made the journey to some of the out-districts. Here a white face was a
thing of wonder or terror. The children ran away shrieking with fear;
the women pressed about her, chattering and feeling her clothing and her
face, to see if she were real. At first she was startled, but she soon
divined that this was just the beginning of friendly acquaintance.
Miss Slessor soon showed an astonishing mastery of the language, and an
even more amazing comprehension of the minds of the people. She realized
that the natives were not devoid of ideas and beliefs, but that, on
the contrary, certain crude conceptions, strongly rooted through the
custom and tradition of ages, accounted for many of their horrible
practices. They put all twin babies to death because they believed that
one of them was a demon-child whose presence in a tribe would bring
untold harm on the people. They tortured and murdered helpless fellow
creatures, not wantonly, but because they believed that their victims
had been bewitching a suffering chief--for disease was a mysterious
blight, caused by the "evil eye" of a malicious enemy. When a chief died
many people were slaughtered, for of course he would want slaves and
companions in the world of spirits.
It was wonderful the way Mary Slessor was able to move about among the
rude, half-naked savages as confidently as she had among her people
in Scotland, looking past the dirt and ugliness to the human heart
beneath, tortured by fear or grief, and say a word that brought hope
and comfort. She feared neither the crouching beasts of the jungle nor
the treacherous tribes of the scattered mud villages. Picking her way
over the uncertain bush trails, she carried medicine, tended the sick,
and spoke words of sympathy and cheer to the distressed. Sometimes she
stayed away over several nights, when her lodging was a mud hut and her
bed a heap of unpleasant rags.
The people soon learned that her interest went beyond teaching and
preaching and giving aid to the sick. She cared enough for their welfare
to lead them by night past the sentries of the jealous coast tribes to
the factory near the beach, where they could dispose of their palm oil
and kernels to their own profit. She won in this way the good will of
the traders who said:
"There is a missionary of the right sort! She will accomplish something
because she is taking hold of all the problems that concern her people,
and is working systematically to improve all the conditions of their
lives."
One day she set forth on a trip of thirty miles along the river to visit
the village of a chief named Okon, who had sent begging her to come.
A state canoe, which was lent by King Eyo of Calabar, had been gaily
painted in her honor, and a canopy of matting to shield her from the sun
and dew had been thoughtfully erected over a couch of rice bags. Hours
passed in the tender formalities of farewell, and when the paddlers
actually got the canoe out into the stream it was quite dark. The red
gleam of their torches fell upon venomous snakes and alligators, but
there was no fear while her companions beat the "tom-tom" and sang, as
they plied their paddles, loud songs in her praise, such as:
"Ma, our beautiful, beloved mother is on board!
Ho! Ho! Ho!"
Such unwonted clamor no doubt struck terror to all the creatures with
claws and fangs along the banks.
After ten hours' paddling, she arrived at Okon's village. A human skull
stuck on a pole was the first sight that greeted her. Crowds gathered
about to stare and touch her hand to make sure that she was flesh and
blood. At meal times a favored few who were permitted to watch her eat
and drink ran about, excitedly reporting every detail to their friends.
For days she went around giving medicines, bandaging, cutting out
garments, and teaching the women the mysteries of sewing, washing, and
ironing. In the evenings all the people gathered about her quietly while
she told them about the God she served--a God of love, whose ways were
peace and loving kindness. At the end they filed by, wishing her good
night with much feeling before they disappeared into the blackness of
the night.
These new friends would not permit her to walk about in the bush as she
had been used to doing. There were elephants in the neighboring jungle,
they said. The huge beasts had trampled down all their growing things,
so that they had to depend mainly on fishing. One morning, on hearing
that a boa constrictor had been seen, bands of men armed with clubs
and muskets set off, yelling fearsomely, to hunt the common enemy. But
more terrible to Mary Slessor than any beast of prey were the skulls,
horrible images, and offerings to ravenous spirits, that she saw on
every side. How was it possible to teach the law of love to a people who
had never known anything but the tyranny of fear?
