Here follow dice, in which the Jew is requested to join, all of which

naturally brings about a discussion on the rate of usage, which that

dog Andronic is bringing down, and a further statement that _that_

imprisonment lasted two years. Then comes a _coup d'théâtre_: Shylock

reminds everybody that a just Doge reigns now, (nor can I help pointing

out the Frenchman's ingenuity here: in the _play_, the Doge must be

just, or where would the pound of flesh be?--while, if the Doge of the

_prologue_ were just, Shylock would not have been committed for two

years,--ergo, kill No. 1. Doge, install No. 2.)--Shylock reminds

everybody that a just Doge reigns. Shylock has it all his own way, and

Honorius is arrested before the very eyes of "that woman." Then comes

the necessary _Deus ex machina_ in the shape of Andronic, who pays

everybody everything, saves his friend, and play proceeds. Andronic

reproaches Jew touching his greed, whereon the Jew offers this not

profound remark,--"I am--what I am,"--and goes on counting his money.

Oh, if you only knew the secret!

This cash payment winds up the act.

ACT II.

Decidedly, the beginning of Act Second proves Andronic is no fool, for

he advises Honorius to flee that creature,--and what better advice in

those matters is there than that of retreating? Decidedly, too,

the virtuous Doge is worth having,--really a Middle-Age electric

telegraph,--for he gives all about him such a dose of news as in this

day would sell every penny-paper printed: and such bad news!--Venice

down everywhere, and a loan wanted. Here comes a fine scene for

Andronic, (for, after all, the lords have "hitched out" of the proposed

loan, whereby I take it they are not such fools as people take them to

be,)--Andronic declares, that, if he were rich enough, the Doge should

not ask for money, but ships are but frail and his have gone to pieces.

Here, you see, comes another faint whiff of the real original play.

Then, clearly, the Doge can only apply to the Jews. Enter Shylock _à

propos_. The next scene is so awful to the Greek Chorus, who may be of a

business turn, that I am charitable enough not to reproduce it here;

but the percentage the Jew wants for the loan seems to be quite a

multiplication-table of tangible securities, and I only wonder the Doge

does not order him into the Adriatic. Amongst other demands, the Jew

procures all the Dogic jewels,--and then he wants all the jewels of the

Doge's daughter; indeed, Shylock becomes a most unreasonable party.

No sooner does he speak of the daughter, Ginevra by name, than in she

comes, jewel-casket in hand,--which leads the cynical Greek Chorus to

suppose that Mademoiselle is either _clairvoyante_ or prefers going

about with a box. The way in which that best of her sex offers up the

jewels on the patriotic shrine is really worthy of the applause bestowed

on the act; but when that pig of a Jew is not satisfied, when he insists

upon the diamond necklace Ginevra wears, as another preliminary to the

loan, people in the theatre quite shake with indignation.

Now the jewel has been the pattern young lady's mother's; and here comes

an opening for that appeal to the filial love of Frenchmen which is

never touched in vain. It is really a great and noble trait in the

French character, that filial love, not too questionable to be

demonstrative,--'tis a sure dramatist's French card, that appeal to the

love of mothers and fathers by their children.

Having procured the weight of this chain, which has caused Shylock the

loss of many friends in the house who have been inclined to like him

consequent upon the loss of that Abel-Moses-photograph,--Shylock departs

with this information, that he will bring the money to-morrow: which

assertion proves Shylock to be a strong man, if a hundred thousand marks

are as heavy as I take them to be.

Upon what little things do dramas, in common with lives, turn!

That necklace is the brilliant groundwork of the rest of the plot.

Why--why--why--WHY didn't Shakspeare think of the necklace?

And as I always must tell love-affairs as soon as I hear of them,--for,

as a rule, I live in country towns,--I may at once state that Ginevra

loved Andronic, and latter loved former, and they would not tell each

other, and the Doge knew nothing about it.

Yes, decidedly, the necklace is the first character in "Le Juif de

Venise." You see, Ginevra loved the necklace, and Andronic loved

Ginevra; so he is forced to procure that charming necklace for her,

_coûte qui coûte_, and so he goes to Shylock for it. And here you will

see its value: Shylock will sell it only for a large sum. Andronic,

seeing his losses, hasn't the money,--but will have;--glorious opening

for the clause about the pound of flesh! Signed, sealed, and delivered.

How superior is Andronic to Antonio, the old ----! This latter pawns his

breast for a friend only: the great Andronic risks the flesh about _his_

heart for sacred love. Io Venus!

Yet, nevertheless, notwithstanding, it is the opinion of the Greek

Chorus that Andronic is a _joli_ fool,--which choral remark I hear

with pain, as reflecting upon unhesitating love, and especially as the

remarker has been eminently touched at the abduction.

ACT IV.

As for the Fourth Act,--it is very tender and terrible.

I need not say that the tenderness arises through the necklace,--and

indeed, for that matter, so also does the terror. Touching the first, of

course it is the discovery by Ginevra of the return of those maternal

diamonds,--which are handed to her by a _femme-de-chambre_, who has

had them from Andronic's _valet-de-chambre_, who is in love with the

_femme-de-chambre_, who reciprocates, etc., etc., etc.

But touching the terrible,--"that woman" hears of the necklace, and

sends Honorius for it to Shylock. Bad job!--gone! Well, then, Honorius

falls out with his old friend Andronic because latter will not yield up

the necklace. Honorius demands to know who has it. Andronic will not

name Ginevra's name before "that woman" and all the lofty lords, and

then there's a grand scene.

In the first place, it seems that in Shylock's Venetian time, the

Venetian lords, when obliging Venice with a riot, called upon Venetians

to put out their lights, and this the lords now do, (we are on the

piazza,) and out go all the lights as though turned off at one main.

Then there is such a scrimmage! Honorius lunges at Andronic; this latter

disarms former; then latter comes to his senses, flies over to his old

friend, and all the Venetian brawlers are put to flight.

Then Honorius says,--and pray, pray, mark what Honorius says, or you

will _never_ comprehend Act V.,--then Honorius says, taking Andronic's

previous advice about flying, "I will go away, _and fight the Adriatic

pirates_." Now, pray, don't forget that. I quite distress myself in

praying you not to forget that,--to wit,--"_Honorius goes away to fight

the Adriatic pirates._"

Oh, if you only knew the big secret!

ACT V.

This, of course, is the knifing act.

Seated is Shylock before an hour-glass, and trying to count the grains

of sand as they glide through.

Oh, if you only knew the big secret!

You remember that in that original play Antonio's ships are lost merely.

Bah! we manage better in this matter: the ships come home, but they are

empty,--emptied by the pirates; though why those Adriaticians did not

confiscate the ships is even beyond the Greek Chorus, who says, "They

were very polite."

At last all the sand is at rest.

