house has been set open for us by the privately printed memoirs of Mrs
Anne Jean Lyman. The inmates are a judge, his wife, and a large family
of children of all ages, for he has been twice married. The judge is
a genuine product of the soil, his family having for at least three
generations back been settled in Northampton. His wife, who is from
the neighborhood of Boston, of Scotch ancestry on one side, and on the
other descended from Anne Hutchinson (the eloquent woman-preacher, who,
banished for heterodoxy from their settlement by the Pilgrim Fathers,
was killed by the Indians in 1643), may be taken as a good but typical
instance of the New England woman of that day—capable, practical,
aspiring, intellectual, friendly above all.
There are no stirring adventures, no record of any achievements of
genius in these memoirs, but the unpretending pages reflect a clear
image of two fine characters, well adjusted to the social conditions
amid which they lived. Both had beauty and dignity of person, warm
sympathies, good brains, abundant energy, and a spirit of hospitality
which made their home the focus where the worth and intellect of
the village were wont to gather and to shine brightest and warmest.
Northampton has now its row of thriving stores, to which the people
from neighboring villages flock on market-days, making a cheerful
bustle. The elms, planted by the pioneers on either side the street,
from the boughs of one of which Jonathan Edwards had preached to the
Indians, now spread a goodly shade. A four-horse stage from Boston,
ninety miles distant, comes in every evening with bugle horn sounding
gaily. The driver is the personal friend of the whole town, for his
tenacious memory never lets slip a single message or commission—save
on one memorable occasion, when he forgot to bring back his wife who
had been visiting in Boston, and so furnished the village with a
long-enduring joke. The social judge, when he hears the horn, takes
his hat and with alert step and cheerful face, glowing in the evening
light, hastens to Warner’s Tavern where the coach draws up, to welcome
the arrivals and bring any friend who may be among them to his own
home—and any stranger too, who seems in ill-health or sorrow, and
not likely to be made comfortable at an inn. When the judge and his
wife go yearly to Boston, a throng of neighbors flock into the library
overnight, where the packing goes on, not only to take an affectionate
leave, but to bring parcels of every size and commissions of every
variety,—a pattern with request to bring back dresses for a family
of five; and “could they go to the orphan asylum and see if a good
child of ten could be bound out till she was eighteen? and if so,
bring her back.” One requests them to call and see a sick mother at
Sudbury, another a sick sister at Ware. Finally, a little boy, with
bundle as large as himself, asks “if this would be too big to carry
to grandmother?” “I’ll carry anything short of a cooking-stove,” says
the kind lady; and wherever the stage stops to change horses, she runs
round to hunt up the sick friend or deliver the parcel.
Here is a picture, in brief, of a day of home-life at a later period
when the children are mostly grown up and the judge has retired from
the Bench. It is the grey dawn of a summer’s day, and the mother is
already up and doing, while the rest of her large family, all but the
husband, are still asleep. Dressed in short skirt and white _sacque_,
she goes with broom and duster to her parlor and dining-room, opens
wide the windows to the sweet morning air and the song of the birds,
and puts all in order. At six o’clock she calls up her two maids, puts
on her morning-dress and white cap, takes the large work-basket that
always stands handy in the corner—for she mends not only for the
family but for the maids and the hired man—and works till breakfast,
when often fifteen or twenty cheerful souls assemble round the table.
After which, with help of children and grandchildren, the dishes are
swiftly washed, the table cleared, and husband and wife are then
wont to take their seat at the front door, that they may greet the
passer-by or send messages to neighbors: she with the work-basket
and the book that always lay handy under the work—some essay, poem,
history, novel (for she is an omnivorous reader, and her letters
intelligently discuss current literary topics)—or with the peas and
beans to shell and string for dinner; he with the newspaper. Among the
passers-by with whom they chat come, at certain seasons of the year,
the judges of the Supreme Court and other notable men,—Baron Renné,
Henry Clay, Daniel Webster, Emerson, too, while he was yet a young
unknown Unitarian minister. Seldom does the large family sit down to
dinner without guests, for any one who drops in is asked to stay, or
some wearied-looking passer-by is pressed to step in. In the afternoon
the mother’s chosen seat is at the window of the west parlor looking
towards the hills, and then the young people flock around while she
reads aloud through the long summer afternoons. All must share in
her enjoyment, and often is the wayfarer, some “good neighbor” or
“intellectual starveling,” beckoned in “just to hear this rich passage
we are reading—it won’t take long.” If she finds any with a strong
desire for knowledge, she never rests till the means to supply the want
are found, and more than one youth of promise afterwards fulfilled owed
his first good chance in life to this wise, generous-hearted woman.
