[Illustration:
CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
_Fifth Series_
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 14.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, APRIL 5, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
GOLD.
The fable of Midas, whose touch transformed even his food into gold,
testifies that the ancients felt the limits, while they adored the
virtues of the wonderful metal. Since the morning of the world, gold
has been the chief object of desire of mankind; and it is highly
probable that a very large percentage would still make the same
selection as the son of Gordius, were the opportunity afforded, even
with the knowledge of all it implied. For from the days of Midas until
now this gold,
Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammered, and rolled;
Heavy to get and light to hold,
has been
Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold,
Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled;
Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old
To the very verge of the churchyard mould.
No other material object has retained in a like degree the united
devotion of man in all ages. And not merely because gold is the synonym
of money. By money we mean that by which the riches of the world can
be expressed and transferred. But money may exist in various forms. It
may be rock-salt, as in Abyssinia; cowries and beads, as in Africa;
tobacco, as formerly in Virginia. Gold is greater than money, because
gold includes money, and makes money possible. Upon gold rests the
whole superstructure of the wealth of the world. Let us consider for a
moment why this is, and how this is.
And first of all, it is desirable because it is scarce. Abundance
begets cheapness, and rarity the reverse. That is most valuable
which involves the greatest amount of effort to acquire. But we
must not jump from this to the conclusion that were gold to become
as plentiful as iron, and be as easily obtained, it would recede in
value to the equivalent of iron, bulk for bulk. Gold has an intrinsic
value superior to that of all other metals because it has _useful_
properties possessed by none other. It is more durable than any, and
is practically indestructible, as Egyptian excavations and Schliemann’s
discoveries in Greece have shown. It may be melted and remelted without
losing in weight. It resists the action of acids, but is readily
fusible. It is so malleable that a grain of it may be beaten out to
cover fifty-six square inches with leaves—used in gilding and in
other ways innumerable—only the twenty-eight thousand two-hundredth
of an inch in thickness. It is so ductile that a grain of it may be
drawn out in wire five hundred feet in length. The splendour of its
appearance excels that of all other metals. Its supereminent claims
were symbolised by the Jews in the golden breastplates of the priests,
as they are by the Christian in his highest hopes of a Golden City
hereafter. We signalise the sacredness of the marriage-tie with the
gold-ring.
Professors of what Carlyle called the ‘dismal science’ have not
unfrequently expressed a contempt for gold; but in doing so, they have
regarded it merely as the correlative of money. As money, according to
them, is merely a counter with little or no intrinsic value, therefore
gold has no intrinsic value beyond its adaptability in the arts. John
Stuart Mill held that were the supply of gold suddenly doubled, no one
would be the richer, for the only effect would be to double the price
of everything. Stanley Jevons went so far as to say that the gold
produced in Australia and California represented ‘a great and almost
dead loss of labour.’ He held that ‘gold is one of the last things
which can be considered wealth in itself,’ and that ‘it is only so far
as the cheapening of gold renders it more available for gilding and for
plate, for purposes of ornament and use other than money, that we can
be said to gain directly from gold discoveries.’ Another writer, Bonamy
Price, asserts that it is a ‘wonderful apostasy,’ a ‘fallacy full of
emptiness and absurdity,’ to suppose that gold is precious except as
a tool. We might multiply quotations all tending to show that while
a certain class of philosophers admit a limited value in gold as a
metal, they claim that it loses the value immediately it is transformed
into a coin.
This contention is not tenable in reason. It is directly against the
concentrated faith of the ages. Gold is desirable for the sake of
its own special virtues, and it becomes additionally valuable when
employed as the medium of exchange among nations. It is because of the
universal desire of nations to possess it, that it enjoys its supremacy
as money. By its comparative indestructibility it commands and enjoys
the proud privilege of being the universal standard of value of the
world. It is, therefore, elevated, instead of being degraded, by the
impress of the mint stamp, for to its own intrinsic value is added
that of being the passport of nations. This is a dignity attained by
no other metal. It has been urged that the government guarantee of a
solvent nation stamped upon a piece of tin, or wood, or paper, will
form a counter quite as valuable as gold for a medium of exchange. So
it might, but the circulation would only be within certain limits. A
Scotch bank-note is passed from hand to hand with even more confidence
than a sovereign—in Scotland. But take one to England and observe the
difficulty and often impossibility of changing it. The pound-note is
worth a sovereign, but its circulating value is local. Even with a Bank
of England note, travellers on the continent occasionally experience
some difficulty in effecting a satisfactory exchange. But is there a
country in the most rudimentary condition of commerce, where an English
sovereign, or a French napoleon, or an American eagle, cannot be at
once exchanged at the price of solid gold?
It is true that a nation may form a currency of anything, but only a
currency of the precious metal can be of universal circulation; and
that is simply because the metal is precious.
