Zephyria, the mediæval capital of the
island of Melos, which was abandoned
altogether about twenty years ago as unfit
to live in, I visited the ruins, and in the
centre of them saw still standing the
church of St. Charalambos, and an old
man, who happened to be picking his
olives there at the time, told me the history
of the desolation, and the methods
they used to resort to when he was
young to rid the place of disease; how
they used to bury heifers whole; and
how they used to fasten up illnesses in
a cauldron—that is to say, they wrote
down the names of the various maladies
on paper, and boiled them in a cauldron
with some money and a cock in front of
the shrine of the modern Æsculapius.
But in vain; the town had to be abandoned,
for it had been cursed by a priest,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">187</span>
and never could hope to recover salubrity.</p>

<p>It is a very common custom for Greek
peasants to pass the night in a church of
St. Charalambos with a view to cure
an ailment; at festivals too, near miraculous
<i lang="el">eikons</i>, such as the one at Tenos,
the invalids pass whole nights in the
church, reminding one forcibly of that
ridiculous scene in Aristophanes (Plut.
vv. 655) when the priests stole the food
from the invalids who were asleep in the
temple of Æsculapius, and we can easily
see in this custom a mild form of the
ancient ἐγκοίμησις when the sick folks
lay down in the skin of a newly killed
ram in the churches, and in this luxurious
couch awaited the inspiration of the
divinity.</p>

<p>The quackeries and incantations common
in Greece to-day as specifics for
certain diseases are many of them very
quaint, being long rhymes and formulas
mixing up Christ, the Virgin, and saints
with magic words and signs which savour
of heathendom. It is the old women
only who are supposed to know them,
and they are very shy of producing them
before a foreign unbeliever. They are
just like those women who in ancient
Athens practised quackery and secret
cures, which were zealously guarded and
kept up as specialities in families. Curiously
enough these old women in Greece
who profess to cure diseases will tell you,
arguing from the analogy of plants, that
all diseases are worms, which consume
the body, and that they are generated by
the wrath of the gods. They have
arrived at the bacillus theory by much
straighter reckoning than our physicians.</p>

<p>On the day of the commemoration of
the dead I was in a small village in
Amorgos, and there witnessed the quaint
ceremony of κόλλυβα. Every house
on this occasion sends to the church a
plate of boiled corn; tottering old
women with one foot in the grave generally
bring it, and pour the contents into a
large basket placed before the high altar
whilst the service is going on, and then
into the mass of corn they stick a candle,
and if the family is especially grand
they have separate plates with sesame
seeds, or adorned with patterns of raisins
and almonds. After the service is over
the boiled corn and other delicacies are
distributed amongst the poor outside the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">188</span>
church. These offerings are very suggestive
of the ancient idea of Demeter
and her daughter.</p>

<p>We will now consider another branch
of mythology—the fickle goddesses, the
Fates (Μοῖρα), whose workings in modern
Greece are looked upon with as
much superstition as of old. On the
island of Sikinos I attended an interesting
ceremony called the μοίρισμα of a
child, which happens a year after its birth.
All the friends and relatives are gathered
together to a feast. A tray is
brought out, and on it are put various
objects—a pen, money, tools, an egg,
&amp;c., and whichever the infant first
touches with its hands is held to be the
indication of the μοῖρα as to the most
suitable career to be chosen for it. The
meaning of the first-mentioned articles
is obvious. The demarch of Sikinos
told me that his son had touched a pen,
consequently he had been sent to the
university at Athens, and had there distinguished
himself, but the meaning of
the egg is not quite so clear, and the
egg is the horror of all parents, for if
the child touches it he will be fitted for
no calling in life—he will be a good-for-nothing,
a mere duck’s egg, so to speak,
in society.</p>

<p>Some ceremony such as this must have
been the one alluded to by Apollodorus
when he tells us that seven days after the
birth of Meleager the Fates told the
horologue of the child, and the torch
was lighted on the hearth. In some
places still the seventh day is chosen as
the one for this important ceremony,
and it is called ἑφτὰ. When it is dark
and the lamps lighted a table is put in
the middle of the house, a basin full of
honey in the centre of the table, and all
round quantities of food. Numerous
oil lamps are then lighted; one dedicated
to Christ, another to the Virgin,
another to the Baptist, and so forth.
A symbol of faith is then read and deep
silence prevails, and the saint whose
lamp is first extinguished is chosen as
the protector of the infant. At this
moment they say the Fates come in and
“κάλομοιραζουσι” the child, and take
some of the food from the table.</p>

<p>The Fates are in some places supposed
to write on the forehead of a man his
destiny. Pimples on the nose and forehead
are called γραψίματα τῶν Μοίρων.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">189</span>
The decrees of the Fates are unalterable.
According to various legends, attempts
have been made to change them,
but without avail. Only once, a girl of
Naxos, so I was told, up in a mountain
village, who was excessively ugly, managed
to learn from a magician where the
Fates lived, and that if she could get
them to eat salt they would go blind and
change her fate. She contrived to bring
this about, and became lovely, married a
prince, but had no children; “showing,”
continued the legend by way of
moral, “that the Fates never consent
to a person being altogether happy.”</p>

<p>This changing from ugliness to beauty
is a common subject for legends and
beliefs. The first woman to see a child
after birth must be lovely, so as to impart
to it her beauty, and the first man
must be of great strength, so as to impart
his vigor. This reminds one of
one of Herodotus’s stories (vi. 61), when
he seriously tells us of the change of
an ugly child into the fairest woman of
Sparta by her nurse taking her daily to
the temple of the heroine Helen to pray.
One day the heroine met the nurse
and predicted that the child would become
fair, which accordingly, says
Herodotus, came to pass.</p>

<p>In Melos the Fates are greatly consulted
in matrimonial concerns. The 25th of
November, St. Catharine’s day, is considered
the most suitable, and St. Catharine
is accordingly prayed to by unmarried
maidens to intercede on their behalf.
On the vigil of her feast they make
cakes with a good deal of salt in, which
they eat before going to bed. As a
natural result of eating so much salt and
thinking about matrimony their dreams
often take the turn of water and a kindly
man offering them to drink. If this is
so they are sure to marry that man.</p>

<p>Many of our mythological personages
and legends have their parallel to-day.
There are the Lamiæ, for instance, evil-working
women who live in desert
places, ill-formed like their ancestors,
daughters of Belus and Sibyl; utterly
unfit are they for household duties, for
they cannot sweep, so an untidy woman
to-day is said to have made the sweepings
of a Lamia (Τῆς Λαμίας τὰ σαρώματα);
they cannot bake, for they put bread into
the oven before heating it; they have
dogs and horses, but give bones to their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">190</span>
horses and straw to their dogs. They
are very gluttonous, so much so that in
Byzantine and modern Greek the verb
λαμιώνω is used to express over-eating.
They have a special predilection for
baby’s flesh, and a Greek mother of to-day
will frighten her child by saying that
a Lamia will come if it is naughty, just
as was said to naughty children in
ancient days; for the legend
used to run that Zeus loved Lamia too
well, untidy though she was, and Hera,
out of jealousy, killed her children,
whereat Lamia was so grieved that she
took to eating the children of others.
Some Lamiæ are like the Sirens, and by
taking the form of lovely nymphs, beguile
luckless men to their destruction;
for example, an ecclesiastical legend,
savoring strongly of Boccaccio, tells
us how a Lamia charmed a monk as he
sat by the side of a lake one evening;
dawn came, and the monk was seen no
more, but some children swore to having
seen his hoary beard floating on the
waters of the lake.</p>

<p>Dragons are common now in every
weird place, especially where those large
stoned Hellenic walls are standing, and
stories like those of Perseus, the Centaurs,
the Cyclops, &amp;c., are common
among the peasants who speak of these
old remains as Τοῦ Δράκου τὸ σπίτι, the
Dragon’s house. In one fable we have
the exact story of Ulysses and Polyphemus.
One Spanos is the traveller,
ὁ Δράκος is Polyphemus, and the facts
are the same.</p>

<p>The witches (στρίγλαι) of modern
folk-lore are supposed to be over a
hundred, and to be able to turn into
birds at will like the harpies of old;
they love the flesh of unbaptised babies,
and for this reason children wear charms,
as they do also against the evil eye
(βασκανεῖα). My host on the island of
Pholygandros most solemnly told me
how a person with the evil eye could
wither a fruit-tree by admiring it, and
on my looking sceptical, he quoted
several instances which had come under
his immediate notice. This is the ὀφθαλμὸς
βάσκανος of antiquity, the god Fascinus
of Latin mythology, whom Pliny
tells us was worshipped so strangely by
the Vestal Virgins.</p>

<p>I witnessed a very sad case on the
island of Kimolos of a sailor who, in a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">191</span>
storm, as he rounded the dreaded Cape
Malea on his return home, had been
struck, as they told me, by that mysterious
ghost-demon the Τελώνια; he was
kept in the village church all day, and
had been in there all night, whilst his
relatives were praying vehemently around
him for the return of his shattered intellect.
This τελώνια is a species of electricity,
and appears during storms on the
mastheads, which the Greek sailors personify
as birds of evil omen, which settle
on the masts with a view to destroy the
ship and drown the sailors. They have
words expressly for exorcising this phantom,
and sometimes they try to drive it
away by beating brass or shooting. In
Italy this is called the fire of St. Elmo,
and is evidently the same idea which in
ancient times was connected with the
Dioscouri.</p>

<p>From these points it will be easily seen
how much that is old lives to-day. In
manners and customs and daily life the
peasant Greeks reproduce even more
that can be identified as ancient, but
this is apart from my present subject.—<cite>Macmillan’s
Magazine.</cite></p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h2><a name="OUTWITTED" id="OUTWITTED">OUTWITTED.</a><br />

<small>A TALE OF THE ABRUZZI.</small></h2>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">192</span></p>

<h3>I.</h3>

<p>It was a warm afternoon in April,
and the sun was blazing hotly down upon
the wooded heights of the Abruzzi and
upon the marble cliff against which
nestles the little village of Palenella.</p>

<p>The blue-green aloes were unfurling
their sharp-pointed leaves in the clefts
and crannies of the rocks above, and
every now and then the wild roses sent
a pink shower fluttering down to the flat
roofs below, where maize and wheat
were spread out to dry in the sun.</p>

<p>Lucia Ceprano was sitting at the door
of her gray stone cottage this hot afternoon,
busily engaged in peeling and
splitting willow rods preparatory to
mending a certain dilapidated old basket
which lay on the ground beside her.</p>

<p>The stony village street was silent,
and not a creature was visible but herself,
except, indeed, a few fowls which
were promenading in the sun, and some
little black pigs which lay sleeping with
outstretched legs in sundry dusty hollows.</p>

<p>The fact was, that the whole population
of Palenella was gone to take part
in a procession in the little town of
Palene. Not a creature had stayed at
home but Lucia Ceprano; and no one
now was surprised at this or anything
else she took it into her head to do, for
the villagers had made up their minds
that she was “cracked.”</p>

<p>Lucia had refused the wealthiest young<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">193</span>
men in the district; Lucia owned property,
yet she worked as hard as if she
were poor; Lucia did not dance the
tarantella, was not merry, would not
have a lover, and never beat her mule,
even when he was as obstinate as only
a mule can be!</p>

<p>Such was the indictment against her;
and in an out-of-the-way village like
Palenella, where every one was about
five hundred years behind the outside
world, any one of these eccentricities
would have been quite enough to make
people call her crazy.</p>

<p>Then again, though she certainly was
beautiful, it was in a very different style
from her neighbors; indeed, she was of
quite a different type from what one
usually sees anywhere in the whole district,
as far South as Naples.</p>

<p>The women in these parts are small,
agile, and graceful, with pretty little
dark brown faces, small, sharp noses,
pouting lips, and wild curly hair, almost
entirely covering their low foreheads.
They are light-hearted creatures, laughing
and chattering the whole day long;
and in character they are an odd mixture
of carelessness, shrewdness, passion,
cunning, and narrow-mindedness.</p>

<p>Lucia, on the other hand, was well
grown and stately-looking; her face
was oval, and she had smooth black hair
and wonderful deep brown, tranquil eyes,
which seemed to look thoughtfully at
everything; and her mouth, though
well-formed and full-lipped, was firmly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">194</span>
closed; she moved about in a dignified,
deliberate way, and she was reckoned
the most unsociable girl in the village,
for she never spoke a word more than
was actually necessary.</p>

<p>The very fact of her being so unlike
other village girls, however, caused Lucia
to be quite the rage at one time. All
the young men for miles round were
crazy about her, and she had as many
offers as there were Sundays in the
year; for she had other attractions besides
her beauty. Every one knew that
besides the very tolerable property in
Palenella, which was all her own and
quite unencumbered, Lucia also possessed
10,000 lire, or something over
400<i>l.</i>, in the national bank of Rome, so
that for these parts she was a considerable
heiress.</p>

<p>Lucia allowed her suitors to say their
say without interruption, and then raising
those calm, wonderful eyes, and
looking steadily at them for the space of
a second, she announced that she had
no intention of marrying.</p>

<p>Things had gone on in this way from
Lucia’s fifteenth birthday for five years;
every Sunday and holiday some one
made her an offer, and every Sunday
and holiday some one was refused,
until she gave up answering at all, and
merely waved her lovers off with a gesture
of her hand, neither more nor less
than contemptuous.</p>

<p>The young men had taken offence at
her behavior at last, and now revenged
themselves by pronouncing her cracked,
and leaving her to herself. All but one
of them at least did so, and he was the
son of a wealthy farmer, Pietro Antonio
by name, who lived higher up among
the mountains. Pietro was not so easily
to be got rid of as the rest, and, do
what she would, he followed her everywhere,
lying in wait for her at the fêtes
and processions, watching for her at
church and market, and persecuting her
to such an extent, now with pretty
speeches and entreaties, and now with
angry threats, that at last Lucia gave up
going to the fêtes, and did not even venture
to church except in the late evening,
when she could do so unobserved.</p>

<p>For Pietro was a wild, passionate
youth, with something of the savage
about him, and as Lucia disliked him
even more than her other suitors, she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">195</span>
had determined to stay at home this
afternoon for fear she should meet him
at Palene and be exposed to his vehement
importunities.</p>

<p>She had therefore been alone for some
hours; but now she heard a distant
sound of voices, laughing and chattering.
The villagers were coming back,
and were climbing the rocky pathway
which led to their homes, and soon the
little street was all alive again.</p>

<p>At the first sound of their approach,
Lucia had retreated into the cottage,
and set about warming up the polenta
for her mother; and as she stood in the
large kitchen, with the blaze from the
fire lighting up her grave, madonna-like
face, this personage came in.</p>

<p>She was an old, grey-haired woman,
but there was an almost wild glare in
her small, sharp eyes, as she glanced
angrily at the girl.</p>

<p>“What a shame it is!” she cried,
pulling off her red silk neck-kerchief and
kicking away a chair. “The idea of my
being the only woman to have an unmarried
daughter! Here I am pointed at
by every one! I’m the mother of the
‘crazy girl,’ forsooth, and I can’t show
my face anywhere!”</p>

<p>“Bah!”said Lucia, without looking
up from the fire; “where can’t you
show your face?”</p>

<p>“Why, neither in the village nor in
the whole country round,”returned the
old woman, passionately.</p>

<p>“Don’t you trouble yourself about
any of their gossip, mother; and don’t
force me to marry, for I can’t take any
of the young men about here,” said
Lucia, calmly.</p>

<p>“Forced you will be, sooner or
later,” returned her mother. “One of
them will cut off your hair, and then
you know you must marry him, whether
you like it or not,” she added dolefully.</p>

<p>“Shame on the men here, then!” exclaimed
Lucia, with flaming eyes.
“Shame on any man who forces a
woman to marry him by such means!
lying in wait to cut off her hair, and
then making a show of it in the village
until the poor thing is obliged to marry
the thief, or she will be forever disgraced
and never get another husband!
Shame on men who win their wives in
this fashion!”</p>

<p>“Ah, well! it has been the taming of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">196</span>
a good many obstinate girls for all that,
and they are happy enough now. Look
at Emilia Mantori and Teresina,”continued
the mother; “they held out for
a couple of years, and then one fine day
they lost their plaits! They came back
from the fields with their hair cut short;
the boys hooted them down the street,
and three weeks later there were two
merry weddings, and now it is all as
right as can be!”</p>

<p>“I hope that will never be my fate,
mother,”said Lucia; “never!” and she
clenched her brown hand with its long,
shapely fingers, while all the blood left
her lips. “If people behave like brigands,
they may expect to be treated like
brigands. Any one who lays a finger
on my hair will have to look out for
himself, as all the ruffians about here
know full well, and so they keep their
distance.”</p>

<p>“Our lads are not ruffians; they may
be a little wild, but there are some good
fellows among them.”</p>

<p>“I don’t know a single one, then, and
I won’t marry a soul here. If ever I
am married, it shall not be to a man
who will beat me and make me work
just as if I were a mule; and you know
very well that is what all the men do
here in the Abruzzi, so why do you go
on complaining and fault-finding? I
tell you what will be the end of it, if
you go on scolding and worrying, you
will drive me away, and I shall go to
Rome and open some sort of little
shop—”</p>

<p>“And leave your mother here in
poverty and misery!”</p>

<p>“You are not poor, mother, for you
can stay here as long as you live, and
there is quite enough to keep you well,
without your having to work hard. Besides,
I don’t want to leave you at all,
as long as you don’t want to force me
into a marriage I hate!”</p>

<p>“Very well, I won’t, then,”said the
old woman. “Stay as you are, since
you will have your own way.”</p>

<p>By this time the sun was almost setting,
and a flood of red-gold light was
pouring in through the open door; the
mountains were all bathed in purple
vapor, and the still warm evening air
was fragrant with the scent of roses,
geraniums, and lavender.</p>

<p>The mother and daughter had eaten<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">197</span>
their supper in silence, and Lucia had
just risen to take away the things, when
a shadow fell across the threshold, and
on Lucia’s looking up, a bold voice
said, “Good evening, signorina.”</p>

<p>The speaker was a fine young man
wearing a blue velvet jacket, high-crowned
hat, and a large woollen scarf,
which was knotted round his waist, and
he was looking passionately at Lucia
with his piercing, coal-black eyes.</p>

<p>“Do you want to see my mother?”
asked Lucia, in anything but an encouraging
manner.</p>

<p>“No; I want to see you, signorina,”
answered the young man, with much
polite suavity, taking off his hat as he
spoke.</p>

<p>“If you are come to say the same as
before, Pietro Antonio, you may spare
yourself the trouble,” said Lucia, clearly
and firmly.</p>

<p>“Then you won’t let me come into
your house, Lucia Ceprano?” asked the
young man, with a sudden contraction
of his thin-lipped mouth, and a look in
his eyes not unlike that of an enraged
tiger.</p>

<p>“The door is open, you can come
in,” said Lucia, calmly, “and you can
talk to my mother if you like;” and
with that she left the room by the back-door,
and went out into the little garden
which was fenced round with aloe
bushes.</p>

<p>Meantime Pietro stepped into the cottage,
and throwing his hat upon the
table, sat down opposite the old woman,
saying, “You don’t seem to have made
much progress, Mother Ceprano.”</p>

<p>“You can see for yourself,”said she,
in a low voice.</p>

<p>“Then she will soon be off to Rome,
and you will have to work like the rest,”
said the young man, without any apparent
malice, “for everything here belongs
to her. It was her father’s property,
I know, and settled on her.”</p>

<p>“She will let me have it,”said the
old woman, dejectedly.</p>

<p>“But she won’t go on doing all the
work for you! She works for you both
now; and then there’s the interest of
her money; of course she will want that
for herself when she is in Rome,” continued
the young man, casting a sharp
sidelong glance at the old woman as he
spoke.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">198</span> “Yes, your comfortable, easy-going
life will be quite at an end, mother,
unless—but perhaps she is going to take
you with her?” inquired Pietro, in a tone
of much sympathy.</p>

<p>“I’m sure I don’t know; but she
was saying only this very day again that
go she would, and I believe she will.”</p>

<p>“Ah!”returned the young man, his
lips working with suppressed passion,
“then you will just have to hire a couple
of strong women to do your field work—that’s
all!”</p>

<p>“You know very well there’s not land
enough to keep three people,”retorted
the mother, angrily.</p>

<p>“Then keep the girl!” said Pietro,
lightly.</p>

<p>“Keep her! keep her! it’s easy talking;
pray, can <em>you</em> keep her, Pietro
Antonio?”</p>

<p>“Yes, I can, if you will help me,”
said the young man, softly.</p>

<p>He rose from his seat, and going to
the back-door, peered out into the garden.
But Lucia was not there. No
doubt, thought he to himself, she had
gone out somewhere to avoid the chance
of encountering him again. At all
events, she was safe out of the way; and
closing the door again, he drew his chair
nearer to the old woman, and said in a
low tone, “Look here, mother, I can
force her to stay here. She wouldn’t
be the first girl who found herself
obliged to marry the man who wanted
her! You know what I mean; and
though it would be a real pity to spoil
her hair, such beautiful hair as it is,
too—still—”</p>

<p>“And what if she were to stab you,
Pietro? You don’t know what she is,”
and the old woman looked uneasily at
the floor.</p>

<p>“It will be your business to take care
that she can’t do anything of the kind.
Take her knife away when she is asleep,
hide me in the garden and let me in
when it is all safe. When she wakes up
again the plait will be mine, and then
we shall be all right.”</p>

<p>“She will turn me out of the house
when she knows, and I shall be worse
off than ever,”returned Mother
Ceprano, anxiously.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">199</span></p>
<p>“I shall be there to look after you,
shan’t I? and won’t it all be for her
own happiness? You know I am the
richest fellow in the whole district, and
there isn’t another girl who would refuse
me. You know yourself she
couldn’t make a better match, and her
refusing me is nothing but a whim; and
if you give way to her, she will end by
being an old maid herself, and making
you into a common working woman—so
there!”</p>

<p>“Yes, I know that; it’s all true
enough, and it would be a real blessing
for us all—for you and me and herself—if
she would have you; but I say you
don’t know her, Pietro, you don’t know
her, and I am certain some mischief will
come of it.”</p>

<p>“Bah! that’s all talk—a woman indeed—that
<em>would</em> be a new idea,” said
Pietro, with a contemptuous laugh.
“I’ll soon tame her! The prouder and
wilder they are to begin with, the tamer
and more gentle they are afterwards.
When I carry her plait through the
streets—and that’s what I will do if she
makes any more fuss—she will follow
me like a lamb, see if she won’t!
There has never been a girl in these
parts yet who has been disgraced in this
way without being thankful to marry
the only man who could give her back
her good name.”</p>

<p>“Ay,”interposed the mother, in a
frightened tone, “but then she is not
like other girls. You are strong and
clever, and thought a great deal of, and
you are the chief man in the place for
miles round; but where is the good of
all that if she hates you, and perhaps
does you some injury, and turns me out
of doors?”</p>

<p>“She <em>doesn’t</em> hate me, it’s only her
childish pride; I know all about that,
and it does not trouble me a bit,”returned
Pietro, coolly. “You know I
have promised to settle so much a year
upon you if she marries me, and I will
engage that you shall stay here and have
the use of the cottage and the land rent-free,
and be able to keep a servant.
There! So now, please to make up
your mind at once, mother. Will you
or won’t you? yes or no?”</p>

<p>“I can’t—I daren’t.”</p>

<p>“Then be poor, as poor as the
poorest in the place! Work is wholesome;
those who work long, live long!
Good-bye, Mother Ceprano,” said the
young man, scornfully, moving to the
door as he spoke.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">200</span></p>

<p>“Stay!” cried the old woman,
hoarsely. “I’ll do it.”</p>

<p>“When?”asked Pietro, still standing
in the doorway.</p>

<p>“I will send you a message when I
think there is a good chance. I shall
only say that I want you to come and
speak to me, and then you can come
about eleven o’clock that night.”</p>

<p>“Well, then, it’s settled, mind. Be
careful, don’t gossip, and, above all,
keep your word.”</p>

<p>“I shall keep my word,” said old
Mother Ceprano, gloomily, as she accompanied
Pietro to the door; and as
she went back into the now dark kitchen,
she muttered, “She can’t make a
better match; he is rich, very rich, and
he is looked up to, and he is handsome,
and there are others worse than he.
She will be all right, and what he says
is quite true; it is only a whim.”</p>


<h3>II.</h3>

<p>Early the next morning, before her
mother was astir, Lucia was up and
busy in the yard; and after fetching the
mule from his stable and loading him
with a couple of large flat baskets full
of onions, she mounted him herself, and
trotted off towards Palene.</p>

<p>Lucia’s dress was like that of the
other peasant women, and consisted of
a red silk kerchief tied closely over the
head; another of yellow, which covered
her shoulders, was crossed over her
chest and tied behind; and a green
woollen gown. Her beautiful black
hair was smoothly braided in one long
thick plait, which hung down her back.
So far there was nothing remarkable
about her costume; but she also wore
what was peculiar to herself, a leather
belt with a metal sheath and a large gardening
knife stuck in it. She kept her
hand almost constantly upon this weapon,
a circumstance which gave her a
rather savage Amazon-like appearance,
strangely at variance with her calm
madonna face, and smooth hair.</p>

<p>But as the mule jogged on through
the fresh morning air, and Lucia
watched the golden sunlight playing on
the rocks above and the fields below,
her thoughts were anything but savage,
for she was saying to herself,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">201</span> “Who
would think that human beings could
be so wicked when one sees how beautiful
and peaceful, and happy everything
is? They don’t notice it, for they are
like animals still; they live like wild
beasts. It is different in towns; it is
better even in Palene, but how very
different it must be in Rome, or Florence,
or Naples! There, so I have
read, people are good and gentle, and
forgiving. They don’t love like wolves
and hate like tigers. I know just one
man myself, but then he is a foreigner,
and they would be certain to kill him if
I married him. Couldn’t we escape
to Rome?” pursued the maiden thoughtfully,
bending her body down over the
mule. “But no,” she went on, “they
would find him out even in Rome, and
one fine day he would be found dead
and I should have murdered him.”</p>

<p>The mule, finding that his mistress was
not paying any heed to him, now stood
quite still and put down his head to crop
a few mouthfuls of grass. But this
roused Lucia from her dreams, and
taking hold of the reins and uttering a
loud “Aia!” she put him to a quicker
pace, and in a few minutes more they
had reached the end of their journey.</p>

<p>The little town of Palene consists of
three narrow streets, a small market-place,
a municipal building, and a tolerably
large and handsome church. Facing
the market-place are two houses
rather superior to the rest, which are
painted pink and blue, and have bright
green blinds. One of the two, at the
time of which we are writing, was a shop
kept by a man named Lugeno, who
called himself a “general-dealer, barber,
coffee-house and tavern keeper.”
In front of the shop stood a table and
four chairs, while baskets of fruit and
vegetables stood about the entrance,
and over the door hung half-a-dozen
cages containing canary birds.</p>

