[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 686. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
DERELICTS.
Has the idea ever occurred to any one that at all times there are ships
of one kind or other floating about at sea without a living creature
on board? They have been abandoned by their officers and crew in what
seemed a hopeless condition. Some are dismantled and mere hulks. Some
are swimming keel upwards. Some are water-logged, but being laden with
timber will not sink. There they are driving hither and thither on
the ocean, as wind and waves direct, a dread to the mariner, who may
unawares come against them in the dark. We remember seeing an account
of one of these derelicts, as they are called, being fallen in with
after having been abandoned for weeks. It was water-logged up to the
very deck, and sitting on a scrap of the exposed bulwarks was a poor
cat, still alive, in the last degree of attenuation. We have often with
commiseration thought of that accidentally deserted cat, its hunger,
its misery, its hopelessness night and day in the midst of the dreary
and spacious ocean. How the creature must have been delighted when
rescued from its floating prison! Occasionally derelicts are taken
in tow and brought into port, where they are broken up, or if of any
value, are reclaimed by owners, to whom they are delivered on a payment
of 'salvage.'
We are going to speak of a kind of derelicts out of ordinary experience.
On the 17th of September 1855, while sailing in the American whaler
_George Henry_, in Davis's Strait, and when about forty miles from Cape
Mercy, Captain Buddington descried a vessel having something peculiar
in her appearance. No signals were hoisted, none answered, and no
crew visible when he approached. Going on board, he found no living
being in the ship; but in the best cabin were documents declaring the
abandonment of the ship, and explaining the circumstances under which
it had taken place. The wastrel, the treasure-trove, the lost-found,
was the famous _Resolute_, whose story we shall tell presently.
Jurists and legislators have had to determine the ownership of
property that seems for the time to belong to no one. _Derelict_ is the
lawyers' name for such property, so far at anyrate as regards abandoned
ships. Where a crew merely quit their ship to obtain assistance, or for
any other temporary purpose, it is not derelict: they intend to return;
but when the master and crew abandon her without hope of recovery, she
becomes ownerless for a time, and then falls to the lot of the finder.
Not necessarily to keep, however, but, as has been said, to hold as a
claim for salvage from the crown, the owners, or the under-writers.
If the solitary ship is found near any coast, there is generally some
claim put forth by the owner of the sea-shore, whether the owner be
government or a private individual; but when out in the open sea,
far distant from land, international maritime law may have to settle
the matter. In practice, however, very little of this takes place; a
ship really abandoned out in mid-ocean is seldom worth the expense
of repair; the finders and salvors regard it chiefly in the light of
saleable old materials; and the derelict, if it be taken in tow or
otherwise navigated to port by its discoverers, usually finds its way
into the hands of the ship-breaker.
A curious inquiry it would be, How many abandoned ships are at this
moment locked up in densely packed ice? No great difficulty will be
felt in understanding that derelicts have a peculiar history in the
Arctic regions. When a ship is left forlorn in any sea or ocean, the
probability is that fire or leakage has rendered the abandonment
necessary as the only chance of escape for passengers and crew. Or it
may be that the ship has been cast upon some coast or outlying rock,
and so become tenantless. In the intricate channels of the frozen
regions, on the contrary, a ship may be in a sound condition, but so
hopelessly hemmed in on all sides with huge floes and fields of ice,
that the crew would have exhausted all their food and necessaries of
life before liberation comes; they quit the luckless vessel, and wend
their way by sledge or by boat to regions of civilisation.
Many of the illustrative instances of this kind of derelict are
exceedingly interesting. In 1821 Lieutenants Parry and Lyon, in the
_Fury_ and _Hecla_, encountered such terrible difficulties that the
first-named ship was nipped and then wrecked; the crew fortunately
were able to reach the _Hecla_, which after a time returned home with
a double company of officers and men. The _Fury_ was derelict, but not
the stores, as we shall presently see. In 1829 Captains John and James
Ross started on the expedition which was destined to last till 1833.
What they suffered during four successive winters, their narrative told
in moving terms. They lost their ship, and would in all probability
have perished from starvation, had it not been that they were able to
reach Fury Beach, and there avail themselves of the provisions which
the wrecked _Fury_ had on board. This ship, as well as that which had
been under the Rosses, probably fell to pieces by degrees, in a grave
of ice or water or both.
Poor Sir John Franklin's fate will always be bound up in our
recollection with that of the _Erebus_ and _Terror_. It is pretty
generally known to our readers that those two ships left England in
1845, under Captains Crozier and Fitzjames, with Franklin in supreme
command over both; that they wintered near the south-east entrance
of Wellington Channel; and that when the summer heat of 1846 had
sufficiently melted the ice, they proceeded south through Regent
Inlet to the west side of King William Land. They were hopelessly
and helplessly iced in for the remainder of that year, all through
1847, and on into 1848. Poor Franklin succumbed to illness, anxiety,
cold, and disease, and died on the 11th of June 1847. Seeing no hope
of extricating the ships, and worn down by every kind of privation,
Crozier and Fitzjames abandoned the _Erebus_ and _Terror_ on the 26th
of April 1848, accompanied by the remainder of both crews--numbering
in all somewhat over one hundred souls. How many of them reached King
William Land and Montreal Island, in sledges or on foot, we shall
probably never know; but certain it is that not one of the hapless men
was ever again seen by Europeans; whether any of the Eskimo met them or
saw them, is doubtful. There were the two deserted ships, left to fate
to decide whether they would ever again be liberated from their icy
home, and enabled to render useful service. Rumours were communicated
in later years by the Eskimo to some whaling crews that two ships had
been iced up for several winters: supposed to have been the _Erebus_
and _Terror_.
