[Illustration: "MY SON, BE OF GOOD CHEER!"
(_A Torture by Hope._)]
_A Torture by Hope._
FROM THE FRENCH OF VILLIERS DE L'ISLE-ADAM.
[COUNT VILLIERS DE L'ISLE-ADAM, who lives at Paris, where he edits
the _Revue des Lettres et des Arts_, is one of several living
French writers who have made a special study of short stories. He
is a highly original writer, and, although as yet quite unknown to
English readers, an extremely powerful one. Many of his stories are
such as could have been written by no one but himself; but probably
he approaches more nearly to Edgar Allan Poe than to any other
English author.]
Below the vaults of the _Official_ of Saragossa one nightfall long ago,
the venerable Pedro Arbuez d'Espila, sixth Prior of the Dominicans of
Segovia, third Grand Inquisitor of Spain--followed by a _fra redemptor_
(master-torturer), and preceded by two familiars of the Holy Office
holding lanterns--descended towards a secret dungeon. The lock of a
massive door creaked; they entered a stifling _in pace_, where the
little light that came from above revealed an instrument of torture
blackened with blood, a chafing-dish, and a pitcher. Fastened to
the wall by heavy iron rings, on a mass of filthy straw, secured by
fetters, an iron circlet about his neck, sat a man in rags: it was
impossible to guess at his age.
This prisoner was no other than Rabbi Aser Abarbanel, a Jew of Aragon,
who, on an accusation of usury and pitiless contempt of the poor, had
for more than a year undergone daily torture. In spite of all, "his
blind obstinacy being as tough as his skin," he had refused to abjure.
Proud of his descent and his ancestors--for all Jews worthy of the name
are jealous of their race--he was descended, according to the Talmud,
from Othoniel, and consequently from Ipsiboe, wife of this last Judge
of Israel, a circumstance which had sustained his courage under the
severest of the incessant tortures.
It was, then, with tears in his eyes at the thought that so stedfast
a soul was excluded from salvation, that the venerable Pedro Arbuez
d'Espila, approaching the quivering Rabbi, pronounced the following
words:--
"My son, be of good cheer; your trials here below are about to cease.
If, in presence of such obstinacy, I have had to permit, though
with sighs, the employment of severe measures, my task of paternal
correction has its limits. You are the barren fig-tree, that, found so
oft without fruit, incurs the danger of being dried up by the
roots ... but it is for God alone to decree concerning your soul.
Perhaps the Infinite Mercy will shine upon you at the last moment! Let
us hope so. There _are_ instances. May it be so! Sleep, then, this
evening in peace. To-morrow you will take part in the _auto da fé_,
that is to say, you will be exposed to the _quemadero_, the brazier
premonitory of the eternal flame. It burns, you are aware, at a certain
distance, my son; and death takes, in coming, two hours at least, often
three, thanks to the moistened and frozen clothes with which we take
care to preserve the forehead and the heart of the holocausts. You will
be only forty-three. Consider, then, that, placed in the last rank,
you will have the time needful to invoke God, to offer unto Him that
baptism of fire which is of the Holy Spirit. Hope, then, in the Light,
and sleep."
As he ended this discourse, Dom Arbuez--who had motioned the wretched
man's fetters to be removed--embraced him tenderly. Then came the turn
of the _fra redemptor_, who, in a low voice, prayed the Jew to pardon
what he had made him endure in the effort to redeem him; then the two
familiars clasped him in their arms: their kiss, through their cowls,
was unheard. The ceremony at an end, the captive was left alone in the
darkness.
Rabbi Aser Abarbanel, his lips parched, his face stupefied by
suffering, stared, without any particular attention, at the closed
door. Closed? The word, half unknown to himself, awoke a strange
delusion in his confused thoughts. He fancied he had seen, for one
second, the light of the lanterns through the fissure between the sides
of this door. A morbid idea of hope, due to the enfeeblement of his
brain, took hold on him. He dragged himself towards this strange thing
he had seen; and, slowly inserting a finger, with infinite precautions,
into the crack, he pulled the door towards him. Wonder of wonders! By
some extraordinary chance the familiar who had closed it had turned the
great key a little before it had closed upon its jambs of stone. So,
the rusty bolt not having entered its socket, the door rolled back into
the cell.
The Rabbi ventured to look out.
By means of a sort of livid obscurity he distinguished, first of all, a
half-circle of earthy walls, pierced by spiral stairways, and, opposite
to him, five or six stone steps, dominated by a sort of black porch,
giving access to a vast corridor, of which he could only see, from
below, the nearest arches.
Stretching himself along, he crawled to the level of this threshold.
Yes, it was indeed a corridor, but of boundless length. A faint
light--a sort of dream-light--was cast over it; lamps suspended to the
arched roof, turned, by intervals, the wan air blue; the far distance
was lost in shadow. Not a door visible along all this length! On
one side only, to the left, small holes, covered with a network of
bars, let a feeble twilight through the depths of the wall--the light
of sunset apparently, for red gleams fell at long intervals on the
flag-stones. And how fearful a silence!... Yet there--there in the
depths of the dim distance--the way might lead to liberty! The wavering
hope of the Jew was dogged, for it was the last.
Without hesitation he ventured forth, keeping close to the side of
the light-holes, hoping to render himself indistinguishable from the
darksome colour of the long walls. He advanced slowly, dragging himself
along the ground, forcing himself not to cry out when one of his
wounds, recently opened, sent a sharp pang through him.
[Illustration: "IT WAS A FAMILIAR HURRYING ALONG."]
All of a sudden the beat of a sandal, coming in his direction, echoed
along the stone passage. A trembling fit seized him, he choked with
anguish, his sight grew dim. So this, no doubt, was to be the end! He
squeezed himself, doubled up on his hands and knees, into a recess,
and, half dead with terror, waited.
It was a familiar hurrying along. He passed rapidly, carrying
an instrument for tearing out the muscles, his cowl lowered; he
disappeared. The violent shock which the Rabbi had received had half
suspended the functions of life; he remained for nearly an hour unable
to make a single movement. In the fear of an increase of torments if
he were caught, the idea came to him of returning to his cell. But the
old hope chirped in his soul--the divine "Perhaps," the comforter in
the worst of distresses. A miracle had taken place! There was no more
room for doubt. He began again to crawl towards the possible escape.
Worn out with suffering and with hunger, trembling with anguish, he
advanced. The sepulchral corridor seemed to lengthen out mysteriously.
And he, never ceasing his slow advance, gazed forward through the
darkness, on, on, where there _must_ be an outlet that should save him.
But, oh! steps sounding again; steps, this time, slower, more sombre.
The forms of two Inquisitors, robed in black and white, and wearing
their large hats with rounded brims, emerged into the faint light. They
talked in low voices, and seemed to be in controversy on some important
point, for their hands gesticulated.
At this sight Rabbi Aser Abarbanel closed his eyes, his heart beat as
if it would kill him, his rags were drenched with the cold sweat of
agony; motionless, gasping, he lay stretched along the wall, under the
light of one of the lamps--motionless, imploring the God of David.
As they came opposite to him the two Inquisitors stopped under
the light of the lamp, through a mere chance, no doubt, in their
discussion. One of them, listening to his interlocutor, looked straight
at the Rabbi. Under this gaze--of which he did not at first notice the
vacant expression--the wretched man seemed to feel the hot pincers
biting into his poor flesh; so he was again to become a living wound, a
living woe! Fainting, scarce able to breathe, his eyelids quivering, he
shuddered as the robe grazed him. But--strange at once and natural--the
eyes of the Inquisitor were evidently the eyes of a man profoundly
preoccupied with what he was going to say in reply, absorbed by what
he was listening to; they were fixed, and seemed to look at the Jew
_without seeing him_.
[Illustration: "THEY HAD NOT SEEN HIM!"]
And indeed, in a few minutes, the two sinister talkers went on their
way, slowly, still speaking in low voices, in the direction from which
the prisoner had come. They had not seen him! And it was so, that,
in the horrible disarray of his sensations, his brain was traversed
by this thought: "Am I already dead, so that no one sees me?" A
hideous impression drew him from his lethargy. On gazing at the wall,
exactly opposite to his face, he fancied he saw, over against his, two
ferocious eyes observing him! He flung back his head in a blind and
sudden terror; the hair started upright upon his head. But no, no.
He put out his hand, and felt along the stones. What he saw was the
_reflection_ of the eyes of the Inquisitor still left upon his pupils,
and which he had refracted upon two spots of the wall.
Forward! He must hasten towards that end that he imagined (fondly, no
doubt) to mean deliverance; towards those shadows from which he was no
more than thirty paces, or so, distant. He started once more--crawling
on hands and knees and stomach--upon his dolorous way, and he was soon
within the dark part of the fearful corridor.
All at once the wretched man felt the sensation of cold _upon_ his
hands that he placed on the flag-stones; it was a strong current
which came from under a little door at the end of the passage. O God,
if this door opened on the outer world! The whole being of the poor
prisoner was overcome by a sort of vertigo of hope. He examined the
door from top to bottom without being able to distinguish it completely
on account of the dimness around him. He felt over it. No lock, not
a bolt! A latch! He rose to his feet; the latch yielded beneath his
finger; the silent door opened before him.