Now, when Bonamy Price said that gold is only wealth in the same sense
as a cart is—namely, as a vehicle for fetching that which we desire, he
said merely what could be said of wheat or cotton, or any other product
of nature and labour usually esteemed wealth. You cannot eat gold, nor
can you clothe yourself with wheat; and the trouble of Midas would have
been quite as great had his touch transformed everything into cotton
shirts. Wealth does not consist in mere possession, but in possessing
that which can be used. Wheat and cotton constitute wealth, because one
can not only consume them, but in almost all circumstances can exchange
them for other things which we desire. But they are perishable, which
gold is not—at least for all practical purposes. At the ordinary rate
of abrasion, a sovereign in circulation will last many years without
any very perceptible loss of weight. Gold, as a possession, is a
high form of wealth, because one can either use it or exchange it at
pleasure. The fact of there being cases where a man would give all the
gold he possesses for a drink of water, does not prove that gold then
becomes valueless, but simply that something else has become for the
time-being more valuable.
Again, if it be true, as Jevons says, that gold is one of the last
things to be regarded as wealth, and the labour expended in its
production almost a dead loss, and therefore a wrong to the human race,
the world should be very much poorer for all the enormous production
of the last half-century. On the contrary, the world has gone on
increasing in the appliances of wealth, in conditions of comfort, and
in diffusion of education.
The addition to the world’s stock of gold has permitted the creation
of an enormous amount of gold-certificates, as bank-notes and bills
of exchange may be regarded, the existence of which has facilitated
commercial operations which otherwise would not have been possible. In
theory, we exchange our coal and iron for the cotton, wheat, &c., of
other countries; but as we cannot mete out the exactly equal values
in ‘kind,’ we settle the difference nominally in gold, but actually
in paper representing gold. But the gold must nevertheless exist, or
the operation would be impossible. It is as when a man buys, let us
say, five hundred tons of pig-iron in Glasgow. He does not actually
receive into his hands five hundred tons of iron, but he receives a
warrant which entitles him to obtain such iron when and how he pleases.
Though the purchaser may never see the iron which he has bought, the
iron must be there, and producible at his demand. On the faith of the
transaction, he knows that he has command over five hundred tons of
iron; none of which may perhaps, save the ‘sample,’ have come under his
cognisance.
Of course there is no complete analogy between an iron warrant and a
paper currency, but it serves for the moment as a simple illustration.
To discuss the differences would lead us beyond the design of the
present paper.
Probably one great reason why gold so early in the history of the world
assumed its leading position as a standard of value is, that it is
found in a pure state. So also is silver, which is the nearest rival of
gold. Primitive races used these metals long before the art of smelting
was discovered. These two metals were both rare, both found pure, both
easily refined, both admitting of a splendid polish, both malleable
and ductile, both durable. Silver is more destructible than gold, less
durable, less rare, and even less useful in some respects. It has,
therefore, always had a lower value than gold.
It has been shown by several writers, among whom may be named William
Newmarch and Professor Fawcett, that up to the year 1848, the world
had outgrown its supplies of the precious metals, and that commerce
was languishing for want of the wherewithal to adjust the exchanges of
communities. Previous to that year, the principal sources of supply
were South America, the West Coast of Africa, Russia in Europe and
Asia, and the islands of the Malay Archipelago. According to the
calculations of M. Chevalier, the total production of both gold and
silver from these sources between 1492 and 1848 was equal in value to
seventeen hundred and forty millions sterling. The importation of gold,
however, was small; and the total stock of the metal in Christendom in
1848 is estimated to have been only five hundred and sixty millions
sterling. The production since that year has been very remarkable.
Most of us are familiar with the gilded obelisks or pyramids erected
in various International Exhibitions to illustrate the bulk of gold
yielded in different quarters of the globe; but these things only
arrest the eye for the moment. Let us look at the figures. In 1848
Californian gold began to come forward; and in 1851 the Australian
fields were opened. Between 1849 and 1875 the production of the world
is estimated at six hundred and sixteen millions sterling, so that in
twenty-seven years the stock of gold was more than doubled. The average
annual supply previous to 1848 was eight millions sterling; in 1852 the
production was thirty-six and a half millions sterling. An Australian
authority estimates the yield of the colonies from 1851 to 1881 as two
hundred and seventy-seven millions sterling; and Mr Hogarth Patterson
gives the total production of the world between 1849 and 1880 as seven
hundred and ten millions sterling. The old sources of supply have not,
we believe, increased in yield, so, if we calculate their production on
the average at eight millions annually, we shall easily arrive at the
donation of the American and Australian mines.
The statisticians of the United States Mint estimate that the total
production of gold in the world during the four hundred years ending
in 1882 was ten thousand three hundred and ninety-four tons, equal
in value to £1,442,359,572. During the same period the production
of silver was one hundred and ninety-one thousand seven hundred and
thirty-one tons, of the value of £1,716,463,795. On the basis of the
last three years, the average annual production of gold in the world
is now twenty-one and a half millions sterling. Taking 1881 as an
illustration, the largest contributors were—
United States £6,940,000
Australasia 6,225,000
Russia 5,710,200
Mexico 197,000
Germany 48,200
Chili 25,754
Colombia 800,000
Austria 248,000
Venezuela 455,000
Canada 219,000
We need not give the smaller contributions of other countries. There
are twenty gold-yielding countries in all, but eight of them yield an
aggregate of little over half a million sterling.
As regards the employment of gold, it is estimated that fifteen million
pounds-worth annually is required for ornament and employment in the
arts and manufactures. This, on the production of 1881, would leave
only six and a half million pounds-worth for coining purposes each year.
