meet with all the time you were at sea?"--"Oh! mother," replied John, "I
saw many strange things."--"Tell us all about them," replied his mother,
"for I long to hear your adventures."--"Well, then," said John, "as
we were sailing over the Line, what do you think we saw?"--"I can't
imagine," replied his mother.--"Well, we saw a fish rise out of the sea,
and fly over our ship!" "Oh! John! John! what a liar you are!" said his
mother, shaking her head, and smiling incredulously. "True as death?
said John; "and we saw still more wonderful things than that."--"Let
us hear them," said his mother, shaking her head again; "and tell
the truth, John, if you can."--"Believe it, or believe it not, as you
please," replied her son; "but as we were sailing up the Red Sea, our
captain thought he should like some fish for dinner; so he told us to
throw our nets, and catch some."--"Well," inquired his mother, seeing
that he paused in his story. "Well," rejoined her son, "we did throw
them, and, at the very first haul, we brought up a chariot-wheel,
made all of gold, and inlaid with diamonds!" "Lord bless us!" said his
mother, "and what did the captain say?"--"Why, he said it was one of
the wheels of Pharaoh's chariot, that had lain in the Red Sea ever since
that wicked King was drowned, with all his host, while pursuing the
Israelites."--"Well, well," said his mother, lifting up her hands in
admiration; "now, that's very possible, and I think the captain was a
very sensible man. Tell me such stories as that, and I'll believe you;
but never talk to me of such things as flying fish! No, no, John, such
stories won't go down with me, I can assure you!"
Such old women as the sailor's mother, in the above well-known anecdote,
are by no means rare in the world. Every age and country has produced
them. They have been found in high places, and have sat down among the
learned of the earth. Instances must be familiar to every reader in
which the same person was willing, with greedy credulity, to swallow
the most extravagant fiction, and yet refuse credence to a philosophical
fact. The same Greeks who believed readily that Jupiter wooed Leda in
the form of a swan, denied stoutly that there were any physical causes
for storms and thunder, and treated as impious those who attempted to
account for them on true philosophical principles.
The reasons that thus lead mankind to believe the marvellously false,
and to disbelieve the marvellously true, may be easily gathered. Of
all the offspring of Time, Error is the most ancient, and is so old and
familiar an acquaintance, that Truth, when discovered, comes upon most
of us like an intruder, and meets the intruder's welcome. We all pay an
involuntary homage to antiquity--a "blind homage," as Bacon calls it in
his "Novum Organum," which tends greatly to the obstruction of truth.
To the great majority of mortal eyes, Time sanctifies everything that
he does not destroy. The mere fact of anything being spared by the great
foe makes it a favourite with us, who are sure to fall his victims. To
call a prejudice "time-hallowed," is to open a way for it into hearts
where it never before penetrated. Some peculiar custom may disgrace the
people amongst whom it flourishes; yet men of a little wisdom refuse to
aid in its extirpation, merely because it is old. Thus it is with human
belief, and thus it is we bring shame upon our own intellect.
To this cause may be added another, also mentioned by Lord Bacon--a
misdirected zeal in matters of religion, which induces so many to decry
a newly-discovered truth, because the Divine records contain no allusion
to it, or because, at first sight, it appears to militate, not against
religion, but against some obscure passage which has never been fairly
interpreted. The old woman in the story could not believe that there was
such a creature as a flying-fish, because her Bible did not tell her
so, but she believed that her son had drawn up the golden and bejewelled
wheel from the Red Sea, because her Bible informed her that Pharaoh was
drowned there.
Upon a similar principle the monks of the inquisition believed that the
devil appeared visibly among men, that St. Anthony pulled his nose with
a pair of red-hot pincers, and that the relics of the saints worked
miracles; yet they would not believe Galileo, when he proved that the
earth turned round the sun.
Keppler, when he asserted the same fact, could gain no bread, and little
credence; but when he pretended to tell fortunes and cast nativities,
the whole town flocked to him, and paid him enormous fees for his
falsehood.