"Hallelujah!" murmured the Rabbi, in an immense sigh, as he gazed at
what stood revealed to him from the threshold.
The door opened upon gardens, under a night of stars--upon spring,
liberty, life! The gardens gave access to the neighbouring country that
stretched away to the sierras, whose sinuous white lines stood out in
profile on the horizon. There lay liberty! Oh, to fly! He would run all
night under those woods of citrons, whose perfume intoxicated him. Once
among the mountains, he would be saved. He breathed the dear, holy air;
the wind re-animated him, his lungs found free play. He heard, in his
expanding heart, the "Lazarus, come forth!" And, to give thanks to God
who had granted him this mercy, he stretched forth his arms before him,
lifting his eyes to the firmament in an ecstasy.
And then he seemed to see the shadow of his arms returning upon
himself; he seemed to feel those shadow-arms surround, enlace him, and
himself pressed tenderly against some breast. A tall figure, indeed,
was opposite to him. Confidently he lowered his eyes upon this figure,
and remained gasping, stupefied, with staring eyes and mouth drivelling
with fright.
Horror! He was in the arms of the Grand Inquisitor himself, the
venerable Pedro Arbuez d'Espila, who gazed at him with eyes full of
tears, like a good shepherd who has found the lost sheep.
The sombre priest clasped the wretched Jew against his heart with
so fervent a transport of charity that the points of the monacal
hair-cloth rasped against the chest of the Dominican. And, while the
Rabbi Aser Abarbanel, his eyes convulsed beneath his eyelids, choked
with anguish between the arms of the ascetic Dom Arbuez, realising
confusedly _that all the phases of the fatal evening had been only a
calculated torture, that of Hope!_ the Grand Inquisitor, with a look of
distress, an accent of poignant reproach, murmured in his ear, with the
burning breath of much fasting:--"What! my child! on the eve, perhaps,
of salvation ... you would then leave us?"
[Illustration]
_How the Blind are Educated._
BY EDWARD SALMON.
[Illustration]
How many of the thousands who go every year to the Crystal Palace
remember, or even know, that hard by is an institution which should
claim the support of all who have hearts to feel for the afflictions
of their fellows? Perhaps if some of us, on pleasure bent, knew as
much of the working of the Royal Normal College for the Blind as we do
of the neighbouring giant palace of glass, we should appreciate the
blessing of sight at a truer value. It is to be feared that few who
go through life noting its facts, observing the beauties of Nature,
regarding the faces of those they love, and transacting their private
business without help from other people's eyes, give the thought they
ought to the precious nature of the vision they boast, however limited
it may be. Still fewer are they who take the trouble to inquire what is
being done for those who share not the glories of God's light. Yet to
be plunged in a lifelong darkness; to be doomed, whilst breath lasts,
to a constant round of blind man's bluff; to be able to walk, but not
to see where one is going; to be able to talk, but not to know, by the
expression of another's face, whether one's remarks are welcomed or
not; to be able to listen, and not to watch the speaker--in a word, to
be robbed of half life's joys, is surely a fate which should command
sympathy, prompt, practical, and universal.
The writer of this paper has, during the last twelve or thirteen years,
been more or less intimately associated with the blind. Nothing ever
strikes him as more extraordinary than the genuine happiness of most of
them. What ought, it would seem, to have proved a crushing blow, has
apparently had little or no effect on the brightness of their lives.
Nor does the infirmity prove any great bar to their independence. Think
of, among many others, Milton undertaking his "Paradise Lost," his
history of England, and his Latin dictionary after he became blind;
of Philip Bourke Marston--whose sorrows were not primarily due to his
affliction--mastering the typewriter, so that he could communicate with
his friends and produce his poems without the aid of an amanuensis; of
Henry Fawcett, who refused to allow the accident which cost him his
sight, to change his life, and who not only kept up his riding and his
fishing, but won his way to Cabinet rank. To men like Mr. Fawcett, no
doubt the possession of a life's partner means much, and indeed ample
material exists for an interesting article on the wives of blind men,
who have been to them what Francis Huber's was to him--"A good pair of
eyes, a right hand in all his troubles, and a light for his darkest
days."
We are, however, not now concerned with blind men but with blind boys
and girls, and with those especially who are receiving their education
at the Royal Normal College at Upper Norwood. This institution owes its
existence to two men, whose efforts on behalf of their fellow-sufferers
cannot be too gratefully acknowledged--to the late Dr. Armitage, and to
Dr. Campbell, the president, whose portrait, together with a picture of
the college, is shown at the head of this paper. The meeting of these
gentlemen in London some twenty years ago revolutionised the whole
system of education for the sightless. Dr. Armitage spared no trouble,
no money, no time to advance the interests of the blind, and it was a
fortunate circumstance which threw one so ready to place his energy
and his wealth at their disposal, in contact with another who, like
Dr. Campbell, wanted only such support to enable him to enter on the
experiment of helping the blind to take their part in life's battle
with the confidence and the same chances of success and independence as
the seeing. How completely they worked together is shown by a little
anecdote which Dr. Campbell is fond of relating. They had been to a
conference at York, and, as was their custom, travelled third-class.
Some other congressmen, with firstclass tickets, were considerably
astonished, and exclaimed:--
"What, are you going third-class?"
Dr. Armitage's reply was characteristic of the practical and cheery
kindliness of the man.
"Campbell and I have too many children to be able to afford to travel
first," he said.
"Have you a large family, doctor?" asked one of his friends in surprise.
"Yes," he answered, "our English family alone numbers about 32,000, and
they have relatives in all parts of the world."
The moral was plain. The few shillings Dr. Armitage and his colleague
were saving, were destined to assist the work of amelioration, and the
gentlemen paid them a chivalrous and graceful compliment by exchanging
their tickets and travelling in the same compartment with the two
benefactors and servants of blind humanity.
[Illustration: THE LATE DR. ARMITAGE.]
To such self-denying spirits as these is England indebted for the
institution which forms the subject of this paper. The _régime_ adopted
by Dr. Campbell--who by the way it should be said is an American--was
flat rebellion against the systems previously in vogue, and still
maintained by other bodies. Dr. Campbell's belief in physical training
amounts to a religion. He does everything with reference to it and
it alone. A quarter of a century ago he himself was to have died of
consumption, but what did he do? Quietly sit down and wait for the end
to come? No; blind as he was, he took the boat to Europe and climbed
Mont Blanc. There are a good many thousands in the world who would
like to have the health he enjoys to-day. What physical exercise
has done for him, he believes it will invariably do for his pupils.
Determination to conquer obstacles is the only thing which will make
a two-legged creature a man or woman, he says; determination is only
possible to a vigorous and healthy mind; a vigorous and healthy mind
can only come of a vigorous and healthy body; and a man who has not
been trained physically, is, to Dr. Campbell, an engine without motive
power. The outcome of the adoption of such ideas is that the blind
boys and girls at the Normal College, like Dr. Campbell himself,
are selfreliant, cheerful, and healthy, and seen trotting about the
beautiful grounds of the College, no one would ever think they are
sightless. The manner in which Dr. Campbell leads the way from his
house to any part of the grounds is somewhat disquieting to those who
do not know him. He walks without stick, and without stumbling, and
runs up and down flights of steps without troubling even to grasp the
rail at the side. How can he tell when he reaches a corner or the top
of a flight of steps, to tumble down which would be to break his neck?
He learns where he is by the most ingenious contrivance imaginable.
Wherever there is a turning, or an obstacle, or a step which might
prove a source of danger or embarrassment, the asphalted pathway is
slightly raised. It is high enough to prevent one's stepping over it
without noticing it; it is too low to cause one to catch one's toe and
trip up. Hence, it is only necessary for the blind promenader to keep
his or her wits moderately alive to be able to go wherever he or she
pleases in perfect ease and safety.
The Armitage Gymnasium, which we visit first, is declared by an expert
to be one of the most complete he has ever seen. Lads of all ages are
going through every form of exercise; here two or three are vaulting
the horse with a neatness incredible almost to those who have not seen
it; there another is working his way along the parallel bars; here
one stretches himself at length on the long incline, a machine used
for pulling up one's own weight, for strengthening the muscles and
broadening the chest; there another turns a nautical wheel or is doing
a mile or two on a home trainer. This last is calculated to inspire
more enthusiasm among the lads than any other athletic or gymnastic
feat. Ordinary home trainers, of course, have a dial which indicates
the distance ridden. In order that his boys, even in such a matter,
should be made as independent of other people's eyes, as it is the
object of the school to make them in all details of life, Dr. Campbell
has had fitted to the machine a bell which strikes at the completion of
every quarter of a mile. How this broad-shouldered, strong-limbed lad
astride it works away with might and main, bent, apparently, on making
a record; how keenly he enjoys the effort, and how utterly and happily
oblivious he seems of the fact that he is not as the majority of his
fellows are!
[Illustration: RINKING.]
