connected with it by an arched causeway. It was placed there in feudal
times to call together the vassals and adherents of the place in cases
of raid or invasion, if for no worthier purpose; and in later times a
superstition attached to it that its reawakening portended some
calamity, the nature of which, not being specifically stated, was left
to conjecture, and gave scope to the prognostications of the
wise-acres. Yes, these would say, with the self-complacent air of
oracles, when the bell rings it will ring the death-knell of our
liberties, and Holland will pass to an alien race. This was the
interpretation generally received and accredited by those who had faith
in the tradition—a goodly number, which included almost all the old
inhabitants. On the other hand, many among the junior members of the
community ridiculed the whole thing, scoffed at the prophetic legend as
an old woman’s tale, and, spurred perhaps by what they termed the
foolish credulity of the elders, who professed an abiding belief in it,
they rushed to the opposite extreme, even to the extent of doubting, at
least of denying, the very existence of the bell. At any rate it had
long ago fallen into disuse, and those who heard it now heard it for
the first time.
In the market square this old civic story was anxiously revived and
earnestly discussed, while the ominous import of the ringing was
speculated upon with troublous forebodings, even by the sceptical, and
its inharmonious clangor added tenfold significance to its history. In
the midst of the tumult the crowd swayed with a sudden movement, and
presently began to waver and divide, as a stalwart form appeared,
forcing a passage, and shouting with a persuasive vigor heard above the
din: “To the dike! to the dike!” It was Peter Artveldt, the
ship-carpenter. His words and example had the effect of an electric
shock on the panic-stricken multitude. Shaking off their stupor, they
followed him through the town, echoing his cry, “To the dike! to the
dike!” and, gathering strength as they proceeded, soon reached the
dike, half a mile beyond the northern limit of the town.
Imagination had diverted their fears, not allayed them; and, singular
as it seems, no one thought of the dike until the voice of the
ship-carpenter like a thunder-clap sounded a warning of the real
danger. Up to that moment the dike was to them, as it had been for
generations, the firm and effective bulwark of the land.
Their worst fears were realized. The water was flowing through several
fissures in the dike, noiselessly stealing in upon the land, until it
had flooded the ground up to the cemetery palings. This was not all nor
the worst. A hasty survey disclosed the appalling fact that at one
point the force of the storm had sapped the foundation; some of its
stones, having been displaced, were lying loose in the soft sand and
ooze. An instant revealed their peril and the imminence of the danger;
had they been but half an hour later nothing could have averted their
fate—Steenwykerwold would have been as effectually and irretrievably
swallowed up by water as old Herculaneum was by fire, and sadder the
story of its chroniclers.
However, it was not a time for reflection, but for action. With such
implements as in their haste they had been able to provide themselves
after the real nature of the danger became known, they set to work with
a will, aided by the invigorating example of Artveldt, who with heroic
energy put forth his strenuous powers and directed all their movements.
In less than ten minutes they had felled four or five of the cemetery
trees; breaking through the gate, they dragged these to the dike,
making an effective temporary barrier to the advance of the cruel
waters. Yet to guard against a possible recurrence of danger from a
renewal of the storm or any untoward accident, until the damage should
be permanently repaired, an organized force was appointed, divided into
squads of eight, whose duty it was to watch constantly, relieving each
other every six hours. These precautions completed, the multitude, in
the delirious joy of their deliverance, grew wild with delight and
manifested symptoms of frantic disorder. Here again the ascendent
spirit of Artveldt made itself felt. “Brothers,” said he, “we have
finished a brave night’s work; let us not undo it by making fools of
ourselves. No; we will go peaceably to our homes, and a grateful
country will say: ‘They were as orderly in the hour of triumph as they
were brave in the hour of peril.’ Posterity will keep sacred your
memory and look back with grateful eyes to this day, and every future
Christmas will be happier for your deed.”
After this speech they were ready and willing to obey him. He now
ranged the men in line of march, requesting them not to break rank
until they reached Van der Meer Castle, where it was agreed they should
disperse; then, with a long, full cheer, they returned triumphantly
through the town, and _Steenwykerwold was saved_.
After having been hospitably entertained at the castle, and thanking
Lady Leopoldine for the timely warning whereby the threatened disaster
was averted, they gave a parting salute—three hearty cheers—and then,
as agreed upon, quietly dispersed.
At that very time there was commotion within the castle. The eventful
night was yet to be made memorable by another incident, as yet known
only to its inmates, having been wisely withheld from the knowledge of
the men who stemmed the fateful waters.
The ringing had some time ceased. Now, every one supposed that Lady
Leopoldine had caused the bell to be rung, knowing or divining their
danger; but such, in fact, was not the case. She no more than the rest
mistrusted the safety of the dike. You may imagine, then, her terror
when first she heard the appalling sound. Like a summons from the grave
it smote her ear. Was it a summons from the grave? At first she could
scarce refrain from thinking that it was, so strange and startling on
the pulseless air of night fell the unfamiliar peal. Again she believed
herself the victim of some wild hallucination. She rose at once and
summoned the servants.
