'_I_ have several men-friends.'
Somehow Earle felt nettled at this assertion, and would gladly have
done battle with all these disagreeable men-friends at once. He only
said, however: 'I hope one day to be happy enough to make one of them;
but meanwhile, how am I to see you again?'
'Are you not coming to paint Mrs De Lacy?' said Silvia, with her eyes
on her plate, but the faint trace of a smile on her lip. 'I am staying
here, you know!'
'To be sure!' he cried eagerly; 'I forgot that. I'll come to-morrow and
begin. But after you leave here?'
'We live at Eaglemore Gardens,' she said simply. 'I will be glad to see
you, if you like to call.'
This calm invitation slightly astonished Earle; he forgot that in
America young ladies receive visitors in their father's house.
'Thank you,' he got out in some confusion.
Silvia seemed to read his thought. '_My mother_ too, I daresay, will be
glad to see you; but I suppose you have very little time for calls,'
she said haughtily.
He recovered himself. 'You are very, very good,' he replied. 'It would
be the greatest pleasure to me.'
For a few minutes there was a trace of stiffness in her manner, but it
soon passed away; and the rest of the time they spent at the table was
taken up with animated talk on all sorts of subjects.
In the drawing-room up-stairs there was music; and very soon Mrs De
Lacy pounced upon Silvia, who was comfortably ensconced in a corner
with Wilfred.
'Dear child,' she cried, 'it is your turn now. Don't waste more time on
converting that prejudiced mortal.'
Silvia looked a little bit annoyed, and getting up quickly, moved to
the piano, while Mrs De Lacy murmured: 'Sweet girl! Always so obliging!'
Wilfred stood behind her.
'What shall I sing?' she said, half to herself, looking round.
'You have _Love and Death_ there, I see,' Earle said, stooping down.
'Please, _not_ that.'
'Why not? It is a great favourite of mine.'
'So it is of mine. That is the reason I didn't want you to sing it to
all these people. Some day I shall ask you for it.'
Without replying, she put the _Sands o' Dee_ before her and sang.
Earle waited almost breathlessly for the first note. He was
passionately fond of music, and he felt somehow as if an untrue or
unsweet note from Silvia Stirling would have jarred him more than
he could bear. But the voice and the manner of singing satisfied
his fastidious ear absolutely. The sympathy which made her face so
interesting thrilled in the pathetic tone of her voice, and Earle had
never been affected by music before as he was now by her rendering of
this simple song.
As she rose from the piano, she raised her eyes a moment to his: that
strange meeting glance that strikes down into the soul, and in which
thought seems to answer thought, passed between them like a revelation.
It was only an instant, but it was a momentous one to each.
Wilfred Earle walked home through Dreamland. He was fascinated past
control, and yet was angry with the fascination, and half wished for
the spell to be broken. What strange fate had attracted his life
suddenly towards this other, against whom all his prejudices revolted?
Why did those clear eyes haunt him so? Had he, after all his sham
fancies, struck on the true vein of love? _Was_ this love, or only
a half-willing fascination, that had changed the face of the world
to-night?
'This is too absurd!' he exclaimed angrily. 'Here I have met just
with what I most disapprove of--a public speaker and an American,
and I can't get rid of the idea of her! I must go to-morrow and be
disillusionised.'
ON WASTE OF LIFE.
What is our life given us for? If this inquiry were addressed to each
one of our acquaintance, what curious diversities of opinion would be
evinced by the replies, differing as they all would according to the
various characteristics of each individual. Some would say their lives
were given them for enjoyment, and by their actions lead one to believe
that they value them exactly in proportion to the amount of pleasure
they can obtain. Others, again, seem to think life is a necessary evil,
which must be endured with philosophy and resignation; and to these
it never appears to occur that there is a higher purpose in life than
merely to exist.
A few there are--but these are unhappily very few--who regard life as a
precious gift, every moment of which it is their bounden duty to turn
to good account. To these last, the waste of life they see around them
is perfectly inexplicable, and many are the quiet unobtrusive efforts
they make, amongst their own acquaintance, to lead them to take higher
and nobler views of the duties of existence. This, however, is a most
thankless and generally most useless task. If the wish for superiority
is not implanted by nature, it is almost impossible to supply the
deficiency by art or argument. Those who are content to spend their
lives in idleness and frivolity, can seldom be persuaded to alter their
mode of life by the most powerful logic that can be used.
The present age no doubt can boast of greater progress in science
and learning than can be claimed by the past generation, and yet it
cannot be denied that the wish for mental superiority, and the industry
necessary to attain it, is only possessed by the comparatively few,
and that far too many persons are content with a kind of dead-level
of existence--without ambition or desire to excel in any way. It is
nevertheless true, and a fact for which we ought to be thankful,
that the means for intellectual cultivation are now more than ever
within the reach of all, and are eagerly taken advantage of by vast
numbers; that schools of art, music, science, &c. are established in
many places, and every encouragement given to study. And yet there are
hundreds who voluntarily and systematically neglect every opportunity,
and are content to spend their lives in ignorance and uselessness.
