kind. This is an error, as I have more than once discovered, and very
nearly to my cost. I perceived, on one occasion, almost encircling the
oil-lamp on the floor of one of my dressing-rooms, what appeared to be
a stream of spilt oil as it were staining the matting; and I was in the
act of lowering the candle which I carried, for a closer inspection,
when the dark line moved off within three inches of my shoeless feet.
It was a black snake, three feet long, called the _bahrá sámp_,
literally _deaf_ adder or snake.
Strange as it may seem, there are people—few though they may be—who
never saw a snake in India. I was lately solemnly assured by a friend
who had spent three years in the Mofussil, frequently camping out,
that he had never once seen one dead or alive. At one bungalow where I
resided a few years—a bungalow admirably situated, and well raised from
the ground—I killed, or saw killed, during three months of one monsoon
rains, between eighty and ninety poisonous snakes on the premises, of
which more than one-third were either in the rooms or the veranda. My
successor, who lived there about twelve months, encountered no more
than four snakes! He was succeeded by a man who, in June, July, and
August, killed over one hundred. One bungalow in a station may be
infested with them, whilst another, a couple of hundred yards off, is
completely free. Places the most likely-looking for the habitation
of snakes, on account of jungle and dense vegetation close by, are
often the most free of them. And so it often is with those pests the
mosquitoes. Vast numbers of fowls are destroyed by snakes, and the
cook-room is a place which seemingly has great attractions. The largest
cobras I ever saw I have killed—sometimes shot—in the _bawarchi-khána_
(cook-house).
I have spoken of the fondness of snakes for frogs and toads. There is
a well-known cry of a very plaintive and peculiar description often
heard, especially during the rains, uttered by these unfortunate
frogs when being set at by a snake. ‘Beng bolta hai, kodárwand!’ (A
frog is shouting) was the information frequently imparted to me by
my little servant-boy Nubbee, as I lay beneath the punka enjoying my
post-prandial cigar, ever ready, as he knew me to be, to kill the
snake and save the frog. Out we would sally, he holding my kerosene
table-lamp, and I armed with a polo-stick; and we rarely failed to find
amongst the bushes adjacent to the bungalow the object of our search—a
krait or a _ghoman_ (cobra) besetting a terrified frog, that had not
shrieked in vain, and which, by a timely rescue, lived to return to the
bosom of its family once more.
A WITNESS FOR THE DEFENCE.
IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER I.
It had been raining steadily all day. It was still raining as I
stood at the corner of a great London thoroughfare on that wretched
November night. The gutter babbled, the pavement glistened, humanity
was obliterated by silk and alpaca; but the night-wind was cool and
fresh to me, after a day spent in a hot police court, heavy with
the steam of indigo-dyed constables, of damp criminals, and their
frowsy friends and foes. I was later than usual. That was why I stood
hesitating, and turning over and over the few shillings in my pocket,
painfully gathered by a long day’s labour as a young and struggling
legal practitioner. I thought of my poor little sick wife, waiting so
longingly for me in the dull lodgings miles away. I also considered
the difficulty of earning two shillings, and the speed with which that
sum disappeared when invested in cabs. I thought of the slowness and
uncertainty of the ’bus, crowded inside and out; again of the anxious
eyes watching the clock; and my mind was made up. I called a hansom
from the rank just opposite to me, and jumped in, after giving my
directions to so much of the driver as I could make out between his hat
and his collar.
I felt tired, hungry, and depressed, so that I was glad to drop off
to sleep, and forget weariness and worry for a little while; and I
remained unconscious of bad pavement and rattling rain, blurred glass
and misty lights, until the stoppage of the cab roused me. Thinking
that I had arrived at my journey’s end, and wondering why the glass
was not raised, I smote lustily on the roof with my umbrella. But the
voice of the driver came down to me through the trap in a confidential
wheeze; and at the same time I saw that there was a great crowd ahead,
and heard that there were shouts and confusion, and that my cab was one
of a mass of vehicles all wedged together by some impassable obstacle.
