Bacon asked. "That surprises me; for as far back as the second half
of the nineteenth century it was used to illuminate both here and
in Paris some of the public edifices. Here it has been generally
introduced for some time past, ever since the streets have been
covered with our endless glass."
"But then that light is too brilliant and too white; that can't
be gas-light."
"Nor is it. Gas is now only burnt in those isolated districts where
the houses stand far apart from each other, but the central part
of the city is chiefly lighted up by the burning of magnesium, and
sometimes also by electric light, or any of the numerous lights with
which we are now acquainted. The apparatus, consisting of mirrors
and lenses, to collect the light and to make the beams parallel,
i.e. equal to sunlight, is the same for all those different kinds of
public illumination."
"Rather expensive, though," was my sudden reply.
"Not as expensive as you think," continued Bacon; "especially not
in the case of magnesium, for there is an abundance of magnesium ore
in the form of dolemite, etc., from which we get the metal in a way
as inexpensive as that followed in the preparation of aluminium. To
this must be added that the process of burning this metal yields a
hard substance, which, by a suitable arrangement of the apparatus,
can be collected again and re-reduced to magnesium. Speaking
theoretically, a certain quantity of magnesium is a source of light
quite as inexhaustible as the oil-jar of the widow of Sarepta of
which we read in the Book of Kings."
The more I looked about, the more I arrived at the humiliating
conclusion that we of the boasting nineteenth century--of which
I still felt to be a child--were really very much benighted, and I
could almost forgive Miss Phantasia for speaking of the semi-barbarous
condition of society in my time.
It seemed as if Bacon read my thoughts by my features; for he
continued as follows: "I see that you are desirous of increasing
your acquaintance with the present state of affairs. Well, then, if
you have been able to put up with our company to-day, you had better
join us to-morrow, in our contemplated aërial voyage."
How I thrilled with inward delight at the prospect of such a tour! Of
course I accepted the kind offer without hesitation, although I could
not help raising a slight point of doubt with regard to the state of
the weather.
"Don't you trouble your mind about that," said my amiable guide;
"early this morning I was at the meteorological institute, and I
have ascertained that the weather will be fine for a fortnight at all
events. The reports from the different meteorological stations are all
equally propitious. The sky will be bright, and the wind favourable;
I should be surprised if the aëronaut would have any occasion to use
the energeiathecs, which, however, will accompany us as preventatives."
We parted company, but not until I had made a note of the spot where it
was intended we should meet on the following morning. I hailed one of
the numerous cabs on the stand, and ordered the driver to take me to my
hotel. As I drove on, I was agreeably surprised not to hear anything
of that rattling noise over the pavement, which is alike obnoxious
to the person inside the vehicle, to all the passers-by, and to the
inmates of houses situated in public thoroughfares. I heard nothing,
indeed, but the melodious tinkling of four little bells tied round
the horse's neck, and forming a musical chord. I am sorry to say that
I was not fortunate enough to discover whether this "gentle process"
was attributable to the nature of the pavement, or to certain hoops
(not iron ones) round the wheels. Probably it was the one as much as
the other.
The Telephon.
Arrived at my hotel, I was at once struck with its extreme quietness,
more so as the apartments were all but taken by some thousands of
travellers. The cause of this, however, I soon discovered on entering
the elegant and spacious conversation room. Methought I heard a kind
of music, feeble, yet melodious in the extreme. The sound approached
as near as possible that of the human voice; but still the quality
was altogether different. Besides, no artist, male or female, was to
be seen in the room. The only clue that I could get to the mystery
was through a box of small dimensions; this instrument was placed
on a table right in the centre of the room, and thence the sound
appeared to proceed. Taking the affair to be an ordinary musical-box,
worked in the usual way, I gazed with no little contempt and surprise
upon the crowd of serious-looking, enthusiastic men and women who had
clustered round the table. As soon as the music ceased, I ventured to
approach the spectators, at the same time asking one among the crowd
for some information with regard to the musical instrument in which
they all seemed to be so much interested.
Oh the number of pairs of eyes that stared at me, full of amazement,
if not of indignation! At last one of the enthusiasts condescended to
break the silence, "What, sir, a musical instrument! where did you
ever know such tones to proceed from a musical instrument? Surely,
sir, as a gentleman you must have heard of the telephon?"