Crack,--as punctual as a postman comes Andronic; and as the Venetians

are revolting against the flesh business, about which they seem to know

every particular, Andronic brings a guard of the just Doge's soldiers

to keep the populace quiet while the business goes on;--all of which

behavior on the merchant's part my friend the Chorus pronounces to be

stupid and suicidal.

Then comes such a scene!--Andronic calling for Ginevra, and the Jew

calling for his own.

Breast bared.

Then thus the Jew:--

"Feeble strength of my old body, be centred in this eye and this arm!

Thou, my son, receive this sacrifice, and tremble with joy in thy

unknown tomb!"

Knife raised.

Oh, if you only knew the big secret!

And I _do_ hope you have not forgotten that Honorius went away to fight

the Adriatic pirates.

For, if you have forgotten that fact, you will not comprehend Honorius's

rushing in at this moment from the Adriatic pirates.

Yes,--but why did he go amongst them?

The big secret, in fact. If Honorius had not gone, why, I suppose

Shylock would have had his pound of man.

As it is, Honorius and his paper--which latter has also come from the

pirates--do the business.

Why, the whole thing turns on the paper. How lucky it was Honorius went

amongst the pirates!

Honorius has vanquished the chief of the pirates,--who was named

Arnheim,--and that disreputable widower, just before his last breath,

gave Honorius the said paper,--though why, it is not clear. And--and

this paper shows that ANDRONIC IS THAT SON STOLEN AWAY FROM SARAH,

DECEASED, AND SHYLOCK,--THAT SON, NOT ONLY THE IMAGE OF ABEL, BUT OF

MOSES, TOO.

Great thunderbolts!

Then, very naturally, (in a play,) in come all the characters, and

follows, I am constrained to say, a very well-conceived scene,--'tis

another appeal to filial love. The Jew would own his son, but he

remembers that it would injure the son, and so he keeps silent. I

declare, there is something eminently beautiful in the idea of making

the Jew yield his wealth up to Andronic, and saying he will wander from

Venice,--his staff his only wealth. And when, as he stoops to kiss his

son's hand, Ginevra (who of course has come on with the rest) makes a

gesture as though she feared treachery, the few words put into the Jew's

mouth are full of pathos and poetry.

And so down comes the curtain,--the piece meeting with the full approval

of Chorus, who applauded till I thought he would snap his hands off at

the wrists.

"A very moral play," said a stout gentleman behind me,--who had done

little else all night but break into the fiercest of apples and

pears,--"a very moral play,"--meaning thereby, probably, that it was

very moral that a Jew's child should remain a Christian.

Now there were some good points in that play; but, oh, thou M. Ferdinand

Dugué, thou,--why didst thou challenge comparison with a man who wrote

for all theatres for all times?

* * * * *

THE POET'S SINGING.

In heat and in cold, in sunshine and rain,

Bewailing its loss and boasting its gain,

Blessing its pleasure and cursing its pain,

The hurrying world goes up and down:

Every avenue and street

Of city and town

Are veins that throb with the restless beat

Of the eager multitude's trampling feet.

Men wrangle together to get and hold

A sceptre of power or a crock of gold;

Blaspheming God's name with the breath He gave,

And plotting revenge on the brink of the grave!

And Fashion's followers, flitting after,

O'ertake and pass the funeral train,

Thoughtlessly scattering jests and laughter,

Like sharp, quick showers of hail and rain,

To beat on the hearts that are bleeding with pain!

And many who stare at the close-shut hearse

Envy the dead within,--or, worse,

Turn away with a keener zest

To grapple and revel and sin with the rest!

While far apart in a bower of green,

Unheeded, unseen,

A warbling bird on the topmost bough

Merrily pipes to the Poet below,

Asking an answer as gay, I trow!

But he hears the surging waves without,--

The heartless jeer, and the wild, wild shout:

The ceaseless clamor, the cruel strife

Make the Poet weary of life;

And tears of pity and tears of pain

Ebb and flow in every strain,

As he soothes his heart with singing.

The tide of humanity rolleth on;

And 'mid faces miserly, haggard, and wan,

Between the hypocrite's and the knave's,

The hapless idiot's and the slave's,

Sweet children smile in their nurses' arms,

And clap their hands in innocent glee;

While, unrebuked by the heavenly charms

That beam in the eyes of infancy,

Oaths still blacken the lips of men,

And startle the ears of womanhood!

On either hand

The churches stand,

Forgotten by those who yesterday

Went thronging thither to praise and pray,

And take of the Holy Body and Blood!

Their week-day creed is the law of Might;

Self is their idol, and Gain their right:

Though, now and then,

God sees some faithful disciples still

Breasting the current to do His will.

The little bird on the topmost bough

Merrily pipes to the Poet below,

Asking an answer as gay, I trow!

But he hears the surging waves without,--

The atheist's scoff and the infidel's doubt,

The Pharisee's cant and the sweet saint's prayer,

And the piercing cry for rest from care;

And tears of pity and tears of pain

Ebb and flow in every strain,

As he praises God with singing.

A JOURNEY IN SICILY.

CHAPTER I.

PALERMO.

In the latter part of April, 1856, four travellers, one of whom was the

present writer, left the Vittoria Hotel at Naples, and at two, P.M.,

embarked on board the Calabrese steamer, pledged to leave for Palermo

precisely at that hour. As, however, our faith in the company's

protestations was by no means so implicit as had been our obedience to

their orders, it was with no feeling of surprise that we discovered by

many infallible signs that the hour of departure was yet far off. True,

the funnel sent up its thick cloud; the steward in dirty shirt-sleeves

stood firm in the gangway, energetically demanding from the

baggage-laden traveller the company's voucher for the fare, without

which he may vainly hope to leave the gangway ladder; the decks were

crowded in every part with lumber, live and dead. But all these symptoms

had to be increased many fold in their intensity before we could hope to

get under way; and a single glance at the listless countenances of the

bare-legged, bare-armed, red-capped crowd who adhered like polypi to

the rough foundation-stones of the mole sufficed to show that the

performance they had come to witness would not soon commence. Our berths

once visited, we cast about for some quiet position wherein to while

away the intervening time. The top of the deck-house offered as pleasant

a prospect as could be hoped for, and thither we mounted.