In 1850 Captain M'Clure commenced the famous voyage which, though it
led to the abandonment of the good ship _Investigator_, enabled him
to be the first commander who really effected the North-west Passage.
(Whether he was the first to _discover_ it, is a question on which much
controversy has arisen.) Sailing down the Atlantic to Cape Horn, up the
Pacific to Behring's Strait, and through the Frozen Sea to Banks Land,
he there passed three frightfully severe winters, from the autumn of
1850 to the spring of 1853. There he quitted his trusty but ice-bound
ship; and there, so far as human testimony goes, the _Investigator_
still is, in Mercy Bay. In imminent peril of starvation, M'Clure and
his gallant crew were compelled to this abandonment; they sledged over
the ice to Melville Island, where fortunately they met with another
expedition, and safety was insured. This other expedition, the most
remarkable of all for derelict, comes next for notice.
Sir Edward Belcher, at a time when the public anxiety about the unknown
fate of Franklin was most intense, was in 1852 placed in command of an
expedition more complete than any that had been previously despatched
to those regions. It comprised the _Resolute_ under Captain Kellett,
the _Intrepid_ under Captain M'Clintock, the _Pioneer_ under Captain
Sherard Osborn, the _Assistance_ under Belcher himself, and two or
three auxiliary vessels. We have not here to tell how it arose that the
ships made few or no discoveries, and disappointed the government in
more ways than one. The sledgings, however, were splendid; and it was a
joy to all that the expedition brought M'Clure and his crew safely back
to their native land. Never were officers more deeply disappointed than
when Belcher commanded them, one after another, to abandon their ships
in 1854. He had been out two winters; some of the ships had been long
ice-bound; and the sense he entertained of his responsibility impelled
him to adopt a step which certainly could not have been adopted
willingly. He ordered Kellett to abandon the immovable _Resolute_,
M'Clintock the _Intrepid_, and Sherard Osborn the _Pioneer_; he
himself abandoned the _Assistance_; and the officers and crews of all
four ships obtained a passage to England in such other vessels as
happened to be available in the autumn of 1854. Not only so, but they
also brought with them M'Clure and the crew of the _Investigator_ (as
denoted in the last paragraph). Out of these five abandoned ships four
have never, so far as we are aware, been since seen by Europeans. They
may perchance be iced up still, or have fallen to pieces by repeated
shocks from masses of ice loosened during the brief summers. One at
Mercy Bay in Banks Land, two on the shores of Melville Island, two in
Wellington Channel--such were the localities of the derelicts. Perhaps
some future explorers will tell us something of four of these brave old
weather-beaten craft, of which, for more than twenty years, we have
known nothing.
Not so concerning the fifth. And here we are brought to the deeply
interesting episode of derelict briefly indicated at the beginning of
this paper. Judging from such facts as appear reliable, it is probable
that the ice around the _Resolute_ loosened somewhat during the autumn
of 1854; that she was drifted slowly by the current until another
winter nipped her, and held her ice-bound at some point nearer the
entrance to Baffin's Bay; that she was again loosened in the summer
of 1855, and drifted leisurely down Davis's Strait to the point where
Captain Buddington espied the wanderer. Two facts are certainly known:
that the distance drifted could not have been less than a thousand
miles, from Melville Island through Barrow Strait, Lancaster Sound, and
Baffin's Bay to Davis's Strait; and that four hundred and seventy-four
days elapsed between the abandonment and the recovery. The tough old
ship was still sound; a little water had entered the hold, and a few
perishable articles had decayed, but in other respects the _Resolute_
appeared not much the worse for her strange voyage.
When the English government heard of this remarkable recovery of the
old weather-beaten craft, they at once waived any right or claim they
may have had to it, and surrendered it to Captain Buddington and
his crew as the salvors. After nearly a year had elapsed since the
recovery, an Act of Congress was passed, empowering the United States
government to expend forty thousand dollars (about eight thousand
pounds) in the purchase of the ship and its trappings from the
fortunate finders, and the presentation of it to England as a graceful
act on the part of the Great Republic. The plan was excellently carried
into effect. In one of the American navy yards the _Resolute_ was
thoroughly overhauled, the defects repaired, all the equipments and
stores replaced--even the officers' books, pictures, and miscellaneous
articles returned exactly to the places they had occupied in the
cabins. Captain Hartstein, of the United States navy, was commissioned
to bring the ship to England. He arrived near Cowes shortly before
the close of the year 1856; the Queen, the Prince Consort, and other
members of the royal family went on board and inspected the old
_Resolute_. The royal visitors having taken their departure, the vessel
was towed into Portsmouth harbour amid much gay ceremonial, and was
handed over to the authorities of the dockyard. Early in 1857 Captain
Hartstein and his companions returned to America. It is mortifying to
have to read that, owing to some niggardliness at the Admiralty, or
perhaps more correctly that want of sentiment in English officials, we
gave a shabby return for a graceful act. The _Resolute_ should have
been maintained as a memento of a most remarkable episode, even if not
actually employed in further service; instead of this, the ship was
dismantled and converted into a mere hulk!
