[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. 128.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, JUNE 12, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]
LIFE IN MARS.
The question as to the habitability of other worlds than ours has
always been a very fascinating one, and, indeed, it is not surprising
that it is so; for since the days when the earth was debased from her
proud position as centre of the universe, and was assigned her proper
place among the planets, there seemed to be no particular reason why
she alone should produce life, and why other planets, apparently as
suitable for this purpose as she is, should wander uninhabited through
space.
Up to the present time, it must be confessed, we have met with nothing
but disappointment in this branch of inquiry; for not only have we not
detected living creatures on any other member of the solar system, but,
with the single exception we are considering, there is apparently no
other body whose surface is under conditions which would lead us to
suppose that it might support life, or at least life in any form with
which we are acquainted. It is of course useless to argue about the
possibility of life under entirely different conditions; for instance,
there might be some form of life on the sun; we can only say that it
would be so different from what we know as life, that the term would
be hardly applicable; and whether it is likely to exist or not, is a
question which our limited experience does not allow us to answer one
way or the other.
The moon, again, may be the home of living creatures; but they must be
so constituted as to exist without air of any sort, which is rather
contrary to our notions of life.
We will not here go to the length of examining in detail the conditions
which obtain on the surface of all the bodies within range of our
telescopes; but we may state that in none of them, with the exception
of the planet Mars, is there any resemblance to our earth, and
therefore life as we know it could not exist on them. With Mars, the
case is different, and at first sight, there appears to be a state
of things which approximates closely to that which obtains here. The
planet Mars appears to the naked eye a deep red colour, and when
examined with the telescope, we see that a large part of his surface
is red; but between the red, and intersecting it in all directions,
are patches and strips of a dull greenish hue. It was very soon
conjectured that this green part was the Martial sea, and that the red
was the land: this has been confirmed by later observations, and now
no doubt exists on the point. The principal problem that we are here
confronted with is this: assuming that what appears green on Mars is
a liquid of some sort, can we assume that it is water, and not some
other liquid with which perhaps we are unacquainted? This question
appears at first sight impossible; for, unless we can bring some of the
Martial sea down to the earth and analyse it, how can we determine its
chemical constitution? The telescope evidently will not help us here,
and we must call to our aid that powerful ally of the telescope—the
spectroscope.
The method of observation employed is a question which we cannot enter
into here; it must suffice to state results, which all tend to prove
that these seas are composed of water similar to ours. It must not
be understood that we have been able to determine this directly; the
only fact that we know for certain about it is, that in the Martial
atmosphere there is a considerable quantity of water-vapour, which it
is only fair to assume has been raised by evaporation from the seas,
which are therefore also water.
Some time ago, it was observed that situated at each pole of Mars there
is a white patch, which increases and decreases at regular intervals.
This had been observed for many years before the explanation was
suggested by Herschel, that it was due to the freezing of the sea, and
was exactly analogous to our Arctic and Antarctic Oceans. If this was
true, the patch of ice would of course decrease in the Martial summer,
and increase again as the winter came on. This was soon shown to be
the fact. Thus we see that as far as regards the sea, Mars is very
similar to our earth, with the exception, that the proportion of land
is much larger. On the earth, the land is only about one-third of the
area of the sea; while on Mars, the land and sea surfaces seem to be
about equal in extent. The land is much cut up by the water, which
exists not so much in the form of a few large oceans, but rather as a
number of curious-shaped narrow inlets and channels, which intersect
the continents in all directions. The bright red colour of the land
is a curious fact, for which no adequate explanation has as yet been
suggested. Herschel considered it was due to the peculiar nature of the
soil; but it certainly seems curious that in this point Mars should
differ from all the other planets. The appearance of the earth seen
from a similar distance would probably be a dirty green, or perhaps
brown. In fact, on the earth we have no soil or rock, which occurs in
any quantity, of the red colour which we observe on Mars. There is
therefore no vegetation, unless we adopt the curious theory, advanced
by a French savant, that in Mars the foliage is red. Unluckily, we
have no instrument that can at all help us here; the telescope and
spectroscope are alike useless, and, for the present, we must content
ourselves with vain conjectures.
The next point that ought to engage our attention is the atmosphere,
without which no life is possible. The method we use to determine
whether a planet has an atmosphere is a very simple one: we have only
to observe it pass in front of a fixed star; then, if there is no air
round it, the light from the star will be extinguished instantaneously,
as it is in the case of the moon; whereas, if it has an atmosphere,
the light will gradually die away; because, instead of being cut
off suddenly by an opaque body, it will be slowly diminished by the
increasing thickness of the air that it is viewed through, and will
very likely have entirely disappeared before the actual body of the
planet is interposed. By applying this observation to Mars, it has been
determined that it has an atmosphere, the exact thickness of which,
however, we are unable to measure. It seems fair to assume that the
amount of air which surrounds it is about the same proportion to the
total mass of the planet as in the case of the earth. Without entering
into calculations, we may state that if this is true, the pressure of
the air at the surface of Mars would be about equal to five inches of
mercury, or about one-sixth of the normal atmospheric pressure on the
earth.
