[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 746. SATURDAY, APRIL 13, 1878. PRICE 1½_d._]
OTTOMAN GIPSIES.
Independent and savage, unrecognised by the people in whose midst he
lives, and whose society and civilisation he has ever learnt to shun,
the Ottoman gipsy—of whom there are some two hundred thousand souls—has
neither political nor literary history of his own, and is at once the
most brutal and degraded of all the wandering races. Religious because
it suits his convenience to be so, submissive to law because he fears
punishment, he leads a wild and wretched life, scarcely earning by
his industry the wherewithal to satisfy even the most frugal demands
of nature. Yet secure in his tent he defies the world, and hates with
an undying enmity all strangers to his race. Can it then be wondered
at that neither Christian nor Mussulman bears any great love for his
unsociable neighbour, nor cares to enter into commercial relationship
with him? Even those gipsies who have abandoned tents for fixed
dwellings have but little ameliorated their condition, and are no
less heartily despised on that account. Their superficial religion,
their inclination to theft, their skill in deception, and their brutal
debaucheries, cause them to be distrusted wherever they may chance to
settle, and exclude them for ever from participation in the benefits of
a more civilised state of society.
To deal firstly with the veritable wandering gipsy, who knows no
settled home, whose tents dot the sunny landscapes of European Turkey,
Roumania, and Asia Minor, who is here one day and there the next, the
question arises, whither goeth he and whence cometh he? We shall see.
About the middle of April, sooner or later according to the season, he
quits his winter’s residence, or _gyshla_ as he terms it, and begins
to roam the surrounding country. Some of his kind descend from the
north of the Balkans and pass into Asia Minor; others mount where
their brethren descended, only to return about the commencement of
October; whilst some—and these, in our humble opinion, by far the
most sensible—confine themselves, in their migrations, to one single
province, where they know the wants of all and are known by all.
When cold and frost cut short their wanderings, and warn them to beat
a retreat, they unfailingly return to their old quarters, where in
the vicinity of some open spring they dream away the wintry hours,
little molested by their Turkish neighbours. Sometimes they enliven the
monotony of this season by a clandestine hunt, but it is more from a
desire to rob with impunity than from any wish to nourish themselves on
the game they thus slay.
With black shaggy hair, bronzed weather-beaten face, and dark brilliant
eyes, the stalwart Mussulman gipsy is by far the best type of his
race. He detests and distrusts all but the dwellers in tents. Although
familiarised with village life, and often half frozen under his frail
covering, he prefers to die beneath his well-patched canvas, to living
restricted by the narrow walls and low ceiling of a chamber. Nothing
ever seems to rouse the stolid indifference of one of this race. He
lives and dies as a beast. The habits of his civilised neighbours, the
garments of their women, the cleanliness of their homes and children,
and their usually happy appearance, all have no effect whatever upon
him. At night-time he retires to his tent to rest, and everything he
has seen is forgotten or looked upon as an idle dream; and he works
mechanically on from day to day, without the slightest desire to enter
into the joyous stream of life with which he finds himself surrounded.
Some few of his kind are so poor as to be unable to purchase even a
tent, and these are compelled to dwell as they best may in hollow
tree-trunks or chasms in the rocks; whilst others, chiefly those of
Bosnia, have wooden bark-covered cabins, which they remove from place
to place, on unwieldy wagons, drawn by from ten to a dozen oxen at
a time. Some work in iron, some are basket and sieve makers. They
are often oppressed, and seldom if ever find defenders. Books and
newspapers are quite unknown to them, and the commonest of domestic
utensils find no place in their tiny tents. About their origin they
know little, though the prophet Job, they say, taught their ancestors
the trade they now follow; and they have some slight suspicion that
they formerly came from Persia to the country they at present occupy.
The Turks call them _Tchinganés_; whilst the term they know one another
by is _Rom_, the title which binds the whole of the widely scattered
nomad tribes together. Their language itself is styled Romany.
There is not the slightest allusion to a deity in any of their most
ancient songs and legends, and they have no religious observances
peculiar to themselves alone. They have but one festival, during which
for three whole days they abandon themselves to feasting and merriment.
The fatted lamb is slain by those who can afford it, the tent decorated
with flowers, and passers-by freely invited to join their repast; all
litigations and legal processes are temporarily adjourned, and their
annual tax is then paid to the Turkish government. One branch of their
race, the _Zapari_, are the most ferocious of their kind. They are
to be found at the village fêtes and large fairs, whither they go to
earn a few coins by the display of their dancing bears or performing
monkeys. Some few of them are blacksmiths in winter. The Zapari are all
Mussulmans; and from their ranks the Sublime Porte finds its supply of
hangmen. They form quite a distinct class of themselves, being held
in abhorrence even by their savage brethren. Outcasts of outcasts,
they stop short of no crime, and are fitting companions for the
much-talked-of Bashi-Bazouks or wild marauders of the late disastrous
war.