When Roger Bacon invented the telescope and the magic-lantern, no one
believed that the unaided ingenuity of man could have done it; but when
some wiseacres asserted that the devil had appeared to him, and given
him the knowledge which he turned to such account, no one was bold
enough to assert that it was improbable. His hint that saltpetre,
sulphur, and charcoal, mixed in certain proportions, would produce
effects similar to thunder and lightning, was disregarded or
disbelieved; but the legend of the brazen head which delivered oracles,
was credited for many ages.
[Godwin, in his "Lives of the Necromancers," gives the following version
of this legend. Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay entertained the project of
enclosing England with a wall, so as to render it inaccessible to any
invader. They accordingly raised the devil, as the person best able to
inform them how this was to be done. The devil advised them to make a
brazen head, with all the internal structure and organs of a human head.
The construction would cost them much time, and they must wait with
patience till the faculty of speech descended upon it. Finally, however,
it would become an oracle, and, if the question were propounded to it,
would teach them the solution of their problem. The friars spent seven
years in bringing the subject to perfection, and waited day after day
in expectation that it would utter articulate sounds. At length nature
became exhausted in them, and they lay down to sleep, having first given
it strictly in charge to a servant of theirs, clownish in nature, but of
strict fidelity, that he should awaken them the moment the image began
to speak. That period arrived. The head uttered sounds, but such as
the clown judged unworthy of notice. "Time is!" it said. No notice was
taken, and a long pause ensued. "Time was!"--a similar pause, and
no notice. "Time is passed!" The moment these words were uttered, a
tremendous storm ensued, with thunder and lightning, and the head was
shivered into a thousand pieces. Thus the experiment of Friar Bacon and
Friar Bungay came to nothing.]
Solomon De Cans, who, in the time of Cardinal Richelieu, conceived the
idea of a steam-engine, was shut up in the Bastille as a madman, because
the idea of such an extraordinary instrument was too preposterous for
the wise age that believed in all the absurdities of witchcraft.
When Harvey first proved the circulation of the blood, every tongue was
let loose against him. The thing was too obviously an imposition, and
an attempt to deceive that public who believed that a king's touch had
power to cure the scrofula. That a dead criminal's hand, rubbed against
a wen, would cure it, was reasonable enough; but that the blood flowed
through the veins was beyond all probability.
In our own day, a similar fate awaited the beneficent discovery of Dr.
Jenner. That vaccination could abate the virulence of, or preserve from,
the smallpox, was quite incredible; none but a cheat and a quack could
assert it: but that the introduction of the vaccine matter into the
human frame could endow men with the qualities of a cow, was quite
probable. Many of the poorer people actually dreaded that their children
would grow hairy and horned as cattle, if they suffered them to be
vaccinated.
The Jesuit, Father Labat, the shrewd and learned traveller in South
America, relates an experiment which he made upon the credulity of some
native Peruvians. Holding a powerful lens in his hand, and concentrating
the rays of the sun upon the naked arm of an admiring savage, he soon
made him roar with pain. All the tribe looked on, first with wonder, and
then with indignation and wonder both combined. In vain the philosopher
attempted to explain the cause of the phenomenon--in vain he offered to
convince them that there was nothing devilish in the experiment--he was
thought to be in league with the infernal gods to draw down the fire
from Heaven, and was looked upon, himself, as an awful and supernatural
being. Many attempts were made to gain possession of the lens, with the
view of destroying it, and thereby robbing the Western stranger of the
means of bringing upon them the vengeance of his deities.