I now remembered that a machine bearing that name, and answering that
description, had been invented as far back as 1861 by a certain Reis;
also that it was based upon the following law, as discovered and laid
down by Page; namely, that when an electric current passes through
a wire coiled round an iron bar, and the current is continually
interrupted, there arises a sound or a tone, the height or depth
of which is entirely dependent on the number of vibrations produced
by the interruptions of the current, according to their succeeding
each other with more or less velocity. This recurring to my mind, I
now replied that the telephon was indeed not quite unfamiliar to me,
in proof of which I went back to the history of its first invention; I
also gave a description of Reis' little instrument, by which the sound
of the human voice could be transmitted through very great distances;
and finally, I added my surmise or natural conviction that such an
instrument must have been considerably improved upon in the course
of more than two centuries. [10] I was happy to notice the excellent
impression visibly produced by my words; there now arose a tolerably
general murmur of "whoever now would have taken the telephon to be
so old an affair?" As for me, I was complimented on my antiquarian
knowledge, and, thanks to the amiable disposition of the visitors
towards me, I was not long in discovering what had been going on. That
which every one now was so anxious to explain to me amounted, in a few
words, to this. The North-American papers had of late been indulging
in the most extravagant terms of praise with regard to a lady singer
who, according to the Yankee critics, was possessed of a voice such
as no mortal had ever yet heard of, surpassing in compass and quality
everything that could be imagined; a talent whereby all the artists
of former ages--if history could be relied on--ladies like Catalani,
Malibran, Henriette Sonntag, Jenny Lind, or the Pattis, were really
no more in comparison than a cricket to a nightingale.
Of course, as might be imagined, these reports from across the Atlantic
had created an immense stir in the musical world of Londinia. From
all directions the managers of concerts and operas had been induced
to negotiate with this marvellous talent, so that it should no longer
be hidden from the musical inhabitants of Londinia. But, then, all
these reports emanated from the States, the fons et origo of humbug;
and, probably taught by experience, the managers had all clubbed
together, and, at their joint expense, despatched a telegram to the
gifted artist, requesting her to allow her marvellous power to be
tested by means of the telephon. That would, at all events, enable
them to judge of the compass and quality of her voice. To this the
lady had consented, and thereupon the managers had hired one of the
transatlantic telegraph cables, on which the experiment had been made.
As a clear indication of the compass of the voice, I was shown
sundry slips of black paper on which could be seen numerous curved
white lines; the latter had been traced upon the paper by the
phonautographer standing behind the telephon, and were supposed
to mark the musical scales within compass of the lady's voice. An
impression of these slips of paper was to appear, on the following
morning, in the musical journal, Panharmonia, in order that "the
eyes of the inhabitants of Londinia might anticipate the glorious
treat in store for the musical ears of the great metropolis." "For,"
added the editor of the Panharmonia, "all connoisseurs in music know
the meaning of these little waves. Won't they be astonished when they
see a tone like this!" Saying this, he pointed with his finger to
the very extreme line where the little curves met as near as possible.
Of course I was longing to examine the construction of the telephon. I
was just about to ask one of the gentlemen present to give me some
explanation on the subject, when there was a general demand for
silence. The American lady was to afford us another treat. This time
she sang an air from Mozart's Don Giovanni, and I was delighted to
find that this masterpiece of the great maestro was not forgotten
even three centuries after the composer's death.
At the close of her examination, the lady was unanimously declared
worthy to appear before the critical public of Londinia, and she
received what we might term a musical ovation by means of another
telephon working in opposite direction. And here the matter was
allowed to rest, it being left to the different managers to endeavour
to engage her services. All and each of these gentlemen looked as if
they were in possession of some secret or other wherewith to outvie
their competitors. They parted, however, on the best of terms, and
I retired to my room.
The following morning I was down very early, and, having enjoyed
my breakfast, I walked slowly towards the place where I expected
to meet my companions of the preceding day. No guide was required
in this apparently immense labyrinth, for nothing indeed was easier
than to find one's way. All the streets, squares, etc., were namely
marked, not by names as formerly, but by a particular set of figures,
which, with the assistance of a map, directed me to any given spot;
all that was required to know was two figures, indicating the point
of destination pretty much as with the latitude and longitude at sea.
I was still at a considerable distance away from it when I caught
sight of a vast building, on which I read an inscription in gigantic
characters:
General Balloon Company.
I had expected to find our starting-point in some open space, or at
least in one of the squares, and was therefore not a little surprised
to see that this building was situated in one of the most densely
populated neighbourhoods. Perhaps, thought I, this is merely the
office where the tickets have to be taken. But when I got nearer,
I perceived that the building differed essentially from other houses
in this respect, that it had an entirely flat roof, which contained
a kind of conveyance, not unlike a ship, but the precise outline of
which I could not discover, owing to the glass vault over the street.