The whole available portion of the deck, poop included, was in

possession of a crowd of youngsters, many mere boys, from the Abruzzi,

destined to exchange their rags and emptiness for the gay uniform and

good rations of King Ferdinand's soldiery. In point of physical comfort,

their gain must be immense; and very bad must be that government

which, despite of these advantages, has forced upon the soldier's mind

discontent and disaffection. No doubt, the spectacle of the Swiss

regiments doubly paid, and (on Sundays at least) trebly intoxicated,

has something to do with this ill feeling. The raggedness of this troop

could be paralleled only by that of the immortal regiment with whom

their leader declined to march through Coventry, and was probably even

more quaint and fantastic in its character. Chief in singularity were

their hats, if hat be the proper designation of the volcanic-looking

gray cone which adhered to the head by some inscrutable dynamic law, and

seemed rather fitted for carrying out the stratagem of shoeing a troop

of horse with felt than for protecting a human skull. A triple row

of scalloped black velvet not unfrequently bore testimony to the

indomitable love of the nation for ornament; and the same decoration

might be found on their garments, whose complicated patchwork reminded

us of the humble original from which has sprung our brilliant Harlequin.

Shortly our attention was solicited by a pantomimic Roscius, some ten or

twelve years old, who, having climbed over the taffrail and cleared a

stage of some four feet square, dramatized all practicable scenes, and

many apparently impracticable, for he made nothing of presenting two or

three personages in rapid interchange. Words were needless, and would

have been useless, as the unloading of railway bars by a brawny

Northumbrian and his crew drowned all articulate sounds.

Notwithstanding these varied amusements, we were not sorry to see

arrive, first, a gray general, obviously the Triton of our minnows, and

close behind him the health and police officers of the government, to

whose paternal solicitude for our mental and bodily health was to be

ascribed our long delay in port. These beneficent influences, incarnated

in the form of two portly gentlemen in velvet waistcoats,--an Italian

wears a velvet waistcoat, if he can get one, far into the hot

months,--began their work of summoning by name each individual from the

private to the general, then the passengers, then the crew, and finally,

much to our relief, reëmbarked in the boat, and left us free to pursue

our voyage.

We soon left behind the ominous cone of Vesuvius, reported by the best

judges to be at present in so unsound a state that nothing can prevent

its early fall; sunset left us near the grand precipices of Anacapri,

and morning found us with Ustica on our beam, and the semicircle of

mountains which enchase the gem of Palermo gradually unfolding their

beauties. By ten, A.M., we were in harbor and pulling shorewards to

subject ourselves to the scrutiny of custom-house and police. Our

passports duly conned over, the functionary, with a sour glance at our

valanced faces, inquired if we had letters for any one in the island.

Never before had such a question been asked me, nor ever before could I

have given other than an humble negative. But the kindness of a friend

had luckily provided me with a formidable shield, and a reply, given

with well-assumed ease, that I had letters from the English Ambassador

for the Viceroy, smoothed the grim feature, and released us from the

dread tribunal. The custom-house gave no trouble, and we reëmbarked to

cross about half a mile of water which separated us from the city gate.

Here, however, we were destined to experience the influence of the sunny

clime: our two stout boatmen persisted in setting their sail, under the

utterly false pretence that there was some wind blowing, and fully half

an hour elapsed ere we set foot ashore.

This gave me ample time to recall the different aspect of Palermo when

first I saw it, in 1849. I had accompanied the noble squadron, English

and French, which carried to the Sicilian government the _ultimatum_

of the King of Naples. The scenes of that troubled time passed vividly

before me: the mutual salutes of the Admirals; the honors paid by

each separately to the flag of Sicily, that flag which we had come to

strike,--for such we all knew must be the effect of our withdrawal. I

recollected the manly courtesy with which the Sicilians received us,

their earnest assurances that they did not confound our involuntary

errand with our personal feelings; and how, when a wild Greek

mountaineer from the Piano de' Greci, unable to comprehend the

intricacies of politics, and stupidly imagining that those who were

not for him were against him, had insulted one of our officers, the

bystanders had interposed so honorably and so swiftly that even the hot

blood of our fiery Cymrian had neither time nor excuse to rise to the

boiling-point. I recalled the scene in the Parliament House, when the

replies to the King's message, which had been sent by each chief town,

were read by the Speaker: the grave indignation of some,--the somewhat

bombastic protestations of others,--the question put of submission or

war,--the shout of "_Guerra! guerra!_" ringing too loud, methought, to

be good metal; the "_Suoni la tromba_" at that night's theatre,--the

digging at the fortifications,--women carrying huge stones,--men more

willing to shout for them than to do their own share,--Capuchin friars

digging with the best,--finally, the wild dance of men, women, cowled

and bearded monks, all together, brandishing their spades and shovels in

cadence to the military band. With this came to me the mild smile and

doubtful shake of the head of the good Admiral Baudin, and his prophetic

remark,--"I have seen much fighting in various parts of the world; and

if these men mean to fight, I cannot comprehend them."

While this mental diorama was unrolling, even Sicilian laziness had time

to reach the shore; and passing by a rough mass of rocks, where our

second cutter had once run too close for comfort, and the Friedland's

launch had upset and lost two men, we at length landed close to the city

gate. A custom-house officer pounced on us for a fee, notwithstanding

our examination on first landing, and ("_uno avulso, non deficit aureus

alter_,") at the city gate, not thirty yards distant, a third repeated

the demand, equivalent to "Your money or your keys." A capital breakfast

at the Trinacria hotel was the fitting conclusion to these oft-recorded

troubles, and the gratifying news that the Viceroy had just left the

island for Naples obviated the necessity of a formal visit, and left us

free to enjoy the notabilities of Palermo.

The plan of this beautiful city is very simple, being a tolerably

accurate square, surrounded by walls, of which the northern face skirts

the sea, and the southern faces the head of the lovely valley in which

the city stands,--the Golden Shell. Two perfectly straight streets,

intersecting in a small, but highly ornamented _piazza_, traverse

the city. The Toledo, or Via Cassaro,--for it bears both these

designations,--runs from the sea to the Monreale gate, close to which is

the Royal Palace, and the Cathedral square opens from this street. The

Via Macqueda contains few buildings of interest except the University.

Between the wall and the sea runs the magnificent Marina, a more

beautiful promenade than even the Villa Reale of Naples, having on the

right the low but picturesque headland of Bagaria, while on the left

rise the all but perpendicular rocks of Monte Pellegrino, once the

impregnable mountain-throne of Hamilcar Barcas, and later the spot where

in a rude cavern, now sheeted with marble and jasper, "from all the

youth of Sicily, Saint Rosalie retired to God." The handicraftsmen of

Palermo still occupy almost exclusively the streets named after their

trades,--an indication of immobility rarely to be met with nowadays,

though Rome displays it in a minor degree.