"I must learn something of the patience of the Creator of all," she said
to herself again and again. "For how long has He borne with the sins and
weakness of His poor human children, always caring for us and believing
that we can grow into something better in spite of all!"
After two weeks in "Elephant Country," Miss Slessor made ready to return
to the mission. Rowers, canoe, and baggage were in readiness, and a
smoking pot of yams and herbs cooked in palm oil was put on board for
the evening meal. Scarcely had they partaken, however, when Mary saw
that the setting sun was surrounded by angry clouds, and her ear caught
the ominous sound of the wind wailing in the tree-tops.
"We are coming into a stormy night," she said fearfully to Okon, who was
courteously escorting the party back to Old Town.
The chief lifted his black face to the black sky and scanned the
clouds solemnly. Then he hastily steered for a point of land that lay
sheltered from the wind. Before they could reach the lee side, however,
the thunder broke, and the wild sweep of the wind seized the canoe and
whirled it about like a paper toy. Crew and chief alike were helpless
from terror when Mary took her own fear in hand and ordered the rowers
to make for the tangle of trees that bordered the bank. The men pulled
together with renewed hope and strength until the shelter of the bush
was reached. Then springing like monkeys into the overhanging branches,
they held on to the canoe which was being dashed up and down like a
straw. The "White Mother," who was sitting in water to her knees and
shaking with ague, calmed the fears of the panic-stricken children who
had buried their faces in her lap, and looked about in awed wonder at
the weird beauty of the scene. The vivid flashes of lightning shattered
the darkness with each peal of thunder, revealing luxuriant tropical
vegetation rising above the lashed water, foaming and hissing under the
slanting downpour of the rain, and the tossing canoe with the crouching,
gleaming-wet figures of the frightened crew.
This was but one of many thrilling adventures that filled the days of
the brave young missionary. When the appeal came, no matter what the
time of midday heat or midnight blackness, she was ready to journey for
hours through the bush to bring succor and comfort.
Once the news came that the chief of a village had been seized by a
mysterious illness. Knowing that this would mean torture, and death,
perhaps, to those suspected of having enviously afflicted him by the
"evil eye," she set off along the trail through the dense forest to use
all her influence to save the unfortunate victims.
[Illustration: _Courtesy of George H. Doran Company_
Mary Slessor]
"But, Ma," the people would protest, "you don't understand. If you
god-people not punish evil, bad ones say, 'God-ways no good!' Bad
ones go round cast spells with no fear. No one safe at all."
Of all their superstitious fears, the horror of twin babies was the most
universal. With great difficulty Miss Slessor managed to save a few
of these unfortunate infants. At first some of the people refused to
come into the hut where a twin child was kept; but when they saw that
no plague attacked the place or the rash white "Ma," they looked upon
her with increased respect. The "White Mother" must have a power much
greater than that of the witch-doctors.
The witch-doctors knew a great deal, no doubt. When a man had a
tormented back they could tell what enemy had put a spell on him.
"Oh, yes, Ma, the witch-doctor he knows," declared a chief who was
suffering with an abscess, "just see all those claws, teeth, and bones
over there. He took them all out of my back."
But if "Ma" did not understand about such spells, she had a wonderful
magic of her own; she knew soothing things to put on the bewitched back
that could drive the pain away and make it well. The influence of the
healer was often stronger than the influence of the witch-doctor and the
superstitious fears of all the tribe. Again and again her will prevailed
in the palaver, and the chief to please her would spare the lives of
those who should by every custom of the land be put to death.
"Ma" required strange things of them, but she was the best friend they
had ever had. When she stood up before them and spoke so movingly it
seemed as if she would talk the heart right out of the sternest savage
of them all! She made them forget the things that they had known all
their lives. Who would have believed that they would even dream of
allowing a chief's son to go unattended into the spirit-world? Yet
when she begged them to spare the lives of the slaves who should have
been sent with him, they had at last consented. And it didn't take a
witch-doctor to tell one that a twin-child should never be allowed to
live and work its demon spells in the world. Still they allowed her to
save some of them alive. It was said that prudent people had even gone
into the room where the rescued twins were kept and had touched them
without fear. They had been almost persuaded that those queerly born
babies were just like other children!