Another derelict was the _Advance_. This vessel, provided by the
munificence of an American merchant, Mr Grinnell, was placed under the
command of Dr Kane, and sent northward in 1853 to search for Franklin.
Kane made an historically famous progress up Smith Sound to such a
latitude as to bring that route into favour among Arctic explorers.
The return journey was, however, a terrible one. After two winterings
in the ice he abandoned his poor ship in April 1855, and made a three
months' sledge-journey to the Danish settlements in Greenland. Has the
_Advance_ ever been seen by later explorers; has it been iced up for
twenty-two years; or have shocks and nippings shattered it to fragments?
The _Polaris_, connected with an American expedition, was abandoned in
October 1872, and the officers and crew returned to the United States
by boats. Storms, driftings, and other calamities led to a division of
the crew into two parties. One worked their way down Davis's Strait,
or were drifted thither, and were picked up in April 1873 by the
_Tigress_, off the coast of Labrador; the others, making boats out of
some of the timbers of the _Polaris_, managed to reach the eastern side
of Baffin's Bay, where they were picked up by the _Ravenscraig_ whaler
in the autumn of the same year. The poor _Polaris_ scarcely deserved
the name of a derelict; for only portions of a hull were left stranded
on a coast of the icy sea.
One more example, and this also from the Arctic regions. In 1872 the
Austrians did excellent work in furtherance of maritime research by
fitting out a private expedition in the small ship _Tegetthoff_, under
the management of Lieutenants Weyprecht and Payer. Instead of taking
the Baffin's Bay and Smith Sound route, the _Tegetthoff_ coasted round
Norway to Nova Zembla, and wintered off that island. Instead of being
free to sail in the following summer, the ship was fast locked in an
ice-floe from which she could not be extricated, and drifted when the
floe drifted. Luckily the drift was just in the direction which the
explorers wished to go, almost due north. They came most unexpectedly
to a group of islands until then totally unknown, the largest of which
they named Franz Josef Land, in honour of the Emperor of Austria.
They wintered in the high latitude of eighty-one degrees north, and
made excellent sledge-expeditions in the spring of 1874, an account
of which, together with other interesting details, was given last
month in this _Journal_. Returning to the _Tegetthoff_, they found
her still immovably fixed in the ice. A prospect of exhausted stores
and provisions led to a resolution to abandon the ship; this was done
in the summer; and a boat-voyage of three months brought the hardy
adventurers to the mainland in the autumn of the same year. We cannot
help fancying that the abandoned ship will one day fall into friendly
hands; and if it does, the salvors will find many interesting things on
board; for the crew brought away as little as possible with them, in
order not to overload the boats. Meanwhile the _Tegetthoff_ is 'waiting
till called for.'
THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.
CHAPTER IX.--ARTHUR TRAFFORD'S CHIVALRY.
When the first hurry and excitement was over, I found that the duties I
had to perform were anything but arduous in a house like Mr Farrar's.
I had only to see the genteel solemn undertaker, and give him a _carte
blanche_ to furnish the best--out of respect for what I knew would
be Mr Farrar's wishes, I did not add, 'and the plainest'--as it is
becoming good taste to do. It was equally easy to arrange with the
milliners and dressmakers, &c. They all seemed to know precisely what
the size of the house required, and assured me in a few hushed words
that everything should be in the best taste, and the servants' mourning
all that was proper for such an occasion; every shade of difference
in position being duly considered. Moreover, the question of my own
mourning, which had somewhat puzzled me, was settled upon at once,
in a way which would have not a little amused me had the occasion
been a different one. 'Friend staying in the house--chaperon of Miss
Farrar's--everything would be found quite correct.'
During the next few days, Lilian did not allude to the revelation made
by her dying father. I believe she was at the time too much absorbed in
grief to be able to realise anything beyond the one fact that she had
lost him. Mr Farrar had been a loving indulgent father; and though for
the first fifteen years of her life she had seen very little of him,
that little had shewn her all that was best in his nature, and given
her faith in him.
On coming to live at the great palace he had built, she found herself
treated like a princess in a fairy tale, surrounded with luxury, the
richest gifts showered upon her, a host of attendants ready to obey
her slightest whim, and above all, the orthodox Prince Charming to lay
his heart at her feet. It was natural enough that her grief should be
strong for the loss of the father, to whom she owed all this; as well
as a love which was itself stronger and deeper than is lavished upon
all daughters.