We first visited the University Museum. Numerous pictures, far beyond

the ordinary degree of badness, occupy the upper rooms, where the only

object of interest is a very fine and well-preserved bronze of Hercules

and the Pompeian Fawn, half life-size. But far beyond all else in

artistic importance are the _metopes_ from Selinuntium, which, though

much damaged, show marks of high excellence. They are of clearly

different dates, though all very archaic. The oldest represent Perseus

cutting off the Gorgon's head, and Hercules killing two thieves. Perseus

has the calm, sleepy look of a Hindoo god,--while Gorgon's head, with

goggle eyes and protruding tongue, resembles a Mexican idol. Hercules

and the thieves have more of an Egyptian character. The material of

these bas-reliefs is coarse limestone; and in the _metopes_ on the

opposite wall, which are clearly of later date, recourse has been had to

a curious method of obtaining delicacy in the female forms: the faces,

hands, and feet, which alone are visible from among the drapery, are

formed of fine marble. An Actæon torn by his dogs is much corroded by

sea air, but displays great nobleness of attitude. The vigor in the left

arm, which has throttled one of the dogs, can hardly be surpassed. A

portion of the _cella_, of one of the temples has been removed hither,

and its brilliant polychromy is sufficient to decide the argument as to

the existence of the practice, if, indeed, that point be yet in doubt.

But it seems that the non-colorists have relinquished the parallel of

architecture, which, be it observed, they formerly defended obstinately,

and have now intrenched themselves in the citadel of sculpture,

intending to hold it against all evidence. The only other object of much

interest was a Pompeian fresco, representing two actors, whose attitudes

and masks are so strikingly adapted to express the first scene of the

"Heautontimorumenos," between Menalcas and Chremes, that it seems

scarcely doubtful that this is actually the subject of the painting.

Near the upper end of the Toledo the Cathedral is situated, not very

favorably for effect, as only the eastern side is sufficiently free from

buildings. It is a noble pile: Northern power and piety expressed by

the agency of Southern and Arabic workmen, and somewhat affected by the

nationality of the artificer.

The stones are fretted and carved more elaborately than those of any

French or English cathedral, but entirely in arabesques and diapering of

low relief, so that the spectator misses with regret the solemn rows of

saints and patriarchs that enrich the portals of our Gothic minsters.

These, however, are reflections of a subsequent date, and did not

interfere to mar the pleasure with which we sat in front of the southern

door, beneath the two lofty arches, which, springing from the entrance

tower, span the street high above our heads. For some time we sat,

unwilling to change and it might be impair our sensations by passing

inwards. Our reluctance was but too well founded: the whole interior has

been modernized in detestable Renaissance style, and in place of highest

honor, above the central doorway, sits in tight-buttoned uniform a

fitting idol for so ugly a shrine, the double-chinned effigy of the

reigning monarch. We turned for comfort to a chapel on the right, where

in four sarcophagi of porphyry are deposited the remains of the Northern

sovereigns. The bones of Roger repose in a plain oblong chest with a

steep ridged roof, and the other three coffins, though somewhat more

elaborate, are yet simple and massive, as befits their destined use. The

inscription, on that of Constantia is touching, as it tells that she

was "the last of the great race of Northmen,"--the good old bad Latin

"Northmannorum" giving the proper title, which we have injudiciously

softened into Norman.

In a small _piazza_ near the intersection of the main streets is a

Dominican church, whose black and white inlaid marbles are amazing in

their elaborateness, astounding in their preposterously bad taste. They

transcend description, and can be faintly imagined only by such as

know a huge marble nightmare of waves and clouds in the south aisle

of Westminster Abbey. This church contains one good painting of a

triumphant experiment conducted by some Dominican friars in the presence

of sundry Ulemas and Muftis: a Koran and Bible have been thrown into a

blazing fire, and the result is as satisfactory as that of Hercules's

death-grapple with the Nemean lion. To be sure, lions and Turks are

not painters. The Martorana church is rich in gold-grounded mosaics,

resembling Saint Mark's at Venice. One represents the coronation of

Roger Guiscard by the Saviour: very curious, as showing at how early a

date the invaders laid claim to the Right Divine. The inscription is

also noteworthy: _Rogerius Rex_, in the Latin tongue, but the Greek

characters, thus: [Greek: ROGERIOS RAEX].[a] The Renaissance has invaded

this church too, and flowery inlaid marbles with gilded scroll balconies

(it is a nuns' church) mingle with the bold discs and oblong panels of

porphyry and green serpentine. In the nave of the small church sat in

comfortable arm-chairs two monks, one black, one white, leaning their

ears to gilded grates and receiving the confessions of the sisterhood.

The paschal candlestick stood in front of the high altar,--Ascension-Day

not being past; but here, as in other Sicilian churches, it assumes the

form of a seven-branched tree, generally of bronze bedecked with gold.

These same nuns' balconies are not confined to the interior of churches,

but form a distinct and picturesque feature in the long line of the

Toledo. Projecting in a bold curve whose undersurface is gaily painted

in arabesque, their thick bars and narrow openings nevertheless leave a

gloomy impression on the mind, while they add to the Oriental character

of the city. A somewhat unsuccessful effort to identify the church whose

bell gave signal for the Sicilian Vespers closed our day's labor. The

spot is clearly defined and easily recognizable, and a small church, now

shut up, occupies the site. So far, so good; but the cloister which is

distinctly mentioned cannot now be found, nor is it easy to perceive

where it could have stood. Perhaps some change in the neighboring harbor

may have swept it away.

[Footnote a: The _e_ in _Rex_ is here rendered by the Greek eta,--a

proof that the pronunciation of that letter was similar to that of our

long _a_, and not like our double _ee_; although the modern Greeks

support the latter pronunciation.]

_23d April_. To those who take interest in the efforts of that age when

Christianity, devoid at once of artistic knowledge and of mechanical,

strove from among the material and moral wreck of Paganism to create for

herself a school of Art which should, despite of all short-comings, be

the exponent of those high feelings which inspired her mind, the Royal

Chapel of Palermo offers a delightful object of study. Less massive than

the gloomily grand basilicas of Rome and Ravenna, surpassed in single

features by other churches, as, for instance, the Cathedral of Salerno,

it contains, nevertheless, such perfect specimens of Christian Art in

its various phases, that this one small building seems a hand-book in

itself. The floor and walls are covered with excellently preserved and

highly polished Alexandrine mosaic, flowing in varied convolutions of

green and gold and red round the broad crimson and gray shields, whose

circular forms recall the mighty monolith columns of porphyry and

granite which yielded such noble spoils. The honey-combed pendentines of

the ceiling must be due to Arab workmen; their like may yet be found in

Cairo or the Alhambra; while below the narrow windows, and extending

downwards to the marble panelling, runs a grand series of gold-grounded

mosaics, their subjects taken from the Old and New Testaments. But

far older than even these are the colossal grim circles of saints and

apostles who cling to the roof of the choir, and yield in size only to

the awful figures of the Saviour, the Virgin, and Saint Paul, enthroned

in the _apsides_ of the nave and aisles. The _ambones_, though not

so large as those of Salerno, are very gorgeous; and the paschal

candlestick, here at all events in its usual shape, is of deeply-carved

marble, and displays an incongruous assemblage of youths, maidens,

beasts, birds, and bishops, hanging each from other like a curtain of

swarming bees.