<p>The owner of this miscellaneous business,
Don Ernano Lugeno, was standing
at his shop-door enjoying the fine
spring air, and comfortably smoking a
short meerschaum, as Lucia came up on
her mule. Now people in Palene do
not smoke meerschaums, so this circumstance
alone was enough to suggest the
idea of his being a foreigner, and the
impression was only confirmed by a
glance at the man’s face and figure.
With his broad shoulders, yellow hair,
fresh complexion, golden beard, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">202</span>
bright, deep-blue eyes, Don Lugeno was
the perfect type of the northern giant, in
spite of his Italian name. In truth his
real name was Hermann Lütgens, and
he was a native of Pomerania, but some
accident had brought him to Italy when
a boy, and there he had remained ever
since. He was now about thirty, and
for the last ten years he had been in business
at Palene; but in spite of the
numerous strings to his bow, already
mentioned, he did not get on very well,
and in fact, made but a very poor
living. Yet he was very industrious,
and in addition to selling green-grocery,
singing-birds, coffee and wine, he repaired
watches, mended tables and
chairs, put in window panes and painted
beautiful sign-boards; so that he was
looked upon as quite indispensable in
all times of need, and was highly popular
with everybody for his cheerful,
obliging temper, and not less for his
moderate charges. Still Don Lugeno
did not prosper, and the reason was that
he had one darling passion; he was an
ardent sportsman, and every now and
then he would disappear for two or three
days into the woods, quite forgetting his
business and his customers; and when
at length he came home looking dishevelled
and half wild, he seldom
brought with him more than a lean hare,
a small marten, or a miserable quail.
In spite of his small success, however,
Don Lugeno could not break himself of
his love of sport, and it was this which
kept him a poor man.</p>

<p>Still, in spite of his poverty, all the
women in the place, whether old or
young, had a very kind feeling for Don
Ernano, as he was called (all the people
in the place being usually known by
their Christian names), and, if he had
been so inclined, he might several times
have made such a match as would have
raised him at once to a position of ease
and comfort. But he was not inclined
to give up his liberty, or so it seemed,
and the men liked him all the better, for
being, as they believed, a woman-hater.</p>

<p>Whether, however, he really was the
inveterate woman-hater he was supposed
to be might reasonably have been
doubted by any one who had chanced to
observe how instantly his face lighted
up when Lucia and her mule turned the
corner into the market-place. They<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">203</span>
were coming to him, of course, for Lucia
supplied his shop with vegetables, and
had done so for years. He had known
her and dealt with her ever since her
childhood, and now that she was a
woman, and a beautiful woman into the
bargain, it had more than once crossed
his mind that, if he could afford to
marry, there was no one in the whole
neighborhood whom he should like so
well to call his wife as Lucia Ceprano.
Well as he knew her, however, he was
far too shy, and far too humble to hint
at such an idea, for Lucia was an heiress—a
great heiress for those parts, and
he—how could he have the face to ask
her to marry a poor man like himself,
when she might have the choice of all
the young men for miles round? Still,
though he drove the thought away as
often as it rose, it only returned again,
and each time, somehow, it looked more
fascinating than before. If only he
were better off, if only he could get
away from Palene to some more civilised
place and ask Lucia to go with him,
he felt as if he could do anything, even
give up his sporting tastes, and settle
down steadily. But it was of no use
thinking of such a thing; for even if all
the other difficulties were disposed of,
what right had he to suppose that she
cared a straw about him, except as a good
customer for her garden produce? No,
the idea must be put away; and to assist
him in getting rid of it, Don Ernano
went out for two or three days’ shooting,
and when he came back he was
poorer, and his home looked more
desolate than ever, and the first thought
which entered his mind, as he crossed
the threshold, was, “How different it
would be if Lucia were here to see after
things!”</p>

<p>Altogether, therefore, the poor Don’s
expeditions were not very successful,
and on this particular morning he was
feeling a little dejected in spite of his
cheerful looks. But the mule stopped
at the shop, and as Lucia sprang lightly
down, he went forward with a smiling
greeting to help her unfasten the heavy
baskets.</p>

<p>“Are you quite well, Don Ernano?”
asked Lucia, looking up at him with
her deep brown eyes. Then, as the
giant blushed and turned away to hide
his confusion, she added, quickly, for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">204</span>
she pitied him for his shyness, “Here
are the onions you wanted; beautiful
large ones, aren’t they? but can you use
so many?”</p>

<p>Don Ernano had apparently not quite
recovered his composure, for he pulled
his ear for a moment or two without
speaking, and then said slowly, “I
could use them all, certainly, but—well—the
fact is, signorina, I haven’t much
ready money just now.”</p>

<p>“Ah! I know,”said Lucia, calmly;
“Don Ernano has been out shooting
again.”</p>

<p>“The signorina knows?”said Don
Ernano, looking at the beautiful girl in
amazement.</p>

<p>“Yes, I know, and I have been
thinking why it is that you don’t get
rich,” pursued Lucia, without a trace
of coquetry in her manner. “You are
clever and handy, you don’t gamble and
you don’t drink; why, you might be the
foremost man in the town, and yet you
don’t get a step farther. I have come
to the conclusion that it is the shooting
which is at the bottom of it.”</p>

<p>Don Ernano gazed more and more
earnestly at the girl as she spoke, and
the sympathy which he read in her face
went to his very heart. But he only
pulled his ear again, and said rather
sheepishly, “The signorina may be
right, but it is the only pleasure I have
in the world. What am I to do? It is
so dreary at home, and sometimes I get
bored almost to death.”</p>

<p>“Ah! you ought to marry, Don
Ernano,”said Lucia, simply, still busying
herself with the onions. “If you
had a wife you would have a real home
and some one to work for.”</p>

<p>“Yes,”returned the light-haired
giant, “marry! it is easy to say, but
who would have me, a penniless foreigner?
I have thought about it now
and then; but it is a hard matter for a
man like me to get a good wife.”</p>

<p>“I should not think that,”said Lucia,
reflectively, looking at him again as she
spoke, for they were old acquaintances
these two, and on intimate terms—“I
should not think that. You see I have
known you ever since I was a little girl,
and I know you are good and clever.
I dare say, the truth is you like your liberty.”</p>

<p>“Maybe,”returned Don Ernano;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">205</span>
and then with sudden gravity he added,
“but maybe also the right one has not
yet come my way.”</p>

<p>“Ah! then you are fastidious; I
understand. Now, Don Ernano, what
sort of wife do you want, I wonder?
I am quite curious to know.”</p>

<p>“What sort?” repeated the Don,
again pulling at his ear, and then adding,
in a low tone, “Well, one like yourself,
signorina.”</p>

<p>“Me! you are joking!”returned
Lucia, with an attempt at a laugh;
“why, I am only a small farmer’s
daughter.”</p>

<p>“My father was less than a small
farmer. He was an iron-worker, and
emigrated first to Austria and then to
Italy; so you see you are above me,
even if I were not as poor as a rat.
And as you are so far above me, there
is no harm in my saying that a wife like
you is just what would suit me, eh?”</p>

<p>“Don Ernano, can you make any use
of the onions?” interrupted Lucia, in a
frightened tone, without venturing to
raise her eyes from the ground.</p>

<p>“Certainly, signorina, if you don’t
mind leaving them and letting me settle
with you at the end of the month.”</p>

<p>“I’ll trust you,”replied Lucia, hurriedly
emptying the baskets; and with a
hasty “good-bye,” she reseated herself
on the mule and trotted off again to
Palenella, leaving Don Ernano half
afraid that he had managed to offend
her.</p>


<h3>III.</h3>

<p>As soon as Lucia was well out of the
little town, she seemed suddenly to discover
that she had plenty of time to
spare, for she let the mule walk on as
slowly as he pleased, while she herself
gazed at the golden hedge of broom
which bordered the road, as if she were
intent on counting its million blossoms.</p>

<p>Travelling at this pace, it was noon
before she reached the village; but instead
of receiving her with reproaches
for her long absence, as would usually
have been the case, her mother spoke
so pleasantly, that in spite of her absence
of mind, Lucia could not help
being struck by it.</p>

<p>She knew how obstinately bent her
mother was on getting her married, and
she began to feel suspicious and alarmed.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">206</span>
“Pietro was here a long time yesterday,”
she suddenly thought to herself; “there
is something in the wind, no doubt.”
And when evening came, without saying
a word to any one, Lucia dragged
her bed from its place beside her mother’s
in the large kitchen, and put it in
a little store-room, with a heavy iron door
and a grated window.</p>

<p>“Is it possible she can have overheard
what we were saying?” thought the old
woman, as she watched her daughter’s
proceedings in silent dread. But no,
that was out of the question, Lucia had
spent nearly the whole time of Pietro’s
visit in the church, for she herself had
met her there later. “It is only another
of her whims,” she went on, trying to
comfort herself, “and it will be easy
to spoil the lock of the door some night
before she goes to bed. Pietro Antonio
shall not be thwarted, if I can help it.”
And having thus made up her mind, she
too went to bed; but she was still much
perturbed about Lucia’s odd behavior,
and she began to fear that the girl would
suddenly take herself off to Rome and
so escape out of her clutches. The
more she thought of it, the more eager
she grew to bring about the marriage
with Pietro without any further loss of
time. “To-morrow she will be hard at
work all day,” mused the old woman;
“she will be tired out and sleep soundly.
I don’t know that there is likely to
be a better opportunity.”</p>

<p>All through the night Lucia’s mother
lay wide awake, tossing to and fro and
revolving her cruel plans in her mind.
Early in the morning she sent the previously
agreed message to Pietro Antonio,
and when evening came she put a
stone in the lock of the door, and
thought she had made all safe.</p>

<p>Lucia went to her room that night
tired out with her day’s work, as her
mother had expected; but she was not
too tired to notice that there was something
amiss with the door. She tried it
over and over again, but it was all in
vain, the lock would not act, and she
gave it up in despair.</p>

<p>She guessed at once what it meant,
and for a moment she stood still, trembling
and almost gasping for breath;
but in another moment she had recovered
herself, and made up her mind what to
do.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">207</span></p>

<p>She put out the lamp and laid down
on the bed just as she was, without undressing;
but after lying there quite
still for about an hour she rose again,
slipped quietly out to the stable, fetched
a great wood-cutter’s axe, and hurried
noiselessly back to her chamber.</p>

<p>Once more she lay down, keeping her
eyes wide open, listening with all her
might, and hardly daring to breathe.</p>

<p>Presently she heard the sound of
whispering, then there was a light step
in the yard, and in the house.</p>

<p>One bright ray of moonlight shone
through the grated window and made a
pattern of black and white bars on one
patch of the stone floor, but otherwise
the room was quite dark, and Lucia now
got up and stationed herself in the
darkest corner of the room. But all
remained quite quiet for nearly another
hour, every moment of which seemed a
century to the poor girl.</p>

<p>At the end of this time, a faint light
appeared through the crack of the door,
which was gently pushed open, and then
appeared her mother holding a lamp and
followed by Pietro Antonio, who had a
large pair of vine-shears in his hand.</p>

<p>As they entered, Lucia suddenly advanced
from her corner with the axe uplifted.
“Come here, you coward, if
you dare,” she cried to the young man,
who stood there speechless, motionless,
and as white as death from surprise and
fright.</p>

<p>He looked at the pale-faced girl,
looked at the uplifted axe and her strong
arms, and slowly moved away without
uttering a word, followed by the old
woman, who was shaking all over to
such a degree that she could hardly
stand, while her teeth chattered loud
enough to be heard.</p>

<p>They were gone! and all was still
again; but Lucia spent the rest of the
night sitting on the bed-side, with her
beautiful head resting against the hard
cold stone wall, without venturing to
close her eyes. In the morning she neither
spoke to her mother nor prepared
the breakfast as was her custom, and
kept her mouth more tightly closed than
ever.</p>

<p>When she had washed and dressed,
and plaited her hair more carefully than
usual, she brought out the mule, saddled
and bridled him; but to her mothe<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">208</span>r’s
immense astonishment, instead of proceeding
to load him with vegetables, she
just mounted and rode away in the
direction of Palene.</p>

<p>The mule trotted along merrily and
quickly, but as it was still very early,
Lucia stopped him after a while and
allowed him to graze, while she got
down and lay on the grass, resting her
weary head on her hand and gazing into
the distance with her large brown eyes.
Little by little her pale face brightened,
and began to lose the hard look it had
worn since the previous night. She even
began to smile a little and looked almost
happy. At last some pleasant thought
seemed to strike her, for she actually
laughed and blushed, and then getting
up and calling her mule, she went on
her way.</p>

<p>In little more than half an hour she
was again standing before Don Ernano’s
shop in the market-place.</p>

<p>“Ah, signorina, you are early indeed
to-day,” he began; then glancing at the
unloaded mule, he went on, “you want
the onions back, no doubt? I was afraid
Mother Ceprano——”</p>

<p>“I did not come about that,”replied
Lucia abruptly, with an odd shy smile.
“I came to-day to ask your services as
hair-dresser; you cut and dress hair, I
know. Will you be so good as to cut
off my hair?”</p>

<p>“What, signorina!”cried the horrified
barber, “cut off your beautiful
hair! No, you don’t mean it, I couldn’t
have the heart!”</p>

<p>“Are you a barber, Don Ernano?”
asked Lucia with the gravity and firmness
peculiar to her.</p>

<p>“Yes, it is on the sign-board, and I
cut anybody’s hair when I am asked, but—but—do
you want to sell your beautiful
plait?” he asked, with quite a sad
expression in his kind eyes.</p>

<p>“No, I don’t want to sell it, but I
want it cut off, and I have come to
ask you to do it for me,” answered
Lucia firmly and decidedly.</p>

<p>“Must I really?” said Don Ernano,
feeling a little cast down by the girl’s
energetic tone and manner.</p>

<p>“Yes—you must—if you will,” was
her rather odd answer, and therewith
she hurried into the shop.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">209</span></p>
<p>“If you knew how it grieved me!”
began the barber again. “Is it a vow,
signorina?”</p>

<p>“Something of the sort, but it is
more than that to me,”was the short
answer.</p>

<p>“Then you have quite made up your
mind?” he ventured to ask once more.</p>

<p>“Will you do it or will you not,
Don Ernano?” asked Lucia as if she
were much offended and would leave
the shop.</p>

<p>“Well—if it really must be done—please
to sit down, signorina,” said the
barber, moving reluctantly to the cupboard
in which he kept his implements.</p>

<p>Just at this moment two men came
into the shop, and said with a sly
glance at his fair customer, “You’re
engaged, Don Ernano?”</p>

<p>“At your service in a moment, gentlemen,”
he answered; then bending
over Lucia and taking her great plait,
which was almost as thick as her arm,
in his hand, he said in a low tone, “You
will have just a little bit left?”</p>

<p>“No, cut it off close,”answered Lucia
in a whisper.</p>

<p>Don Ernano gently put her head in
the right position; and Lucia, looking
calmly and cheerfully into the little glass
before her, could see with what a dismal
countenance the light-haired giant went
about his task, which was no such easy
one, and took some minutes to accomplish.
It was done at last, however,
and the barber held the severed plait
in his hands, his face wearing a very
troubled expression.</p>

<p>“Good morning, gentlemen,” said
Lucia, rising and bowing to the two
men; “good morning, Don Ernano!”
and before he had recovered from his
astonishment, Lucia was out of the shop
and trotting away on her mule, leaving
him to look after her and shake his
head in perplexity, while he still held
the beautifully plaited tail of hair in
his hands.</p>

<p>“A very pretty customer, signor!”
said his visitors, who had not heard all
that had passed.</p>

<p>“A lovely girl,” answered Don Ernano
thoughtfully, “but strange, very
strange, I can’t make her out.”</p>

<p>“Have you bought the plait?”they
asked.</p>

<p>The barber shook his head gravely.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">210</span></p>

<p>“What then?” they asked with curiosity.</p>

<p>“I don’t know,” was the short answer,
as the barber made hurried preparations
for shaving his customers.</p>

<p>He was anything but nervous in a
general way, but to-day his hand trembled
so much that he would certainly
have performed his duties very clumsily
if he had not made a great effort to recover
his self-command.</p>

<p>“What does it mean?” he muttered,
when he found himself once more alone.
“What am I to do with it? I wonder
whether it is a vow; I know the women
about here do make strange vows sometimes;
but she is so clever and sensible
and not at all superstitious.”</p>

<p>Don Ernano thought over the affair
for some time, but as he could not
arrive at any conclusion, he locked the
plait of hair up in his cupboard, and
spent the next few hours in a rather
uncomfortable state of mind, feeling that
he was involved against his will in a
matter which he did not understand.</p>


<h3>IV.</h3>

<p>Lucia reached Palenella again about
midday, and rode into the village holding
in her hand the kerchief she usually
wore on her head, a circumstance which
of itself would have been enough to
attract attention, since uncovered heads
were rarely seen in the village. But,
as the absence of the kerchief revealed
the fact that her heavy plait had disappeared
leaving only a short, stubbly
stump to show where once it had been,
it was not many minutes before the
whole village was exclaiming, “Lucia’s
hair has been cut off!”</p>

<p>The news had spread like wild fire
even before Lucia reached her own door,
and was speedily confirmed, if confirmation
were needed, by the fearful outburst
of weeping and wailing with which
Mother Ceprano received her disfigured
daughter.</p>

<p>The old woman wrung her hands,
tore her hair, uttered maledictions,
screamed and howled so wildly that
she was heard even in the farthermost
houses, and the whole population speedily
collected round the house.</p>

<p>Lucia had not yet dismounted, and
there she now sat on the mule, looking
perfectly calm and collected, while<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">211</span>
the children danced round her mocking
and jeering, and the men and women
whispered and gazed in astonishment.</p>

<p>It must be confessed that the villagers’
first feeling was one of hearty
satisfaction in the proud Lucia’s humiliation.
But they quite expected to
see some young man appear waving the
plait in triumph, and when they found
this did not happen, their gratification
gave way to wrath and indignation
against the unknown person who had
done the deed. The pride of the whole
community was hurt, and wild voices
were heard shouting, “Whoever it was
he shall not go unpunished! A girl of
our village—he has insulted us all, every
one—he shall make it good or pay
for it with his life!”</p>

<p>The men doubled their fists and raised
their arms, uttering savage threats and
imprecations, as they pressed round
Lucia who sat like a statue, watching
the growing excitement and tumult with
intense interest.</p>

<p>“Who was it? who did it?” they
shouted to her from all sides. “Do
you know him? Who has dared to
insult you and all of us? You <em>must</em>
say who it is!” were the cries uttered
in various tones by a hundred angry
men and women.</p>

<p>“He must marry you, he must, or he
shall die! Who was it? who?”</p>

<p>“A man in Palene,”answered Lucia
in a clear voice.</p>

<p>“Palene? he shall die if he won’t
do his duty. But what is his name?”</p>

<p>“Don Ernano!”</p>

<p>“What, he? a foreigner! the light-haired
man! the sportsman!” cried
several voices.</p>

<p>“It’s all the same,” screamed others,
“it’s just the same. It would make no
difference if he were a townsman—he
shall die if he won’t do you justice
and restore you to honor; yes, he
shall die by our hands,” cried all, old
and young, with angry, flashing eyes.</p>

<p>“He must give the village satisfaction
at once,” cried one who had taken
the lead; “I will go to him now.
Take your knives, my men, and say
who’ll go with me?”</p>

<p>“I! I!”cried at least twenty voices
and a number of men separated from the
rest and started off at a rapid pace along
the road to Palene.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">212</span></p>

<p>Lucia now dismounted, led the mule
into his stable and retreated to her dismal
little room out of her mother’s
way. Here she sat down quite exhausted
on the only chair it contained,
and drew a deep breath.</p>

<p>“Now no one can kill him for marrying
me, for they will make him,” she
said softly to herself, “and he won’t
refuse. He likes me, I’m sure of that
now, and Pietro Antonio won’t dare to
touch him, for he would have the whole
village against him.”</p>

<p>It was about an hour after all this
commotion that the first of the Palenella
peasants entered Don Ernano’s wineshop
and called for a tumbler of wine.
In a few seconds more another came
in, and then a third, and before the
barber knew where he was, his room
was filled with peasants, all of whom
carried knives in their gay-colored
sashes, and looked very menacing.</p>

<p>Don Lugeno, though peaceably disposed,
was a brave man enough, but
he could not help feeling somewhat
aghast on the present occasion, for
there was evidently something strange
about his visitors.</p>

<p>“Don Ernano,” began the spokesman,
“you have cut off the plait of
one of our girls—eh? is it so?”</p>

<p>“Yes!”returned the barber with
some embarrassment, but without the
slightest suspicion of what was meant,
or what the question boded.</p>

<p>“Have you the plait?”</p>

<p>“Yes, I have.”</p>

<p>“Then please to show it to us.”</p>

<p>The barber went and fetched it from
the cupboard and held it up, saying,
“Here it is.”</p>

<p>“You know the girl?”they inquired
further.</p>

<p>“Yes, it is Lucia Ceprano; I have
known her a long time.”</p>

<p>“Good! Will you marry her?”inquired
the leader suddenly stepping up
to the barber.</p>

<p>“<em>Marry</em>—Lucia Ceprano?” exclaimed
Don Ernano quite taken a-back.</p>

<p>“Will you?” and a dozen large
knives flashed into the air, while in an
instant the men had closed the entrance
into the shop, surrounded the terrified
owner and driven him into a corner.</p>

<p>“Yes or no?” said they in suppressed
tones.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">213</span></p>

<p>Lugeno looked from one to the other
and tried to collect himself. He saw
plainly enough that it was no laughing
matter, for the men were looking at him
with an expression of deadly hatred in
their eyes, and they looked so sullen and
determined that he felt he had never before
been so immediately face to face with
death. He could hardly breathe, but he
struggled to say, “Only tell me——”</p>

<p>“Still, man,”whispered the ringleader;
“no shirking, and no unnecessary
words. Answer me; will you marry
Lucia Ceprano of Palenella, whose plait
you have cut off, or not? Say you will,
now, this instant, without any humbug,
or in two minutes you are a dead man,
as sure as we all stand here!”</p>

<p>A gleam of joy and relief came into
Don Ernano’s eyes; he breathed more
freely, and wiping his forehead, said with
a smile, “Why, of course I will, my men,
with all my heart, if she will have me.”</p>

<p>“She must!”was the rejoinder, spoken
in tones of as much determination as
before. “Then you swear, here before
us, to marry Lucia, as soon as possible,
at all events within the month, and you
will be married in our church, by our
priest?”</p>

<p>“I swear it,”said the barber with
great alacrity.</p>

<p>“That’s well; and you have acted
wisely, master, let me tell you, for you
would not have left your shop alive otherwise!”</p>

<p>Thereupon the men put up their
knives, ordered some wine, each separately
drank to the health of the still bewildered
Don Ernano, bade him a polite
farewell, and returned to the village.
The evening was not far advanced when
they reached Palenella, and going
straight to Mother Ceprano’s house, they
found her still lamenting and vituperating
the rascal who had done the evil
deed, while Lucia was sitting contentedly
at the table eating her supper with a good
appetite.</p>

<p>“We have good news for you, Lucia,”
cried a dozen voices;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">214</span> “he’ll marry you.
He has solemnly sworn to marry you
within the month. You may be quite
easy about it, for he will do all that is
right by you, and he will give us satisfaction.
He is a clever man, much respected,
and as good as anyone in the
village.”</p>

<p>“Thank you, my friends, I am quite
satisfied. You have done me a good turn
and I’ll never forget it,”said Lucia,
looking positively radiant with happiness.</p>

<p>That night the village was a long time
in settling down to its usual state of
quietness; for the men felt they had
achieved a grand victory and could do no
less than celebrate it, little guessing, of
course, that they had been outwitted by
a girl, and that so far from being the victors
they had actually been defeated, and
had had their own weapons turned
against them.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, in spite of her happiness,
Lucia was feeling a little uneasy as to
the way in which Don Lugeno might
view her conduct, and very early in the
morning she was in the shop again. So
early was she, indeed, that he did not
hear her enter, as he was busy with his
coffee in the kitchen.</p>

<p>“Don Ernano,” began Lucia in a
humble, tremulous tone, “can you forgive
me?”</p>

<p>The barber turned round like a flash
of lightning.</p>

<p>“Lucia! Lucia!” he exclaimed joyously;
“but, my dear girl, do for mercy’s
sake tell me what it all means. Is it
true? Am I really to marry you?”</p>

<p>“Do you mind very much, signore?
I thought—I fancied—”said poor Lucia,
trembling, and panting for breath.</p>

<p>“Mind! Ah, signorina, it is not that;
I am only too happy to think I am to
have such a dear, good, beautiful wife,”
said Lugeno consolingly, and his manner
was so hearty as to leave no room for
doubt as to his sincerity. “My dearest
girl, don’t cry; this happiness has come
upon me like a—like a thunder-bolt.
You’re the very wife I should have chosen
above all others; but I don’t understand
what has happened, or how it has
all come about. Why, I have been
forced to accept happiness such as I
dared not even dream of at the point of
twenty knives! How is it, dear signorina?
And why did you make me cut
off your plait?”</p>

<p>Don Ernano spoke so kindly and
pleasantly that Lucia had soon dried her
tears, and now looking up at him with a
beaming face, she said,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">215</span> “I will tell you
all about it, Don Ernano. You see I
was obliged to do as I did, or you could
not have married me without incurring
the vengeance of that wicked Pietro who
is very angry at my refusing him. Now
you are under the protection of the whole
village, and he will take good care not
to come in your way.”</p>

<p>Then Lucia went on to tell her lover
all the ins and outs of the affair, and
how, after Pietro’s attempt two nights
ago, she had made up her mind to get
him to cut off her hair rather than let
anyone else do so.</p>

<p>“And now will you forgive me?” she
asked in a gentle, shame faced tone.</p>

<p>“Forgive? I’ll thank you with all
my heart, you dear, brave, clever girl.
I declare you are wiser and cleverer than
the wisest lawyer,” and drawing the tall,
handsome village maiden to him, he gave
her a long kiss, which was cordially returned.</p>

<p>“What a pity about your beautiful
hair! I wish it were grown again,” said
he, tenderly stroking his bride’s close-cropped
head.</p>

<p>“Well, you are a hair-dresser, so you
must see what you can do,” said Lucia;
“but I have made a good exchange.
Where is the girl who would not sacrifice
the finest head of hair for a good husband,
especially,” she added shyly,
“when the lover himself cut it off?”</p>

<p>While Lucia and Don Ernano were
thus pleasantly engaged, there had been
a great disturbance at Palenella. Pietro
Antonio, having just heard all that had
happened, had hurried to the village in
a furious passion. First he poured out
his wrath on the peasants for their stupidity,
and then tried to set them against
the barber, whom he had always hated,
and now of course detested more than
ever. He told the peasants that he was
a crafty rascal, that he and the girl understood
one another, and had acted in
concert, and that he only wanted her
money.</p>

<p>But he soon found that this would not
do. The villagers had no mind to be
robbed of their triumph, and were quite
certain they understood the matter better
than he did, and they used such forcible
arguments to convince Pietro of the justice
of their views, that he retired to his
bed for a fortnight, and after that, not
only gave Palenella a very wide berth,
but soon left the district and went to
Naples.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">216</span></p>