Very similar was the conduct of that inquiring Brahmin, which is
related by Forbes in his Oriental Memoirs. The Brahmin had a mind
better cultivated than his fellows; he was smitten with a love for the
knowledge of Europe--read English books--pored over the pages of the
Encyclopedia, and profited by various philosophical instruments; but on
religious questions the Brahmin was firm to the faith of his caste and
the doctrine of the Metempsychosis. Lest he might sacrilegiously devour
his progenitors, he abstained from all animal food; and thinking that he
ate nothing which enjoyed life, he supported himself, like his brethren,
upon fruits and vegetables. All the knowledge that did not run counter
to this belief, he sought after with avidity, and bade fair to become
the wisest of his race. In an evil hour, his English friend and
instructor exhibited a very powerful solar microscope, by means of
which he showed him that every drop of water that he drank teemed
with life--that every fruit was like a world, covered with innumerable
animalculae, each of which was fitted by its organization for the sphere
in which it moved, and had its wants, and the capability of supplying
them as completely as visible animals millions of times its bulk. The
English philosopher expected that his Hindoo friend would be enraptured
at the vast field of knowledge thus suddenly opened out to him, but
he was deceived. The Brahmin from that time became an altered
man--thoughtful, gloomy, reserved, and discontented. He applied
repeatedly to his friend that he would make him a present of the
microscope; but as it was the only one of its kind in India, and the
owner set a value upon it for other reasons, he constantly refused the
request, but offered him the loan of it for any period he might require.
But nothing short of an unconditional gift of the instrument would
satisfy the Brahmin, who became at last so importunate that the patience
of the Englishman was exhausted, and he gave it him. A gleam of joy
shot across the care-worn features of the Hindoo as he clutched it, and
bounding with an exulting leap into the garden, he seized a large stone,
and dashed the instrument into a thousand pieces. When called upon to
explain his extraordinary conduct, he said to his friend, "Oh that I had
remained in that happy state of ignorance wherein you first found me!
Yet will I confess that, as my knowledge increased, so did my pleasure,
until I beheld the last wonders of the microscope; from that moment
I have been tormented by doubt and perplexed by mystery: my mind,
overwhelmed by chaotic confusion, knows not where to rest, nor how to
extricate itself from such a maze. I am miserable, and must continue
to be so, until I enter on another stage of existence. I am a solitary
individual among fifty millions of people, all educated in the same
belief with myself--all happy in their ignorance! So may they ever
remain! I shall keep the secret within my own bosom, where it will
corrode my peace and break my rest. But I shall have some satisfaction
in knowing that I alone feel those pangs which, had I not destroyed
the instrument, might have been extensively communicated, and rendered
thousands miserable! Forgive me, my valuable friend! and oh, convey no
more implements of knowledge and destruction!"
Many a learned man may smile at the ignorance of the Peruvian and
the Hindoo, unconscious that he himself is just as ignorant and as
prejudiced. Who does not remember the outcry against the science of
geology, which has hardly yet subsided? Its professors were impiously
and absurdly accused of designing to "hurl the Creator from his throne."
They were charged with sapping the foundations of religion, and of
propping atheism by the aid of a pretended science.
The very same principle which leads to the rejection of the true, leads
to the encouragement of the false. Thus we may account for the success
which has attended great impostors, at times when the truth, though
not half so wondrous as their impositions, has been disregarded as
extravagant and preposterous. The man who wishes to cheat the people,
must needs found his operations upon some prejudice or belief that
already exists. Thus the philosophic pretenders who told fortunes by
the stars cured all diseases by one nostrum, and preserved from evil by
charms and amulets, ran with the current of popular belief. Errors
that were consecrated by time and long familiarity, they heightened and
embellished, and succeeded to their hearts' content; but the preacher of
truth had a foundation to make as well as a superstructure, a difficulty
which did not exist for the preacher of error. Columbus preached a new
world, but was met with distrust and incredulity; had he preached with
as much zeal and earnestness the discovery of some valley in the old
one, where diamonds hung upon the trees, or a herb grew that cured all
the ills incidental to humanity, he would have found a warm and hearty
welcome--might have sold dried cabbage leaves for his wonderful herb,
and made his fortune.