I did not attempt any commonplaces in the way of condolence; just in a
quiet, undemonstrative way made her feel that a friend was near, and
trusted to the first terrible anguish wearing itself out. With poor Mrs
Tipper it was different, though I knew her grief was in its way just as
genuine as Lilian's. I saw that it did her real good to moan and cry,
and talk over her brother's goodness, generosity, wonderful cleverness,
and so forth; and fully indulged her when she and I were alone. I am
glad to believe that I was of some service to both in the time of need.
Mr Farrar had no immediate relations to be bidden to the funeral.
Mrs Tipper hesitatingly mentioned something about a cousin in the
'green-grocery line;' but presently opined that perhaps 'dear Jacob'
might object; and he was dropped out of notice. Major Maitland,
Lilian's uncle on her mother's side, who promised to attend 'if
possible;' Arthur Trafford; Robert Wentworth; and the doctor and
lawyer, were to be the followers at the funeral.
I saw more of Arthur Trafford during that week of seclusion than
I had previously done; and I was more than ever dissatisfied with
him. For the first few days, Lilian kept her room, almost prostrate
from the shock which had come upon her at a time when she was so
entirely unprepared. I think too that it would have appeared to her
almost like irreverence for the dead to listen to love-speeches just
then. Nevertheless, she might have been expected to turn to him for
comfort, and I thought it significant that she did not do so. I acted
as messenger between them; and if I had had a very high opinion of
Arthur Trafford before, I should have lost it now. The one only thing
I could see in him to respect was his love for Lilian. It was not his
lack of love for her, but his too evident love for something else,
which offended me. It might be that I was not marked 'dangerous' in his
estimation, now that circumstances were altered, and that therefore he
was more unguarded with me. I can only say he appeared to very great
disadvantage under the new aspect of affairs. In our first interview
after Mr Farrar's death, I saw that he was thinking a great deal more
of the large fortune which would revert to Lilian than anything besides.
'So I hear there is no will, Miss Haddon?'
'You have made inquiries already then!' was my mental comment. I knew
that the fact was not public property yet, and that he must have taken
some pains to find it out.
'I believe not, Mr Trafford,' I coldly returned.
But my coldness was not of the slightest importance. He was too much
absorbed in the one thought to notice my manner of speaking.
'And Lilian inherits without restrictions of any kind. Just the kind of
man to have made all sorts of unpleasant complications--meant to do it
too--and now my darling is unfettered!'
And in his gratification, he so far forgot the _convenances_ as to
whistle softly to himself, whilst he carefully readjusted one of
Nasmyth's little gems, which hung slightly aslant upon the wall.
'She says she knows how much you are sympathising with her just now, Mr
Trafford.'
He coloured to his temples as he replied: 'Of course I am, Miss Haddon.
It's--it's a great loss, make the best of it, to an only child; and it
came upon her so suddenly, poor girl.' Adding, a little consciously
(I daresay it was not pleasant to have me silently eyeing him as I
was doing), 'Tell her, please, that I am longing to do what I may to
comfort her--beg her, for my sake to keep up. It will never do to let
her get low and desponding, you know. Hers is a nature of the tendril
kind--so entirely dependent upon those she loves.'
'I do not think so, Mr Trafford; and I do not think that those she
loves will find it so. At anyrate, she does not give _me_ the idea of
being weak.'
'I meant only the kind of delicacy which accompanies refinement, and
which is so charming in a woman, Miss Haddon;' adding a little more
pointedly than was necessary, I thought: 'such fragility as arouses the
chivalry of men.'
'As the chivalry is dying out, I must hope that the exciting cause is
getting scarcer, Mr Trafford.'
We eyed each other a moment, and then tacitly agreed for an armed
truce. I left him, and went to Lilian's room with lagging steps and a
heavy heart.
* * * * *
'Arthur feels it terribly,' she said, lifting her eyes to mine as I
entered the room; fortunately for me, taking it as a matter of course
that he did. 'Dear papa was so good to him.'
'He hopes you will bear up for his sake, dear Lilian.'
'I will, indeed I will. Tell him he shall not find me selfish
by-and-by.'
Still no allusion to the one subject which was engrossing all my
thoughts. It was not until the evening after the funeral that she
approached it, and then she waited until she and I were alone, before
doing so. Flushing painfully, and with downcast eyes, she hesitatingly
begun: 'Have you been thinking of--of what dear papa told us--that
night, Mary?'
'Yes, dear, I have; a great deal.'
'I am so thankful that you and you only were present.' She paused a few
moments, and I tried to help her.
'I think that there is no doubt--you have a sister, and that the
packet, which I have taken care of, is intended for her, Lilian.'
Taking it from my desk, I shewed her the words on it in her father's
handwriting: 'Quarter's allowance due 24th for Marian;' with an
address, 'Mrs Pratt, Green Street, Islington.'
'Marian! Yes; that was the name,' she murmured.
'I have since found out that she was born three or four years before Mr
Farrar was married to your mother, Lilian.'
A bright hope sprang to her eyes. 'Perhaps he was married before, Mary?'
'I do not think that is likely, or it would be known. But I know you
will none the less do what is just and right.'
'I shall _all the more_ do what is right--I owe her so much more.