It was no illusion—they had all heard it; they could not choose but
hear, and it was while listening in agonizing suspense that the summons
of their mistress reached them. It was obeyed with more than customary
alacrity. They all rushed pell-mell into the hall. Lady Leopoldine
instantly dismissed her own fears and allayed theirs, and caused a
vigorous search to be made.
The astonishment and alarm of the household will perhaps be more
readily understood when it is remembered that the bell was entirely
inaccessible. The tower was about sixty-five feet high, of somewhat
rude construction. Walls of large, rough stones to an altitude of
sixteen feet formed the base. Inside of these walls heavy oaken
buttresses were placed, which had the appearance of strengthening them,
but which in reality formed the support of the bell suspended above and
hidden in a curious network of trellised beams. No appliances for
reaching it were visible; and how it got there was a mystery. Indeed,
the ringing of the bell on that night, as well as the bell itself and
all its appurtenances, were regarded as very mysterious; and we may
well excuse the simple-minded people, not yet imbued with modern
materialism, if they conceived the whole affair to be the work of
superhuman agency.
No one had entered the causeway from the house, it was evident; no
trace of disturbance could anywhere be discovered. Two of the men, the
coachman and his assistant, braver than the rest, volunteered to go
into the passage and thoroughly examine the premises. Providing
themselves with lanterns, they went round to the old door in the rear
of the tower. One glance convinced them that no one had recently gone
in that way. The bolts were firm in the sockets, wedged tight by the
rust of a century. With much exertion they were forced back, the door
was unfastened, and the men entered. The damp, chill air caused them to
shudder, and their first impulse was to beat a precipitate retreat.
Pausing in doubtful perplexity of their next movement, afraid to
advance, and ashamed to go back, they stood near the door, which they
had considerately left ajar, fearing, yet hoping for some perceptible
excuse to run. None came. The silence was broken only by the flutter of
some startled bats aloft; the dingy walls alone met their scrutinizing
gaze as they peered cautiously around, the glare of the lanterns
shooting sharply-defined rays of yellowish gray light through the humid
gloom. The first feeling of nervous trepidation past, reason asserted
itself; they grew accustomed to the gloom and began to explore the
passage deliberately and carefully. After having traversed it the
entire length without making any discovery, they were about to retrace
their steps when their attention was arrested by some fragments of
mortar or plaster lying loosely on the flagged pavement about four feet
from the further end next the house. These had the appearance of having
recently fallen from the wall. Here was a probable clue. With renewed
interest they now proceeded to examine the wall, and were rewarded by
finding a small door, level with its surface and nearly concealed by a
thin coating of plaster. On forcing it open they were surprised to find
another passage, parallel with the main one, but so narrow as to admit
of entrance only by single file. Another door, as secret as the first,
opened from this narrow passage into a sort of recess behind the
stairway, which, it will be remembered, led to the gallery in the
banqueting-hall. The recess was known to the occupants of the castle,
but never used by them. Its original purpose may have been a subject of
momentary conjecture, but they did not trouble themselves much about
it, being content, if they thought of it at all, to consider it an
eccentricity of some former proprietor. Least of all did they dream of
its communication with a hidden passage to the bell-tower. Following
the passage back to the other end, their surprise was greatly augmented
by the further discovery that, instead of opening into the main
enclosure, like the large passage, as they naturally expected, it
terminated in a sort of square sentry-box, enclosed at all sides except
the top—in reality a large wooden shaft. It was no other than what
appeared from without to be a combination of four solid beams. In it
hung the bell-rope. _At the bottom lay the bell-ringer_, The Ferret,
exhausted and insensible.
They carried him out into the hall. The mistress of the mansion sent at
once for a physician, and, gently lifting his head, with delicate hand
she chafed the poor pale brow and applied restoratives. Soon the doctor
came, but his services were not needed.
Another morning dawned. Again the slanting daybeams pierced the misty
levels. The vapor of earth, as it felt the ray, was dissolved into
purest ether, and, restoring to earth its grosser particles, ascended
calmly to its native sky. Thus, too, The Ferret’s Christmas carol,
begun on earth, was finished in heaven, and another voice on that happy
Christmas morning was added to the celestial choir singing, “Glory to
God on high, and on earth peace to men of good will.”
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THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1877.