Now, given an atmosphere and a large extent of sea, we should naturally
expect that clouds would form a prominent feature on the Martial
surface; and observation has proved this to be the case. On several
occasions, some of the features of the planet have been observed to be
obscured by a sort of white film, which it is only fair to assume was
a cloud. These clouds appear more markedly at the edge of the disc,
or at those points where it would be morning or evening, and we may
therefore assume that, similar to the earth, Mars is liable to mists or
clouds forming at dawn and in the evening. It has been suggested that
these white films are due not to clouds in the air, but to a deposition
of snow on the surface, which disappears when the sun rises. There
seems to be no particular reason for adopting this theory; it does not
explain the observed phenomena better, nor does it seem more likely to
be true.
The air on Mars being very much less dense than on the earth, it is
presumable that the winds would move with much greater velocity; and
for this reason, it has been thought that trees could not grow to any
considerable height. We must, however, bear in mind that though the
velocity would be high, the actual force of the wind would probably not
be very great, on account of its excessive tenuity.
In an inquiry as to the probability of the existence of life, one of
the most important points to be taken into account is the amount of
heat available. Now, Mars is at such a distance from the sun that on
the whole it would receive about two-fifths as much solar heat as we
do. This does not, however, give the amount of heat that is actually
received on the surface of the planet, a considerable proportion
being absorbed by the atmosphere; and since our atmosphere is so much
denser and thicker than that of Mars, it follows that we lose a much
larger percentage of the solar heat. To calculate the exact amount of
heat absorbed by a given thickness of air is a very difficult, if not
impossible, problem; but it seems likely that, taking everything into
account, the inhabitant of Mars will receive more heat from the sun
than we do. This would have the effect of making the evaporation very
large, and if so, the Martial atmosphere would be mostly composed of
water-vapour.
According to Professor Langley, the true colour of the sun is blue;
and its yellowness is due to the dirt always present in the air. To
the inhabitants of Mars, it would most probably appear nearly white,
unless, indeed, they also have volcanoes to fill the air with lava-dust.
Let us now sum up the facts we have stated, and determine as far as we
can what sort of man the inhabitant of Mars must be.
In the first place, the force of gravitation at the surface is only
just over one-third of its equivalent on the earth; a pound would
therefore weigh about six ounces in Mars. If, therefore, we assume
that the men are of such a size that their weight and activity are the
same as ours, they would be about fourteen feet high on the average.
This would make their strength very great; for not only would it be
actually superior to ours, but, as every weight is so much smaller, it
would be apparently proportionally increased. We should, therefore,
expect to find that the Martialites have executed large engineering
works; perhaps also their telescopes are much superior to ours, and
we have been objects of interest for their observers. With regard to
telescopes, it may be interesting to examine what is the effect of
the highest magnifying power we can use. At his nearest approach,
the distance from us to Mars is about thirty-seven million miles;
and assuming that the highest power that can be used with advantage
is twelve hundred, we approach with our telescopes to a distance
of thirty thousand miles, so that houses, or towns, or indeed any
artificial works, would be hopelessly invisible. With regard to the
supply of heat and light, we have seen that the Martialite is not worse
off than we are. To him the sun would appear as a white, or perhaps
blue disc about two-thirds of the diameter that it appears to us. The
Martial day differs but slightly from ours; his year, however, is much
longer, being about six hundred and eighty-seven of our days, which
is about six hundred and fifty Martial days. The inclination of his
axis to the plane of the orbit is such that his seasons would be very
similar to ours. It is difficult to reconcile the idea of an extensive
vegetation with his peculiar red colour; it is just possible, however,
that some of the green patches, generally supposed to be seas, may in
reality be large forests.
The most valid objection to the habitability of Mars lies in the
fact of the extremely low atmospheric pressure, which, as we have
seen, would probably average about five inches of mercury. The lowest
pressure that a man has ever lived in, even for a short time, is about
seven inches, which was reached by Coxwell and Glaisher in their famous
balloon ascent. The aëronauts, however, narrowly escaped perishing, not
only on account of the low pressure, but also because of the extreme
cold.
It seems impossible that a man constituted exactly as we are could live
for any length of time breathing air only one-sixth of the density
of ours. But it is rather going out of our way to assume that the
Martialites would be exactly the same as we are in every way; the
chances are a million to one against it; and on the other hand, a very
slight modification of the lung arrangement would suffice to make life
perfectly possible under such conditions.
The nights on Mars would be very dark, for he has no satellite like
our moon. He has, it is true, two moons, but they are so small that
their illuminating power is _nil_, being respectively only sixty and
forty miles in diameter. The smallest of these presents the curious
phenomenon that it revolves round Mars faster than the planet turns on
his own axis, and therefore would appear to rise in the west and set in
the east.
Our earth, as seen from Mars, when at his nearest, would appear about
the same size as Jupiter does to us; that is to say, would subtend an
angle of about forty seconds. At his furthest distance, this would be
reduced to fourteen.
We thus see that there is ample reason for assuming that this, the
most interesting of all the planets, is the abode of creatures not
essentially different from ourselves. Being considerably older than we
are, the Martialites are probably much further advanced in the arts
and sciences; and perhaps there may be some truth in the story of
the Italian astronomer who says he has lately detected lights on the
planet moving about in such a way as seems to indicate a deliberate
intention to open communication with the earth. What the language of
the lights is, we have not been informed; let us hope it is something
more practical than the proposal of the Russian savant to communicate
with the moon by cutting a huge figure of the forty-seventh proposition
of Euclid on the plains of Siberia, which, he said, any fool would
understand.
IN ALL SHADES.
CHAPTER XXX.