Bacon and Miss Phantasia were already on the spot, and after the
customary morning greetings we entered to secure our seats. The first
thing now was to be weighed; for the price of the passage naturally
depended on the volume of our bodily organization. It need not be
said that the young lady came off cheapest. We then passed through a
door into a small parlour, or waiting-room, where we found a few more
passengers. In the centre of the room I noticed a staircase, and up at
the ceiling a kind of trap. Against the walls were several cushioned
seats, as in a first-class railway carriage. After a short time the
whole apartment seemed to move. I heard a gentle rustling along the
walls, as if something were sliding down the paper-hangings. But even
before I had time to think on the subject there was a lowering of
the trap in the ceiling, and a cheerful greeting of "Welcome a-high,
ladies and gentlemen!"
We got upstairs through the aperture, and found ourselves on the
flat roof of the building, but precisely underneath the air-ship;
we entered, however, the open trap constructed in the latter, for we
soon found out that the weather was bitterly cold. This, unfortunately,
prevented me from becoming more intimately acquainted with the outward
appearance of the balloon, and with its locomotive powers. On the other
hand, ample opportunity was afforded us for examining its internal
arrangements. As soon as we came into what I can but term the "hold"
of the vessel, Bacon called my attention to a long narrow cylinder
which ran across the whole length of the ship. "Therein lies," said he,
"the whole secret of aëronautics. In order that I may explain this
to you, I must remind you of this, that it was formerly impossible
to steer any balloon except before the wind. An ordinary vessel,
when the keel cuts through the water, can sail half or quarter-wind,
because she moves in the two intermediate matters of air and water,
the latter offering a greater resistance than the former, and thereby
supporting the vessel in her movements; to which must be added that
the resistance operates in a definite direction, namely, in that of
the motion of the ship, so that by supplying the craft with a rudder
or helm one is able to turn her at pleasure to the right or the left.
"But," continued Bacon, "this becomes quite a different matter when
a vessel is merely surrounded by air. Driven onward by the wind,
which means carried along by the atmospheric current, she meets with
no resistance, and therefore lacks every point of support whereby
to turn herself. She will always offer the largest of her sides to
the wind, which falls upon it at right angles, just the same as on
a light piece of paper or cloth whirled round by the wind.
"In order, then, to render such balloon voyages possible at all, it
was necessary, in the first place, to afford the machine its required
support, its resistance, and this was accomplished in the following
manner: The long cylinder which runs along the whole of the ship is
a bar of malleable iron, surrounded by a spiral copper wire which has
been coated with an insulating substance. If, now, a voltaic current
is made to pass along that wire, the bar becomes a most powerful
electro-magnet, which, when free in its movements, like the needle
of a compass, adopts a direction from south to north, with a slight
easterly deviation, and also a certain inclination. When driven out
of its natural direction by another power, the needle will endeavour
to resume its original inclination. As, now, the magnet and the vessel
are so joined together as virtually to form but one body, the balloon,
or rather the ship, is in itself a gigantic compass. The inclination
is removed just the same as with the needle of the compass. One has
merely to alter the centre of gravity, and this can be done in several
ways. Thus, all that remains is the direction in the magnetic meridian.
"If, now, the wind blows in the same direction that one wishes to
travel, then the apparatus is not worked; that is to say, no current
is passed through the wire. Should the wind, however, be unpropitious,
then the ship is at once changed into a magnet. For example, suppose
the wind to be due west, and the sails to be placed at right angles
with the wind, then the vessel will be driven neither east nor
northward, but towards a point intermediate; just as a vessel at
sea when pushed north by the current of the water, and westward by
the wind, does not follow either of these directions exclusively,
but an intermediate one. It is not difficult, therefore, to perceive
that the aëronaut, by the proper joint working of his sails and of
the electro-magnetic apparatus, is enabled to turn his ship into any
direction he chooses. Nor is that all. The apparatus also serves as a
helm or rudder; for as soon as I press this knob the current is at once
reversed; the north pole becomes the south pole, and vice versâ. It
stands to reason that the vessel must turn under the circumstances,
and, of course, according to pleasure; for at any moment the helmsman
may interrupt the current, whereby the ship ceases to be a magnet.
"Now, as indeed at sea, the case may be that the wind is too strong,
and the power of the magnet insufficient to properly govern the
air-ship. In that case we have recourse to those energeiathecs of
which I spoke yesterday; these tend to set in circular motion the
four-winged screws which you see here and there peeping out of the
sides, and this is always done as near as possible at right angles
with the direction in which the vessel has a tendency to deviate.
