[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. 151.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]
NOTHING NEW.
Antiquaries are always delighted to remind us that there is nothing new
under the sun. When we boast of the great European art of printing,
they bring in the Chinese as evidence against us. Certain it is,
however, that the Romans used movable types to mark their pottery
and bread, and even to indorse their scroll-books. But if this is
to be called printing, then the Accadians, and their successors the
Assyrians, did the like on a grand scale many centuries before. To the
last-named people, moreover, must be ascribed, so far as we at present
know, the invention of a magnifying lens of rock-crystal, a thing
so well made, that Sir David Brewster pronounced it a true optical
instrument. It was found amid the ruins of Nimroud by Layard.
It is curious to see also how great natural laws have been dimly
apprehended centuries before they were rendered demonstrable. The law
of gravitation was undoubtedly discerned by Sir Isaac Newton; but it is
remarkable that in Cary’s translation of Dante’s _Inferno_ an idea very
like it occurs, namely:
Thou wast on the other side, so long as I
Descended; when I turned, thou did’st o’erpass
That point, to which from every part is dragged
All heavy substance.
Of this passage, Monti remarks that if it had met the eye of Newton,
it might better have awakened his thought to conceive the system of
attraction than the accidental fall of an apple.
For fifty or sixty years before any real light was thrown upon the
nature of gravitation, Pedro Mexia of Seville had a clear and correct
idea of its action. Thus, in his _Silva de Varia Leccion_ (published
in 1542, and which in various translations was in great demand until
the middle of the seventeenth century), the following appears: ‘The
sky is above in all parts of the earth, and the centre of the earth
is below, towards which all heavy things naturally tend from whatever
side of the earth; so that if God had made a hole, which by a true
diameter passing through the whole earth, from the point where we are,
as far as the other opposite and contrary to this, on the other side
of the earth, passed through the centre of it: then if one dropped a
plummet, as masons do, know that it would not pass to the other side of
the earth, but would stop and place itself in the centre of it; and if
from the other side one let fall another, they would meet together in
the very centre, and there they would stop. It is quite true that the
force might well cause the plummet to pass somewhat beyond, because its
movement, so long as it was going towards the centre, would naturally
be accelerated, passing somewhat beyond, but in the end it would return
to its place.’
Of this old Spanish work, an English translation was made by T.
Fortescue, and printed in London in 1576, entitled _The Forest,
or Collection of Historyes, no less profitable than pleasant and
necessary_. Another appeared in 1613 with sundry essays by other
authors, entitled _The Treasurie of Ancient and Modern Times_.
Considering that London publishing was on a small scale two and three
centuries ago, it is difficult to believe that Newton missed seeing
these works, even if he had not heard of the original. At anyrate, he
must in all probability have read what Shakspeare, borrowing probably
from the same source, puts into the mouth of Cressida:
But the strong base and building of my love
Is as the very centre of the earth,
Drawing all things to it.
_Troilus and Cressida_, act iv. scene 2.
Some anticipations of telegraphy are also very interesting. Galileo, in
his _Dialogues on the Two Systems of the World_, that is, the Ptolemaic
and Copernican, and which he wrote in 1632, makes Sagredo say: ‘You
remind me of one who offered to sell me a secret art, by which, through
the attraction of a certain magnet needle, it would be possible to
converse across a space of two or three thousand miles. I said to him
that I would willingly become the purchaser, provided only that I might
first make a trial of the art, and that it would be sufficient for the
purpose if I were to place myself in one corner of the sofa and he in
the other. He replied that in so short a distance the action would be
scarcely discernible; so I dismissed the fellow, and said that it was
not convenient for me just then to travel into Egypt or Muscovy for
the purpose of trying the experiment; but that if he chose to go there
himself, I would remain in Venice and attend to the rest.’
It appears, however, that telegraphy took form as an idea two thousand
years ago, for Addison, in one of his delightful essays in the
_Spectator_ (No. 241), tells us that ‘Strada, in one of his Prolusions,
gives an account of a chimerical correspondence between two friends
by the help of a certain lodestone, which had such virtue in it, that
if it touched two several needles, when one of the needles so touched
began to move, the other, though at never so great a distance, moved
at the same time, and in the same manner. He tells us that the two
friends, being each of them possessed of one of these needles, made a
kind of a dial-plate, inscribing it with the four-and-twenty letters,
in the same manner as the hours of the day are marked upon the ordinary
dial-plate. They then fixed one of the needles on each of these plates
in such a manner that it could move round without impediment, so as to
touch any of the four-and-twenty letters. Upon their separating from
one another into distant countries, they agreed to withdraw themselves
punctually into their closets at a certain hour of the day and to
converse with one another by means of this their invention.’
In Homer’s _Odyssey_, translated by Pope, the following curious
description—originally detected by an ingenious mechanic—of the
Phœacian ships of old, has been well observed by the late Dr Birkbeck
to be no inaccurate description of steam-navigation:
So shalt thou instant reach the realm assigned
In wondrous ships, self-moved, instinct with mind.
* * * * *
Though clouds and darkness veil the encumbered sky,
Fearless, through darkness and through clouds they fly;
Though tempests rage—though rolls the swelling main,
The seas may roll, the tempests swell in vain.