But now to turn to the renegade or housed gipsy. Still retaining the
inherent desire for liberty so common to his race, he avails himself of
his dwelling as a shelter only by night, traversing the streets by day,
tricked out in dirty gaudy clothing, or seated with wife and family
just without the threshold of his hut, there frittering the precious
hours away. His children, if sent to school at all, are only despatched
there to be out of the way, and his home is as devoid of furniture
and well-nigh as comfortless as the ragged tent of his more Esau-like
brother. Little by little he forgets his old language, but not his
vicious habits, and very often ends by intermarrying with some poor
Greek family whose members are as lazy and apathetic as himself.
Their language—descended from the old Sanscrit—has besides giving the
only real clue to their origin, also shed some rays over the dark
period between the first emigration of the gipsies from India and
their appearance in Europe. Originally the distinct mode of speech of
a single and special border tribe of Northern India, it has, during
the many wanderings of the race, appropriated words from nearly every
country through which they passed; while on the other hand it lost
many of its own words, and still more of its own inherent power and
elegance; and much also of its resemblance to the mother tongue. These
adopted foreign words, their relative number, and their more or less
corrupted state, point plainly to the gipsies having passed from India
first into Persia, to their having remained there a considerable time,
and to their having wended their way to some Greek country, perhaps
Asia Minor, and to their descent thence into their present European
homes.
It is worthy of further remark, as proof of their Indian origin, that
the speech of the English gipsies has been found on comparison most
marvellously akin to that of the natives of Bombay, though some of
their words have, strangely enough, entirely changed the meaning they
at first possessed.
The speech of the Tchingané is rude, sharp, strongly accentuated, and
somewhat difficult to comprehend. Properly spoken it is harmonious
enough, though rendered hoarse and almost distasteful by the wild
tribes who employ it. ‘We speak,’ say they themselves, ‘as the birds
sing, but we sing as the lions roar!’ With them _papa_ signifies an
apple, _cat_ scissors, _rat_ night, _Devel_ God, whilst _dad_ seems to
be the only word exactly synonymous with any in our own language.
Heroic in suffering, the true Ottoman gipsy never sheds a tear. On his
legs to the last, he only betakes himself to his couch when death is
too surely nigh, and departs without a murmur from the life that has
been so full of unhappiness and misery to him. Buried apart from the
rest of humanity, and unwept even by his own, his low moral nature is
apt to be forgotten in his sad end, though the unsuccessful efforts of
more than one philanthropical European Society testify to the fact,
that whatever else you may do with the Ottoman gipsy, you will never
succeed in even partially civilising him.
HELENA, LADY HARROGATE.
CHAPTER XX.—AS GOVERNESS.
The establishment at High Tor was by no means on so sumptuous a scale
as that which the much larger revenues of Sir Sykes Denzil maintained
at Carbery Chase. Indeed, while for a baronet Sir Sykes was rich, for
an earl Lord Wolverhampton was almost poor. There are poorer earls
than he, no doubt, dwelling in cheap watering-places or in outlying
London squares, and exhibiting their pearl-studded coronets on no more
pretentious equipage than a brougham. But for a man of his degree, and
a De Vere withal, the Earl was not wealthy. It was much to his credit
that he was popular in spite of the comparative slenderness of his
annual rent-roll, since a poor lord, like an impoverished government,
is apt to be regarded with a sort of unreasoning contempt by those who
are very likely worse off, but in a less conspicuous station.
To be rich is, after all, a very uncertain distinction; that which
is opulence to the Squire implying mere substantial comfort when it
belongs to Sir John, and but a moderate income when it has to meet the
calls which charity, duty, and custom make on ‘my lord’s’ bank balance.
Are there not nobles of princely rank who declare that they are stinted
of pocket-money, of actual jingling sovereigns and rustling notes, by
the prudent administrators of their vast nominal fortunes? And have
we not heard of mighty financiers who feel a positive pang at any
encroachment on the colossal capital on which is reared the fabric of a
world-wide credit?
Lord Wolverhampton had been known to say more than once among his
intimate friends, that a step in the peerage would to him prove a
ruinous boon; and that to keep his head above water, difficult as an
Earl, would be impossible were that honest head overweighted by the
strawberry-leaved coronet of a Marquis. Such expensive promotion was,
however, unlikely, for High Tor now sent forth no legislators to the
more stirring of the Houses of Parliament. Some two years before, Lord
Harrogate had been returned for a west-country borough, and had earned
some praise and much good-will during the brief tenure of his seat.
But the session came to a close, and with it the corporate life of the
moribund House of Commons; and the Earl could not bring himself again
to face the costly struggle of a contested election, even on behalf of
a son so promising as his heir.
Thus the fine old house of High Tor, though lacking no adjuncts or
appliances that should appertain to the mansion of a plain country
gentleman who happened to have a handle to his name (such was the
Earl’s favourite way of describing himself among those who knew
him well, though it may be doubted whether any patrician in Europe
cherished in secret a stronger sentiment of family pride), was not kept
up with quite so ostentatious a lavishness as the neighbouring dwelling
of Carbery, the red gables of which gleaming in the westering sun,
never met Lord Wolverhampton’s eyes without suggesting the remembrance
that it had been built and, till recently, owned by a De Vere.