"Thus it is usually possible to keep the ship in the direction
required; but should the aëronaut fail in his attempt to do so, even
then he has another resource left him which the seaman lacks. He rises
or descends with his air-ship in search of a more favourable wind;
nor does he do so at hap-hazard, for the meteorological institute
has long since issued charts upon which are marked the directions
of all the air-currents that will probably be found at any given
altitude for any given time. These charts are arranged in the same
manner as those formerly published by the institute, which, however,
merely showed the probable direction of the wind in the immediate
vicinity of the earth's surface.
"With regard to the modes of ascent and descent, they differ somewhat
according to the nature of the various apparatuses, and for these,
to explain them to you in detail--by which alone you would understand
the differences--we should have to go on deck, and it is so bitterly
cold there, that we are better where we are. Suffice it to say that the
old clumsy process of throwing out ballast for the purpose of rising
has long been dispensed with, since it was found that the measure
was merely a partial or momentary one, and slightly unacceptable
to the denizens of the earth below. The most appropriate method we
have learned from nature; it consists, namely, of an imitation of the
operation of the swim-bladder in fishes. The latter accomplish their
ascent and descent in the water by a greater or lesser compression
of that bladder, or of the air contained in it; some of them having
even special compression apparatuses for that object. From this you
will easily conclude the application of the aquatic locomotion to
that of the navigation in the air."
This, I must confess, I did not quite see; but many other points in
Bacon's explanation remained to be cleared up. Not a few questions
were on the tip of my tongue, but I asked no more. I felt that I was a
child of the nineteenth century, too little au courant of the science
of modern times to understand all that had been accomplished during
the last two hundred years; moreover, I feared that by putting more
silly questions I should lower myself in the estimation of my friend.
Travelling Dialect.
Miss Phantasia was of too mercurial a temperament to listen to
lengthy descriptions; she had already ascended the steps that led
to the saloon, and we now followed her. The compartment looked neat
enough, though not comfortable. Everything pointed to the endeavours
of rendering all the furniture as light as possible, and this, of
course, applied to the whole affair whenever it did not interfere with
the necessary solidity. Bamboo canes cut thin and twisted together
appeared to be the chief material, and of the metals aluminium was
the only one to be seen.
On our entering the waiting-room, I had already noticed that all the
passengers conversed with one another in the same tongue, in a dialect
of which I certainly recognised a word or two, but yet a foreign idiom
to me. On asking my companion what countrymen those gentlemen were,
I received the following reply:
"They belong to all sorts of nations. That burly-looking gentleman
yonder is a Russian; that ridiculous little man playing with his
moustache and ogling all the ladies can only be a Frenchman; the
other trunculant figure, who has paid the highest fare, is one of
your own countrymen--a Dutchman; those two blue-eyed, flaxen-haired
youngsters are Germans, and all the rest are English."
"But how, then, is it that they all speak the same language?"
"They speak the travelling dialect. In our modern days, when many
people spend the greater portion of their time in travelling, and
all nationalities continually mingle together, such an idiom was
created almost spontaneously. True, it is as yet but a language in
its infancy; but it will probably, at no great distance of time,
become the universal tongue."
I listened as attentively as I dared and could, and I observed very
soon that the so-called travelling dialect was a mixture of various
tongues, English though preponderating; and this I ascribed to the fact
of the majority of the travelling public being generally Englishmen.
No more War!
As I looked about me, it so happened that my eye fell upon some wide
tubes peeping out from the sides and the hold of the vessel. I first
thought that these were a new kind of cannon; so I asked whether we
were on board of a man-of-war? Miss Phantasia smiled, but her smile
was a bitter one immediately followed by a sigh. "War!" she echoed,
"those chivalrous times we only know from history; our modern men
are manufacturers, merchants, engineers, scholars, legislators,
and so forth; but as for soldiers--well, you may see them on the
stage occasionally, but our numerous force of constables is the only
approach to soldiery we have."
"Is it possible?" cried I; "no more war, and no more standing
armies! At last then the idea has triumphed of the peace-men, Cobden,
Bright, and their followers; at last the present generation has
acknowledged that war was an eternal disgrace to humanity, reducing
reasoning men to the level of the unreasoning brute, and causing
them to destroy each other's lives in the blindest fury, instead,
alas! of dwelling together on this beautiful earth in unity, peace,
and concord, for the promotion of mutual happiness!"
"I doubt very much indeed," muttered Bacon in his teeth, "whether
any such considerations as those have brought about the reign of
peace. Mankind, my dear sir, is still swayed by passion; quite as much,
I venture to say, as in bygone days. Men still deserve the epithet
once served upon them by a foreign poet: 'angel half, half brute!' and
so it will be in the future, although it can never be denied that
society, as a whole, progresses in a moral sense. But for this, that
'circumstances alter cases,' I am afraid there would be war still. Only
circumstances are altered, and war has become an impossibility.