In fact, it will be found in the history of every generation and race of
men, that whenever a choice of belief between the "Wondrously False"
and the "Wondrously True" is given to ignorance or prejudice, that their
choice will be fixed upon the first, for the reason that it is most
akin to their own nature. The great majority of mankind, and even of
the wisest among us, are still in the condition of the sailor's
mother--believing and disbelieving on the same grounds that she
did--protesting against the flying fish, but cherishing the golden
wheels. Thousands there are amongst us, who, rather than pin their faith
in the one fish, would believe not only in the wheel of gold, but the
chariot--not only in the chariot, but in the horses and the driver.
POPULAR FOLLIES IN GREAT CITIES
La faridondaine--la faridondon,
Vive la faridondaine!
BERANGER.
The popular humours of a great city are a never-failing source of
amusement to the man whose sympathies are hospitable enough to embrace
all his kind, and who, refined though he may be himself, will not sneer
at the humble wit or grotesque peculiarities of the boozing mechanic,
the squalid beggar, the vicious urchin, and all the motley group of
the idle, the reckless, and the imitative that swarm in the alleys and
broadways of a metropolis. He who walks through a great city to find
subjects for weeping, may, God knows, find plenty at every corner to
wring his heart; but let such a man walk on his course, and enjoy his
grief alone--we are not of those who would accompany him. The miseries
of us poor earth-dwellers gain no alleviation from the sympathy of
those who merely hunt them out to be pathetic over them. The weeping
philosopher too often impairs his eyesight by his woe, and becomes
unable from his tears to see the remedies for the evils which he
deplores. Thus it will often be found that the man of no tears is the
truest philanthropist, as he is the best physician who wears a cheerful
face, even in the worst of cases.
So many pens have been employed to point out the miseries, and so
many to condemn the crimes and vices, and more serious follies of the
multitude, that our's shall not increase the number, at least in this
chapter. Our present task shall be less ungracious, and wandering
through the busy haunts of great cities, we shall seek only for
amusement, and note as we pass a few of the harmless follies and
whimsies of the poor.
And, first of all, walk where we will, we cannot help hearing from every
side a phrase repeated with delight, and received with laughter, by
men with hard hands and dirty faces--by saucy butcher lads and
errand-boys--by loose women--by hackney coachmen, cabriolet drivers, and
idle fellows who loiter at the corners of streets. Not one utters this
phrase without producing a laugh from all within hearing. It seems
applicable to every circumstance, and is the universal answer to every
question; in short, it is the favourite slang phrase of the day, a
phrase that, while its brief season of popularity lasts, throws a dash
of fun and frolicsomeness over the existence of squalid poverty and
ill-requited labour, and gives them reason to laugh as well as their
more fortunate fellows in a higher stage of society.
London is peculiarly fertile in this sort of phrases, which spring
up suddenly, no one knows exactly in what spot, and pervade the
whole population in a few hours, no one knows how. Many years ago the
favourite phrase (for, though but a monosyllable, it was a phrase in
itself) was Quoz. This odd word took the fancy of the multitude in
an extraordinary degree, and very soon acquired an almost boundless
meaning. When vulgar wit wished to mark its incredulity and raise a
laugh at the same time, there was no resource so sure as this popular
piece of slang. When a man was asked a favour which he did not choose to
grant, he marked his sense of the suitor's unparalleled presumption by
exclaiming Quoz! When a mischievous urchin wished to annoy a passenger,
and create mirth for his chums, he looked him in the face, and cried out
Quoz! and the exclamation never failed in its object. When a disputant
was desirous of throwing a doubt upon the veracity of his opponent, and
getting summarily rid of an argument which he could not overturn,
he uttered the word Quoz, with a contemptuous curl of his lip and an
impatient shrug of his shoulders. The universal monosyllable conveyed
all his meaning, and not only told his opponent that he lied, but that
he erred egregiously if he thought that any one was such a nincompoop as
to believe him. Every alehouse resounded with Quoz; every street corner
was noisy with it, and every wall for miles around was chalked with it.