That evening, Rosina Fleming went as she was bid to the old African’s
tent about half-past eleven, groping her way along the black moonless
roads in fear and trembling, with infinite terror of the all-pervading
and utterly ghastly West Indian ghosts or duppies. It was a fearful
thing to go at that time of night to the hut of an obeah man; heaven
knows what grinning, gibbering ghouls and phantoms one might chance to
come across in such a place at such an hour. But it would have been
more fearful still to stop away; for Delgado, who could so easily bring
her Isaac Pourtalès for a lover by his powerful spells, could just as
easily burn her to powder with his thunder and lightning, or send the
awful duppies to torment her in her bed, as she lay awake trembling
through the night-watches. So poor Rosina groped her way fearfully
round to Delgado’s hut with wild misgivings, and lifted the latch with
quivering fingers, when she heard its owner’s gruff, ‘Come in den,
missy,’ echoing grimly from the inner recesses.
When she opened the door, however, she was somewhat relieved to find
within a paraffin lamp burning brightly; and in place of ghouls or
ghosts or duppies, Isaac Pourtalès himself, jauntily seated smoking a
fresh tobacco-leaf cigarette of his own manufacture, in the corner of
the hut where Louis Delgado was sitting cross-legged on the mud floor.
‘Ebenin’, missy,’ Delgado said, rising with African politeness to greet
her; while the brown Barbadian, without moving from his seat, allowed
his lady-love to stoop down of herself to kiss him affectionately.
‘I send for you dis ebenin’ becase we want to know suffin’ about dis
pusson dat callin’ himself buckra, an’ stoppin’ now at Orange Grobe wit
you. What you know about him, tell us dat, missy. You is Missy Dupuy
own serbin’-le-ady: him gwine to tell you all him secret. What you know
about dis pusson Noel?’
Thus adjured, Rosina Fleming, sitting down awkwardly on the side of
the rude wooden settee, and with her big white eyes fixed abstractedly
upon the grinning skull that decorated the bare mud wall just opposite
her, pulled her turban straight upon her woolly locks with coquettish
precision, and sticking one finger up to her mouth like a country
child, began to pour forth all she could remember of the Orange Grove
servants’ gossip about Harry Noel. Delgado listened impatiently to the
long recital without ever for a moment trying to interrupt her; for
long experience had taught him the lesson that little was to be got out
of his fellow-countrywomen by deliberate cross-questioning, but a great
deal by allowing them quietly to tell their own stories at full length
in their own rambling, childish fashion.
At last, when Rosina, with eyes kept always timidly askance, half the
time upon the frightful skull, and half the time on Isaac Pourtalès,
had fairly come to the end of her tether, the old African ventured,
with tentative cunning, to put a leading question: ‘You ebber hear dem
say at de table, missy, who him mudder and fader is, and where dem come
from?’
‘Him fader is very great gentleman ober in Englan’,’ Rosina answered
confidently—‘very grand gentleman, wit house an’ serbant, an’ coach an’
horses, an’ plenty cane-piece, an’ rum an’ sugar, an’ yam garden an’
plantain, becase I ’member Aunt Clemmy say so; an’ de missy him say so
himself too, sah. An’ de missy say dat de pusson dat marry him will be
real le-ady—same like de gubbernor le-ady; real le-ady, like dem hab in
Englan’. De missy tellin’ me all about him dis bery ebenin’.’
Delgado smiled. ‘Den de missy in lub wit him himself, for certain,’ he
answered with true African shrewdness and cynicism. ‘Ole-time folk has
proverb, “When naygur woman say, ‘Dat fowl fat,’ him gwine to steal him
same ebenin’ for him pickany dinner.” An’ when le-ady tell you what
happen to gal dat marry gentleman, him want to hab de gentleman himself
for him own husband.’
‘O no, sah; dat doan’t so,’ Rosina cried with sudden energy. ‘De
missy doan’t lubbin’ de buckra gentleman at all. She tell me him look
altogedder too much like naygur.’
Delgado and Pourtalès exchanged meaning looks with one another, but
neither of them answered a word to Rosina.
‘An’ him mudder?’ Delgado inquired curiously after a moment’s pause,
taking a lazy puff at a cigarette which Isaac handed him.
‘Him mudder!’ Rosina said. ‘Ah, dere now, I forgettin’ clean what Uncle
’Zekiel, him what is butler up to de house dar, an’ hear dem talk wit
one anodder at dinner—I forgettin’ clean what it was him tell me about
him mudder.’
Delgado did not urge her to rack her feeble little memory on this
important question, but waited silently, with consummate prudence, till
she should think of it herself and come out with it spontaneously.
‘Ha, dere now,’ Rosina cried at last, after a minute or two of vacant
and steady staring at the orbless eyeholes of the skull opposite; ‘I
is too chupid—too chupid altogedder. Mistah ’Zekiel, him tellin’ me de
odder marnin’ dat Mistah Noel’s mudder is le-ady from Barbadoes.—Dat
whar you come from youself, Isaac, me fren’. You must be ’memberin’ de
family ober in Barbadoes.’
‘How dem call de family?’ Isaac asked cautiously. ‘You ebber hear,
Rosie, how dem call de family? Tell me, dar is good girl, an’ I gwine
to lub you better’n ebber.’
Rosina hesitated, and cudgelled her poor brains eagerly a few minutes
longer; then another happy flash of recollection came across her
suddenly like an inspiration, and she cried out in a joyous tone:
‘Yes, yes; I got him now, I got him now, Isaac! Him mudder family
deir name is Budleigh, an’ dem lib at place dem call de Wilderness.