If wrong has been done, it is for me to make what reparation I can.
And--Mary, try to always remember how anxious he was to'---- She broke
down; an expression in her face which shewed how deep was the wound
which her loving, sensitive nature had received. Her grief was so much
the harder to bear, for the knowledge that her dead was less perfect
than she had believed him to be. She was already obliged to plead for
him.
I knew that fragile as she looked, and tender and yielding as she had
hitherto seemed, it arose more from humility at finding herself blessed
as ordinary mortals rarely are, than from any lack of strength. We had
not seen the best of Lilian Farrar yet. Least of all, did her lover
know her. Already I could have given a better reason for loving her
than he could have done.
She was musing over the address: 'Mrs Pratt, Green Street, Islington.'
'Is that where--my sister is staying, do you think, Mary? Would it not
be better to go there?'
'Would you like me to go for you, Lilian?'
For a moment she looked not a little relieved by the suggestion; but
after a little reflection, appeared to put the temptation to avail
herself of it, aside.
'Not if I ought to go myself. Do you think that I ought to do so, Mary?'
I replied with a question: 'What do you intend to do when you have
found Marian' (sister did not come readily to my lips, and I used the
name instead), 'my darling?'
'Ask her to come to live here, and do all I can to make up for the
wrong done to her mother'--in a low, but clear and decided tone.
Even at that moment, with her grief so fresh upon her, though it
cost her a sharp agony to use the word, she called it a 'wrong.' But
although my sympathies were entirely with her, I thought it right to
remind her of one thing.
'There is the possibility that she may not be the kind of companion you
would desire to have always with you, Lilian.'
'I want to do right, Mary,' she replied, putting my little attempt at
sophistry aside.
I nevertheless made one more little feeble protest on the side of
expediency. 'There are your aunt and Mr Trafford also to be considered,
you know.'
'I want to do what is right,' she repeated. In her faith and
inexperience, she had no misgivings as to their concurrence in all that
was right; or if she had doubts with regard to one, she would not allow
so much to herself.
'Therefore I think you ought not to make up your mind too decidedly as
to what it will be right to do, until you have seen her--then perhaps
you might trust to your instincts.'
'And, Mary,' she said, a little consciously, 'I think I would rather
not name it to any one but you, until everything is settled. We can
explain to auntie and Arthur afterwards, you know.'
I believed that auntie was included to make it appear less personal.
She would not have hesitated a moment about taking the dear little lady
into her confidence; but she _did_ hesitate about telling her lover,
until it would be too late to undo what was done, though she would not
acknowledge so much.
'Very well, dear; we will go together as soon as you feel quite equal
to it. We might go up to town by the twelve o'clock train some morning,
and take a cab from the terminus to Islington.'
'I am equal to it now, Mary; and I shall not rest until we have been.'
I saw that nothing would be gained by delay--her anxiety would only
increase, and therefore promptly acceded.
'Shall we say to-morrow, Lilian?'
'Yes, please.'
I quietly made the necessary arrangements; and just before we were
setting forth, told Mrs Tipper that Lilian and I were going to town
upon business, and that we would tell her all about it on our return.
She was very easily satisfied; falling in with my opinion that it could
do Lilian no harm, and might do her good, to be obliged to take some
interest in the outside world; too single-minded to suspect more than
the words told her. Single-minded! The rarest and best quality I have
known during my checkered life--the one quality above all others which
I have learned to respect, is single-mindedness. It may not always
accompany large intellect, though I believe the very largest is never
without it, and it is rather looked down upon by the world in general.
Single-minded people are proverbially the butts of the Talleyrands of
society; though the latter are more frequently baffled by them than
they are willing to allow.
I saw what the effort cost Lilian--how painfully she shrank from doing
what she nevertheless would not allow herself to depute another to
do--as she sat with me white and still in the railway carriage. It did
me real good to see her rise to the occasion in this way; and it bore
out my previously formed opinion of her capability. I was also glad to
feel that I was of some little use to her. Respecting the result of
our errand I was not so much at ease. What was this sister? Would she
be found worthy the devotion and self-sacrifice of such as Lilian? and
if not, would it be given the latter to see that it would be unwise to
bring her to Fairview? Until I saw the sister, I would make no attempt
to bias Lilian's judgment, trusting more to her instinct than my own
wisdom, in the matter. Moreover, although I knew that Mrs Tipper would
easily enough be brought to see that right was right, I was by no
means so sure that Arthur Trafford would be found equally amenable.
Even should he approve of Lilian's recognition of a strange sister,
he was not at all likely to approve of her being brought to reside
at Fairview. I knew that he meant to press for an early marriage;
and I knew that he was not the man to take kindly to the idea of a
stranger living with them, whatever her claims might be. But I kept
my doubts and fears to myself; preserving a calm face for Lilian's
eyes. More than once the thought crossed my mind that the daughter
he had only designated as 'Marian' might be married, and was in fact
the Mrs Pratt to whom the address on the packet referred. In such
case, it would be easy enough to do right without bringing about any
unpleasant complications. The address seemed, I fancied, to indicate
a poor neighbourhood; and if 'Marian' should prove to be the wife of
a struggling man, a portion of Mr Farrar's wealth could not be better
employed than in giving him some assistance.
