Lieutenant James Holman Felt His Way ‘Round the World, Scaled Vesuvius,
Hunted Wild Animals, Was a Russian Prisoner, a Guest of Princes, and
Wrote His Own Experiences Though Sightless.
_An original article written for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.
We of the twentieth century are rather too prone to believe that such
remarkable cases of superiority to circumstance as are supplied by the
lives of Helen Keller and Thomas Stringer are peculiar to our own time
and country. Such, however, is not the case. Certainly no more
impressive instance of accomplishment under trying circumstances can
anywhere be found than in the travels and the accounts thereof credited
to Lieutenant James Holman, who died in London almost fifty years ago,
after a full and happy life. Not even the celebrated Baron von Humboldt
traveled so far or visited so many countries as did Holman; and von
Humboldt had his sight.
Holman offers an extraordinary example of what energy and perseverance
may accomplish. Driven out of the naval service of his country by the
complete extinction of his sight when twenty-five years of age, he found
himself with his youthful passion for travel still unsatisfied, and with
what might very probably be a long and dreary life before him. A naval
officer who had already seen service in England and America, he now
found himself forced to rearrange his life plans entirely. Almost
immediately he resorted to Edinburgh University for a term of study, but
even the pleasures of a cultivated mind could not reconcile him to a
life of inaction. Finding the post of Knight of Windsor, which had been
conferred upon him, intolerable, he obtained leave of absence, and
prepared to set out on his first journey of exploration.
For more than forty years the blind lieutenant kept continually on the
march. He traveled alone, for a valet, in his opinion, was a useless
incumbrance. Beginning his travels with a tour of France, Italy, Saxony,
Switzerland, and Holland, he next penetrated twenty-five hundred miles
beyond the Ural Mountains in Siberia. After returning to Europe, he
circumnavigated the globe, visited the west coast of Africa, the gold
mines in the Brazils, the colony of the Cape of Good Hope, and the
islands between that country and China. In 1840 he again left
England—this time to explore the Holy Land, and, incidentally, every
country touching the waters of the Mediterranean and adjacent seas.
Between these journeys it was Holman’s custom to expand into books the
journal notes he had made _en route_. The resulting volumes (formally
dedicated, by permission, “To the King’s Most Excellent Majesty”) are
packed with shrewd comments upon men and manners, and with delightful
descriptions of travel. Through these books (now extremely rare) we are
enabled to-day to enter into the experiences of one of the most
interesting personalities of which the last century can boast.
“If my undertakings—for such they may without vanity be called—be
productive of no other benefit,” he says, “than that of proving to the
world how much may be done by a cheerful perseverance under a heavy
affliction—how great obstacles may be subdued by resolution—how the void
of sight may be peopled by an active mind, and the desert fertilized by
industry—how much hope exists even in the darkest page of life—and how
many resources against discontent and loneliness this beautiful and
varied world presents—I shall be content to think my labors have not
been altogether destitute of utility.” This rather labored though
earnest sentence does not, however, represent Holman at his best. His
earlier books are full of spontaneity. While still a young man he
derived as much pleasure from writing of his journeys as from making
them.
The manner in which the blind man lets us share his sensations makes his
work peculiarly interesting. After we have been wondering for a while
how he gets any fun out of the long, hard journeys in the dark, he
suddenly answers the question thus: “I must candidly admit that I have
derived little gratification from the external objects that presented
themselves, and am indebted to the resources of my own mind for the
interest I felt; and in particular the contemplation of future plans, as
well as the satisfactory progress I have already made with regard to my
present ones which others have so often deemed impracticable.”
The truth is that Holman experienced a boy’s delight in proving to his
friends that he could travel in safety and have a good time into the
bargain. “I find less difficulty and inconvenience in traveling among
strangers than people imagine, and prefer being left to my own
resources,” he says. “Habit has given me the power of acquiring, by a
kind of undefinable tact, as correct ideas of objects as the most
accurate description would give.”
Of course, humorous situations were of frequent occurrence. Once at
Bordeaux he heard water splashing at the side of the coach. This went on
for something like an hour before he discovered that the other
passengers, the better to insure their safety, had left the vehicle and
crossed on a ferry-boat, leaving him to float with the carriage on a
raft across the river Dordogne.
“I found that, while I supposed myself sitting in the coach office yard
at Bordeaux,” he narrates, “I had actually traveled four miles by water
without having entertained the least idea of such an adventure.”
In this same book Holman describes his custom of traveling with
leading-strings.
“Finding myself suffering from headache, which I attributed to want of
exercise,” he writes, “I made signs for the driver to stop that I might
get out of the coach and walk for a time; he was quite indisposed to
accommodate me until I manifested my intention of jumping out.