E’en the stern god that o’er the waves presides,
Safe as they pass, and safe repass the tides,
With fury burns; whilst careless they convey
Promiscuous every guest to every bay.
It would almost appear from the above passage, which for ages was
considered merely a bold flight of the imagination, that the ancients
were not unacquainted with some method beyond that of the ordinary
sail, of propelling vessels through water with safety and celerity.
Even that horror of naval warfare, the fish-torpedo, seems to have been
once afloat in the mind of Ben Jonson, although there are good reasons
for thinking he derived the idea itself from Drummond the inventor,
whom he visited at Hawthornden in 1619. In Jonson’s play, _The Staple
of News_ (act iii. scene 1), we read:
_Thomas._ They write here one Cornelius’ son
Hath made the Hollanders an invisible eel
To swim the Haven at Dunkirk, and sink all
The shipping there.
_Pennyboy._ But how is’t done?
_Cymbal._ I’ll show you, sir.
It’s an automa, runs under water
With a snug nose, and has a nimble tail
Made like an auger, with which tail she wriggles
Betwixt the coats of a ship, and sinks it straight.
_Pennyboy._ A most brave device
To murder their flat bottoms!
Some of the most beneficent and useful discoveries in medical science
appear to have been anticipated years ago. For example, certain skulls
of prehistoric man have afforded the clearest evidence that even at
that remote period the art of _trepanning_ must have been practised
upon them. A skull found in the tomb of the Incas, near the city of
Cuzco, exhibited distinct marks of having undergone a like operation.
According to a reputed discovery by M. Stanislaus Julien, it appears
that as far back as the third century of our era, the Chinese were in
possession of an anæsthetic agent which they employed during surgical
operations. A description of this was discovered by M. Julien in a work
preserved in the Bibliothèque Nationale, called _Kou-kin-i-tong_, or
a General Collection of Ancient and Modern Medicines, which appears
to have been published in the sixteenth century. In a biographical
notice of Hoa-tho, who flourished under the dynasty of Wei, between the
years 220 and 230 of our era, it is stated that he gave the patient a
preparation of _cannabis_ (_Ma-yo_), who in a few moments became as
insensible as one plunged in drunkenness or deprived of life; then,
according to the case, he made incisions, amputations, &c. After a
certain number of days, the patient found himself re-established,
without having experienced the slightest pain during the operation. It
appears from the biography of Han that this _cannabis_ was prepared by
boiling and distillation.
Of the Germ Theory of disease, it must also be said, it is no
novelty. That noted physician, Athanasius Kircher, in his work on the
plague—published at Rome in 1658—attributed the origin of epidemics to
germs, or, as he termed them, animalcules. He argued that each kind of
putrefaction gives rise to a special virus, which produces a definite
species of malady.
Even sticking-plaster is not a modern surgical appliance. One of
the highest living authorities in organic chemistry states that the
ordinary lead-plaster now so commonly used was said to be discovered by
the Roman physician Menecrates in the middle of the first century.
Some readers of this _Journal_ will remember that while the British
Association was in progress at Montreal (1884), a telegram was received
from Mr Caldwell in Australia, notifying that he had found _monotremes
oviparous with mesoblastic ovum_—that is, that the ornithorhynchus,
the duck-bill or water mole, laid eggs. This piece of news greatly
interested naturalists, since it was justly regarded as furnishing one
more link in the chain of evidence tending to support the evolution
hypothesis. However, in a work entitled _The Literary Pancratium_,
by Robert and Thomas Swinburn Carr, published in London in 1832, a
quotation in the form of a footnote appears on page 8, as follows: ‘But
this is New Holland, where it is summer with us when it is winter in
Europe, and _vice versâ_; where the barometer rises before bad weather,
and falls before good; where the north is the hot wind, and the south
the cold; where the humblest house is fitted up with cedar; where
the fields are fenced with mahogany, and myrtle-trees are burnt for
firewood; where the _swans are black_ and the eagles white; where the
kangaroo, an animal between the squirrel and the deer, has five claws
on its forepaws and three talons on its hind-legs, like a bird, and
yet hops on its tail; where the mole lays eggs, and has a duck’s bill;
where there is a bird with a broom in its mouth instead of a tongue;
where there is a fish, one half belonging to the genus _Raja_, and the
other to that of _Squalus_; where the pears are made of wood, with the
stalk at the broader end; and where the cherry grows with the stone on
the outside.’—(Field’s _New South Wales_, page 461.)
In striking contrast to all the above-named instances of rediscovery,
is that fact furnished by some Assyrian bas-reliefs—that is, that the
lion, or at least the Asiatic species, has a _claw_ in the tuft of
his tail. This fact, which, strangely enough, was disputed in classic
times, although forty years before the birth of Christ, Didymus
of Alexandria discovered it, had been quite overlooked by modern
naturalists. Soon after the finding of the sculpture, Mr Bennett, an
English zoologist, verified the observation.
Homer’s famous story of the battle between the frogs and the mice is
doubtless a political satire. That the story was originally suggested
by actual observation is not an unreasonable fancy. Homer may even have
seen the mimic campaign for himself, for it is but a tradition that he
was blind. In a recent number of _Nature_, a correspondent states that
he saw a short time since several mice pursuing some frogs in a shed.