No greater proof of the universal desire of man to possess gold could
be afforded than by the heterogeneous mass of peoples who flocked to
the gold-diggings. Men of every colour, of every religion, and from
every clime, were drawn thither by the attraction of the yellow metal.
It is not too much to say that nothing else could have concentrated on
one object so many diverse elements. And it may be said further, that
but for the discoveries of gold, the rich wheat-plains of California
and the verdant pastures of Australia might have been lying to this day
waste and unproductive.
Mr Hogarth Patterson has attempted to prove that to this increase in
our supplies of gold is due the unparalleled expansion of the commerce
of the world within the present generation. We do not need to accept
this extreme view, while we can clearly perceive that the volume of
gold has not proved the dead-weight to strangle us, which other writers
had predicted. Mr Patterson may to a certain extent be mixing up
cause and effect, but he is nearer the truth than those who refuse to
consider gold as one of the first elements of wealth.
But the increase in the supply of gold has had another effect. It has,
concurrently with an increase in the production of silver, helped to
reduce the relative value of the latter metal. The consequences are
curious. Previous to 1816, silver was what is termed a legal tender
in England to any amount; but in that year the sovereign was made the
sole standard of the pound sterling. In other words, if one man be
owing another, say, a hundred pounds, the latter is not legally bound
to accept payment doled out in either silver or copper. Other countries
have since de-monetised silver, which has thus become so depreciated
in relation to gold, that Mr Leighton Jordan, in an able book called
_The Standard of Value_, affirms that the interest on the National
Debt has now to be paid in a currency fifteen to twenty per cent. more
valuable than was in the option of the lender prior to 1816. According
to the bi-metallists, the de-monetisation of silver has depreciated the
metal, and unduly appreciated gold, or at all events has prevented the
cheapening of the latter metal, which should have resulted from the
greater abundance of silver.
Against the plea for a dual standard there is a great deal to be
urged. The question, however, is too wide to be entered upon at this
stage, and we will content ourselves with stating one great objection
to bi-metallism, and that is, that it would be inoperative unless
its adoption were universal; and that so deeply is gold rooted in
the affections of mankind, the universal adoption of silver also,
is practically hopeless. Into the world of commerce, into the arena
of industry, into the storehouses of wealth, ‘’tis Gold which buys
admittance.’
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
BY CHARLES GIBBON.
CHAPTER XXI.—DREAMS.
And there was a night of happy wonderment at Willowmere—for, of
course, it was to Madge that Philip first carried his story of the
Golconda mine which had been thrown open to him. The joy of Ali Baba
when the secret of the robbers’ cave was revealed to him was great—and
selfish. He thought of what a good time he would have, and how he would
triumph over his ungracious brother. Philip’s joy was greater; for his
treasure-trove set him dreaming fine dreams of being able to ‘hurry up’
the millennium. On his way from the city his mind was filled with a
hailstorm of projects of which he had hitherto had no conception.
Naturally his imagination grew on what it fed; and as he earnestly
strove to shape into words his visions of the noble works that could,
would, and should be done in the near future, his pulse quickened and
his cheeks glowed with enthusiasm.
They were in the oak parlour; the day’s work done; and the soothing
atmosphere of an orderly household filling the room with the sense
of contented ease. Aunt Hessy was sewing, and spoke little. Uncle
Dick smoked one of his long churchwardens—a box of which came to him
regularly every Christmas from a Yorkshire friend—and listened with
genial interest, commenting in his own way on Philip’s schemes.
After the first breathless moment of astonishment, Madge’s eyes were as
bright with enthusiasm as her lover’s: her face was alternately flushed
and pale. She approved of everything he said; and she, too, was seeing
great possibilities in this new Golconda.
‘The world,’ quoth Philip, ‘is big enough for us all; and there is
work enough for everybody who is willing to work. It is not work which
fails, but workers. We have classified and divided our labour until
we have fallen into a social system of caste as rigid as that of the
Hindu, but without his excuse. Men won’t turn their hands to whatever
may be offered nowadays. They clamour that they starve for want of a
job, when they mean that they cannot get the job which pleases them
best. Everybody wants exactly what is “in his line,” and won’t see that
he might get on well enough in another line till he found room again in
his own.’
‘Human nature has a weakness for wanting the things it likes best, and
that it’s most in the way of doing,’ said Uncle Dick, pressing down the
tobacco in the bowl of his pipe with a careful movement of the left
hand’s little finger.
‘But human nature need not starve because it cannot get what it likes
best,’ retorted Philip warmly. ‘If men will do with their might what
their hands can find to do, they will soon discover that there is a
heap of work lying undone in the world.’
And so, taking this principle as the basis of his argument, he went on
to expound his views of the future conservative democracy of Universal
Co-operation.
The first step to be taken was to start some enterprise in which every
class of workmen should find employment—the skilled mechanic and the
unskilled labourer; the inventor, the man of brains, and the mechanical
clerk; the spinner, the weaver, the tailor; the butcher, the baker, the
candlestick-maker—all would be required. Their banner would bear the
homely legend, ‘Willing to work,’ and no man or boy who enlisted under
it should ever again have a right to say: ‘I have got no work to do.’