“He now thought well to stop his horses and proffer his assistance;
however, I refused it, and succeeded in finding the back part of the
coach, where I secured my hold by means of a piece of cord (which when
traveling I make a rule to carry always in my pocket), and which in the
present instance served me as a leading-string.
“I then followed in this way on foot for several miles, to the no small
amusement of the villagers, who laughed heartily and even shouted after
me.”
Upon reaching Rome, Holman went to the Vatican. He had hoped to be
allowed to examine the sculpture carefully with his hands, but this he
was not permitted to do, as soldiers were placed in each apartment to
prevent such violation.
“Had I been freely permitted to touch the marbles, I doubt not,” he
says, “that I might have been as highly gratified as those who saw, for
the sense of touch conveys to my mind as clear, or at least as
satisfactory, ideas of the form, and, I think I may add, the force of
expression, as sight does to others. I did occasionally examine them in
this way by stealth,” he adds, “when I was apprised that the soldiers’
backs were turned toward me.”
Holman was doubtless the only blind man who ever ascended Mount Vesuvius
and survived to record his impressions of the feat. “My friends
endeavored to dissuade me from this arduous undertaking,” he writes.
“and when after fully deciding upon the measure, I inquired in what way
it was customary for others to make the ascent, they replied: ‘Oh, they
could _see_ their way up.’
“‘Well, then,’ I retorted, ‘I have little doubt of being able to _feel_
mine.’”
The ground proved to be too hot under his feet, and the sulfurous vapors
too strong to allow the hardy Englishman to remain long on the summit,
but his guide satisfied him by directing his walking-cane toward the
flames, which shriveled the ferrule and charred the lower part. He
retained the cane as a memorial, and mentions the fact in his writings.
The most dangerous journeys ever undertaken by Holman were those into
the heart of Siberia, upon which he set out soon after his return from
his initial visit to Florence. He occupied himself on the way inland
studying the geography of Russia, tracing his intended itinerary with
his finger upon a raised map.
At the Academy of Art, in Saint Petersburg, he was more successful than
he had been at the Vatican in his endeavor to derive pleasure from the
sculpture. Of his experience with the Canova statue of Napoleon he
writes:
“The pedestal of this statue is so high that I could only reach the
knees of the figure; but this was sufficient to satisfy me of its
exquisite character. The kneepan, the heads of the bones of the leg, the
muscles that form the calf, the ankles, the contractions of the toes
(from the supposed weight of the body resting upon them) were all
inimitable, so beautifully had the chisel written its delineations on
the marble.
“My gratification on touching it was such that I could with difficulty
withdraw my hand; and had the leg been clothed with a real shoe and
stocking, and of a natural temperature, I might have imagined it real.”
In Moscow this undaunted sightseer walked to the Kremlin and “looked at”
the wonderful bell there by mounting to its top on a ladder. The better
to examine some of the mortars cast in 1694 by Peter the Great, he
coolly took off his coat and crept to the bottom of one, greatly to the
astonishment of the guide who accompanied him.
Holman’s own explanation of the way in which sightseeing of this sort
ministered to his pleasure is of decided interest.
“The various organs of sense,” he says, “are the mere instruments by
which the impressions of external objects are conveyed to the mind,
which then reasons upon and draws its inferences respecting the nature
of these objects. The conclusions thus arrived at are, consequently,
mere ideas.... It matters not through what senses the impression from
which these ideas are derived are transmitted. The reader will probably
now comprehend the manner in which I arrived at what perhaps may be
termed an ideal knowledge of the places I visit.
“Accompanied by an intelligent friend or guide, I examine every place of
interest—touch what I can and hear of all, and then, combining the
information thus gained with previously acquired knowledge of the
subject and some portion of imagination, a picture is produced
comprising in my mind a strong impression of reality, and answering the
purpose, to me, almost as well as if I had actually seen it.”
To follow Holman as he calmly discusses his own feelings concerning the
blindness which had come upon him is of decided psychological interest.
Suspense was particularly difficult for him to bear.
“Any irritation of this nature renders me the most anxious of mortals,”
he writes; “but let the excitement cease, no matter whether in an
agreeable manner or the reverse, and my mind at once regains its
tranquility so that I become comparatively comfortable.
“I then look back and smile at the previous storm, and wonder that it
has exerted so powerful an influence over me. For instance, with respect
to the one great affliction it has been my fate to suffer—the loss of
sight—my mind was, during the period of suspense in which I was long
detained as to the final result, in a state of excessive agitation and
distress; but no sooner was it ascertained that the visual fire was
quenched forever than it at once rose superior to misfortune and began
to seek for and to find occupation and consolation in a variety of
pursuits, among which the love of traveling, as the reader will
perceive, has not been the least prominent.”
The humors attending his odd position were by no means lost upon him.