GLIMPSE THE THIRD.
Northampton to-day carries her two hundred and thirty odd years
lightly, and, save for the lofty and venerable elms, looks as young as
the youngest of towns. How, indeed, can anything but the trees ever
look old in America, since the atmosphere does not furnish old Time
with moisture enough to write the record of his flight in grey tones
and weather stains, and lichens, and worn and crumbling edges?
Hawthorne’s “old manse” at Concord was the only ancient-looking house I
saw. Either it had never been painted, or the paint was all worn off,
and so the wooden walls had taken a silver-grey color, and, with its
picturesque situation close to the Concord river and by the side of the
field in which was fought the first battle in the War of Independence,
it well deserves the honor and renown that have settled on it, both
as associated with Emerson’s ancestors, his own early days, and with
Hawthorne’s romance. But in general the yearly fresh coat of paint is a
sort of new birth to the old houses, which makes them indistinguishable
from modern ones, wood being still the material used in country-places
for detached houses. But step inside some one or two of these pretty
modest-looking cottages, under the shade of the Northampton elms, and
you will find the low ceiling, the massive beams, small doors and
windows, corner cupboards, and queer ups and downs along the passages,
which tell that they were put up by hands long since mouldered in the
grave, and make you feel as if you were at home again in some old Essex
village.
Socially, the little town may be regarded as a kind of Cranford—but
Cranford with a difference. There is the same preponderance of maiden
ladies and widows—for what should the men do there? New England
farming is a very slow and unprofitable affair compared with farming
in the West, and there are no manufactures of any importance. There
are the same tea-parties, with a solitary beau in the centre, “like
the one white flower in the middle of a nosegay;” the same modest
goodness, kindliness, refinement, making the best of limited means and
of restricted interests. But even under these conditions the spirit
of enterprise and of public spirit lurks in an American Cranford, and
strikes out boldly in some direction or other. What would Miss Jenkyns
have said to the notion of a college which should embody the most
advanced ideas for giving young women precisely the same educational
opportunities as young men? She would justly have felt that it was
enough to make Dr. Johnson turn in his grave. Yet such a scheme has
been realized by one of the maiden ladies of Northampton or its
immediate neighborhood, in Smith College—a really noble institution;
where, also, the experiment is being tried of housing the students,
not in one large building, but in a cluster of pretty-looking,
moderate-sized homes, standing amid lawn and garden, where they are
allowed, under certain restrictions, to enter into and receive the
society of the village, so that their lives may not be a too monotonous
routine and “grind.”
Another maiden lady has achieved a still more remarkable success,
for she had no wealth of her own to enable her to carry out her
idea—which was, to perfect and to introduce on a large scale the
method, devised in Spain some hundred years ago, developed by Heinicke,
a German, by Bell of Edinburgh, and by his son, in a system of “visible
speech,”—for enabling the deaf and dumb to speak, not with the fingers
but the voice, dumb no longer, and to hear with the eyes, so to speak,
by reading the movements of the lips. Miss Harriet Rogers, who had
never witnessed this method in operation, began by teaching a few
pupils privately till her success induced a generous inhabitant of
Northampton, Mr. Clarke, to come forward with £10,000 to found a Deaf
and Dumb Institution, of which her little school formed the nucleus,
and her unwearied devotion and special gifts the animating soul. Step
into a class-room in one of these cheerful looking houses, surrounded
by gay flower borders and well-kept lawns, standing on a hill just
outside the town,—for here, too, the plan of a group of buildings has
been adopted. About twenty children, boys and girls, are ranged, their
faces eagerly looking towards a lady who stands on a raised platform.
