[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 141.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]
THE GREEK GYPSIES AT LIVERPOOL.
Towards the middle of last July, the people of Liverpool were surprised
by the advent of a large band of Greek gypsies, ninety-nine in number,
whom the London train had left stranded on a vacant space of ground
beside the railway station. Though spoken of as ‘Greek’ gypsies, they
were really from all parts of the Græco-Turkish corner of Europe, and
some even from Smyrna and its neighbourhood. But they preferred to be
regarded as Greeks, and all of them spoke the modern Greek tongue.
They had come to Liverpool, intending to take an early steamer to New
York; but their progress was here suddenly arrested; and their stay in
Liverpool proved to be of longer duration than had been anticipated by
themselves or by others. From their first squatting-ground beside the
station they had early been removed to a secluded corner at Walton,
within the grounds of the Zoological Gardens. But how long they must
yet remain there, and what was to be done with them, seemed difficult
problems.
It was not the fault of these strange emigrants that they thus halted
on the outward verge of Europe. They had honestly paid their way hither
from their Mediterranean home, and they had enough money among them to
pay for their passage across the Atlantic. But at this point America
interfered. Ready as she once was to welcome all immigrants with open
arms, America has become less hospitable of recent years. She has
excluded the Chinaman, for racial reasons; and now she is drawing the
line at the ‘pauper,’ of whatever race, because of his poverty. It is
not many years since Longfellow apostrophised _Driving Cloud_, ‘chief
of the mighty Omawhaws,’ telling him it was in vain that he and his
meagre tribe ‘claimed the soil for their hunting-grounds,’
While down-trodden millions
Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too,
Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division!
But times are changed. And the European ‘pauper’ finds no resting-place
on North American soil, but is sent back to his old hopeless existence
in the garrets and ‘caverns’ of Europe. It is only the self-supporting
immigrant that receives a welcome. There is nothing unnatural in this
attitude of the Americans. A young and ambitious country does not want
its ranks to be recruited from the idle, unenergetic, and criminal
classes of older states; indeed, half the troubles of America have
come, not from the descendants of the men who founded the Republic,
but from the heterogeneous invaders of the present century. Thus, the
American attitude is intelligible enough. Nevertheless, the mere fact
that the poor are not permitted to seek a home in that vast country,
forms a grim commentary on the popular conception of America as the
great haven of refuge for all the victims of Old-world tyrannies.
It must be confessed that the appearance of the gypsy camp at Walton
was not at all suggestive of the ideal emigrant; so that it was perhaps
as well that the present writer conceived the idea of visiting them
without any intention of advocating their claim to such a title. The
scene, truly, did not suggest any such qualities as cleanliness,
industry, or wealth. Scattered along two sides of an open grassy
triangle stood the gypsy tents, some fifteen or twenty—small-sized,
mean, and dingy, loosely put together, constructed of old canvas or
sacking, which fell on either side of a low ridge-pole, and was closed
at one end. In the open space between the two rows of tents a group
of gypsy men were amusing themselves—some wrestling and fighting
playfully; while the others looked on, talking, laughing, and smoking.
A few female figures were moving about among the tents; and a host of
children, of all sizes, scampered, toddled, and tumbled over the grass,
as happy as if they had never breathed a milder air than that of this
chilly English summer day.
One glance at the swarthy faces of these people was enough to convince
one that their claim to be called ‘gypsies’ did not rest upon the
mere fact that they were nomads by habit and tinkers by trade, but
that they were the little-mixed representatives of a distinct racial
type. A closer examination did reveal the presence of an infusion of
white blood among a few of them; but nearly all were the darkest of
all dark-skinned Europeans. In no degree whatever did their tawny
complexion result from long exposure to wind and sun; for, when one
glanced at the skin which their half-open shirts disclosed, or at the
bodies of the ill-clad little creatures everywhere running about, one
saw the same uniform dusky hue. The hair of all was jet black; but the
colour of their eyes seemed to be invariably of a deep hazel shade,
rather than the opaque black that may be seen in the eyes of many
people of a fairer skin.
No sooner were their visitors descried, than several young children,
and one girl of about seventeen, swooped down on them with pleading
cries for money. Strongly resembling the children of our itinerant
Italians in their dress and appearance, they were also like them
in their appealing tones and in the very words they used. ‘Grazia,
grazia, deh mi pena [penny], ma dona!’ were the words they reiterated
in various combinations, as they held out their dirty little hands
beseechingly for the expected ‘pena.’ Whether they had become familiar
with this Italian patois during their temporary residence in Italy, or
whether—as is likelier—they had been always accustomed to it in their
homes among the Ionian Islands, it was clearly the favourite form of
speech among the younger children. But that they also understood modern
Greek became speedily clear, although they were far from appreciating
the uses to which that language was put. For on this occasion the
writer was accompanied by a Greek gentleman, representing an eminent
merchant of Liverpool who had greatly exerted himself on behalf of his
otherwise friendless countrymen; and by his instructions, all attempts
at begging were sternly suppressed, not only because the thing itself
was objectionable, but also because he foresaw that, if indulged in, it
would further complicate the position of the gypsies, and counteract
his efforts to arouse the sympathy of the American authorities.