The alacrity of the reptiles rendered the attacks of the mice futile
for some time. ‘Again and again the frogs escaped from the clutches of
their foes, but only to be recaptured, severely shaken, and bitten.’
They were at length ‘overpowered by the mice, which devoured a part of
them.’
The first scientific expedition on record is one in which Aristotle
was sent by Alexander the Great (more than 300 B.C.) for the purpose
of collecting subjects for a History of Animals. In this enterprise he
met with both the paper and the pearly nautilus; for in the _Historia
Animalium_, he says, after describing different forms of Cephalopods,
which no doubt abounded in Asiatic seas: ‘There are also two other
kinds of polypes which are in shells, the one [that is, the paper
nautilus] has a shell which is not naturally adherent to it; it feeds
very frequently near the land, and being cast by the waves on the sand,
the shell slips, and it dies; but the other [the pearly nautilus]
is in a shell in which it exists after the manner of a snail, and
outwardly extends its arms.’—(_Scaliger’s translation._) Nothing was
added to this account during the dark ages that succeeded, nor even
till some time after the revival of literature. No further information
respecting the nautilus was obtained until the discovery of a living
specimen early in the eighteenth century by Rumphius, a Dutch merchant
and naturalist, resident at Amboyna. His drawing of the soft parts
separated from the shell was greatly valued for more than a century
before another specimen was found, although the shells were cast ashore
in comparative abundance. This specimen was sent to Professor Owen, and
formed the subject of an elaborate memoir by him in 1832. It may be
said to have been the first to confirm the history of this remarkable
organism given more than two thousand years before.
Here, then, we have another instance of modern research simply
verifying that which was an ancient discovery.
It is even said that the stereoscope, which is Professor Wheatstone’s
invention, was known to Euclid, and minutely described by Galen,
the physician, sixteen centuries ago; moreover, it was still more
completely defined in the works of Baptista Porta in the year 1599.
As for photography, its discovery is by common consent referred to
Daguerre, who announced it to the Academy of Sciences in 1839. This
beautiful art has, however, been found clearly described by M. Jobard
in his _Nouvelles Inventions aux Expositions Universelles_, 1857, taken
from a translation from the German three hundred years ago.
An ancient gold coin _recast_ is, after all, the same precious metal;
even so, truths long lost are, when found, restamped by human thought
and made current again for the world’s good. How few are privileged, or
have the genius, to enrich mankind with an original discovery!
BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.
CHAPTER XIV.
Le Gautier followed the footman into the drawing-room, where Enid
was engaged with some visitors—three tall showy-looking girls, with
an extremely vivacious mother. Le Gautier stood looking out of one
of the windows, and noticed with satisfaction their intention of a
speedy exit. For some moments the visitors remained chattering, and
then, after a profusion of compliments, accompanied by much laughter,
their voluminous skirts were heard switching down the broad staircase.
It has often been a matter of speculation as to whether a man can be
in love with two women at the same time; but without going into this
delicate question, it is possible to imagine a man with a penchant for
two women, though the experiment probably would be attended with great
hazard and danger. Le Gautier forgot the dark-eyed Marie, as he gazed
upon Enid’s fairer charms.
‘You have heard nothing of Maxwell?’ he asked after a pause in the
desultory conversation. ‘A strange thing he does not write. Many men
would imagine that such a thing is not altogether an accident; there
are occasions when a little absence from the gaze of man is desirable,
Miss Charteris.’
‘Many men, as usual, would be wrong,’ Enid answered coldly. ‘You should
not shield your want of charity by these generalities, Monsieur le
Gautier, though perhaps you have derived benefit from these absences
yourself, you seem to understand the subject so thoroughly.’
Enid was angry at his cool insolence, and replied to his want of taste
by a little plain language herself; and her random shaft went home.
‘You are severe; but really, while sorry for Maxwell, there is
something in it which is comforting to me. Can you not guess what I
mean?’
Enid Charteris, though guileless and pure as woman can be, had not
mixed with the great world for nothing. She had had suitors enough to
know what a proposal was, and above all things she dreaded one from
this man. Some instinct told her he would be a dangerous enemy. ‘You
speak in riddles,’ she said calmly. ‘I have not been educated to the
language of diplomacy. Pray, explain yourself.’
‘Then I must be more explicit. Maxwell’s absence rids me of a dangerous
rival. Now he is away, the path is all the smoother for me. Need I tell
you, Miss Charteris—Enid—that I love you? Surely you must have known
that for a long time past. While another was in the way, I sealed my
lips; but I can restrain myself no longer now.’
‘It would be affectation not to understand you,’ Enid replied with a
calmness that boded ill for Le Gautier’s success. ‘I am sorry to hear
it. If you are wise, you will not put me to the pain of a refusal.’
‘I will take no refusal,’ Le Gautier burst out passionately; ‘for I
swear that if you are not mine, you shall wed no other man. Enid, you
must, you shall be mine! You may look upon me coldly now, but the time
will come when you shall love me well enough.’