Her presence conveys a sense of that gentle yet resistless power which
springs from a firm will, combined with a rich measure of sympathy and
affection. She raises her hand a little way, and then moves it slowly
along in a horizontal direction. The children open their mouths
and utter a deep sustained tone, a plaintive, minor, wild, yet not
unmusical sound. She raises it a little higher, and again moves it
slowly along. The children immediately raise the pitch of their voices
and sustain a higher tone. Again the voices, following the hand,
sustain a yet higher, almost a shrill note. Then the hand waves up
and down rapidly, and the tones faithfully follow its lead in swift
transition, till they seem lost in a maze of varying inflexions; but
always the voices are obedient to the waving hand. The teacher then
makes a round O with thumb and forefinger, gradually parting them
like the opening of the mouth. This is the sign for crescendo and
diminuendo. The voices begin softly, swell into a great volume of
sound, then die away again, still with those peculiar plaintive tones;
yet much do the children seem to enjoy the exercise, though, to most
of them, remember, the room is all the while soundless as the grave.
They learn to vary the pitch of their voices partly by feeling with
the hand the vibrations of the throat and chest,—quick and in the
throat for high tones, slow and in the chest for low ones—partly by
help of Bell’s written signs, which represent the position peculiar
to each sound of the various organs of speech—throat, tongue, lips,
back of the mouth, &c. This was a class of beginners chiefly learning
to develop and control their hitherto unused voices. Inexhaustible is
the patience, wonderful the tact employed by Miss Rogers and her able
assistants in the far more difficult task of teaching actual speech.
A small percentage of the children will prove too slow and blunt of
perception ever to master it, and will have to be sent where the old
finger alphabet is still the method in use. Some, on the other hand,
will succeed so brilliantly that it will be impossible for a stranger
to detect that they were once deaf-mutes,—that they seize your words
with their eyes, not with their ears, and have never heard the sound of
human speech, though they can speak. And the great bulk will return to
their homes capable of understanding in the main what is going on
around them, and of making themselves intelligible to their friends
without recourse to signs.
Our actual Cranford over the sea, then, has a considerable
advantage over the Cranford of romance, in that her heroines do
not wait for the (in fiction) inevitable, faithful, long-absent,
mysteriously-returning-at-the-right-moment lover to redeem their lives
from triviality, and renew their faded bloom. And, in the present state
of the world’s affairs, what is more needed than the single woman who
succeeds in making her life worth living, honorably independent, and
of value to others? Through such will certainly be given new scope and
impetus to the development of woman generally, and in the long run,
therefore, good results for all.
Among the solid achievements of Northampton must also be mentioned an
excellent free library, with spacious airy reading-room, such as any
city might be proud of. There is also a State lunatic asylum, with
large farm attached, which not only supplies the most restorative
occupation for those of the inmates who are capable of work, but
defrays all the expenses of the institution, with an occasional surplus
for improvements.
If I were asked what, after some years spent in America, impressed me
most unexpectedly, I should say of the people, as of the New England
landscape, So like! yet so different! I speak, of course, not of
superficial differences, but of mental physiognomy and temperament.
Given new conditions of climate, soil, space, with their subtle, slow,
yet deep and sure modifying influences,—new qualities to the pleasures
of life, new qualities to its pains and struggles, new social and
political conditions, new mixing of old races, different antecedents,
the primitive wrestle with nature by a people not primitive
but inheriting the habits and characteristics of advanced
civilization,—and how can there but result the shaping of a new race
out of old world stock, a fresh instrument in the great orchestra of
humanity? Indicate these differences, these traits! says the impatient
reader. They are too subtle for words, like the perfume of flowers, the
flavor of fruit,—too much intermingled with individual qualities also,
at any rate for mere descriptive words, though no doubt in time the
imaginative literature of America will creatively embody them.