Accordingly, by a few rapid sentences in Greek, the suppliants were
effectually repressed.
As soon as the leading men of the band who were then present—the
chief himself had gone into town with two of his followers—understood
that one of their visitors was a fellow-countryman, representing
their patron, they thronged around him with a hundred questions,
gesticulating violently the while; and the burden of their complaint
was: ‘How long must we remain here?’ ‘Why should we be detained when
our journey is half over?’ ‘Why will the Americans not let us come?’
Their case was really a hard one. Three hundred napoleons had they
spent on their journey from Greece—on the clear understanding that
they were to obtain a passage across the Atlantic from Liverpool, the
money for which they had in their possession. Then came the word that
they would not be allowed to land; when immediately the steamship
companies unanimously refused to take them as passengers. Nor was
Canada a bit more friendly than the States; so that only South America
remained open to them. This, indeed, was where they specially wished
to go—among the Southern Europeans and their fellow-gypsies. But a
voyage to Brazil means a great deal more money than the short passage
to New York. The other alternative held up to them—to return to their
native country—they indignantly repelled. They had left it for want of
employment, and in the hopes of making more money in the New World; for
the reasons, in short, which induce other people to emigrate; and they
had no wish to waste their substance on a fruitless journey to and from
Liverpool.
Although nomadic gypsies, not very clean in their appearance and ways,
it must be remembered that these people were, like many other gypsies,
honest craftsmen. Some English gypsies who visited them came away with
the impression that they were extremely well skilled in metal-working;
and the account given by one of their ‘interviewers,’ a Roumanian
gentleman, quite bears this out. ‘Mr —— asked the chief why the tribe
thought of going to America, and was answered that they wished to make
a living. In Roumania they could “use the lead” [solder], and they
could make and clean pans [the pans being presumably of copper, since
they were noted for their skill in copper-working]. They were also
builders, and carried bricks and mortar. They also tilled the soil....
From his [Mr ——’s] knowledge of their habits in Roumania, he did not
think the Americans need fear their advent, as they would strive to
earn an honest living.’ To all this favourable testimony may be added
the statement made by the proprietor of the Gardens, that, so far as he
could judge, they were absolutely free from the vice of drunkenness,
which was more than he could say of many of the ‘roughs’ who came to
look at them.
The passports which they produced from their pocket-books were seen
to be bi-lingual—French and Greek in several instances, French and
Roumanian, apparently, in others. One ran in the name of King Milan
I. of Servia. The French designation given to them was that of
_chaudronnier_ (tinker). Their Christian names, detailed in their
respective passports, were various—such as Michael (the name of their
chief), Constantin, Stefano, and Janka; among the female names were
Maria and Ghuri (pron. Gew′ri). The passports, which had been duly
_visé’d_ by the various consuls, frequently included a considerable
number of individuals in each, thus covering one or more families. As
already stated, these people came from all parts of Greece and European
Turkey—from Corfu on the west, and Smyrna on the east, and also from
the principalities of Servia, Bulgaria, and Roumania. Many of them, no
doubt, are among the people particularly treated of in Dr Paspati’s
well-known work on the Turkish Gypsies.
After their first expressions of indignation and annoyance at their
mysterious detention had passed off, these men fell into a pleasanter
humour, and accepted with gratitude a few cigars which their visitors
offered them. They seemed great smokers, both men and women, their
favourite pipe being about a foot in length, with a pendulous, elastic
tube. On learning that the present writer had come all the way from
‘Scozia’ (Scotland) to see them, they showed much gratification, to
which their chief spokesman at once gave expression in modern Greek
through the medium of our interpreter; and, pointing to the freshly-lit
cigar at which he was now puffing vigorously, he said with emphasis,
‘_Bōn’, bōn’_;’ in this case employing his Italian dialect as likely
to be the most intelligible form of speech. This man was quite an
accomplished linguist, and could speak Greek, Russian, Roumanian, and
two or three other dialects of South-eastern Europe. The curious thing
was, that while he seemed rather proud of his attainments, he never
once included in his list his own mother-tongue, the speech of the
gypsy race. Neither would he admit that he was a ‘ziganka,’ not for
a long time, at anyrate; but subsequently, both he and his comrades
answered to the name of _Roum_,[1] and the cigar was no longer _bōn’_,
but _lâsho_.[2]
[1] _Roum_ or _Rom_, the gypsies’ own name for a gypsy all the world
over.
[2] _Lásho_, otherwise _látcho_, ‘good.’
The Greek gentleman and the visitor from Scozia had by this time made a
sufficient investigation of the camp. The general effect of the people
and their surroundings was undoubtedly disappointing. There was an
almost total absence of colour in their attire, which—among the men, at
least—was very plain, and had little of a distinctive character about
it. One, however, wore a broad leathern belt studded with brass-headed
nails, which had something about it suggesting the picturesque; while
the fingers of most of the men and women were adorned with many rings.
The men wore their hair short, and some had moustaches and beards.
There was more that was characteristic about the women. The general
hue of their attire was ‘sad-coloured,’ like that of the men; but
one had a red, white-spotted kerchief wound round her head, gypsy
fashion; and most of them had necklaces of coral or beads, and large
silver coins disposed in strings around their neck and shoulders.