There was space enough and to spare in the picturesque old mansion; and
the chamber which had been assigned to Ethel Gray, and which had been
formerly tenanted by that Miss Grainger whose desertion of her post
as governess to try the experiment of wedded life we have heard the
Countess deplore, and which was next to the great rambling school-room,
commanded a noble prospect over hill and dale, over wood and water.
From the ivy-framed windows, in clear weather, Dartmoor might be seen
for miles and leagues, rolling away in giant waves of purple heather
and gray and green; while here and there rose up defiantly the naked
crags, known locally as Tors, frowning like natural fortresses on the
invader of the wilderness.
Nearer, the two parks were visible, with all their wealth of huge old
trees and matchless turf, browsed by hereditary deer, that couched
contentedly amid the tall fern that had screened the antlered herds
for centuries past, and the red roof and gleaming vanes of stately
Carbery, and the peaceful waters of its ornamental lake, in which the
silver-white swans that floated there were imaged back as from the
polished surface of a mirror. It was a pretty room this, wherein Miss
Grainger, its last occupant, had passed perhaps the happiest years of
her governess-life; and now it had received a new tenant in the person
of Ethel Gray. A new tenant, but for how long? That was a question
which Ethel asked herself, without being able to give a satisfactory
answer to her own query. The school-house of High Tor, with the modest
dwelling of its mistress, lay in ugly heaps of blackened ruin; and
it must be long before the little flock of scholars could again be
gathered together in any building large enough to hold them, and longer
before the village instructress could have a home to replace that
which the fire had made desolate. There were at the best of times no
lodgings in High Tor fit for the abode of an educated girl such as
Ethel, and now every house that remained unharmed was overcrowded by
the burned-out inhabitants of those which the conflagration had swept
away.
It so chanced, however, that on the very day following Ethel’s arrival
the question as to the prolongation of her sojourn at High Tor House
was conclusively settled. Lady Alice, a quick-witted impulsive child,
came swiftly down-stairs to the room where her mother and sisters were
sitting. ‘Pray, come, Maud!’ she said breathlessly; ‘Gladys, you come
too; and you, mamma. It’s worth while, indeed it is, only to listen for
a moment!’
‘What is to be listened to?’ asked the Countess, amused at the eager
manner of her youngest child.
‘Miss Gray’s singing, her wonderful, wonderful singing!’ returned the
child impetuously. ‘I heard it by accident as I passed the door of the
school-room, where she is all alone at the piano; and I could hardly
tear myself away that I might tell you not to lose the treat.’
The Countess laughed good-humouredly.
‘All Alice’s geese are swans,’ she said; ‘and I am too old to climb so
many stairs on the strength of this young lady’s recommendation. You
are young, Maud, yourself, and I see you cannot resist the temptation;
nor you either, Gladys.’
And indeed the two elder of the Ladies De Vere had allowed themselves
to be convinced, or at least rendered compliant, by the pleading eyes
and the energetic ‘Do come, please,’ of their child-sister. It was some
little time before they returned.
‘Mamma, Alice was right; and you have lost a treat worth a longer
pilgrimage than that,’ said frank Lady Gladys, coming down, with Alice,
radiant with delight, skipping at her side. ‘This Miss Gray (Maud, who
is really getting fond of her, addresses her as “Ethel” already) has a
voice that might make her fortune if she were less timid, and so sweet
and liquid that one might fancy it the carol of a bird. Such a touch
too on the keys! That jangling wheezy old school-room piano, on which
excellent Miss Grainger used to pound so distressingly, gives out real
music beneath those fingers of hers, and becomes full-toned and mellow.
What a shame to throw away talent such as that upon the A B C work of
teaching urchins the rudiments of knowledge!’
‘I never heard of these high musical attainments of Miss Gray’s, I am
sure,’ said the puzzled Countess; ‘and I am almost as certain that
your father never heard of them either. She was strongly recommended,
I know, by an old college friend of my lord, a clergyman somewhere,
and that is all I have learned concerning her. But if she is such a
performer as you describe, I should like to hear her too.’
Lady Gladys shook her head. ‘I am not sure,’ she said, ‘whether so
shy a song-bird can be coaxed into warbling before an audience of
strangers. She really did seem quite startled and distressed when Alice
began to clap her hands and Maud and I broke in upon her. She had no
notion, she said, that her singing could be heard by any of us in that
out-of-the-way corner of so large a house, and seemed to think she had
taken a great liberty and infringed rules of social decorum. And it was
all that even Maud, whom she likes, could do to persuade her to sing
again, only a little bit of a ballad; but it all but brought tears into
my eyes, hackneyed girl of the world as I am, you know.’
In explanation of which last speech, it may be mentioned that Lady
Gladys, the beauty of the family, had gone through two London seasons
under the chaperonage of her mother’s sister, the Marchioness of
Plinlimmon, and that it was supposed that if she had remained unmarried
still, it was not for want of offers matrimonial.