From the boys' gymnasium let us make our way to the girls', where
roller-skating is going on. It is an apartment some 24 feet long by
some 18 wide. Here are a dozen or more girls moving on the tiny wheels
rapidly round and round. They touch neither the wall nor the seats by
the wall, whilst the immunity from collisions induces one to exclaim:
"Surely here we are not in the presence of the totally blind, whatever
may have been the case in the gymnasium." We are, indeed. But how is
it these sightless young ladies move so rapidly, and yet with a safety
and precision which might make their seeing sisters envious of their
skill? Solely by instinct and practice. When roller-skating was first
introduced, Dr. Campbell had electric bells ringing on the walls, but
he has now accustomed his pupils to do without these disturbing guides,
and for all the spectator can see they find no sort of inconvenience
from their reliance on their own senses. Here they go two and two,
three and three, hands locked in hands, with smiling faces bespeaking
infinite enjoyment. Nor does their accomplishment on the skates begin
and end in what we now see. They have been trained with the most
perfect care, and are capable of going through the most involved
manoeuvres. Those who observe them skating in lines, parting, wheeling,
crossing and recrossing each other's paths, may imagine that this sort
of performance is only possible in their own rink, but last year I had
a privileged opportunity, at St. James's Hall, of seeing that they
are as much under control in a strange place and in the presence of a
considerable public as in their own grounds. Moving solely by word of
command, they go within a few inches of obstacles in entire safety. It
is a performance, the wonder of which can only be appreciated by those
who have watched it.
[Illustration: ON THE LAKE.]
[Illustration: CYCLING.]
Making our way now towards the other end of the beautiful grounds
of the College, we come to a small lake which Dr. Campbell has
constructed. On it is a boat containing eight girls, who dip their oars
"with a long, long pull and a strong, strong pull," not unworthy of the
men who sang to the midship-mite. Dr. Campbell--who stops short only
at pure miracles--does not expect a blind child to steer a boat round
and about a lake. Consequently a person with eyes occupies the stern
seat. So, too, with tricycling. Some people, carried off their balance
by the marvels which he introduces to them, have given publicity to the
statement that blind girls and boys go careering away together on a
machine. So they do, but they are invariably steered by someone who can
see. To have such a person with every blind rider, however, would mean
the employment of an immense number of people. An eight-in-hand is,
therefore, devised, and this machine may often be seen on the country
roads of England, carrying its seven sightless riders. They go out for
a twenty-mile spin, have tea at a country inn, and come back tired and
ready for bed. Dr. Campbell and his good wife are both riders, whilst
Dr. Campbell and his son have together done their 1,000 miles on the
tricycle. The Doctor gives an amusing account of a tour in Norway. His
tricycle was probably among the first seen by the Norwegian peasant,
and he relates how one man with a pony-cart on a country road followed
them for hours, and when they put up at an inn and wanted water, how he
ran off to get some from the mountain spring as joyously as though the
tricyclists had been creatures of a celestial world, and how, when they
were having their feed at the inn, this rapt admirer rang the bell of
the machine, to the delight of a crowd of enthusiastic onlookers.
Other forms of outdoor amusement and recreation to be seen at the
College are swinging, running, skittles, and the rocking-boat.
Ingenuity is the characteristic of everything we examine. How, for
instance, can the blind play skittles, you may well ask? Thus: The
men are placed at the end of a long platform, and are prevented from
rolling away by a cord which passes through a hole in the board and
holds them where they fall. The ball having rolled to the end of
the platform, drops over on to a slope, and returns to the players.
So having made a shot, they can find out how many men have been
bowled over, and there is never any risk of losing the ball. Whilst
several boys amuse themselves in this way, a dozen girls get into the
rocking-boat close by, and as they swing themselves backwards and
forwards sing softly and melodiously to the roll of the boat.
[Illustration: THE ROCKING-BOAT.]
Even now we have not exhausted the possibilities of enjoyment which the
grounds afford the pupils of the College. During the summer time many
of the girls have their little plot of flower garden. They take the
greatest interest in the cultivation of plants which they cannot see,
and to place in their bosoms a flower which they have grown themselves,
is one of the delights of their lives.
[Illustration: THE KINDERGARTEN.]
So much for what Dr. Campbell properly regards as the generation of
the motive power of his young people's lives. The steam being ready,
along what lines does he make the human engine travel? We start with
the Kindergarten class. Half a dozen little girls are sitting at a
table interweaving slit paper which presently is to decorate baskets
and other things. One is a mite recently from Port Elizabeth, South
Africa. She has mastered the theory of her work, and her little fingers
only need practice to make them as efficient as those of her older
companions. In this room is a glass case containing some clay models
of pea-pods, buttercups, and other things that grow--which one would
imagine they could never readily grasp in detail--every one executed
by the pupils of the College. Even a small dog has not proved beyond
the powers of these magic modellers. From the Kindergarten to the
Geography class. Embossed maps lie on the table, and the pupils put
their fingers on The Wash in England, or on the Andes, or on Tasmania,
as quickly almost as one's eyes can travel from point to point. They
answer questions as to what grows in a certain place, or who discovered
it, accurately and readily. Other classes are learning geometry, the
rudiments of agriculture, French and arithmetic. The reading class is
one of the most interesting. Books in the Braille system lie before the
pupils, who are running their fingers deftly over the mass of dots, and
delivering passages from "Hamlet," with sufficient hesitation to prove
the genuineness of the reading, and yet with an intelligence not always
displayed by those with eyes who read Shakespeare aloud. Now and again
the pupil comes to a word such as "Fortinbras," and it gives her just
a moment's pause, creating an impression on one's mind of difficulties
overcome, which only _naïveté_ or the highest art could convey.
Some idea of the extraordinary pains necessary to teach the Braille
system--and it is unquestionably the best invented--may be gleaned from
the fact that it has to be written backwards. For instance, the paper
is placed between two strips of brass, the under strip being impressed
with a succession of holes, and the upper divided into small squares
through which the stylus or punch is passed.
[Illustration: CARPENTERING AND PIANO-MENDING.]
As the writing has to be done from the back of the paper, it is easy
to understand that the reading runs in the opposite direction--a
circumstance adding immensely to the labour of the learner. All sorts
of contractions have of course been adopted, and the blind write
from dictation certainly as fluently as the ordinary school-boy, and
they can read what they have written more fluently, for the average
school-boy reads things better than his caligraphy. In the same way
the most difficult sums are done by means of a type board, and it
simply astounding how rapidly the pupils write down figures delivered
as units and read them off as billions, millions, or hundreds of
thousands. The angle of a cypher, which might play the part of a hyphen
in ordinary type, alone tells them what numeral is intended. As one
watches this one realises the force of Mr. W. W. Fenn's words:--"Give
the blind man in his fingers an equivalent for his eyes, and the
darkness in which he lives is dispelled." On this condition the Normal
School at Norwood is a veritable creator of light.
Let us now take a glance at the workshop, where the boys are using
plane and chisel, pointing and dovetailing pieces of wood which not
only answer ends in themselves, but the treatment of which serves to
make the blind useful with their hands. They seldom cut their fingers,
extra care no doubt giving greater immunity. Another workshop near at
hand is occupied by young men perfecting themselves in all the branches
of pianoforte making and tuning. They learn to do everything, from
tightening a wire to putting a new one in, and hundreds of testimonials
from those who have employed blind tuners speak for the thoroughness
with which they do their work. To enable the learners to familiarise
themselves with the parts of an instrument, Messrs. Broadwood made
specially for them a model which can be taken to pieces and put
together again till they know all about it. The interest which Messrs.
Broadwood have shown in the College has assumed very practical shape,
and it is noteworthy that among the employés of the firm is an old
pupil of Dr. Campbell's.
[Illustration: Musica: Lux in Tenebris.]
Music of course is the principal means of gaining a livelihood with the
blind. An organ recital and some glees fittingly bring this succession
of wonders to a close so far as the visit to the College is concerned,
but really only lands us on the verge of the great question of life
after the College training is ended. Throughout the world blind
musicians, who owe their education and their skill to Dr. Campbell and
his wife, are earning their own livelihoods. In 1886 the aggregate
earnings of ex-pupils amounted to nearly £10,000. Last year the sum was
£15,000. This great result, however, has been accomplished in the teeth
of a mountain of prejudice, ignorance, and I must add injustice, to
surmount which has cost Dr. Campbell a mightier effort than the ascent
of Mont Blanc. All he asks on behalf of his pupils is a fair field: he
wants no favour. Two instances of the difficulty of securing even this
may be given. An organist was wanted for a large church; Dr. Campbell
was anxious that one of his pupils should compete. From the first the
authorities declared it was impossible a blind man could hold the
position, and to make it impossible the candidates were to be called
on to play any two tunes from the hymn-book which any two people in
the congregation might select. Here was a test which it was believed
would defeat the blind man's chances. It reached Dr. Campbell's ears,
and he forthwith obtained a list of the 250 tunes which had been
most sung in that particular church during the last few years, set
his man to translate their score into his own Braille, and to master
them by heart. The day of trial came, and the first hymn called for
was played by the blind candidate not merely as it was written, but
with variations. The authorities marvelled, but said it was chance.