Their raven tresses were braided in long plaits, which hung down on
either side. But none of these gypsy women could be called handsome,
and, indeed, were much inferior to the men in this respect. Among the
children, however, there were one or two really pretty faces; one, a
little girl of five or six, had quite a refined and sweet expression,
as well as regular delicate features. In her case, an exception was
made to the stern decree against almsgiving; and it was amusing to
see her shy hesitation as, with hanging head, and a side-glance at
the gypsy man beside her—who, with many cuffs to right and left, had
repressed all attempts at begging—she held out a tiny hand for the
offered ‘pena,’ while her neat little mouth parted smilingly over a
row of shining ‘ivories.’ The children, in fact, who numbered more
than fifty, constituted the most attractive feature of the scene;
and queer, impish little creatures they were. Even where they had no
claims to beauty, they were still inexpressibly droll. Some possessed
very little clothing wherewith to hide their small brown bodies. One
marched gravely about with nothing on but a dilapidated shirt; while,
in the distance, a nurse about eight years old was seen to pursue and
capture a wholly naked little savage of half her age. Something in
their serio-comic air and the tumbled-together look of their garments,
frequently reminded one of the odd little Bohemians in Callot’s
etchings.
In one tent lay an old and very dark-skinned, white-bearded man.
Through some accident, he had lost the use of his legs; but he lay
stolidly on the ground, smoking a cigar, indifferent, apparently, to
the inquisitive looks of a dozen curious spectators. A baby was lying
very still in a heap of swaddling-clothes beside him—‘dying,’ said some
of the onlookers, though the mother herself pronounced the illness to
be nothing serious.
On leaving the camp, another incident in the checkered life of the
sojourners presented itself. Two of their young women—girls, rather—had
gone into the streets to do a little ‘shopping,’ and had attempted to
enter a butcher’s shop, with intent to purchase; but from the recesses
of this booth, suddenly evoked by their appearance, there issued forth
what Mr Skimpole would have described as ‘the absurd figure of an angry
butcher,’ who, with furious mien and uplifted arm, drove the poor girls
back into the street. Followed by a small crowd of street-children, the
two young Romany maidens strode along, one with a splendid scowl on her
face, as she flashed her angry glances on the jeering _gaújoes_.[3]
But a friend and compatriot was at hand. The irate butcher, being
questioned, explained that he did not drive them away for any attempted
dishonesty, but because he knew, from the previous days’ experience,
that they had only copper to offer him for meat that was fairly worth
some silver. To do him justice, the good butcher began to abate his
wrath as soon as he perceived that there was money to be made after
all. The girls were recalled, and—a perfect mob of children looking
in at door and windows—their aprons were filled with a goodly store
of meat, with which they departed in happiness, blessing their kindly
benefactor.
[3] _Gaújoes_, Gentiles or non-gypsies.
This mid-day visit had not been enough for the gentleman from Scozia,
who returned the same evening to the camp with a small party, one of
the number being a famous ‘word-master’ of Rómanes.[4] And now it
became apparent that the correctly behaved people of the forenoon,
freed from the check of their patron’s influence, had dropped the
mask, and stood boldly forth in their true colours. Not that they were
very bad, even then; their only vice was that of begging. But how to
describe that! From entrance to exit it was incessant, clamorous,
piteous, and beyond all satisfying. Men, women, children, even babies
begged! From every side came the _grazia_ formula; and the nearer
petitioners would lift and kiss the hem of one’s garments. Coppers
vanished like smoke. Cigars and cigarettes were eagerly accepted on
all sides, even by mere children. Nay, so free from shame were the
supplicants, that, perceiving whence one of the ladies drew her store
of cigarettes—thoughtfully laid in for their benefit—one of the young
gypsies quietly thrust his hand into the folds of the dress and drew
out the remaining two or three! There was not the slightest attempt
at violence or furtive theft; only an incessant, plaintive begging
by voice and manner—of the most artistic order, evolved out of the
practice of many generations. Although our own gypsies had long ago the
reputation of practising this art, it is now quite dissociated from
them—in this direct form.
[4] Rómanes, the gypsy language.
Those English gypsies who had visited them had a good deal to say of
their begging propensities. From one they had demanded tobacco to an
unlimited extent, from others they had asked for sugar and soap. And
while it was amusing to hear our own gypsies express their righteous
indignation at the ways of their ‘kin beyond sea,’ it was very
interesting to listen to their remarks upon their common language;
for, although very imperfectly indeed, and only in occasional-words
and phrases, they could understand each other a little—only a little,
however, so great are the differences of intonation, inflexion, and
vocabulary. Nevertheless, now that those Greeks had revealed themselves
in their true character as gypsies, it became clearly evident to their
visitors that—unlike their brethren in Montenegro—they still retained
the language of their race. In the midst of the tumult and crowd—not
only of gypsies but of indiscriminate _gaújoes_—it was impossible even
for a _báro lávengro_[5] to do more than exchange a few brief sentences
with them. But, in that imperfect way, it became clear that this was
a camp of true Romané. _Roum_, or rather _Erroum_ is the form they
give to the more common _Rom_, in which peculiarity they resemble the
_Erroumans_ of the Basque countries. Various words were thus obtained
from them, corresponding generally with those which one finds in Dr
Paspati’s collection.