The "White Mother" of Calabar always had a family of little black
waifs that she had rescued from violent death or neglect. Besides the
unfortunate twins, there were the children whose slave mothers had died
when they were tiny infants. "Nobody has time to bring up a child that
will belong to somebody else as soon as it is good for something," it
was said. So the motherless children were left in the bush to die.
Mary Slessor loved her strange black brood tenderly. "Baby things are
always gentle and lovable," she used to say. "These children who have
had right training from the beginning will grow up to be leaders and
teachers of their people."
For twelve years Miss Slessor worked in connection with the established
mission at Calabar, journeying about to outlying villages as the call
came. It had for long been her dream, however, to go still farther
inland to the wild Okoyong tribe whose very name was a terror
throughout the land. Her mother and her sister Janie, who together made
"home" for her, had died.
"There is no one to write and tell all my stories and troubles and
nonsense to," she said. "But Heaven is now nearer to me than Britain,
and nobody will be anxious about me if I go up country."
In King Eyo's royal canoe she made the journey to the strange people.
Leaving the paddlers, who were mortal enemies to the Okoyong tribe, at
the water's edge, she made her way along the jungle trail to a village
four miles inland. Here the people crowded about her greatly excited.
They called her "Mother," and seemed pleased that she had come to them
without fear. The chief, Edem, and his sister, Ma Eame, received her in
a friendly fashion. Her courage, frankness, and ready understanding won
favor from the beginning.
"May I have ground for a schoolhouse and a home with you here?" she
asked. "Will you have me stay as your friend and help you as I have
helped the people of Calabar?"
Eagerly they assented. It would be a fine thing to have a "White
Mother" in their country.
"Will you grant that the house I build shall be a place of refuge for
those in distress--for those charged with witchcraft or threatened with
death for any other cause? Will you promise that they shall be safe with
me until we can consider together their case?"
The people looked at the strange white woman wonderingly. Why should she
ask this thing? What difference could it make to her?
"All life is precious," she said simply, as if she had read their
thoughts. "I am here to help you--to care for those who are sick or
hurt, and I must be allowed to see that each one who is in any sort of
trouble is treated fairly. Will you promise that my house shall be a
place of refuge?"
Again they gravely assented. So, greatly encouraged, she returned to
Calabar to pack her goods and prepare to leave the old field for the new.
All her friends gathered about her, loudly lamenting. She was surely
going to her death, they said. Her fellow workers regarded her with
wonder and pity. "Nothing can make any impression on the Okoyong save
a consul and a British gunboat," they declared. But Mary Slessor was
undaunted. She stowed her boxes and her little family of five small
waifs away in the canoe as happily as if she were starting out on a
pleasure trip. To a friend in Scotland, she wrote:
I am going to a new tribe up-country, a fierce, cruel
people, and every one tells me that they will kill me. But I
don't fear any hurt--only to combat their savage customs will
require courage and firmness on my part.
The life in Okoyong did indeed require fortitude and faith. Remote
from friends and helpers, in the midst of that most dreaded of all the
African tribes, she patiently worked to lighten the darkness of the
degraded people and make their lives happier and better. With her rare
gift of intuition she at once felt that Ma Eame, the chief's sister, had
a warm heart and a strong character.
"She will be my chief ally," she said to herself, and time proved that
she was right. A spark in the black woman's soul was quickened by the
White Mother's flaming zeal. Dimly she felt the power of the new law
of love. Often at the risk of her life, should she be discovered, she
kept the missionary informed in regard to the movements of the people.
Whether it was a case of witchcraft or murder, of vengeance or a raid on
a neighboring tribe, "Ma" was sure to find it out; and her influence was
frequently strong enough to avert a tragedy.
As at Calabar, she found that the greatest obstacle in the way of
progress was the general indulgence in rum, which the white people gave
the natives in exchange for their palm oil, spices, rubber, and other
products.