‘I was thinking, mamma,’ said Lady Maud, who had lingered longer with
Ethel than her sister had done, ‘that you could scarcely do better than
to engage Miss Gray, if it suits her, as a governess for Alice, instead
of writing to every point of the compass in hopes that some friend will
recommend some treasure. It’s not only that Ethel Gray is really too
good for the routine of plodding tuition in a village school, but that
she knows everything, or nearly everything, that Miss Grainger knew,
and French and German quite as well as it is possible to acquire them
in England. Gladys has told you, I am sure, what a musician she is. I
do not know how you could do better.’
The Countess too did not know how she could do better than to engage
such a successor to the oft-quoted Miss Grainger, provided she
possessed the accomplishments with which she was credited, and were
willing—which Lady Wolverhampton could scarcely doubt—to exchange
her rustic pupils for the post of governess at High Tor House. And
as, on inquiry, it seemed that Ethel’s acquirements had not been
overrated, and that her magnificent voice and musical proficiency
fully merited the encomiums of the girls, while Alice was a vehement
partisan of the governess-elect, the Countess was ready to propose the
formal installation of Ethel in that capacity, subject to ‘my lord’s’
approval, when he should return from some magisterial business at
Pebworth.
It was, however, necessary, in the Countess’s opinion, to ask a
question or two on other matters than that of competence to teach.
The office of mistress of the village school was one thing; that of
governess to an Earl’s youngest daughter was another. It would be
satisfactory, the Countess thought, to know a little more of Miss
Gray’s birth, parentage, and antecedents than any of the De Vere family
did as yet know. Ethel’s simple frankness saved Lady Wolverhampton—who
did not like to put direct questions, and was eminently unfit for the
delicate operation of extracting by subtle talk and veiled inquiry
what she wished to learn—a great deal of trouble.
‘My father is in Australia,’ she said, raising her clear eyes to meet
those of the Countess. ‘He is, I believe, a merchant there; but even
_that_ I do not know with any certainty, though he has been living
there for many years, and I have always been told that I was born in
the colony. I came with him to England, I know, when I was a little
child, and he returned there; and I have not seen him since then, and
cannot remember him at all.’
Ethel’s story was a brief one. She had little to relate, save of her
early youth, spent at Sandston, a minor bathing-place on the Norfolk
coast, where Mr Gray, a widower, who had paid but a short visit to his
native country, had left his only child under the care of an excellent
woman, one Mrs Linklater, a widow and mistress of a lodging-house.
Ethel’s eyes grew dim as she spoke of good motherly Mrs Linklater, at
whose death, three years before, she had been received into the house
of the clergyman, who had been a college friend of the Earl, and to
whose wife she had been a sort of companion.
‘Dear Mrs Keating,’ said Ethel simply, ‘quite, I am afraid, spoiled
me. For years and years, when Mrs Linklater was alive, I spent much
of my time at the vicarage; and Mrs Keating, who was herself very
accomplished, taught me almost all the little that I know. She was fond
of music, and understood it as few understand it, and it is through her
kindness that I learned to sing and play. She had no children living
except the three sons who were making their way in the world; and I
believe that she thought I was like a little daughter she had lost, and
whose name, like mine, was Ethel, and so’——
‘And so she took you to live with her, when this worthy Mrs—yes,
Linklater died,’ said the Countess encouragingly. ‘But how came you to
leave her?’
Ethel’s explanation of that was clear enough. Mrs Keating’s health,
always frail, had given way, and she had been ordered to a warmer
climate. Dr Keating, who had accompanied his wife to Mentone and
Bellaggio, had a curate to pay and heavy expenses to meet. It was
necessary that Ethel should get her own living; and it was at her own
suggestion that Dr Keating had sought for her that appointment as
mistress of a village school which his acquaintance with the Earl had
enabled him to obtain for her at High Tor.
‘But your father?’ said the Countess, full of sympathy, for she liked
the girl better and better for all that she saw or heard of her.
Ethel smiled somewhat sadly. Mr Gray, it appeared, seldom wrote,
and then very curtly, from Australia. For nearly two years the
customary remittance, sufficient to defray the cost of his daughter’s
maintenance, had not reached Sandston. That he would one day come
back to England, Ethel hoped. He had been, she feared, of late less
prosperous in his affairs than was formerly the case. Dr Keating held
the address in Sydney to which letters to the widower had been hitherto
addressed.
The matter was settled; the proposal that Ethel should become governess
to Lady Alice, and as such should be permanently domiciled at High Tor,
was graciously made and gratefully accepted.
‘I shall have to look out for another schoolmistress, it seems,’ said
the good-natured old Earl; ‘but never mind that. Alice is pleased, and
Maud is pleased; and as Miss Gray seems to like it too, I think we may
say that some good came of our luckless fire, after all.’
SOME PHYSIOLOGICAL ERRORS.
One of the notable examples of popular delusions regarding bodily
structure and functions, is exemplified by the belief that the third
finger was selected as the bearer of the wedding-ring because a
particular nerve placed this member in direct communication with the
heart. Over and over again has this belief been expressed, and in
the belief is found an apparently satisfactory reason why the third
finger is thus honoured. The slightest acquaintance with physiological
science shews that the supposition referred to has not even a germ of
probability to shew on its behalf. The ring-finger is supplied with
nerves according to the rule of nervous supply in the body generally,
and, it need hardly be said, without the slightest reference to the
heart; the nerves of which in turn are supplied from an independent
source and one quite dissociated from that which supplies the nerves of
the hand.