Service, which had been going on in the choir when we arrived, had now

ceased; but from the crypt below arose a chant so harsh, vibratory,

and void of solemnity, that we were irresistibly reminded of the

subterranean chorus of demons in "Robert le Diable." Two of us ventured

below and discovered the chapter, all robed in purple, sitting round a

pall with a presumable coffin underneath. Little of reverence did they

show,--it is true, the death was not recent, the service being merely

commemorative, as we afterwards learned,--and as the procession shortly

afterwards emerged and proceeded down the chapel, the unwashed,

unshaven, and sensual countenances of some of highest rank among them

gave small reason to believe that they could feel much reverence on any

subject whatever.

The Palace itself is as tedious as any other palace: the Pompeian room

follows the Louis Quinze, and is in turn followed by the Chinese, till,

for our comfort, we emerged into one large square hall, whose stiff

mosaics of archers killing stags, peacocks feeding at the foot of

willow-pattern trees, date from the time of Roger. Another wearisome

series of rooms succeeded, which we were bound to traverse in search of

a bronze ram of old Greek workmanship, brought from Syracuse. The work

is very good and well-preserved; in fact, no part is injured, save the

tail and a hind leg, whose loss the _custode_ ascribed to the villains

of the late revolution. He even charged them with the destruction of

another similar statue melted into bullets, if we may believe his

incredible tale. A pavilion over the Monreale gate commands a view right

down the Toledo to the sea.

The drive to Monreale is a continued ascent along the skirts of a

limestone rock, whose precipices are thickly planted at every foothold

with olive, Indian fig, and aloe. The valley, as it spread below our

gaze, appeared one huge carpet of heavy-fruited orange-trees, save where

at times a rent in the web left visible the bluish blades of wheat, or

the intense green of a flax-plantation.

Monreale is a mere country-town, containing no object of interest, save

the Cathedral. This is a noble basilica, grandly proportioned, the nave

and aisles of which are separated by monolith pillars, mostly of gray

granite, and some few of cipollino and other marbles, the spoils, no

doubt, of the ancient Panormus. Above the cornice the walls are entirely

sheeted with golden mosaics, representing, as usual, Scripture history.

The series which begins, like the speech of the Intendant in "Les

Plaideurs," "_Avant la creation du monde_" complies with the wish of

(the judge?) by going on to the Deluge, in a train of singularly meagre

figures, most haggard of whom is Cain, here represented (as in the Campo

Santo of Pisa) receiving his death accidentally from the hand of Lamech.

In the passage of the beasts to the Ark, Noah coaxes the lion on board,

and in the next compartment the patriarch shoves the king of beasts down

the plank in a most ludicrous fashion. The mosaics of the New Testament

are less archaic, though still very old, too old to be infected by the

tricks of later Romanism,--such, for instance, as introducing the Virgin

among the receivers of the mysterious gift of tongues. Saint Paul, both

here and at the Royal Chapel, appears under the earlier type adopted

whether by fancy or tradition to represent that saint,--that is, a

short, strong figure, with the head large, and almost devoid of hair,

except at the sides, and one dark lock in the centre of the massive

forehead. Over the western door-way is a mosaic of the Virgin with the

following leonine and loyal distich beneath it:--

"Sponsa suae prolis, O Stella puerpera Solis,

Pro cunctis ora, sed plus pro rege labora!"

There is an ample square cloister, with twenty-seven pairs of columns on

each side, once richly decorated in mosaics like those of San Giovanni

Laterano and San Paolo at Rome, but even more dilapidated than either

of these latter. Indeed, so entirely non-existent is the mosaic, the

twisted and channelled columns showing nothing but places "where the

pasty is not," that the more probable solution may be that want of funds

or of devotion has left the work unfinished. On the capital of one

column may be seen the figure of William the Good, who founded the

Cathedral in 1170. He bears in his arms a model of the building, which

here appears with circular-headed windows instead of the lanceolated

Gothic now existing.

In, perhaps, the very loveliest of the many lovely sites around Palermo

stands the small Moorish building of La Ziza. Moorish it may be called;

for the main feature of the edifice, a hall with a fountain trickling

along a channel in the pavements, is clearly due to the Saracens. These,

however, had availed themselves of Roman columns to support their

fretted ceilings, once gorgeous in color, but now desecrated with

whitewash. The Norman invaders have added their never-failing gold

mosaic,--while the Spaniard, after painting sundry scenes from Ovid's

"Metamorphoses" in a dreadfully barocco style, calls upon the world,

in those magniloquent phrases which somehow belong as of right to your

mighty Don, to admire the exquisite commingling of modern art with

antique beauty, to which his _fiat_ has given birth.

Somewhat of Spain, perhaps, might also be traced in an incident,

promisingly romantic, but coming to a most lame and impotent conclusion,

which occurred this afternoon to one of our party. While busily

sketching, in the Martorana church, the previously mentioned mosaic of

Roger's coronation, a hand protruded from the gilded lattice above,

and a small scroll was dropped, not precisely at the feet, but in the

neighborhood of the amazed artist. Sharp eyes, however, must be at work;

for, ere he could appropriate this mysterious waif on Love's manor, a

side-door opened, and an attendant in the very unpoetical garb of a

carpenter bore off the prize. It maybe presumed that the next confessor

who occupied an arm-chair in the church would have somewhat of novelty

to enliven what some priests have stated to be the most wearisome of the

work, namely, the hearing of confessions in a nunnery.

This evening was passed in the house of the British Consul, who, in

amusing recognition of our nationalities, comprising, as they did,

both branches of the Anglo-Saxon race, treated us to Lemann's

captain's-biscuit and Boston crackers. Notwithstanding the interesting

conversation of our host, who had not allowed a residence of many years

in a mind-rusting city to impair his love of literature, a love dating

from the time when Praed edited the "Etonian," and Metius Tarpa

contributed to the "College Magazine," we were obliged to leave early.

Our arrangements for a very early start next morning were completed, and

a thirty miles' ride lay before us.

To save further allusion to them, it may be as well to describe these

arrangements, which were made for us by Signor Ragusa, landlord of the

Trinacria hotel. A guide, Giuseppe Agnello by name, took upon himself

the whole responsibility of our board, lodging, and travelling, at a

fixed rate of forty-two (?) _carlini_ a head,--which sum, including his

_buonamano_ and return voyage from Syracuse or Messina, amounted to

about twenty francs each _per diem_. For this sum he furnished us with

good mules, a hearty breakfast at daybreak, cold meat and hard eggs at

noon, and a plentiful dinner or supper, call it which you choose, on

arriving at our night's quarters. Agnello himself was cook, and proved

a very tolerable one. This is essential; for Spanish custom prevails

in the inns, whose host considers his duty accomplished when he has

provided ample stabling for the mules and dubious bedding for his biped

guests.