Mistah ’Zekiel tell me all about dem. Him say dat dis le-ady, what him
name Missy Budleigh, marry de buckra gentleman fader, what him name
Sir-waltah Noel.’
It was an enormous and unprecedented fetch of memory for a
pure-blooded black woman, and Rosina Fleming was justly proud of it.
She stood there grinning and smiling from ear to ear, so that even the
skull upon the wall opposite was simply nowhere in the competition.
Delgado turned breathlessly to Isaac Pourtalès. ‘You know dis fam’ly?’
he asked with eager anticipation. ‘You ebber hear ob dem? You larn at
all whedder dem is buckra or only brown people?’
Louis Delgado laughed hoarsely. Brown man as he was himself, he
chuckled and hugged himself with sardonic delight over the anticipated
humiliation of a fellow brown man who thought himself a genuine buckra.
‘Know dem, sah!’ Isaac cried in a perfect ecstasy of malicious
humour—‘know de Budleighs ob de Wilderness! I tink for true I know dem!
_Hé!_ Mistah Delgado, me fren’, I tellin’ you de trut, sah; me own
mudder an’ Mrs Budleigh ob de Wilderness is first-cousin, first-cousin
to one anudder.’
It was perfectly true. Strange as such a relationship sounds to
English ears, in the West Indies cases of the sort are as common as
earthquakes. In many a cultivated light-brown family, where the young
ladies of the household, pretty and well educated, expect and hope to
marry an English officer of good connections, the visitor knows that,
in some small room or other of the back premises, there still lingers
on feebly an old black hag, wrinkled and toothless, full of strange
oaths and incomprehensible African jargons, who is nevertheless the
grandmother of the proud and handsome girls, busy over Mendelssohn’s
sonatas and the _Saturday Review_, in the front drawing-room. Into such
a family it was that Sir Walter Noel, head of the great Lincolnshire
house, had actually married. The Budleighs of the Wilderness had
migrated to England before the abolition of slavery, when the future
Lady Noel was still a baby; and getting easily into good society in
London, had only been known as West Indian proprietors in those old
days when to be a West Indian proprietor was still equivalent to wealth
and prosperity, not, as now, to poverty and bankruptcy.
Strange to say, too, Lady Noel herself was not by any means so dark
as her son Harry. The Lincolnshire Noels belonged themselves to the
black-haired type so common in their county; and the union of the two
strains had produced in Harry a complexion several degrees more swarthy
than that of either of his handsome parents. In England, nobody would
ever have noticed this little peculiarity; they merely said that Harry
was the very image of the old Noel family portraits; but in Trinidad,
where the abiding traces of negro blood are so familiarly known and so
carefully looked for, it was almost impossible for him to pass a single
day without his partially black descent being immediately suspected. He
had ‘thrown back,’ as the colonists coarsely phrase it, to the dusky
complexion of his quadroon ancestors.
Louis Delgado hugged himself and grinned at this glorious discovery.
‘Ha, ha!’ he cried, rocking himself rapidly to and fro in a perfect
frenzy of gratified vindictiveness; ‘him doan’t buckra, den!—him doan’t
buckra! He hold himself so proud, an’ look down on naygur; an’ after
all, him doan’t buckra, him only brown man! De Lard be praise, I gwine
to humble him! I gwine to let him know him doan’t buckra!’
‘You will tell him?’ Rosina Fleming asked curiously.
Delgado danced about the hut in a wild ecstasy, with his fingers
snapping about in every direction, like the half-tamed African
savage that he really was. ‘Tell _him_, Missy Rosie!’ he echoed
contemptuously—‘tell _him_, you sayin’ to me! Yah, yah! you hab no
sense, missy. I doan’t gwine to tell _him_, for certain; I gwine to
tell dat cheatin’ scoundrel, Tom Dupuy, missy, so humble him in de end
de wuss for all dat.’
Rosina gazed at him in puzzled bewilderment. ‘Tom Dupuy!’ she repeated
slowly. ‘You gwine to tell Tom Dupuy, you say, Mistah Delgado! What de
debbel de use, I wonder, sah, ob tell Tom Dupuy dat de buckra gentleman
an’ Isaac is own cousin?’
Delgado executed another frantic _pas de seul_ across the floor of the
hut, to work off his mad excitement, and then answered gleefully: ‘Ha,
ha, Missy Rosie, you is woman, you is creole naygur gal—you doan’t
understan’ de depth an’ de wisdom ob African naygur. Look you here, me
fren’, I explain you all about it. De missy up at house, him fall in
lub wit dis brown man, Noel. Tom Dupuy, him want for go an’ marry de
missy. Dat make Tom Dupuy hate de brown man. I tell him, Noel doan’t
no buckra—him common brown man, own cousin to Isaac Pourtalès. Den Tom
Dupuy laugh at Noel! Ha, ha! I turn de hand ob one proud buckra to
bring down de pride ob de odder!’
Isaac Pourtalès laughed too. ‘Ha, ha!’ he cried, ‘him is proud buckra,
an’ him is me own cousin! I hate him!’
Rosina gazed at her mulatto lover in rueful silence. She liked the
English stranger—he had given her a shilling one day to post a letter
for him—but still, she daren’t go back upon Isaac and Louis Delgado.