Equally curious and erroneous beliefs intrude themselves into the
domain of medicine and surgery. Thus for instance it is a matter of
ordinary belief that a cut in the space which separates the thumb from
the forefinger is of necessity a most dangerous injury. The popular
notion regarding this region is that an injury inflicted thereupon is
singularly liable to be followed by tetanus or lock-jaw. There exist
not the slightest grounds for this supposition. Lock-jaw it is true
might follow an injury to this part of the hand, as it might supervene
after a wound of any of the fingers. But physiology and medicine alike
emphatically dispel the idea that any peculiarity of structure which
might predispose to the affection just named, exists _chiefly_ in the
region of the thumb. It may be that the difficulty experienced in
securing the healing of wounds in this portion of the hand—owing to the
amount of loose tissue and to the free movements of the part which it
is almost impossible to prevent—might favour or predispose to an attack
of tetanus. But as the same remark may be made of many other portions
of the body, it follows that the thumb-region possesses no peculiarity
whatever in this respect over any other part of the frame.
One of the points which has been most hotly contested in technical as
well as in popular physiology is the use and functions of the _spleen_.
This organ, as most readers are aware, is a gland, of somewhat oval
shape, lying close to the left side or extremity of the stomach. It
is one of the so-called ‘ductless’ glands of the body—that is, it
possesses no duct or outlet, as do the liver, sweetbread, and other
glands concerned with the formation of special fluids used in digestion
and other functions. In olden times philosophers puzzled themselves
over this mysterious organ; nor was its nature rendered any clearer by
the discovery of the fact that it may be removed from the bodies of the
higher animals without causing any great or subsequent inconvenience,
and without affecting in any perceptible degree the health of the
subject operated upon. One classical authority went so far as to allege
that he could find no use whatever for the organ; whilst another
maintained that possibly it was intended to serve as a kind of packing
for the other organs around it, and that it kept them from getting
out of their places in the movements of the body. The idea, however,
which obtained most credence was that which regarded the spleen as
the fountain and origin of all the vile ‘humours’ which rankled the
blood and soured the disposition of man. We can still trace in the
metaphorical expressions of our literature this ancient belief; so that
what at first were regarded as literal and true ideas of the spleen and
its use, have come in modern days to do duty simply as metaphors.
Modern science, in dispelling those antiquated notions, has now
assigned to the spleen a very important part in our internal mechanism.
The part it plays may be thus described. The blood, as every one who
has looked at a thin film of that substance through a microscope will
know, is in reality a fluid as clear as water, and derives its colour
from the immense number of little red bodies the ‘corpuscles,’ which
float in it. These red corpuscles of human blood do not attain a
greater size than the 1/3500th part of an inch—that is, three thousand
five hundred of these little bodies placed in a line would make up an
inch in length. In addition to the red bodies, there exist in the blood
a much smaller number of ‘white corpuscles,’ each containing a little
central particle which the red ones want. From the results of the most
recent researches it would appear that the red corpuscles are produced
by the partial destruction of the white ones; and that the little
central particles of the white globules, when coloured, appear before
us as the red corpuscles of the blood. Now the spleen is to be regarded
as the great manufactory or _depôt_ in which the red corpuscles are
thus produced from the white ones, and in which also many of the white
corpuscles are themselves developed. And it would also appear highly
probable, that when the red globules of the blood have served their
turn in the economy of the body they are broken down in the spleen;
their material being doubtless used for some wise purpose in the
maintenance of our complicated frame.
A very common idea, but one founded on no certain or feasible grounds,
is that which maintains that our bodies undergo a complete change and
renewal of all their parts every seven years. The ‘mystical’ nature of
the number seven, has had an unquestionable effect in originating this
opinion; and although the age of fourteen and again that of twenty-one
may be regarded as marking the attainment of youth and manhood or
womanhood respectively, yet physiology gives no countenance to the
popular opinion that of necessity these periods are those of sweeping
bodily change. On the contrary, it might be shewn that the periods at
which full growth of body is attained vary with climate, race, and
constitution—that is, with the personal nature, and with the physical
surroundings of individuals, communities, and nations. The true state
of matters as disclosed by physiology, leads us to contemplate actions
and changes which are of infinitely more wondrous kind than those
involved in the idea of septennial change. For if there is one axiom
which physiology maintains more constantly than another, it is that
which teaches that constant and _never-ceasing_ change is the lot of
life from its beginning to its end.