<p>Mother Ceprano behaved in a most
amiable and polite manner to her future
son-in-law, who, by Lucia’s advice, determined
to let the little property at Palenella
and allow his mother-in-law the
rent of it for her life. Also he made up
his mind to sell his business in Palene
and have a nice barber’s shop and small
<i>café</i> in Rome, where he and Lucia would
do their utmost to please their customers.</p>

<p>Three weeks later the marriage was
celebrated with much firing of guns and
rockets in the presence not only of the
whole village, but of most of the inhabitants
of the town of Palene, and there
was every reason to hope that it would
prove a happy one, in spite of the strange
way in which bride and bridegroom had
been brought together.—<cite>Belgravia.</cite></p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h2><a name="THE_BANK_OF_ENGLAND" id="THE_BANK_OF_ENGLAND">THE BANK OF ENGLAND.</a><br />

<small>BY HENRY MAY.</small></h2>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">217</span></p>

<p>The simple definition of banking is
money-dealing. A banker properly so
called is but a tradesman engaged in
buying and selling money, that symbol
of wealth which in all civilised
countries facilitates or renders possible
the exchange of commodities, which
are wealth itself. A banker produces
nothing, nor does he, except in a most
indirect manner, add anything to the
wealth of the country. His business
is the collection and distribution of
that general representative of merchandise,
money, much in the same way as
an ordinary shopkeeper collects and
distributes the special articles of his
individual trade. Joint-stock banks,
then, are but co-operative distributing
associations formed for the purpose of
fighting against some real or fancied
oppression, and of competing, to the
supposed advantage of the public, with
private enterprise. They are formed for
the purpose of competing with private
bankers whose business they appear to
be gradually absorbing, possibly by a
sort of process of the survival of the
fittest. In this way the origin, in 1694,
of the Bank of England, the parent
joint-stock bank of the kingdom, and
the largest and most important money-dealing
institution in the world, may be
traced to the combination of the Government,
merchants, traders, and the
general public to oppose the exactions,
usury, and financial tyranny of the goldsmiths
and stock-jobbers of the period.
A very limited acquaintance with pamphlets
published at the time of the Great
Revolution will show that the Bank of
England was the natural outcome of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">218</span>
necessity, a necessity which guaranteed
its success if honestly and prudently
managed. Through its means the foundation
of a safe paper currency was secured,
the national credit maintained,
and the system of usury and extortion
prevalent throughout the country undermined—at
the expense, it is true,
of many so-called bankers, stock-jobbers,
and goldsmiths, but to the great
gain of the nation, its commerce, and
the general public. Of the originator
of the Bank of England—Mr. W. Paterson,
who remained a director only
for a year or two—we know really very
little, except that he was equally the
founder of the ill-fated Darien Expedition
of 1698, that he was an able,
honorable, and enthusiastic man, and
that he died in Scotland, where, “pitied,
respected, but neglected,” he lived for
many years.</p>

<p>The original capital of the Bank was
£1,200,000, which was subscribed in a
few days. The whole of this amount
was, as a condition of the charter, lent
to the Government at eight per cent.,
the Bank being allowed an additional
£4,000 a year for the management of
the Government accounts. The necessary
capital for carrying on the banking
business appears to have been obtained
from the public by the issue of
bank bills, termed by some flippant
writers of the period “Speed’s notes,”
from the name of the first chief cashier.
These bills were evidently a sort of “deposit
receipt,” bearing interest at the rate
of twopence per cent. per diem, or at the
rate of three per cent. per annum, and
they appear to have given sore offence<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">219</span>
to the goldsmiths. The Bank of England
commenced business in the Mercers’
Hall, Cheapside, where the first
“General Court of Proprietors” was
held. But after a few months, this situation
being found inconvenient, an
agreement was made with the Grocers’
Company (which appears to have been
in difficulties) for the use of their hall
in Princes Street. The original working
staff of the Bank consisted of fifty-four
clerks, whose united salaries amounted
to the modest sum of £4,340 a year,
averaging a little more than £80 a year
each. The chief cashier (Mr. T. Speed),
the chief accountant, and the secretary
received £250 a year each, and one clerk
is scheduled in the pay-sheet as working
“gratis.” Addison, in No. 3 of the
<cite>Spectator</cite>, gives us the following pleasant
little glimpse of the Bank at work in
1710: “In one of my late rambles, or
rather speculations, I looked into the
great hall where the Bank is kept, and
was not a little pleased to see the directors,
secretaries, and clerks, with all
the other members of that wealthy corporation,
ranged in their several stations,
according to the parts they act
in that just and regular economy.”
From which it would seem that the
Bank dignitaries of old had a firm belief
in the virtues of the “master’s
eye,” scorned bank parlors and private
rooms, and were content to work with
their servants <i lang="la">coram populo</i>—a good,
homely, old-fashioned practice, no doubt,
but one scarcely adapted to modern
banking requirements. Bank of England
directors in those days, however, had a
good deal more to do with mere clerical
duties than they have at present.
They by no means shirked the most
practical responsibilities of office, for we
find that at that period, and for many
years afterwards, even the warrants for
the payments of dividends were signed
by two of their body.</p>

<p>It was not until after the Bank had
existed some forty years that the directors
found the business so completely
outgrow the accommodation afforded
by the Grocers’ Hall as to necessitate
a separate building of its own.
The foundation of the present building
was laid in 1732 on the site of
the residence of Sir John Houblon,
the first governor of the Bank, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">220</span>
business was commenced in the new
premises in 1734. The edifice was
greatly enlarged between the years 1770
and 1786, and was completed, pretty
much as it now stands, in 1786, an
Act having been procured in 1780 to
enable the directors to purchase the
adjoining church, land, and parsonage—in
fact the whole parish—of St.
Christopher le Stocks, to the rector of
which non-existent parish the Bank
pay £400 a year to this day. The
drawing office now stands on the site
of the old church, the garden being
the churchyard. In 1800, when Princes
Street was widened, the present wall-screen
round the Bank was erected by
Sir John Soane giving a uniform appearance
to the exterior of the building.
There is much in the architectural interior
of the Bank which is well worthy
of admiration; for instance the quadrangle
called the bullion-yard, in Lothbury,
the garden, rotunda, and court
rooms, &amp;c. The long prison-like stone-colored
passages and offices devoted to
public business, however, are singularly
cold and cheerless, owing chiefly to some
apparent, yet unaccountable, objection
of the authorities to employ color as a
decorative auxiliary; possibly from a
fixed but mistaken idea that color is
antagonistic to cleanliness and brightness
to business.</p>

<p>Although the necessities of the State
contributed to the establishment of the
Bank of England, they were, at intervals
of every few years, compelled, after making
a feeble resistance, to purchase the
continuance of their privileges on exceedingly
onerous terms. The history of
the seven renewals of the charter between
1694 and 1800, and of the accordance
of permission to increase the capital of
the Bank, is one continuous record of
State exactions. The Bank, as a condition
of State patronage, were on each
successive occasion forced to increase
their loans to the Government at low
rates of interest or without any interest
whatever, three millions sterling being
lent for six years without interest in
1800. Interest on previous loans was
reduced, exchequer bills were cancelled,
and on one occasion a free gift of £110,000
was made to the State. As a consequence
the Government debt to the
Bank increased at a rapid rate, till it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">221</span>
amounted at last to upwards of fourteen
and a half millions sterling, or
rather more than the whole capital of
the Corporation. In 1833 the Government
paid off one-fourth of this debt in
reduced annuities, and thereby reduced
it to £11,015,100, at which amount it
now stands. While Ministry after Ministry
thus accurately tested the pliability
of the “Governor and Company,” and
relentlessly preyed on their fears as to
the continuance of their monopoly, it is
pleasant to read of the intense feeling
of loyalty which actuated the directors
in all their dealings with the State.
When, after the Rebellion of 1715, the
Government proposed to reduce the interest
on the National Debt from six
to five per cent., the Bank testified to
their desire to assist the measure by
at once agreeing to accept the lower
rate, and to provide money to pay off
those creditors who declined to submit
to the reduction. Again, when a further
reduction in the interest on part of the
National Debt was proposed in 1750,
the Bank at once assented, and arranged
to find a sum of money to pay off the
dissentients. The passive attitude lately
assumed by the Bank directors towards
the conversion scheme of the present
Chancellor of the Exchequer contrasts
somewhat unfavorably with the loyal
attachment of the Bank to the State in
olden times. The transactions of the
Bank of England with Government for
a period of one hundred and twenty
years ending with 1816 are but a series
of loans and advances by the Bank in
anticipation of the revenue, or of payments
of treasury bills drawn by the
Government agents abroad. These large
advances and payments were entirely independent
of the permanent loan made
to the Government by the Bank, and
were supposed to be but temporary assistance
rendered to the State in times
of sore need, to be repaid periodically
as the revenue was collected. But repayment
was not made. Again and
again did the Governor and Company
represent to the Ministers that they were
unable to continue to increase the floating
debt without endangering the safety
of the Bank. Coaxed and bullied in turn
(especially by Pitt), they allowed their
loyalty to outrun their prudence, and
yielded more or less gracefully time<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">222</span>
after time, till at last in 1797 they were
compelled to suspend cash payments,
entirely through their exertions to aid
the Government. Undoubtedly the exclusive
privileges which the Bank in
the infancy of banking enjoyed were
in some sense a <i lang="la">quid pro quo</i> for their
services to the State, and the fear of
losing their charter may have been a
strong incentive to loyalty. The subsequent
gradual enfranchisement of
banking by the various enactments between
1826 and 1858 and the enormous
progress which banking has since made
throughout the country, have, however,
considerably lessened the value of these
privileges, and from a mere proprietor’s
point of view it is quite possible that
the Bank of England might profitably
forego their charter altogether, now that
they are in no fear of losing it, and,
so far as pure banking is concerned,
they no longer enjoy a monopoly.
These considerations may have tempered
the loyalty of the directors, and
may account for the very independent
fashion in which they nowadays approach
the Government for the transaction
of business upon which, in the
olden time, they were accustomed to enter
with fear and trembling.</p>

<p>The establishment of branches by the
Bank of England in 1826 was a direct
consequence of the great panic of 1825,
caused, as the Government alleged, by
reckless speculation encouraged and fostered
by private banks, and by the overissue
of country bank notes. In a correspondence
with the Bank, the Government
expressed their determination to
“improve the circulation of the country
paper,” and, after paying the Bank the
complement of saying, “We believe
that much of the prosperity of the
country is to be attributed to the general
wisdom, justice, and fairness of
the dealings of the Bank,” suggested
that the Bank of England should establish
branches of their own in different
parts of the country, and should,
moreover, yield part of their exclusive
privilege of joint-stock banking by permitting
the formation of banks with
more than six partners, except in or
within sixty-five miles of the metropolis.
After a vain attempt to obtain some
compensation for the concession of their
monopoly for joint-stock banking the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">223</span>
Bank yielded on both points, and an
Act was passed authorising the establishment
of Bank of England branches and
the formation of country joint-stock
banks. The circulation of one and two
pound notes was also prohibited by this
Act.</p>

<p>The Bank charter was again renewed
in 1833, when Bank of England notes
were first made a legal tender, and the
usury laws repealed so far as they affected
three months’ bills. The most important
clause in this charter, however,
was that which legalised the establishment
of joint-stock banks in and within
sixty-five miles of London. This led to
the establishment of the London and
Westminster Bank in 1834, the first of
those numerous metropolitan joint-stock
banks which now so extensively and
beneficially administer to the commercial
wants of the country. Up to about
this time it had been universally considered
that the Bank of England enjoyed
the exclusive privilege of joint-stock
banking within the above radius, but now
the astonishing discovery was made that
this was not so, and in fact never had
been so; and this discovery was confirmed
by the law officers of the Crown.
The directors protested, but resistance
was useless. The Bank lost its supposed
privilege, though it is very questionable
whether the Government behaved quite
straightforwardly in the matter. This
Act, together with one or two subsequent
banking Acts, thus completely enfranchised
banking, and abolished a monopoly
which was, after all, obstructive both to
financial and commercial progress. The
abolishment of any monopoly is invariably
but a question of education and
time, and, in accordance with the doctrine
of experience, it does not appear
that the Bank have really lost anything
by the competition engendered by the
enfranchisement of joint-stock banking,
while commerce and the community
have undoubtedly gained enormously.</p>

<p>We come now to Sir Robert Peel’s
famous Bank Charter Act of 1844, entitled
“An Act to regulate the issue of
Bank Notes, and for giving to the
Governor and Company of the Bank of
England certain privileges for a limited
period.” It confirms the curtailed privileges
of the Bank for eleven years, subject
afterwards to redemption on twelve<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">224</span>
months’ notice being given and the repayment
of the debt due by the Government
to the Bank. A clause in the subsequent
National Debt Act of 1870,
however, provides that the Bank of
England shall continue to be a corporation
until all the public Funds shall be
redeemed by Parliament, thus practically
granting it a lease in perpetuity. The
Act of 1844—to some of the special
provisions of which I shall presently
refer—practically regulates the whole
banking system of the country, and at
the present time governs the Bank of
England in the conduct of their business.
In accordance with its provisions,
the issue of Bank of England notes was
first kept distinct from the banking business
proper by the creation of the “Issue
Department” and the “Banking
Department,” with which probably most
of my readers are perfectly familiar, at
least by name. Besides these Issue and
Banking Departments, there is in the
Bank a third most important department,
devoted to what is generally,
though somewhat inaccurately, termed
“the management of the National Debt.”
In their capacity of bankers to the State
the governor and company of the Bank
of England have always acted as the
financial agents of the Government for
distributing, and paying the dividends
on, the funded debt, as well as for the performance
of other book-keeping duties
in connection therewith. Of late years
the Bank have undertaken similar duties
for the Indian and several Colonial
Governments, for the Metropolitan
Board of Works, and for various corporations
and municipalities. The considerable
portion of the Bank premises
devoted to this agency business is now
generally spoken of by financial and
banking writers as “The Department
for the Management of the National
Debt”—an imposing title doubtless,
which says a good deal more than it
means, and one, for aught I know,
adopted nowadays by the Bank themselves;
but, possibly influenced by the
recollections of days long gone by, I
confess my partiality for the old familiar
title of “Stock Offices.”</p>

<p>In the conduct of their business, then,
the Bank of England perform three distinct
and important functions—that of
financial agents, that of issuers of notes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">225</span>
under the control of the State, and that of
Government and general bankers. The
duties involved in these functions are
discharged, severally, towards the State
and the various governments and corporations
for whom they are agents;
towards the general public, from or to
whom they buy or sell notes and gold;
and towards the Government and customers
for whom they act as ordinary bankers.
I will consider briefly the system by
which these three functions are discharged.
The offices comprised in the
department for the management of the
National Debt are the various stock
offices in which are kept the stock ledgers
and the transfer books, the Dividend
Office, the Cheque Office, the Unclaimed
Dividend Office, the Power of Attorney
Office, and the Will or Register Office.
The nature of the business transacted in
these different offices is sufficiently indicated
by their names, with the exception
of the Cheque Office, which, on the <i lang="la">lucus a
non lucendo</i> principle, is probably so called
because it has nothing whatever to do
with “cheques,” but is devoted, for the
most part, to the purpose of checking
the amounts and totals of the dividend
warrants paid by the “Dividend Pay
Office,” an office which belongs to the
Banking Department. Some idea of the
amount of work done in the various
Stock Offices may be gathered from the
circumstance that they employ the services
of some 450 clerks. Nearly 2,000
books are in constant use in some ten or
twelve rooms. The dividend warrants
on the funded debt alone number about
half a million a year, and are, when paid,
sent to Somerset House for verification,
together with a duplicate copy of the
dividend book. As a remuneration for
its services in connection with the National
Debt, the Bank is paid a commission of
£300 per million on the first six hundred
millions of the amount and £150 per
million on the remainder. Since the
funded debt is now altogether about
£628,500,000, the Bank receives on
this account about £184,000 per annum,
a remuneration which cannot be considered
excessive.</p>

<p>The extreme accuracy and dispatch
with which the clerical labor involved
in the business of the Stock Offices is
performed, is almost marvellous, and reflects
the highest credit on the adminis<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">226</span>trative
machinery of the Bank. Every
possible expedient is resorted to for the
purpose of facilitating the work and
guarding against error, even to the free
employment of the Bank’s printing-office
and the use of the stereotype process in
the preparation of the dividend books in
duplicate. It is worth mentioning that
all the old stock ledgers, transfer books,
vouchers, and documents connected with
the various stocks which have been created
since the establishment of the Bank
are carefully preserved and systematically
arranged for ready reference in the
Stock Office Library under the charge
of a librarian, whose duties, however,
though involving great responsibility,
are more monotonous than onerous.</p>

<p>The “Issue Department” of the Bank
of England is the outcome of the determination
expressed by the Government
in 1844 “to regulate the issue of bank
notes.” The experience of former years,
more particularly that of 1825, had fully
demonstrated how undesirable, and even
dangerous, it was to leave the circulation
of bank notes to the uncontrolled discretion
of country bankers, and though
there can be no reason to doubt that the
Bank of England had hitherto used the
power which they possessed of expanding
or contracting their circulation at
will with great judgment, and substantially
to the benefit of the mercantile community,
it was thought desirable that the
control of the whole circulation in the
country should be practically vested in
the State, and be governed by some sound
financial principle. The theoretical basis
of the Act of 1844 is the principle that
bank notes should not be mere symbols
of credit—simple I O U’s, as it were,
which are a confession of a want of cash—but
of actual “ear-marked” gold; of
ready money, which alone regulates, or
should regulate, the extent of the commerce
of the country. The soundness
of this principle is doubted by many
financial authorities on the ground that it
checks the proper expansion of trade
and in times of crisis has failed in practice.
I cannot, however, here discuss
the large subject of currency, but must
accept the law as I find it, merely stating
that in my opinion it affords the only
safe basis upon which any sound currency
can be regulated. To carry out this law
effectually, then, it was obviously neces<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">227</span>sary
that the Government should create
or select some establishment from which
bank notes might be issued, and in which
the gold that these notes represented
should be set apart or stored. As the
State Bank, the Bank of England was
naturally entrusted with these functions.
Hence the creation of the “Issue Department.”
But in order to afford some
elasticity to the circulation, and to deal
gently with the “vested interests” of
the Bank of England and country bankers
alike, the Act provides that no banks
of issue shall be permitted other than
those in existence in May, 1844, and
that an average of the note circulation of
these banks shall be taken, which shall
in future be the maximum circulation
allowed to them. This maximum was
subsequently fixed at about eight and
three-quarter millions. Provisions are
also made by which, on certain terms,
issuing banks may cede their privilege of
issue to the Bank or forfeit them altogether
in case of bankruptcy or certain
changes in the constitution of their partnerships.
The total amount of these
“lapsed issues” since 1844 is about two
and three-quarter millions, leaving the
present authorized maximum circulation
of the country banks at about six millions.
No stipulation is made that any
proportion of this circulation shall be
based upon gold. This matter is left entirely
to the judgment of the bankers
themselves, whose discretion, however,
there seems no reason to question, since
from the weekly returns supplied to the
Government in conformity with the Act,
it appears that not more than one-half
the notes of the maximum issue are in
actual circulation. With regard to the
Bank of England, permission is accorded
to the Issue Department to issue notes
to the amount of fourteen millions upon
securities—including the £11,015,100
due by the Government to the Bank—to
be set apart for the purpose of guarantee.
The Bank is furthermore permitted to increase
the amount of notes issued on securities
to the extent of two-thirds of
the lapsed issues of country banks. The
extra issue thus acquired is now £1,750,000,
which brings up the total amount of
issue on securities to £15,750,000, inclusive
of the Government debt. Any
further issue of notes must be represented
by an equal amount of bullion or gold<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">228</span>
coin transferred to the separate vaults of
the Issue Department, but one-fourth of
the amount so transferred may consist
of silver bullion.</p>

<p>The Bank are required to furnish the
Government with a weekly report of the
accounts of the Issue and Banking departments.
This report, which is popularly
called “The Bank Return,” is
published each Thursday afternoon, and
is copied in the morning newspapers of
Friday, together with the comments and
deductions, more or less speculative and
intelligent, of the different City editors.
The Bank Return, so far as it regards
the Issue department, is simplicity itself.
Let the reader put one of them before
him. On the one side he will find the
total amount of notes issued, and on the
other the bases of the issue, divided into
the “Government debt,” the “other securities”
(which together make up the
total of £15,750,000, above mentioned),
“gold coin and bullion,” and “silver
bullion,” if there be any, which is very
seldom the case. The simple term “bullion”
signifies gold bullion, or gold in
bars, which the Bank are compelled to
receive from any person tendering it, in
exchange for notes, at the rate of £3 17s.
9d. per ounce of 22 parts out of 24 of
pure gold.</p>

<p>It is evident that the amount of bank
notes issued varies in exact proportion
to the amount of gold in the Issue Department,
the issue against the Government
debt and other securities being invariable.
Roughly speaking, the contraction
or expansion of the circulation
indicates a corresponding curtailment or
increase in commercial facilities or requirements.
Hence the Issue Department
return becomes an important guide
to the operations of bankers, brokers,
and financial firms, by whom it is carefully
watched, since the increase or diminution
of the stock of gold may be said
respectively to be a signal of safety or
danger. The receipts or withdrawals
of gold in any large quantity by or from
the Bank are of two kinds, inland and
foreign. The former for the most part
occur at certain regular periods of the
year, such as the harvest season, Scotch
“term-time,” &amp;c. They exercise but a
very modified and temporary influence
on the money market, for the laws by
which they are governed are very fairly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">229</span>
understood and recognised, and the
amount of gold <em>actually in the kingdom</em>
remains unaltered. It is far different,
however, with the demand or supply of
gold from foreign countries, the importance
of which to the financial world is
so great that the amount of gold received
or delivered by the Bank on foreign account
is by them made known day by
day, and is duly chronicled in the City
articles of the morning papers. The
exports and imports of gold (which
practically, regulate the note issue) are
governed by the state of the foreign exchanges,
which are probably a mystery
to many of my readers, but which up to
a certain point may be readily understood.
Approaching the subject as tenderly
and in as elementary a manner as
possible, I will at once simplify matters
by saying that, with a few exceptions
(such as regard India, Russia, China,
&amp;c.), the foreign rates of exchange represent
the amount of money in its own
currency (be it paper or gold) that the
specified financial centre of each country
is willing to give for a pound sterling on
London. They vary almost daily, and
are indications either of indebtedness or
of the abundance or scarcity of money,
and are described as favorable or unfavorable
to this country according to
whether they are high or low. A rate
of exchange is an indication of indebtedness,
according to the position of the
balance of trade or indebtedness between
the country fixing it and England. When
in any given country this indebtedness
is in favor of England, it is obvious that
in that country bills on London for the
purpose of remittance will be in demand,
and will fetch more money; consequently
the rate at which they will be
purchased rises. When the balance of
trade is against England, it is equally
evident that bills on London are not so
much wanted, and the price of them—that
is the rate of exchange—consequently
falls.</p>

<p>But I have said that a rate of exchange
may be an indication of abundance
or scarcity of money in the country
quoting it; and it is often so in this
manner. Let us suppose that there is
no balance of trade to settle between a
given country and England, but that the
rate, of discount, or value of money, in
the former is, say, three per cent., while<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">230</span>
in England it is, say, four per cent. It
follows that <i lang="la">primâ facie</i> it is more profitable
to send surplus money to England
for employment than to keep it at home.
In the absence of trade bills a demand
for drafts transferring money to London
sets in, and the rate of exchange rises.
Let us now reverse this condition of
things. Suppose money to be dearer in
a given country than in England; it is
evident in that case that capitalists here
would find it more profitable to employ
their money in that country than at
home, and that the foreign rate of exchange
would consequently fall. I have
spoken hitherto of remittances by bills
or drafts only, but it is obvious that a
scarcity of these vehicles for the transfer
of money may so drive up the rate of
exchange that it becomes more profitable
to send gold. When this point is reached
the foreign rate of exchange is said to
stand at “gold point.” If I have made
myself clearly understood, the reader
will now see how the rate of discount by
attracting or repelling money affects the
movement of gold in the Bank of England,
and why, when the Bank desire to
either simply protect their stock of gold
or their “reserve,” and so prevent any
contraction of the note issue, or to attract
gold from abroad and so expand
the circulation, or increase the “reserve,”
they raise the official rate of discount
step by step until the desired end
is accomplished; or why, when the
stock of gold is large and the note issue
may with safety be contracted, they
facilitate the trade of the country by
lowering their minimum rate, at the risk
of gold being required for export. He
will, too, gain some slight idea of how
the world’s stock of gold is moved about
from country to country at the call of
commerce, and how true it is that the
trade of any country is, or ought to be,
regulated solely by its supply of gold,
or ready money.</p>

<p>The offices comprised in the Issue
Department of the Bank are the Hall,
the Bullion Office, and the Gold-weighing
Room. In the Hall, notes and gold
are exchanged by the public one for the
other, and notes are exchanged for other
notes of a higher or lower denomination.
In the Bullion Office bar-gold is
bought at the rate of £3 17s. 9d. per
ounce, or exchanged for sovereigns at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">231</span>
the rate of £3 17s. 10-1/2d. per ounce, at
which rate bullion is also sold. Nearly
all the imports of gold and silver to this
country are taken to the Bank of England
for delivery to the consignees.
The duties connected with these consignments
are undertaken by the Bullion
Office, where small charges are made
for weighing, packing, and collecting
freight, &amp;c. In the Gold-weighing Room
gold coin is weighed automatically, at
the rate of about 2,000 pieces an hour
each, by about a dozen beautiful little
machines worked by an atmospheric
engine. Bank notes are not re-issued
after having been once paid, and in the
Bank Note Office registers are kept in
which are recorded the dates of issue
and return to the Bank of each respective
note. The particulars of the payment
of any note can be ascertained by
a reference to the Bank Note Library,
where the paid and cancelled notes are
kept for seven years, after which they
are burnt on the Bank premises. For
the privilege of issuing the £15,750,000
against securities, and for exemption
from stamp duty, the Bank pay an annual
sum of about £200,000, together
with any profit which they may derive
from the notes issued against gold to the
Government. The paper on which bank
notes are printed is manufactured expressly
for the Bank of England at Laverstock
in Hampshire, but the dies from
which the water-mark is made, as well
as the plates from which the notes are
printed, are made at the Bank. The
notes are all printed at the Bank’s own
printing-office under the care of the
printing superintendent, the quantity of
notes required from time to time being
regulated by the chief cashier, who is responsible
for their safe custody as soon
as, by a second process of printing, the
numbers and dates have been filled in
for the purpose of issue. The average
number of bank notes paid and cancelled
each day is more than 40,000, and no
less than 80,000,000 cancelled notes may
be found as a rule, stored and sorted for
reference, in the Bank Note Library.
The Bank of England also undertakes
the printing of “rupee paper” for the
Indian Government.</p>