‘Him is fren’ ob Mistah Hawtorn,’ she murmured apologetically at last
after a minute’s severe reflection—‘great fren’ ob Mistah Hawtorn. Dem
is old-time fren’ in Englan’ togedder; and when Mistah Tom Dupuy speak
bad ’bout Mistah Hawtorn, Mistah Noel him flare up like angry naygur,
an’ him gib him de lie, an’ him speak out well for him!’
Delgado checked himself, and looked closely at the hesitating negress
with more deliberation. ‘Him is fren’ ob Mistah Hawtorn,’ he said in a
meditative voice—‘him is fren’ ob Mistah Hawtorn! De fren’ ob de Lard’s
fren’ shall come to no harm. I gwine to tell Tom Dupuy. I must humble
de buckra. But in de great an’ terrible day, dem shall not hurt a hair
of him head, if de Lard wills it.’ And then he added somewhat louder,
in his own sonorous and mystic Arabic: ‘The effendi’s brother is dear
to Allah even as the good effendi himself is.’
Isaac Pourtalès made a wry face aside to himself. Evidently he had
settled in his own mind that whatever might be Delgado’s private
opinion about the friends of the Lord’s friend, he himself was not
going to be bound, when the moment for action actually arrived, by
anybody else’s ideas of promises.
By-and-by, Rosina rose to go. ‘You is comin’ wit me, Isaac?’ she asked
coquettishly, with her finger stuck once more in coy reserve at the
corner of her mouth, and her head a little on one side, bewitching
negress fashion.
Isaac hesitated; it does not do for a brown man to be too condescending
and familiar with a nigger girl, even if she does happen to be his
sweetheart. Besides, Delgado signed to him with his withered finger
that he wanted him to stop a few minutes longer. ‘No, Missy Rosie,’ the
mulatto answered, yawning quietly; ‘I doan’t gwine yet. You know de
road to house, I tink. Ebenin’, le-ady.’
Rosina gave a sighing, sidelong look of disappointed affection,
took her lover’s hand a little coldly in her own black fingers, and
sidled out of the hut with much reluctance, half-frightened still at
the horrid prospect of once more facing alone the irrepressible and
ubiquitous ghouls.
As soon as she was fairly out of earshot, Louis Delgado approached at
once close to the mulatto’s ear and murmured in a mysterious hollow
undertone: ‘Next Wednesday.’
The mulatto started. ‘So soon as dat!’ he cried. ‘Den you has got de
pistols?’
Delgado, with his wrinkled finger placed upon his lip, moved stealthily
to a corner of his hut, and slowly opened a chest, occupied on the top
by his mouldy obeah mummery of loose alligators’ teeth and well-cleaned
little human knuckle-bones. Carefully removing this superstitious
rubbish from the top of the box with an undisguised sneer—for Isaac as
a brown man was _ex officio_ superior to obeah—he took from beneath it
a couple of dozen old navy pistols, of a disused pattern, bought cheap
from a marine store-dealer of doubtful honesty down at the harbour.
Isaac’s eyes gleamed brightly as soon as he saw the goodly array of
real firearms. ‘_Hé, hé!_’ he cried joyously, fingering the triggers
with a loving touch, ‘dat de ting to bring down de pride ob de proud
buckra. Ha, ha! Next Wednesday, next Wednesday! We waited long, Mistah
Delgado, for de Lard’s delibberance; but de time come now, de time
come at last, sah, an’ we gwine to hab de island ob Trinidad all to
ourselves.’
The old African bowed majestically. ‘Slay ebbery male among dem,’ he
answered aloud in his deepest accents, with a not wholly unimpressive
mouthing of his hollow vowels—‘slay ebbery male, an’ take de women
captive, an’ de maidens, an’ de little ones; an’ divide among you de
spoil ob all deir cattle, an’ all deir flocks, an’ all deir goods, an’
deir cities wherein dey dwell, an’ all deir vineyards, an’ deir goodly
castles.’
Isaac Pourtalès’ eyes gleamed hideously as he listened in delight to
that awful quotation.
THE DUBLIN BANK GUARD.
After reading an article in _Chamber’s Journal_ for August 1885,
headed ‘The Bank Picket,’ it struck me (says a correspondent) that a
reminiscence of the Bank Guard in Dublin may not prove uninteresting.
I say reminiscence, for, though the Bank Guard is mounted there
now pretty much, I believe, as in the days of which I write—some
eight-and-thirty years ago—the incident which my memory recalls in
connection with it is a reminiscence of an event, the actors in which,
except myself, have passed away or have left the service; and in either
case, I have not seen or heard of any of them for many years; but if
one or two still survive, and this should meet their eye, I have no
doubt the remembrance recalled by it will raise a hearty laugh at what
was to them certainly no joke, and to me personally was a lesson never
again to disobey orders.
The guard over the Bank of Ireland in Dublin was then—as I believe
it is now—under the command of the senior subaltern for guard in the
garrison, with a proper complement of non-commissioned officers and
men; and was relieved, like all the other garrison guards, every
twenty-four hours. The men’s guardroom was a large apartment, flagged
with stone, on the ground-floor of part of what was once the old Irish
House of Parliament; and above it was the officer’s guardroom, which
was reached by a flight of stairs, at the bottom of which a door
communicated on the left with the men’s guardroom, and facing the
stair-foot was a small heavy door leading into the street. In this door
was a barred aperture about a foot square, closed by a sliding piece of
wood, which could be drawn aside to permit the examination from within
of any one outside; and inside the door, a sentry was posted during
the night. Through the barred aperture, the ‘Grand rounds’—as the
field-officer on duty for the day was called—whispered the countersign
to the officer of the guard when he visited the bank at night, after
which he was admitted, to enable him to inspect the guard. To the left
of the door outside was also a large iron-studded gate, leading into a
small courtyard, where the guard paraded during the daytime; but this,
as well as the small door, was locked and secured by heavy bars at
sunset, and the keys of both were kept by the officer of the guard.