No part of the body of a living being is free from these changes of
substance, through which indeed every act of life is carried on. Every
movement of a muscle—the winking of an eyelid or the lifting of a
finger—implies waste of the organs and parts which move. The thinking
of a thought implies wear and tear of the organ which thinks—the brain
itself. Were it possible to spend existence even in a perfectly still
and rigid condition, there are still actions to be performed which are
necessary for the maintenance of life, and which necessitate continual
waste and wear of the tissues. Thus the beating of the heart, the
movements of our chest in breathing, and the very act of receiving
and digesting food—actions which are in themselves concerned with the
repair of the frame—can only be performed through the intervention of
processes of work, and waste of body. So that a living being is to be
regarded as passing its existence in a constant state of change. Its
particles are being continually wasted, and as incessantly renewed;
and although the growth of our bodies may be said to culminate at
various periods of our life, yet it is anything but correct to say
that there are marked epochs of change in human existence. The truth
is that change and alteration are our continual heritage; and it is
strange indeed to think that not an organ or part of our bodies exists
which has not repeatedly in its history been insensibly and gradually,
but none the less perfectly, renewed in all its parts. Our particles
and substance are being dissipated in very many ways and fashions.
Chemically and physically, we are in a state of continual break-down;
whilst on the other hand, it may be shewn that the forces of life are
enlisted powerfully on the side of renewal and repair.
In connection with the exercise of our senses there are not a few
points on which popular ideas stand in need of correction. When we
speak of ‘seeing’ or ‘hearing,’ the exercise of these or any other of
our senses indeed, is usually referred to the organ concerned—eye, ear,
nose, or tongue, as the case may be. A little consideration, however,
will shew us that we make a very grievous mistake in referring the act
of sensation or perception to the organ itself. Let us consider for
a moment what happens when we acquire ideas regarding the form of an
object through the sense of touch. We may in the first place ‘will’ to
touch the object in question; the act of ‘volition’ as it is termed,
originating in the brain, being transformed into nerve-force, and being
further directed along the particular nerves which supply the muscles
of one finger or along those which supply all the fingers. The muscles
are thus stimulated to action, and through their agency the fingers
are brought into contact with the desired object. Leaving the sense of
sight out of consideration for a moment, we know that we can through
the sense of touch gain ideas regarding the form, size, hardness, and
other qualities of the object. Our nervous system is thus bringing us
into relation with the outer world and specially with that portion of
it represented by the object we have touched. But how have we gained
our knowledge? The reply to this question leads us at once to perceive
that the tips of the fingers do not represent the seat of knowledge.
And a further consideration makes it equally clear that the brain
must be credited not only with the task of perceiving, but also with
that of appreciating what has been perceived. Hence we are forced to
conclude that just as the first nervous impulse shot through the nerves
to the fingers, so a second impulse has passed from the fingers to the
brain. Our sense of touch has given origin to a subtle force which
has passed upwards to the brain, and has there become transformed,
through a mechanism—of the working of which we know as yet absolutely
nothing—into perception and thought. Similarly with the work of the
eye, of the ear, and of other senses.
When we talk of seeing or hearing, we are in reality speaking of
the act of the brain, not of the eye or ear, which are merely the
‘gateways’ through which the brain obtains its knowledge. And that
the brain is the true seat of the senses, may be proved to us from
the side of pathology—the science which makes us acquainted with the
causes and nature of disease. Cases are well known in which injury of
the brain as the seat of sense has given origin to depraved sensations.
Post-mortem examinations of persons who were continually conscious
of a disagreeable odour have proved that these persons had laboured
under brain-disease; whilst one case is on record in which, after a
fall from a horse, and for several years before his death, a person
believed that he smelt a bad odour. So also the sense of sight may
be altered from internal causes, and on this ground may be explained
the real nature of many cases of so-called ghost-seeing and spectral
illusions. One well-known case, in illustration of this latter point,
was that of Nicolai, a Berlin bookseller, who, neglecting to be bled
in accordance with his usual custom, began to see strange persons in
his room, and faithfully described the appearance of the figures. The
figures disappeared when he had been bled once more. Thus in all such
cases we must believe that those parts of the eye or ear which would
have been concerned in seeing the supposititious objects or hearing
the supposititious sounds—had either existed—were irritated from the
brain and produced the delusive sensations. Thus the common phrase
that ‘seeing is believing’ is in one sense literally true; for the act
of sight apparently exercised in the person who suffers from optical
illusions is in reality performed by the brain and is thus an act of
belief, even if it be one of unconscious kind. The entire subject of
physiological errors teems with valuable applications, but with none
more practical or worthy of remark than that which would insist on the
advantages, in the ruling wisely of our lives, to be derived from even
an elementary acquaintance—such as should be included in the curriculum
of every school—with the science of life.
MR ASLATT’S WARD.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.
I did not then know what I afterwards learned, the full extent of
her obligations to Mr Aslatt, nor the sentiments of love which that
gentleman came to entertain for his beautiful ward. A pretty child of
six, singing in the streets of a foreign city, she had first attracted
his notice; and her sad lot had so touched his heart, that he could not
rest till he had rescued her from it. The itinerant musicians in whose
company he found her spoke of her as an orphan, the child of a former
comrade, and made no objection when Mr Aslatt proposed to adopt her and
provide for her future. He was a lonely man, with no near relatives
to resent this action on his part; and the child became the delight
of his life and the idol of his heart. He was but a young man when he
took the little orphan under his protection, and his friends thought
it an alarming proof of the eccentricity which had already marked
him. But a bitter disappointment had blighted his life, and made it
impossible, he then thought, for him ever to have a happy married life,
such as he had once anticipated. He determined to spend his wealth in
giving brightness to the existence of the little fairy-like creature,
who seemed made to live in the sunshine; and in the effort to promote
little Rose’s happiness he found his own. When it was that his paternal
fondness for her passed into a warmer more passionate emotion, and he
experienced a longing to bind her to himself by the closest of all
ties, I could not know; but that such was the nature of his regard for
her when I went to reside at his house, was beyond doubt.