[5] _Báro lávengro_, ‘great word-maker,’ that is, fluent speaker of the
gypsy language.
But patience has its limits, and a steady and persistent demand
for _largesse_ cannot be as steadily complied with; so, with words
of farewell to the older members of the tribe, who had throughout
restrained themselves—and indeed some of the youthful mendicants, who
were void of shame—the gypsy camp was left to become an interesting
memory.
When these lines were written, the newspapers told of heavy rains and
wet bedraggled tents; and further, of a proposal made by an inveterate
showman to exhibit the gypsies through the music-halls, with their
ancestral games, dances, and craftsmanship. Misguided wanderers from
the blue Ægean, is there no better fate before you than this?
BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.
BY FRED. M. WHITE.
IN TWENTY CHAPTERS.—CHAP. I.
The shades of evening had commenced to fall; already the slanting sun
shining through the open window glittered on the array of crystal
glasses, turning the wine within them to a blood-red hue. The remains
of an ample dessert were scattered about the bare polished table,
rich luscious-looking fruits and juicy pines filling the air with
their fragrance. A pleasant room, with its panelled walls and quaint
curiosities, with here and there a modern picture framed; and again
other works standing upon easels or placed against the wainscot. From
the Corso below came the sounds of laughter and gaiety; while within,
the delicate scent of the pines was overpowered by the odour of tobacco
which rose from the cigarettes of the three men sitting there. They
were all young—artists evidently, and from the appearance of one of
them, he was of a different nationality from the others. Frederick
Maxwell was an Englishman, with a passion for art, and no doubt had
he been forced to gain a living by his brush, would have made some
stir in the world; but being born with the traditional silver spoon
in his mouth, his flirtation with the arts never threatened to become
serious. He was leaving Rome in a few days, and the dessert upon the
table was the remains of a farewell dinner—that custom dear to every
English heart. A handsome fair-haired man this Englishman, his clear
bright cheek and blue eyes contrasting with the aquiline features
and olive-hued complexions of his companions. The man with the black
moustache and old velvet painting-jacket, a man with bohemian stamped
on him indelibly, was Carlo Visci, also an artist, and a genius to
boot, but cursed with that indomitable idleness which is the bane of
so many men of talent. The other and slighter Italian, he with the
melancholy face and earnest eyes, was Luigi Salvarini, independent as
to means, and possessed, poor fool! with the idea that he was ordained
by Providence for a second Garibaldi.
There is an infinite sense of rest and comfort, the desire to sit
silent and dream of pleasant things, that comes with tobacco after
dinner, when the eye can dwell upon the waxlights glittering on glass
and china, and on the artistic confusion the conclusion of the repast
produces. So the three men sat listlessly, idly there, each drowsily
engaged, and none caring to break the delicious silence, rendered all
the more pleasing from the gay girlish laughter and the trip of little
feet coming up from the Corso below. But no true Briton can remain long
silent; and Maxwell, throwing his cigarette out through the window,
rose to his feet, yawning. ‘Heigh-ho! So this pleasant life is come to
an end,’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, I suppose one cannot be expected to be
always playing.’
Carlo Visci roused himself to laugh gently. ‘Did you ever do anything
else, my friend?’ he asked. ‘You play here under sunny skies, in a
velvet painting-jacket; then you leave us to pursue the same arduous
toil in the tall hat of Albion’s respectability, in the land of fogs
and snows. Ah! yes, it is only a change of venue, my philosopher.’
‘Not now,’ Salvarini corrected gravely. ‘Remember, he has vowed by all
in his power to aid the welfare of the League. That vow conscientiously
followed out is undertaking enough for one man’s lifetime.’
‘Luigi, you are the skeleton at the feast,’ Visci remonstrated. ‘Cannot
you be happy here for one brief hour without reminding us that we are
bound by chains we cannot sever?’
‘I do not like the mocking tone of your words,’ Salvarini replied. ‘The
subject is too earnest for jesting upon.—Surely, Maxwell, you have not
so soon forgotten the solemnity of the oath you took last night?’
‘I do remember some gibberish I had to repeat, very much like the
conspirators’ chorus at the Opera,’ Maxwell returned with a careless
shrug. ‘It is not bad fun playing at sedition.—But for goodness’ sake,
Luigi, do not keep harping on the same string, like another Paganini,
but without that wizard’s versatility.’
‘You think it play, do you?’ Salvarini asked almost scornfully. ‘You
will find it stern reality some day. Your hour may not come yet, it may
not come for years; but if you are ordered to cut off your right hand,
you will have to obey.’
‘Oh, indeed. Thanks, most earnest youth, for your estimation of my
talent for obedience.—Come, Luigi! do not be so Cassandra-like. If the
worst comes to the worst, I can pitch this thing into the Tiber.’ He
took a gold coin from his pocket as he spoke, making a gesture as if to
throw it through the open lattice.
Salvarini stood up, terror written in every line of his face, as he
arrested the outstretched arm. ‘For heaven’s sake, Maxwell, what are
you thinking of? Are you mad, or drunk, that you can dream of such a
thing?’