‘P’liceman says, sir,’ explained cabby, ‘as there’s bin a gas main
hexploded and blowed up the street, and nothin’ can’t get this way.
There’s bin a many pussons hinjured, sir. I’ll have to go round the
back streets.’
‘All right,’ I replied. ‘Go ahead, then.’
Down slammed the trap; the cab was turned and manœuvred out of the
press; and I soon found myself traversing a maze of those unknown
byways, lined with frowsy lodging-houses and the dead walls of
factories and warehouses, which hem in our main thoroughfares. I was
broad awake now, excited by the news of the accident, speculating on
its causes, and thinking of the scenes of agony and sorrow to which it
had given rise, and of my own fortunate escape. The hansom I was in was
an unusually well-appointed one for those days. It was clean and well
cushioned; it had a mat on the floor instead of mouldy straw. Against
one side was a metal match-holder, with a roughened surface; bearing,
as the occasional street lamps showed me, the words ‘Please strike a
light. Do not injure the cab.’ On each side of the door was a small
mirror, placed so as to face the driver; so that I could see reflected
therein, through the windows, those parts of the street which the cab
had just passed.
We careered up one dreary lane and down another, until, having just
turned to the left into a rather wider thoroughfare, we were once more
brought up. This time it was a heavy dray discharging goods at the
back entrance of a warehouse. It was drawn up carelessly, occupying,
in fact, more room than it should in that ill-lighted place. We were
almost into it before we could pull up. To avoid accident, the cabman
threw his horse half across the road; and in this position proceeded
gently but firmly to expostulate with the drayman after the manner of
cabmen on such occasions. The surly fellow would take no notice, and
made no attempt for some minutes to give us room. I was too listless to
interfere, and lay back in the cab, leaving the driver to get over the
difficulty as he might.
In the right-hand glass, owing to our slanting position across the
road, I could see reflected, a few yards off, the corner of the street
out of which we had just turned, with the lamp which stood there, and
above the lamp the name of the street, which, though reversewise on the
mirror, I made out to be ‘Hauraki Street.’ The queer name attracted
me; and I was wondering what colonial experiences could have led the
builder to select it, when I saw the reflected figure of a man come
into the light of the lamp along the road in which we stood. He was
young, but dishevelled and dirty, and evidently wet through. His
clothes, bad as their condition was, looked somehow as if their wearer
had been, or ought now to be, in a better condition of body than his
present one. He stared desolately about him for a while, as if to
see whether there could be any other creature so miserable as to be
lounging purposelessly about, without an umbrella, in such a place on
such a night. A neighbouring clock struck eight, and he seemed to turn
his head and listen till the clangour ceased. Then he inspected the
sleeves of his coat, as people always do when unduly damp, and drew
one of them across his forehead, taking off his hat for the purpose,
as though hot from exercise. Then he carefully produced from inside
the sodden and melancholy hat a folded piece of paper and a clay-pipe.
He filled the pipe from the paper, restored the latter to the hat,
and put the hat on his head. Then he looked helplessly at the pipe. I
guessed that the poor wretch had neither a match nor a penny to buy
one. A thought seemed to strike him. He looked up suddenly at the lamp,
and I saw his face for the first time. I am an observer of faces. This
one was peculiarly short and broad, with a projecting sharp-pointed
chin, a long slit of a mouth, turned down at the corners; as it was
now half open in perplexity, it disclosed a conspicuous blank, caused
by the loss of one or more front teeth. The eyes were small and dark,
and half-shut with a curious prying air. This was all I noticed; for
now the man began awkwardly and laboriously to ‘swarm’ the lamp-post;
evidently with the view of getting a light for his pipe. Having got
about half-way to the top, he incautiously stopped to rest, and
instantly slid to the bottom. Patiently he began all over again; and
I now saw that if he was not altogether tipsy, he was something very
like it. This time his efforts were so ill-judged that he caved in the
melancholy hat against the cross-bar of the lamp; and the last I saw of
him as my picture vanished at the whisking round of the hansom, he was
blindly waving his pipe at the lamp-glass, his head buried in the wreck
of his hat, as he vainly endeavoured to introduce the pipe through the
opening underneath, and beginning once more to slide impotently down
the shaft.