“Recollecting that I am suffering from some deprivation,” he observes
with gentle irony, “people often mistake the sense and begin to shout at
me as if I were deaf; in short, this feeling is so general that almost
every one who is not intimately acquainted with me elevates his voice in
conversation.
“When I am desired to give my hand to examine anything by the touch,
they take it as if my sense of feeling were deficient, squeezing it
rudely, and pressing it forcibly on the object of examination, as if I
were about to ascertain the condition of a bird or beast; whereas my
sense of touch is most delicate, and all that I require is to pass the
hand lightly over the surface of the body, and then the result is both
pleasing and satisfactory.”
Occasionally, of course, this eager traveler made ludicrous mistakes.
Once, when he was being entertained in Siberia by a family of
distinction, he inquired from his friend what extraordinary animal it
was that was making the singular snoring sound on the other side of him,
which had for some time attracted his attention. The “animal” proved to
be one of the principal counselors of the town who had a peculiar
obstruction in his nasal organs which made him breathe with a wheezing
noise.
This Siberian journey was the one in which Holman especially delighted.
He had entered upon the arduous undertaking “with feelings heightened by
the recollections of interest formerly derived during eight years’
service on the coast of North America.” Oddly enough, he expected to
find a great similarity in the climate and productions of the two
countries. He was especially interested, moreover, in the primitive
simplicity and manners of the Russian and Tatar tribes.
Of the Russians, certainly, he learned a great deal during this journey.
His estimation of their character appears to be singularly shrewd, and,
for a blind man, wonderfully penetrating.
“Their natural quickness of mind and sensibility of feeling,” he says,
“gives them the appearance of being a cheerful, amiable, and
open-hearted people; but alas! under this exterior are concealed so much
disingenuousness and artful policy as to diminish materially, on closer
acquaintance, that estimation to which they would otherwise be justly
entitled.”
Seventy-five years before Kipling’s “Truce of the Bear” was penned,
another Englishman had perceived the close resemblance between the
ursine and the human—in Russia.
The way in which the traveler overcame the material difficulties of
journeying alone in a strange land is full of interest. He tells us that
he kept his money in various bags, each of which contained a definite
number of coins of different values. He was also provided with tea and
sugar, a teapot, cups, and all that was necessary for the afternoon
refreshment so dear to the English heart. Yet he did not spare himself
when he wished to cover a stipulated distance.
The man’s force of character was never put to a severer test than when
he was made a Russian state prisoner on suspicion of having assumed the
pose of “Blind Traveler” in order that he might spy more effectively
upon Russian politics.
The Czar had sent an aide-de-camp to arrest him and put him over the
frontier without loss of time. During the ensuing sledge journey, which
continued day and night for four thousand miles, and of which he was
himself compelled to bear the expense, Holman became utterly worn out.
Then he took matters into his own hands; he decided that he needed a
day’s rest, and told his courier-guards that he intended to take it. The
Czar’s representatives, including the Governor of Moscow, ordered
otherwise.
Holman defied them all—if he felt better next day, he would go with
them; but not before. A long and angry altercation followed, but in the
end he, a sightless stranger among bigoted enemies, won by sheer force
of moral strength. They finally left him a free man on the border of the
little republic of Cracow.
Of Holman’s seven books, the later volumes are considerably less
intimate and vivid than those written in the first flush of his triumph
over circumstances. Nevertheless his adventures and research among the
gold mines of South Africa, his description of an entertainment given
for him by a rajah of the East, his emotions as he climbed a mast for
the sake of exercise, and the thrill which came to him while hunting
elephants make reading of more than ordinary interest. The sailor’s keen
delight in a voyage, and the Englishman’s unfailing weakness for riding,
never deserted this extraordinary man. One of the best pen-pictures we
have of him, indeed, is astride a horse.
“At the English consul’s,” writes Francis Parkman from Girgenti, Sicily,
under the date, January, 1844, “I met a blind traveler, a Mr. Holman,
who has been over Siberia, New Holland, and other remote regions, for
the most part alone, and has written seven volumes of his travels.
Traveling, he told me, was a passion with him. He could not sit at home.
“I walked home with him through the streets, admiring his indomitable
energy. I saw him the next morning sitting on his mule, with the guide
he had hired. His strong frame, his manly face, his gray beard and
mustache, and his sightless eyeballs gave him quite a noble appearance.”
Lieutenant Holman died in his London chambers, July, 1857. He had never
married, so that the unpublished journals and other literary material
which survived him was not placed before the world as it probably would
have been had a devoted son survived him. Through a relative who settled
in Canada, however, the name and the fame of this remarkable man have
come down to us.
It is due to the courtesy of a member of Lieutenant Holman’s family, a
young artist, now in this country, that I am indebted for the intimate
details here given concerning this intrepid traveler.