Maxwell laughed as he restored the coin to his pocket. ‘All right, old
fellow. I suppose I must honour your scruples; though, mind you, I do
not consider myself bound to do anything foolish even for the League.’
‘You may not think so; indeed, I hope not; but time will tell.’
Maxwell laughed again, and whistled carelessly, thinking no more of the
little episode. The League, the coin, everything was forgotten; but the
time did come when he in his hour of need remembered Luigi’s words, and
vividly realised the meaning of the look on his stern earnest face.
Visci looked on at the incident, totally unmoved, save by a desire to
lead the conversation into more pleasant channels. ‘When do you leave,
Maxwell?’ he asked. ‘I suppose you are not going for a few days?’
‘In about a week probably, not sooner. I did not know I had so many
friends in Rome, till I was going to leave them.’
‘You will not forget your visit to my little place? Genevieve will
never forgive me if I let you go without saying good-bye.’
‘Forget little Genevieve!’ Maxwell cried. ‘No, indeed. Whatever my
engagements may be, I shall find time to see her; though, I daresay,
the day will come when she will forget me easily enough.’
‘I am not so sure of that; she is a warm-hearted child. I tell you what
we will do; and perhaps Sir Geoffrey and his daughter will join us. We
will go down the day after to-morrow, and make a day of it.—Of course
you will be one, Luigi?’
It was growing dark now, too dark to see the rich flush that mounted to
the young Italian’s cheek. He hesitated a moment before he spoke. ‘With
pleasure, Carlo. A day at your little paradise is not to be lightly
refused. I will come gladly.’
‘You make a slight mistake, Visci, when you speak of Genevieve as a
child,’ Maxwell observed reflectively. ‘She is seventeen—a woman,
according to your Italian reckoning. At anyrate, she is old enough to
know the little blind god, or I am much mistaken.’
‘I hope not,’ Visci returned gravely. ‘She is quick and passionate, and
somewhat old for her years, by reason of the seclusion she keeps. But
let the man beware who lightly wins her heart; it would go hard with
him if I crossed his path again!’
‘There are serpents in every paradise,’ Maxwell replied sententiously;
‘and let us hope little Gen. is free from the curiosity of her original
ancestress. But child or not, she has a woman’s heart worth the
winning, in which assertion our silent friend here will bear me out.’
Luigi Salvarini started from his reverie. ‘You are right, Maxwell,’ he
said. ‘Many a man would be proud to wear her gage upon his arm. Even
I—— But why ask me? If I was even so disposed to rest under my own
fig-tree, there are ties which preclude such a blissful thought.’
Maxwell whistled softly, and muttered something about a man drawing a
bow at a venture—the words audible to Salvarini alone.
‘I am tied, as I told you,’ he continued coldly. ‘I do not know why you
have drawn me into the discussion at all. I have sterner work before me
than dallying by a woman’s side looking into her eyes’——
‘And not anything like so pleasant, I dare swear,’ Maxwell interrupted
cheerfully. ‘Come, Luigi; do not be so moody. If I have said anything
in my foolish way to offend you, I am heartily sorry.’
‘I am to blame, Maxwell, not you. You wonder why I am so taken up with
this League; if you will listen, I will tell you. The story is old now;
but I will tell you as best I can remember.’
‘Then, perhaps you will wait till I have found a seat and lighted my
cigarette,’ exclaimed a voice from the background at this moment. ‘If
Salvarini is going to oblige, I cut in as a listener.’
At these words, uttered in a thin, slightly sneering voice, the trio
turned round suddenly. Had it been lighter, they would have seen a
trim, well-built figure, with head well set on square shoulders, and a
perfectly cut, deadly pale face, lighted with piercing black eyes, and
adorned by a well-waxed, pointed moustache. From his accents, there
must have been something like a sneer upon his lips. But whatever he
might have been, he seemed to be welcome enough now as he drew a chair
to the open window.
‘Better late than never,’ Maxwell cried. ‘Help yourself to wine, Le
Gautier; and make all due apologies for not turning up to dinner.’
‘I will do so,’ the new-comer said languidly. ‘I was detained out of
town.—No; you need not ask if a pair of bright eyes were the lodestars
to my ardent soul, for I shall not tell you; and in the second place, I
have been obtaining your permit as a Brother of the League. I offered
up myself on the shrine of friendship; I lost my dinner, _voilà tout_;’
and saying these words, he put a narrow slip of parchment in Maxwell’s
hands.
‘I suppose I had better take care of this?’ the Englishman answered
carelessly. ‘I got so exasperated with Salvarini, that I came near
pitching the sacred moidore out of the window. I presume, it would not
be wise?’
‘Not if you have any respect for a sound body,’ Le Gautier returned
dryly. ‘I gather that Luigi has been talking largely about the
sacredness of the mission. Well, he is young yet, and the gilt of his
enthusiasm does not yet show the nickel beneath, which reminds me. Did
my ears deceive me, or were we going to hear a story?’