There would be no drones in the hive; for every man would reap the full
reward of what he produced according to its market value. No man should
be paid for spending so many hours daily in a fixed place. That was an
erroneous system—the incubator of strikes and of the absurd rules of
trades-unions, by which the dull sluggard was enabled to hold down to
his own level the quick-witted and industrious. Every man should have
a direct interest in doing the best he could, and the most he could or
the most he cared to do. Hear him!—the young heart beating with the
fond hopes which others have proved so futile; and Madge listening with
a smile of joyful conviction and confidence.
‘Another thing we shall sweep away altogether—the petty deceits—the
petty strivings to overreach another by lies and tricks of trade, as
they are called.’
‘And how may you be going to do that, I’d like to learn?’ was the
sceptical query of the yeoman.
‘By making men feel that it isn’t worth while to tell lies or invent
tricks.’
‘Seems to me you want to invent a new world,’ said Uncle Dick, a placid
wreath of smoke encircling his brow, and a contented smile intimating
that he was pretty well content to take things as they were.
‘Not at all,’ rejoined Philip. ‘I only want to bring the best of this
world uppermost.’
‘But doesn’t the best find its own way uppermost?’ interposed Aunt
Hessy; ‘cream does, and butter does.’
‘So does froth, and it ain’t the best part of the beer, mother,’ said
Uncle Dick with his genial guffaw; ‘and for the matter of that, so does
scum.’
‘They have their uses, though, like everything else,’ was the dame’s
prompt check.
‘Not a doubt, and there’s where the mystery lies: things have to be a
bit mixed in this world; and they get mixed somehow in spite of you.
There ain’t nobody has found out yet a better plan of mixing them than
nature herself.’
That was the counter-check; and Madge gave the checkmate.
‘But Philip does not want to alter the natural order of things: he only
wants to help people to understand it, and be happy in obeying it.’
This pretty exposition of Philip’s purpose seemed to satisfy everybody,
and so it was an evening of happy wonderment at Willowmere.
As he was about to go away, Aunt Hessy asked Philip how his uncle
looked.
‘Oh—a good hearty sort of man,’ was the somewhat awkward answer,
for he did not like to own even to himself that he had been somehow
disappointed by the appearance and manner of Mr Shield; ‘but awfully
quick and gruff. You will like him, though.’
‘I like him already,’ she said, smiling.
CHAPTER XXII.—HOME AGAIN.
Three passengers and the newspapers were brought to Dunthorpe station
by the early London train on Wednesday morning. One of the passengers
was a tall old gentleman, with straight silvery hair, a clean-shaven
fresh face, and an expression of gentle kindliness which was habitual.
But there was a firmness about the lips and chin which indicated that
his benevolence was not to be trifled with easily. He stooped a little,
but it was the stoop of one accustomed to much reading and thinking,
not of any physical weakness, for his frame was stalwart, his step
steady and resolute.
He asked the porter who took his travelling-bag in charge if there was
any conveyance from Kingshope waiting.
‘There’s only one fly, sir, and that’s from the _King’s Head_ for Mr
Beecham. That you, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then here you are, sir: it’s old Jerry Mogridge who’s driving, and
he can’t get off the seat easy owing to the rheumatics. The Harvest
Festival is on at Kingshope to-day, and there wasn’t another man to
spare. But you couldn’t have a surer driver than old Jerry, though he
be failed a bit.’
Mr Beecham took his place in the fly; and after inquiring if the
gentleman was comfortable, old Jerry drove away at an easy pace—indeed,
the well-fed, steady-going old mare could not move at any other than an
easy pace. A touch of the whip brought her to a stand-still until she
had been coaxed into good-humour again. It was the boast of the _King’s
Head_ landlord that this was a mare ‘safe for a baby to drive.’
There was something in Mr Beecham’s expression—an occasional dancing
of the eyes—as he gazed round on the rich undulating landscape, which
suggested that he had been familiar with the scene in former days, and
was at intervals recognising some well-remembered spot.
September was closing, and stray trees by the roadside were shorn
of many leaves, and had a somewhat ragged, scarecrow look, although
some of them still flaunted tufts of foliage on high branches, as
if in defiance of bitter blasts. But in the Forest, where the trees
were massed, the foliage was still luxuriant. The eyes rested first
on a delicate green fringed with pale yellow, having a background of
deepening green, shading into dark purple and black in the densest
hollows.
The day was fine, and as the sun had cleared away the morning haze,
there was a softness in the air that made one think of spring-time. But
the falling of the many-coloured leaves, and the sweet odours which
they yielded under the wheels, told that this softness was that of the
twilight of the year; and the mysterious whisperings of the winds in
the tree-tops were warnings of the mighty deeds they meant to do by sea
and land before many days were over.
‘You have been about Kingshope a long time?’ said Mr Beecham, as the
mare was crawling—it could not be called walking—up a long stretch of
rising ground.
‘More’n eighty year, man and boy,’ answered old Jerry with cheerful
pride. ‘Ain’t many about as can say that much, sir.’
‘I should think not. And I suppose you know everybody here about?’