<p>The “Banking Department” of the
Bank of England is the separation of
the ordinary banking business from the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">232</span>
business of financial agency and issuing
notes. In a speech on the renewal of the
Bank charter in 1844 Sir Robert Peel
said, “With respect to the banking
business of the Bank, I propose that it
should be governed on precisely the
same principles as would regulate any
other body dealing with Bank of England
notes.” The Bank Act of 1844,
then, does not touch the management of
the Banking Department in any way beyond
requiring that a weekly statement
of its assets and liabilities shall be published.
This statement—which forms
part of the “Bank Return”—may be
thus analysed. On the left hand side
are the liabilities, divided into the liability
towards the proprietors of the Bank
as shown by the amounts of “Proprietors’
Capital” and “Rest” (which latter
is practically an addition to the capital);
the liability to the Government,
as shown by the amount of “Public Deposits,”
which are the balances of different
Government accounts; the liability
to the customers as shown by the amount
of the “Other Deposits,” which are the
sum of the balances of the current or
“drawing” accounts; and the liability
to the holders of the Bank’s acceptances
as shown by the amount of “Seven-day
and other Bills” in circulation. On the
other side of the statement are the assets
by which these liabilities are represented,
divided into “Government Securities,”
which show the amount of the banking
capital invested in Government securities;
the “Other Securities,” which
show the amount of other investments
made by the Bank; and, separately, the
“notes” and “gold and silver coin,”
which show the amount of cash in hand
for the current purposes of the Banking
Department. This sum of notes and
gold and silver coin forms, so to speak,
the cash assets of the Bank, and the proportion
which it bears to the current
liabilities disclosed by the public and
other deposits and seven-day bills is
called the proportion of reserve to liabilities,
and is always a matter of great
interest, and often of great anxiety, to
the City on Thursdays.</p>

<p>The question of the proportion which
these cash assets should bear to liabilities
is one of extreme importance to a
prudent banker. It is generally considered
that it should be about one-third,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">233</span>
but a proportion of reserve to liabilities
of only 33 per cent. in the Bank Return
would create considerable anxiety, while
in an ordinary joint-stock bank’s accounts
it would, I fancy, be abnormally
great, far greater than that disclosed by
the half-yearly accounts submitted to the
shareholders, which may naturally be
supposed to represent the financial position
in the most favorable light. The
publication of the weekly Bank Return
is so useful and important to commerce,
banking, and finance that it is to be regretted
that the law which calls for it is
not extended to all joint-stock if not to
private banks. We might then hope to
see an end put to that faulty system of
banking which in good times, in order
to pay extraordinary dividends, encourages
over-trading by giving every possible
facility to speculation, and, when a reaction
comes, suddenly cuts off all
“accommodation,” calls in all resources,
and drives its customers to the
Bank of England, in the hope of obtaining
that ready money which it is no
longer willing itself to supply. The
Bank of England, through their Banking
Department, undertake duties merely
towards their own customers and the
Government. Their banking business
is conducted for the most part (in theory,
at all events) on the same lines as any
other banking institution. It is unreasonable,
therefore, to suppose that it is
any part of their duty, in times of panic
or crisis, to find ready money for a public
shunted over to them by its own bankers,
who from an inordinate desire to
pay large dividends have placed themselves
in a position of inability or unwillingness
to find it themselves. And
yet some such theory as this is advanced
by many well-known writers on banking
and finance. Bankers, probably knowing
the weak points in their system, become
sadly selfish, and are quick to take
fright at the first signs of a panic, which
they often do much to increase. The
suspension of the Bank Act is to them
the only true solution of the difficulties
caused by over-trading, over-speculation,
and inflation of general business.
At their earnest entreaty—not at the
solicitation of the Bank of England—has
the Act been thrice suspended: not,
as subsequent events proved, because
any suspension of the Act was really<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">234</span>
necessary, but because bankers hesitated
to do their duty to their customers, except
under the shelter of its protecting
wing. Nothing can be more erroneous,
or, indeed, more mischievous, than the
doctrine that it is the duty of the Bank
of England to keep the “reserve” of
the whole country, simply on the ground
that, for Clearing House purposes, it
suits the convenience of bankers to entrust
them with large balances, and because
they act as agents for the Government
in automatically regulating the note
issue of the kingdom.</p>

<p>The business of the Banking Department—which,
except as regards the magnitude
of its transactions, and the current
accounts of other bankers and of
the Government, differs but little from
that of any other London banks—is carried
on chiefly in the Private Drawing
Office, the Public Drawing Office, the
Discount Office, and the Bill and Post
Bill Offices. Besides these offices there
are the Dividend Pay Office, devoted to
the cash payment of dividends, and the
Chief Cashier’s Office, where advances
on securities and the various public
loans are initiated, and to which is attached
the private room of the chief
cashier, which for the most part corresponds
with the manager’s room in any
ordinary bank. In the Private Drawing
Office are kept the private accounts of
the general customers of the Bank, a
separate counter being reserved for the
exclusive convenience of bankers. It
is a popular error to suppose that the
conditions of keeping an account with
the Bank of England differ in any essential
particular from those of most of the
other banks. A satisfactory introduction
will enable any one to open an account,
and no restriction is placed upon
the amount of balance to be kept, except
that if it does not prove remunerative
to the Bank a charge is made in
proportion to the amount of trouble and
expense involved. Roughly speaking,
a remunerative balance in ordinary cases
is considered to be an average balance
throughout the year of one pound for
each cheque drawn. Thus if a customer
draws two hundred cheques in a year
and keeps an average balance of £200
his account is probably considered remunerative.
Cheques may be drawn on
the Bank of any amount however small,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">235</span>
though there was, I believe, many years
ago, a sort of understanding that customers
should not draw cheques for an
amount under five pounds. The Public
Drawing Office, as its name implies, is
devoted to the custody of the drawing
accounts of the Government and various
public companies and institutions. The
Discount Office is charged with the reception
of all bills offered for discount
by parties who have opened discount
accounts with the Bank. These bills are
submitted to a committee of directors
(sitting daily for the purpose) who decide
upon the amount of accommodation
to be granted and the rate of discount
to be charged. The net proceeds
of the bills discounted are then passed
to the credit of the customer’s account,
while the bills themselves are entrusted
to the care of the Bill Office, which occupies
itself with the duty of sorting and
arranging them (together with bills belonging
to customers) so that they may
be duly presented for payment at maturity.
In the Post Bill Office the Bank
issue to the public their acceptances at
seven or sixty days’ sight, technically
called “Bank post bills,” for any required
amount, in even or uneven sums.
The amount of business transacted in
this office has considerably diminished
of late years, owing to similar facilities
being granted by bankers generally
throughout the country. The Bank of
England have nine country branches,
which keep separate accounts for the
Issue and Banking departments, and the
particulars of each day’s transactions,
together with the balance sheets, are
posted nightly to the Branch Banks
Office in London, through which office
all the correspondence and business
transactions connected with the branches
are carried on. There is also one
branch in London at the West-End.</p>

<p>The economy of the Bank of England
is controlled by the Governor, the
Deputy-Governor, and twenty-four Directors.
The clerical machinery is
divided into the “Cash side” and the
“Accountant’s side.” The former,
under the practical charge of the chief
cashier, comprises the transaction of all
business where actual cash is concerned,
together with the necessary book-keeping
which it involves; the latter, under
the charge of the chief accountant, takes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">236</span>
cognizance of all matters of pure book-keeping
where no actual cash is concerned,
such as those which relate to the
National Debt accounts, the registration
of Bank notes, and so on. In olden
times these divisions were kept much
more distinct than they are at present.
There was formerly a certain antagonism
between the two “chiefs” which, however,
has long since disappeared, and
they now live together in a state of remarkable
harmony, without even fighting
over the question of precedence
which the chief accountant is supposed
to claim—mainly, I fancy, on alphabetical
grounds, because A comes before C.
The supervision of each office on both
“sides” of the Bank, is intrusted to a
principal and deputy-principal, who are
accountable in the first place to the chief
cashier or chief accountant, as the case
may be, and afterwards to a committee
of directors. The secretary is a separate
officer of the Bank. He stands midway,
as it were, between the two “sides,”
having certain relations with each. He
nurses the charter, and sees that its
forms and ceremonies are complied
with; he records the proceedings of the
courts, summons and attends all committees,
and “picks up their bits.” He
waits upon the governors, and does odd
literary jobs, stops notes, puts the candidates
for clerkship through their preliminary
examination, collects income-tax,
and grants orders to view the Bank,
&amp;c. His duties, in short, are as multifarious
as those of the General Post
Office, and it is satisfactory to think that
they are as equally well performed by
the present incumbent and his staff.</p>

<p>The total number of employés all told
in the Bank is about 1,100, and the salary
list, including pensions, is about
£300,000 per annum. There is an excellent
library and reading-room in the
Bank, to which the directors have liberally
contributed both money and books.
There are also a Widows’ Fund and
Guarantee Society, a Life Insurance
Company, a Volunteer Company, and a
Club, or dining room, where clerks can
dine cheaply and well, connected with
the Bank, which owe very much of their
prosperity to the liberality and kind
consideration of the directors. The
governors and directors of the Bank
divide between them £14,000 per an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">237</span>num.
Of this the governors receive
£1,000 each and the directors £500
each. Beyond the status which their
position gives them, they derive no
benefit from their office, while they tax
themselves most liberally by their contributions
towards the welfare of their
clerks. The governor and deputy-governor
remain in office for two years only,
and this short tenure of office is, with
considerable reason, thought to be detrimental
to the efficient and consistent
administration of the functions of government.
The great blot of the system
seems to be the want of continuity of
policy which is engendered. A governor,
let us say, is an enlightened financier;
for two years his policy is paramount;
but his successor then comes,
and perhaps reverses everything, and the
onus of the change, so far as the Bank
customers are concerned, is left to be
borne by the permanent officers of the
Bank, who have perhaps never been
consulted in the matter, or whose opinions,
based on the experience of many
years, may be ruthlessly ignored. The
two years’ system undoubtedly has its
advantages in the constant introduction
of new blood, it also strengthens the
governors from above and below the
chair. The directors below the chair
give the governor a loyal and hearty
support, because they feel that one day
their own turn may come, while those
above the chair, having passed through
the ordeal, know the value of their colleagues’
support. But the result of this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">238</span>
is nevertheless the institution of a sort
of one-man power, which is well enough
when there is a Hubbard, Hodgson, or
Crawford in the chair, or if there is a
Baring, Hambro, Rothschild, or Goschen
to follow, but which may have its
disadvantages.</p>

<p>I have thus traced the rise, sketched
the progress, and dwelt briefly on the
present position of the Bank of England.
In spite of the gradual abolition
of their monopoly, in spite of the curtailment
of their exclusive privileges,
and in spite of all consequent competition,
the “governor and company” have
never failed to lead the van of the banking
progress of the kingdom, and to
maintain their proud position as the first
banking institution in the world. Bill-brokers
may occasionally grumble at the
late revival of an old rule restricting
the periods of advances to six weeks before
dividend time, and customers may
occasionally smile or fume at the traces
of red-tapeism which still linger in the
establishment; but no one can look
back, as I do, over a period of forty
years, without fully appreciating the
value of the important and beneficial
changes and improvements which have
lately been effected in every department
of the Bank for the purpose of facilitating
the transaction of business and
studying the convenience of the public,
or without feeling an increased veneration
and respect for “the old lady in
Threadneedle Street.”—<cite>Fortnightly Review.</cite></p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">239</span></p>




<h2 id="EXPLORATION_IN_A_NEW_DIRECTION">EXPLORATION IN A NEW DIRECTION.</h2>


<p>One great temptation to the exploration
of the world is rapidly passing away.
There is little to be found that will
gratify the love of the marvellous. Of
an absolutely new land there is now no
lingering hope. We know enough of the
ocean to be sure that there exists no undiscovered
continent, no unsuspected
peninsula—unless it be in the Antarctic
circle—and no island large enough to be
either of value or of interest. It is not,
it is true, many years since Saghalien,
which was supposed to be a peninsula,
was discovered to be an island; a new
island near Spitzbergen was found the
other day; and there may be an unnamed
islet or two in the North Pacific
still awaiting visitors; or a rock in the
Indian Ocean, as forgotten by all mankind
as that strange British dependency,
the Chagos group—a series of hill-tops
just peering above the water—is by
nearly all Englishmen; but such discoveries
can only be classed as rectifications
of detail in geography. They neither
arouse imagination nor stimulate enterprise,
as the old discoveries did; nor
can there be many more of them. The
coasts of the world and its oceans have
been surveyed by the persistent energy of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">240</span>
half-a-dozen Governments, who have
gone on with their work unnoticed for
more than a century; and the water-system
of the little planet has been thoroughly
explored. The survey of the
land is less complete; but it is advancing,
as the Scotchman said of Sunday,
“with fearful regularity.” What with
England, Germany, France, Portugal,
the African Association, Mr. Thomson,
Mr. Johnston, and the merchants hunting
for bargains, we shall soon be in possession
of a perfect map of Africa; and
are already tolerably certain that no unknown
race exists, and that there is no
considerable space in which we are likely
to find either new animals, or a new flora
of any but scientific importance. The
kind of delight which woke among men
when the first giraffe was caught, or the
first kangaroo was exactly sketched, is
not, we fear, a delight reserved for this
generation. There is just a faint hope
of such a “find” when we get fairly
inside New Guinea; but it is only faint.
There may be a buried city somewhere
in the back of Peru, as interesting as the
ruined city in Cambodia, and Yucatan
might repay much more patient searching
than it has received; while there are
spaces in Thibet unknown to white men,
and a province or two outside Afghanistan
which even Russians have not visited.
Indeed, if rumor does not lie,
they discovered a village a few weeks
ago which no official had seen for eighty
years, and where the people were entirely
self-governing; but the story looks a
little mythical, and the people thus discovered
were still only Russians. Brazil
has not been thoroughly searched, but
knowledge of its contents accumulates
at Rio, and its less-visited provinces are
known to be almost blank; and now
Mr. im Thurn, with his patient courage,
jumping upwards from rock to rock and
tree to tree, has revealed the mystery of
Roraima, the secret mountain-top in
Guiana which a correspondent of our
own first set the world agog to discover.
It is a plateau, twelve miles by four, entirely
bare of trees, with no animals
upon its surface, which is full of small
lakes, and with nothing to repay the explorer
except the consciousness of victory,
a magnificent prospect, and a few
orchids which fashionable gardeners will
hardly prize. There is no clan living up<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">241</span>
there isolated from mankind for a few
thousand years; and the wonderful animals
of which the Indians talked, and
which should, if the fear of man is not
instinctive, but only a result of centuries
of distrust, have trotted up to Mr. im
Thurn saying, “Come, sketch me,” existed
only in the wild imaginations of
men who honestly believe that all dreams
are real, and who cannot completely dissociate
their own thoughts from the subjects
of their thoughts—the possible explanation
of many a rare old legend. So
disappears one more though remote
hope of scientific excitement. There are
not many Roraimas in the world; and
when some bold gold-seeker has traversed
Eastern Peru, and some adventurous
Frenchman, with muskets for sale, has
forced his way up among the Shans behind
Laos, and the African land-grabbers
have met, as they will meet, and
the first Australian has killed the first
German in the centre of New Guinea,
there will be little left for the explorer,
who now shakes his head over the wonderful
dream we heard a missionary recount
thirty-five years ago,—that in the
depths of Australia we might yet discover
a buried town, and evidences of a
civilisation which had rotted-down till
its survivor was only an aborigine who
had forgotten fire. How that discovery
would delight the Duke of Argyll, giving
him the victory in his life-long defence
of the possibility of utter degeneracy!
But we fear that the pleasure—which,
as hard-headed thinker, he well deserves—is
not reserved for him.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>We fancy exploration, to become again
thoroughly interesting, must be directed
towards things, rather than places; the
whole world being searched for things
of value, and especially new dyes, new
fibres, and new foods. We have always
thought that there was nearly as much
to interest men in Mr. Fortune’s hunt
of years for the green indigo—which undoubtedly
exists, though he failed to find
it—as in any exploration of a new
island. The delight of the American
who has just discovered a cotton-plant
six times as fruitful as the old variety,
must be very keen, and not altogether
tainted by the reflection—though that is
unavoidable—that in such a plant there
must be dollars. Just imagine what that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">242</span>
man would do for mankind who found a
new and vigorous potato, different from
the plant which now grows in Ireland,
and which is, according to a writer in
the <cite>Cornhill</cite>, being propagated by cuttings,
which is a single undivided plant,
liable to inherit, through all its millions
of apparently separate existences, the
weaknesses of the original tuber, and
liable also to exhaustion, as of old age.
It has no children; only a power, so to
speak, of having bits of its flesh cut off
and planted. It is never renewed from
seeds, and so, by all the analogies of
Nature, will perish; though the banana,
which also is never renewed—and, indeed,
in one variety, has become seedless—has
lasted ages. It is quite possible
that there are only two bananas in
the world. Or imagine a new and successful
cereal,—a real one in the true
silica armor, with a head twice as heavy,
and grains twice as nutritious, as those
of wheat. Why should wheat be the
final source of bread? Man got saccharine
matter from all sorts of things—grapes,
honey, and fruits—from the
earliest times; but he was old in the
world, and had passed through many
civilisations, before he discovered the
cane and crushed the beet, and so got
his present boundless store of sugar. A
cereal as fruitful as wheat and as hardy
as rye would change the face of Northern
Europe; while one which could
flourish on exhausted soil or in a damp
climate, might affect the distribution of
mankind. The direct gain of mankind
from such a discovery might be counted
by hundreds of millions; and we know
of no law of Nature which should prevent
it, and of no guarantee that the
cultivating races have exhausted search.
They most of them, in the early ages,
when they longed for substitutes for fish,
and meat, and berries, must have
clutched the first edible grass they could
find without much hunting for better.
Farmers will smile, but there may be
grains they never saw. Mincing Lane
thinks it knows all about tea, and, no
doubt, does know a good deal; but Mr.
Alexander Hosie, of the Chinese Consular
service, has eaten and drank a tea
which needs no sugar. At least, in the
fascinating Report which he has presented
to Sir H. Parkes, and which has
just been published by Parliament to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">243</span>
teach travellers how to observe, while
recording the result of his hunt after
white tree-wax, he says:—“I come now
to the last class of tea, the discovery of
Mr. Baber. If my memory is not at
fault, he was regaled by a priest on
Mount Olmei with tea possessing both
the flavor of milk and sugar. It may
have been in the very temple on the
mountain-side in which I am now writing
that Mr. Baber was agreeably surprised.
At anyrate, I am sipping an
infusion which is without doubt sweet,
and which is declared by the priest to be
brewed from a naturally-prepared tea-leaf.
It is a large dark-brown leaf, and
is very sweet when chewed. The people
at the bottom of the mountain, whom I
first questioned regarding this tea, asserted
that the leaves were sweet because
they were first steeped in molasses; but
the balance of evidence, as I have since
found from extensive inquiry, is against
any such artificial preparation. The
tree is said to grow in only one gorge in
the mountain, whence the leaves are
brought for sale.” What will Mincing
Lane give for a shipload of that tea, the
very existence of which, till drunk and
eaten, the dealers would have regarded
as a solemn joke? Men are wise about
silk-culture in Italy and Southern
France; but they do not know, as the
Chinese told Mr. Hosie, that the mulberry-leaf
is too strong food for baby-silkworms,
and that the wretched little
insect, if you want plenty of silk, should
be fed-up in earliest infancy on the
leaves of a silkworm thorn-tree, fifteen
feet high, unknown to Europeans,
though Mr. Hosie found it everywhere
in Szechuen, growing by the road-sides,
and as hardy as the thorns, of which it
is a variety, usually are. How much
difference in annual cash-earnings would
the importation of that thorn make in
Lombardy? Why should not the Governments,
which so steadily map-out the
seas, even combining to do it, institute
a patient and exhaustive search for new
grasses able to produce flour, and new
vegetables fit for eating? They might
not produce many Mr. Hosies, who, if
the Members of Parliament read his Report,
will very soon find himself as well-known
in London as any popular author;
but they also might. The men like Mr.
Fortune and Mr. Hosie, the men whose<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">244</span>
observation nothing escapes, are not rare
among botanists, and would need but
little encouragement to carry on for years
a persistent inquiry which, if carefully
limited to defined objects, would almost
certainly produce some considerable result.
The work, it will be said, is one
for Societies; but it seems a pity to
waste the great resource which Governments
possess in the wide distribution of
their agencies, and in their power of
carrying-on their inquiries without reference
to time. There will be a Legation
at Pekin and Lima, and Jeddo, and
Teheran, a hundred years hence; and
one official inquirer who records everything,
and is replaced when he departs,
and is always protected and treated with
civility, can, in that space of time, accumulate
much knowledge, and will cost
but little money. It is organised and
protracted inquiry, not a mere spasmodic
effort, that we want to see, and
that will benefit mankind. Let the
Societies hunt for their rare orchids,
and plants with lovely blooms, and all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">245</span>
manner of scientific novelties, and let
the Governments promote the search for
prosaic things which the ordinary inquirer
will neglect. We shall find no
new edible animal, we fear, unless it be
some variety of goat which can be bred
into fatness, and made to yield sweet
meat—kid properly cooked, that is,
roasted to death, is better than most
mutton—but a new cereal is clearly a
possibility, and might be worth all the
botanical discoveries made since the settlers
in Virginia sent home the potato.
The late Mr. Bagehot, who was always
dropping witty wisdom, used to say that
the wildest speculator he ever heard of
was the first man who dropped grain into
the earth and waited till it grew up, and
to regret that his name, like that of the
discoverer of fire, and of the first man
who mastered a horse, was for ever lost.
We think we may venture to say that the
name of the man who next discovers a
cereal of true value will not be.—<em>The
Spectator.</em></p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">246</span></p>




<h2 id="A_RUSSIAN_PHILOSOPHER_ON_ENGLISH_POLITICS">A RUSSIAN PHILOSOPHER ON ENGLISH POLITICS.</h2>


<p>About five-and-twenty years ago, I
happened to be engaged in the service
of my country in a distant part of the
world. The duties which devolved upon
me threw me into a daily contact with
a Russian officer similarly employed.
Notwithstanding the conflicting interests
which we severally represented, and the
somewhat delicate and often strained
relations resulting therefrom, we had
not been long in each other’s society
without becoming sensible of a personal
sympathy too powerful to be resisted,
and which soon ripened into an intimacy
which lasted for many years; indeed
we were thrown so exclusively upon our
own resources, deprived as we were of
all other society, that we must probably
soon either have become bitter enemies
or fast friends. A certain similarity of
taste, I had almost said of aspiration,
forced upon us the latter alternative;
and it was probably due to this that we
were enabled to bring the special duties
upon which we were engaged to a successful
conclusion, whereby we earned
the approval of our respective Governments,—represented
in his case by a
decoration, and in mine by a curt complimentary
despatch; for in those days
C.B.’s and C.M.G.’s were not flung
about with the lavish profusion which
has since so largely depreciated their
value. It was a relief, when the labors
of the day were over—which had taxed
all our powers of ingenuity and forbearance,
and we had fatigued our brains by
inventing compromises and devising solutions
which should satisfy the susceptibilities
of our respective Governments—to
jump on our horses and take a
sharp dash across country, just by way
of clearing our brains of diplomatic cobwebs.
Generally we played at follow-my-leader,
and we took it in turns to be
leader; for we were both young, and
had, in fact, been weighted with responsibilities
beyond our years, which made
us rush into a reaction that consisted in
an active endeavor to break our necks
every afternoon with all the keener zest,—to
the intense astonishment of the
natives of the uncivilised region to which
we had been temporarily banished.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">247</span>
Then, as we jogged slowly home, we
would fall into those discussions, on
social, religious, psychological, and
moral problems, by which our souls were
vexed, which lasted through dinner, and
often far into the night. I found in my
companion an earnestness, depth, and
originality of sentiment which were most
remarkable in one so young, the more
especially as I had not supposed that his
training and early associations had been
of a character to develop that side of his
nature; possibly the very restraints to
which he had been subjected had stimulated
his instincts for independent
thought and speculation. Knowing
English, French, and German almost as
well as his mother-tongue, he had read
extensively and greedily in all three languages;
and, owing to certain family
circumstances, he had spent the most
part of his life away from his native
land, applying himself, with an acuteness
and a faculty of observation extraordinary
in one so young, to a study of
the political institutions, social conditions,
and national characteristics of
the different European countries in
which he had lived. So precocious did
his intelligence appear to me in this respect,
that I soon came to consider myself
in some degree a sort of disciple;
and I have always been conscious that
his influence during the nine months that
we were together affected my own subsequent
views of life, and indeed to some
extent moulded my future. In the course
of these discussions he unburdened himself
to me on all subjects as fully as he
would have done to a brother—indeed,
considering who his brother was, far
more freely; and did not shrink from
commenting upon the social and political
condition of his own country, and from
giving vent to opinions which would
probably have consigned him to the
mines of Siberia for life had he been
known to entertain them. The confidence
which he thus displayed towards
me only served to bind us more closely
together, though I was ever haunted by
the fear that the day might come when
he might misplace it, with consequences
which might be fatal to himself. As he
was absolutely devoid of all personal
ambition, this would be of little moment,
if it only resulted in the abrupt
termination of his career, which, from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">248</span>
his natural independence of character,
I anticipated could not long be postponed.
It occurred even sooner than I
expected. Within six months of my
parting from him, I received a letter in
which he told me he had fallen into disgrace,
and was going to live in Italy.
The exigencies of my own service had
taken me to a very different part of the
world; but we kept up, nevertheless, an
active correspondence for some years,
during which he occasionally sent me
notes of a book he was writing, in letters
which continued to exhibit more and
more the results of his extensive reading
and profound faculty of observation,
philosophic speculation and generalisation.
Suddenly, about fifteen years ago,
and without a word of warning, these
ceased. All my letters remained unanswered;
and when, some time afterwards,
I found myself in Rome, and inquired
at the address to which I had
sent them, it was only to learn that the
present proprietors of the house were
comparatively new people, and had never
heard of him. Meantime I had myself
retired from the service, and being of a
wandering and unsettled disposition, had
only returned to my own country for a
few months at a time. I had lived too
long in summer climes, and under less
conventional restraints, to be happy in
it; but one of my constant regrets was
that I had never thought of providing
my Russian friend with a permanent address,
so that in case of his ever being
able or willing to communicate with me
again, he might know where to find me.
Meanwhile I could only account for his
silence by the painful supposition that
he had in some manner incurred the
severe displeasure of his Government,
and was languishing in that distant semi-arctic
region which is hermetically sealed
to all communication with the outside
world.</p>