‘It is no story,’ the Italian replied, ‘merely a little family record,
to show you how even patriots are not exempt from tyranny.—You remember
my brother, Visci? and his wife. He settled down, after fighting years
for his country, not many miles from here. Living with him was his
wife’s father, an aged man, universally beloved—a being who had not a
single enemy in the world. Well, time went on, till one day, without
the slightest warning, the old fellow was arrested for compliance in
some so-called plot. My brother’s wife clung round her father’s neck;
and there, in my brother’s sight, he saw his wife stricken brutally
down by the ruffianly soldiers—dead; dead, mind—her only crime that
little act of affection—killed by order of the officer in charge. But
revenge followed. Paulo shot three of the scoundrels dead, and left
the officer, as he thought, dying. Since then, I have never heard
of Paulo.—And now, do you wonder why I am a Socialist, with my hand
against all authority and order, when it is backed up by such cowardly,
unprovoked oppression as this?’
For a time the listeners remained silent, watching the twinkling stars
as they peeped out one by one, nothing to be seen now of each but
the glowing tip of his cigarette as the blue smoke drifted from the
casement.
‘You do not think that your brother and Paulo Lucci, the celebrated
brigand we hear so much of, are the same men?’ Visci asked at length.
‘People have said so, you understand.’
‘I have heard such a tale,’ Salvarini replied sardonically. ‘The affair
created quite a stir in the province at the time; but the peasants do
me too much homage in connecting my name with so famous a character.
Our Italian imagination does not rest at trifles.’
‘Pleasant for the officer who ordered them to strike down your
brother’s wife,’ Le Gautier drawled, as he emitted a delicate curl of
smoke from his nostrils. ‘Did you ever hear the name of the fellow?’
‘Curiously enough, his name is the same as yours, though I cannot be
sure, as it is five years ago now. He was a Frenchman, likewise.’
‘Moral—let all Le Gautiers keep out of Paulo Lucci’s way,’ Maxwell
exclaimed, rising to his feet. ‘We do not pay you the compliment
of believing you are the same man; but these brigands are apt to
strike first and inquire after. Of course, this is always presuming
Salvarini’s brother and Paulo Lucci are one.—I am going as far as the
Villa Salvarino. Who says ay to that proposal?—The ayes have it.’
They rose to their feet with one accord, and after changing their coats
for something more respectable, trooped down the stairs.
‘You will not forget about Friday?’ Visci reminded. ‘I shall ask Sir
Geoffrey and his daughter to come. We are going down to my little place
on that day.—Will you make one, Le Gautier?’
‘A thousand thanks, my dear Visci,’ the Frenchman exclaimed; ‘but
much as I should like it, the thing is impossible. I am literally
overwhelmed in the most important work.’
A general laugh followed this solemn assertion.
‘I am sorry,’ Visci returned politely. ‘You have never been there. I do
not think you have ever seen my sister?’
‘Never,’ Le Gautier replied with an inexplicable smile. ‘It is a
pleasure to come.’
AN ATLANTIC VOYAGE—AS IT WAS AND AS IT IS.
When Samuel Johnson said, ‘A ship is a prison with a chance of being
drowned,’ he in that aphorism gave expression to the opinion generally
entertained by landsmen in his day. In fact, the discomforts, and even
privations, which sea-travelling then involved were such that very few
persons were willing to expose themselves to them, save when compelled
by imperative circumstances to do so.
When I crossed the Atlantic in 1841, for the first time, the condition
of things had, in the three-quarters of a century which had elapsed
since Johnson’s time, measurably improved; but the _désagrémens_ to
which passengers were even then subjected were numerous. No regular
steam communication between Great Britain and the United States was
in existence. The _Sirius_ and the _Great Western_ had indeed crossed
the ocean in 1838, and the latter vessel had continued her trips at
irregular intervals. But for some little time subsequently, no other
steamer attempted to follow her example, the Cunard line not having
been established until 1842.
At the period of which I speak, the sailing packets which ran between
London and New York, and between Liverpool and that port, were ships
of five to six hundred tons burden. The staterooms—as the little
cabins ranged on either side of the saloon were termed—were below the
sea-level. They were incommodious, dark, and ill ventilated. In fact,
the only light they enjoyed was that furnished by small pieces of
ground glass inserted in the deck overhead, and from the fan-lights
in the doors opening to the saloon, and this was so poor, that the
occupants of the staterooms could not even dress themselves without
making use of a lamp. The sole ventilation of them was that afforded
by the removal of the saloon skylights, which, of course, could only
be done in fine weather. The consequence was that the closeness of the
atmosphere in the staterooms was at all times most unpleasant; whilst
the smell of the bilge-water was so offensive as to create nausea,
independent of that arising from the motion of the vessel. In winter,
on the other hand, the cold was frequently severe. There was, it is
true, a stove in the saloon, but the heat from it scarcely made itself
appreciably felt in the side-cabins.
In other matters there was the same absence of provision for the
comfort of the passengers. The fresh water required for drinking and
cooking purposes was carried in casks; and when the ship had a full
cargo, many of these were placed on deck, with the result that their
contents were sometimes impregnated with salt water from the waves
shipped in heavy weather. At all times, the water was most unpalatable,
it being muddy, and filled with various impurities from the old
worm-eaten barrels in which it was kept. Not only was the water bad,
but the supply occasionally proved inadequate; and when the voyage
was an unusually long one, the necessity would arise of placing the
passengers upon short allowance.