‘Everybody, and their fathers afore ’em.’ As Jerry said this, he
turned, and leaning over the back of his seat, peered at the stranger.
Then he put a question uneasily: ‘You never ’longed to these parts,
sir?’
‘No, I do not exactly belong to these parts; but I have been here
before.’
‘Ah—thought you couldn’t have ’longed here, or I’d have known you,
though it was ever so many years gone by,’ said old Jerry, much
relieved at this proof that his memory had not failed him. ‘Asking
pardon, sir, I didn’t get right hold of your name. Was it Oakem, sir?’
‘Something of that kind,’ said the stranger, smiling at the mistake.
‘Beecham is the name.’
‘Beecham,’ mumbled Jerry, repeating the name several times and trying
to associate it with some family of the district. ‘Don’t know any one
of that name here away. May-happen your friends are called by another.’
‘I have no friends of that name here.’
‘Hope it ain’t makin’ too bold, sir, but may-happen you’re a-goin’ to
stay with some of the Kingshope families?’
‘I am going to stay at the _King’s Head_, for a few days,’ Mr Beecham
replied, good-naturedly amused by Jerry’s inquisitiveness; but wishing
to divert his garrulity into another channel, he put a question in
turn: ‘Shall we be in time for the Harvest Service in the church
to-day?’
‘Time and to spare—barrin’ th’ old mare’s tantrums, and she don’t try
them on with me. You’ll see the whole county at the church to-day, sir.
Parson’s got it turned into a reg’lar holiday, and there’s been mighty
fine goings-on a-deckin’ the old place up. Meetings morn and even, and
a deal more courtin’ nor prayin’, is what I says. Hows’ever it’s to be
a rare thanksgivin’ time this un, and the best of it is there’s some’at
to be thankful for.’
Jerry nodded confidentially to the stranger, as if he were letting him
into a secret.
‘Is that such a rare occurrence?’
‘Well, sir,’ replied Jerry cautiously, and peering round again with the
manner of one who is afraid of being discovered in the promulgation of
seditious doctrines, ‘there be times when it is mighty hard to find
out what we are to be thankful for, when the rot has got hold of the
taters, and them big rains have laid wheat and barley all flat and
tangled, and the stuff ain’t barely worth the cuttin’ and the leadin’
and the threshin’, and wages ain’t high and ain’t easy to get—them be
times when it takes parson a deal of argyfying to make some people
pretend they’re grateful for the mercies. But Parson Haven knows how
to do it, bless ye. He gives ’em a short sermon and a long feed, and
there’s real thanksgivin’ after, whats’ever the harvest has been like.’
Jerry chuckled with the pleasures of retrospection, as well as of
anticipation, and made a great ado putting on the skid as they began to
descend towards the village.
Mr Beecham listened to this gossip with the interest of an exile
returned to his native land. Whilst everywhere he meets the signs of
change, he also finds countless trifles which revive the past. Even the
comparison of what is, with what has been, has its pleasure, although
it be mingled with an element of sadness. The sweetest memories are
always touched with tender regret. We rejoice that sorrow has passed:
who rejoices that time has passed?
He watched with kindly eyes the people making their way across the
stubble or round by the church. The latter was a sturdy old building
with a solid square tower, that looked as if it had foundations strong
enough to hold it firmly in its place whatever theological or political
storms might blow.
Old Jerry Mogridge had reason to be proud of that morning’s work, and
made his cronies of the taproom stare with his descriptions of the
strange gentleman’s friendly ways and liberal hand.
After seeing his rooms at the _King’s Head_, Mr Beecham sauntered
slowly towards the church. When he reached the porch, he paused, as if
undecided whether or not to enter. The people had assembled and the
bells had ceased ringing. He passed in, and despite the courtesy of an
ancient verger, who would fain have given the stranger a conspicuous
place, he took a seat near the door.
The ordinary aspect of the inside of Kingshope church was somewhat
bare and cold-looking: at present it was aglow with sunbeams and rich
colours. The pillars were bound with wisps of straw and wreaths of
ground ivy, while the capitals were sheaves of wheat and barley, with
a scarlet poppy here and there, and clusters of dahlias of many hues.
On the broad window ledges, half-hidden in green leaves, lay the yellow
succulent marrow, the purple grape, the ruddy tomato—bright-cheeked
apples and juicy pears: giant sunflowers and ferns guarded the
reading-desk; and on the altar was a pile of peaches and grapes,
flanked by early Christmas roses—deep-red, orange, white and
straw-coloured.
But the pulpit attracted most attention on this bright day. Madge
and Philip had been visited by an inspiration; and, with the vicar’s
sanction and the aid of Pansy and Caleb, had carried it into effect.
The entire pulpit and canopy were woven over with wheat and barley,
giving it the appearance of a stack with the top uplifted. Round the
front of the stack-pulpit were embroidered, in the bright scarlet
fruit-sprays of the barberry, the opening words of the anthem for the
day, ‘The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof.’ There was a
feeling of elation in the air, to which the organist gave expression by
playing the Hallelujah Chorus as the opening number. And then it was
with full hearts and vigorous lungs that all joined in the hymn,
Come, ye thankful people, come,
Raise the song of harvest home.