MAN ON MAN.
The sayings of men of thought may be termed the work of their lives,
and form an imperishable monument of their wisdom. It would be imagined
that nothing then would be easier than to string them together like
beads upon a string to produce a book of great value and beauty.
Without some wisdom, however, on the part of the collector, or at all
events, an intelligent sympathy, this cannot be done, though it has
been often tried, with much effect. Indeed, some of the stupidest
works that have ever been published have appeared under the title of
'Beauties,' 'Selections,' 'Sayings,' &c., and have injured as far as
possible the memories of those great men whom it was their object to
embalm. To 'form a collection' from natural history, it is requisite
that a man should not only possess the articles in question, but know
how to arrange them both in order and by contrast; and knowledge of
this kind is almost as necessary to one who would collect the wisest
thoughts of the wisest thinkers. In _Human Nature_,[1] by Mr Mitchell,
we have a little volume, which if not perfect, is at least the best
book of the kind which has come under our notice. It deals, as the
title would imply, with only one subject, but that one of great extent,
and of the most paramount importance to us--namely, Ourselves. It
makes no pretence of stating any dogmatic truth, but simply gives the
utterances of those who have devoted their lives to finding the truth.
Often at variance and sometimes in direct opposition to one another,
they are nevertheless almost all worthy of regard; and since they
concern themselves with our own 'virtues, vices, manners, follies,
sufferings, interests, and duties,' can scarcely fail to command our
attention.
In the definitions of Mankind, in general, the variety strikes one at
least as much as the ingenuity. 'Man is a microcosm;' 'the cooking
animal;' 'the animal that makes exchanges;' 'the animal that makes
tools, &c.' They all appear, notwithstanding their general acceptance,
as more or less affected, strained, and incomprehensive. What, asks
Pascal, 'is the utility of even Plato's definition of man: "An animal
with two legs without feathers?" Does a man lose his humanity by
losing his legs? or does a capon acquire it by being stripped of its
feathers?' Thus does one philosopher fall foul of another. But when we
pass from the definition to the moral description of the human race,
the agreement is remarkable, and that among wholly different types of
mind.
How poor! how rich! how abject! how august!
How complicate! how wonderful! is man,
says Young. And commenting on the same inconsistency, Pope sings:
Created half to rise and half to fall,
Great lord of all things; yet a prey to all;
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled,
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.
A modern poet, Swinburne, follows still on the same side, in prose:
'After all, man is man; he is not wicked, and he is not good; by no
means white as snow; but by means black as a coal; black _and_ white,
piebald, striped, dubious.' These ideas, so curiously similar in three
such different minds, may seem to set at nought the dreams of the
perfectibility of our species; but at the same time there is nothing
in them to corroborate the gloomy verdict of Buckle, that 'we cannot
assume in the present state of our knowledge that there has been any
permanent improvement in the moral or intellectual faculties of man.'
The above is one of the most depressing statements a philosopher has
ever made; but it seems to us to be directly contradicted by an even
still greater name. 'I have long felt,' says Mill, 'that the prevailing
tendency to regard all the marked distinctions of human character as
innate and in the main indelible, is one of the chief hindrances to
the rational treatment of great social questions, and one of the great
stumbling-blocks to human improvement.' On the other hand, a thinker of
quite another sort, Francis Galton, exclaims: 'I have no patience with
the hypothesis, occasionally expressed and often implied, especially in
tales written to teach children to be good, that babies are born pretty
much alike, and that the sole agencies in creating differences between
boy and boy, and man and man, are steady application and moral effort.'
Where philosophers thus differ, we do not pretend to say which is true;
but there is no doubt as to which opinion would suggest industry and
which sloth. Indeed, Mr Galton's views if carried to their full length
would approach to fatalism, and might almost be placed beside the
famous song of Messrs Moody and Sankey:
Doing is a deadly thing; doing ends in death.
Oliver Wendell Holmes has described the various intellects of man (but
without going into the hereditary question) with as much wit as truth:
'One-story intellects, two-story intellects, three-story intellects
with skylights. All fact collectors who have no aim beyond their facts
are one-story men. Two-story men compare, reason, generalise, using the
labours of the fact collectors as well as their own. Three-story men
idealise, imagine, predict; their best illumination comes from above
through the skylight.... Poets are often narrow below, incapable of
clear statement, and with small power of consecutive reasoning, but
full of light, if sometimes rather bare of furniture, in the attics.'
The desire to lay field to field and house to house has been the ruin
of some great minds; but it is generally an attribute of the small.
A few have almost no other vice save that of acquisitiveness. A whole
nation indeed is said to be characterised by it. 'The Dutch,' writes
John Foster, 'seem very happy and comfortable, certainly; but it is
the happiness of animals. In vain do you look among them for the sweet
breath of hope and advancement.... There is gravity enough, but it is
the gravity of a man who despises gaiety, without being able to rise by
contemplation. The love of money always creates a certain coarseness
in the moral texture, either of a nation or an individual.' This last
remark has certainly an application on the other side of the Atlantic.