There was always a cow on board; but there was no other milk to be
had than what she supplied, no way of preserving it having then been
discovered. Canned fruit and vegetables were equally unknown. There
was commonly a fair provision of mutton and pork, live sheep and pigs
being carried; but of other fresh meat and of fish, the stock was
generally exhausted by the time the vessel had been a few days at sea,
refrigerators at that period not having been invented.
But the arrangements on board these ships were defective in much
more important matters than in not providing a good table for the
passengers. The boats—even when they were seaworthy, which frequently
was not the case—were so few in number that, in the event of shipwreck,
there was no possibility of their holding more than a third of the
souls on board. The longboat, indeed, was practically useless in an
emergency, as it was almost invariably filled up with sheds for the
accommodation for the cow, sheep, and pigs; and it would have been
several hours’ work to clear the boat and launch her.
The law did not then render it compulsory for every vessel crossing
the Atlantic to carry a surgeon, and the owners of the various lines
of American packets would not incur the expense of providing one. The
consequence was that, if an accident occurred or there was serious
illness on board, no medical assistance was available. When I was
returning to Europe in the _Mediator_ in 1842, a sailor fell from
one of the yards, badly fracturing his right leg. The commander of
the vessel was a Yankee—that is, a native of one of the New England
States—and he had the ingenuity and readiness of resource which are
characteristic of the people of that section of the Union. He so
admirably set the injured limb with splints, that, when the ship
arrived at London and the man was taken to Bartholomew Hospital, the
officials of that institution highly complimented Captain Morgan upon
the workmanlike manner in which he had performed the operation. The
fact, however, remains, that but for the purely fortuitous circumstance
of the commander of the vessel having been able to deal with the case,
the result of there being no surgeon on board must have been that the
injured man would either have died, or been a cripple for life.
If the cabin passengers had good cause to complain that neither their
safety nor their comfort was sufficiently studied, the condition of the
steerage passengers was infinitely worse. Men, women, and children were
huddled like sheep in the quarters assigned them, no separation of
the sexes being attempted. The berths, which ran on either side of the
vessel, were not inclosed, and were without curtains. The women were
compelled to dress and undress before the eyes of the male passengers,
and exposed to their coarse remarks and scurrilous jests. Indeed, the
moral downfall of many a poor girl was to be attributed to her feelings
of decency and modesty having been blunted by her painful experiences
during the voyage.
The steerage passengers were required to both supply and cook their
own provisions. There was commonly a fierce struggle for a place at
the galley fire, in which the sick and feeble necessarily went to the
wall; and sometimes several days would pass without any warm food being
obtained by those who were most in need of it. Again, when there was
a storm, or even when the ship experienced heavy weather, the hatches
were closed, rendering the atmosphere of the steerage almost stifling.
In fact, the condition and treatment of this class of passengers were
simply abominable, and such as to reflect deep discredit upon the
government for allowing so many years to elapse ere any attempt was
made to deal with the evil.
Now, all is changed. The steamers which at the present day cross the
Atlantic are vessels ranging from four to seven thousand tons burden;
and the arrangements on board of them are excellent in all respects.
Besides the lifeboats—which are numerous, large, and built on the most
approved models—there are rafts which, in case of necessity, can be
got ready and launched in a few minutes. In the event, too, of a fire
breaking out in any part of the ship, the appliances for extinguishing
it are of the most thorough character. In fact, the provision made for
the safety of the passengers would be all that could be desired if
every ship carried a sufficient number of boats to accommodate, in case
of disaster, _every_ passenger, even when her complement was full. Note
the late disaster to the _Oregon_.
The comfort of the travelling public is now carefully studied. The
cabins for the first-class passengers are placed amidships, where the
motion of the vessel is least felt, instead of, as formerly, at the
stern. The staterooms are commodious, handsomely furnished, thoroughly
ventilated, and heated by steam. The saloon, which is spacious and
well lighted, contains a piano, a small library, bagatelle tables,
chess, &c., for the use of the passengers. There are also smoking
and reading rooms and bathrooms, supplied with hot as well as cold
water. The table is so luxuriantly spread that there is scarcely a
delicacy which can be obtained in the best hotels in London, found
lacking on board these steamers. The supply of fresh water—furnished
by condensers—is practically unlimited; whilst that which is required
for drinking purposes is in summer cooled with ice, of which a large
stock is provided. A surgeon is invariably carried, the law rendering
it obligatory to do so; and his services are at the disposal of any of
the passengers who needs them without the payment of any fee.
Nor have the steerage passengers failed to participate in the altered
condition of things. Instead of their being crowded together in the
badly ventilated and unhealthy quarters assigned to them, as was
formerly the case, it is now compulsory for a fixed cubic space
to be allotted to each individual. Not only, too, are the berths
inclosed—which is greatly conducive to the preservation of decency—but
the single women occupy a separate compartment, in the charge of a
matron. But one of the greatest improvements which has taken place in
the condition of occupants of the steerage has been effected by the
Act, passed a few years ago, requiring cooked provisions being found by
the owners of the ship; and although the passage-money is necessarily
higher than it was under the old system, this drawback is more than
compensated by the comfort which results from the present arrangement.