"Do not drink the vile stuff--do not take it or sell it," she begged.
"It is like poison to your body. It burns out your life and heart and
brings every trouble upon you."
"What for white man bring them rum suppose them rum no be good?" they
demanded. "He be god-man bring the rum--then what for god-man talk so?"
What was there to say? With a heavy heart the White Mother struggled
on to help her people in spite of this great evil which men of the
Christian world had brought upon these weak, ignorant black children.
And she did make headway in spite of every discouragement. "I had a lump
in my throat often, and my courage repeatedly threatened to take wings
and fly away--though nobody guessed it," she said.
For years this brave woman went on with her work among the wild tribes
of Nigeria. As soon as she began to get the encouragement of results
in one place she pressed on to an unworked field. Realizing that her
pioneer work needed to be reënforced and sustained by the strong arm
of the law, she persuaded the British Government to "take up the white
man's burden" and (through the influence of consuls and the persuasive
presence of a gunboat or two) assume the guardianship of her weak
children. In spite of failing health and the discouragement of small
results, she went from one post to another, leaving mission houses and
chapel-huts as outward signs of the new life to which she had been a
witness. "I am ready to go anywhere, provided it be forward," was her
watchword, as well as Dr. Livingstone's.
There are many striking points of likeness between the careers of these
two torch-bearers to the Dark Continent. As children both had worked
at the loom, studying hungrily as they toiled. Both did pioneer work,
winning the confidence and love of the wild people they taught and
served. No missionary to Africa, save Dr. Livingstone alone, has had a
more powerful influence than Mary Slessor.
When at last in January, 1915, after thirty-nine years of service, she
died and left to others the task of bearing on the torch to her people,
Sir Frederick Lugard, the Governor-General of Nigeria said:
"By her enthusiasm, self-sacrifice, and greatness of character she has
earned the devotion of thousands of natives among whom she worked, and
the love and esteem of all Europeans, irrespective of class or creed,
with whom she came in contact."
She was buried in the land to which she had given her long life of
service. At the grave when the women, after the native fashion, began
their wild wail of lament, one of them lifted up her voice in an exalted
appeal that went straight to the heart:
"Do not cry, do not cry! Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Ma
was a great blessing."
Of all the words of glowing tribute to her faithful work, we may be sure
that none would have meant more to the lowly missionary than this cry
from the awakened soul of one of her people of the bush.
THE HEROINE OF RADIUM:
MARIE SKLODOWSKA CURIE
One truth discovered is immortal and entitles its author
to be so; for, like a new substance in nature, it cannot be
destroyed.
HAZLITT.
THE HEROINE OF RADIUM
You would hardly think that a big, bare room, with rows of battered
benches and shelves and tables littered with all sorts of queer-looking
jars and bottles, could be a hiding-place for fairies. Yet Marie's
father, who was one of the wise men of Warsaw, said they were always to
be found there.
"Yes, little daughter," he said, "the fairies you may chance to meet
with in the woods, peeping from behind trees and sleeping in flowers,
are a tricksy, uncertain sort. The real fairies, who do things, are to
be found in my dusty laboratory. They are the true wonder-workers, and
there you may really catch them at work and learn some of their secrets."
"But, Father, wouldn't the fairies like it better if it wasn't quite so
dusty there?" asked the child.
"No doubt of it," replied the professor.
"We need one fairy more to put us to rights."
At a time when most little girls are playing with dolls, Marie was
playing "fairy" in the big classroom, dusting the tables and shelves,
and washing the glass tubes and other things that her father used as he
talked to his students. "I think we might see the fairies better if I
make all these glasses clear and shiny," said Marie.
"Can I trust your little fingers not to let things fall?" asked her
father. "Remember, my funny glasses are precious. It might cost us a
dinner if you should let one slip."
The professor soon found that his little daughter never let anything
slip--either the things he used or the things he said. "Such a wise
little fairy and such a busy one!" he would say. "I don't know how we
could do our work without her."