‘The time will come when I shall—love—you?’ The bitter scorn in
these words stung Le Gautier to madness, stirring up a desperate
passion in his veins, now that the prize seemed like slipping from
his grasp. He fell at her feet on his knees. ‘Hear me!’ he exclaimed
passionately—‘only listen to me, Enid. I have vowed that you are the
only woman I have chosen—the only girl I could really love. Such love
as mine must win a return some day; only try; only give me a little
chance of hope.’
‘If you are a man, you will rise from that absurd position. Who am I,
that you should kneel to me? You must take my word for it; and if you
have any consideration for my feelings, you will change the subject.’
‘And this is your absolute and final decision?’
‘Yes, it is my absolute and final decision.’
Le Gautier rose to his feet, pale but smiling, and there was a darkly
evil look upon his white set face. When he spoke again his words were
cold and incisive. ‘Consider, before you wilfully make an enemy of
me.’ He uttered the words with a low sibilation. ‘I have made you an
offer—the highest compliment I could pay, and you have scornfully
rejected it. The next favour you ask from me you may seek for on your
knees.’
‘And to what purpose, sir, shall _I_ ask a favour from _you_?’
‘For your father,’ Le Gautier answered quietly, though his tones were
deep and earnest. ‘You have guessed that Maxwell has gone away on a
dangerous mission. Why should not Sir Geoffrey be chosen in his turn?
And if so, who can save him? I, Hector le Gautier, and no other man.’
‘And by whose evil counsel has my poor father been dragged into your
infamous Brotherhood?—By yours alone! He would be a happy man now, if
he had never known you’——
‘On the contrary,’ Le Gautier interrupted, ‘I tried to save him. He has
joined on his own wish. You do not credit my words. Go and ask him now
if my words are not true, and that, if it is not his dearest wish that
you should become my wife.’
‘He might think so,’ Enid answered haughtily; ‘but he does not wish it
in his heart. Monsieur le Gautier, if you are a gentleman, you will
cease this discussion. The subject is painful to me.’ She stood there,
looking at him coldly and scornfully.
But her very iciness only served to increase the warmth of his passion.
‘I cannot!’ he exclaimed. ‘I will not cease! For five years, ever since
I first met you at Rome, I have never ceased to love you. Bid me do
anything in reason; ask me any favour; but to forget you is impossible!’
‘I am sorry for you,’ Enid said gently, touched a little by the ring of
genuine passion in his voice—‘I am sorry; but it cannot be. I do not
break my pledges so lightly, even if I wished to do so.’
‘Which you do not,’ Le Gautier bitterly remarked. ‘I do not care.
I am desperate now. You despise and scorn me; but I will not be
rejected thus. If you will not be my wife for my sake, you must for
your father’s and the honour of your house.’ He stopped abruptly, for
standing in the room was Sir Geoffrey, his face pale, and his whole
aspect downcast and degraded to a pitiable degree.
Enid turned to her father eagerly. ‘Did you hear these words?’ she
asked. ‘Can it be possible that you—that I—that the honour of our house
is in any man’s hands? Can it be your wish, father, that I—I—should
form an alliance with Monsieur le Gautier? Speak, and show him how
mistaken he can be!’
But Sir Geoffrey never spoke. His head sank lower upon his breast.
For the first time, he realised the sacrifice he had imposed upon his
daughter, and so he stood there, an English gentleman no longer, but a
poor enfeebled, shamefaced old man.
A wild feeling of alarm took possession of Enid as she saw this thing.
‘Why do you not speak?’ she demanded. ‘What cause have you to hesitate
in indorsing my words?’
Still the baronet never spoke, never raised his head.
Enid ran swiftly to his side and threw one arm round his shoulder.
She could feel the spasm that struck him as he encountered her touch.
‘Father,’ she asked in a dull even voice, ‘does your silence mean that
he is right?’
‘Yes, my dear child; he is right. There is no alternative.’
There is a providence which helps us in such times as these, a numbness
of the senses that for a time deadens pain. Enid’s voice was very
calm as she turned to Le Gautier, standing there trying to disguise
his triumph. ‘I do not know what all this means,’ she said. ‘I do not
understand whence you derive your power. I cannot think now. For his
sake,’ she continued, pointing to her father, ‘I consent.’
Le Gautier sprang forward; but she repelled him with a glance.
‘Listen to my conditions,’ she continued. ‘I have said I consent; but
I warn you that if there is any loophole for escape from you, I shall
take it. You are going away, you say. Nothing must be done till your
return, and then the contract shall be fulfilled. Now, go.’
When Lucrece entered the room a few moments later, she found her
mistress lying unconscious upon the floor. Looking out of the window,
she saw the slim figure of Le Gautier disappearing in the distance, and
smiled. He was smiling, too, as he walked away. Nothing remained now
but only the final interview with Marie, and to regain possession of
the lost moidore. A few weeks at Warsaw, and then——
CHAPTER XV.