In conclusion, I may say that, indulging in a retrospect upon my
experiences for the last forty years—during which period I have crossed
the Atlantic ten times—I have been forcibly struck by the contrast
the peril, tedium, and inconveniences then attendant upon an Atlantic
voyage afford to the safety, rapidity, and comfort with which it is now
accomplished.
IN ALL SHADES.
CHAPTER XLIV.
Next morning, Tom Dupuy, Esquire, of Pimento Valley, Westmoreland,
Trinidad, mounted his celebrated chestnut pony Sambo Gal at his own
door, unchained his famous Cuban bloodhound Slot from his big kennel,
and rode up, with cousinly and lover-like anxiety, to Orange Grove, to
inquire after Nora’s and her father’s safety. Nora was up by the time
he reached the house, pale and tired, and with a frightful headache;
but she went to meet him at the front door, and dropped him a very low
old-fashioned obeisance.
‘Good-morning, Tom Dupuy!’ she said coldly. ‘So you’ve come at last to
look us up, have you? It’s very good of you, I’m sure, very good of
you. They tell me you didn’t come last night, when half the gentlemen
from all the country round rode up in hot haste with guns and pistols
to take care of papa and me. But it’s very good of you, to be sure, now
the danger’s well over, to come round in such a friendly fashion and
drop us a card of kind inquiries.’
Even Tom Dupuy, born boor and fool as he was, flushed up crimson at
that galling taunt from a woman’s lips, ‘Now that the danger’s well
over.’ To do him justice, Tom Dupuy was indeed no coward; that was
the one solitary vice of which no fighting Dupuy that ever lived
could with justice be suspected for a moment. He would have faced
and fought a thousand black rioters single-handed, like a thousand
fiends, himself, in defence of his beloved vacuum pans and dearly
cherished saccharometers and boiling-houses. His devotion to molasses
would no doubt have been proof against the very utmost terrors of
death itself. But the truth is that exact devotion in question was the
real cause of his apparent remissness on the previous evening. All
night long, Tom Dupuy had been busy rousing and arming his immediate
house-servants, despatching messengers to Port-of-Spain for the aid of
the constabulary, and preparing to defend the cut canes with the very
last drop of his blood and the very last breath in his stolid body. At
the first sight of the conflagration at Orange Grove, he guessed at
once that ‘the niggers had risen;’ and he proceeded without a moment’s
delay to fortify roughly Pimento Valley against the chance of a similar
attack. Now that he came to look back calmly upon his heroic exertions,
however, it did begin to strike him somewhat forcibly that he had
perhaps shown himself slightly wanting in the affection of a cousin
and the ardour of a lover. He bit his lip awkwardly for a second, with
a sheepish look; then he glanced up suddenly and said with clumsy
self-vindication: ‘It isn’t always those that deserve the best of you
that get the best praise or thanks, in this world of ours, I fancy,
Nora!’
‘I fail to understand you,’ Nora answered with quiet dignity.
‘Why, just you look here, Nora: it’s somehow like this, I tell you
plainly. Here was I last night down at Pimento. I saw by the blaze
that these nigger fellows must have broken loose, and must be burning
down the Orange Grove cane-houses; so there I stopped all night long,
working away as hard as I could work—no nigger could have worked
harder—trying to protect your father’s canes and the vacuum pans from
these murdering, howling rebels. And now, when I come round here this
morning to tell you, after having made sure the whole year’s crop at
old Pimento, one of your fine English flouts is all the thanks I get
from you, miss, for my night’s labour.’
Nora laughed—laughed in spite of herself—laughed aloud a simple, merry,
girlish laugh of pure amusement—it was so comical. There they had
all stood last night in imminent danger of their lives, and of what
is dearer than life itself, surrounded by a frantic, yelling mob of
half-demented, rum-maddened negroes—her father left for dead upon the
piazza steps, Harry Noel hacked with cutlasses before her very eyes,
herself trampled under foot in her swoon upon the drawing-room floor by
the naked soles of those negro rioters—and now this morning, Cousin Tom
comes up quietly when all was over to tell her at his ease how he had
taken the most approved precautions for the protection of his beloved
vacuum pans. Every time she thought of it, Nora laughed again, with a
fresh little outburst of merry laughter, more and more vehemently, just
as though her father were not at that very moment lying within between
life and death, as still and motionless as a corpse, in his own bedroom.
There is nothing more fatal to the possible prospects of a suitor,
however hopeless, than to be openly laughed at by the lady of his
choice at a critical moment—nothing more galling to a man under any
circumstances than patent ridicule from a beautiful woman. Tom Dupuy
grew redder and redder every minute, and stammered and stuttered in
helpless speechlessness; and still Nora looked at him and laughed, ‘for
all the world,’ he thought to himself, ‘as if I were just nobody else
but the clown at the theatre.’
But that was not indeed the stage on which Tom Dupuy really performed
the part of clown with such distinguished success in his unconscious
personation.
‘How’s your father this morning?’ he asked at last gruffly, with an
uneasy shuffle. ‘I hear the niggers cut him about awfully last night,
and next door to killed him with their beastly cutlasses.’