Immediately after the mounting of the new guard, every morning a
knock at the door of the officer’s room announced the arrival of the
head-porter with a large book, in which the officer signed his name,
rank, and regiment; and on the departure of the head-porter with the
book, a half-sovereign was found on the table where the book had
been. There were no meals provided for the officer, as for his more
fortunate comrade mounting the Bank Picket in London; nor were the
non-commissioned officers or men ‘tipped,’ as at the Bank of England;
but they, as well as the officer, were left to shift for themselves
in the way of food during the twenty-four hours, without even the
assistance of a canteen vendor, so that the dinners and other meals had
to be sent from the barracks—in the case of some regiments, a distance
of two or three miles—there was no blanket or greatcoat either provided
at the Bank of Ireland for the men; but the officer had some articles
furnished for his use, for a consideration, which were exhumed towards
night from a small closet in the officer’s guardroom. There was no
library or anything of that kind for men or officer; and they were
left entirely to their own devices how to fill up the tedium of the
twenty-four hours’ duty.
The furniture of both guardrooms was scanty, that in the men’s room
consisting of a few forms and a guard-bed of wood, raised a couple of
feet from the ground; while the officer’s furniture was more luxurious,
he having an old leather-covered couch, with four or five chairs to
match, and a large table. There was, however, abundance of fuel; and
candles of the mutton-fat order were liberally supplied at the rate of
one to each room. Both apartments were large and lofty, the ceiling of
the officer’s being vaulted; and its walls, in my time, were covered
with drawings in pencil and coloured chalks, more or less well done;
and many very amusing, being caricatures of well-known staff and other
officers, or sketches of various funny incidents which had taken place
at guard-mountings and field-days, in which the figure of old Toby
White, the well-known town major, was always prominent, as well as an
adjutant of one of the regiments, famed for the peculiar peak which
adorned his shako, and his feats of horsemanship, which seemed meant
to illustrate the many ways one could fall off a horse without getting
hurt. Over the vast mantel-piece were drawings of the breastplates
of every regiment that had mounted the guard, all artistically and
faithfully done. Like the gorgets, these breastplates have ceased for
many years to be part of the uniform of the British infantry; but for
the benefit of those who don’t remember them, I may say that they
served to clasp across the breast the broad white sword-belt worn
in full uniform in the days of coatees and epaulets, and were very
handsome, having, besides, the number of the regiment, the regimental
badge, and the various battles authorised to be borne on the regimental
colour, emblazoned on them.
Amongst the other drawings on the walls was, directly opposite the door
leading from the stairs into the guardroom, the figure of a young lady
clad in the full-dress uniform of a regiment dating many years anterior
to the time of which I speak. She was represented as standing at the
salute, with a drawn sword extended in her right hand, and the left
at the shako peak shading the eyes. There was a legend—whence derived
or how handed down, I am unable to say—that the young lady in the
obsolete uniform was the wife of an officer of the guard who one night,
many years ago, had become intoxicated on duty; and that she saved
his commission by dressing herself in his uniform and turning out the
guard to the field-officer when going his nightly rounds. This legend
was, I have no doubt, as true as very many which are now implicitly
believed; but be that as it may, it was an article of faith amongst the
subalterns of the Dublin garrison, who always regarded the fair young
figure in the quaint uniform with a certain amount of respect.
In those days, the guardrooms in Dublin were pretty generally
ornamented with sketches, some of which were very well done. I may
specify ‘The Kildare Hunt,’ round the wall of the upper castle guard;
and a monument upon a wall facing the door in the lower castle guard,
on which was the following inscription:
IN MEMORY OF
A Wigging received by a Subaltern of this Guard from ——.
--------
May whose end be as his life has been—peaceful!
That the above stung the officer in question, who was a well-known
martinet, but, unfortunately, had seen no war-service, we soon had
reason to know; for an order was issued that in future all commandants
of guards were to certify in their guard Reports that the walls of
their guardrooms had not been defaced during their tour of duty.
One snowy, bitterly cold day in the winter of 1847-48, I found myself
the occupant of the Bank Guard in Dublin, and in the proud position
of commandant. The semi-darkness of the afternoon was fast verging on
night, and I nodded, half asleep, over the huge fire which blazed on
the hearth, when the door opened, and admitted, with a cold swirl of
frosty air, the handsome, jolly face of a brother sub. and particular
friend of mine, named Harry P——. The old room looked instantly bright
and cheerful, and he sat until well after dark, smoking and chatting
pleasantly. At length he rose to go, and told me that he was going to
dine with his brother at Richmond Barracks; and that after mess, he,
his brother, and another officer of his brother’s regiment, were about
to visit the theatre, where some popular performer was starring it.
‘And I tell you what it is, old fellow,’ he added, ‘we’ll all come here
afterwards; and you have some oysters in, and give us a supper.’