As he listened to the voices, rising and falling in grateful cadence,
old times, old faces, old scenes, rose out of the midst of the past,
and the stranger dreamed. Was there any significance to him in what
he saw and heard? Was it not a generous welcome to the wanderer home?
Home! His thoughts shaped themselves into words, and they were sung in
his brain all the time he sat there dreamily wondering at their meaning:
‘Home again, in the twilight of the year and of my life.’
He could see the Willowmere pew, and his eyes rested long on Dame
Crawshay’s placid face; still longer on that of Madge. On the other
side he could see the Manor pew, which was occupied by the three
ladies, Alfred Crowell and Philip. Mr Hadleigh and Coutts were not
there. Coutts considered it hard enough to be expected to go to church
on Sunday (he did not often go); but only imbeciles, he thought,
and their kin—women—went on a week-day, except on the occasion of a
marriage or a funeral.
Mr Beecham’s gaze rested alternately on Philip and Madge. They occupied
him throughout the service. He retained his seat whilst the people were
passing out, his eyes shaded by his hand, but his fingers parted, so
that he could observe the lovers as they walked by him. He rose and
followed slowly, watching them with dreamy eyes; and still that phrase
was singing in his brain:
‘Home again, in the twilight of the year and of my life.’ But he added
something now: ‘It is still morning with them.’
INDIAN SNAKES.
A REMINISCENCE.
We have it on good authority, apropos of the climate of India and the
chances of life there, that the British soldier who now serves one
year in Bengal encounters as much risk in the mere fact of dwelling
there, as in fighting three battles such as Waterloo (see Dr Moore’s
_Health in the Tropics_); and that the mortality amongst children
up to fifteen years of age is eighty-four per thousand, as against
twenty-two per thousand in twenty-four large towns of England.
Statistics such as these tell their own tale. A soldier’s life, as
compared with a civilian’s, whether official or unofficial, is by no
means an unhealthy one, regulated as it is by all that experience and
scientific sanitation can suggest. But what, after all, are the risks
to life in a battle such as Waterloo? We can form some notion of this
by a sort of analogy, if we are content to accept the statement of
Marshal Saxe, said to be a high authority on such matters, who lays
it down as a truth, that for each man killed in battle the weight of
an average-sized man is expended in lead. This is said to have been
verified at Solferino, where the Austrians fired eight million four
hundred thousand rounds, and killed two thousand of the enemy, which
gives four thousand two hundred rounds per man killed. Taking a bullet
at one ounce weight, we have four thousand two hundred ounces, or
over eighteen stone—about equal to one average man and a half; so the
Marshal was under the mark. If these figures are reliable, it would
seem that in battles, as with pugnacious dogs, there is noise out of
all proportion to the amount of damage done; and the risks to life in
war, as compared with those incidental to ordinary life in Bengal,
need not seriously alarm us. The weapons of precision now in use have
wrought a change, perhaps, to the great saving of lead. Still, these
are stubborn figures to deal with; and a mortality of eighty-four per
thousand children, and a proportionately high rate for adults, in the
Indian plains, shows that, all precautions notwithstanding, the white
man in the tropics or under an Eastern sun is in the wrong place.
It is estimated that nine to ten thousand _natives_ are killed
annually in Bengal alone by snakes; and throughout India, at a rough
calculation—probably very much under the mark—twenty thousand persons
lose their lives from this cause every year. There is no perceptible
diminution in the number of these deadly reptiles; on the contrary,
they are seemingly increasing, notwithstanding that government puts
a price on the head of every snake destroyed; and small though the
reward may be, indigent peasants are not slow to avail themselves
of it, and a snake that ventures to show itself rarely survives the
discovery. The cry of _Sámp!_ (snake) has a magical effect on the most
apathetic and inert of natives.
Those whose experience of snakes is acquired in the ‘Zoo,’ can form but
a faint idea of the rapidity with which the indolent-looking ophidian
can move when so inclined; and were one to escape from its glass cage
in that interesting collection, the agility of its movements would only
be equalled by that of the astonished spectators towards the outer
air. Were the habits of the snake family more aggressive and less
retiring than they are, this sprightliness would be inconvenient beyond
measure; and but for this tendency to shun man and escape from him at
all times, the bill of mortality, which Sir Joseph Fayrer has shown us
is frightfully large, would be infinitely greater than it is. Happily,
self-preservation is an instinct as strong in serpents as in the hares
of our fields.
But to return to the European in India and his share of risk incurred.