It is curious to note the line of demarcation that always seems to
exist between those who habitually waste their lives and those who
endeavour to redeem the time, and are ambitious of cultivating and
improving their talents to the utmost of their opportunities. The
former often allude to the latter with a kind of pitying scorn, and
declare that 'life would not be worth having, in their opinion, if they
had to spend it in that way.'
There is also a numerous class of persons who appear to consider that
intellectual pursuits, and a desire to excel in them, ought to be left
to those who prefer to spend their time in such (to them) laborious
and uninteresting occupations, and that there is no law, human or
divine, which requires them to fulfil the duties of existence in any
other way than that which is recommended to them by their own frivolous
inclinations. Their argument is probably one which they consider
unanswerable--namely, that their parents 'got on very well without all
those ideas, and why should not they.'
Certainly, if living day after day in one hum-drum round of existence,
without one spark of ambition, or one idea elevated above the most
ordinary intelligence, can be called 'getting on,' such persons succeed
admirably. Surely, however, the promptings of Nature are sufficient to
prove that life is given us for some better purpose than to be spent
in contented ignorance and mental inactivity, or in a hollow round of
gaiety and amusement?
Many times we have been surprised by an observation or a wish from
one who, to all outward appearance, was entirely devoted to a life of
uselessness and gaiety, without a thought beyond. By that one remark or
wish, a gleam of light is thrown upon the inner workings of the mind,
and we cannot help regretting that in so many cases these promptings to
do something different from their ordinary life--these first symptoms
of intellectual life and activity, first sparks of ambition, which
would, if carefully fanned, develop into a passion for excellence
and utility, should so often be quenched by the fear of the ridicule
and discouragement that they will inevitably meet with in the world.
Nothing causes so great an isolation from human companionship as a
consciousness of mental superiority. The sources of enjoyment and
interest to some are weariness and disgust to others whose aims are
higher, and whose thoughts are deeper, and who regard life as a gift to
be spent in noble labour, and in improving the talents God has given
them.
How often do we witness the sad spectacle of a mind deteriorated
by indulgence and weakened by excess and frivolity; the saddest
kind of waste of all! How often does one see in one's own circle of
acquaintance the vigour of the intellect gradually declining under the
adverse influences brought to bear upon it? But here the grave question
ought to arise in our minds: Have we had anything to do with this
deterioration? Has our want of sympathy and encouragement accelerated
the fall of the lofty edifice? Could we not by timely advice,
encouragement, and perchance by the much-needed assistance, have saved
the tottering pillars of the mind from crumbling into dust at our
feet? Let us remember that we have two important duties in life that
we ought to fulfil: one is, to cultivate the intellect to the utmost
extent in our power; and the other, to guide, assist, and encourage
any who, less fortunate than ourselves, may be struggling under want
of sympathy, want of advantages, and consequent depression. Mental
cultivation increases our appreciation of every enjoyment of life. The
more educated the mind, the greater our appreciation of higher forms of
enjoyment. With what a different eye, for instance, does the botanist
look upon the beauties of nature, to the country farmer, who has no
idea beyond the probable price of wheat at the coming harvest! How
interesting to an entomologist the various forms of insect life, which
are regarded with apathy by those who are ignorant of their ways and
habits. A cultivated mind renders its owner independent of many of the
outward circumstances of life; and if his time is spent in useful and
elevating pursuits, its tranquillity will be less disturbed than in the
case of those who are dependent upon exterior amusements. _An aim in
life makes ennui a thing unknown._
It seems scarcely necessary to remark that this part of our argument
applies only to those whose circumstances have placed them above the
necessity of manual labour. We each have our duties in life to fill
according to our different stations; and it would be as wrong and
absurd in the tradesman, clerk, or mechanic to insist on spending the
whole of his time in intellectual pursuits and scientific studies, as
it is for those who perhaps have the greater part of the day at their
own disposal, to waste its precious hours in uselessness and idleness.
At the same time, it redounds greatly to the credit of those whose
avocations allow them but little time for self-culture, that the few
leisure moments they have are in numerous cases devoted to useful study.
LION KINGS, QUEENS, AND TRAINERS.
The craving for excitement which shews itself in so many grades
of society, and under such manifold forms--some innocent and some
vicious--is strikingly displayed in connection with exhibitions of
wild beasts. There is eagerness to see them because the animals are
savage and dangerous in their native forests and jungles; eagerness
to know how far they can be tamed when caged; still more eagerness to
watch the perilous exploits of those performers who assume the majestic
designations of lion kings and queens.