One lesson whoever has lived in, not merely travelled through
America, must learn perforce. It is that the swift steamers, bringing
a succession of more or less keen observers, the telegrams and
newspapers, which we fondly imagine annihilate space and make us fully
cognizant of the character and affairs of our far-off kindred are by
no means such wonder-workers. In spite of newspapers, and telegrams,
and travellers, and a common language and ancestry, we are full of
misconceptions about each other. Nay, I found the actual condition of
my own country drift slowly out of intelligible sight after a year or
two’s absence. Even if every word uttered and printed were true, that
which gives them their significance cannot be so transmitted; whilst
the great forces that are shaping and building up a people’s life and
character work silently beneath the surface, so that truly may it be
said of a nation, as of an individual, “The heart knoweth its own
bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth not with its joy.” Save by the
help of vital literature—in that, at last, the souls of the nations
speak to one another.—_Blackwood’s Magazine._
LAST WORDS ABOUT AGNOSTICISM AND THE RELIGION OF HUMANITY.
BY HERBERT SPENCER.
Those who expected from Mr. Harrison an interesting rejoinder to
my reply, will not be disappointed. Those who looked for points
skilfully made, which either are, or seem to be, telling, will be fully
satisfied. Those who sought pleasure from witnessing a display of
literary power, will close his article gratified with the hour they
have spent over it. Those only will be not altogether contented who
supposed that my outspoken criticism of Mr. Harrison’s statements and
views, would excite him to an unusual display of that trenchant style
for which he is famous; since he has, for the most part, continued the
discussion with calmness. After saying thus much it may seem that some
apology is needed for continuing a controversy of which many, if not
most, readers, have by this time become weary. But gladly as I would
leave the matter where it stands, alike to save my own time and others’
attention, there are sundry motives which forbid me. Partly my excuse
must be the profound importance and perennial interest of the questions
raised. Partly I am prompted by the consideration that it is a pity to
cease just when a few more pages will make clear sundry of the issues,
and leave readers in a better position for deciding. Partly it seems
to me wrong to leave grave misunderstandings unrectified. And partly
I am reluctant on personal grounds to pass by some of Mr. Harrison’s
statements unnoticed.
One of these statements, indeed, it would be imperative on me to
notice, since it reflects on me in a serious way. Speaking of the
_Descriptive Sociology_, which contains a large part (though by no
means all) of the evidence used in the _Principles of Sociology_, and
referring to the compilers who, under my superintendence, selected the
materials forming that work, Mr. Harrison says:—
Of course these intelligent gentlemen had little
difficulty in clipping from hundreds of books about
foreign races sentences which seem to support Mr.
Spencer’s doctrines. The whole proceeding is too much
like that of a famous lawyer who wrote a law book, and
then gave it to his pupils to find the “cases” which
supported his law.
Had Mr. Harrison observed the dates, he would have seen that since
the compilation of the _Descriptive Sociology_ was commenced in
1867 and the writing of the _Principles of Sociology_ in 1874, the
parallel he draws is not altogether applicable: the fact being that the
_Descriptive Sociology_ was commenced seven years in advance for the
purpose (as stated in the preface) of obtaining adequate materials for
generalizations: sundry of which, I may remark in passing, have
been quite at variance with my pre-conceptions.[62] I think that on
consideration, Mr. Harrison will regret having made so grave an
insinuation without very good warrant; and he has no warrant. Charity
would almost lead one to suppose that he was not fully conscious of
its implications when he wrote the above passage; for he practically
cancels them immediately afterwards. He says:—“But of course one
can find in this medley of tables almost any view. And I find facts
which make for my view as often as any other.” How this last statement
consists with the insinuation that what Mr. Harrison calls a “medley”
of tables contains evidence vitiated by special selection of facts, it
is difficult to understand. If the purpose was to justify a foregone
conclusion, how does it happen that there are (according to Mr.
Harrison) as many facts which make against it as there are facts which
make for it?
The question here incidentally raised concerns the primitive religious
idea. Which is the original belief, fetichism or the ghost-theory?
The answer should profoundly interest all who care to understand
the course of human thought; and I shall therefore not apologize for
pursuing the question a little further.