It is true that Goethe says that 'English pride is invulnerable,
because it is based on the majesty of money;' but he does not refer
to the mean desire of gain. He has elsewhere indeed expressed himself
with some favour on the national character: 'Is it then derivation, or
their soil, or their free constitution, or national education--who can
tell?--but it is a fact that the English appear to have the advantage
of many other nations. There is in them nothing turned and twisted, and
no half-measures and after-thoughts. Whatever they are, they are always
_complete_ men. Sometimes they are complete fools, I grant you; but
even their folly is a folly of some substance and weight.'
The opinions of man on women are, as might be expected, even more
various than those pronounced upon their own sex. But even these
are not without a certain congruity. It is rare to find a complete
'irreconcilable,' such as John Knox, who thus delivers himself: 'To
promote a woman to bear rule, superiority, dominion, or empire, above
any realm, nation, or city, is repugnant to nature, contumely to God,
a thing most contrary to His revealed will and approved ordinance;
and finally, it is the subversion of good order, of all equity and
justice.' This would be now thought little short of treason; but there
is no doubt that Knox had a certain particular queen in his mind when
he made those very strong observations. Among the French philosophers,
there is a wonderful unanimity concerning the fair sex, and not
altogether in accordance with the proverbial gallantry of their nation.
La Bruyère says: 'Women for the most part have no principles, as men
understand the word. They are guided by their feelings, and have full
faith in their guide. Their notions of propriety and impropriety,
right and wrong, they get from the little world embraced by their
affections.' Alphonse Karr says: 'Never attempt to prove anything
to a woman: she believes only according to her feelings. Endeavour,
then, to please and persuade: she may yield to the person who reasons
with her, not to his arguments. She will listen to the strongest, the
most unanswerable proofs, enough to silence an assembly of learned
theologians; and when you have done she will reply, with the utmost
unconcern, and in perfect good faith: "Well, and what has all that to
do with the matter?"'
It is probable that both these last philosophers were 'very much
married.' No one, however, that is capable of anything beyond a
superficial judgment has ever imagined that the French have a genuine
respect for women. Their sayings about them are very severe. 'Whenever
two women form a friendship, it is merely a coalition against a third,'
writes Karr; and even Rochefoucauld confesses, 'Most women care little
about friendship; they find it insipid as soon as they have known what
it is to love.' 'No woman is pleased,' asserts Octave Feuillet, 'at
being told by a man that he loves her like a sister.' At the same time,
our Parisian philosophers give every credit to female attractions.
'Do not flatter yourself,' says one, 'because you have studied, and
possibly understand all that is to be understood of womankind, you are
safe against their wiles. A word, a look, from one of them may make you
forget in a twinkling of an eye all your boasted knowledge.' It is like
escaping into the fresh air from some brilliant but unhealthy scene to
read, after these cynical assertions, what an American essayist (who
ought to have been an Englishman) has to say upon this same subject: 'A
woman who does not carry about with her a halo of good feeling wherever
she goes, an atmosphere of grace, mercy, and peace, of at least six
feet radius, which wraps every human being upon whom she is pleased
to bestow her presence, and gives him the comfortable belief that she
is rather glad than otherwise that he is alive, may do well enough to
hold discussions with, but is not worth talking to--as a woman.' This
is almost as great a general compliment as Steele's well-known eulogy
on Lady Elizabeth Hastings was a particular one: 'To behold her is
an immediate check on loose behaviour, and to love her is a liberal
education.'
It is curious that no sages in the least agree in their definitions of
genius, nor can even express what they mean by it with distinctness,
which is perhaps a proof of its transcendent and mysterious power. Of
originality, however, it is well remarked by Opie that 'it is most
seen in the young. It is a mistake to suppose that artists [and he
might have added authors] go on improving to the last, or nearly so; on
the contrary, they put their best ideas into their first works, which
all their lives they have been qualifying themselves to undertake,
and which are the natural fruit of their combined genius, training,
circumstances, and opportunities. What they gain afterwards in
correctness and refinement, they lose in originality and vigour.'
A very fine addendum or paraphrase of the line, 'The proper study of
mankind is man,' has been given by Professor Huxley: 'Whence our race
has come; what are the limits of our power over Nature, and of Nature's
powers over us; to what goal we are tending--are the problems which
present themselves anew, and with undiminished interest, to every man
born into the world.' It seems to us a somewhat too lenient conclusion
that Hazlitt has come to when he says, 'A single bad action does not
condemn a man, nor a single bad habit.' For a single action, not to
mention a habit, may be easily so bad--such as torturing a living
creature for the pleasure of it--as to condemn him altogether. Our
philosophers, however, do not generally err on the side of charity,
except, perhaps, when admitting the force of circumstances. 'Tell me
your age and your income,' says Balzac, 'and I will tell you your
opinions;' and is it not our own Becky Sharp who has observed, 'Anybody
could be good with three thousand a year.'