Maxwell had been gone a week now, and no tidings of him had reached
England, save one letter to say he was in Rome. As Le Gautier turned
away from Grosvenor Square, his heart one glow of triumph, he
determined that, come what may, the artist should never see England
again. When he returned from Warsaw, he calculated that, through Marie
St Jean’s assistance, all information concerning the League would be
in the hands of the police, freeing him from any further bondage, and
throwing all the odium and danger on her. Full of these schemes, he
arrived at his lodgings. A telegram was lying on the table. He took it
up mechanically, and tore it open. The contents were terse: ‘Visci died
this morning from heart disease.’ Le Gautier was wild with rage. Here
was a pretty combination, he thought. Nothing now to detain Maxwell
in Rome. The victim had fallen by a higher Hand than that of man, and
Maxwell was free.
As a Head Centre of the Order, Le Gautier wielded much power, and even
now he did not despair, with the command of nearly all the desperadoes
in Rome at his command. He had only to get Maxwell arrested in Rome
on some false charge and carried to the mountains; and there—after a
little delay and a packed meeting of the League—shot. Desperate men
such as Le Gautier, especially with such a prize in their grasp, do
not long hesitate over such a trifling matter as a human life, and he
trusted to his own good luck and native audacity to pull him through.
It was getting dark the same night as he despatched a telegram to Rome,
and then turned in the direction of Fitzroy Square. He was as eager now
to see Isodore as he had been to encounter Enid in the afternoon, and
looked forward not only to a pleasant evening but a remunerative one.
She did not keep him long waiting in the drawing-room ere she sailed in
all smiles and welcome. She was looking radiantly beautiful to-night;
there was a deeper flush on her face, and a glitter in her glorious
eyes not usually seen there—signs of a loving welcome, Le Gautier
imagined in his egotistical way. There was, besides, a warmth in her
manner and a gladness in the pressure of her hand which inspired him,
and sent an electric thrill coursing through his veins.
‘You are looking more transcendently lovely than usual, Marie!’ he
exclaimed with a fervour unusual even to him. ‘Every time I see you,
there is some additional charm in you to note.’
‘It depends upon whether the observing eye is a prejudiced one,’ she
replied with a caressing smile, which brought him at once to her side.
‘You say that now, Hector. How long will you continue to think so?’
‘As long as I have power to think at all—as long as memory serves me. I
shall remember you to the last day of my life.’
‘I believe you will,’ Isodore smiled bewilderingly. ‘And yet, strange
as it may seem, the time will perhaps come when you will wish you had
never seen my face.’
‘You are more than usually enigmatical to-night, Marie. You are a
puzzle to me. I do not even know who you are. Tell me something about
yourself, and why you are living in this solitude here.’
‘No; not to-night; but, as I have often promised you, I will tell you
some time. I will tell you who I am before you go away; and then, when
your curiosity is satisfied, you will leave me.’
‘Never!’ Le Gautier exclaimed passionately. ‘Leave you!—the only woman
I ever saw that I could really love. Leave you, Marie! How can you
entertain the bare idea!’
He would have approached her nearer, but she waved him gently but
firmly aside. The distance she kept him fanned his passion all the
more. ‘Tell me something about yourself,’ she said. ‘That is a topic
which never fails to interest me. How about the League, this Maxwell’s
journey? Has he accomplished his mission yet?’
‘He is not likely to, now. Visci is dead!—Gracious powers, Marie! what
ails you? Are you ill?’
Isodore uttered a sharp exclamation, and then reeled forward in her
chair. Her face was white and drawn, her lips trembled. Gradually her
bosom ceased to heave so painfully, and she turned to Le Gautier with
a white wan smile, though he could see the fan still trembling in her
hands. ‘It is nothing,’ she said with an effort. ‘I am subject to these
attacks of the heart, and any news of sudden death always affects me
so.—Do not look distressed; it is past now.’
‘There is nothing in the name to cause you any distress?’ Le Gautier
asked suspiciously.
‘I have heard the name before, if that is what you mean. Tell me all
you know of this Carlo Visci.’
‘I did not say his name was Carlo,’ Le Gautier observed, somewhat
sharply. ‘I can tell you nothing more. When I reached home this
afternoon, I had a telegram to say he was dead.’
‘And this Maxwell, what of him? I suppose he will return home now?’
‘He has been somewhat dilatory in obeying orders. No; he will not
return. He will be detained at Rome for the present.’
‘Tell me why you hate this Englishman so.’
Le Gautier started. ‘How do you know I hate him?’ he asked. ‘I have
never said so.’
‘Not in so many words; but in gesture and look, when you speak of him,
your actions are eloquent, my friend. He has crossed your path. Ah,
well, I like a good hater. Maxwell will suffer yet.’
‘Yes,’ Le Gautier exclaimed involuntarily, ‘he will.’
Isodore rose and walked to the piano, where she sat for a moment
striking the chords idly. ‘When do you go to Warsaw?’ she asked.
‘I have six days remaining to me.—Marie, the time has come when we must
no longer delay. The pear is ripe now; all my plans are matured. I have
only to hold up my hand and the League will vanish.’
All this time, Isodore played on softly, musingly, the music serving
like the accompaniment of a song to force the speaker’s voice. As he
stood there, and she answered him, she never ceased to play the soft
chords.
‘Then you have everything prepared?’
‘Yes, everything is ready.’ He drew a low seat to her side, and seated
himself there. ‘All the names are made out, the whole plot prepared.’