And it was equally plain that Rose entertained for him a very different
feeling. She looked upon him as her dear guardian and friend, one
who had been as a father to her; but I do not think the possibility
of any other relationship had ever crossed her mind. Indeed it was
pretty evident to me that another was frequently in her thoughts to the
exclusion of Mr Aslatt, who was so untiring in his efforts to win her
love. I was grieved to see how often she wounded him by her thoughtless
wilful conduct; and the patience with which he bore with her capricious
moods, fully enlisted my sympathies on his behalf. If any word of
mine could have influenced my wayward charge to value more highly her
true-hearted friend, it would have been spoken; but from what I knew of
her, I judged that I should better serve Mr Aslatt’s cause by silence
than by speech.
On the day following that of our excursion to Ashdene, Rose took me
for a drive in her little shell-shaped chaise, drawn by two pretty
Shetland ponies. We drove through narrow country lanes with hedges
gay with wild-flowers, and across a breezy common covered with golden
furze-bushes, returning by a road which led us through the village.
‘This is the school-house,’ said Rose as we approached a rather
imposing-looking structure in red brick; and without another word she
pulled up her ponies and alighted.
I followed her into the large school-room, which at that hour was
deserted. Mr Hammond, however, had heard our entrance, and almost
immediately came in from an inner room. The bright flush which tinged
Rose’s cheek as he appeared, and the somewhat conscious manner in
which she greeted him, seemed to confirm my previous surmises. He was
certainly a very handsome man; and his manner and bearing were in
striking contrast to his position. I could not wonder that a girl like
Rose should be fascinated by his appearance and address, even while, in
spite of his efforts to please me, the feeling of distrust with which
I had at first regarded him, deepened. From what I observed during
that interview, I felt pretty certain that some private understanding
already existed between him and Rose. I dared not question my wilful
charge, knowing well how her proud spirit would resent any interference
from me. Yet I longed to do something to prevent this man from
obtaining a fatal influence over her heart. But I could only wait and
watch for what time might reveal, resolved meanwhile to accompany
Rose whenever she paid a visit to the school-house. I saw that this
precaution of mine afforded satisfaction to Mr Aslatt.
The summer weeks passed away swiftly and pleasantly with me. But the
signs of secret sorrow became more plainly visible on Mr Aslatt’s
countenance, and I felt sure he was tortured with anxiety on account of
Rose’s intimacy with the schoolmaster. I sometimes wondered that he did
not dismiss Mr Hammond from his post, but I suppose he dreaded Rose’s
reproaching him with injustice; for in truth the schoolmaster appeared
most exemplary in the discharge of his duties, and no reasonable ground
of complaint could be found. I became anxious also, as I saw every week
fresh proofs of Rose’s attachment to Mr Hammond. At last a day arrived
when my suspicions as to the existence of a secret understanding
between the two were confirmed in a most unexpected manner. It was a
warm September evening. Rose, complaining of a headache, had retired
early to rest, and I was about to follow her example, when looking from
my window at the calm beauty of the garden as it lay in the clear light
of the moon, I was tempted to take a stroll. Wrapping a shawl about
me, I went down the steps leading into the garden, and slowly walked
down the green alley bordered by tall laurel bushes. It was almost as
light as day until I reached the end of the walk, where some large
trees obscured the moonbeams. As I passed into their shadow I thought
of the warning Rose had given me on the night of my arrival. I smiled
at the remembrance; and in order to prove to myself that I had no fear
of supernatural encounter, I turned into the path which led towards
that part of the house said to be haunted. Here the gloom deepened, for
the shrubs and trees in this portion of the garden had been neglected,
and suffered to grow at will, until they intertwined their branches
overhead, forming a leafy covering.
‘How frightened Rose would be, if she were here,’ I thought; but the
next moment I became conscious that my own bravery was not worth
much. A sudden rustling amongst the leaves close at hand startled me,
and involuntarily I turned to go back. But ashamed of my cowardice, I
almost immediately turned round again, and peering through the bushes
in the direction from which the sound had come, tried to discover its
cause. ‘It was merely some dog or cat straying amongst the shrubs,’ I
said to myself, trying to shake off the fear which had taken possession
of me. But again I heard the sound more distinctly than before, and
it seemed to me that some one must be walking along the path on the
other side of the shrubbery. But I could see nothing, and my heart
began to beat violently in dread of I knew not what. A cloud had passed
over the moon, and the wind was rising and making a mournful ‘sough’
amongst the trees, which was not reassuring. I shivered; and drawing
my shawl closely around me, again turned to leave the garden. But once
more the sound fell upon my ear, and at the same moment my eyes were
arrested by the appearance of a white ghost-like figure standing on the
steps leading from the haunted room. In spite of my boasted disbelief
in supernatural appearances, for an instant I really thought that the
shadowy form I beheld must be the denizen of another world. I stood
motionless, rooted to the spot by fear. It was but for a moment that
the figure was visible; as I gazed upon it, it glided slowly down
the steps and disappeared in the gloom. I can smile now to think how
terror-struck I was as I watched its disappearance. Suddenly I heard
again the sound which had at first awakened my fears, now close at
hand, and almost immediately I felt something cold touch my hand. I
uttered a faint cry, and should have swooned, I verily believe, if a
low familiar whine had not assured me that Nero was by my side, and had
thrust his nose into my hand. Hitherto, I had regarded Rose’s rough
pet with some trepidation, but now his presence was most welcome, and
I laid my hand on his shaggy head, in order to keep him by my side.