I got home without further adventure in time not to be missed by my
little invalid; but for several days the queer street-name abode with
me, as the merest trifles _will_ haunt an overanxious mind, such as
mine then was. I repeated it to myself hundreds of times; I made it
into a sort of idiotic refrain or chorus, with which I kept time to
my own footsteps on my daily tramps. I tried to make rhymes to it,
with indifferent success; and altogether it was some weeks before the
tiresome phantom finally departed.
Also, I often wondered whether the drenched young man with the crushed
hat had managed to get a light after all.
* * * * *
Twelve years had gone, and with them my troubles—such troubles at least
as had been with me at the time of the beginning of this story. I was
now a prosperous solicitor, with a large and varied practice, and
with a comfortable home on the northern heights of London, wherein to
cherish the dear wife, no longer sick, who had been my loving companion
through the years of scarcity. The firm’s practice was a varied one;
but personally I devoted myself to that branch of it in which I had
begun my professional life—the criminal law. In this I had fairly won
myself a name both as an advocate and a lawyer—often very different
things—which tended to make me a richer man every day. And I am glad
to be able to say that I had added to this reputation another yet more
valuable—that of being an honourable and honest man.
Late one afternoon, as I sat in my office after a long day at the
Central Criminal Court, making preparations for my homeward flight, a
stranger was shown in to me. He sat down and began his story, to which
I at first listened with professional attention and indifference. But
I soon became a trifle more interested; for this, as it seemed, was a
tale of long-deferred vengeance, falling after the lapse of years upon
the right head; such as we lawyers meet with more often in sensational
novels—of which we are particularly fond—than in the course of practice.
Some dozen years ago, he said, there had lived in a remote suburb of
London an elderly maiden lady, named Miss Harden, the only daughter
of a retired merchant skipper, who had got together a very tolerable
sum of money for a man of his class. Dying, he had left it all to his
only living relative and friend, his daughter; and on the interest
thereof she managed to live comfortably, and even to save quite a third
of her income. These moneys she—being, like many maiden ladies, of
a suspicious nature—always declined to invest in any way, but kept
them in an oaken cupboard in her sitting-room, which cupboard she was
accustomed to glorify for its impregnable nature, when the danger she
ran by keeping so much money about the house was represented to her.
Perhaps she was fortified in her obstinacy by the consideration that
she was not entirely alone and unprotected, though most people thought
that such protection as she had was worse than none. It consisted in
the presence of an orphaned nephew, to whose mother, on her deathbed,
Miss Harden had solemnly promised that she would never forsake the
child. She had been as good as her word, and better—or worse; for she
had treated the boy with such foolish indulgence that he had grown
up as pretty a specimen of the blackguard as could be found in the
neighbourhood. After being expelled from school, he had never attempted
to improve himself or earn his own living in any way, except by betting
(and losing), and by making free with certain cash of his first and
only employer; which questionable attempt at providing for himself
would certainly have led to his being for some time provided for by his
country, but for the tears and prayers of his aunt, and the sacrifice
of a round sum out of her hoardings. From that time he lived with her,
and she cherished and endured him as only women can. Scolding him
when he came home tipsy at night, putting him carefully to bed, and
forgiving him the next morning, only to scold and put him to bed again
the same evening; so, with little difference, went on their lives for
years.
But at last this loving patience began to wear out, and as the aunt
got older and more irritable, the nephew’s little ways caused louder
and more frequent disagreements. One morning, things came to a climax.
She caught him actually trying to set free the imprisoned secrets of
the impregnable cupboard with a pocket-knife. Being interrupted and
violently abused—the old lady was very ready with her tongue—he turned
and struck her. She did then and there what she had threatened often
of late; ordered him out of the house, and what was more, saw him out.