But, like all other earthly things, Quoz had its season, and passed away
as suddenly as it arose, never again to be the pet and the idol of the
populace. A new claimant drove it from its place, and held undisputed
sway till, in its turn, it was hurled from its pre-eminence, and a
successor appointed in its stead.
"What a shocking bad hat!" was the phrase that was next in vogue. No
sooner had it become universal, than thousands of idle but sharp eyes
were on the watch for the passenger whose hat showed any signs, however
slight, of ancient service. Immediately the cry arose, and, like the
what-whoop of the Indians, was repeated by a hundred discordant throats.
He was a wise man who, finding himself under these circumstances "the
observed of all observers," bore his honours meekly. He who showed
symptoms of ill-feeling at the imputations cast upon his hat, only
brought upon himself redoubled notice. The mob soon perceive whether a
man is irritable, and, if of their own class, they love to make sport of
him. When such a man, and with such a hat, passed in those days through
a crowded neighbourhood, he might think himself fortunate if his
annoyances were confined to the shouts and cries of the populace. The
obnoxious hat was often snatched from his head, and thrown into the
gutter by some practical joker, and then raised, covered with mud, upon
the end of a stick, for the admiration of the spectators, who held their
sides with laughter, and exclaimed in the pauses of their mirth, "Oh!
what a shocking bad hat!... What a shocking bad hat!" Many a nervous,
poor man, whose purse could but ill spare the outlay, doubtless
purchased a new hat before the time, in order to avoid exposure in this
manner.
The origin of this singular saying, which made fun for the metropolis
for months, is not involved in the same obscurity as that which shrouds
the origin of Quoz and some others. There had been a hotly-contested
election for the borough of Southwark, and one of the candidates was an
eminent hatter. This gentleman, in canvassing the electors, adopted
a somewhat professional mode of conciliating their good-will, and
of bribing them without letting them perceive that they were bribed.
Whenever he called upon or met a voter whose hat was not of the best
material, or, being so, had seen its best days, he invariably said,
"What a shocking bad hat you have got; call at my warehouse, and you
shall have a new one!" Upon the day of election this circumstance was
remembered, and his opponents made the most of it, by inciting the crowd
to keep up an incessant cry of "What a shocking bad hat!" all the time
the honourable candidate was addressing them. From Southwark the phrase
spread over all London, and reigned, for a time, the supreme slang of
the season.
Hookey Walker, derived from the chorus of a popular ballad, was also
high in favour at one time, and served, like its predecessor, Quoz, to
answer all questions. In the course of time the latter word alone became
the favourite, and was uttered with a peculiar drawl upon the first
syllable, and a sharp turn upon the last. If a lively servant girl was
importuned for a kiss by a fellow she did not care about, she cocked her
little nose, and cried "Walker!" If a dustman asked his friend for the
loan of a shilling, and his friend was either unable or unwilling to
accommodate him, the probable answer he would receive was "Walker!" If
a drunken man was reeling along the streets, and a boy pulled his
coat-tails, or a man knocked his hat over his eyes to make fun of him,
the joke was always accompanied by the same exclamation. This lasted for
two or three months, and "Walker!" walked off the stage, never more to
be revived for the entertainment of that or any future generation.
The next phrase was a most preposterous one. Who invented it, how it
arose, or where it was first heard, are alike unknown. Nothing about it
is certain, but that for months it was the slang par excellence of the
Londoners, and afforded them a vast gratification. "There he goes with
his eye out!" or "There she goes with her eye out!" as the sex of the
party alluded to might be, was in the mouth of everybody who knew the
town. The sober part of the community were as much puzzled by this
unaccountable saying as the vulgar were delighted with it. The wise
thought it very foolish, but the many thought it very funny, and the
idle amused themselves by chalking it upon walls, or scribbling it upon
monuments. But, "all that's bright must fade," even in slang. The people
grew tired of their hobby, and "There he goes with his eye out!" was
heard no more in its accustomed haunts.