The second was called, and still the blind man was ready. "It's a
miracle!" was the exclamation, but the blind man won, and holds to-day,
the position competed for against not only the world but the world's
uncharitableness.
A second instance is equally eloquent of the completeness with which
these sightless lads are equipped by Dr. Campbell to battle with the
world. An organist and choirmaster was wanted, and the idea of putting
a blind man up for the post was scouted as ludicrous. In the organ part
of the business, the blind candidate came out indisputably first.
"But," said to him the gentleman with whom the appointment rested, "you
could not possibly teach our boys."
"Is it fair to say I could not till you have given me an opportunity of
showing whether I could or not?"
The only way to dispose of the claims of this sightless irrepressible
was to have the boys in. He immediately put them through their
exercises, and handled them in a way which argued greater knowledge of
what is wanted than most seeing masters display. Some even of the rival
candidates declared the blind man to be the best among them, and he
secured the appointment, to the advantage of all concerned.
In the old days the poor blind were educated as beggars, and the more
intelligent of the indigent blind were appropriately nicknamed by
Theodore Hook the indignant blind. Dr. Campbell does not mind where
his pupils come from. Whatever they may be when they are admitted to
the College, there is only one thing to be said of nearly every one
of those who leave it--they are ladies and gentlemen in education and
deportment, equally able to earn their own living and to grace the
society in which they may find themselves. Such a result has been
accomplished by terribly hard work. Like Milton, Dr. Campbell "steers
right onward." He is a sort of Napier, and only expects others to
do what he does not shrink from himself. He is the most kindly of
martinets. Blindness with him is no reason for non-punctuality, and
if a boy is late in getting out of bed, he orders him to retire at
night half an hour earlier, so that he may have the sleep he seems to
need. Such punishment is, we may be sure, felt all the more keenly,
because the doctor himself sets the example of what is right. For
instance, every boy is supposed to be ready for a swim in the splendid
bath of the College at a certain hour, and he cannot excuse himself,
even to his own mind, for being absent or late on the score that the
Doctor enforces rules he does not carry out, for every morning Dr.
Campbell takes his plunge with his scholars. He is determined that in
everything possible his boys and girls shall go forth into the world
unsurpassed by their more fortunate brothers and sisters. His efforts
to rob the blind of any sense of dependence on others, which they find
so humiliating--efforts which Dr. Armitage fostered with such lavish
generosity--and to make them useful citizens instead of the helpless
recipients of local doles, are deserving of a support which has hardly
been accorded to them. The Royal Normal College for the Blind is a
wondrous illustration of the adage that even the darkest cloud has its
silver lining. Here, at least, we find the drawbacks consequent on one
of the most appalling of human infirmities reduced to a minimum. God
alone can restore the light of day to the brain from which it is now
excluded, but that He has delegated to man the power to do almost all
else, let the College we have now described so fully bear witness.
[Illustration]
_Out of a Pioneer's Trunk._
BY BRET HARTE.
It was a slightly cynical, but fairly good-humoured crowd that had
gathered before a warehouse on Long Wharf in San Francisco, one
afternoon in the summer of '51. Although the occasion was an auction,
the bidders' chances more than usually hazardous, and the season and
locality famous for reckless speculation, there was scarcely any
excitement among the bystanders, and a lazy, half-humorous curiosity
seemed to have taken the place of any zeal for gain.
[Illustration: "IT WAS AN AUCTION OF UNCLAIMED TRUNKS AND BOXES."]
It was an auction of unclaimed trunks and boxes--the personal luggage
of early emigrants--which had been left on storage in hulk or warehouse
at San Francisco, while the owner was seeking his fortune in the mines.
The difficulty and expense of transport, often obliging the gold-seeker
to make part of his journey on foot, restricted him to the smallest
_impedimenta_, and that of a kind not often found in the luggage of
ordinary civilisation. As a consequence, during the emigration of
'49, he was apt on landing to avail himself of the invitation usually
displayed on some of the doors of the rude hostelries on the shore:
"Rest for the Weary and Storage for Trunks." In a majority of cases
he never returned to claim his stored property. Enforced absence,
protracted equally by good or evil fortune, accumulated the high
storage charges until they usually far exceeded the actual value of the
goods; sickness, further emigration, or death also reduced the number
of possible claimants, and that more wonderful human frailty--absolute
forgetfulness of deposited possessions--combined together to leave the
bulk of the property in the custodian's hands. Under an understood
agreement they were always sold at public auction after a given time.
Although the contents of some of the trunks were exposed, it was found
more in keeping with the public sentiment to sell the trunks _unlocked_
and _unopened_. The element of curiosity was kept up from time to time
by the incautious disclosures of the lucky or unlucky purchaser, and
general bidding thus encouraged--except when the speculator, with the
true gambling instinct, gave no indication in his face of what was
drawn in this lottery. Generally, however, some suggestion in the
exterior of the trunk, a label or initials; some conjectural knowledge
of its former owner, or the idea that he might be secretly present in
the hope of getting his property back for less than the accumulated
dues, kept up the bidding and interest.
A modest-looking, well-worn portmanteau had been just put up at a
small, opening bid, when Harry Flint joined the crowd. The young man
had arrived a week before at San Francisco friendless and penniless,
and had been forced to part with his own effects to procure necessary
food and lodging while looking for an employment. In the irony of
fate that morning the proprietors of a dry-goods store, struck with
his good looks and manners, had offered him a situation, if he could
make himself more presentable to their fair clients. Harry Flint was
gazing half abstractedly, half hopelessly, at the portmanteau without
noticing the auctioneer's persuasive challenge. In his abstraction he
was not aware that the auctioneer's assistant was also looking at him
curiously, and that possibly his dejected and half-clad appearance
had excited the attention of one of the cynical bystanders, who was
exchanging a few words with the assistant. He was, however, recalled to
himself a moment later when the portmanteau was knocked down at fifteen
dollars, and considerably startled when the assistant placed it at his
feet with a grim smile. "That's your property, Fowler, and I reckon you
look as if you wanted it back bad."
"But--there's some mistake," stammered Flint. "I didn't bid."
"No, but Tom Flynn did for you. You see, I spotted you from the
first, and told Flynn I reckoned you were one of those chaps who came
back from the mines dead broke. And he up and bought your things for
you--like a square man. That's Flynn's style, if he is a gambler."
"But," persisted Flint, "this never was my property. My name isn't
Fowler, and I never left anything here."
The assistant looked at him with a grim, half-credulous, half-scornful
smile. "Have it your own way," he said, "but I oughter tell ye, old
man, that I'm the warehouse clerk, and I remember _you_. I'm here
for that purpose. But as that thar valise is bought and paid for by
somebody else and given to you, it's nothing more to me. Take or leave
it."
[Illustration: "HE EXAMINED ITS CONTENTS."]
The ridiculousness of quarrelling over the mere form of his good
fortune here struck Flint, and, as his abrupt benefactor had as
abruptly disappeared, he hurried off with his prize. Reaching his
cheap lodging-house, he examined its contents. As he had surmised, it
contained a full suit of clothing of the better sort, and suitable to
his urban needs. There were a few articles of jewellery, which he put
religiously aside. There were some letters, which seemed to be of a
purely business character. There were a few daguerreotypes of pretty
faces, one of which was singularly fascinating to him. But there
was another, of a young man, which startled him with its marvellous
resemblance _to himself_! In a flash of intelligence he understood it
all now. It was the likeness of the former owner of the trunk, for
whom the assistant had actually mistaken him! He glanced hurriedly at
the envelopes of the letters. They were addressed to Shelby Fowler, the
name by which the assistant had just called him. The mystery was plain
now. And for the present he could fairly accept his good luck, and
trust to later fortune to justify himself.
Transformed in his new garb, he left his lodgings to present himself
once more to his possible employer. His way led past one of the large
gambling saloons. It was yet too early to find the dry-goods trader
disengaged; perhaps the consciousness of more decent, civilised garb
emboldened him to mingle more freely with strangers, and he entered
the saloon. He was scarcely abreast of one of the faro tables when man
suddenly leaped up with an oath and discharged a revolver full in his
face. The shot missed. Before his unknown assailant could fire again
the astonished Flint had closed with him, and instinctively clutched
the weapon. A brief but violent struggle ensued. Flint felt his
strength failing him, when suddenly a look of astonishment came into
the furious eyes of his adversary, and the man's grasp mechanically
relaxed. The half-freed pistol, thrown upwards by this movement, was
accidentally discharged point blank into his temples, and he fell dead.
No one in the crowd had stirred or interfered.
"You've done for French Pete this time, Mr. Fowler," said a voice at
his elbow. He turned gaspingly, and recognised his strange benefactor,
Flynn. "I call you all to witness, gentlemen," continued the gambler,
turning dictatorially to the crowd, "that this man was _first_ attacked
and was _unarmed_." He lifted Flint's limp and empty hands and then
pointed to the dead man, who was still grasping the weapon. "Come!" He
caught the half-paralysed arm of Flint and dragged him into the street.