<p>My delight may easily be imagined,
therefore, when scarce two months ago,
chancing to be a passenger on board a
steamer in the Mediterranean, I found
myself seated the first day at dinner next
to a man, the tones of whose voice I
thought I recognised, though I was for
a moment puzzled by the alteration in
his general appearance, and who turned
out to be my long-lost friend, upon
whom, as I looked at the furrows on his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">249</span>
countenance, I saw that something more
than time—though it had extended over
twenty-five years—had worked a change.
This same interval had, doubtless, done
something for me; so we both looked at
each other for a moment in hesitation
before permitting the joy of mutual
recognition to burst forth. We soon
found, on comparing notes, that we had
been longing to find each other, and
that nothing now prevented our pitching
our tent together on the sunny Mediterranean
shore, in the hope and belief
that we should find that the companionship
which had suited us so well twenty-five
years previously, would only be rendered
more full of interest and profit by
the experiences which we had undergone
since that period; nor had we conversed
an hour before we became convinced
that, however much we might have
changed in outward appearance, our
affection for each other, and our human
sympathies generally, had undergone no
alteration. It is therefore in a villa
surrounded by orange-groves, with terraces
overlooking the sea, built curiously
into the fissures of impending rock, that
I am writing this; or, to be more strictly
accurate, I should say it is in a summer-house
attached to the villa, fifty feet beneath
which the sea is rippling in ceaseless
murmur, while my friend, stretched
on a Persian rug in the shade formed by
the angle of the wall with the overhanging
rock, here covered with a creeping
jasmine, heavy with blossom, is watching
the smoke of his cigarette, and listening
while I read to him passages here
and there of the notes which I had taken
of our last night’s conversation. It had
been suggested by the arrival of letters
and newspapers from England, and it
occurred to me that the remarks of my
friend as a calm and unprejudiced observer
upon the present political, social,
and moral condition of my own country,
possessed a value which justified me in
asking his permission to be allowed to
publish them, the more so as he had just
returned from spending some months in
London; and he was of far too liberal
and philosophical a temperament and
cosmopolitan training and sympathy to
be influenced by national prejudice;
while, had he ever been once biassed by
it, the treatment he had undergone at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">250</span>
the hands of his own Government would
have long since effectually removed it.</p>

<p>“I will introduce you to the public by
telling the story of our previous acquaintance,
just as it occurred,” I observed.
This the reader will remark that I have
already done; but I did not read my introduction
to my friend, as I knew he
would have raised strong objections to
the complimentary passages. “Now tell
me what I am to call you?”</p>

<p>“Ivan is safe, simple, and not far
from the truth, unless you prefer a pair
of initials like my well-known countrywoman
O. K. It has amused me to observe,”
he added, with a smile, “as I
have watched the performances, social,
literary, and political, how much more
easy it is for a woman to understand the
genius of a man than the genius of a
nation.”</p>

<p>“Perhaps that is because the nation
is composed of women as well as of
men,”I replied.</p>

<p>“After all, it comes to pretty much
the same thing,” said Ivan; “for the
genius that he understood well enough
to beguile, seems to apprehend equally
well the genius of the nation he governs,
or he could not have beguiled it in the
sense she desired. The whole incident
serves to illustrate the mystery of woman’s
true sphere of influence, so little
understood by the women themselves
who agitate for their rights.”</p>

<p>“I am not disposed to admit,”I answered,
“that the incident in question
proves your case; for I know none of
your own countrymen, to say nothing
of the women, who understand the genius
of the English people, for to do so implies
an apprehension of the genius of
their institutions, and it is the incapacity
of foreigners generally to appreciate
these which causes them to regard our
domestic policy in the light of an unfathomable
mystery which it is hopeless
to attempt to penetrate, and our foreign
policy as a delusion and a snare.”</p>

<p>“When your Government gets into
difficulties,”said Ivan,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">251</span> “it certainly
goes to work to get out of them in a
way exactly the opposite to that which
other European Governments, and especially
we in Russia, are in the habit of
pursuing. Foreign policy is with us the
great safety-valve by which the bubbling
passions of the country find a vent, and
our central authority takes refuge from
its troubles in foreign wars and schemes
of territorial aggrandisement; your
Government pursues a diametrically opposite
system, and considers, apparently,
that its best chance of safety lies in stirring
up domestic broils, and exciting the
people to fever-heat of political passion
among themselves. In other words,
while our statesmen believe that they
can best secure their own positions and
avert the perils arising from mis-government
by distracting public attention from
internal affairs and rushing into dangers
abroad, yours hope to escape the consequences
of their blunders abroad by promoting
revolutionary tendencies at
home. It would be curious to analyse
the causes which have resulted in such
opposite political methods, the more especially
as both, in their different ways,
are equally prejudicial to the highest
national interests, and, from a philosophical
point of view, would furnish a
most interesting political and sociological
study. As it is, my own country
produces upon me the effect of a dashing
young woman, still intoxicated with
her youthful conquests and greedy for
more, while she refuses to admit that a
gnawing disease is preying upon her
vitals, still less to apply any remedies to
it; in yours, on the other hand, I seem
to see an old woman in her dotage, who
makes blatant and canting profession of
that virtue which her age and feebleness
have imposed upon her as a necessity,
while she paints, and rouges, and pampers
herself with luxury, and fritters
away the little strength and energy she
still possesses in absorbing herself with
domestic details and the quarrels of her
servants, and leaves her vast estates to
take care of themselves. Considering
the dangers with which both countries
are menaced, the great difference which
I observed between the Governments of
the two countries is, that in one, government
takes the form of active insanity—in
the other, of drivelling imbecility.
After all, there is always more hope for
a young lunatic than an old idiot. We
may pull through all right yet, but we
shall have a very rough time to pass
through first.”</p>

<p>“And you think that we are too far
gone ever to do so,”I remarked, rather<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">252</span>
discouraged by the gloomy view he took
of the present condition and future
prospects of my native country.”</p>

<p>“I don’t altogether say that. It is
not with countries as with individuals;
the latter always pass from their second
childhood into their graves. But for
nations, who can say that there is not
reserved a second youth? though history
does not record an instance of any
nation having ever attained to it. The
process is probably a slow one; but in
these days of rapid development, to say
nothing of evolution, we cannot be sure
even of that.”</p>

<p>“Still,”I pursued, a little nettled at
the severity of his judgment in regard
to my own country,—I did not care what
he said about Russia, of which I was
in no position to judge,—“I should like
to know upon what grounds you base
your opinion that England is an old
idiot. The expression, I think, is
scarcely parliamentary.”</p>

<p>“In using the term to which you object,”
said Ivan,—“which, after reading
the language recently used in debate
in your House of Commons, I maintain
is strictly parliamentary,—I was not so
much alluding to England as to its Government;
and I will endeavor to explain
to you the reasons which lead me to
think that the expression is not misapplied.
There are at the present day, including
the population of the United
States, between eighty and ninety millions
of people who owe their origin to
the British Isles; who speak the English
language as their mother-tongue; who
possess in a more or less degree the
national characteristics of the race from
which they have sprung; who exercise
an influence over a greater area of the
surface of the earth than that of any
other race upon it; who directly control
over 250 millions of people not of their
own race, and indirectly control many
millions more; whose commercial relations
are more extensive than those of
all the other nations of the world put
together; whose wealth is unrivalled;
whose political institutions have hitherto
served as a model, as they have
been the envy of less favored peoples;
and who may be said, without fear of
contradiction, to lead the van of the
world’s civilisation. It is difficult,
when we spread a map out before us, to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">253</span>
realise that so small a dot as Great
Britain appears upon it, should have
given birth to these stupendous forces;
and one is led to examine into the processes
by which so marvellous a position
has been achieved in the world’s history
as that which these small islands must
occupy, even though that position seems
now about to be destroyed by what appears
to an outsider to be a combination
of national decrepitude and administrative
impotence,—for it is only when a
nation has itself lost its vigor, that it tolerates
imbecility on the part of its rulers.
The greatness of England has been built
up, not on the conquests of its neighbors,
or of nations equally civilised
with itself, as we have seen occur in the
cases of other great empires, but in the
comparatively easy subjugation of barbarous
peoples; in the occupation and
colonisation of countries sparingly inhabited
by savage races; in the material
development of vast tracts of the earth’s
surface; in the creation of new markets,
of new sources alike of supply and of
demand; and in the energetic and profitable
employment of capital in all the
regions of the earth. This was possible,
and possible only because her adventurous
sons who went forth into wild and
distant regions to occupy, to develop,
and to create, always felt that they had
behind them a motherland whose proud
boast it was that she ruled the waves,
and a nation and Government so thoroughly
animated by their own daring
and adventurous spirit, that they knew
that none were too humble or insignificant
to be watched over and protected;
nay, more, they were encouraged in
hardy enterprises, and often assisted to
carry them out.</p>

<p>“During the last two or three years,
the circumstances of my life, into which
it is not necessary for me now to enter,
have forced me not merely to circumnavigate
the globe, but especially to
visit those British possessions, and those
seaboards of lands still relative if barbarous,
upon which your countrymen
are so thickly dotted as merchants or
settlers, and where British subjects of
foreign race abound, who carry on their
avocations under that British protection
which used to be a reality, but is now
only a name. Familiar as I have been
with Englishmen from my youth, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">254</span>
found a spirit of bitter discontent rife,
which, even among your grumbling race,
was altogether a new feature in their
conversation, especially with a foreigner.
Many were making arrangements to
close up their business and abandon
the commerce in which they were engaged;
some, and this was especially
the case among the British subjects of
foreign race, were taking steps to change
their nationality. In some of the
colonies the language held sounded to
my Russian ears little short of high
treason; while I often heard Englishmen
in the society of foreigners say that
they were ashamed to call themselves
Englishmen—a sentiment which I do
not remember ever having heard one of
your countrymen give vent to in my
youth.</p>

<p>“I only mention these as illustrations
of the fact which was forcibly impressed
upon me during my travels, that the influence
of England was waning, not in
Europe, where it <em>has</em> waned, but where
it might be recovered by a vigorous
stroke of policy,—but in Asia, Africa,
and America—in those continents from
which she derives her position and her
wealth. The waning of British influence
in Europe means, comparatively,
nothing, so far as British commerce is
concerned. The waning of that influence
in the three other continents means
national decay. It has not been by her
great wars, her European campaigns,
that England has achieved greatness,
but by her little ones in those distant
countries which your Government seems
ready to retire from, bag and baggage,
at the first word of a new-comer; and
yet one would suppose that nothing
could be clearer to a people not in its
dotage than this, that if they do not
protect their merchants, the latter will
not be able to compete with those who
are protected. If you desire proof of
this, look at the increasing substitution
of German for English houses of commerce
all over the world; and if commerce
languishes, food becomes dearer
for those very classes who cry out
against those little wars which, when
wisely turned to account have proved
your best national investments, and have
been the indirect means of giving food
and employment to your starving millions.
I see that there is some talk of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">255</span>
a committee being appointed to inquire
into the causes of the depression of
trade. Those causes are not very far
to seek; or rather, in another sense,
they are very far to seek. You must
travel from China to Peru to find them,
and they will stare you in the face. I
have been watching, while you are
squabbling over your Franchise and your
Redistribution Bills, how your trade is
slipping from you. So you go on fiddling
on the two strings of your electoral
fiddle, while Rome is burning. One
would have supposed that England was
old enough by this time to have discovered
that it would not improve her
voters to give them another shuffle;
that she had experience enough to
know that electors were like playing
cards, the more you shuffle them the
dirtier they get. With the interests of
the empire at stake, certainly in two if
not in three continents, you play the
ostrich, and bury your heads in parish
politics—parish politics of the most
pestilent and useless description.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">256</span></p>

<p>“Do you want to know why trade
languishes? It is summed up in a short
sentence: Want of confidence on the
part of the trader; it cramps his enterprise,
damps his ardor, spoils his temper,
and crushes all the manliness out of
him. The commercial stability of England
was not built up by a lot of unprotected
females, which is the condition the
British merchant abroad is rapidly being
reduced to by the neglect and apathy
and indifference to his interests of his
Government. He is perfectly well aware
in every port there is a consul, that he
is considered a nuisance by that functionary,
who knows that in the degree
in which he prevents his complaints from
reaching the department which is supposed
to direct the foreign policy of England,
he will be considered capable and
efficient. No longer does he feel himself
to be the <i lang="la">Civis Romanus</i> of old days.
His sugar plantations may be destroyed
in Madagascar, his commercial interests
may be imperilled in China, he may be
robbed and insulted in Turkey; but he
is gradually being taught, by bitter experience,
that it is hopeless to look to
diplomatic interference for redress.
Meanwhile the British taxpayer continues
to pay for that expensive luxury
whose function it is supposed to be to
protect those commercial interests abroad
upon which the prosperity and wealth
of Great Britain depends. In like manner
the ties between the mother country
and her colonies are weakened by her
persistent shrinking from the responsibilities
and obligations which the welfare
and security of those colonies involve.
She sacrifices ruthlessly that
prestige upon the maintenance of which
the safety, and in some cases the allegiance,
of her subjects depends. She deludes
unhappy colonists into making investments
and settlements in half-civilised
States upon the faith of treaties,
which she ignominiously shrinks from
enforcing at the first appearance of danger,
and calmly leaves her savage allies
to be slaughtered and her colonists to
be plundered, as in the case of South
Africa; or she makes transparent display
of her timidity and weakness, as
has been conspicuously the case in her
relations with her Australian possessions;
or retreats from the protection
of her natural frontiers, as she has lately
done in India. And all this is in pursuance
of a theory of political economy
incomprehensible to the unprejudiced
observer like myself, that it is cheaper
and more advantageous to the national
prosperity to sacrifice the commercial
interests of the country than to incur
the risks and expense of protecting
them. The only explanation one can
give of an infatuation so incredible, of
a policy so short-sighted and so fraught
with disaster, is, that it is based on
ignorance—ignorance of the present injury
that it is working, and ignorance
of the dangers to which it is giving
birth. There can be no surer way of
precipitating the crisis which England
seeks to avoid, and which, when it
comes, must involve the utter ruin of
her trade, than the invitation which her
craven attitude offers to her covetous
and unscrupulous neighbors, whether
they be civilised or uncivilised, to encroach
to their own profit, until at
last the veil which is now before the
eyes of the public in England will be
torn away, and they will find themselves
suddenly called upon to abandon the
parochial details over which they have
been wrangling, for sterner work. It
will be too late then to regret the penny-wise
and pound-foolish policy which
plunged them into the mess: the only
question they will have to consider is,
whether it is not too late to get out of
it.”</p>

<p>“I am a good deal surprised,”I remarked,
after having listened to the
unflattering utterances of my friend with
some dissatisfaction, “that you entirely
ignore all other considerations than
those of mere policy and expediency.
Granting, as you say, that the present
policy of England imperils its commercial
ascendency, are no other considerations
to be allowed to guide the policy
of a nation than those connected with
its pocket? Have we no moral duties
to perform, no example to set, no principles
to maintain? Or are we ever to
remain a nation of shopkeepers, fighting
unscrupulously for markets; grabbing
the territory of savages, under the pretext
of civilising them, which is usually
accomplished by the process of extermination;
and jostling all other comers
out of the markets of the world by fair
means or foul? Because these means
served us some centuries ago, and because,
if you will, our national greatness
is built upon them, does it follow that
we should cling to them in these more
enlightened days? If the moral instinct
of the people of England begins
to revolt against them, even to the prejudice
of the national purse, do our
money-bags constitute a sufficient reason
why we should remain in the Cimmerian
darkness and brutality of the middle
ages? Of all men you were the last
whom I expected to hear confound
moral progress with political imbecility.”
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">259</span></p>

<p>“Nay,” returned Ivan, “I should
be the first to congratulate you on a
policy of moral progress, if, in that pursued
at present by England, I could discover
it. What moral progress is there
in a policy which has resulted in the
slaughter of thousands of unhappy
Arabs in Egypt and the Eastern Soudan?
Where does moral progress show
itself in the expedition which has
worked its weary way into the heart of
Africa, to fight against the naked savages
there? Where is the moral progress
of a policy which has necessitated
another military expedition to South
Africa, and new annexations of territory
there? What moral progress have you
achieved in Turkey, where you are
bound by treaty to institute reforms in
that part of the empire over which you
are supposed by the same treaty to exercise
a protectorate, the very existence
of which, under the policy of moral
progress, it has been found convenient
to ignore, because it involves responsibilities
towards an oppressed and suffering
people, whose oppression and whose
sufferings it would now be expensive
and troublesome to recognise, though
political capital enough is made out of
them when the exigencies of your local
party warfare demand it? The question
is, in what does real moral progress
consist? Certainly not in the blatant
profession of moral platitudes—the abstract
truth of which everybody recognizes—when
they are accompanied by a
practice which gives them the lie direct.
There can be nothing more demoralising
to the moral welfare of a nation than a
policy which is in flagrant contradiction
to its lofty moral pretensions. Not
only does it degrade the national conscience,
but it renders that conscience
an object of derision and contempt
among foreign nations. To be logical
and consistent, the politician ‘who is
in trouble about his soul’ must follow
one of two courses,—either he must
recognise the fact that national egotism,
like individual egotism, is a vice which
admits of no compromise, and that the
duty of his country is to love other
countries better than itself; that the
love of money, and therefore the making
of it, is the root of all evil; that when
the nation is metaphorically asked for
its cloak, it should give its coat also—and
when smitten on one cheek, should
turn the other to the smiter;—when he
is reluctantly convinced that, however
desirable this higher law might be, and
however indisputable its morality, it
is, under the existing conditions of
humanity, impracticable, then he has no
alternative but to base the national
policy upon the exactly opposite principle,
which is that which governs the
policy of all other nations, and assume
that his duty consists in protecting the
interests of his own country against
those of rival countries, which are all
engaged in an incessant competitive warfare
against each other; and he will
find, by experience, that any attempt to
compromise with the opposite or altruistic
principle will inevitably lead to disaster,
for it will involve that hesitation
and weakness in the conduct of affairs
which will encourage those rivals to overt
acts of offence and encroachment that
must ultimately lead to bloody wars in
defence of those national interests which
a policy of vacillation and of moral inconsistency
will have imperilled. Sooner
or later, it is certain that the force of
events will rip off the thin veneering
of cant which had served to delude the
ignorant masses, and to conceal either
the stupidity or the insincerity of its
professors. I say stupidity, for there
can be little doubt that among those
who guide the destinies of the nation
are many who honestly share the
belief with the public they help to mislead,
that to shrink from responsibilities,
to temporise in the face of danger, to
make sacrifices and concessions in order
to conciliate, will avert catastrophes
instead of precipitating them; while
there are others to whose common-sense
it would be an insult to make any such
assumption.”</p>

<p>“But these others,”I observed,
“may, without any insult to their common-sense,
be supposed to entertain the
opinion that the possessions of the
British empire are sufficiently extended
and difficult to protect, to render any
further annexation of territory, or acquisition
of responsibility, undesirable.”</p>

<p>“Doubtless; and in this I agree with
them. Indeed, the incapacity they have
shown to protect what they have got, is
the best reason they could assign for
being unwilling to have more; but it
does not touch the question of the principle
upon which England’s policy
should be based in her dealings with
foreign nations, and with her own colonial
possessions; in other words, what
are the most economical and at the
same time the most moral methods of
self-preservation? I put economy before
morality, because, whatever may be
the professions of Governments in practice,
as a consideration, it always precedes
it. If bloodguiltiness was not always
attended with so much expense,
people’s consciences would be far less
sensitive on the subject. Hence it happens
that highly moral financiers are apt<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">260</span>
to regard things as wicked in the degree
in which they are costly, while they are
too short-sighted as statesmen to perceive
that a prompt expenditure is often
the best way of saving a far heavier
amount, which must be the result of the
delay—or, in homely phraseology, that
a stitch in time saves nine. The most
economical and the most moral method
of self-preservation, then, will be found
in consolidating, protecting, and extending
the commercial position and moral
influence of the great English-speaking
people in all quarters of the globe. At
this moment, though surrounded by
enemies who envy and hate her, there
is no country more safe from attack
than Germany, because she is governed
by a statesman who never shirks responsibility,
cowers before danger, or,
in moments of difficulty, takes refuge
in compromise or concession. It is not
England, with her horror of war, that
has, during the last decade, been the
Power which has prevented a European
war, otherwise inevitable, from breaking
forth; the statesman to whom the
peace of Europe has been due, upon
whom that peace now depends, and who
is therefore doing the most for the moral
progress of Europe, is exactly that statesman
who never indulges in moral platitudes,
and whom his worst enemy cannot
accuse of hypocrisy. No one will
pretend that peace is not more conducive
to economy and moral progress than
war; but to secure it, a great military
position and a great national prestige
are alike indispensable. England has,
or should have, the first naval position
in the world, and, until lately, her national
prestige was second to none. These
advantages confer on her great responsibilities;
to part with them is to diminish
her powers of usefulness in the
world, and her mission of civilising it.
As the champion of civil and religious
liberty, she owes a duty to humanity,
which it would be a crime alike in the
eyes of God and man for her to relinquish,
even though it may cost blood
and treasure to maintain it,—for the
amount expended to maintain it would
be as nothing compared to the sacrifices
of both life and money which the abandonment
of this duty would entail upon
the world. I speak feelingly, for I
cannot conceive a greater disaster be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">261</span>fall
the human race, than to see the
place of England usurped by the nation
of which I have the honor of being a
humble member,”here Ivan smiled bitterly.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">262</span>
“So absorbed are you in your
own vestry quarrels, that you either forget
or are ignorant of the place you occupy
in the regard of millions, who see
in England the apostle of free thought,
free speech, free institutions. Your
standard, which we look up to as the flag
of liberty, and which should be nailed
to the mast, we watch you with dismay
lowering to every piratical craft, while
the crew are fighting about a distribution
of provisions, and the pilot seems to
prefer running his ship on the rocks to
boldly facing the enemy’s cruisers.
Nothing strikes us members of the oppressed
and suppressed races as more
anomalous and incomprehensible, than
the fact that the party in England which
are most ready to compromise the honor
of that flag, and to haul it down on the
least provocation, are precisely that
party who are most loud-tongued in
their profession of sympathy for those
races to whom it is the banner on which
their hopes are fixed—the symbol in
their eyes of progress, civilisation, and
political freedom. Hence it is that all
those among us who are not absolute
anarchists, find ourselves unconsciously
withdrawing our sympathies from that
political party in your country, who,
while they style themselves the party of
progress and of advanced thought, are
in reality compromising the cause which
I feel sure they honestly cherish and
believe in, by destroying the prestige
and lowering the influence of the one
European Power which is its great representative—and,
to our own great wonderment,
are beginning rather to pin our
hopes for the future upon those whom
we have hitherto considered reactionary,
because they called themselves
Conservative and aristocratic, but who,
in this crisis of the fortunes of their
country, resist a policy calculated to impair
its supremacy. Thus, on a higher
principle than that appealed to by the
political moralists who direct the helm
of State, may the best interests of morality
be reconciled with those of their
own country; for it is by maintaining
the supremacy of England that the
principle which is identified with her
institutions, her traditions, and the
aspirations of her people, can be best
secured in the interests of that universal
society of which she forms part, and
towards which she undoubtedly has
moral obligations and responsibilities.
The party which seeks to evade them,
whether upon specious theories started
by <i>doctrinaires</i> ignorant of international
conditions, or upon penny-wise and
pound-foolish grounds of economy, are
in reality the party of reaction; for they
are the best allies of reactionists, and
are playing into their hands, as no people
have better reason for knowing than
the Russians, who have observed with
dismay the sympathy of your Prime
Minister with ‘the divine figure of the
North,’ as he has styled our ruler, and
his methods of government; while from
our point of view, the party of progress
in England, let them call themselves
Conservative if they so please, are those
who, true to the grand traditions of the
country, are determined to keep it in
the van of freedom, not merely because
its wealth and prosperity are due to that
absolute civil and political liberty which
imposed no check upon individual enterprise
or achievement, but because with
the preservation of its greatness are
bound up the most cherished interests
of the human race.”</p>

<p>“Come, Ivan,”I said, laughing,
“you have wound up with a peroration
as much too flattering to my country as
you were too uncomplimentary at the
start. For an ‘old idiot,’ you have
ended by giving her a pretty good character.”</p>

<p>“Not at all,”he rejoined;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">263</span> “I ended
by describing her splendid position and
advantages. I called her an old idiot
for either being unconscious of them,
or throwing them away consciously. And
I ventured to add a word of encouragement
to those who are struggling to prevent
these being thrown away, and to
assure them that, in their resistance to
the short-sighted and fatuous policy of
their present rulers, they have the cordial
sympathy of philosophic Liberals
like myself (I am not now speaking of
Socialists and Nihilists, whose lands are
against all parties) all over Europe.
One of your own most eminent philosophers,
himself a Liberal, has recently
written a book, in which he has shown
the danger by which the true principle
of liberty is threatened from the reactionary
tendencies of the democratic
autocracy. I merely wish to assure you
that we in Europe are fully alive to this
danger, and dread as much the despotism
which springs from the divine right of
mobs, as from that of kings. There is
to my mind as little of God in the <i lang="la">vox
populi</i> as in an Imperial ukase; and our
only safety between these two extremes,
which I should rather be disposed to
call infernal than divine, lies in the common-sense,
patriotism, and virtue of
those statesmen, politicians, and lawyers
who, holding a middle course between
them, as being both equally dangerous
to the principles of true liberty, endeavor
not merely to preserve the institutions
of that country which is the home
of liberty, but, by maintaining its
supremacy, enable it to resist attacks
from whatever quarter.”</p>

<p>“I have lived too much out of England
for the greater part of my life,”I
remarked, “to be much of a party
man; still, from early and family association,
my sympathies rather incline
towards that party which now control its
policy, though I admit they have shown
but indifferent foresight, skill, or judgment
in grappling with the difficulties
which they had to confront. Still it is
only fair to them to remember that these
were left them as a heritage by their
predecessors; and that if they have
blundered somewhat in the effort to set
matters right—conspicuously in Egypt,
for example—it was not they who set
matters wrong in the first instance in
that country.”</p>

<p>“That I entirely deny,”responded
Ivan, “as I think I can prove to you in
a very few words. But before doing
so, allow me to express my surprise at
your admission that, because you were
a Liberal in the days of Lord Palmerston,
who was pre-eminently the representative
of the policy which I have advocated
as being that which should animate
a British statesman, your sympathies
should extend to those who, while
they wear the old party livery, have entirely
departed from the old party lines.
His mantle has indeed fallen upon them,
but they have so completely turned it
inside out that it is no longer recognisable.
In the days when a party existed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">264</span>
which called itself ‘Liberal-Conservative,’
there was no violent political
issues at home to check the current of a
domestic legislation which was ever
steadily progressive; while in foreign affairs
the Government of the day, whether
it was Conservative or Liberal, followed
the well-established traditions of British
policy abroad, which, if it had incurred
the jealousy of European Powers, at all
events commanded their admiration and
respect. The utterly inconsistent and
perplexing attitude which England has
now assumed, so entirely at variance
with the principles by which her foreign
policy was formerly governed, must of
necessity deprive her of all sympathy
abroad, for she has proved herself totally
untrustworthy as an ally—while all true
Liberals must deplore the agitation
which has resulted from a domestic legislation
that has a tendency unnecessarily
to exacerbate party feeling, and drive
people into violently opposite extremes.
Nothing is more fatal to all real progress
than a wild and unreasoning rush in the
direction in which it is supposed to lie,
because the inevitable consequence is a
reaction most probably equally unreasoning.
Moreover, these violent swings of
the political pendulum must always be
attended with the greatest possible
danger. A Conservative triumph which
is purchased at the price of acts of folly,
rashness, or weakness, perpetrated by
their opponents, is paid for by the country,
and is but a sorry bargain. It is
not under such violently disturbing influences
that sound and healthy Liberal
progress is made. And all history proves
that the liberty which is born in convulsions
invariably degenerates into a license
which culminates in a tyranny.
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">266</span></p>