[To be continued.]

* * * * *

THE PROFESSOR'S STORY.

CHAPTER XV.

PHYSIOLOGICAL.

If Master Bernard felt a natural gratitude to his young pupil for saving

him from an imminent peril, he was in a state of infinite perplexity

to know why he should have needed such aid. He, an active, muscular,

courageous, adventurous young fellow, with a stick in his hand, ready to

hold down the Old Serpent himself, if he had come in his way, to stand

still, staring into those two eyes, until they came up close to him,

and the strange, terrible sound seemed to freeze him stiff where he

stood,--what was the meaning of it? Again, what was the influence this

girl had exerted, under which the venomous creature had collapsed in

such a sudden way? Whether he had been awake or dreaming he did not feel

quite sure. He knew he had gone up The Mountain, at any rate; he knew he

had come down The Mountain with the girl walking just before him;--there

was no forgetting her figure, as she walked on in silence, her braided

locks falling a little, for want of the lost hair-pin, perhaps, and

looking like a wreathing coil of--Shame on such fancies!--to wrong that

supreme crowning gift of abounding Nature, a rush of shining black hair,

that, shaken loose, would cloud her all round, like Godiva, from brow to

instep! He was sure he had sat down before the fissure or cave. He was

sure that he was led softly away from the place, and that it was Elsie

who had led him. There was the hair-pin to show that so far it was not a

dream. But between these recollections came a strange confusion; and the

more the master thought, the more he was perplexed to know whether she

had waked him, sleeping, as he sat on the stone, from some frightful

dream, such as may come in a very brief slumber, or whether she had

bewitched him into a trance with those strange eyes of hers, or whether

it was all true, and he must solve its problem as he best might.

There was another recollection connected with this mountain adventure.

As they approached the mansion-house, they met a young man, whom Mr.

Bernard remembered having seen once at least before, and whom he had

heard of as a cousin of the young girl. As Cousin Richard Venner, the

person in question, passed them, he took the measure, so to speak, of

Mr. Bernard, with a look so piercing, so exhausting, so practised, so

profoundly suspicious, that the young master felt in an instant that he

had an enemy in this handsome youth,--an enemy, too, who was like to be

subtle and dangerous.

Mr. Bernard had made up his mind, that, come what might, enemy or no

enemy, live or die, he would solve the mystery of Elsie Venner, sooner

or later. He was not a man to be frightened out of his resolution by a

scowl, or a stiletto, or any unknown means of mischief, of which a whole

armory was hinted at in that passing look Dick Venner had given him.

Indeed, like most adventurous young persons, he found a kind of charm

in feeling that there might be some dangers in the way of his

investigations. Some rumors which had reached him about the supposed

suitor of Elsie Venner, who was thought to be a desperate kind of

fellow, and whom some believed to be an unscrupulous adventurer, added

a curious, romantic kind of interest to the course of physiological and

psychological inquiries he was about instituting.

The afternoon on The Mountain was still uppermost in his mind. Of course

he knew the common stories about fascination. He had once been himself

an eyewitness of the charming of a small bird by one of our common

harmless serpents. Whether a human being could be reached by this

subtile agency, he had been skeptical, notwithstanding the mysterious

relation generally felt to exist between man and this creature, "cursed

above all cattle and above every beast of the field,"--a relation which

some interpret as the fruit of the curse, and others hold to be so

instinctive that this animal has been for that reason adopted as the

natural symbol of evil. There was another solution, however, supplied

him by his professional reading. The curious work of Mr. Braid of

Manchester had made him familiar with the phenomena of a state allied to

that produced by animal magnetism, and called by that writer by the name

of _hypnotism_. He found, by referring to his note-book, the statement

was, that, by fixing the eyes on a _bright object_ so placed as _to

produce a strain_ upon the eyes and eyelids, and to maintain _a steady

fixed stare_, there comes on in a few seconds a very singular condition,

characterized by _muscular rigidity_ and _inability to move_, with a

strange _exaltation of most of the senses_, and _generally_ a closure of

the eyelids,--this condition being followed by _torpor_.

Now this statement of Mr. Braid's, well known to the scientific world,

and the truth of which had been confirmed by Mr. Bernard in certain

experiments he had instituted, as it has been by many other

experimenters, went far to explain the strange impressions, of which,

waking or dreaming, he had certainly been the subject. His nervous

system had been in a high state of exaltation at the time. He remembered

how the little noises that made rings of sound in the silence of the

woods, like pebbles dropped in still waters, had reached his inner

consciousness. He remembered that singular sensation in the roots of the

hair, when he came on the traces of the girl's presence, reminding him

of a line in a certain poem which he had read lately with a new and

peculiar interest. He even recalled a curious evidence of exalted

sensibility and irritability, in the twitching of the minute muscles of

the internal ear at every unexpected sound, producing an odd little

snap in the middle of the head, that proved to him he was getting very

nervous.

The next thing was to find out whether it were possible that the

venomous creature's eyes should have served the purpose of Mr. Braid's

"bright object" held very close to the person experimented on, or

whether they had any special power which could be made the subject of

exact observation.

For this purpose Mr. Bernard considered it necessary to get a live

_crotalus_ or two into his possession, if this were possible. On

inquiry, he found that there was a certain family living far up the

mountain-side, not a mile from the ledge, the members of which were said

to have taken these creatures occasionally, and not to be in any danger,

or at least in any fear, of being injured by them. He applied to these

people, and offered a reward sufficient to set them at work to capture

some of these animals, if such a thing were possible.

A few days after this, a dark, gypsy-looking woman presented herself at

his door. She held up her apron as if it contained something precious in

the bag she made with it.

"Y'wanted some rattlers," said the woman. "Here they be."

She opened her apron and showed a coil of rattlesnakes lying very

peaceably in its fold. They lifted their heads up, as if they wanted to

see what was going on, but showed no sign of anger.

"Are you crazy?" said Mr. Bernard. "You're dead in an hour, if one of

those creatures strikes you!"

He drew back a little, as he spoke; it might be simple disgust; it might

be fear; it might be what we call antipathy, which is different from

either, and which will sometimes show itself in paleness, and even

faintness, produced by objects perfectly harmless and not in themselves

offensive to any sense.

"Lord bless you," said the woman, "rattlers never touches our folks. I'd

jest 'z lieves handle them creaturs as so many striped snakes."

So saying, she put their heads down with her hand, and packed them

together in her apron as if they had been bits of cart-rope.

Mr. Bernard had never heard of the power, or, at least, the belief in

the possession of a power by certain persons, which enables them to

handle these frightful reptiles with perfect impunity. The fact,

however, is well known to others, and more especially to a very

distinguished Professor in one of the leading institutions of the great

city of the land, whose experiences in the neighborhood of Graylock, as

he will doubtless inform the curious, were very much like those of the

young master.