Hobbes (of all people!) makes this significant remark concerning our
Saviour: 'The evangelists tell us that Christ knew anger, joy, sorrow,
pity, hunger, thirst, fear, and weariness; but neither prophet,
historian, apostle, nor evangelist speaks of his laughing.'
We find under the head of 'the Senses' a curious modern fallacy of the
Faculty in the mouth of Charles Lamb. 'Take away the candle,' he says,
'from the smoking man; by the glimmering light of the ashes he knows
that he is still smoking, but he knows it only by an inference, till
the restored light, coming in aid of the olfactories, reveals to both
senses the full aroma.' This idea of smoking not being enjoyable in the
dark is shared by even men of science; whereas it is certain that blind
men (for example, Professor Fawcett) are not only fond of smoking,
but delicate in their perceptions as to the quality of the tobacco.
Another fallacy of a different kind--namely, that it is well to tell
your friends of their faults--is thus extinguished by Sydney Smith:
'Very few friends will bear this; if done at all, it must be done with
infinite management and delicacy. If the evil is not very alarming, it
is better to let it alone.'
A general favourite in society is usually thought to be an
exceptionally clever and cultivated person; but this is not in fact
the case. 'A delicacy of taste,' says David Hume, 'is favourable to
love and friendship, by confining our choice to few people, and making
us indifferent to the company and conversation of the greater part
of men.... One that has well digested his knowledge, both of books
and men, has little enjoyment but in the company of a few select
companions.'
Of the superiority of Nature over Art, Byron has a fine saying: 'I
never yet saw the picture or the statue which came within a league of
my conception or expectation; but I have seen many mountains, and seas,
and rivers, and views, and one or two women, who went as far beyond
it.' Burns has stated that we have not the gift of seeing ourselves
as others see us; but Canning tells us that we at least desire it:
'Prevalent as every species of curiosity is, there is none which has so
powerful an influence over every man as the desire of knowing what the
world thinks of him; and there is none of which the gratification is
in general so heartily repented of.' This is severe; but not so harsh
as Mirabeau, who said of Lafayette, who loved popular applause, 'He
deserves a certain renown; he has done a great deal with the humble
means with which Nature furnished him.'
One statement in Mr Mitchell's book will be hailed with universal
satisfaction, if, as Thackeray tells us, nine-tenths of our population
are 'snobs;' it is a sort of apology for toadyism, and rests upon no
less an authority than that of Adam Smith: 'Our obsequiousness to our
superiors more frequently arises from our admiration of the advantages
of their situation than from any private expectations of benefit from
their good-will.' It is certainly some kind of comfort to consider that
this general suppleness of the back, however mean may be its motive,
does not arise from mere sordid self-interest.
Just as it is understood that all self-made men begin the world with
half-a-crown in their pocket, so it is reported that all great men
leave the world with some admirable sentiment in their mouths. 'William
Pitt said something in his last moments. His physician (a gentleman,
we suppose, of Tory proclivities) made it out to be, "Save my country,
Heaven." His nurse said that he asked for barley-water.'
Curiously enough, the famous saying of the Swedish chancellor
concerning the ease with which the world is governed, is not in the
present collection; but there is a comparatively unknown remark by
Vauvenargues that merits quotation: 'It is the easiest thing in the
world for men in good positions to appropriate to their own use and
credit the knowledge and ability of inferiors.' Of the truth of this
there are very many modern instances. Whenever a person of rank without
abilities is placed in power, and to the surprise of everybody, does
not make a complete failure, his friends say: 'Ah, but he has good
_administrative capacity_;' and Vauvenargues has told us what it means.
To shew the comprehensiveness of the plan which our author has adopted
in this excellent selection, we may mention that between a reflection
of Carlyle's and a quotation from the Persian poet Sadi, appears this
maxim: 'Some people have money and no brains; others have brains and no
money;' which is widely known as the motto of a certain 'unfortunate
British nobleman now languishing in Dartmoor prison.'
There is a good deal of the truest wisdom, as well as amusement and
instruction, to be gleaned from this little volume; and we will
conclude our remarks upon it with one of its best pieces of advice:
'Take short views, hope for the best, and trust in God.'
FOOTNOTES:
[1] _Human Nature: a Mosaic of Sayings, Maxims, Opinions, and
Reflections on Life and Character._ By David Mitchell. Smith, Elder, &
Co.
MRS PETRE.
IN TWO CHAPTERS.--CHAPTER I.
'Is that the house?' asked a young woman of a decent-looking old man
who was standing, rake in hand, by the entrance-gates leading to a
small villa-like residence, with nothing out of the common in itself to
attract special attention.
'Yes, that's the very house,' he replied, taking off his hat, and
wiping away with a red cotton pocket-handkerchief the dew from his
forehead--'that's it.'
I happened to be passing by just when the question was asked and
answered, and involuntarily turned to glance at the edifice, which was
evidently connected with some story or other; but being a stranger in
that part of England, and only on a short visit to some old friends of
mine--Mr and Mrs Langley by name--I had no idea what could have made so
modest a mansion famous. My sex being some excuse for my curiosity, I
asked Mr Langley that evening if by the place in question there hung a
tale; and the result of my inquiry was the following strange story.
* * * * *