"In the first place, our present condition of peace has been chiefly
brought about by the universal state-bankruptcy at the close of the
nineteenth century, when the combined debts of the would-be civilised
nations (in consequence of the immense expense involved in the large
standing armies) had become to surpass the joint national capitals.
"In the second place, the present state of affairs is due to the
marvellous improvements lately made in the weapons of attack and
defence.
"When, in the last war, now about a century ago, the navies of England,
France, Russia, and America had mutually destroyed one another; when,
through a bombardment from both sides of the channel, the capitals
of England and France had simultaneously been set on fire; when the
losses on both sides had become incalculable, not to say irreparable,
then, but not until then, people began to ask themselves whether even
a victory was worth such enormous sacrifices. And it finally dawned in
the public mind that in all wars the conqueror is likewise the loser.
"But that which has mainly contributed to render war gradually a
matter of rare occurrence, and which, we trust, will ultimately
lead to its complete abolition, is the vastly increased intercourse
between the peoples of various nationalities, by which all those
silly inherited national antipathies have slowly become absorbed;
then again, we have had the application of the principles of free
trade, the removal of all those barriers that separated nations from
nations, an universal system of coinage and weights and measures,
an increase in the means of locomotion and communication, and the
fusion of the individual interests of particular nations into one
great universal 'public weal.' Nations have ceased to stand opposite,
against one another, they flourish side by side; by thousands and
thousands of bonds they are joined and held together; and if the
nineteenth century has witnessed the introduction of the principle
of nationality, ours has made another step in the right direction,
and produced the recognition of the principle of humanism." [11]
Free Trade; Universal Locomotion.
I was much impressed with the justness of the last words of my
companion. It now became clear to me how every new railroad, every
new telegraph line, the removal of every obstacle in the process
of exportation and importation, does not only directly promote the
general interest and welfare, but that they are as many links in
the great chain by which men are united together in brotherhood as
members of one and the same household. And yet methought I perceived
a threatening cloud at this bright horizon. "If then," said I,
"all wars have ceased to be, and if in consequence thereof, as well
as through other propitious circumstances of various kinds, commerce
and industry have been constantly progressing, surely you must have
witnessed an alarming increase of population; and the production of
the necessary food can hardly have kept pace with its consumption."
"If you suppose that we have now, as formerly, many indigent people and
others occasionally starving in some of the over-peopled districts,
then, of course, you are right; but I do not grant that, on the
whole, pauperism has been on the increase; I am rather inclined to
believe the contrary, although during the last two hundred years
the population of Europe has almost doubled itself. Two things you
should not lose sight of; in the first place, the increase in the
means of transport having brought about a more equal distribution of
food; and secondly, of nothing now-a-days being wasted, but, on the
contrary, everything finding its way to where necessity exists. In
consequence of a now universal free trade, every country produces
exactly that which thrives best in its own soil and climate. Then,
again, numberless acres of waste land have long been, and are still
being, cultivated; whilst progressive science has rendered imperishable
services to the practical agriculturist by pointing out to him various
new modes and processes whereby to increase the crops and fruits of
his fields. Thus, for example, we know now everything connected with
the quality and quantity of all matters used in the cultivation of
vegetables; moreover, every agriculturist has become, in our days,
a manufacturer. To him the plants are the tools through means of which
the so-called inorganic matter imbedded in the soil and atmosphere is
to be worked and shaped into organic matter, i.e., into matter fit
for consumption; and therefore, as with any other manufacturer, his
efforts are constantly directed towards obtaining the original rude
material as cheap and as good as possible. Among this 'rude material'
not a little is to be found that was formerly looked upon as mere
waste, or, worse than that, mixed with the water or the soil of the
towns, to the great injury of the public health. We are wiser now
in the twenty-first century. Everything by which the produce of the
fields can be increased is carefully collected, and life is thereby
much better protected."
Modern Telescopes.
I had already noticed, during the conversation, that our aërial
conveyance had assumed a gentle swinging position; and when Bacon
paused in his remarks, Miss Phantasia cried to me, "Do, now, apply
your eye to these pseudo-cannons, and tell us, pray, where we are."
I found at once that those tubes which I had mistaken for cannons were
enormous telescopes; but my mistake was pardonable enough, so far as
their outward appearance went. They were certainly much wider, from
which I concluded, à priori, that they must be powerful machines; but
when I came to look through them, I discovered that their great width
did in no way interfere with the sharp outlines of the images, and
I was not only very much struck with their immense magnifying power,
but at the same time with their great extent of the field of vision.