The training of wild beasts for exhibition purposes is an art requiring
much patience and discretion to insure success. The trainer commences
by feeding the animal from the outside of the den or cage; then
ventures to enter, keeping his face steadily towards the animal,
and avoiding any violence. Rough usage is abstained from as much as
possible, as it rouses the 'dormant demon' in the creature. Lions like
tickling and stroking, and may be tickled into submission when they
could not be compelled. An old trainer once said: 'To get a lion to lie
down and allow the trainer to stand on him, is difficult. It is done by
tickling the beast over the back with a small whip, and at the same
time pressing him down with one hand. By raising his head, and taking
hold of the nostril with the right hand, and the under lip and lower
jaw with the left, the lion by this pressure loses greatly the power of
his jaws; so that the man can pull them open, and put his head inside
the beast's mouth. The danger is, lest the animal should raise one of
his forepaws and stick his claws in the venturesome trainer. If he
does, the man must stand fast for his life till he has shifted the paw.'
About sixty years ago, when Ballard's Menagerie was halting on the road
one night near Salisbury, a lioness escaped from one of the caravans,
and before she could be recaptured, attacked and tore one of the
horses of the Exeter mail; but she _was_ recaptured nevertheless, by
the coolness and daring of the keepers. Soon after this, Ducrow, the
accomplished equestrian, engaged Atkins's lion, tigress, and hybrid
cubs as an additional attraction to his circus. This achievement of
rearing the progeny of a lion and tigress was much talked of at the
time. The novel family were exhibited before royalty at Windsor Castle,
and then at Bartholomew Fair; where a keeper lay down in the den, with
the lion on one side, the tigress on the other, and the cubs disporting
near him, ending by lying down on the lion, with the tigress lying on
the man. The next excitement of the kind, which from its cruelty could
not be endured now-a-days, was connected with the once-renowned _Nero_
and _Wallace_. Wombwell advertised, when his menagerie was at Warwick,
a combat between his lion Nero and six bull-dogs. It was a poor tame
affair, for none of the animals shewed any desire for the encounter.
A second attempt, with Wallace, gave rise to more of that morbid
excitement for which such exhibitions are got up; the lion killed or
disabled all the dogs, the last of which he carried about in his mouth
as a rat is by a terrier or a cat. The affair brought money for a time,
and then gave place to other sensational exhibitions. A trainer and
performer known as 'Manchester Jack' was wont, at Bartholomew Fair, to
take visitors with him into Nero's cage; many persons invested sixpence
each in this risky adventure; but the poor beast had had his native
spirit so quelled that the danger was perhaps not much after all. This
Manchester Jack was rather a notable fellow in the profession; he
trained Wombwell's lions to suffer him to sit upon them, keep their
mouths wide open, &c. The newspapers more than once announced his death
as a victim of some savage animal; but he belied them all, and died
quietly in his bed as a taverner--notwithstanding that he had been
credited by one paragraphist with having had his head bitten off by a
lion.
The historically famous 'Lions in the Tower' gradually ceased to be a
source of wonderment when Zoological Gardens became familiar; and the
collection was dispersed about forty years ago. It had been a custom
in the old times to name the Tower lions after the reigning sovereigns
of Europe; and indeed the lion has generally been regarded as a royal
beast. Lord Mahon, in his _History of England_, quotes a passage from
the Earl of Chesterfield, tending to shew that there was a bit of
superstition mixed up with this matter. Under date 1758 the Earl wrote:
'It was generally thought His Majesty would have died, and for a very
good reason; the oldest lion in the Tower, near about the king's age,
died about a fortnight ago.' But the king outwitted the lion, by living
two years longer. A printer of ballads, not many years back, tried to
make a little money by a smart bit of April Fooling. Knowing that many
country people are still ignorant of the fact that the lions have long
been removed from the Tower, he printed penny tickets purporting to
admit the holder to witness the annual ceremony of washing the lions in
the Tower on the First of April; how many ninnies were taken in by the
trick, the record does not say.
Van Amburgh, the most renowned, perhaps, of all the lion-kings, came
to England a year or two before the beginning of the reign of her
present Majesty. He was a native of Holland, well-formed and handsome;
and his collection of trained lions, tigers, &c. drew immense numbers
of spectators. Van Amburgh's cool daring was remarkable; and when
Edwin (afterwards Sir Edwin) Landseer exhibited at the Royal Academy
his picture of the lion-king in the midst of his trained quadrupedal
pupils, the excitement spread to a class of society above that which
is usually supposed to be weak on such points. Van Amburgh's career in
England continued on and off for some years. One of his exhibitions
included a black tiger, a colour rarely met with in that animal; and a
sort of drama was got up in which the lion-king personated Moroff, a
brute-tamer. Among the bits of gossip which cannot well be traced to
an authentic source, is one to the effect that the Duke of Wellington
(who is known to have had a liking for the performances of Van Amburgh)
once asked him whether he was ever afraid; to which the brute-tamer
replied: 'The first time I am afraid, your Grace, or I fancy that my
pupils are no longer afraid of me, I will give up.' Van Amburgh was
killed more than once by the newspapers, as 'Manchester Jack' had been;
but Mr Frost (whose curious volume, _The Old Showman_, is a veritable
storehouse of gossip on these subjects) states that the hero retired
with a competency, and lived till a recent date.