* * * * *
Having had them counted, I find that in those four parts of the
_Descriptive Sociology_ which give accounts of the uncivilized races,
there are 697 extracts which refer to the ghost-theory: illustrating
the belief in a wandering double which goes away during sleep, or
fainting, or other form of insensibility, and deserts the body for a
longer period at death,—a double which can enter into and possess
other persons, causing disease, epilepsy, insanity, etc., which
gives rise to ideas of spirits, demons, etc., and which originates
propitiation and worship of ghosts. On the other hand there are 87
extracts which refer to the worship of inanimate objects or belief in
their supernatural powers. Now even did these 87 extracts support
Mr. Harrison’s view, this ratio of 8 to 1 would hardly justify his
statement that the facts “make for my [his] view as often as any
other.” But these 87 extracts do not make for his view. To get proof
that the inanimate objects are worshipped for themselves simply,
instances must be found in which such objects are worshipped among
peoples who have no ghost-theory; for wherever the ghost-theory
exists it comes into play and originates those supernatural powers
which certain objects are supposed to have. When by unrelated tribes
scattered all over the world, we find it held that the souls of the
dead are supposed to haunt the neighboring forests—when we learn
that the Karen thinks “the spirits of the departed dead crowd around
him;”[63] that the Society Islanders imagined spirits “surrounded them
night and day watching every action;”[64] that the Nicobar people
annually compel “all the bad spirits to leave the dwelling;”[65] that
an Arab never throws anything away without asking forgiveness of the
Efrits he may strike;[66] and that the Jews thought it was because of
the multitudes of spirits in synagogues that “the dress of the Rabbins
become so soon old and torn through their rubbing;”[67] when we find the
accompanying belief to be that ghosts or spirits are capable of going
into, and emerging from, solid bodies in general, as well as the bodies
of the quick and the dead; it becomes obvious that the presence of one
of these spirits swarming around, and capable of injuring or benefiting
living persons, becomes a sufficient reason for propitiating an object
it is assumed to have entered: the most trivial peculiarity sufficing
to suggest possession—such possession being, indeed, in some cases
conceived as universal, as by the Eskimo, who think every object is
ruled by “its or his, _inuk_, which word signifies “_man_,”
and also _owner_ or _inhabitant_.”[68] Such being the case, there can
be no proof that the worship of the objects themselves was primordial,
unless it is found to exist where the ghost-theory has not arisen;
and I know no instance showing that it does so. But while those facts
given in the _Descriptive Sociology_ which imply worship of inanimate
objects, or ascription of supernatural powers to them, fail to support
Mr. Harrison’s view, because always accompanied by the ghost-theory,
sundry of them directly negative his view. There is the fact that an
echo is regarded as the voice of the fetich; there is the fact that the
inhabiting spirit of the fetich is supposed to “enjoy the savory smell”
of meat roasted before it; and there is the fact that the fetich is
supposed to die and may be revived. Further, there is the summarized
statement made by Beecham, an observer of fetichism in the region where
it is supposed to be specially exemplified, who says that:—
The fetiches are believed to be spiritual, intelligent
beings, who make the remarkable objects of nature their
residence, or enter occasionally into the images and
other artificial representations, which have been duly
consecrated by certain ceremonies.... They believe that
these fetiches are of both sexes, and that they require
food.
These statements are perfectly in harmony with the conclusion that
fetichism is a development of the ghost-theory, and altogether
incongruous with the interpretation of fetichism which Mr. Harrison
accepts from Comte.
Already I have named the fact that Dr. Tylor, who has probably read
more books about uncivilized peoples than any Englishman living or
dead, has concluded that fetichism is a form of spirit-worship, and
that (to give quotations relevant to the present issue)
To class an object as a fetish, demands explicit
statement that a spirit is considered as embodied in it
or acting through it or communicating by it.[69]
... A further stretch of imagination enables the lower
races to associate the souls of the dead with mere
objects.[70]
... The spirits which enter or otherwise attach
themselves to objects may be human souls. Indeed, one of
the most natural cases of the fetish-theory is when a
soul inhabits or haunts the relics of its former body.[71]
Here I may add an opinion to like effect which Dr. Tylor quotes from
the late Prof. Waitz, also an erudite anthropologist. He says:—