‘And you propose to hand them over to me. It is a great compliment; and
I suppose I must take them. I would run greater risks than this for
your sake and—my own.’
She took one hand from the ivory keys and held it out to him. Drawing a
packet from his pocket, he gave it to her. She thrust it in her bosom,
and ran her fingers over the keys again.
‘All is there, I suppose,’ she asked, ‘down to the minutest detail,
everything necessary to betray the League and pull it up root and
branch? You have taken good care to shield yourself, I presume?’
‘Of course.—And now, to talk of more pleasant things. You know I am
going away in a few days; and when I return, I shall expect to find
myself perfectly free.’
‘You may depend upon me. I will do all I can for you.’
Le Gautier looked up sharply—the words were coldly, sternly uttered,
but the quiet placid smile never left her face.
‘How strangely you speak! But oh, Marie—my Marie, the only woman I ever
loved, you will stand by me now, and help me, for both our sakes! Look
at me, and say you will do what I ask!’
Isodore looked down, smiling brightly. ‘Yes, I will do what you ask,’
she said. ‘And so you really love me?’
‘Passionately and sincerely, such as I never expected to love woman
yet.’
‘I am glad to hear you say that,’ Isodore replied with a thrill of
exultation in her voice. ‘I have waited and hoped for the time to come;
but never in my wildest dreams did I look for this.’
‘With your nobleness and beauty, how could it be otherwise? I should be
more than a man—or less—if I looked upon you unmoved.’
‘Then, for the first time for years, I am happy.’
Le Gautier started to his feet rapturously. He did not understand her
yet; he thought the soft earnest words all for him. He would have
caught her there and then in his eager arms, but again she repulsed
him. ‘No, no!’ she cried; ‘I have not proved you yet. Let things remain
as they are till you return again to England.’
How strange, Le Gautier thought vaguely, that she should use words
so similar to those of Enid to a precisely similar plea. Despite his
passion, he had not thrown all prudence to the winds.
‘You had better leave me now,’ Isodore continued—‘leave me to think and
dwell over this thing.’
‘But what about my badge of membership? I dare not leave England
without that.’
‘I had almost forgotten it in this interesting conversation. It is not
in my possession; it is in Paris. You have a meeting of the League
before you go for final instructions. Come to me after that, and you
shall have it. I am going to Paris to-morrow, and will bring it with
me.’
‘You are a witch!’ Le Gautier exclaimed with admiration. ‘You seem to
know as much as the mysterious Isodore, that princess who never shows
herself unless danger besets the League. If she is the wonder men who
have seen her say she is, they stand in dire need of her now.’
‘Beware how you talk so lightly of her—she has the gift of fernseed. At
this very moment she may know of your perfidy.’
‘Perfidy is a hard word, my queen, and sounds not prettily.—And now,
good-night. And you will not fail me?’
‘I will _not_ fail you,’ Isodore replied with the stern inflection Le
Gautier had noticed before, and marvelled over. ‘I never fail.’
‘A woman, and never fail!’
‘Not in my promises. If I make a vow or pledge my word, I can wait five
years or ten to fulfil it.—Good-night. And when we meet again, you will
not say I have belied my contract.’
When Valerie entered some minutes later, she found Isodore with
firm-set face and gleaming eyes. ‘My brother is dead,’ she said
quietly. ‘Poor Carlo! And he loved me so at one time. Now, he can never
know.’
‘Dead!’ Valerie exclaimed. ‘You do not mean to say’——
‘That Maxwell killed him?—No. His heart has been failing for years,
long before I left Rome; his life was not worth an hour’s purchase. But
I have no time to mourn over him now.—Let me see if I can do a little
good with my useless occupation. I start for Rome to-morrow.’
Valerie looked at her friend in stupid astonishment.
‘I cannot explain to you now. Maxwell is free to return home. As you
know, it means destruction to Le Gautier’s plans, if he does. I dared
not press him too closely to-night; but Maxwell will be detained in
Rome, in all probability by Paulo Lucci, till some charge can be
trumped up for his destruction. But Lucci and his band dare not cross
me; my power is too great for that. To-morrow, I leave for Rome, and
pray heaven that I may not be too late!’
AMERICAN TRAITS.
It is usual in this country to regard the Americans as a homogeneous
people, and to accept the Yankee as a fair type of the whole nation.
But this is a fallacy. The inhabitants of the South, and more
especially the descendants of the early French and Spanish colonists
to be found in the Gulf States, differ radically in their morals,
manners, and customs from the population of other sections of the
Union. It is not, however, our purpose in this paper to enter into an
extended disquisition upon the characteristics of the people of the
United States, our object being simply to touch briefly upon a few
of their more prominent traits. The Puritan element in the character
of the first settlers of New England has exercised an influence upon
social life there which has not been confined to that limited area,
but has made itself felt, in a more or less marked degree, throughout
the whole of the Northern States. The differences of race and climate
have, however, not only been obstacles to the inhabitants of the South
accepting the Puritan standard of morals, but have also prevented
the development of those traits of character to be found in the
population of other parts of the country, and which are more peculiarly
distinctive of the Americans as a people. We shall therefore limit
ourselves to dealing with those national characteristics which have
come under our observation in the Northern States.