There is little beyond the Russo-Turkish war that will mark this year
apart from others in the annals of universal history. Questions,
national and international, that we have touched upon time and again
come up now unsettled as ever. It is tedious and profitless to go over
well-trodden ground; to repeat reflections that have already been
repeated; and to attempt a solution of problems, social, political, and
religious, that are still working themselves out. We purpose,
therefore, in the present review to follow up a few of the broad lines
that have marked the year and given to it something of an individual
and special character. If these are very few, perhaps it is the better
for mankind. The more nations are occupied with their own affairs the
better it is for the world at large.
To begin with ourselves. We had a very vexed and very delicate problem
to solve—no less than to determine, on the turn of a single disputed
electoral vote, who was to be our President. The circumstances that
created this difficulty were dealt within our last year’s review; they
are in the recollection of our readers. On the casting of a single
disputed vote lay the election to the Presidency of the United States.
Such a contingency, accompanied as it was by peculiarly aggravating
circumstances, had never before arisen in the history of this country.
The wisest were in doubt what to do; the country was in a fever of
expectation. The republic was on trial in itself and before the world.
The written lines of the Constitution were found inadequate to meet so
unlooked-for and peculiar a matter. It was not the mere fact of one
disputed vote that was to turn the scale. There were many disputed
votes, which rested with States whose administration was not above
suspicion. Only in the event of all of these turning in favor of one of
the candidates could the Presidency be awarded to him. Any one of them
going to his opponent—who, as far as the votes of the people went, had
a decided and unmistakable majority—would have settled the question at
once. There was room and occasion for grave doubt on both sides. By
mutual agreement of the representatives of the two parties that divide
the country, a national court of arbitration, supposed to be, and
doubtless with reason, above suspicion, was appointed to inquire into
and decide upon the electoral returns. The court was chosen from both
parties. It so turned out that a preponderating vote lay with one
party. It might have rested with the other. It was a matter of
accident; and it is to be hoped that, if not exactly a matter of
accident, it was a matter of honesty that divided the court on each
moot point into strict party lines, with, as final result, an award of
the Presidency to Mr. Hayes, the Republican candidate. There the matter
rested. The court had discharged itself of the very delicate task
imposed upon it, and there was nothing left the country and the rival
parties to do but accept a decision of its own creation, which might
have gone the other way, but did not. It was the shortest way, perhaps,
out of an immediate and pressing difficulty. It was none the less a
strain on the Constitution and on the conscience of the people—a strain
that could not well be stood again. The republic cannot afford to hand
this settlement down to posterity as a lawful and satisfactory
precedent. The right way in which to regard it is as one of those
unforeseen accidents that occur in the history of all peoples, that
adjust themselves somehow for the time being, and that stand as a
warning rather than a guide to future conduct.
The country honestly and wisely accepted the decision. Of course there
were sore feelings; there would have been sore feelings in any case;
yet men breathed freely when what was a real, a painful, and a
dangerous crisis was over. There are men—sensible and patriotic men,
too, as well as a vast multitude neither patriotic nor sensible—who are
ever ready to despair of the republic when events do not turn out
exactly as they had predicted or desired. Let them take comfort. The
republic is not yet dead; and it seems to us very far from dying. In
other days, and perhaps in other peoples to-day who enjoy the privilege
of a monarchical government, such a question would have resulted in a
war of dynasties. The dynasty of Mr. Hayes or of Mr. Tilden troubles us
but little. The disaffected may bide their time. They still hold their
votes, and it is for them to see that they are not robbed of them. Mr.
Hayes has taken to heart the lesson of the last elections, which
pronounced not so much against a party as against the administration of
his predecessor. The present administration has thus far, in the main,
contrasted well with that which went before it. The President seems to
be a man of right impulses and feeling and possessed of a good
judgment. He has discarded many embarrassing associates and evil
allies—political parasites who battened on the life-blood of the state.
If his moral vision is only broad enough to see that he is the
President not of a party, but of a great people, with varied wants and
some sore troubles and internal difficulties that need very cautious
and delicate adjusting; if he honestly and persistently aims at doing
right, the people, regardless of party, will be with him and support
him. Thus far he has manifestly striven to do well. His beginning has
been good. Trials will doubtless come. He has already shown himself too
good for many influential men in the party that voted for him. If he
only continues to disregard and brave all pettiness, he can safely turn
from partisans to the people, and the people know how to judge and
value honesty—a quality that it was coming to be thought had almost
died out of politics.
There have been some indications of a revival of business; but such a
revival, to be sure and general, must be slow. Our people have not yet
recovered from the demoralizing effect of the rush of good-fortune
which they so foolishly squandered. They look for miracles in finance
and business, for a revival in a day. This cannot well come. The way
for general prosperity, and that even of very moderate dimensions, must
be paved by a return to general honesty in commercial dealings and in
private life. Public honesty can alone restore public confidence, and
public honesty is a matter of growth, education, and the apprehension
and following of right principles. It can only come from faith in God
and a sense of personal responsibility to God, as true faith in man can
only come from true faith in God. The religion that constantly
impresses this upon men’s minds is the religion that will preserve and
save from all dangers not this republic only but every government.