"But," stammered the horrified Flint, as he was borne along, "what does
it all mean? What made that man attack me?"
"I reckon it was a case of shooting on sight, Mr. Fowler; but he missed
it by not waiting to see if you were armed. It wasn't the square thing,
and you're all right with the crowd now, whatever he might have had
agin you."
"But," protested the unhappy Flint, "I never laid eyes on the man
before, and my name isn't Fowler."
Flynn halted, and dragged him in a doorway. "Who the devil are you?" he
asked roughly.
Briefly, passionately, almost hysterically Flint told him his scant
story. An odd expression came over the gambler's face.
[Illustration: "THE SHOT MISSED."]
"Look here," he said abruptly, "I have passed my word to the crowd
yonder that you are a dead-broke miner called Fowler. I allowed that
you might have had some row with that Sydney Duck, Australian Pete, in
the mines. That satisfied them. If I go back now, and say it's a lie,
that your name ain't Fowler, and you never knew who Pete was, they'll
jest pass you over to the police to deal with you, and wash their hands
of it altogether. You may prove to the police who you are, and how that
d---- clerk mistook you, but it will give you trouble. And who is
there here who knows who you really are?"
"No one," said Flint, with sudden hopelessness.
"And you say you're an orphan, and ain't got any relations livin' that
you're beholden to?"
"No one."
"Then, take my advice, and _be_ Fowler, and stick to it! Be Fowler
until Fowler turns up, and thanks you for it; for you've saved Fowler's
life, as Pete would never have funked and lost his grit over Fowler as
he did with you; and you've a right to his name."
He stopped, and the same odd, superstitious look came into his dark
eyes.
"Don't you see what all that means? Well I'll tell you. You're in the
biggest streak of luck a man ever had. You've got the cards in your own
hands! They spell 'Fowler'! Play Fowler first, last, and all the time.
Good-night, and good luck, _Mr. Fowler_."
The next morning's journal contained an account of the justifiable
killing of the notorious desperado and ex-convict, Australian Pete, by
a courageous young miner by the name of Fowler. "An act of firmness
and daring," said _The Pioneer_, "which will go far to counteract the
terrorism produced by those lawless ruffians."
In his new suit of clothes, and with this paper in his hand, Flint
sought the dry goods proprietor--the latter was satisfied and
convinced. That morning Harry Flint began his career as salesman and as
"Shelby Fowler."
* * * * *
From that day Shelby Fowler's career was one of uninterrupted
prosperity. Within the year he became a partner. The same miraculous
fortune followed other ventures later. He was mill owner, mine owner,
bank director--a millionaire! He was popular, the reputation of his
brief achievement over the desperado kept him secure from the attack of
envy and rivalry. He never was confronted by the real Fowler. There was
no danger of exposure by others--the one custodian of his secret, Tom
Flynn, died in Nevada the year following. He had quite forgotten his
youthful past, and even the more recent lucky portmanteau; remembered
nothing, perhaps, but the pretty face of the daguerreotype that had
fascinated him. There seemed to be no reason why he should not live and
die as Shelby Fowler.
His business a year later took him to Europe. He was entering a train
at one of the great railway stations of London, when the porter, who
had just deposited his portmanteau in a compartment, reappeared at the
window followed by a young lady in mourning.
"Beg pardon, sir, but I handed you the wrong portmanteau. That belongs
to this young lady. This is yours."
[Illustration: "THE PORTER REAPPEARED AT THE WINDOW."]
Flint glanced at the portmanteau on the seat before him. It certainly
was not his, although it bore the initials "S. F." He was mechanically
handing it back to the porter, when his eyes fell on the young
lady's face. For an instant he stood petrified. It was the face of
the daguerreotype. "I beg pardon," he stammered, "but are these
your initials?" She hesitated, perhaps it was the abruptness of the
question, but he saw she looked confused.
"No. A friend's."
She disappeared into another carriage, but from that moment Harry
Flint knew that he had no other aim in life but to follow this clue
and the beautiful girl who had dropped it. He bribed the guard at
the next station, and discovered that she was going to York. On their
arrival, he was ready on the platform to respectfully assist her. A few
words disclosed the fact that she was a fellow-countrywoman, although
residing in England, and at present on her way to join some friends at
Harrogate. Her name was West. At the mention of his, he again fancied
she looked disturbed.
They met again and again; the informality of his introduction was
overlooked by her friends, as his assumed name was already respectably
and responsibly known beyond California. He thought no more of his
future. He was in love. He even dared to think it might be returned;
but he felt he had no right to seek that knowledge until he had told
her his real name and how he came to assume another's. He did so
alone--scarcely a month after their first meeting. To his alarm, she
burst into a flood of tears, and showed an agitation that seemed far
beyond any apparent cause. When she had partly recovered, she said, in
a low, frightened voice:
"You are bearing _my brother's_ name. But it was a name that the
unhappy boy had so shamefully disgraced in Australia that he abandoned
it, and, as he lay upon his death-bed, the last act of his wasted life
was to write an imploring letter begging me to change mine too. For the
infamous companion of his crime who had first tempted, then betrayed
him, had possession of all his papers and letters, many of them from
_me_, and was threatening to bring them to our Virginia home and expose
him to our neighbours. Maddened by desperation, the miserable boy twice
attempted the life of the scoundrel, and might have added that blood
guiltiness to his other sins, had he lived. I _did_ change my name to
my mother's maiden one, left the country, and have lived here to escape
the revelations of that desperado, should he fulfil his threat."
In a flash of recollection Flint remembered the startled look that
had come into his assailant's eye after they had clinched. It was the
same man who had too late realised that his antagonist was not Fowler.
"Thank God! you are for ever safe from any exposure from that man,"
he said, gravely, "and the name of Fowler has never been known in
San Francisco save in all respect and honour. It is for you to take
back--fearlessly and alone!"
She did--but not alone, for she shared it with her husband.
[Illustration:
ANECDOTES OF THE WAR PATH
IRVING MONTAGU]
"One never can tell." This is a world of change, and anything beyond
the limits of the most fertile imagination may happen to anyone,
anywhere, at any moment.
Were I a bellicose Bellamy, I might incline towards "Looking backwards"
from the standpoint of a hundred years hence, and thus, posing as a
special of 1991, might sigh for the shortcomings of the past, and
picture myself crossing, on an aërial machine, the erst dark Continent
(now lit by electric light) at a pace which would have even shattered
the nerves of the driver of an old Brighton express--"a ponderous
steam conveyance which, a hundred years ago, succeeded the stage
coach." Again, I might suppose myself sending sketches or despatches
from remote battlefields by means of "the electric communicator," a
coil carried in one's portmanteau, and which, by a simple mechanical
arrangement--one end being secured at the office of your newspaper
in Fleet-street or the Strand--unwinds as you travel, so that,
wherever the fates have destined you to go, you may be in immediate
communication with the editor of the journal you represent; nay, more,
the electric current passing through your pen or pencil, simultaneously
producing copy or sketches with a corresponding pen or pencil at the
other end. I say, were I a sort of bellicose Bellamy, I might compare
the possible perfection of the future with the shortcomings of to-day;
but then, you see, I'm not, and, though quite content to admit that
"one never can tell," I'm still more disposed in these "Anecdotes of
the War-path," by sticking to the practical present, to convey some
idea of the doings of correspondents at the front.
To begin with, an iron constitution is the best basis on which to build
up the war special, whose gifts with pen or pencil will depend entirely
on the diplomacy he possesses by means of which to get to the front
himself, and, at the same time, keep sufficiently in touch with the
rear, to be in perpetual communication with his own headquarters at
home.
I remember how one, otherwise most brilliant Special, whose talent won
for him a reputation which he continues to enjoy, came utterly to grief
through want of that tact which enabled others, during the siege of
Plevna, to get their articles and sketches through. Between the slowly,
very slowly contracting girdle of Muscovite steel which encircled
that place and the Danube, there was a perfectly free communication.
The historic bridge of boats was crossed without difficulty, and,
Roumania being thus reached, one was in direct, uninterrupted
correspondence with the street beloved of Doctor Johnson. The Special
in question, however, being assured by suave, courteous, and in many
cases English-speaking officers, that the Russian Bear was the soul
of honour, and the Russian field-post the most convenient mode of
conveyance, put his despatches into the military post bags at Plevna.
Then, "with a smile that was childlike and bland," did those Muscovite
postal authorities receive them, stamp them officially--and--well,
they were never seen again! Thus was a most daring Special, possessed
of marvellous talent (I will not say if with pen or pencil) recalled
to England, and, in that capacity, lost to the world. He lacked a
diplomatic faculty, without which success is impossible to the war
correspondent.
A case of a camp-kettle, too, comes vividly back to me, in which a man
delayed his departure from London for three days in consequence of some
fad about a peculiar commodity of this kind which was being specially
made for him, and this when Europe was ablaze with war. Through that
confounded camp-kettle he might lose the key to the position, yet
the tinker came in _facile princeps_ and that knight of the pen was
nowhere. Happily, however, "fads" very seldom get to the front at all,
or, if they do, change front themselves soon after their arrival.