About the time of Van Amburgh the visitors at a country fair were
invited to witness a man-and-tiger fight; but by all accounts it
was a poor tame affair--it being somewhat doubtful whether the
quadruped really was a tiger. Almost in the same year too, a bit of
sensationalism was got up in the form of a spectacle, in which a Greek
captive was thrown into an arena to be devoured by wild beasts, with
(of course) the due accompaniment of terror and agony. Carter the
lion-king, who was little if anything behind Van Amburgh in coolness,
daring, and presence of mind, played in a drama as a lion-tamer, drove
a pair of lions in harness, and maintained a 'desperate combat' with a
tiger.
Directly it was found, that the public were willing to pay
for admission to displays of this kind, menagerie-keepers and
circus-proprietors sought about for lion-kings wherever they could
find them; and as a demand usually creates a supply, so was it in this
instance: heroes sprang up in various obscure corners, each tempted by
the high salary offered. A solatium of ten or fifteen pounds a week
is no trifle to a man in a humble station. Crockett, who had been a
bandsman at Sanger's Circus, won fame at Astley's Amphitheatre, not
only by his performance before the public, but by an exercise of great
courage at a perilous moment. One night the lions got loose. Crockett,
to whose lodgings a messenger was quickly despatched, came and hastened
into the arena. The lions were roaming about the auditorium, and had
just killed one of the grooms. Crockett went amongst them, and with
only a switch in his hand, drove or enticed them into their cage
without receiving a scratch. The rumour of this bold and successful
achievement brought him offers at an augmentation of salary. Just
about a quarter of a century ago the proprietor of Manders's Menagerie
wanted a lion-king to increase the attractiveness of his exhibition.
A gingerbread stall-keeper offered; but proved to be not worth his
salt, and the manager was disappointed in his hope of eclipsing a
rival exhibition. One day a black sailor came to him and asked for
employment as a brute-tamer; he was accepted; and soon afterwards the
visitors at Greenwich Fair were invited to witness the heroic deeds
of Macomo the African lion-king. Macomo (whatever may have been his
real name) appears to have been a daring fellow, well adapted for the
work he undertook. On one occasion an unusually savage tiger, newly
purchased, was put into a cage already tenanted by another tiger. The
animals began to fight furiously. Macomo, armed only with a small
riding-whip, entered the cage; both tigers turned fiercely upon him
and lacerated him severely; but (covered with blood as he was) he
continued to whip them into submission. Not for one instant did he keep
his eyes off them, and they knew it. Macomo had other narrow escapes;
but like most of the lion-kings, he died quietly in his bed at last.
Not so Macartney, an Irishman, whose habits were not sufficiently
temperate for this perilous kind of work. He often turned his back on
the animals, and was lacerated by them more than once. At length, when
exhibiting at Bolton about fifteen years ago, he attempted to imitate
Macomo's lion-hunt. He chased several lions around a large cage; one
sprang at him, seized him by the right hip, and dragged him to the
ground; then the others joined in the attack. The unfortunate man
endeavoured to beat them off with a sword, but lost his life in the
attempt.
These exhibitions have varied in some of their characteristics from
time to time. In one instance hyenas and tigers were trained as
performing animals--a feat not often ventured upon, as these animals
are less to be trusted than the lion. After the death of Wombwell, his
extensive menagerie was divided into three sections--each of which
claimed, of course, to be the real successor to the original. One
section gloried in a lion-king known as Lorenzo. A drama was got up,
with Lorenzo and a lion as the performers, representing the classical
story of Androcles. We all know the story. A Greek slave, flying from
the cruel tyranny of his Roman master, plunged into a forest; he
encountered a lion who was pained by a thorn in his foot. Androcles
extracted the thorn, and won the animal's gratitude. Being recaptured,
Androcles was condemned to be torn to pieces by a lion. The veritable
lion which he had befriended happened to be the one caught and brought
to the amphitheatre for this dread purpose. The lion knew Androcles
instantly, came up to him, licked his hand, and shewed unmistakable
signs of satisfaction. This bit of classicality was in a humble way
imitated by Lorenzo and the menagerie lion. A lion-keeper, not a
lion-king, was killed at Astley's some fifteen or sixteen years ago.
A lion that had been honoured with the name of _Havelock_ one night
wrenched off the bars of his cage, and with three others escaped into
the arena. Havelock sprang at the unfortunate keeper, and killed him
instantly.