If Professor Ladislaus Sklodowski had not loved his laboratory teaching
above all else, he would have known that he was overworked. As it
was, he counted himself fortunate in being able to serve Truth and to
enlist others in her service. For the professor's zeal was of the kind
that kindles enthusiasm. If you had seen the faces of those Polish
students as they hung on his words and watched breathlessly the result
of an experiment, you would have known that they, too, believed in the
wonder-working fairies.
It seems as if the Polish people have a greater love and understanding
of the unseen powers of the world than is given to many other nations.
If you read the story of Poland's tragic struggles against foes within
and without until, finally, the stronger surrounding countries--Germany,
Austria, and Russia--divided her territory as spoil among themselves
and she ceased to exist as a distinct nation, you will understand why
her children have sought refuge in the things of the spirit. They have
in a wonderful degree the courage that rises above the most unfriendly
circumstances and says:
One day with life and heart
Is more than time enough to find a world.
Some of them, like Chopin and Paderewski, have found a new world in
music; others have found it in poetry and romance; and still others
in science. The child who dreamed of fairies in her father's classroom
was to discover the greatest marvel of modern science--a discovery that
opened up a new world to the masters of physics and chemistry of our day.
Marie's mother, who had herself been a teacher, died when the child was
very small; and so it happened that the busy father had to take sole
care of her and make the laboratory do duty as nursery and playroom.
It was not strange that the bright, thoughtful little girl learned to
love the things that were so dear to her father's heart. Would he not
rather buy things for his work than have meat for dinner? Did he not
wear the same shabby kaftan (the full Russian top-coat that looks like a
dressing-gown) year after year in order that he might have material for
important experiments? Truth was, indeed, more than meat and the love of
learning more than raiment in that home, and the little daughter drank
in his enthusiasm with the queer laboratory smells which were her native
air and the breath of life to her.
The time came when the child had to leave this nursery to enter school,
but always, when the day's session was over, she went directly to that
other school where she listened fascinated to all her father taught
about the wonders of the inner world of atoms and the mysterious forces
that make the visible world in which we live. She still believed in
fairies,--oh, yes!--but now she knew their names. There were the rainbow
fairies--light-waves, that make all the colors we see,--and many
more our eyes are not able to discover, but which we can capture by
interesting experiments. There were sound-waves, too, and the marvelous
forces we call electricity, magnetism, and gravitation. When she was
nine years old, it was second nature to care for her father's batteries,
beakers, and retorts, and to help prepare the apparatus that was to be
used in the demonstrations of the coming day. The students marveled at
the child's skill and knowledge, and called her with admiring affection
"professorowna," (daughter-professor).
There was a world besides the wonderland of the laboratory, of which
Marie was soon aware. This was the world of fear, where the powers of
Russia ruled. In 1861 the Poles had made a vain attempt to win their
independence, and when Marie was a little girl (she was born in 1867),
the authorities tried to stamp out any further sparks of possible
rebellion by adopting unusually harsh measures. It was a crime to speak
the Polish language in the schools and to talk of the old, happy days
when Poland was a nation. If any one was even suspected of looking
forward to a better time when the people would not be persecuted by the
police or forced to bribe unprincipled officials for a chance to conduct
their business without interference, he was carried off to the cruel,
yellow-walled prison near the citadel, and perhaps sent to a life of
exile in Siberia. Since knowledge means independent thought and capacity
for leadership, the high schools and universities were particularly
under suspicion. Years afterward, when Marie spoke of this reign of
terror, her eyes flashed and her lips were set in a thin white line.
Time did not make the memory less vivid.
"Every corridor of my father's school had finger-posts pointing to
Siberia!" she declared dramatically.
When Marie was sixteen, she graduated from the "gymnasium" for girls,
receiving a gold medal for excellence in mathematics and sciences. In
Russia, as in Germany, the gymnasium corresponds to our high school, but
also covers some of the work of the first two years of college. The name
gymnasium signifies a place where the mind is exercised and made strong
in preparation for the work of the universities.