It was in vain that I reminded him of the order that no one was to be
admitted to the Bank Guard after tattoo except on duty. He laughed at
my scruples; and at last, on his hinting that want of hospitality was
at the bottom of my strict observance of standing orders, I was weak
enough to give in; and the tempter descending the stairs, stopped to
say, by way of encouragement: ‘You know we shan’t be with you before
twelve o’clock; and by that time, the Grand rounds will have turned
you out, and will be snug in bed in the upper castle.’ So saying,
without giving me time to recall my inconsiderate promise, he was off,
and I had nothing left me but to call my servant; and between us, we
managed to arrange, if not an elegant, at least a comfortable little
supper, which was brought in from a neighbouring hotel. Fresh lights
were placed upon the now well-furnished table, more coals added to
the already roaring fire, beside which simmered a kettle of boiling
water, ready to mix with what in the Irish capital is known as ‘the
materials;’ and towards the ‘sma’ hours ayont the twal,’ I sat waiting
the arrival of my expected guests, as well as the field-officer of the
day, who, to my great discomfort and uneasiness, had not up to this
hour put in an appearance.
I hadn’t long to wait after midnight had struck for Harry P—— and
his companions, who didn’t sympathise with me much concerning the
non-arrival of the field-officer, Harry only remarking: ‘Oh, he’ll only
just look at the guard, and be off to roost with as little delay as he
can. The snow is falling fast, and no one with any brains will stay out
in it longer than he can help.’
So, ‘laying this flattering unction to our souls,’ we proceeded,
without further ceremony, to pay attention to the good things provided
for the comfort of the body, and had already got through a fair lot of
the bivalves, when suddenly the loud challenge of the sentry at the
door below rang through the vaulted corridor: ‘Who comes there?’ The
reply from outside was: ‘Rounds;’ then: ‘What rounds?’ Answer: ‘Grand
rounds,’ followed by the sentry’s: ‘Stand, Grand rounds; Guard, turn
out.’
This called me to take my part in the ceremony; and my visitors, still
looking on the affair as a prime joke, proceeded to ensconce themselves
in the closet containing the officer’s bedding, which, on account of
the expected advent of company, had not as yet been disinterred. As
he closed the door, I heard Harry P—— remark, by way of apology to
the others: ‘You know, his Satanic Majesty may prompt him to come
up-stairs, and so we had better not show till he goes.’
I now dashed down below, and after the accustomed interchange of
question and answer at the barred window in the door, ordered his
admission, and proceeded to the guard, which was turned out in the
men’s guardroom, to duly ‘present arms’ to the Grand rounds. (I may
here remark, that to the sentry’s shout of ‘Guard, turn out’ in the
Bank Guard, the response was decidedly Irish, for the guard didn’t turn
out at all, in the literal sense of the word, at night, but ‘fell in’
on the stone flags of their guardroom.)
The field-officer on this occasion was a Major F——, of a Highland
regiment, a jolly, pleasant-looking little man, who evidently enjoyed
to the full the good things of this life; and after acknowledging the
salute and receiving the report of ‘All correct, sir,’ he desired me
to dismiss the guard, and as we left the room, said: ‘I was looking at
the bright light in your guardroom window as I came up, and envied you
the roaring fire you must have inside, and I daresay a good glass of
something hot also. If you don’t mind, I’ll come up and thaw a bit, for
it’s snowing hard, and most bitterly cold outside.’
What could I say, but—heaven forgive me—express the pleasure it would
give me to do the hospitable; and so, with troubled heart, I bounded
up the stairs ostensibly to fetch a candle to light the major up, but
really to clear the room of the prisoners, had they left the closet,
or, at all events, to warn them of approaching danger if they had not.
In either case, I was, however, foiled, as the Grand rounds, though a
portly-looking little man, and not active to all appearance, still had
the use of his legs, well tried, no doubt, on many a good Highland moor
and mountain; and in spite of my knowledge of the staircase, he was in
the guardroom close at my heels. It was, however, to all appearance
entirely without any occupants save ourselves, and only the remains of
the supper looked suspicious. This at once attracted the major; and to
his remark that I appeared to have had a party here, I replied loudly,
in order to give notice to the prisoners, that some of our fellows had
dropped in during the afternoon and had some lunch; that I had had my
dinner after they had left, and that my servant had not yet removed the
débris; that I dared say there were some oysters still left, and would
the major let me get him a few, &c.? which caused the little man’s eyes
to twinkle as he toasted himself by the ample fire; and unbuckling his
sword, he seated himself in a chair at the table, and fell to without
more ceremony, remarking: ‘You are very kind. What Sybarites you —th
fellows are! I’ll just take an oyster or two, and qualify with a glass
of hot toddy, to keep out the cold of this bitter night.’
After doing ample justice to the supper, he proceeded to undo a couple
of the bottom buttons of his doublet, and, with a sigh of satisfaction,
drew his chair closer to the fire, and lighting a cigar, settled
himself comfortably for a chat. I, too, lighted a pipe, and with an
affectation of enjoyment I was far from feeling, I sat opposite to him,
and listened to what I have no doubt were very amusing anecdotes, but
which fell unheeded upon ears strained to catch a sneeze or cough or
other ill-timed sound from the closet. All, however, was quite still
there; and after what seemed to me a century of anxious suspense,
the Grand rounds finished his glass, and with profuse thanks for
my hospitality, rebuckled himself into his sword-belt and took his
departure.