Following Miss Phantasia's finger direction, the first thing I saw
before me through the telescope at the stern of the vessel was an
immense city, which I fancied could be no other than Londinia, from
whence we had started. A vast cluster or mass of houses presented
itself, with the sharpest outline, in the somewhat dull background, but
no idea of smoke; I therefore concluded that wherever coals were still
used, one knew how to pass the smoke through the cowl or fire-grate
in accordance with the wise Act of Parliament passed in 1850.
As I looked through the different telescopes which we had on board, I
could not help admiring the scenery around and about us, which seemed
to rush and rush on before our eyes whilst the ship was apparently
lying still. Ascending, it was as if the earth went down beneath
us. Shortly after, we caught the first glance of the sea, and right
before us, opposite, we perceived the Belgian and French coasts. A
black wire seemed to cross the narrowest strait of the Channel,
so as to join the two opposite shores together.
Channel Bridge.
As we came nearer I began to suspect that this wire might be a tubular
bridge of some kind, and this surmise grew into certainty when Bacon
assured me that a company had already been formed for the purpose
of constructing a second one; "for," added my informant, "this one
has become utterly inadequate to the extensive communication between
England and the continent."
North Holland Submerged.
A slight north-north-easterly direction, and a few minutes sufficed
to bring us near to my native home, which to us, from our vessel,
looked like its outline in an atlas. Only how terrified I was to see
that there was something wanting on the map. The whole province of
North Holland, [12] minus a few diminutive islands, seemed to have
disappeared. Not even trusting my eyes, I asked the "trunculant figure"
who, Bacon said, was my countryman: Was the whole of North Holland
imbedded in the sea?
"So it is," was the answer. "That's the result of not heeding
the advice of common-sense, prudent people. A handful of bragging
citizens of Amsterdam insisted upon it, that they should have a canal
right across into the sea. They had one already, in which they might
have made some improvements, but that would not satisfy them. Well,
after a good deal of agitation, they got their canal. How much it
may have cost them I do not pretend to know; no doubt a good deal
more than many of them must have liked. However, now that they had
it, it proved, after all, 'a fair-weather Jack;' for as soon as the
wind lost its temper--and such things do happen along our coast--the
skippers did not venture to come too near to the shore. At the first
November storm the harbour became full of sand, to clear which would
have been to wash the negro.
"Thus the canal had had little power to benefit navigation. Still,
matters did not come to the worst until, in 1980, the springtide
fell in simultaneously with a storm such as the memory of living
man could not trace. Sluices and dykes gave way, and North Holland,
the greater portion of which was situated from one to five meters
[13] below the mean level of the sea, was rapidly swallowed up by
the raging element. Shortly after the play-going public of Rotterdam
enjoyed a new drama, entitled 'The Horse of Troy.'" [14]
"Terrible, terrible!" I could not refrain from exclaiming, although
the man who supplied me with the "terrible" information did not appear
to see it. I had already inferred from the latter part of his remarks
that he was a native of Rotterdam, and this suggested to me the idea
of once more looking through the telescope, and turning my looks
towards the city where I had passed the earlier part of my youth. At
first I did not feel at home at all. So much had the city of the Meuse
enlarged itself into every direction, and so densely populated was the
whole province of South Holland, that the towns of Leiden, the Hague,
Delft, Schiedam, and Rotterdam seemed to form but one large city.
Utrecht, too, appeared to have grown in extent. My eye fell
accidentally on a bright dazzling spot, lighted up by the rays of
Phoebus; and, anxious to find out what that was, I applied a stronger
"oculaire" to the telescope, and soon recognised the golden sun of
Justice, the well-known armorial bearings of the Utrecht University,
on the top of a large and magnificent building. I thought that must
be the University building, and inquired of the "trunculant figure;"
but the latter answered curtly, "That's entirely out of my line, sir;
those are things with which I have nothing to do." Fortunately for
me, Bacon had heard my question, and he at once supplied me with the
necessary information. "You have guessed rightly," said he; "when,
after many years' waiting, there came at last a bill regulating the
higher education in the Netherlands, some wealthy inhabitants of the
city of Utrecht, at their own expense, founded this magnificent and
imposing building, and by so doing furnished a living illustration
of their interest in science, and of their affection for the alma
mater to which many of them owed their education and social position."
Thanking Bacon for this valuable piece of information, I further
ventured to inquire whether in the new educational bill the principle
had been recognised "that it is a matter of perfect indifference where
any candidate had obtained the knowledge required by the law, and
that the state had no other right but to demand this of the candidate,
that he satisfy the government examiners with regard to his abilities."