It seems to me that the man who would win his spurs on the war-path
must, by being ready to start at any moment, accept the inevitable in
the light of "Kismit," and be prepared to turn circumstances, good,
bad, or indifferent, to the best account possible; he will meet with
fewer difficulties, and be better able to cope with those he does
experience.
By the way, were you ever shadowed? The sensation, novel to begin with,
is trying in the long run, and infinitely less endurable than being
made prisoner of war, pure and simple.
I had this experience shortly after the entry of the Versailles troops
into shattered, still burning, Paris.
My wandering propensities and the notes I from time to time made led
to my being so persecuted that I would have done much to change places
with Peter Schimmel, of shadowless fame. I think my nose, which, in
polite society, might be called _retroussé_, must have suggested the
tip-tilted organ of the typical Teuton, and that hence suspicions of
fresh complications were aroused. Suffice it to say I was shadowed by
a hawk-eyed, hook nosed, beetle-browed, oily-looking, parchment-faced
being, who seemed, by his very pertinacity, becoming my second self. I
hurried from place to place in quest of incident, the pattering feet
of my shadow--if I may so put it--announced his presence everywhere.
I mounted an omnibus, and there was a double ascent up those spiral
steps which led to the roof, that hawk-eyed shade was seated either by
my side or with his back to me. In the evening I strolled down, say,
the Boulevard des Capucines, while, with measured tread, smoking a
cigarette the while, I was followed by the oily one; in short, through
the many occupations of my life he was ever in my wake, till at last
release came.
I was arrested and taken before the Commissary of Police, when it
was discovered I had been mistaken for somebody else, and, with many
apologies and regrets that I was _not_ the rogue I might have been, I
was released, my shadow being "unhooked," so to speak. And now, oddly
enough, I had a morbid satisfaction in remembering the wild-goose
chases I had taken that Government spy--up one street, down another,
away into the suburbs of Paris, back to its centre, only to repeat
the dose when I had time, till, more attenuated and cadaverous than
ever, that hawk-eyed minion of the law could barely drag one leg after
another. Strange as it may seem, when rid of him, I missed him, missed
him awfully, I assure you; feeling quite lonely and incomplete without
him, and should have been almost pleased to have had him tacked on
again.
[Illustration: "A SUBSTANTIAL SHADOW."]
Those Parisian shadows suggest to me a strange shadow pantomime I once
saw in Spain, during the Carlist campaign, at an engagement at Behobie.
The fighting began at about five in the morning in a dense white fog,
when the Carlists made a desperate effort to take that small town from
an inferior but unflinching force. The effect was, on approaching the
scene, most ludicrous. In the first place, one was strangely impressed
by mingled sounds as of the barking of dogs and the quacking of
ducks, which turned out to be only terms of derision which each side
was hurling at the other. Then, on coming closer still, the shadow
pantomime of which I have spoken presented itself, just for all the
world like mimic war on a white sheet, till, the veil of fog lifting,
fighting--literally to the knife--presented itself in all its terrible
reality. Under cover of that fog the Carlist hordes had come down from
their Pyrenean retreats without the aid of those arranged ruses which
the armies of all nations have so often to fall back upon. Amongst
these is the common one, when wind and locality serve, of attacking
under cover of the smoke of burning forests or furze bushes. One ruse
during the siege of Plevna has always struck me in this connection as
having been cleverly conceived.
The Turks, on the occasion of a sortie, secured as many uniforms
of dead Russians as was possible. These they promptly put on, and,
covering their main body, advanced _backwards_, as if retreating
in good order on a strong Russian position. The Turkish officer in
command--understanding the Russian tongue--gave the order to "Retire."
Seeing and hearing this, the Russians, supposing it to be an unexpected
retreat of their own men, made no defence, till, when too late, they
discovered them to be Moslems in Muscovite garb, who, after a most
sanguinary fight, succeeded in occupying the vantage point they had
gained.
The eccentricities of bullets, too, are not a little interesting.
There was a case in Asia Minor of a bullet which made six distinct
holes of entry and exit in a man's body, without materially injuring
him, before it passed away into the open. It may be explained that the
man was in a kneeling position and firing at the time he was struck.
This erratic ball passed first through the biceps of his right arm,
between his ribs, and again through the triceps of his left arm. In
Spain, also, I remember an instance in which a bullet passed through an
officer's chacot, the draught of which stunned him; he was found quite
insensible, though uninjured, while that chacot had been drilled with
the ball which had thus prostrated him. On two occasions I have myself
had similar and most providential escapes--once at a place known as La
Puncha, on the banks of the Bidassoa, where, when sketching for _The
Illustrated London News_, I was brought suddenly to the ground by a
Carlist bullet, _with one leg completely shattered_, but then, you see,
it was the leg of the camp stool on which I was seated; the other was
when Conigsby, _The Times'_ correspondent, and myself were going in a
drosky in the direction of Zimnitza, to join the Russians at Plevna.
Our route lay for some considerable distance along an exposed road by
the side of the Danube, and it was then that the Turkish batteries on
the opposite shore opened a deliberate fire on us with such telling
effect that the back of our conveyance was considerably splintered,
and a portmanteau against which I was leaning completely smashed,
its contents being hardly recognisable. I am reminded, while on this
subject, of how the correspondent to the Macon journal was once in
imminent peril of being blown to atoms, a circumstance to which I was
an eye-witness.
He was about to return through a huge wooden gate into a besieged
Spanish town. During his absence of only about ten minutes, however, a
large mortar had been put in position behind it, and a large roughly
sawn aperture made. Just at the very moment of his return, it was
fired, the draught sending him flying for some considerable distance!
Though within a hair's breadth of death, he was happily only bruised,
while thus unwittingly seeking "the bubble reputation even at the
cannon's mouth." Nor are the eccentricities of shot and shell more
curious than those of cold steel, the most remarkable instance which I
remember being that of a Russian and a Turk, who, meeting, fought to
the death with fixed bayonets in a wood in Anatolia. The fatal thrusts
must have been simultaneous, the strange fact being that both stood,
with their legs much apart, each with his bayonet embedded deeply in
his adversary's breast, for several days, and were to be seen, still
erect, in the attitude of their last terrible death-struggle.
But it's not with men alone that the wanderer on the war-path is in
touch. His faithful ally, the horse, has a share of his sympathy,
specially if in the course of his peregrinations he waded through the
mud to headquarters in Bulgaria in 1877. Facts are stubborn things,
and, when I say it was a matter of statistics that twenty-two thousand
draught and other horses alone fell between Sistova and Plevna from the
combined effect of fatigue and mud, it will be seen that "going to the
front" is as difficult as getting to the rear--touching which, by the
way, I may on another occasion have something interesting to say.
[Illustration: "GOING TO THE FRONT."]
Mud! why, we were in a very sea of mud; it found its way over the tops
of our jack-boots till it saturated our socks, this always happening
when, and it was often, we dismounted to lend a hand at the spokes of
our supply waggon, from the bottom of which came many-coloured streams
of half-diluted coffee, weak tea, and moist, very moist sugar. Crimean
mud is historic, yet one who had gone through that campaign and who was
with me in Bulgaria assured me we ran it very close.
Dead horses were to be seen here, there, and everywhere, some having
died in the most grotesque attitudes, and all the victims of that muddy
deluge. In some cases, reaching as it did to our own horses' girths,
we came to a standstill altogether, and it was only after hiring at
enormous cost many others, to which we sometimes added oxen, that we
could plough our way through it at all to some more elevated spot, with
the prospect on our arrival of descending into an equally deep and
depressing slough of despond within the next five minutes on the other
side.
Did it ever strike you that the mother-in-law is often a
much-misunderstood and under-valued individual?
If great men owe their greatness in many cases to maternal influence,
is it not possible that even the much-derided mother-in-law may
sometimes have had hers, too, on the destinies of mankind? Yet, it
would seem in Servia--at least, when I was there, during that short
but sharp campaign--that the mother-in-law was at a greater discount
than here. And this is my reason--not a bad one, I take it--for coming
to that conclusion. One morning, when in Belgrade, I saw a sturdy Serb
being roughly hustled off to prison. Inquiring the cause, I found he
had been condemned for the murder of his mother-in-law to five years'
penal servitude, but that his conduct had been so exemplary that he had
for some weeks been out on a sort of Servian ticket-of-leave. When I
saw him, however, he had just committed an offence beside which the
"ineffectual fire" of murder paled--he had stolen a leaden spoon from
an ice-shop, and for this theft he was promptly executed the following
morning--by which, I take it, leaden spoons must have been very scarce
in Belgrade at that time, and mothers-in-law very plentiful.