But he would not be retained, and breaking from me, ran down the
path towards the spot where my supposed ghost had vanished. The next
minute I heard him barking loudly, and the sound of his hearty voice
dissipated my absurd fears. ‘Nero evidently has no fear of ghosts,’
said I to myself, as with growing courage I advanced to discover the
cause of his excitement.
As I approached the end of the path, Nero’s barking ceased, and to
my astonishment, I heard a well-known voice gently coaxing him to be
quiet. I turned a corner, and beheld Rose standing by a door which
led from the garden into the road. She wore a dress of gray alpaca,
and had a white shawl of flimsy texture twisted around her shoulders.
She carried her hat and a small travelling-bag in her hand, and had
evidently been about to unlock the door, when Nero had arrested her
movements. In a moment I was at her side, and laying my hand on her arm
inquired: ‘What is the meaning of this, Rose?’ She had not heard my
approach, and my sudden appearance startled her so much, that even in
the dim light I could perceive that her face grew very pale.
For a few moments she could make no reply, then shaking off my grasp,
she exclaimed: ‘Let me alone; I must and will go!’ She took hold of
the key, and strove to turn the lock, but her hand trembled so that she
could not manage it.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I wrenched the key from her grasp and
put it into my pocket. ‘You shall not leave the garden at this hour,’ I
said, ‘if it is in my power to prevent it.’
Just then a low whistle was heard from the other side of the wall. Rose
started at the sound, and wrung her hands in grief and dismay. ‘Do not
stop me, Miss Bygrave!’ she implored. ‘I assure you, it is better I
should go now. We are acting for the best.’
‘How can it be for the best, Rose,’ I exclaimed indignantly, ‘that
you should deceive and pain your kind guardian, for the sake of an
unprincipled man? But you have not reflected on what you were about to
do. Thank God, I was led here in time to prevent your taking a step
which would entail lifelong misery!’ So saying, I took her hand, to
lead her back to the house. Seeing that I was resolute, she made no
opposition. We went at once to her room, which was not far from my
own. It was in great disorder, various articles lying scattered about
on the floor and chairs. On the dressing-table lay various articles of
jewellery and other presents from Mr Aslatt, and a note directed to him
in Rose’s handwriting.
‘And so, you thought by returning these, you could escape from some of
your obligations to Mr Aslatt,’ I remarked, somewhat scornfully, as I
pointed to the pile of gifts. ‘I am surprised at you, Rose!’
Overpowered by shame and vexation, she could make no reply,
but throwing herself as she was upon the bed, gave vent to her
mortification in passionate sobs. I sat down by her side and let her
weep unchecked, hoping that no more words would be needed to move her
to contrition. After a while she grew calmer, and ceasing to sob, lay
still, with her eyes shut. Occasionally her eyelids moved, and I knew
that she was not asleep; but I would not be the first to break silence.
About an hour passed thus, and then she opened her eyes, and raising
herself on her elbow, and shaking back the fair hair that was hanging
loose over her face, turned towards me. ‘Shall you tell Cousin?’ she
asked in a faint voice.
‘I fear it will be my duty to do so,’ I replied; ‘though I shrink from
the thought of the pain I shall inflict.’
Rose’s lip quivered, and tears again gathered in her eyes. ‘I know you
must consider me very wicked,’ she said; ‘but indeed I am not so bad as
you think. I am fully conscious how much I am indebted to Mr Aslatt,
and I am grateful to him for the kindness he has always shewn me.’
‘How can you say so,’ I interrupted, ‘when you have deliberately
planned what would cause him the bitterest sorrow?’
‘I know, I know!’ exclaimed Rose passionately. ‘Do you suppose I have
ignored the sorrow my flight would cause my dear guardian, or that
I would willingly appear so ungrateful? But I had to consider the
happiness of another.’
‘What other can have stronger claims upon you than Mr Aslatt?’ I asked.
Rose coloured, and hesitated for an answer. ‘If I had a husband,’ she
said in a low voice with downcast eyes, ‘he would have a higher claim
upon me than any one else.’
‘Of course,’ I returned. ‘But you are not married, so I do not see what
that has to do with it.’
‘This much,’ said Rose—‘that I have promised to marry Mr Hammond, and
would have been married to-morrow if you had not stopped me; therefore
he is more to me than any one else.’