<p>“And now one word in reply to
your allusion to the present position
of matters in Egypt, and more especially
with regard to that legacy of disasters
which the present Government maintain
they have inherited from the policy
of Lord Beaconsfield, and which,
with characteristic weakness, they constantly
invoke as an excuse for their
own shortcomings. When the Anglo-French
<i>condominium</i> was established in
Egypt—which is regarded as the <i lang="la">fons et
origo mali</i>—an <i lang="fr">entente cordiale</i>, which
was rapidly ripening into an alliance,
had been formed between Germany,
Austria, and England, in which, to a
certain extent, Italy was included, and
upon which Turkey depended for her
existence; it formed, therefore, a combination
of European Powers which
controlled Europe, and was in a position
to dictate, especially to Prussia
and France, both weakened as those
two Powers were by recent wars, and
by internal dangers and dissensions—both
being, moreover, the only Powers
in Europe whose interests clashed
with those of England in the East, and
whose policy, therefore, it was the interest
of England narrowly to watch, and,
if need be, to control. The faculty for
doing this had been wisely secured to
her by the European combination in
which she had entered, above alluded
to. Under these circumstances she had
nothing to fear in Egypt from an association
with France in the dual control.
Practically it became a single control;
for, with Germany and Austria at her
back, England could dictate her own
policy in Egypt, and, in the event of its
not suiting her French associate, could
even dare to enforce it without the
slightest fear of the peace of Europe
being endangered thereby. Her political
supremacy in Egypt was, in fact,
guaranteed to her by Germany and
Austria, who had no reason to regard it
with jealousy, while they obtained in
return that commanding position which
England’s adhesion to their alliance
secured them in Europe. So far, then,
from having succeeded to a heritage of
difficulty, the present Government succeeded
to one of absolute security. But
the whole aspect of the political chessboard
was changed when the new player,
who took over the game in the middle
of it, removed the piece which gave
check to king and queen, and which, if
it was not moved away, rendered final
victory a certainty. Lord Beaconsfield’s
policy in Egypt turned upon the
Anglo-Germanic-Austrian Alliance.
When, after his fall from office, this
was rudely ruptured by insulting expressions
of antipathy to Austria on the part
of his successor, the effect of which,
subsequent expressions of apology were
inadequate to efface—by a strongly
marked coldness towards Germany, and
a no less marked <i lang="fr">rapprochement</i> towards
France—the latter Power, relieved from
the dread of the European combination,
which had up to that moment held
her quiescent in Egypt, jumped up like
a jack-in-the-box, and favored us with
that series of intrigues which gave us
Arabi, and the evils that followed in his
train. Meantime, utterly isolated in
Europe by that rupture with the most
powerful friends in it, with which the
policy of Lord Beaconsfield had provided
you, you found yourselves betrayed
and deserted by the ally you had
chosen instead of them; while every
concession you made to that ally, and
every attempt at conciliation, only
plunged you deeper in the mire, in which
you have since been left to flounder
alone, a laughing-stock and object of
derision to all Europe, and more especially
to those Powers who might have
proved your salvation, but who have
since entered into other European combinations
from which England is excluded,
and which may prove in the
highest degree dangerous to her. No
assertion, therefore, can be more utterly
false in fact than the statement that the
heritage to which this Government succeeded
was one of trouble. So far from
it, the policy of their predecessors had
left them in a position of commanding
strength; and to lay the misfortunes
which have since arisen at the door of
those who had taken such precautions
that they could never arise, is as though
a general who should take over the command
of an army placed strategically in
an impregnable position, should abandon
that position altogether, and after being
defeated in the open field, find fault with
the nature of the defences he had abandoned.
But,” added Ivan, with a yawn,
stretching himself, looking at his watch,
and going to the open window, “you
will think that I have degenerated from
the philosophical spectator into the keen
party politician. This I was compelled
to be during my recent visit to London,
where you are nothing if you are not
partisan. The flavor of Piccadilly clings
to me still: how much more delicious
are the odorous night airs of these
southern climes! Look up at those
stars, my old friend, before you go to
bed, and thank them that you have been
spared the cares and the ambitions of the
Treasury bench.”—<cite>Blackwood’s Magazine.</cite></p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">267</span></p>




<h2><a name="BLACKSTONE" id="BLACKSTONE">BLACKSTONE.</a><br />

<small>BY G. P. MACDONELL.</small></h2>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">268</span></p>

<p>Blackstone has now been dead more
than a century, but neither lawyers nor
laymen have yet made up their minds
whether he was an intellectual giant, or
only a second-rate man of letters, with
a little learning and a pretty style, who
acquired popularity because he flattered
the English constitution. His friends
have pitched high their eulogy. Sir
William Jones, speaking to the freeholders
of Middlesex, who had little
reason to love Blackstone, called him
the pride of England, and in a grave
legal treatise referred to the <cite>Commentaries</cite>
as the most correct and beautiful
outline that ever was exhibited of any
human science. Hargrave, fresh from
annotating Coke upon Littleton, described
him as an almost second Hale,
and that as it were in the very presence
of Hale, in a volume of tracts half filled
with Hale’s legal lore. “To me,” said
Mr. Justice Coleridge, the nephew of
the poet, and one of Blackstone’s
many editors, “the <cite>Commentaries</cite> appear
in the light of a national property,
which all should be anxious to improve
to the uttermost, and which no one of
proper feeling will meddle with inconsiderately.”
And a distinguished German
jurist, exaggerating only a little, has
said that Englishmen regard the <cite>Commentaries</cite>
as “<i lang="de">ein juristisches Evangelium</i>.”
The history of the work is in itself
remarkable. If we except the Institutes
of Justinian, and the <cite>De Jure Belli
ac Pacis</cite> of Grotius, perhaps no law
book has been oftener printed. Not to
speak of the many adaptations, more or
less close, or of the many abridgments of
the <cite>Commentaries</cite> (one of these was “intended
for the use of young persons, and
comprised in a series of letters from a
father to his daughter,”) they have, in
their original form, gone through more
than twenty complete editions in England
since the publication of the first
volume in 1765. Nor has the homage
of parody—in the shape of a “Comic
Blackstone”—been wanting to place
them among the classics. In America
they have attained at least an equal fame.
In the speech on Conciliation, delivered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">269</span>
in 1775, Burke said that he had heard
from an eminent bookseller that nearly
as many copies had been sold there as
here. Two years later, one of the five
members appointed to frame the laws
of Virginia seriously proposed that, with
suitable modifications, the <cite>Commentaries</cite>
should be taken as their text. There
is reason to believe that they are now
held in higher esteem in America than
among ourselves. The American editions,
already nearly as numerous as
the English, still continue to multiply,<a id="FNanchor_9_9" href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">9</a>
while forty years have passed since we
have had an English Blackstone with an
unmutilated text. His own countrymen
are now content to know him
through the medium of condensed and
often lifeless versions, though it is not
so far back since, for those who aspired
to the amount of legal knowledge which
a gentleman should possess, Blackstone
was the very voice of the law. If on
many sides Blackstone received the
meed of excessive praise, his critics, it
must be allowed, did not spare him.
They have not been many, but they
have spoken so emphatically, and, within
certain limits, so unanswerably, that
they have aroused suspicion whether,
after all, Blackstone may not have been
a charlatan. He was naturally regarded
with distrust by lawyers of the
rigid school, who felt that legal learning
was gone if such primers as the <cite>Commentaries</cite>
were to displace the venerable
Coke. The book was not many years
old before the phrase “Blackstone lawyers”
came to be used as synonymous
with smatterers in law. But such criticism
had a professional ring, and perhaps
in the end did the assailed author more
good than harm.</p>

<p>If nowadays the name of Blackstone
is held in diminished respect, the fact is
mainly due to the contempt poured upon
him by Bentham and Austin. They
mercilessly exposed his shallow and confused
philosophy. Bentham, reviewing
one by one his opinions on government,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">270</span>
maintained that they were not so much
false as wholly meaningless; and Austin
declared that neither in the general conception,
nor in the detail of his book, is
there a single particle of original and
discriminating thought. It is tainted
throughout, said the one, with hostility
to reform; it was popular, said the
other, because it “truckled to the sinister
interests and mischievous prejudices
of power.” Austin found nothing
to praise even in its style, which, though
fitted to tickle the ear, seemed to him effeminate,
rhetorical, and prattling, and
not in keeping with the dignity of the
subject.</p>

<p>So long as his admirers could see no
defects in his work, and his critics were
blind to its merits, judgments of Blackstone
kept moving along parallel lines,
and never met. Standing at this distance
of time, when the <cite>Commentaries</cite>
have long lost the glitter of novelty,
when we have not Bentham’s cause for
anger, and when nobody retains a belief
in the infallibility of Austin, it should
be possible to treat Blackstone more
fairly than either his friends or his enemies
have done. There are signs that
a juster estimate is now being formed,
and the clearest of these is the testimony
of one who must know by his own experience
what were the difficulties which
Blackstone surmounted. Sir James
Stephen admits that he was neither a
profound nor an accurate thinker, that
he is often led to speak of English law
in terms of absurd praise, and that his
arrangement of the subject is imperfect.
But “the fact still remains,” he says,
“that Blackstone first rescued the law
of England from chaos. He did, and
did exceedingly well, for the end of the
eighteenth century, what Coke tried to
do, and did exceedingly ill, about 150
years before; that is to say, he gave an
account of the law as a whole, capable
of being studied, not only without disgust,
but with interest and profit....
A better work of the kind has not yet
been written, and, with all its defects,
the literary skill, with which a problem
of extraordinary difficulty has been dealt
with is astonishing.”</p>

<p>Few authors ever had a clearer field.
Long before his day, indeed, the immense
growth of the law had been regarded
as a heavy burden. Lawyers<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">271</span>
groaned, just as they groan now, over the
increasing accumulation of statutes and
reports. And yet Coke upon Littleton
remained the beginner’s chief guide.
Coke called his work the <cite>Institutes of the
Laws of England</cite>; but, whatever its
other merits, it lacks every quality which
the title would suggest. It is unsystematic,
undigested; it makes no pretence
of leading its reader from principles
to rules; and it spares him the details
of no curious anomaly. It is like
an overgrown treatise on the subjunctive
mood. The need had long been felt for
a better work; and the broad outlines
had been sketched by Hale in his admirable
<cite>Analysis of the Civil Part of the
Law</cite>, which Blackstone followed in
every essential feature. Some treatises
too had appeared written with a purely
educational purpose. Of these the most
successful, long recommended as an elementary
text-book for students, was the
<i>Institutes</i> of Wood, a Buckinghamshire
clergyman. It was a praiseworthy attempt
to present the law in a methodical
form, but it lacked literary merit, and
had all the dulness of an epitome. It
is memorable only as the book which the
<cite>Commentaries</cite> displaced.</p>

<p>Blackstone saw his opportunity. Perhaps
no one else in his time combined
in the same degree the qualities which
the work required; nor was there any
one so capable of writing a law-book,
which could be read with interest by
educated laymen, and at the same time
be accepted as almost authoritative by
practising lawyers. Blackstone’s training
enabled him to gain the ear of both;
for he was not only a lawyer, but a man
of letters. His love of literature developed
early, and along with it a desire to
win literary fame. He does not seem
to have read widely, but the pleasure
which in his school days he derived
from Shakespeare and Milton, Pope
and Addison, was dulled neither by advancing
years nor by the absorbing demands
of the law. “The notes which
he gave me on Shakespeare,” said
Malone, who used them in his edition,
“show him to have been a man of excellent
taste and accuracy, and a good
critic.” He was something of a poet
himself; but the “Lawyer’s Farewell
to his Muse,” the “Lawyer’s Prayer,”
and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">272</span> “Elegy on the Death of the
Prince of Wales,” though they have occasionally
been unearthed as curiosities,
have long been swept away with other
rubbish of the kind. The following
lines, which are his best, and in which
we feel the very spirit of the <cite>Commentaries</cite>,
will not tempt further even the
most diligent seeker after neglected
poets. Their historical audacity would
amaze Professor Freeman.</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">‘Oh, let me pierce the secret shade</div>
<div class="verse">Where dwells the venerable maid!</div>
<div class="verse">There humbly mark, with rev’rent awe,</div>
<div class="verse">The guardian of Britannia’s Law,</div>
<div class="verse">Unfold with joy her sacred page</div>
<div class="verse">(Th’ united boast of many an age,</div>
<div class="verse">Where mix’d yet uniform appears</div>
<div class="verse">The wisdom of a thousand years) ...</div>
<div class="verse">Observe how parts with parts unite</div>
<div class="verse">In one harmonious rule of right;</div>
<div class="verse">See countless wheels distinctly tend</div>
<div class="verse">By various laws to one great end;</div>
<div class="verse">While mighty Alfred’s piercing soul</div>
<div class="verse">Pervades and animates the whole.’</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>The Pope who was lost in Blackstone
we can as easily spare as the Ovid who
was lost in Murray. Yet it was from
that love of literature to which his poetical
compositions bear witness, perhaps
in some degree also from the enforced
measure and restraint of verse, that he
acquired a style, which though it has
not the freshness and variety of Addison’s,
its most direct model, has the
same singular clearness and almost the
same ease and flow. By education, not
by accident, did he come to deserve
Bentham’s one compliment that he it
was who first, of all institutional writers,
taught jurisprudence to speak the language
of the scholar and the gentleman.</p>

<p>Beyond keeping up a certain interest
in architecture, on which in early youth
he is said to have composed a treatise,
Blackstone seldom allowed himself to be
diverted from a persevering and varied
study of law. He divided his time between
Westminster and Oxford, and
long remained undecided whether he
should finally settle in the law-courts
or among his books. While, with hardly
any practice of his own, he was training
himself with unusual diligence, as his reports
of cases testify, in the practical
part of his profession, he had it clearly
before him that law is not to be mastered
by any one who neglects its history.
“In my apprehension,” he said, when
he was a student,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">273</span> “the learning out of
use is as necessary as that of every day’s
practice;” and he carried out this belief
by making the <cite>Commentaries</cite> as much a
history as an exposition. Even more
plainly than in his great work we can see
in his edition of <cite>Magna Charta and the
Charter of the Forest</cite> how unflagging were
his zeal and patience, and how minute
his investigations. His knowledge of
general history may have been superficial,
as Hallam said it was; he may
have had old-fashioned notions about
Alfred the Great, even though he does
warn his readers against the tendency
to ascribe all imaginable things to that
king; yet the <cite>Commentaries</cite> contain
what, on the whole, is still the best history
written in English of English law.</p>

<p>The plan of the book had long been
in his mind; he was indirectly led to
carry it out through an attempt of the
Duke of Newcastle to corrupt him.
Lord Mansfield (then Mr. Murray) recommended
him to the chair of civil law
at Oxford, which was vacant in 1756,
but he lost the appointment, according
to report, because he was not hearty
enough in promising the duke support
“whenever anything in the political
hemisphere is agitated in the university.”
Murray, hearing of his disappointment,
advised him to lecture on
his own account upon English law.
He took the advice; the novelty of the
lectures and their ability made them
successful; and when the Vinerian
chair of common law was founded in
1758 he was appointed the first professor.
Making hardly any change in
form, arrangement, or mode of treatment,
as appears from his notes which
are still extant written in the neatest of
hands, he expanded the lectures into
the <cite>Commentaries</cite>. But while he never
deviated from his original plan, his store
of knowledge grew steadily throughout
the fourteen years which elapsed between
his first private lectures and the
appearance of his work. When the
question of <i lang="la">ex officio</i> informations was
debated in the House of Lords in 1812,
Lord Ellenborough spoke of him as
follows:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">274</span>—“Blackstone, when he compiled
his lectures, was comparatively an
ignorant man; he was merely a fellow
of All Souls’ College, moderately skilled
in the law! His true and solid knowledge
was acquired afterwards. He
grew learned as he proceeded with his
work. It might be said of him, at the
time he was composing his book, that it
was not so much his learning that made
the book, as it was the book that made
him learned.” The <cite>Commentaries</cite> were
not, however, the work of a merely
book-learned man; besides his attendance
in the courts as a spectator, Blackstone
had enjoyed several years of good
practice before the first volume appeared;
but Ellenborough’s opinion is
substantially sound. It is indeed one
of the striking facts about Blackstone
that while as years went on his mind
gained little in breadth, and his fundamental
ideas underwent no change, he
was able, by simple hard work and with
abilities not by any means the highest,
to make himself at length one of the
really learned lawyers of his time. Several
names might be mentioned which
on special lines of law stand far above
his; but there was no one who rivalled
him in that extent of general knowledge
which an institutional writer must possess.
The <cite>Commentaries</cite> have won the
peculiar distinction of being quoted and
of carrying weight in every political discussion
which raises questions of constitutional
importance, and also of being
cited in our courts (though under protest
from some rigid judges) as only a
little lower than that small group among
our law-books which have an inherent,
and not merely a reflected, authority.
We should do Blackstone grievous
wrong if from his popularity we assumed
that his knowledge was superficial.</p>

<p>Thus, both as lawyer and as man of
letters, he was peculiarly fitted for his
work. Written with less literary skill,
the <cite>Commentaries</cite> would long ago have
been forgotten; if his learning had been
more minute he would never have written
them at all. A work which, partly
through favoring circumstances, but
mainly through its merits, has effected a
real revolution in legal studies, is not to
be dismissed by saying that its philosophy
is weak, and that it is hostile to
reform.</p>

<p>There is certainly no profound nor
much original thought in Blackstone’s
four volumes. Nobody was ever made
better able to comprehend a difficulty in
English law by means of the notions on
laws in general to be found in that famous
chapter, which, as Sir Henry Maine<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">275</span>
puts it, may almost be said to have made
Bentham and Austin into jurists by virtue
of sheer repulsion. They lead to
nothing, and explain nothing. They are
rather the obeisances made by a polite
professor to his subject, or a lawyer’s
invocation of his muse, than the necessary
foundations of a system. Blackstone
repeats the venerable doctrine that
human laws depend on the law of nature
and the law of revelation, and that no
laws are valid which conflict with these;
but he never dares to apply it to any
rule of English law. And when he
comes to speak of parliament and monarchy,
he has forgotten that odd proof
of the perfection of the British constitution,
with its divine combination of
power, wisdom, and goodness, of which
Bentham made such easy fun. He does
not so much as pretend to be original.
He is so dependent on others that he
adopts not only their opinions but even
their language, and by no means always
does he let us know that he is quoting.
He does not refer to Locke when he is
stating, practically in Locke’s words, the
theory of the right of society to inflict
punishment; he never mentions the
name of Burlamaqui, who was his guide,
most faithfully followed, in the analysis
of laws in general; and he fails to acknowledge
half his obligations to Montesquieu.<a id="FNanchor_10_10" href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">10</a>
Indeed, the free use he makes
of Montesquieu’s famous chapter on the
English constitution would be appalling,
did we not remember that he was only
following a professional custom of appropriation,
which legal authors have
not yet wholly abandoned. There is,
in fact, scarcely a single sentence of that
chapter which has not, somewhere or
other, found its way into the <cite>Commentaries</cite>;
and, as often as not, the Commentator
leaves us to infer that the reflections
are his own.</p>

<p>In estimating the value of Blackstone’s
work, however, we should not make too
much of the fact that his general theories
are either weak or borrowed. The truth
is that when we have got rid of them we
have not touched the substance of the
work itself; his exposition of English
law remains unaffected, whether they be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">276</span>
true or false. Moreover, these same
theories of his have a considerable indirect
interest; for as they afford us an
opportunity of observing how, at a turning-point
in the history of modern
thought, certain important ideas acted
upon an intellect, which, from its very
want of independence and courage, all
the better reflected the common opinions
of the time. His philosophy exhibits
the doctrine of the social contract in a
state of decay, and enables us to watch
the English mind preparing itself for
utilitarianism.</p>

<p>Blackstone refuses to accept the social
contract in its naked form; he ridicules
the notion of individuals meeting together
on a large plain to choose the
tallest man present as their governor;
and he traces the growth of society upwards
from the family living a pastoral
life to the settled agricultural community.
His conception of social development
comes as near the current modern
theories as that of any thinker of his
century, save Mandeville. But the social
contract was too tempting to be altogether
abandoned. He speaks of it as
a tacit agreement between governor and
governed, of protection on the one side
and submission on the other, and from
this implied agreement he draws conclusions
as freely as if it were a historical
fact. Stating Locke’s theory without
any qualification, he bases upon the
contract (for he recurs to the word) the
right of society to punish crime. The
laws under which thieves suffer were
made, he tells us, with their own consent.
So he says that the oath of allegiance
is nothing more than a declaration
in words of what was before implied in
law. And he justifies the Revolution
on the ground that King James had endeavored
to subvert the constitution by
breaking the original contract. Believer
as he is in the law of nature, Blackstone
is more than half a utilitarian. True,
he has based all law on both the natural
and the revealed law; but by a fortunate
coincidence everything that tends to
man’s happiness is in accordance with
the former. Except where the revealed
law applies, the actual rule of life is that
man should pursue his own true and substantial
happiness. “This,” he says,
“is the foundation of what we call
ethics or natural law.” Throughout<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">277</span>
the whole of his work his tests are purely
those of utility, and with his broad principles
of unbending orthodoxy he mingles
theories, some of which the most thoroughgoing
utilitarian would think too
bluntly stated. Repudiating the notion
of atonement or expiation, he maintains
that punishment is only a precaution
against future offences. He treats property
as an adventitious right, unknown
in the natural state; and to the amazement
of some of his editors he has the
courage to face the logical result, that
theft is punished, not by any natural
right, but only because it is detrimental
to society. It is a <i lang="la">malum prohibitum</i>,
not a <i lang="la">malum in se</i>. He goes so far as
to say that where the law prohibits certain
acts under pecuniary penalties, the
prohibition does not make the transgression
a moral offence, or sin, and that the
only obligation in conscience is to submit
to the penalty. He affirms as a thing
beyond doubt that human laws have
no concern with private vices. And
he professes to defend the measures
which placed Catholics and Dissenters
under disabilities, not upon theological
grounds, but simply because all dissent
is subversive of civil government. We
may be sure that Blackstone would not
have spoken as he did if he had believed
that average men in his time would consider
his doctrines offensive; and taking
him as an index of contemporary opinion,
we can see that the field was ready
for Bentham.</p>

<p>Blackstone’s hostility to reform has a
special interest. There is, perhaps, no
better example to be found in our literature
of the typical Englishman, who
loves his country, who considers its constitution
the best constitution, its laws
the best laws, and the liberty which its
citizens enjoy the completest liberty
which the world has known. He was
conservative by circumstances and profession,
as well as by temperament. His
opinions were formed at a time when
men lived politically at a lower level
than they ever did before or have done
since. No bold reforming spirit could
have grown up in the Jacobite unrest of
half a century, with the Whigs, to all
appearance, permanently seated in
power, and desirous of showing that the
party of the Revolution was capable of
moderation. There was no party of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">278</span>
progress. No clear line of principle
divided Whigs from Tories; so that it
became a plausible thesis that they had
exchanged positions. There were, in
short, no great ideals in the air, which
could stimulate to movement such a
sluggish man as Blackstone. Perhaps
some of his conservatism was due to his
profession. The instances are probably
rare of an English lawyer, with either
extensive practice or great learning, who,
on questions of personal liberty, whether
of religion or of speech or of trade, has
stood far in advance of the average
opinion of his age. The profession tends
to foster conservatism. The habit
of deciding by precedents and usage is
not to be shaken off when the mind turns
from law to politics; and the men who
declared that the common law is the
perfection of reason, and who thought
that it savored of profanity to speak disrespectfully
of common recoveries, could
not be expected to doubt the excellence
of the British constitution or the necessity
of Catholic disabilities. Something,
too, must be allowed for the influence of
a training which both narrows the scope
of reasoning, and within the narrower
limits makes it close and unbroken. A
mind so schooled will naturally shrink
from the gaps in evidence which the innovator
must boldly face and overstep.
May we not in the same way explain the
alleged conservatism of men of science?</p>

<p>The main theme of Blackstone’s teaching
is that of contentment with a constitution
which to him seemed as nearly
perfect as any work of man can be.
“Of a constitution,” he says, “so
wisely contrived, so strongly raised, and
so highly finished, it is hard to speak
with that praise which is justly and
severely its due: the thorough and attentive
contemplation of it will furnish
its best panegyric. It has all the elements
of stability; for by a graduated
scale of dignity from the peasant to the
prince, it rises like a pyramid from a
broad foundation, diminishing to a point
as it rises. It is this ascending and
contracting proportion” he says, with
the law of gravitation in his mind, “that
adds stability to any government.”
“All of us have it in our choice,”these
are Blackstone’s words,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">279</span> “to do everything
that a good man would desire to
do; and are restrained from nothing,
but what would be pernicious either to
ourselves or our fellow-citizens.” He
does not, however, mean us to accept
this statement too literally. He allows
that the constitution has faults—“lest
we should be tempted to think it of more
than human structure”—and he is careful
to tell us what he means when he
says that this or that institution is perfect.
As the expounder and historian
of English law, he uses words of higher
praise than he would do if he wrote as
a politician. He feels that he is dealing
with the spirit of laws, and that it is not
his business to consider every change of
circumstances which may have impaired
their efficiency. To point out each defect,
or to suggest ways of amendment,
would, moreover, have been alien from
the purpose of a work in which he sought
to interpret the laws and to teach respect
for them; and therefore he does
not guard himself against exaggeration,
sharing the opinion of Burke, that we
only lessen the authority of the constitution
if we circulate among the people
a notion that it is not so perfect as it
might be, before we are sure of mending
it. He has in his mind the idea of
a theoretical perfection not incompatible
with practical injustice. In a well-known
passage he says that <em>by the law</em> as it stood
in the time of Charles II., “the people
had as large a portion of real liberty as
is consistent with a state of society,”
naming the year 1679 as the point of
time at which he would fix what he calls
the <em>theoretical</em> perfection of our public
law; and yet he observes that “the
years which immediately followed it were
times of great <em>practical</em> oppression.”<a id="FNanchor_11_11" href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">11</a>
This is in substance the view of Burke
when he says that the machine is well
enough for the purpose, provided the
materials were sound. Indeed there is
scarcely one of Blackstone’s thoughts
on politics and government which may
not be paralleled in the writings and
speeches of Burke. They were agreed
that our representative system was practically
perfect; that religious dissent is
subversive of civil government; and
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">280</span>that the people were bound by their
original contract to a scheme of government
fundamentally and inviolably fixed
on king, lords, and commons. Burke
was among the first to read and admire
the <cite>Commentaries</cite>; and had Blackstone
lived ten years longer he would have
read the <cite>Reflections on the Revolution in
France</cite>, and applauded every word. We
might describe him, in fact, as a Burke
with the genius left out.</p>