Mr. Bernard had a wired cage ready for his formidable captives, and

studied their habits and expression with a strange sort of interest.

What did the Creator mean to signify, when he made such shapes of

horror, and, as if he had doubly cursed this envenomed wretch, had set

a mark upon him and sent him forth, the Cain of the brotherhood of

serpents? It was a very curious fact that the first train of thoughts

Mr. Bernard's small menagerie suggested to him was the grave, though

somewhat worn, subject of the origin of evil. There is now to be seen in

a tall glass jar, in the Museum of Comparative Anatomy at Cantabridge

in the territory of the Massachusetts, a huge _crotalus_, of a species

which grows to more frightful dimensions than our own, under the hotter

skies of South America. Look at it, ye who would know what is the

tolerance, the freedom from prejudice, which can suffer such an

incarnation of all that is devilish to lie unharmed in the cradle of

Nature! Learn, too, that there are many things in this world which we

are warned to shun, and are even suffered to slay, if need be, but which

we must not hate, unless we would hate what God loves and cares for.

Whatever fascination the creature might exercise in his native haunts,

Mr. Bernard found himself not in the least nervous or affected in any

way while looking at his caged reptiles. When their cage was shaken,

they would lift their heads and spring their rattles; but the sound was

by no means so formidable to listen to as when it reverberated among

the chasms of the echoing rocks. The expression of the creatures was

watchful, still, grave, passionless, fate-like, suggesting a cold

malignity that seemed to be waiting for its opportunity. Their awful,

deep-cut mouths were sternly closed over the long hollow fangs that

rested their roots against the swollen poison-bag, where the venom had

been boarding up ever since the last stroke had emptied it. They never

winked, for ophidians have no movable eyelids, but kept up that awful

fixed stare which made the two _unwinking_ gladiators the survivors of

twenty pairs matched by one of the Roman Emperors, as Pliny tells us, in

his "Natural History." But their eyes did not flash, as he had expected

to see them. They were of a pale-golden or straw color, horrible to look

into, with their stony calmness, their pitiless indifference, hardly

enlivened by the almost imperceptible vertical slit of the pupil,

through which Death seemed to be looking out like the archer behind the

long narrow loop-hole in a blank turret-wall. Possibly their pupils

might open wide enough in the dark hole of the rock to let the glare

of the back part of the eye show, as we often see it in cats and other

animals. On the whole, the caged reptiles, horrid as they were, were yet

very different from his recollections of what he had seen or dreamed

he saw at the cavern. These looked dangerous enough, but yet quiet. A

treacherous stillness, however,--as the unfortunate New York physician

found, when he put his foot out to wake up the torpid creature, and

instantly the fang flashed through his boot, carrying the poison into

his blood, and death with it.

Mr. Bernard kept these strange creatures, and watched all their habits

with a natural curiosity. In any collection of animals the venomous

beasts are looked at with the greatest interest, just as the greatest

villains are most run after by the unknown public. Nobody troubles

himself for a common striped snake or a petty thief, but a _cobra_ or a

wife-killer is a centre of attraction to all eyes. These captives did

very little to earn their living; but, on the other hand, their living

was not expensive, their diet being nothing but air, _au nature_. Months

and months these creatures will live and seem to thrive well enough,

as any showman who has them in his menagerie will testify, though they

never touch anything to eat or drink.

In the mean time Mr. Bernard had become very curious about a class of

subjects not treated of in any detail in those text-books accessible in

most country-towns, to the exclusion of the more special treatises, and

especially the rare and ancient works found on the shelves of the larger

city-libraries. He was on a visit to old Dr. Kittredge one day, having

been asked by him to call in for a few moments as soon as convenient.

The Doctor smiled good-humoredly when he asked him if he had an

extensive collection of medical works.

"Why, no," said the old Doctor, "I haven't got a great many printed

books; and what I have I don't read quite as often as I might, I'm

afraid. I read and studied in the time of it, when I was in the midst of

the young men who were all at work with their books; but it's a mighty

hard matter, when you go off alone into the country, to keep up with

all that's going on in the Societies and the Colleges. I'll tell you,

though, Mr. Langdon, when a man that's once started right lives among

sick folks for five-and-thirty years, as I've done, if he hasn't got a

library of five-and-thirty volumes bound up in his head at the end of

that time, he'd better stop driving round and sell his horse and sulky.

I know the better part of the families within a dozen miles' ride. I

know the families that have a way of living through everything, and I

know the other set that have the trick of dying without any kind of

reason for it. I know the years when the fevers and dysenteries are in

earnest, and when they're only making believe. I know the folks that

think they're dying as soon as they're sick, and the folks that never

find out they're sick till they're dead. I don't want to undervalue your

science, Mr. Langdon. There are things I never learned, because they

came in after my day, and I am very glad to send my patients to those

that do know them, when I am at fault; but I know these people about

here, fathers and mothers, and children and grandchildren, so as all the

science in the world can't know them, without it takes time about it,

and sees them grow up and grow old, and how the wear and tear of life

comes to them. You can't tell a horse by driving him once, Mr. Langdon,

nor a patient by talking half an hour with him."

"Do you know much about the Venner family?" said Mr. Bernard, in a

natural way enough, the Doctor's talk having suggested the question.

The Doctor lifted his head with his accustomed movement, so as to

command the young man through his spectacles.

"I know all the families of this place and its neighborhood," he

answered.

"We have the young lady studying with us at the Institute," said Mr.

Bernard.

"I know it," the Doctor answered. "Is she a good scholar?"

All this time the Doctor's eyes were fixed steadily on Mr. Bernard,

looking through the glasses.

"She is a good scholar enough, but I don't know what to make of her.

Sometimes I think she is a little out of her head. Her father, I

believe, is sensible enough;--what sort of a woman was her mother,

Doctor?--I suppose, of course, you remember all about her?"

"Yes, I knew her mother. She was a very lovely young woman."--The Doctor

put his hand to his forehead and drew a long breath.--"What is there you

notice out of the way about Elsie Venner?"

"A good many things," the master answered. "She shuns all the other

girls. She is getting a strange influence over my fellow-teacher, a

young lady,--you know Miss Helen Darley, perhaps? I am afraid this girl

will kill her. I never saw or heard of anything like it, in prose at

least;--do you remember much of Coleridge's Poems, Doctor?"

The good old Doctor had to plead a negative.

"Well, no matter. Elsie would have been burned for a witch in old times.

I have seen the girl look at Miss Darley when she had not the least idea

of it, and all at once I would see her grow pale and moist, and sigh,

and move round uneasily, and turn towards Elsie, and perhaps get up and

go to her, or else have slight spasmodic movements that looked like

hysterics;--do you believe in the evil eye, Doctor?"