"Here you are doubtless touching a knotty point," answered my
companion; "for this has been a matter of discussion for some time;
and, strange to say, those that have given the most definite opinions
on it are exactly those that were least competent to judge in the
matter of public examinations. At first sight the principle you have
laid down certainly appears reasonable enough. Those who, with you,
appear to have accepted it, argue mathematically as follows: Given
a certain quantity of linseed, then by the same press, and with
the same amount of pressure, it will yield a certain amount of oil,
and the latter will consequently indicate the exact relative value
of the different kinds of linseed. It all amounts to this, to find a
good press, one in regular working order. It is not otherwise with
public examinations. These, too, are a kind of press, under which
are to be brought the persons to be examined, and out of them are
to be squeezed a dose of knowledge prescribed as the sine quâ non of
their admission. It only requires to have a good examination press,
and the results will always admit of comparison; that is to say,
they will be just and fair.
"But here a curious difficulty had to be surmounted. It is easy enough
to construct presses from iron or wood that will work regularly;
but with examination presses that is altogether a different
affair. Especially with regard to those for the higher branches of
education the matter is not so easily procurable. And then there
is another thing; neither are the examiners composed of wood and
iron, nor are the students that have to be examined usually made
of linseed; both classes of persons are more likely to be rational
beings; the contract between them entails action and reaction, with
thousandfold variations, so that there can never be any question of
absolutely comparable results, least of all when the examiners and the
examined are more or less strangers to each other. Leaving out other
difficulties, there would still remain the very natural resistance
which such heterogeneous elements would exercise towards each other,
a resistance which will always be commensurate with the greater or
lesser difference of interests in the parties concerned.
"In order now to overcome this difficulty, and to save the principle
that "those aspiring to equal rights should satisfy equal conditions,"
the Government issued certain text-books in the form of examination
guides. And what was the consequence? Industrious persons arose, and
contrived to invent means by which to make those works essentially
practical, and the examinations as light as possible; they composed
little books containing questions and answers, something like
catechisms, for every branch of science. This appeared to some
people to be the height of examinatorial equality; but when, in
spite of all this, the same complaints continued to be heard about
the unfairness and arbitrary ways of examiners, the still more novel
idea was mooted, whether it was not possible to solve the examination
problem by a direct method, viz., physico-mechanically. For a long
time past we had had speculums for the eye, for the ear, for the
throat, etc.; why should we not succeed in inventing a speculum
for the brain? There were already self-registering thermometers,
barometers, magnetometers, photometers, etc.; why should we not have
the self-registering enkephalometer? machines which in a few minutes,
and by means of a few figures, would indicate the exact degree and
amount of knowledge acquired by the individual to whose cerebrum the
instrument might be applied! What a splendid invention, both for
examiners and candidates, this would have been! Unfortunately the
thing always proved impracticable; and the idea now ranks with the
visions of perpetual motion and squaring of the circle.
University Education.
"Meanwhile those exaggerated systems of examination had led to some
experience, beneficial, though rather unpleasant. It gradually became
to be noticed by competent persons that, in proportion as the students
prepared for the required and enforced government examinations, there
grew a dislike or decline of free study, an aversion to pure science,
which is more dependent upon clear judgment than practised memory. And
thus was lost the principal aim of all higher instruction which is
not the 'training' for certain professions, but the complete and
entire development of all the slumbering faculties of man. [15] The
Dutch people began to see that they had been following the example of
the Chinese, who surpass every nation under the sun in the length of
their examinations; indeed, they found that they had run great risk
of becoming the Chinese of Europe. It became generally recognised
that every principle, however good in itself, may be 'overdone;'
that examinations, however difficult to dispense with altogether, will
always remain a sad necessity; and that it is perfectly chimerical to
think of government examinations so arranged as to not only produce
an universal and incontestable standard or measure of knowledge,
but also to be a means of judging the theoretical and practical
abilities of the candidates. It was further discovered that it was a
gross error to suppose that government examinations were to be the
stimulants for university study; in fact, that what was wanted was
not means of discouragement, but of encouragement. The human mind
is like a liquid given to fermentation. Without leaven there cannot
be any fermentation; and the latter is promoted by heat, depressed
by cold. What you want in order to stimulate higher education in the
higher sense of the word is a staff of competent tutors supplied with
ample means for advancing and furthering knowledge in every possible
direction; encouragement for all efforts to cultivate sound science,
and nothing but the most beneficial results will accrue to society at
large. Universities, at the dawn of their existence, were, as a rule,
endowed with certain rights and privileges, like moral corporations;
but these were swept away through the tide of progress having ceased to
be adapted to the conditions of modern society. One right, let us say
one duty, only remained vested in the universities, that of conferring
degrees on its scholars after the passing of certain examinations;
but the latter were subject, like all other examinations, to this, that
they could never give a sufficiently satisfactory guarantee. Yet, while
the defects of these were largely advertised, their advantages were
often overlooked, until they were ultimately abolished, or replaced
by the examining authority of government commissions. When at last it
was found, after endless experiments, that people had been jumping
from the frying-pan into the fire, one gradually began to recognise
the truth of the French proverb, that 'Better is the enemy of good,'
and one came back to the old system slightly altered and improved. At
the same time additional means were devised to render access to the
universities, as seats of learning, more easy to deserving men; the
fees were considerably lowered, and distinguished students received
henceforth pecuniary assistance and support from those who were
morally convinced that in the knowledge which they would acquire they
would repay to society at large both capital and interest. And hence
the number of scholars has so increased lately at your universities,
that there no longer exists the semblance of necessity for admitting
others to the exercise of the learned professions, than those who have
enjoyed academical education. If to this some persons were to reply
that such a restriction of the professional cyclus is rather hard upon
those who have acquired their knowledge elsewhere, independent of the
recognised universities, I would meet them with the counter-remark
that the interests of the individual must give way to those of society
at large, and that there is an intimate connection between the latter
and the continuing prosperity of the universities."