There are obvious reasons why so large a percentage of our Aryan
brethren fall victims. Barefooted and barelegged, and with that belief
in _kismet_ (fate) which, sometimes to his advantage, oftener to his
prejudice as a man of the world, imbues the soul of ‘the mild Hindu,’
he trusts his bronzed nether limbs unhesitatingly in places where
snakes are known to abound, and it is only a question whether or not
he happens to touch one. With that sublime indifference to the danger,
acquired by custom and a familiarity with it from his babyhood, he
coils himself up, with or without his scanty garment of cotton stuff,
on the bare earthen floor of his mud-hut, or beneath the spreading
branches of a tree, and falls into a sleep, from which neither
mosquitoes nor the chorus of predatory jackals, nor the screech-owls in
the branches above, can rouse him. Many a time, perhaps, he has seen a
snake killed on that very spot. But what does it matter to Ramcherrun
or Bojoo? Are not snakes in other places too? In one minute he is
snoring out the watch of night. He dreams of his rice and paddy fields,
mortgaged at ninety per cent. interest, and ever likely to remain so;
he dreams of his _mahájon_ (banker), whose superior knowledge of the
three Rs enabled that rascal to so circumvent his neighbours. Then
he turns over, and rolls quietly on the top of the deadly krait; or
stretching out his brown hand, grasps the tender back of a passing
cobra, which bites him, and he dies! The gods had it so. His time was
come—_kismet! kismet!!_ Toolsi Kándoo is re-thatching his house, and
in uplifting the old rotten grass, squeezes a roof-snake (_sankor_)
reposing therein, which resents the intrusion with its sharp teeth,
and Toolsi is gathered to his fathers. Then there is Sirikisson Beldar
cutting bamboos for his new roof, or the jungle grasses which are to
furnish his house with matting, and the foe is molested, and makes his
bite felt—before retreating to safer quarters. Gidari Teli has gone in
the gloaming or in the darker night to fill his _lota_ at the village
well hard by, and returns only to tell his child-wife to run for the
_byd_ (native doctor), who will apply his nostrums, and the Brahmin
to sing his incantations and perform sundry mystical rites whilst he,
poor Gidari, passes away to the happy land. But even of white men there
are few indeed who, after some years in the Indian plains, return home
without a lively recollection of one or more escapes, for which at the
moment they were thankful to Providence.
In large towns like Bombay or Calcutta, snakes are not unknown; whilst
in and about the bungalows of most, if not all country stations, they
are common, and pay visits to these habitations at inconveniently short
intervals. There are few bungalows the thatched roof of which is not
the occasional abode of one objectionable species—the _sankor_, or
roof-snake; whilst round about, in the hollows of old trees, or beneath
the flooring of the rooms, or in the garden hard by, come at intervals
specimens more or less dangerous to human life. It will serve to show
the nature of the danger from this source, if I relate a few of my own
personal experiences during a residence of some years in Bengal.
Of the many snakes killed by me—some hundreds—I retain the liveliest
recollection of the first my eyes beheld. I was then living in a small
three-roomed bungalow, the flooring of which was almost on a level with
the ground outside. Amongst other annoyances, the place was infested
with rats; and being so low, the number of little toads that made
free use of every room was incredible. My _sweeper_ would in a short
time fill and refill a _gylah_ (a sort of round earthen pot capable
of holding more than a gallon) up to the brim with toads. We called
them frogs, but they were really toads of a jumping kind; and the only
thing to be said in their favour was their capacity for swallowing
mosquitoes, beetles, and other kinds of creeping and flying insects.
But as a set-off against this advantage comes the fact that snakes
with equal avidity swallow and relish toads, and are ever in quest
of these dainty morsels. The rats, however, troubled me most. They
destroyed my shoes, drank up the oil of my night-lamp—a very primitive
arrangement, known as the _tel-buttee_, that carries one back to the
time of Moses—sometimes extinguishing the light in the process; and
made sad havoc of my cotton-stuffed pillows, the contents of which I
would often discover, after an absence of a few days from home, strewn
about the floor, and the pillow-cases ruthlessly destroyed; and it was
not an uncommon thing to find a fat rat, which had effected an entrance
through the mosquito curtains, nibbling away within an inch of my nose
as I lay in bed. They held high revels in an old sideboard stored
with sundry eatables, and so loud was the noise amongst the crockery
therein, that often I had to get up and put the rebels to flight. In
desperation, I determined one night to try what smoke would do to keep
them out. Accordingly, I placed a piece of smouldering brown paper
in the cupboard, watching, stick in hand, for the first rodent that
should be caught in the act of sliding down the leg-supports on which
this piece of furniture stood. I had not long to wait. Out came rat
No. 1, and met his death on the spot. Chuckling over my success, I
stood expectant of No. 2; but in place of him, came a brown snake about
twenty-four inches long, close to my bare feet. This was much more than
I bargained for. My stick was down on him in a second; but, unluckily,
so was the _tel-buttee_, held in the other hand; and the brown snake
and I were together in total darkness, a most unpleasant predicament
for both of us.
I knew nothing of the habits of this or any other specimen of the
snake family, so that, as a matter of course, a bite, to be followed
by death in fifteen minutes, seemed to me quite inevitable! And I
did, on the spur of the moment, about the very worst thing I could
have done under the circumstances, that is, groped for the door at
all hazards, and shouted for a light. It was five minutes before this
could be obtained; the sleeping Hindu will stand a lot of waking, and
is some time collecting his wits from the realms of slumber; and the
snake was gone. We found a hole in the corner of the room, through
which the experienced eyes of my servants at once discovered he had
made his exit. But as this only led into an inner wall dividing the
rooms, I had the discomfort of knowing that he shared my bungalow, and
would certainly come again some other day. And so he did—or one like
him—three days later, and was squeezed to death in the hinges of the
door, and in broad daylight.