<p>Over Blackstone’s mind the antiquity
of the constitution exercised a potent
spell. The retrospective imagination, as
it has been called, made him regard with
reverence institutions that reach back
to a time whereof the memory of man
runneth not to the contrary. The parliament
and the monarchy, the sheriff,
the corner, and trial by jury, seemed to
be less the work of man’s hands than to
partake of the dignity and immutability
of the laws of nature; and the sense of
trivial anomalies was lots in the veneration
which he felt for a system of laws
embodying in unbroken continuity the
wisdom of a thousand years. It is not
an unworthy emotion. There are few,
let us hope, who have never been stirred
by reflecting on the growth of that English
liberty, which finds splendid voice
in the prose of Milton, and whose presence,
with “its gallery of portraits, its
monumental inscriptions, its records,
evidences, and titles,” glows in every
line of Burke. On its practical side the
emotion may be healthy or may be baneful.
We call him the crudest of politicians
who never reflects that our laws
have grown with the people, that they
contain the experience of a nation, and
are not the paper schemes of clever
theorists, and that they are surrounded
by traditions which no convulsion ever
swept away and which give them half
their strength. It is this that a greater
lawyer than Blackstone meant when he
said that time is the wisest thing in the
inferior world. But to timid natures
antiquity becomes the proof, and not
merely the evidences of excellence; so
that the mind is led to make a severance
between the past and the present, and
while respecting the constitution as a
thing of gradual growth to forget that
the growth continues. Blackstone’s
whole nature was affected by this illusion
of distance. It distorted alike his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">281</span>
historical beliefs and his practical judgments.
It made him maintain, as Bolingbroke
did, that our liberties are but
the restoration of the ancient constitution
of which our Saxon forefathers were
deprived by the policy and force of the
Normans. To Montesquieu’s opinion
that as Rome, Sparta, and Carthage lost
their liberties, so those of England
must in time perish, it made him give
the naïve reply that Rome, Sparta, and
Carthage, at the time when their liberties
were lost, were strangers to trial by
jury. It made him spend all his ingenuity
in defending the rule of descent
which excluded kinsmen of the half-blood.
And it was the chief cause of
the contempt which, like Coke, he had
for statute law. Though he never ventures
to say so in plain terms, as his
predecessors did with something more
than rhetorical belief, yet at heart he is
convinced that the common law is the
perfection of reason.</p>

<p>Yet to represent Blackstone’s mind as
absolutely stationary would be unjust;
for now and again he puts forward a
gentle suggestion of improvement. He
draws attention to defects in the system
of trial by jury, and makes several excellent
proposals for its amendment.
He even anticipates the legislation of
our own day when he points out that
our laws are faulty in not constraining
parents to bestow a proper education on
their children. He recognises the possibility
of a change in political representation,
which would admit the people
to a somewhat larger share; and it is
doubtless on the strength of that mild
admission that Major Cartwright included
him in the list of men conversant
with public affairs who had expressed
themselves in favor either of a fair representation
or of short parliaments.
The criminal law seemed to him very far
from perfect. Within his own lifetime
it had been made a capital crime to
break down the mound of a fish-pond
whereby any fish should escape, or to
cut down a cherry-tree in an orchard.
These laws would never have been
passed, he says, with a confidence which
it is not easy to share, if, as was usual
with private bills in his days, public bills
had been first referred to some of the
learned judges for their consideration.
It was still felony without benefit of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">282</span>
clergy to be seen for one month in the
company of the persons called Egyptians.
He believed that this would not
have continued, if a committee were
appointed at least once in a hundred
years to revise the criminal law—a proposal
which his friend Daines Barrington
made about the same time and
worked out in some detail.</p>

<p>His conservatism, or, to give it the
harsher name, his hostility to reform,
was in great part due to timidity and insufficient
knowledge of the world. He
was a shy and reserved man, whose life
was divided between one kind of narrowness
at Westminster, and another
kind of narrowness at Oxford. He was
shut off from the real life of England.
Among his books, which taught him that
the state should foster trade, he could
know only by hearsay of the new industrial
movement then beginning to transform
the country, and destined soon to
sweep away the absurdities which he upheld,
such as the innumerable attempts
to fix the rate of wages, the navigation
laws, and the statute of Charles II.,
commanding the people to bury their
dead in wool. The very fact that he does
not suggest a compromise between restriction
of trade and its freedom, leads
one to infer that he had never seriously
thought about the question. Only with
regard to apprenticeship does he mention
that a doubt could exist, and then he
refrains from giving a clear opinion.
Amid the Toryism of Oxford, where he
had seen students expelled for Methodists,
Blackstone was hardly likely to
understand what toleration, much less
what religious freedom, meant. He deprecated
persecution, once indeed he
uses with unwonted energy the phrase
“dæmon of persecution,”<a id="FNanchor_12_12" href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">12</a> but it is
rather under the impulse of a mild
humanity than from any trust in the
people or any large love of liberty.
When a strong protest was raised by Dr.
Priestley and Dr. Furneaux against his
account of the laws relating to Protestant
Dissenters, whom almost in so many
words he called dangerous citizens, he
seems to have been quite surprised at
the attack. He wrote a pamphlet in reply
to Priestley, explaining that his aim
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">283</span>had been to expound the law not justify
it, which was not quite accurate, and
declaring that he was all for tolerance;
and he went so far as to expunge the
most obnoxious sentence, and to give in
subsequent editions a fuller and somewhat
fairer account of the law. Even
in its final form the passage is not worthy
of one who was speaking from a position
of really high authority, which should
have induced judicial calmness. “They
have made him sophisticate,” said Bentham,
referring to Priestley’s and Furneaux’s
attack; “they have made him
even expunge; but all the doctors in the
world, I doubt, would not bring him to
confession.” Yet it is not so much utter
illiberality of nature that the passage
suggests as simple inexperience, and his
fixed belief that truth must always be a
compromise. He was but echoing the
opinion commonly held by churchmen
in his time, an opinion which he had
never tested by contact with the people.</p>

<p>He had an opportunity of gaining experience
as a politician, but in the House
of Commons he learned nothing, and
succeeded only in tarnishing his legal
reputation. He entered it in 1762, and
sat first for the rotten borough of Hindon,
and afterwards for Westbury till
1770. For the first six years his name
scarcely ever occurs in the debates.
The only fact, indeed, known of this
part of his political life, is a proposal
which he made when the repeal of the
Stamp Act was carried, that “it should
not be of force in any colony where any
votes, resolves, or acts had passed derogatory
to the honor or authority of
Parliament, until such votes, etc., were
erased or taken off the records,” The
second stage of the Wilkes case, after
the elections of 1768, raised him to an
unfortunate notoriety. Every circumstance
combined to make Blackstone the
most bitter of Wilkes’s opponents. He
had committed himself to strong opinions
on the absolute supremacy of Parliament;
he was solicitor-general to the
Queen; he was shocked at Wilkes’s
blasphemy; and Lord Mansfield had
been maligned. He had only one moment
of merely formal hesitation. When
De Grey, the Attorney-General moved
that the comments on Lord Weymouth’s
letter were an insolent, scandalous, and
seditious libel, Blackstone argued that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">284</span>
the courts were open, and that the
House of Commons was not the place to
try the question. The other acts of the
persecution had his complete approval.
He himself took the lead in moving that
the charge against Lord Mansfield was
“an audacious aspersion on the said
Chief Justice;” he advocated the expulsion
of Wilkes; he supported the
motion which declared that Wilkes being
expelled was incapable of sitting in the
existing Parliament; and he delivered
an able speech, in which he put forth all
his strength, in favor of the validity of
Colonel Luttrell’s election. He was
rash enough in that speech to give it as
his firm and unbiassed opinion that the
law and custom of Parliament on a matter
of privilege is part of the common
law, that the House had acted according
to that law and custom, and that Wilkes
was therefore disqualified by common
law from sitting as a member of Parliament.
He paid heavily for his “firm
and unbiassed opinion.” In the <cite>Commentaries</cite>
he had given what was, no
doubt, intended to be a complete list of
the causes of disqualification; and none
of them applied to Wilkes. Twice
during the remainder of the debate, first
by Mr. Seymour and afterwards by
Grenville, “the gentle shepherd,” was
this passage effectively turned against
him. “It is well known,” according to
Junius, “that there was a pause of some
minutes in the House, from a general
expectation that the doctor would say
something in his own defence; but it
seems, his faculties were too much overpowered
to think of those subtleties and
refinements which have since occurred
to him.” A paper war ensued in which
Junius, Sir W. Jones, Dr. Johnson, and
Blackstone himself took part. In an
anonymous pamphlet, betraying its
author, as Junius said, by “its personal
interests, personal resentments, and
above all that wounded spirit, unaccustomed
to reproach, and, I hope, not frequently
conscious of deserving it,”
Blackstone clung tenaciously and almost
angrily to his opinion, which he stated
even more emphatically than he had
done in the House of Commons. There
he expressly refrained from saying whether
expulsion necessarily involves incapacity;
in his reply to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">285</span> “the writer in
the public press, who subscribes himself
Junius,” he said as expressly that
incapacity is the necessary consequence
of expulsion. He retracted nothing.
Sincere, no doubt, in his belief that it
was Wilkes the blasphemer, not Wilkes
the demagogue, whom he had helped to
expel and incapacitate, he still held that
the House of Commons had acted not
only legally but wisely. He gave a
pledge of his conviction by repairing
the omission in his book. In its subsequent
editions appears, as if it were a
well settled rule, the statement that if a
person is made a peer or elected to serve
in the House of Commons, the respective
Houses of Parliament may upon
complaint of any crime in such person,
and proof thereof, adjudge him disabled
and incapable to sit as a member. His
earlier statement of the law, however,
was not forgotten, and “the first edition
of Dr. Blackstone’s <cite>Commentaries on the
Laws of England</cite>” is said to have become
a toast at Opposition banquets.
Nobody has now any doubt that Blackstone
was in the wrong, confounding, as
was pointed out at the time, the independence
of the several parts of the
legislature with the authority of the
whole. His tenacity and the prestige of
his name gave him the support of his
party; but before long, had he lived, he
would have suffered the mortification of
seeing the House of Commons expunge
from its journals all the declarations,
orders, and resolutions respecting the
election of John Wilkes, Esquire, as
“subversive of the rights of the whole
body of the electors of this kingdom.”</p>

<p>Having failed as a politician, he was
made a judge. He sat on the bench
from 1770 till his death in 1780, and he
left behind him the reputation of having
striven to administer justice with scrupulous
care. He was certainly not a
great judge. He was cursed with indecision;
he was diffident of his own
opinion, and never strenuous in supporting
it; and in consequence, if we can
trust Malone’s account of him, “there
were more new trials granted in causes
which came before him on circuit than
were granted on the decisions of any
other judge who sat at Westminster in
his time.” The habit of mind which in
private life produced in him almost a
mania for punctuality made him as a
judge a strict observer of forms; and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">286</span>
he would not have consented, even if he
had been able, to make and modify law
as did his contemporary, Lord Mansfield.
The time was pre-eminently favorable for
earning a great judicial reputation; the
law, impeded by fictions, formalities,
and obsolete statutes, lagged behind a
nation whose commerce had increased
more than tenfold within living memory;
and public opinion would have dealt leniently
with a judge who shaped the old
rules to satisfy the new needs. But
Blackstone had not the courage for
such work; and, save for the case of
<cite>Perrin</cite> v. <cite>Blake</cite>, one might well tell the
legal history of the ten years which he
spent on the bench and never mention
his name. <cite>Perrin</cite> v. <cite>Blake</cite> is too technical
to be here described; enough to
say that it maintained inviolate the venerable
rule in Shelley’s case, with which
Lord Mansfield had been profanely tampering.
The case excited great interest
in the profession, partly from its own
importance and partly from some per<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">287</span>sonal
controversies to which it gave rise.
Lord Campbell, indeed, writing more
than seventy years after it had been decided,
says that when conversation flags
amongst lawyers the mention of <cite>Perrin</cite>
v. <cite>Blake</cite> never fails to cause excitement
and loquacity!</p>

<p>The politician and the judge are forgotten
now, and only the commentator
remains. But his life was consistent
throughout. He had a reverence for
authority and a respect for formalities;
his mind turned more readily to apology
than to criticism; and destitute of ideals
he lived in a narrow groove, contented
with himself and the world. When he
and Serjeant Nares were calling for the
expulsion of Wilkes because he was a
blasphemer, Burke described their arguments
as “solid, substantial, roast-beef
reasoning.” The phrase paints to the
life the worshipper of the constitution,
who staked the fate of England upon
trial by jury.—<cite>Macmillan’s Magazine.</cite></p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">288</span></p>




<h2 id="LITERARY_NOTICES">LITERARY NOTICES.</h2>


<blockquote>

<p><span class="smcap">Jelly-Fish, Star-Fish and Sea-Urchins</span> (International
Scientific Series). <span class="smcap">Being a
Research into Primitive Nervous Systems.</span>
By G. J. Romanes, M.A., LL.D.,
F.R.S., etc. New York: <i>D. Appleton &amp; Co.</i></p></blockquote>

<p>Mr. G. J. Romanes, one of the most distinguished
of living English scientists, and a worthy
follower in the track of Darwin, has given
the world in his study of the lowest forms of
animal life a book of great interest to the general
reader who is interested in scientific matter.
At first glance the line of research followed
might not seem particularly engaging
except to the professional student, but one
hardly dips into the book without finding his
attention aroused and stimulated. The poetic
enthusiasm with which Mr. Romanes introduces
the subject quickly finds a response in
the mind of the reader. He writes:</p>

<p>“Among the most beautiful, as well as the
most common, of the marine animals which
are to be met with upon our coasts, are the
jelly-fish and the star-fish. Scarcely anyone
is so devoid of the instincts either of the artist
or of the naturalist as not to have watched
these animals with blended emotions of the
æsthetic and the scientific—feeling the beauty
while wondering at the organization. How
many of us who live for most of the year in the
fog and dust of large towns enjoy with the
greater zest our summer’s holiday at the seaside?
And in the memories of most of us is
there not associated with the picture of breaking
waves and sea-birds floating indifferently in
the blue sky, or on the water still more blue,
the thoughts of many a ramble among the
weedy rocks and living pools, where, for the
time being, we all become naturalists, and
where those who least know what they are
likely to find in their search are most likely to
approach the keen happiness of childhood? If
so, the image of the red sea-stars bespangling
a mile of shining sand, or decorating the darkness
of a thousand grottoes, must be joined
with the image, no less vivid, of those crystal
globes, pulsating with life and gleaming with
all the colors of the rainbow, which are perhaps
the most strange, and certainly in my
estimation the most delicately lovely creatures
in the world.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">289</span></p>
<p>“It is with these two kinds of creatures that
the present work is concerned, and, if it seems
almost impious to lay the ‘forced fingers rude’
of science upon living things of such exquisite
beauty, let it be remembered that our human
nature is not so much out of joint that the rational
desire to know is incompatible with the
emotional impulse to admire. Speaking for
myself, I can testify that my admiration of the
extreme beauty of these animals has been
greatly enhanced—or rather I should say that
this extreme beauty has been, so to speak, revealed—by
the continuous and close observation
which many of my experiments required:
both with the unassisted eye and with the
microscope numberless points of detail, unnoticed
before, became familiar to the mind;
the forms as a whole were impressed upon the
memory; and, by constantly watching their
movements and changes of appearance, I have
grown, like an artist studying a face or a landscape,
to appreciate a fulness of beauty, the
esse of which is only rendered possible by the
<i lang="la">percipi</i> of such attention as is demanded by
scientific research. Moreover, association, if
not the sole creator, is at least a most important
factor of the beautiful; and therefore the
sight of one of these animals is now much
more to me, in the respects which we are considering,
than it can be to anyone in whose
memory it is not connected with many days of
that purest form of enjoyment which can only
be experienced in the pursuit of science.”</p>

<p>No matter how interesting investigation into
any set of natural phenomena may be, probably
none is more attractive than a study of
primitive nervous systems. Alike in the survey
of the whole of the animal kingdom and in the
study of the development of any individual form
there are certain broad truths evident. First
among these may be mentioned the significant
fact that the nervous system of all animals originates
from some of the cells of that layer of the
body which was originally the outermost. This
is the lesson taught by nature that the prime
necessity of living organisms is a knowledge
of the outer world, and that the most sensitive
and important system of organs primarily
stands in a direct relation to the outer world.
The investigations of Leuckart, Haeckel, Oscar
and Richard Hertwig, and Prof. Schafer fully
established the fact as to the origin of nerve
fibres and sense-cells from the outer layer of the
body, and as to the primitively diffused disposition
of the central nervous system. This
was first observed of the jelly-fish, but subsequent
investigation proved it also to be the
case with star-fish, sea-urchins and all the
forms of echinoderms. Haeckel, in 1860, showed
that the eyes of the star-fishes are nothing
more than elongated epithelial cells provided
with pigments, and throughout life quite superficial
in position.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">290</span></p>

<p>Though Mr. Romanes gives a succinct account
of the authentic conclusions reached by
other students in this line of scientific research,
his book is mostly devoted to his own investigations.
He makes a great many curious observations
as to the habits and characteristics
of the classes of animals of which he treats, beside
giving a very complete account of their
physiology and morphology. The work is
fully illustrated with cuts, and though it may
seem at first to bristle with technical matter,
the reader will speedily find himself interested
in the studies and conclusions of the author.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<blockquote>

<p><span class="smcap">Origin of Cultivated Plants</span> (International
Scientific Series). By Alphonse de Candolle,
Foreign Associate Academie of Sciences, Institute
of France, Foreign Member of the
Royal Societies of London, Edinburgh and
Dublin, etc., etc. New York: <i>D. Appleton
&amp; Co.</i></p></blockquote>

<p>M. De Candolle’s “Origin of Cultivated
Plants” (No. 48 of the International Scientific Series)
is a work calculated certainly to arouse the
attention of agriculturists, botanists, and others
aside from those interested in the dawnings of
civilization from the historical or philosophical
standpoint. The labors of both father and son
in this field have made the name of De Candolle
distinguished in science as worthy successors
of Linnæus, and thirty years’ labor in
the field of geographical botany have wrought
results of the most important kind. There are
few plants which are not adequately discussed
in this book in spite of the fact that, owing to
the great number of varieties which long cultivation
has produced, and the remoteness of
time when they were first reclaimed from nature,
great difficulties are offered to any correct
history of their origin. The author combats
the erroneous opinions promulgated so widely
by Linnæus, who, in spite of his greatness,
oftentimes took things too much on trust.
Many of these mistakes dated back to the times
of the Greeks and Romans, and certainly it
was time that some adequate hand should attempt
a correction. The data of correction
have been drawn from data of varied character,
some of which is quite recent and even unpublished,
and all of which has been sifted as
men sift evidence in historical research. The
author claims that, in spite of all the difficulties
in his way, he has been able to determine the
origin of almost all the species, sometimes
with absolute certainty, sometimes with a very
high degree of probability.</p>

<p>Some plants cultivated for more than two<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">291</span>
thousand years are not now known in a spontaneous
state. This can be accounted for on one
of these two hypotheses; either these plants,
since history has begun, have changed so entirely
in form in their wild as well as in their cultivated
condition that they are no longer recognized
as belonging to the same species, or
they are extinct species. In case they are extinct,
this extinction must have taken place of
course during the short period (scientifically
speaking) of a few hundred centuries, on continents
where they might have spread, and under
circumstances which are commonly considered
unvarying. This shows how the history
of cultivated plants is allied to the most important
problems of the general history of organized
beings. The study of plants by our
author is divided into those cultivated for their
subterranean parts, such as roots, tubercles or
bulbs; those cultivated for their stems or
leaves; those cultivated for their flowers or for
the organs which envelop them; those cultivated
for their fruits, and those cultivated for
their seeds. In the process of investigation
we readily observe that De Candolle, who appears
a master of the tools of research in every
branch of study, has not only used botanical
resources, but those of history and of travel,
of archæology, pæleontology, and of philology.
The wealth of learning lavished by the author
on his work is sometimes almost bewildering.
One of the most striking results of the author’s
researches is that certain species are extinct or
are fast becoming extinct since the historical
epoch, and that not on small islands, but on
vast continents without any great modifications
of climate. M. De Candolle tells us that in
the history of cultivated plants he has noticed
no trace of communication between the peoples
of the old and new worlds before the discovery
of America by Columbus. The Scandinavians,
who had pushed their excursions as
far as the north of the United States, and the
Basques of the Middle Ages, who followed
whales perhaps as far as America, do not
seem to have transported a single species.
Neither has the Gulf Stream produced any
effect. Between America and Asia, two transports
of useful plants, perhaps, took place, the
one by man (the batata, or sweet potato), the
other by the agency of man or of the sea (the
cocoanut palm).</p>


<hr class="tb" />
<blockquote>

<p><span class="smcap">The Adventures of Timias Terrystone.</span>
A Novel. By O. B. Bunce. New York:
<i>D. Appleton &amp; Co.</i></p></blockquote>

<p>Mr. Bunce, the author of several charmingly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">292</span>
written works of the essay character, among
which may be mentioned “Bachelor Bluff,”
“My House an Ideal,”etc., again challenges
the critical attention of the intelligent reading
public, in a form this time which will command
wider interest—the novel. The “Adventures
of Timias Terrystone” is in no sense a romance;
it is not a story of action, or in the
least melodramatic; it is not in any wide or
deep sense a novel of character, though the
personages have well-marked individualities
and act consistently with them. So far as the
actual life depicted is concerned, the story
glides pleasantly over the surface of things,
not professing or caring to deal with the more
deep and startling issues of life, but touching
the facts of every-day happening with a light and
graceful hand, and showing a very keen sensibility
to the fresh and lovely aspects of youth.
The hero is a young artist who, being a waif,
did not know his own parentage, and being
brought up in a very unconventional way, disdains
even at the last, when he discovers his
ancestry, all pride of birth and family. The
adventures of the youthful painter, though
chiefly of an amatory character, as his great
personal beauty and freshness of character appear
to exercise a great charm over the other
sex, are manifold, and both interesting and
amusing, he being a more refined and purer
Gil Blas. But we doubt whether the main interest
will be found in the mere story, though
novel-readers will not go amiss of genuine enjoyment
in this way. In the mouth of one of
the characters, a bluff, easy-going, wandering
Bohemian, our author places a great number
of keen, incisive, critical, or eloquent observations,
as the case may be. These thoughts are
so full of pith that they can hardly fail to be
widely quoted, and our readers will not have
to draw on their good nature to pardon us if
we give them some of these well-spiced plums:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">293</span>
“A man who goes through the world with his
eyes open learns something at every step; but
one who immerses himself in a library simply
converts himself into a catalogue.... What
are reading and writing, anyway, but a prejudice
of society? Do men get more character,
more self-reliance, greater capacity for dealing
with the problems of life, by filtering through
the brain the dreams of the poets and the philosophers?
I tell you that when our boys
should be scouring through the woods, rolling
down-hill, scaling the mountains, making themselves
splendid young Apollos, we shut them
up in a deadly school-room, which soon drives
the color out of their cheeks, vigor out of their
limbs, pluck out of their hearts, and snap out
of their brains. Civilization is a bundle of absurdities—it
is worse, it is a upas-tree, that is
fast poisoning the race.”</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>“‘Men fall in love, they say, with beauty,
with goodness, with gentleness, with intellectual
qualities, with a sweet voice, with a smile,
with an agreeable manner, with a lovable disposition,
with many ascertainable and measurable
things, and yet we find them continually
falling in love with women who are not beautiful,
nor good, nor wise, nor gentle, nor possessing
any ascertainable or measurable thing.
You’ll find a hundred reasons given for falling
in love, or being in love, and rarely the right
reason—which is commonly simply because a
man cannot help it.... The philosophy of
the thing is just here—a woman’s eye glances,
or her lips smile, or her neck is white and well
turned, or she has a pretty hand, or she flutters
a fan gracefully, or she looks sympathetic, or
she beckons, or some other trifle as light as
gossamer, as valueless as a mote in the sun, as
much without significance as the fall of a leaf,
and the man is subdued, and immediately he
begins to declare that the woman is lovely,
when she is not; that she is gentle and good,
when anyone can see the shrew in her eye;
that she is wise and capable, when she is as
perverse as a donkey, and as empty as an
abandoned shell on the seashore; and so goes
on manufacturing qualities and attributes for
her out of air. To satisfy his judgment he
creates an ideal, and tries with all his might to
persuade himself there are good reasons for
his passion—and so there are, but they are not
written down in the catalogue of attractions.
He is in love because a mysterious force of
nature has touched him. The woman may be
unbeautiful, heartless, selfish, cruel, untrue,
coarse, frivolous, empty, but if the magic of
nature—something of the magic, I suspect, that
Puck used on the eyes of Titania—touches
him, he sees not one of these things in their
true aspect. Yes, the Titanias that have fallen
in love with men crowned with donkey-heads,
and the men that have fallen in love with serpents,
thinking them doves, are many—and all
because of a diabolism, or a mystic fury in
nature that delights in bringing incongruous
elements together for the sake of a dance of
delirium.’”</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">294</span></p>
<p>“‘The reason why the world is as bad as it
is, is because it has been lectured so much.
Denunciation has never improved the morals
of the world since the days of Jeremiah to the
present hour. Many men are better for reading
Emerson—none are better for reading Carlyle;
in fact, the influence of your picturesque
scold like Carlyle is to make fault-finding look
like a virtue, and make people imagine that, if
they are only vehement enough in denouncing
other people’s sins, they will thereby clear
their skirts of their own. It is the vice of a
certain kind of piety that it is forever plunged
into the deepest concern about other people’s
iniquities. Your devout Catholic goes to
church to confess his sins; your acrimonious
Puritan goes to church to confess other people’s
sins.’”</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>“‘And too often their own virtues,’ said
Mary.</p>

<p>“‘Let us not imitate the censorious spirit
in judging of him, for there is a great deal of
good in his class, but believe firmly that denunciation
cures nothing. There ought to be
organized an anti-scolding league.’</p>

<p>“‘Of women?’ asked Mary, smiling.</p>

<p>“‘I am compelled to confess,’ said Philip,
that the number of Jeremiahs in the world has
been—excessive! And all the time your sex
is so full of gentleness and sympathy! Perhaps
the abominable doings of the men have
been too much for their patience, and that we
deserve the rating we get. But while we deserve
it, that is not the way to reform us—we
will succumb to your kindly words much
sooner than to your objurgations.’...</p>

<p>“‘If there were not a censorious and fault-finding
Mrs. Grundy, one very important restraint
on people would be removed,’ remarked
young Studley.</p>

<p>“‘See how old notions survive!’ exclaimed
Philip. ‘The world must be driven and
whipped, in order that it may be tractable and
proper. Hang a thief, and you will stop stealing;
drown a scold, and you will stop scolding;
storm at a child, and he will grow up
virtuous! But, you see, no body of people
has ever tried my plan, and hence you know
how the old whip and penalty method has
worked, but you do not know how the moral
and sympathetic dispensary plan will operate.
For my part, I believe in human nature, and I
am convinced that a plan that works well in a
narrow circle would obey the same laws in a
larger circle. But shall there not be a truce to
philosophy?’”</p>