Looking from that capital, which, unpicturesque in itself, is
picturesquely situated at the juncture of the Trave and the Danube,
the panorama presented of the shores of Hungary is most inviting, and
at the time of which I am writing its effectiveness was added to by
a large encampment of Pharaoh Nepeks--Hungarian gipsies. Ever on the
alert for subjects for my pencil, I was not long before I chartered
a small boat, and joined those wanderers, with whose brethren I had
forgathered in many countries, and concerning whom I had written
much and made innumerable sketches, and by whom I had always been
received as a "Romany rye." This, however, was my first acquaintance
with the Pharaoh Nepeks, of whose hospitality I cannot speak too
highly. It appeared, however, that I had arrived at the moment of a
political crisis. What the particular disagreement may have been--not
understanding Romany sufficiently--I am unable to say. I only know that
I had not been there many hours before a wordy warfare led to blows,
and that encampment of about seven or eight hundred gipsies was at
desperate logger-heads. Indeed, I have only on one occasion seen more
frantic hand-to-hand fighting at close quarters in actual war.
Rushing on each other with long-bladed knives, they fought with a skill
which must have been begotten of long practice, and terrible were the
wounds which were presently inflicted; in fact, the matter was looked
on as so serious that troops from the Hungarian garrison of Semlin,
hard by, were sent to put a stop to the disturbance. This at once
caused a diversion. Whatever their intestine troubles may have been,
they were one against the invaders of their camp.
[Illustration: "A NEPEK BEAUTY."]
It was at this moment, fired by the wildest enthusiasm, that a
perfectly bewitching gipsy girl rushed forward and led her tribe
against the common enemy. Bayonets, however, if sometimes brittle, are
often stubborn things, and the steadily advancing lines of Hungarian
troops quieted at last those desperate Nepeks; not, however, before
many were severely wounded and numbers of prisoners taken, amongst whom
I found myself being hurried off to a guard tent, much to my annoyance,
since night was approaching, and I wanted to get back to Belgrade
before sundown. That annoyance, however, was short-lived, since I found
myself placed in the same tent as that lovely young gipsy girl, to
whom I had lost my all-too-susceptible heart an hour ago; indeed, then
it was that I made the rough sketch which illustrates this article.
Her chiselled features, the wildfire in her sloe-black eyes, her
dishevelled hair, and the coins and beads with which those locks were
interwoven, her torn green velvet bodice and coarse salmon-coloured
skirt are all as vividly before me now as then. Nor did she seem averse
to my companionship, especially when she found I could make myself
understood through the medium of two languages--that of Romany, which
is, of course, common to gipsies of all nationalities, and that of the
eye, which is common to humanity at large. Indeed, when, later on, we
were liberated, my freedom came all too soon. I had been made captive
by one who now had to return to her kinsfolk, while I, in melancholy
mood, was pulled across "the Danube's blue waters" in the direction
of Belgrade, casting, as I did so, many furtive glances behind at my
fair fellow-prisoner, who, with several others, was waving me adieux
from the shore; and I think, if I remember rightly, in my dreams that
night, coils of dishevelled raven hair and sloe-black eyes played a
conspicuous part.
Should you ever be called upon to assist at an operation on the leg
of a fellow-creature under circumstances in which chloroform is not
obtainable, insist on holding the wounded or otherwise affected limb.
I speak advisedly, since I recall, while writing, a little incident
which happened to me in the hospital at Belgrade on the occasion of my
bringing to that place several men who had been wounded at Delegrad
and Alixenatz. One of these had to go through the painful process of
probing for a bullet, which had taken up its quarters somewhere in the
calf of his _left_ leg.
"Hold his _right_ leg, Montagu," said Dr. McKeller, the head of the
medical staff (than whom there was never a more brilliant Britisher
on the war-path); "hold on to the right, and we'll look after the
left." There was a merry twinkle in his eye which, at the time, I only
attributed to his natural good humour.
Directly the probe made itself felt, that right leg was drawn up
till the knee almost touched the nose of the patient, when, the pain
becoming unbearable, that leg, to which I was still clinging, shot out
straight, and, striking me in the chest, sent me, like a pellet from
a catapult, flying across the ward, greatly to the merriment of the
assembled doctors and nurses. Never, I say, under any circumstances,
unless you are a Hercules, undertake, unaided, to hold--_the other_ leg.
In these rambling reminiscences I wish rather to give to the reader
a rough _résumé_ of some few of my experiences than make any attempt
at an abbreviated story of my life. Thus it is I pass in rapid review
such incidents as in accidental succession present themselves. Indeed,
as I write, I am reminded, by the snarls and contention for a bone of
several dogs in the street below, of the Fosse Commune at Erzeroum, a
deep entrenchment across which those who would from any point enter
that grimy Oriental city have to pass on rough wooden bridges.
[Illustration: "WAR, PESTILENCE, AND FAMINE."]
There must be some Eastern sentiment which necessitates the Turks
of Anatolia being more or less in touch with the dead--otherwise why
those mangy man-eaters (no, not tigers, but half savage dogs) which
prowl about o' nights in the byways of Erzeroum, or scratch up in the
graveyards, as they too often do, all that remains of poor humanity,
which, in this part of the world, is but thinly and lightly covered
with mother earth? The backs of these scavengers, raw, and sometimes
bleeding, tell too plainly the nature of their calling, since they
suffer from a peculiar scurvy so induced. When the commissariat is
low, they go further afield, even to that cordon of corruption outside
the place, where vultures, hawks, owls, and other birds of prey fight
or forgather with wolves and such like four-footed adventurers, and
where, though metaphorically the man-eater takes a back seat, he still
picks up some loathsome trifles--the _menu_ is not perhaps so choice
as in his own graveyards, but the supply is plentiful enough in all
conscience--everything corruptible, from a dead cat to a dead camel,
finding a last resting-place somewhere within that seething circle.
Hark! Do you hear the thunder of the guns in the _Devé Boyun_ Pass
yonder? Do you see the smoke mingling with the fleeting clouds in the
far distance? How complete a picture this--could you see it as I do now
in my mind's eye--of "war, pestilence, and famine!"
It's a far cry from Anatolia to Bulgaria, from Erzeroum to the Russian
lines round about Plevna; but such a flight to pen and pencil on the
plains of paper-land is nothing. Thus do we now, on the wings of fancy,
find ourselves at Porodim, in the Cossack camp, during Osman Pasha's
stubborn resistance--where Conigsby, of _The Times_, and McGahan, of
_The Daily News_, and many others, including myself, were later on
sending home news or sketches, and awaiting developments.
[Illustration: "TIT-BITS AT THE FRONT."]
Not unlike a sack of potatoes on legs, your average Cossack, when
he has dismounted, has more the clumsiness of the clown than the
cut of the crack cavalry soldier about him, while his peculiar
aversion to water at once negatives any notion of personal smartness,
from a European point of view. On the other hand, put him in the
stirrups, mount him with all his paraphernalia on his shaggy little
steed, and he will ride, if need be, "through fire, and--if quite
unavoidable--water," too, if it be only the will of the Czar.
It's a beautiful, nay, touching sight to see the Cossack of the Don at
the first streak of early dawn on commissariat duty. As an explorer
and discoverer of dainties in obscure hen-roosts, he stands--save
for Reynard himself--alone; seldom returning without bringing in
trophies on his lance-head which will give a zest to the Major's
breakfast--or--his own.
One morning at Porodim several correspondents and myself were making
desperate efforts to break the ice with a view to something like a
lame apology for the homely tub. At length, having succeeded in doing
so, we commenced our ablutions, and soon found ourselves the subject
of comment on the part of several burly fellows, who seemed quite
entertained at our proceedings.
"Wonderful!" said a Cossack Corporal, turning to my interpreter
Nicholoff. "Wonderful! Englishmen, are they? Why, they wash in the
winter time!"
While on the subject of Cossacks, several odd incidents present
themselves:
_The Times_ correspondent and myself having one day secured (no matter
how) a fowl, promptly proceeded to pluck, cook, cut up and--but no,
I mustn't put the cart before the horse--we were interrupted in
our arrangements for the mid-day meal by the passing of a number
of ox-teams, taking supplies of all kinds to the front, which were
driven by Cossack camp followers. One of these, allowing his oxen to
continue the even tenor of their way, stopped for a moment to take
in the situation. Our preparations evidently amused him, and we,
noting his interest in our movements--more especially, _The Times_
correspondent--indulged in a certain amount of Anglo-Saxon badinage, at
which that Cossack seemed to wonder more vaguely than before, till my
companion felt it quite safe to say--in the vulgar vernacular, holding
up at the same time _his_ half of that mutilated fowl before the burly
bullock driver--"There now, I dare say you'd make small bones of that
if you could get it, wouldn't you?"
In an instant the Cossack had seized the dainty morsel in his grimy
grip; the next it was quite beyond reclaim between his teeth, and then,
to our utter astonishment, in unmistakable North Country dialect he
said:--
"Wull, p'raps I shall, now I've got 'un; I'm a Yarkshermun, I am." And
with this, munching to his infinite satisfaction that drum-stick as he
went, he turned on his heel and rejoined his oxen.
On inquiry we found him to be a Yorkshire ne'er-do-weel, who, after
many vicissitudes, had somehow enlisted in the Cossack contingent.
Before the siege was over, however, we had more than forgiven the
unexpected appropriation of the succulent drum-stick.