My next snake, I remember, was a large cobra—whose bite is certain
death. Being fresh to the country, and determined not to be imposed
upon, I had not grown to the habit of handing over all my belongings
to the care of native servants, of whose language I scarcely knew a
word, and of whose integrity and honesty I had heard none but the worst
reports; and I strove manfully to keep a tight hand over everything
and every one, and, from personal observation, to know how I stood
in regard to supplies and household requisites of all kinds; and in
particular, for financial reasons, to guard jealously my stock of
wines and beer—expensive commodities in the East, and apt to disappear
miraculously. In a word, I kept the keys of my own stores, and did not
intrust them absolutely, as I afterwards saw the wisdom of doing, to
my _khansama_ (butler); and it was my custom then to issue a certain
number of bottles of wine or beer or tinned meats, &c., from out the
_go-down_ or storeroom, as occasion required. One end of the bungalow
veranda was bricked up, to form a small storeroom for such commodities;
and it had ever been my custom to enter this somewhat dark chamber with
caution, owing to its being rather a favourite haunt of scorpions and
centipedes; and the latter being my pet aversion, I always kept a sharp
lookout. On one occasion, however, I was pushing aside a large empty
box which had contained brandy, when, to my horror, I saw a large snake
reposing therein. Escaping with great rapidity, he coiled at bay on the
floor, with hood expanded and eyes glistening savagely at me. Seizing
the box, I threw it at him and on him; whilst my servant ran to the
other end of the veranda for a stick, with which he was soon and easily
despatched. On another occasion, I remember, in opening a bathroom
door, a small but deadly snake, by some means or other perched on the
top of it, fell straight on to my wrist, and thence to the floor;
and similarly, whilst seated one morning on a pony, inspecting some
repairs in an outbuilding used as a stable, the same species of snake
fell from the bamboo and thatch of the inner roof right on to my head,
thence to my left arm and the saddle-bow, and so to the ground, where
he escaped in some straw. Some time later, in picking up a handful
of fresh-cut grass to give a favourite Cabul horse, I felt something
moving in my hand; and dropping the grass, out wriggled a _krait_, a
snake that for deadly poison ranks nearly next to the cobra.
I have heard of snakes, though I have never seen one, lying concealed
beneath bed-clothes and under pillows. Twice, however, on awaking in
the morning I have found that I have been honoured with the company
during the night of an adder in my bedroom; and one morning, on taking
my seat at my writing-desk, I discovered a very large cobra—nearly four
and a half feet long—lying at full length at my feet close against the
wall. He made for the open door, and I killed him in the veranda with
a riding-whip; whilst the natives, as usual in such emergencies, were
rushing wildly about, and searching in the most unlikely corners for
a more effective weapon. It was always a salutary habit of mine, for
which I have to thank the sagacity of an old and faithful attendant,
to shake my riding-boots, preparatory to putting a foot into one—to
eject a possible toad ensconced therein; or, as would frequently
happen, old Ramcherrun boldly thrust his bronze fingers in for the like
precaution; and _when_ there happened to be a toad or frog inside, how
the old rascal used to make me laugh at the precipitate way in which
he would withdraw his hand, exclaiming, with a startled countenance:
‘Kuchh hai bhitar!’ (There is something inside.) On one occasion, as
luck would have it, he adopted the shaking process, when out dropped a
small snake, which I identified as a roof-snake (_sankor_). After this,
I took care where I put my boots and shoes at night, and Ramcherrun,
where he put his fingers.
Snakes are frequently found in what would seem to be the most unlikely
places. As an instance, a lady of my district very nearly put her hand
on a live cobra in reaching an ornament from the mantel-piece; the
reptile was lying quietly next the wall, behind a clock. How he got
there, was a mystery never solved. A friend of mine, who had set a
country-made wooden trap for rats, caught a cobra instead, much to the
horror of his _mehtur_ (sweeper). But, more curious still, a snake was
discovered by a lady whom I knew, a few years ago, on a drawing-room
table of a station bungalow. It was of a small venomous species, and
was hiding beneath a child’s picture-book. On this occasion, the lady
on taking up the book was bitten; but after suffering considerable
pain, recovered.
Some very odd notions and superstitions regarding snakes obtain amongst
the natives. There is a large snake called the _dharmin_, said to be a
cross between the cobra and some other species. It is said to refrain
from biting; but when pursued, strikes with its tail, which, according
to the natives, can inflict painful and even dangerous wounds; and
the belief obtains that this snake is quite innocuous on Sundays and
Thursdays! It is considered unlucky to speak of any venomous snake by
its proper name—nicknames or roundabout expressions being considered
preferable; just as the correct word for cholera morbus is avoided,
as in the highest degree dangerous to employ, and likely to bring the
disease. Many natives who walk about after dusk repeatedly strike the
ground before them with their _lathee_ (a bamboo staff), and go at a
slow pace; and the _dâk_-runners or rural postmen, who run stages of
five or six miles carrying the mail-bags; invariably carry a number of
loose iron rings on their shoulder-pole, to make a jingling sound as
they trot along. There are several versions of the object of this; the
primary object being no doubt to scare away snakes and other noxious
animals; but the noise also gives warning to the next stage-runner of
the approach of the mail-bags.