There was rather a scene at the street-door, and the lookers-on heard
him say, in answer to her vows that she would never see him again,
‘When you do see me again, you’ll be sorry enough;’ or words to that
effect. The last time he was known to have been in the neighbourhood
was about three o’clock that afternoon, in a public-house close by,
which he used to haunt. He was then in a maudlin state, and was
descanting to a mixed audience on his wrongs and on the meanness of his
relative. He further produced the knife with which he had attempted the
cupboard, and was foolish enough to say that ‘he wished he had tried it
on the old woman herself, and he would too, before the day was out.’
All this greatly amused his rough hearers, who supplied him well with
liquor, and generally kept the game alive, until the landlord, becoming
jealous of the reputation of his house, turned him out of doors. From
that moment he disappeared; but the same night a horrible murder was
committed. The aunt had sent her one servant out for half an hour. The
girl left at a quarter to eight, and returned at a quarter past, to
find the poor old maid lying dead on the floor, while the oak cupboard
was open and empty. Screaming with horror, the girl called in help; and
one among the crowd that filled the house before the police came picked
up on the floor a knife, which he identified as the very one which
the nephew, whom he knew well, had exhibited that afternoon at the
public-house. He repeated this evidence at the subsequent inquest, and
it was confirmed by many others who knew both the knife and its owner.
A verdict of wilful murder was returned against the nephew, whom we
will call John Harden, but who had disappeared completely and entirely.
Inquiries, advertisements, and the minute description of him which was
posted, together with the offer of a heavy government reward for his
apprehension, throughout the three kingdoms—all were useless. In the
course of time the affair died out, except as an occasional remembrance
in the minds of those who had been most intimately connected with it.
But on the afternoon of the very day on which the stranger waited upon
me, John Harden had been recognised in the Strand by my informant.
He wore a well-fitting suit of dark clothes, and was, in fact, the
confidential servant of a retired Australian millionaire, who had come
to England to spend the rest of his days there. On being addressed by
his name, he had at first appeared surprised, though in no way alarmed;
but almost immediately admitted that he had formerly gone by that name,
though he had for years borne another. His accuser straightway gave
him into the custody of the nearest constable, charging him with the
murder. Then indeed the unfortunate man showed the greatest horror and
disturbance of mind, protesting that he did not even know his aunt was
dead; that he had intended to go and see her as soon as he could be
relieved from attendance on his master; that he had even written to
her several times, but having received no reply, had concluded that
she was determined to renounce him entirely. He was locked up at the
station for the night, and was to be brought before the magistrate in
the morning; and my informant’s object in coming to me was to instruct
me to prosecute, not being content to leave that duty to the police.
He was, it seemed, the very man who had, as already stated, picked up
the knife with which the murder had been committed; and he expressed
himself as being extremely anxious that justice should be done, and
that the murderer should not escape. He stated that, though badly
enough off twelve years ago, he had since succeeded in trade; that he
knew the poor old lady well, having done many an odd job about the
house for her; and that he was willing, for justice’ sake, to put his
hand as reasonably far into his pocket as could be expected. As he
sat opposite to me, his face burning with indignation, I could not
help thinking that it would be well for the country and the lawyers if
all citizens were as prompt as my new client to spend their means in
exposing and punishing crime in which they had no individual interest.
I said something to this effect, and my remarks were received with a
proper pride, tempered by modesty. ‘He hoped he knowed his dooty as a
man, and tried to do it.’
It so happened that I was obliged to leave town next day, to attend
to certain matters connected with an estate of which I was a trustee,
in another part of the country. I told him this, adding that the
magistrate would certainly send the case for trial, and that I should
be back in town in time for the next Old Bailey sessions, and that I
would be responsible that the case should receive proper attention in
the meantime. He merely said that he left the matter in my hands, and
that if I said it would be all right, he was content, and so departed,
engaging to attend to have his evidence taken down next morning. I
went to the office of a brother practitioner on whom I knew I could
rely, handed him my written instructions, requested him to take up the
case and work it until my return, and then did what every business man
should be able to do—wiped the subject altogether out of my mind for
the present.
LITERARY SELF-ESTIMATES.