That submission to the will of the majority which is inculcated by
democratic institutions has exercised a marked influence upon the
social no less than upon the political life of the people of the United
States, save in the late Slave States. It has not only had the result
of preventing the development of individuality of character, but
likewise has considerably modified that obstinacy of temper and dogged
tenacity of opinion which are to be found in the Anglo-Saxon race. The
late Lord Beaconsfield on one occasion said in the House of Commons
that a gentleman who had spent several years in America had declared to
him that it was his belief that ‘the citizens of the republic were the
most tractable people in the world, and the readiest open to conviction
by argument.’
In the United States, the absence of that segregation of the various
grades of society which exist in Europe is evinced by the habits and
manners of the masses in that country. If the national independence of
character be occasionally pushed too far, and degenerate into offensive
self-assertion, at least it prevents any approach to servility. No
inequality of position or circumstances will induce a native of any
of the Northern States to submit to being dealt with in the manner
or spoken to in the tone which, in England, the man in broadcloth
too frequently adopts, as a matter of course, towards the man in
fustian. The late Sydney Godolphin Osborne used to relate how, once, a
respectable artisan said to him: ‘I like you, my lord; there is nothing
of the gentleman about you.’ The meaning of the speaker was undoubtedly
that Lord Osborne did not treat him in the patronising manner that
members of the higher class usually address those whom they regard as
their social inferiors. Now, no one perhaps has a keener appreciation
of the advantages of wealth and education than the American; but that
the possessor of them should feel himself justified in using towards
the man who lacks these adventitious gifts the language of a superior
to an inferior, is what he cannot understand, and which he will not
for one moment put up with. An anecdote Thackeray used to relate of an
experience of his when in the United States well illustrates this trait
of the people. While in New York, he expressed to a friend a desire
to see some of the ‘Bowery Bhoys,’ who, he had heard, were a class of
the community peculiar to that city. So one evening he was taken to
the Bowery, and he was shown a ‘Bhoy.’ The young man, the business
of the day being over, had changed his attire. He wore a dress-coat,
black trousers, and a satin waistcoat; whilst a tall hat rested on the
back of his head, which was adorned with long well-greased hair—known
as ‘soap-locks’—a style which the rowdies of that day affected. The
youth was leaning against a lamp-post, smoking an enormous cigar; and
his whole aspect was one of ineffable self-satisfaction. The eminent
novelist, after contemplating him for a few moments with silent
admiration, said to the gentleman by whom he was accompanied: ‘This is
a great and gorgeous creature!’ adding: ‘Can I speak to him without his
taking offence?’
Receiving an answer in the affirmative, Thackeray went up to the
fellow, on the pretext of asking his way, and said: ‘My good man, I
want to go to Broome Street.’
But the unlucky phrase, ‘My good man,’ roused the gall of the
individual spoken to. Instead, therefore, of affording the information
sought, the ‘Bhoy’—a diminutive specimen of humanity, scarcely over
five feet in height—eyeing the tall form of his interlocutor askance,
answered the query in the sense that his permission had been asked
for the speaker to visit the locality in question, and he said,
patronisingly: ‘Well, sonny, yer kin go thar.’
When Thackeray subsequently related the incident, he laughingly
declared that he was so disconcerted by the unexpected response, that
he had not the courage to continue the dialogue.
The question, however, differently put would, in all probability,
have elicited a civil answer from ninety-nine out of a hundred of
the members of the class to which the man belonged. In fact, the
discourtesy, and even rudeness, of which some travellers in the
United States complain have arisen from the fact of their failing to
appreciate the difference existing between the social systems of that
country and their own.
The wide gulf in culture which in England separates the upper and
middle classes from the lower orders, does not exist in America. This
has arisen from various causes. In the first place, the great bulk of
the people of the Union are much better educated than is as yet the
case in this country. The admirable system of common or, as they are
termed, ‘public’ schools which prevails in America affords facilities
for all children obtaining a sound English education without the
payment by their parents of any school fees, and at a trifling cost to
the taxpayer in all sections of the Union, and especially in the West,
where large grants have been made of the State lands in support of the
public schools. In the second place, the social status of the working
classes who are _natives_ of the United States has been raised by the
fact that the Americans are almost exclusively engaged in avocations
demanding intelligence and skilled labour. This has been owing to the
circumstance that upon the coloured population and the Irish and German
immigrants have devolved those coarse and irksome occupations which
have to be followed by a portion of the inhabitants of other countries.
To give one instance of this alone, it may be stated that rarely is a
native American citizen, man or woman, found occupying the position of
a domestic servant in any of the Atlantic cities.
The wages, too, commanded by artisans and mechanics averaging nearly
double those of the same class in other countries, it follows,
necessarily, that vice and crime—the inevitable concomitants of a state
of society in which the condition of the mass of the lower classes is
but one step removed from absolute indigence, as is the case in most
European countries—are not nearly so prevalent in America. In the New
England States, where the foreign population is small, there is not a
country in Europe—possibly with the exception of Holland—where there is
so little crime. Few persons, indeed, are aware how much the foreign
element in the community, in many of the States, contributes to the
statistics of the offences which come under the cognisance of the
criminal tribunals. In the State of New York alone, seventy per cent.
of the infractions of the law are committed by the Irish, whilst the
fair ratio of this class in proportion to the whole population would be
a little less than twenty per cent.