<p>We appeal to our readers if these quotations
do not inspire an appetite for more. For our
part, we have rarely found more mellow, yet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">295</span>
pungent wisdom put in more agreeable form.
Certainly the Bohemian, Philip, reminds us
very strongly of another personage, considerably
in the mouths of the reading public not
very long since, Bachelor Bluff.</p>


<hr class="tb" />
<blockquote>

<p><span class="smcap">The Secret of Death. From the Sanscrit.
With some Selected Poems.</span> By Edwin
Arnold, M.A., author of “The Light of
Asia,” “Pearls of the Faith,”“Indian
Idylls,” etc. Boston: <i>Roberts Brothers</i>.</p></blockquote>

<p>The leading poem, from which this collection
takes its title, is an adaptation from the
first three books of a celebrated Sanscrit poem,
the “Katha Upanishad.” The scene as described
at the beginning of the poem is in a
temple beside the river Moota Moola, near
the city of Poona, and here a Brahmin priest
and an English Sahib read together from the
manuscript, the learned Brahmin commenting
as his English pupil recites from the poem.
The thread of motive may be briefly described:
Gautama for love of heaven gave all he had to
the poor. He had given all, and at last gave
his son, Nachikêtas, to Yama, the God of
Death, the last gift he had remaining. The
youth, who had been trained in the highest
holiness, went humbly to the abode of Yama,
the King of Death, where he remained three
days before the god came. When at last
Yama came, he found that a holy Brahmin had
waited for him three days, and to atone for
this he promised him three wishes before he
should die. Nachikêtas asked for three things:
that his father should be comforted for his loss;
that he should reach the abodes of heaven
without first passing through the purgation of
hell. Then he asks the third boon of Yama:</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“‘There is this doubt,’ young Nachikêtas said:</div>
<div class="verse">‘Thou dost give peace—is that peace Nothingness?</div>
<div class="verse">Some say that after death the soul still lives,</div>
<div class="verse">Personal, conscious; some say, Nay, it ends!</div>
<div class="verse">Fain would I know which of these twain be true,</div>
<div class="verse">By thee enlightened. Be my third boon this.’</div>
<div class="verse">Then Yama answered, ‘This was asked of old,</div>
<div class="verse">Even by the gods! This is a subtle thing,</div>
<div class="verse">Not to be told, hard to be understood!</div>
<div class="verse">Ask me some other boon: I may not grant!</div>
<div class="verse">Choose wiser, Nachikêtas; force me not</div>
<div class="verse">To quit this debt—release me from my bond!’</div>
<div class="verse">Then, still again spake Nachikêtas: ‘Ay!</div>
<div class="verse">The gods have asked this question; but, O Death!</div>
<div class="verse">Albeit thou sayest it is a subtle thing,</div>
<div class="verse">Not to be told, hard to be understood,</div>
<div class="verse">Yet know I none can answer like to thee,</div>
<div class="verse">And no boon like to this abides to ask.</div>
<div class="verse">I crave this boon!’”</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>Yama tries to evade the fulfilment of this request.
He will give the petitioner any and all
things, but this he would not answer, if he
could help.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">296</span></p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“‘Choose,’ spake he, ‘sons and grandsons, who shall, thrive</div>
<div class="verse">A hundred years: choose for them countless herds—</div>
<div class="verse">Elephants, horses, gold! Carve out thy lands</div>
<div class="verse">In kingdoms for them. Nay, or be thyself</div>
<div class="verse">A king again on earth, reigning as long</div>
<div class="verse">As life shall satisfy. And, further, add</div>
<div class="verse">Unto these gifts whatever else thou wilt.</div>
<div class="verse">Health, wisdom, happiness—the rule of the world,</div>
<div class="verse">And I will fill the cup of thy desires!</div>
<div class="verse">Whatso is hard to gain and dear to keep</div>
<div class="verse">In the eyes of men, ask it of me, and have!</div>
<div class="verse">Beautiful, fond companions, fair as those</div>
<div class="verse">That ride the cars of Indra, singing sweet</div>
<div class="verse">To instruments of heavenly melody,</div>
<div class="verse">Lovelier than mortal eye hath gazed upon:</div>
<div class="verse">Have these, have heaven within their clinging arms!</div>
<div class="verse">I give them—I give all; save this one thing;</div>
<div class="verse">Ask not of Death what cometh after death!’”</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>At last, in compliance with persistent solicitation,
the dread god yields, and in his answer
is contained the highest and subtlest teaching
of Indian philosophy. A short passage will
sufficiently indicate its character, for it is impossible
within any brief compass to clearly
elucidate the mysteries placed in Yama’s
mouth:</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“‘If he that slayeth thinks “I slay;” if he</div>
<div class="verse">Whom he doth slay, thinks “I am slain,”—then both</div>
<div class="verse">Know not aright! That which was life in each</div>
<div class="verse">Cannot be slain, nor slay!</div>
<div class="verse indent20">“‘The untouched Soul,</div>
<div class="verse">Greater than all the worlds [because the worlds</div>
<div class="verse">By it subsist]; smaller than subtleties</div>
<div class="verse">Of things minutest; last of ultimates,</div>
<div class="verse">Sits in the hollow heart of all that lives!</div>
<div class="verse">Whoso hath laid aside desire and fear,</div>
<div class="verse">His senses mastered, and his spirit still,</div>
<div class="verse">Sees in the quiet light of verity</div>
<div class="verse">Eternal, safe, majestical—<span class="smcap lowercase">HIS SOUL</span>!</div>
<div class="verse indent4">“‘Resting, it ranges everywhere! asleep,</div>
<div class="verse">It roams the world, unsleeping! Who, save I,</div>
<div class="verse">Know that divinest spirit, as it is,</div>
<div class="verse">Glad beyond joy, existing outside life?</div>
<div class="verse indent4">“‘Beholding it in bodies bodiless,</div>
<div class="verse">Amid impermanency permanent,</div>
<div class="verse">Embracing all things, yet i’ the midst of all,</div>
<div class="verse">The mind, enlightened, casts its grief away!</div>
<div class="verse indent4">“‘It is not to be known by knowledge! man</div>
<div class="verse">Wotteth it not by wisdom! learning vast</div>
<div class="verse">Halts short of it! Only by soul itself</div>
<div class="verse">Is soul perceived—when the Soul wills it so!</div>
<div class="verse">There shines no light save its own light to show</div>
<div class="verse">Itself unto itself!</div>
<div class="verse indent20">“‘None compasseth</div>
<div class="verse">Its joy who is not wholly ceased from sin,</div>
<div class="verse">Who dwells not self-controlled, self-centred—calm,</div>
<div class="verse">Lord of himself! It is not gotten else!</div>
<div class="verse">Brahm hath it not to give!’”</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>It need hardly be said that such a poem as
this, though not of a character to be enjoyed
by those who read verse simply for its sensuous
charm or its dramatic and narrative pictures,
will yield fruit for interesting reflection
to more thoughtful minds.</p>

<p>The other poems in the volume are of a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">297</span>
lighter character. Among those specially noticeable
are the three Hindu songs, the pastoral
poem, “Neucia,” translated from the Italian
of the great Florentine ruler, Lorenzo de Medici,
who, if he destroyed the liberties of his
city, raised it to its highest place in literary
and art glory, as also in commercial and political
power; “The Epic of the Lion;” “The
Wreck of the Northern Belle;”and “Amadis
of Gaul to Don Quixote de La Mancha,” The
latter, which is from the Spanish, is a little
gem:</p>

<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">“Thou who did’st imitate the mournful manner</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Of my most lonely and despised Life,</div>
<div class="verse">And—leaving joy for suffering and strife—</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Upon the bare hillside did’st pitch thy banner!</div>
<div class="verse">Thou whose unshamed eyes with tears oft ran over—</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Salt dripping tears—when giving up all proper</div>
<div class="verse">Vessels of use, silver and tin and copper,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Thou atest earth’s herbs on the earth, a woful dinner—</div>
<div class="verse">Rest thou content, Sir Knight! Ever and ever,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Or at the least whilst through the hemispheres</div>
<div class="verse">Golden Apollo drives his glittering mares—</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Famous and praised shall be thy high endeavor!</div>
<div class="verse">Thy land of birth the glory of all nations,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Thy chroniclers the crown of reputation.”</div>
</div></div></div>

<p>The volume, on the whole, very well sustains
Edwin Arnold’s growing reputation as one of
the first half dozen of the contemporary English
poets.</p>


<hr class="tb" />
<blockquote>

<p><span class="smcap">Greater London: A Narrative of Its History,
Its People, and Its Places.</span> By
Edward Walford, M.A., joint Author of
“Old and New London.” Illustrated with
Numerous Engravings. Vol. II. London,
Paris, and New York: <i>Cassell &amp; Co., Limited</i>.</p></blockquote>

<p>Mr. Walford’s reputation needs no exploitation
in the line of work which he has followed,
just as good wine needs no bush. He has
done much to embalm the literary and historic
glory of London and its environs in the past,
and the present volume, which completes
“Greater London,” is no less interesting than
its predecessors. All the celebrated and interesting
spots in the vicinity of London, their
traditions, history, personal and literary associations,
etc., are described not only as a labor
of love, but with a wealth of knowledge in detail.
It is not easy to characterize the mass of
information given, it covers so wide and varied
a field. Certainly the reader of English history
will find that he is helped very materially
to a vivid realization of the great personages
and events which have made the record of
England’s past so dramatic and fascinating.
Such books as these are not merely interesting
in themselves, but throw a flood of light on the
mind of the reader.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">298</span></p>


<hr class="chap" />

<div class="chapter"></div>
<h2 id="FOREIGN_LITERARY_NOTES">FOREIGN LITERARY NOTES.</h2>

<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Abbé Liszt is engaged on the fourth
volume of his Memoirs. The work is expected
to fill six volumes. The first volume is to
appear immediately.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> authorities of the Imperial Library of
St. Petersburg intend to bring out a palæographical
series, containing specimens of
their most important Greek, Latin, Slavonic,
French, and other manuscripts.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">M. Renan’s</span> health has improved, but his
projected tour in Palestine is postponed on
account of the disturbed condition of the
East. His lectures at the Collège de France
on the Old Testament are attended by persons
of both sexes and listened to with much interest.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">A praiseworthy</span> step has been taken by
the Edinburgh Town Council in resolving
to place memorial tablets on all spots of
historical interest in the city. The first place
to receive this mark of attention is the site
in Chambers Street (formerly College Wynd)
of the house where Sir Walter Scott was
born; and it has also been decided to erect
a memorial stone over the grave of the novelist’s
father in Greyfriars’ Churchyard.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Senate of Hamburg has made a gift of
1,000 marks to Herr Karl Theodor Gædertz,
the author of <cite>Geschichte des Niederdeutschen
Schauspiels</cite>, in acknowledgment of the value
of his work in the illustration of the literary
history of Hamburg. The present was made
through the Hanseatic Minister in Berlin,
where Herr Gædertz resides.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">A biography</span> of the late Richard Lepsius
is in preparation by his pupil and friend Prof.
G. Ebers. The author has had the diaries,
letters, and other papers of Lepsius placed at
his disposal for this purpose.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> successor of the lamented Prof. Lepsius
at the Royal Library at Berlin is not yet
appointed. We are glad to learn that the
post will not be filled by a great name only,
but by a specialist. This is, in fact, greatly
needed, as the Berlin library is one of the
least accessible in Europe to scholars in general.
Books are given out but twice a day,
and then only if they have been asked for the
previous day.</p>

<p>“<span class="smcap">Count Paul Vasali</span>,” whose lively
sketches of Viennese society in the <cite>Nouvelle
Revue</cite> have just been completed, announces
that he intends shortly to commence a similar
series on society in London.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">299</span></p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">A collection</span> of unpublished letters of the
Countess of Albany is being prepared for the
press by Prof. Camillo Antona-Traversi. It is
stated that these letters far exceed in interest
all the specimens hitherto printed of the correspondence
of the Countess.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">Says</span> the <cite>Athenæum</cite>. The Trustees of Cornell
University have invited Mr. Eugene
Schuyler to give a course of lectures on the
diplomatic and consular service of the United
States. The course is to be in connection
with the Department of History and Political
Science. It is hoped that these new lectures,
by supplementing those already given in the
university in connexion with international law
and history, will aid in training men to compete
for positions in the service when a proper
reform shall be made in the matter of appointments.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> study of palæography is receiving increased
attention just now in Italy. A short
time since a palæographical school was founded
at Naples, under the direction of the learned
archivist, Dr. A. Miola. More recently the
Pope has established at the Vatican a similar
institution, which he has placed under the
management of Father Carini.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> <cite>Revue Politique et Littéraire</cite> states that
the MS. of two unpublished tales by Perrault
has just been discovered. The titles are “La
Fée des Perles” and “Le Petit Homme de
Bois.” It is added that the MS. will be offered
to the Bibliothèque nationale.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">A correspondent</span> writes from Paris that
M. Victor Hugo seemed strong and well on
his birthday, though troubled with deafness.
He expressed his gratification at the Laureate’s
sonnet, which made a deep impression on
him at the time of its publication, and which
he has not forgotten.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> correspondent of the <cite>Academy</cite>, M. Lambros,
has found in a MS. of the fourteenth
century, belonging to the Ministry of Education
at Athens, a collection, in form of a dialogue,
from the works of Menander and Philistion.
Boissonade printed a similar one from
a Paris MS. to be found in Meineke, “Fragm.
Com. Græc.,” iv. 335 ff. That consists, however,
of only fifty-four verses, while the Athens
one contains 350. The MS. also contains a
collection of 415 maxims from Menander, each
consisting of a single line.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> French edition of Mr. H. M. Stanley’s
book on the Congo, which, as recently announced,
is to be published in Brussels, will,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">300</span>
we are informed, be translated by Mr. Gerard
Harry, one of the editors of the <cite>Independance
belge</cite> and of the <cite>Mouvement géographique</cite>.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">Mr. R. L. Stevenson’s</span> second series of
“New Arabian Nights” will be called, not
“The Man in the Sealskin Coat,” as at first
announced, but “The Dynamiter.” Its purpose
is comic. It consists of a “Prologue” and an
“Epilogue,” both in the Cigar Divan (in
Rupert Street) to which, as readers of the
first series may remember, the chance of
revolution relegated Prince Florizel of Bohemia;
of a certain number of “adventures;”
and of a set of subsidiary stories, “The
Fair Cuban,” “The Brown Box,”“The Destroying
Angel,” and “The Superfluous Mansion.”
It will be published almost at once,
we believe.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">Dr. Ludwig Geiger</span> has begun a new
journal which promises to be of great literary
importance, <cite>Vierteljahrsschrift für Kultur und
Litteratur der Renaissance</cite>. (Leipzig: Seeman.)
In the first number the editor contributes a
very thorough study of the life and writings
of Publio Fausto Andrelini, of Forli, who
taught in Paris from 1489 to 1518, and did
much to quicken the impulse of humanism in
France. Herr Grimm examines Vasari’s
authority for the statement that Michelangelo
finished four statues of captives for the tomb
of Julius II. He comes to the conclusion that
Vasari was mistaken, and that only two, now
in the Louvre, were really his work. Herr
Zupitza criticises “Three Middle-English versions
of Boccaccio’s story of Ghismonda and
Guiscardo”—one by Banister, a second by
Walter, and a third anonymous. Besides these
articles are published unprinted letters of
Guarino and Reuchlin. This new quarterly
journal has every prospect of filling a decided
need in literature, and bringing to light much
new material for literary history.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">In</span> a recent number of <cite>Deutsche Rundschau</cite>
Herr Herzog gives a vivid sketch of
modern progress in an article on “Die Einwirkungen
der modernen Verkehrsmittel auf
die Culturentwicklung.” His general conclusion
is that the discovery of railways and
the electric telegraph has tended to democratise
society and substitute practical materialism
for any moral ideal of life. Only when
commerce has become truly world-wide, and
national interests have ceased to jar and conflict,
must we look for a world-state in which
ideal ends again will meet with due recognition.
Freiherr von Lilicronen, in a paper<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">301</span>
on “Die Kunst der Conversation,” undertakes
the defence of German “Ernst” against
French “esprit” as a basis for social life. An
English bystander is probably inclined to suggest
a happy blending of the two. Dr. H.
Hüffer publishes some hitherto unprinted letters
of Heine to his friend Johann Hermann
Detmold. They are the scanty records of a
friendship of thirty years, and are of great
importance for Heine’s biography, especially
as regards his life in Paris and his relations
to his wife.</p>

<hr class="tb" />
<p><span class="smcap">In</span> an exhaustive paper recently read before
the Académie des Inscriptions (<cite>La Donation de
Hugues, Marquis de Toscane, au Saint Sépulcre,
et les etablissements latins de Jérusalem au Xe
siècle</cite>), M. Riant reminds us how little is known
of the history of Palestine previous to the time
of the Crusades from the Latin side, although
much has been done of late years to elucidate
its history in connection with the Greek Church.
He makes the re-examination of an important
grant of property by the Duke of Tuscany, in
<span class="smcap lowercase">A.D.</span> 993, to the Holy Sepulchre and St. Maria
Latina the occasion for a sketch of the Latin
occupation from the end of the sixth to the
end of the eleventh centuries, showing especially
the nature of Charlemagne’s protectorate
of the holy places. The document itself
he subjects to a searching criticism, calling
up, while so doing, a most striking figure
in the Abbé Guarin, of Cuxa (one of the grantees),
an eloquent ecclesiastic of great influence
in both France and Italy, and a wide traveller.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h2 id="MISCELLANY">MISCELLANY.</h2>


<p><span class="smcap">Learning to Ride.</span>—Six half-hour rides on
six successive days will do infinitely more
towards moulding the muscles to the equestrian
form than three lessons of two hours
each, with an interval of a day between. When
the services of a competent teacher cannot be
had, the next best aid is that of a good model
to imitate: not a soldier, although some of
the very finest horsemen are found among
cavalry officers, because a soldier has to follow
rules which do not affect a civilian; not a
huntsman, because to the best huntsmen the
horse is only a machine, and one hand is
always occupied with the horn or the whip;
but from watching a clever colt-breaker or accomplished
professional steeplechase rider
very useful lessons may be learned. It may
safely be assumed that any man of forty, not
disqualified by physical defeats or oppressed
with excessive corpulence, may, with patience,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">302</span>
perseverance, and pluck, without rashness,
learn how to ride and how to enjoy riding any
well-broken horse, without looking ridiculous,
after from fifty to sixty well arranged rides,
within the space of three months. But it
is a sort of exercise that cannot be taken
up and abandoned for a long interval with
impunity. Even practised horsemen suffer
severely after a certain time of life, if, after
a long cessation from horse exercise, they
attempt the feats of their youth; feverishness,
indigestion, a fluttering heart, a disordered
liver, remind them that for long
days the man requires preparation as much as
the horse. A great deal of the comfort of riding
depends on proper garments for the lower
limbs. Theoretically, there is no riding-dress
so comfortable as well-made breeches and
boots either of the modern cavalry or the plain
“butcher pattern.” The next best substitute
is a pair of leather overalls, fastened at the
sides by buttons, not with springs. But those
whose age and position would make boots for
riding in a town objectionable must pay attention
to their trousers. The material for riding-trousers
should be thick woollen, and may
be dark—there are some very nice partly-elastic
materials in dark colors—they must be constructed
by a real trouser-maker, who will
make you sit down when he measures you,
and they must be worn with straps whether
straps are in fashion or not. Wellington boots
are the best with trousers; shoes are quite out
of the question. Trousers without straps,
slipping up the leg of a timid horseman, are an
acute form of unnecessary misery, which was
the fashion for many years up to 1877, when
straps again appeared on the trousers of the
more correct riders in Rotten Row.—<cite>Illustrated
Book of the Horse.</cite></p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p><span class="smcap">A Tragic Barring-out.</span>—In the inner part
of Riddell’s Close stands the house of Bailie
John Macmorran, whose tragic death made a
great stir at its time, threw the city into painful
excitement, and tarnished the reputation of the
famous old High School. The conduct of the
scholars there had been bad and turbulent for
some years, but it reached a climax on September
15th, 1595. On a week’s holiday being
refused, the boys were so exasperated,
being chiefly “gentilmane’s bairnes,” that
they formed a compact for vengeance in the
true spirit of the age; and, armed with swords
and pistols, took possession at midnight of
the ancient school in the Blackfriars Gardens,
and declining to admit the masters or anyone<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">303</span>
else, made preparation to stand a siege, setting
all authority at defiance. The doors were
not only shut but barricaded and strongly
guarded within; all attempts to storm the boy-garrison
proved impracticable, and all efforts
at reconciliation were unavailing. The Town
Council lost patience, and sent Bailie John
Macmorran, one of the wealthiest merchants
in the city (though he had begun life as a servant
to the Regent Morton), with a posse of
city officers, to enforce the peace. On their
appearance in the school-yard the boys became
simply outrageous, and mocked them as
“buttery carles,” daring anyone to approach
at his peril. “To the point likely to be first
attacked,” says Steven, in his history of the
school, “they were observed to throng in a
highly excited state, and each seemed to vie
with his fellow in threatening instant death
to the man who should forcibly attempt to
displace them. William Sinclair, son of the
Chancellor of Caithness, had taken a conspicuous
share in this barring out, and he now
appeared foremost, encouraging his confederates,”
and stood at a window overlooking one
of the entrances which the Bailie ordered the
officers to force, by using a long beam as a
battering-ram, and he had nearly accomplished
his perilous purpose, when a ball in
the forehead from Sinclair’s pistol slew him
on the spot, and he fell on his back. Panic-stricken,
the boys surrendered. Some effected
their escape, and others, including Sinclair
and the sons of Murray of Springiedale, and
Pringle of Whitebank, were thrown into
prison. Macmorran’s family were too rich to
be bribed, and clamored that they would have
blood for blood. On the other hand, “friends
threatened death to all the people of Edinburgh
if they did the child any harm, saying
they were not wise who meddled with
scholars, especially <em>gentlemen’s sons</em>,” and
Lord Sinclair, as chief of the family to which
the young culprit belonged, moved boldly in
his behalf, and procured the intercession of
King James with the magistrates, and in the
end all the accused got free, including the slayer
of the Bailie, who lived to become Sir
William Sinclair of Mey, in 1631, and the
husband of Catherine Ross, of Balnagowan,
and from them the present Earls of Caithness
are descended.—<cite>Old and New Edinburgh.</cite></p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p><span class="smcap">Intelligence in Cats.</span>—Cats are like oysters,
in that no one is neutral about them;
everyone is, explicitly or implicitly, friendly
or hostile to them. And they are like chil<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">304</span>dren
in their power of discovering, by a rapid
and sure instinct, who likes them and who
does not. It is difficult to win their affection;
and it is easy to forfeit what it is hard to win.
But when given, their love, although less demonstrative,
is more delicate and beautiful
than that of a dog. Who that is on really intimate
terms with a cat has not watched its
dismay at the signs of packing up and leaving
home? We ourselves have known a cat
who would recognise his master’s footstep
after a three months’ absence, and come out
to meet him in the hall, with tail erect, and
purring all over as if to the very verge of
bursting. And another cat we know, who
comes up every morning between six and
seven o’clock to wake his master, sits on the
bed, and very gently feels first one eyelid and
then the other with his paw. When an eye
opens, but not till then, the cat sets up a loud
purr, like the prayer of a fire-worshipper to
the rising sun. Those who say lightly that
cats care only for places, and not for persons,
should go to the Cat Show at the Crystal Palace,
where they may see recognitions between cat
and owner that will cure them of so shallow
an opinion. When we were last there, one
striking instance fell in our way. Cats greatly
dislike these exhibitions; a cat, as a rule, is
like Queen Vashti, unwilling to be shown,
even to the nobles, at the pleasure of an Ahasuerus.
Shy, sensitive, wayward, and independent,
a cat resents being placed upon a cushion
in a wire cage, and exposed to the unintelligent
criticism, to say nothing of the fingers
of a mob of sightseers. One very eminent
cat, belonging to the Masters’ Common
Room at Christ Church, Oxford, whose size
and beauty have on several occasions entailed
on him the hard necessity of attending a cat
show, takes, it is said, three days to recover
from the sense of humiliation and disgust
which he feels, whether he gets a prize or
not. On the occasion to which we refer, a
row of distinguished cats were sitting, each on
his cushion, with their backs turned to the
sightseers, while their faces, when from time
to time visible, were expressive of the deepest
gloom and disgust. Presently two little girls
pushed through the crowd to the cage of one
of the largest of these cats, crying, “There’s
‘Dick’!” Instantly the great cat turned round,
his face transfigured with joy, purred loudly,
and endeavored to scratch open the front of
the cage, that he might rejoin his little friends,
who were with difficulty persuaded to leave
him at the show.—<cite>Spectator.</cite></p>


<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_1_1" href="#FNanchor_1_1" class="label">1</a>
It is often associated unfairly with the illustrious
name of the late Mr. Darwin. His special
views lend themselves indeed to Haeckelianism,
and have been pressed into its service;
yet they are by no means to be identified
therewith. As Professor Huxley has pointed
out with his usual lucidity and force, Darwin’s
theory can be made to accord with the most
thoroughgoing teleology.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_2_2" href="#FNanchor_2_2" class="label">2</a>
See Todd’s <cite>Cyclopædia of Anatomy and
Physiology</cite>, vol. iii. p. 3.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_3_3" href="#FNanchor_3_3" class="label">3</a>
<cite>L’Habitude et l’Instinct.</cite> Baillière. Paris.
1875.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_4_4" href="#FNanchor_4_4" class="label">4</a>
As Mr. Spalding has shown. To him I
am indebted for the other facts about young
birds given in the text.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_5_5" href="#FNanchor_5_5" class="label">5</a>
<cite>The Unity of Nature</cite>, chap. iii.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_6_6" href="#FNanchor_6_6" class="label">6</a>
See <cite>Magazine of Natural History</cite>, vol. iv.
p. 206.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_7_7" href="#FNanchor_7_7" class="label">7</a>
See Mr. Timothy Holmes’s <cite>System of
Surgery</cite>, 3rd edit. vol. iii. p. 746.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_8_8" href="#FNanchor_8_8" class="label">8</a>
A Lecture delivered before the (London)
Sunday Lecture Society, January 18, 1885.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_9_9" href="#FNanchor_9_9" class="label">9</a>
A second edition of Professor Cooley’s
<cite>Blackstone</cite> was published in Chicago last year.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_10_10" href="#FNanchor_10_10" class="label">10</a>
Blackstone does not seem to have read
either Burlamaqui or Montesquieu in French.
He invariably uses the words of Nugent’s translations,
which had then been recently published.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_11_11" href="#FNanchor_11_11" class="label">11</a>
This is Fox’s comment on the passage:—“How
vain, then, how idle, how presumptuous
is the opinion that laws can do everything!
and how weak and pernicious the maxim
founded upon it, that measures, not men, are
to be attended to!”</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_12_12" href="#FNanchor_12_12" class="label">12</a>
He is referring, however, to persecution on
the Continent and by the Pope.</p></div></div>

<div class="transnote">
<h3>Transcriber's Notes</h3>

<p>Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. All other
spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.</p>
</div>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 53772 ***</div>
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