The question, Can an author rightly criticise his own work? has been
variously answered. Gibbon emphatically says in his Autobiography that
a writer himself is the best judge of his own performance, since no
one has so deeply meditated on the subject, and no one is so sincerely
interested in the event. Samuel Johnson did not go quite so far as
this. In his Life of Dryden, he writes that, in the preface to one of
his plays, Dryden ‘discusses a curious question, whether an author can
judge well of his own productions; and determines, very justly, that of
the plan and disposition, and all that can be reduced to principles of
science, the author may depend upon his own opinion; but that in those
parts where fancy predominates, self-love may easily deceive. He might
have observed, that what is good only because it pleases, cannot be
pronounced good till it has been found to please.’
Certainly, from some points of view, nobody can be a better judge of an
author’s productions than the author himself. He alone knows fully the
difficulties he had to contend with; he alone knows the places where
he wrote with full knowledge and deep insight, and the places where he
wrote carelessly and with no clear understanding; he alone can tell
exactly how much he owes to other writers, and how far his work is the
result of his own toil and thought. But that merciful dispensation of
providence which prevents us from seeing ourselves as others see us,
frequently so far affects an author’s judgment of his own writings,
that it has become almost a commonplace of criticism that the greatest
of writers occasionally prefer their own least worthy works. They are
apt to measure the value of what they have done not by its intrinsic
merit, but by the difficulty of doing it; and knowing the pains it has
cost them, and being, as Hazlitt says, apprehensive that it is not
proportionately admired by others, who know nothing of what it cost
them, they praise it extravagantly. Moreover, severe criticism often
tempts an author to praise some neglected work of his above what he
is conscious to be its real deserts; just as, when her chickens are
attacked by the kite, the fond hen rushes straightway to defend the one
which seems most in danger.
Milton’s preference of _Paradise Regained_ to _Paradise Lost_ has
often been instanced as an example of the false judgments writers form
of their works. As a matter of fact, however, this opinion attributed
to Milton is overstated. As has recently been pointed out by Mr Mark
Pattison, all we know about the matter is, that Milton ‘could not bear
to hear with patience’ that it was inferior to _Paradise Lost_. Of a
writer who formed the most exaggerated and erroneous notions about the
merits of his works, no better example could be given than Southey.
He was indeed, as Macaulay remarked in his Diary, arrogant beyond any
man in literary history; for his self-conceit was proof against the
severest admonitions, and the utter failure of one of his books only
confirmed him in his belief of its excellence. When William Taylor
asked him who was to read his massive quartos on Brazil, he replied:
‘That one day he should by other means have made such a reputation that
it would be thought a matter of course to read them.’ About _Kehama_,
he wrote: ‘I was perfectly aware that I was planting acorns while my
contemporaries were planting Turkey beans. The oak will grow; and
though I may never sit under its shade, my children will.’ To one of
his contemporaries, he writes in 1805: ‘No further news of the sale
of _Madoc_. The reviews will probably hurt it for a while; that is
all they can do. Unquestionably the poem will stand and flourish. I
am perfectly satisfied with the execution—now, eight months after
its publication, in my cool judgment. William Taylor has said it is
the best English poem that has left the press since _Paradise Lost_.
Indeed, this is not exaggerated praise, for there is no competition.’
On another occasion Southey writes: ‘_Thalaba_ is finished. You will,
I trust, find the Paradise a rich poetical picture, a proof that I
can employ magnificence and luxury of language when I think them in
place. One overwhelming propensity has formed my destiny, and marred
all prospects of rank or wealth; but it has made me happy, and it will
make me immortal.’ In a letter written in 1815, he modestly remarks
that nothing could be more absurd than thinking of comparing any of his
pieces with _Paradise Lost_; but that with Tasso, with Virgil, with
Homer, there might be fair grounds of comparison! Nor did he think
more meanly of himself as an historian, for he predicted that he would
stand above Hume, Robertson, and Gibbon; nay, he went even further, and
challenged comparison with the Father of History. ‘I have flattered
myself,’ he says, ‘that my _History of Brazil_ might in more points
than one be compared to Herodotus, and will hereafter stand in the same
relation to the history of that large portion of the new world as his
History does to that of the old.’