One night--one of the most severe of that terrible winter--when such
little wood as was obtainable was almost too damp to ignite, myself
and several other correspondents were sitting in sorry plight round
an apology for a camp fire, half frozen, and utterly demoralised, in
a condition, in fact, of benumbed misery, which I at least have never
before or since experienced. Save for the lurid glare of Plevna, like
a smouldering volcano in the distance, and the tread now and again
of a sentry in the crisp snow, we might have been, as indeed we in
some senses were, in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Presently,
however, a sound broke the stillness of the night--a sound which
caused our hearts to throb, and circulated anew the blood in our
half-frozen veins, a sound which spoke to each of "England, home, and
beauty," of a welcome in store for us in the old country, of hopes
realised, and promises fulfilled--that sound took the form of music,
and probably the most acceptable form music, at such a moment, could
take; for, proceeding from a rough reed pipe, there floated across
to us on the cold night air the welcome old strains of "Home, sweet
home:" sympathetically, exquisitely rendered, it seemed literally to
resuscitate us. Yes, indeed, we had each of us something to live for,
much to be thankful for, and when afterwards we ascertained the player
to have been none other than our Yorkshire Cossack, it was pleasant to
reflect that if he had once played the dickens with our dinner he had
more than recompensed us with "Home, sweet home."
[Illustration: "HOME, SWEET HOME."]
Although we were sometimes in such sorry plight as I've referred to,
Conigsby was well pleased to mix with the Muscovites; he had previously
been accredited to the Turks, and at Philippopolis, Adrianople, and
elsewhere, had been frequently warned that the strong Russian bias of
his letters to _The Times_ boded him no good; indeed, that "a cup of
black coffee," as poison is politely termed by the Moslems, was in
active preparation for him.
Loth to accept these hints, it's more than probable he would never
have come to Plevna at all, had not a very forcible argument been
presented to him. It happened thus:--The representative of Printing
House-square--quite innocent of coming events--rose one morning rather
earlier than usual. His room seeming unusually dark, he proceeded at
once to draw up the blind, when, to his intense horror, he suddenly
found himself face to face with a corpse--the corpse of a Bulgarian
traitor--which, during the night, had been hoisted by means of pulleys
outside his bedroom window. The Turks, to say the least of it, had
a design on his appetite for breakfast. This gentle reminder was
sufficient for him; he quite understood now how matters stood, and so
exchanged as soon as possible to the Russian lines.
His successor, whose views, alas! were also Russophile, sent only a
limited number of despatches to _The Times_. It was _café noir_ that
did it. I think he was buried at Scutari.
I have heard it remarked by some stay-at-home critics of war that they
"don't know what fear is," that they are, in other words, ready-made
heroes for whom there is, unfortunately, no scope. To such I would
recommend some of the minor emergencies of a campaign as tests worth
trying. Personally, I am quite willing to confess to having experienced
at times painfully unpleasant qualms, and fully believe that to do
so is only human. Overcoming fear is declared by some to be heroic,
and individual acts of unselfish bravery under such circumstances
cannot certainly be too generously commended; but defend me from the
untried swash-buckler who "doesn't know what fear is." Let him, as soon
as occasion serves, take a dose of ignominious retreat--_one_ dose
before bedtime will be found quite sufficient. Let him experience a
retreat, say, down a rugged mountain defile in Spain, with the enemy
in comparatively close proximity on a parallel ridge, a deep gorge
between them, pouring in a deadly fire on retreating artillery and
cavalry. This I experienced once not far from San Sebastian. "Everyone
for himself, and the devil take the hindmost." I cite the apt quotation
of my old friend Edmund O'Donovan, of _The Daily News_, who was there
at the time. There was a tooth and nail illustration of that proverb
then I shall never forget: panic reigned supreme, each struggling in
mad confusion to be first out of the fray, yelling, shouting, hooting
in their frenzy, even to the free use of the butt ends of carbines and
revolvers, anything, in short, to clear the way for that best beloved
and all-important "Number One."
[Illustration: "A RETREAT IN SPAIN."]
It's astonishing, isn't it, with what jealous care poor humanity looks
after number one, even though life be at a discount, as it was during
the siege of Plevna, when one morning Conigsby and myself sallied forth
in opposite directions in quest of material for our respective papers?
Each in turn, though separated by some miles, found himself under a
withering fire from Turkish rifle pits, and later on each found himself
hastening for the kindly protection of the same advanced Russian
earthworks.
"This, Montagu," said Conigsby, "is an incident which should
not be overlooked. A sceptical world will never believe it--yet
stay--unless--oh, yes, I have it. You do a picture for _The Illustrated
News_ representing our noble selves, specially your humble servant, you
know, as we now are in the forefront of the fighting, while I write up
the occurrence in _The Times_. Such corroborative evidence, which is,
moreover, absolutely true, will place our zeal beyond question, and
show the reading and picture-loving public that life at the front is
not all 'beer and skittles.'"
That day is particularly marked on my memory as having been one of
exceptional interest, incident, and hard work, terminating in a night
made almost unbearable by the howling of wolves and the neighing of
terror-stricken horses. With this--"An Attack on the Encampment of _The
Times_ and _Illustrated London News_," forming a subject for the pages
of that journal--and with Conigsby's version of the experience (it may
be taken with several grains of salt), which he gave at a Press dinner
on our return, I will bring this chapter of accidents and incidents to
a close.
"Never, gentlemen," said he, "never on any account go to the front with
a war artist. They are dangerous individuals, I assure you. Most of you
will remember a certain illustration of Montagu's in which our camp was
represented as being attacked by wolves; but you don't, I think, know
the true story concerning it.
"One night, wearied beyond measure with a long day at the front, I
was striving in vain to sleep through a medley of sounds in which the
short, quick, raspy barking of wolves, and shouts of men striving to
pacify scared horses, combined to make night hideous, when, unable
to stand it any longer, I rushed into Montagu's tent--for, without
enlisting his aid, I felt apoplexy must be the end of it--and aroused
him.
"Montagu, my dear fellow, do you hear those wolves? They are simply
unbearable. I have tried every expedient but one--it's our last
resource. If there's one thing in this world more than another
calculated to scare wolves it will be one of your pictures for _The
Illustrated London News_! Whereupon I seized one of his latest
productions, and, rushing out, faced those fiery invaders.
"The result was instantaneous. With a fearfully prolonged yelp they
scuttled off helter-skelter to the hills, where they were very soon
lost to sight.
"But, remember, I have already warned you against going to the front
with a war artist, and would ask you now to listen to Montagu's
terrible retaliation. Goodness knows, I am loth enough to admit it.
[Illustration]
"Those wolves came back again, and then it was that he, rushing into
my tent, said that lunacy, ay, raving madness, stared him in the
face, unless the last die were cast--if that wouldn't settle them,
nothing would. With this he grasped a half-finished article of mine
to _The Times_, and confronting those wolves, read aloud to that
astonished pack the first short paragraph. Then it was that, utterly
panic-stricken, they fled, howling in wild confusion, to the Balkans,
and I understand they have been scarce in Bulgaria ever since. Who,
after this, will question for one moment the far-reaching influence of
the British press?"
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration:
The Rynard Gold Reef C'oy L'd.]
BY WALTER BESANT.
ACT I.
"You dear old boy," said the girl, "I am sure I wish it could be--with
all my heart--if I have any heart."
"I don't believe you have," replied the boy, gloomily.
"Well, but Reg, consider; you've got no money."
"I've got five thousand pounds. If a man can't make his way upon that,
he must be a poor stick."
"You would go abroad with it and dig, and take your wife with you--to
wash and cook."
"We would do something with the money here. You should stay in London,
Rosie."
"Yes. In a suburban villa, at Shepherd's Bush, perhaps. No, Reg, when
I marry, if ever I do--I am in no hurry--I will step out of this room
into one exactly like it." The room was a splendid drawing-room in
Palace Gardens, splendidly furnished. "I shall have my footmen and my
carriage, and I shall----"
"Rosie, give me the right to earn all these things for you!" the young
man cried impetuously.
"You can only earn them for me by the time you have one foot in the
grave. Hadn't I better in the meantime marry some old gentleman with
his one foot in the grave, so as to be ready for you against the time
when you come home? In two or three years the other foot I dare say
would slide into the grave as well."
"You laugh at my trouble. You feel nothing."
[Illustration: "THIS HEARTLESS HAND."]
"If the pater would part--but he won't--he says he wants all his money
for himself, and that I've got to marry well. Besides, Reg"--here her
face clouded and she lowered her voice--"there are times when he looks
anxious. We didn't always live in Palace Gardens. Suppose we should
lose it all as quickly as we got it. Oh!" she shivered and trembled.
"No, I will never, never marry a poor man. Get rich, my dear boy, and
you may aspire even to the valuable possession of this heartless hand."
She held it out. He took it, pressed it, stooped and kissed her. Then
he dropped her hand and walked quickly out of the room.
"Poor Reggie!" she murmured. "I wish--I wish--but what is the use of
wishing?"