I looked about me to see whether I could discover any more places of
my native land. So far as I could see, the northern and north-eastern
districts had almost doubled their population, for the towns looked
twice their original size; but what struck me most was that the
city of Arnhem looked apparently deserted. I was the more surprised
at this, because I remembered quite well that about the middle of
the nineteenth century the place had been rapidly increasing, both
in extent and prosperity, owing to the many "old residents" who,
having returned with colossal fortunes from India, purposed to pass
the remainder of their days in this beautiful neighbourhood.
I must have allowed a suppressed cry of astonishment to escape me on
noticing the crippled state of the city; for the "trunculant figure"
once more addressed me in the native tongue: "Yes, sir," said he,
"you are rightly surprised. From a large city Arnhem has become a
third-rate town. Such things will happen when children attempt to
govern their parents."
I did not exactly see the drift of this common-sense remark until my
countryman continued as follows: "I am going to tell you a story."
Loss of Dutch Colonies.
"Once upon a time a gentleman had a beautiful bird, and the beauty
of this beautiful bird was this, that he laid every year a golden
egg. Naturally enough, the man was very much afraid that this bird
should escape, or perhaps be stolen from him. He therefore first
cut its wings, and then put it into a solid cage. When the children
of that gentleman grew up, they gradually became of opinion that
the bird had not been properly treated by their father. One thought
that some portion of the golden egg ought to be used in ornaments on
the cage of the bird. Another hinted that not only should the cage
be embellished, but also enlarged; the bird would then enjoy more
liberty, and might perhaps lay two golden eggs in a twelve-month,
'in which case,' whispered he, 'I myself might come in for a little
windfall.' The third son went another step further; he would like to
see the cage not only enlarged and gilded, but completely renewed
as well; it ought to have much thinner bars to allow the bird more
light and more air; this was its natural birth-right; for no bird was
ever created to drag along its dreary existence in the dark. Finally,
the fourth of the sons went so far as to say that it was 'a burning
shame' to have cut the bird's wings. That was simply misusing the
right of the stronger, and showed great want of foresight in him that
had entrusted his 'governor' with the bird.
"The old gentleman was not a little embarrassed. He was not blind to
the danger of all these juvenile counsels, but he was an indulgent
parent, and never turned a deaf ear upon his children. First then the
cage was gilded, then enlarged, and ultimately replaced by another,
brand new, and as light as light could be. Meanwhile the bird's
wings had been daily growing, and the animal at last managed to do
that which every other bird would have done in its place. It escaped
through the thin bars, and flew away."
"I fully understand; the bird's name was Java?" [16]
"Exactly so," replied the "trunculant figure."
"But what became ultimately of the bird?" I inquired.
"Ah, sir! it was after all a silly thing for the bird to fly away;
it was not so badly off in its master's house; but birds will be
birds. It had not flown far yet when it was attacked by two enormous
birds of prey; they pulled it right and left with their sharp talons,
and thereby injured one another severely. Of course the weaker bird
lost a good deal of its plumage, and was bandied from the talons of
one vulture into those of the other. At last the two monsters dropped
their prey on the ground in piteous condition, whilst they pursued
the combat between them with their own weapons, until both were so
crippled and exhausted that there could have been no question on
either side of looking after the weaker bird."
"If then I rightly understand your metaphor, France and England have
both been compelled to let the island slip, and the Javanese are a
free people by this time."
"Oh, free, of course; so is the dormouse," answered the Dutchman.