These feelings, penetrating the hearts of the people, will best solve
the vexed questions between labor and capital, between black and white
and red and yellow. For a right sense of personal responsibility to God
necessarily involves a right sense of personal responsibility to one
another, of the duties we owe to society, of the duties we owe to the
state. This country of all others is open to the free workings of
religion. Indeed, it is as open to the devil as to God; and if the
devil, according to some, seems to get the best of the battle, it can
only be because “the children of darkness are wiser in their generation
than the children of light”; because Christians are not really and
wholly true to Christ, and by their lives do not show forth the faith
that is in them.
THE RUSSO-TURKISH WAR.
In Europe the event of the year that calls for most attention is the
war between Russia and Turkey. On this subject we can say little or
nothing probably that will not have already suggested itself to others.
All have watched the progress of the painful struggle from day to day;
have formed their own conclusions as to the manner in which it has been
carried on on both sides; as to the necessity of such a war having
taken place at all; as to its probable results to both parties and to
Europe at large.
At the time of our last review war between Russia and Turkey was
thought imminent. We then wrote—and we may be pardoned for quoting our
own words, as some of them, at least, seem to us to apply equally well
to the present situation—as follows:
“If we may hazard an opinion, we believe that there will be no war, at
least this winter. As for the alarm at the anticipated occupation of
Constantinople by Russia, while—if the Russian Empire be not dissolved
before the close of the present century by one of the most terrific
social and political convulsions that has ever yet come to pass—that
occupation seems to lie very much within the order of possibilities, we
doubt much whether it will occur so soon as people think.... It would
seem to us difficult for Russia to occupy Constantinople without first
mastering and garrisoning Turkey, and Turkey is an empire of many
millions, whom fanaticism can still rouse to something like heroic, as
well as to the most cruel and repulsive deeds.”
Those words seem to us to have forecast fairly enough the general
aspects of the war. The war was declared because Russia burned to go to
war—Russia, or the Russian administration. The invasion of Turkey by
Russia was not a thing of the past year. It was foreordained. It was
dreaded from the close of the war in the Crimea. The only question with
the other powers was how long or by what means could it be staved off.
That Russia would invade Turkey as soon as she thought she could do so
without much danger of outward interference and with good prospects of
success was probably a fixed thought in the minds of all men who chose
to give a thought to the matter. For almost a quarter of a century has
Russia been girding herself for a fight that had become an essential
part of her national policy. Within that period, under the wise
guidance of Prince Gortschakoff, she has more than repaired the
terrible losses sustained in the Crimean war. She grew stealthily up to
a power and a status unexampled in her history. She guarded her
finances, lived within her means, prospered, refused steadily to enter
into any embarrassing European complications. She saw the European
alliance that had crushed her in 1854 hopelessly dissolve, and a new
and friendly power rise up and take the lead in European affairs. As a
military power she was looked upon as having only one superior, or
rival perhaps, in the world, and that her friendly neighbor. So strong
was she, and so singularly had every change in European politics told
in her favor, that when her opportunity came, with a word, a beck, a
stroke of her chancellor’s pen, she snapped asunder the iron gyves
forged for her and laid on her by a united Europe, and no power dared
whisper a protest. All the world saw whither she was drifting. She was
drifting to the sea, stretching out her giant arms to clasp for ever
those golden shores that she claimed as hers by destiny. The hour of
destiny struck at last. The strifes of exhausted nations and the
jealousies of others left her alone to deal with the power that held
those shores and that to Russia was an hereditary foe. She proceeded
cautiously to the last. She did all things with becoming decorum. She
invited the nations to a conference, held in the Turkish capital, to
determine once for all what was to be done with the Turk, while she
mobilized her armies in order to give effect to her peaceful protest.
What the conference of European diplomatists did, or rather did not do,
is now matter of picturesque history. “Death before dishonor!” was the
ultimatum of the Turk. “Death, then, be it,” said Russia, and the new
“crusade” began.
It has been a sad “crusade” for both parties, a disastrous one for
Russia and the Romanoffs, even though there can be little doubt as to
the final victory of Russia. What we may call the great Russian
illusion has been dispelled by this war. It was speedily discovered
that the feet of the giant who was running so swiftly and surely to the
goal of his ambition were of clay. Why, victory invited him, danced
before him, strewed flowers in his path. It was a very race with
fortune. To a great military power half the battle was won before a
single engagement worthy of the name had been fought. But it has
stopped at that half. Russia is still knocking at the gates of Plevna,
and even when Plevna is opened, as it will be probably soon, the
inglorious victory will have been so dearly won that Russia herself
may, with too much reason, be anxious for the peace which she wantonly
broke.