One of the most marked characteristics of the Americans is their rooted
determination to resist any legislation which shall recognise any class
distinctions in the community. Of course, no one contends that the man
of wealth, education, and culture is not the superior, in one sense of
the word, of him who lacks these. The equality insisted upon is simply
this: that no class of society shall make the circumstance of enjoying
these adventitious advantages a ground for the members of it basing a
claim to be a separate caste, possessing rights and privileges—fenced
in by law—denied to the bulk of their countrymen. This sentiment found
expression in the opposition which the proposal met with, a few years
ago, that persons in the Civil Service of the Federal government should
be irremovable, save for misconduct, instead of being turned out of
their places after every change of administration, as had previously
been the case. It was argued that fixity of tenure of office would
have the result of creating a bureaucracy, the members of which would
come in time to regard themselves as a privileged class. That these
apprehensions were unfounded, experience of the practical working of
the new system of government patronage has proved. But the very fact
of the objection having been raised at all shows how sensitive public
opinion was on the subject.
One noticeable feature of American society is that in none of the
Northern States does an officer in the army or navy enjoy the social
status that he commands in all European countries. Holmes, in _The
Autocrat of the Breakfast Table_, has commented upon this trait of his
countrymen. He says: ‘It is curious to observe of how small account
military folk are held among our Northern people. Our young men must
gild their spurs, but they need not win them. The equal division of
property keeps the younger sons of rich people above the necessity of
military service. Thus, the army loses one element of refinement, and
the moneyed upper classes forget what it is to count heroism amongst
their virtues. Still, I don’t believe in any aristocracy without pluck
as its backbone. Ours may show it when the day comes, if ever it does
come.’
The opportunity for young men of the wealthier class proving their
manhood came sooner than Holmes anticipated when he penned the above
remarks; for less than three years later, the civil war broke out,
and then this class were not slack in responding to the call of their
country for their services. Numerous instances occurred of young
men reared in luxury—unable to obtain commissions owing to their
want of military training—shouldering muskets in the ranks of the
Federal armies; and their patriotism received due recognition from
their fellow-citizens. But in time of peace it is the members of the
community who are engaged in those pursuits best remunerated who are
held in the highest estimation—a necessary result of a condition of
society in which wealth is the standard by which social position is
measured and defined. The girl who in the French song exclaims, ‘Oh!
que j’aime les militaires!’ utters a sentiment which as a rule finds no
echo in the hearts of the American fair. An odd illustration of this
fact came under the observation of the writer when he was resident in
New York. A lady—whose brother had been educated at the government
Military Academy at West Point—gave, in all seriousness, the reason
why this gentleman, after graduating, had not accepted a commission in
the army, in these words: ‘He had a higher ambition than to be a mere
soldier, so he has become a dry-goods merchant.’
In New York, and indeed in all the larger Atlantic cities, a class has
sprung up of late years which affects to look down upon the political
and social institutions of their country. Mr Howells, in his novel _A
Woman’s Reason_, speaking of one of the Upper Ten, says: ‘He saw what
a humbug democracy and equality really were. He must have seen that
nobody practically believes in them.’ This sentiment may accurately
reflect the opinions of a limited class, but it is an absolute fallacy
to assert that such views are generally entertained. On the contrary,
they have not to any appreciable extent permeated the people at large,
and there is not the slightest likelihood of their affecting the
national life or changing its standards.
In closing these desultory observations upon some of the characteristic
traits of the Americans, the writer may state that they are based upon
personal observation during a residence of several years in the United
States.
COUSIN GEORGE.
IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. I.
Mr Nicholas Smethby lived, in pretty easy circumstances, at a town some
thirty or forty miles distant from London, from which metropolis he had
retired on leaving off business. His profession had been, nominally,
that of an accountant; but he had seldom troubled himself greatly
about accounts, and had not received many commissions to investigate
them. He had really been a speculator in stocks and shares, in a small
but profitable way; and while he lent but little of his own money
in loans, had made a great deal of profit as agent, or ‘middleman,’
between those who wished to borrow and those who were able to lend. So
Mr Smethby had lived in a circle in which it was necessary for him
to have his wits about him, and in which a somewhat decided hankering
for gain was likely to be developed; yet in this he was perhaps no
worse than most of his neighbours; while, ’cute as he was, he was not
a bad sort of fellow, take him altogether. He was pleasant and social
enough in his family circle, a pretty large one, but reduced, as far as
his own household was concerned, to one daughter, Harriet, the other
members having married. Two of these had settled in the neighbourhood
of Valeborough, the town referred to; while Mr Smethby had long been
a widower. He had no other relations, that he knew of, and, as he was
wont to say when speaking on the subject, he did not want to hear of
any. His cousin, George Styles, was the last he had had much to do
with, and, ah!—Mr Smethby would exclaim at such times as the subject
was brought up—he did not care about any more like him.