It couldn’t have been much more than an hour since he came up-stairs,
and yet to me it seemed ages until the outer door again closed on him
and I heard his muffled footsteps retreating over the soft snow. But
if the time appeared long to me, what must it not have been to the
prisoners caged in the stuffy closet! I found them peeping inquiringly
out from their prison; and when the ‘Coast clear’ was announced, such
a peal of laughter resounded through the old walls as made them ring
again; and there being no fear of further disturbance, we straightway
drank health and safe home to the jolly old Grand rounds; and seating
ourselves at the table with appetites sharpened by the perils we had
passed, we did ample justice to the remainder of the supper, and
proved that ‘all’s well that ends well’ in a most satisfactory manner.
Far into the night, or rather well into the morning, was it before
we parted; and as Harry shook my hand at the stair-foot, he said:
‘Good-night, good-night, or rather morning. We are all much obliged
for the night’s amusement; but between you and me, old man, I don’t
think that I, for one, will ever again join a supper party in the Bank
Guard.’ To which I replied: ‘No; nor will you ever catch me again
giving one.’
I have since often thought, did Major F—— suspect that the closet had
tenants? If he did, he kept it to himself; and though we often met
afterwards, he never made any allusion to that night. He may have
meant to teach me a lesson, or he may not; but if he did, he did it
most kindly, and it has never been forgotten; nor ever since have I
disregarded the resolution, ‘Always stick to orders,’ which I formed
that winter’s night upon the Bank Guard.
TREASURE TROVE.
A STORY IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.
Around a roaring fire in a little, lone, beetle-browed inn which
stood by the sea about six miles from Saint Quinians, known as the
_Lobster_, were assembled one evening, about a week after the events
recorded in the last chapter, some half-dozen men, whose apparel and
appearance proclaimed them fisher-folk. They were sitting simply
smoking and drinking, not speaking, for it may be noted that men whose
lives are spent in one continual struggle with danger and death are
generally silent. It was a wild, wet evening, although it was April,
and the great waves were tumbling on the rocky shore with a booming
which never ceased, and which was audible above the roar of the wind
and the rattle of the rain against the rickety casements, so that the
assembly was not a little astonished to hear the voice of the landlord
talking with a stranger, and presently to see a tall man, clad from
head to foot in waterproofs, enter. All eyes were instantly fixed on
him in a suspicious sort of manner, and more than one man rose, for
in these days, coast-folk enjoyed almost as little peace on land as
at sea, as preventive men were continually poking about in search of
smugglers, and the pressgang was hard at work collecting hands for His
Majesty’s ships. But as the newcomer was alone, and saluted them with
a ‘good-evening’ as he divested himself of his reeking overalls, their
momentary alarm seemed to subside, and they made a space for him in the
circle round the fire.
The visitor, who was no other than Jasper Rodley, ordered a stiff
tumbler of grog and a new pipe, took his seat, and gazed intently at
the leaping flames for some moments without speaking. ‘It’s a wretched
evening for a walk,’ he said presently; a remark which elicited a gruff
murmur of assent from the circle; ‘and the road from Saint Quinians is
as hard to follow as the course between Deadland Shoal and the Painter
Buoy,’ he continued. He was evidently a sailor, so that eyes were again
fixed on him with something of the original suspicion.
There was another pause, during which pipes were puffed vigorously and
more than one mug emptied.
Jasper Rodley broke the silence. ‘Doesn’t a Captain West live somewhere
hereabouts?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied a man. ‘Can’t mistake the house—a long white un,
standing in a bit o’ garden with a flagstaff in it, about two miles
towards the town.’
‘Strange sort of man, isn’t he?’ asked Rodley.
‘Well, sir, he’s strange in some things; but nobody don’t know any harm
of him,’ replied the man; ‘’cos it’s precious little folk see of him.’
‘Said to be very rich, isn’t he?’ asked Rodley.
This question brought the eyes of the party to bear again upon the
speaker, the problem troubling the rude minds being: ‘If this chap
wants to see the captain, and hails from Saint Quinians, why on earth
does he go two miles farther than he need?’ Mental conclusion arrived
at—stranger up to no good.
‘Well, no, mate,’ replied the man to Rodley’s question; ‘he ain’t what
you’d call rich, not by no means, seein’ that he’s only a half-pay
captain. But he’s been richer durin’ this last four year than he wur
afore.’
‘Lives all alone with his daughter, doesn’t he?’ continued Rodley.
Mental conclusion previously arrived at by the party is confirmed.
‘Yes,’ replied the man who acted as spokesman; ‘lives with Miss Bertha,
the cap’en do. She’s a proper quean, she is. Purtiest slip of a lass in
these parts by a long way. But the cap’en he keeps her uncommon close;
can’t a-bear her to be out of his sight; and when she goes into town
a-marketin’ on Wednesdays, we says it’s about all the life she sees.’
Another silence ensued, during which the half-dozen pairs of eyes were
taking stock of Rodley sideways, and endeavouring to solve the problem
of his intentions from his dress and appearance.
At length Rodley said: ‘Wasn’t there a lugger wrecked off here about
four years ago called the _Fancy Lass_?’
‘Nobody heard of it,’ replied the spokesman. ‘There was a lugger of
that name left Saint Quinians about four years agone; but she warn’t
never heard of no more; and bein’ a smuggler, that ain’t surprisin’.’