"Mr. Langdon," the Doctor said, solemnly, "there are strange things

about Elsie Venner,--very strange things. This was what I wanted to

speak to you about. Let me advise you all to be very patient with the

girl, but also very careful. Her love is not to be desired, and"--he

whispered softly--"her hate is to be dreaded. Do you think she has any

special fancy for anybody else in the school besides Miss Darley?"

Mr. Bernard could not stand the old Doctor's spectacled eyes without

betraying a little of the feeling natural to a young man to whom a home

question involving a possible sentiment is put suddenly.

"I have suspected," he said,--"I have had a kind of feeling--that

she--Well, come, Doctor,--I don't know that there's any use in

disguising the matter,--I have thought Elsie Venner had rather a fancy

for somebody else,--I mean myself."

There was something so becoming in the blush with which the young man

made this confession, and so manly, too, in the tone with which he

spoke, so remote from any shallow vanity, such as young men who are

incapable of love are apt to feel, when some loose tendril of a woman's

fancy which a chance wind has blown against them twines about them

for the want of anything better, that the old Doctor looked at him

admiringly, and could not help thinking that it was no wonder any young

girl should be pleased with him.

"You are a man of nerve, Mr. Langdon?" said the Doctor.

"I thought so till very lately," he replied. "I am not easily

frightened, but I don't know but I might be bewitched or magnetized, or

whatever it is when one is tied up and cannot move. I think I can find

nerve enough, however, if there is any special use you want to put it

to."

"Let me ask you one more question, Mr. Langdon. Do you find yourself

disposed to take a special interest in Elsie,--to fall in love with her,

in a word? Pardon me, for I do not ask from curiosity, but a much more

serious motive."

"Elsie interests me," said the young man, "interests me strangely. She

has a wild flavor in her character which is wholly different from that

of any human creature I ever saw. She has marks of genius,--poetic or

dramatic,--I hardly know which. She read a passage from Keats's 'Lamia'

the other day, in the school-room, in such a way that I declare to you I

thought some of the girls would faint or go into fits. Miss Darley got

up and left the room, trembling all over. Then I pity her, she is so

lonely. The girls are afraid of her, and she seems to have either a

dislike or a fear of them. They have all sorts of painful stories about

her. They give her a name that no human creature ought to bear. They say

she hides a mark on her neck by always wearing a necklace. She is very

graceful, you know, and they will have it that she can twist herself

into all sorts of shapes, or tie herself in a knot, if she wants to.

There is not one of them that will look her in the eyes. I pity the poor

girl; but, Doctor, I do not love her. I would risk my life for her, if

it would do her any good, but it would be in cold blood. If her hand

touches mine, it is not a thrill of passion I feel running through me,

but a very different emotion. Oh, Doctor! there must be something in

that creature's blood that has killed the humanity in her. God only

knows the mystery that has blighted such a soul in so beautiful a body!

No, Doctor, I do not love the girl."

"Mr. Langdon," said the Doctor, "you are young, and I am old. Let me

talk to you with an old man's privilege, as an adviser. You have come to

this country-town without suspicion, and you are moving in the midst of

perils. There is a mystery which I must not tell you now; but I may warn

you. Keep your eyes open and your heart shut. If, through pitying that

girl, you ever come to love her, you are lost. If you deal carelessly

with her, beware! This is not all. There are other eyes on you beside

Elsie Venner's.--Do you go armed?"

"I do!" said Mr. Bernard,--and he 'put his hands up' in the shape of

fists, in such a way as to show that he was master of the natural

weapons at any rate.

The Doctor could not help smiling. But his face fell in an instant.

"You may want something more than those tools to work with. Come with me

into my sanctum."

The Doctor led Mr. Bernard into a small room opening out of the study.

It was a place such as anybody but a medical man would shiver to enter.

There was the usual tall box with its bleached rattling tenant; there

were jars in rows where "interesting cases" outlived the grief of widows

and heirs in alcoholic immortality,--for your "preparation-jar" is the

true "_monumentum aere perennius_"; there were various semipossibilities

of minute dimensions and unpromising developments; there were shining

instruments of evil aspect, and grim plates on the walls, and on one

shelf by itself, accursed and apart, coiled in a long cylinder of

spirit, a huge _crotalus_, rough-scaled, flat-headed, variegated with

dull bands, one of which partially encircled the neck like a collar,--an

awful wretch to look upon, with murder written all over him in horrid

hieroglyphics. Mr. Bernard's look was riveted on this creature,--not

fascinated certainly, for its eyes looked like white beads, being

clouded by the action of the spirits in which it had been long

kept,--but fixed by some indefinite sense of the renewal of a previous

impression;--everybody knows the feeling, with its suggestion of some

past state of existence. There was a scrap of paper on the jar with

something written on it. He was reaching up to read it when the Doctor

touched him lightly.

"Look here, Mr. Langdon!" he said, with a certain vivacity of manner, as

if wishing to call away his attention,--"this is my armory."

The Doctor threw open the door of a small cabinet, where were disposed

in artistic patterns various weapons of offence and defence,--for he was

a virtuoso in his way, and by the side of the implements of the art of

healing had pleased himself with displaying a collection of those other

instruments, the use of which renders them necessary.

"See which of these weapons you would like best to carry about you,"

said the Doctor.

Mr. Bernard laughed, and looked at the Doctor as if he half doubted

whether he was in earnest.

"This looks dangerous enough," he said,--"for the man that carries it,

at least."

He took down one of the prohibited Spanish daggers or knives which a

traveller may occasionally get hold of and smuggle out of the country.

The blade was broad, trowel-like, but the point drawn out several

inches, so as to look like a skewer.

"This must be a jealous bull-fighter's weapon," he said, and put it back

in its place.

Then he took down an ancient-looking broad-bladed dagger, with a complex

aspect about it, as if it had some kind of mechanism connected with it.

"Take care!" said the Doctor; "there is a trick to that dagger."

He took it and touched a spring. The dagger split suddenly into three

blades, as when one separates the forefinger and the ring-finger from

the middle one. The outside blades were sharp on their outer edge. The

stab was to be made with the dagger shut, then the spring touched and

the split blades withdrawn.

Mr. Bernard replaced it, saying, that it would have served for side-arm

to old Suwarrow, who told his men to work their bayonets back and

forward when they pinned a Turk, but to wriggle them about in the wound

when they stabbed a Frenchman.

"Here," said the Doctor, "this is the thing you want."

He took down a much more modern and familiar implement,--a small,

beautifully finished revolver.

"I want you to carry this," he said; "and more than that, I want you to

practise with it often, as for amusement, but so that it may be seen and

understood that you are apt to have a pistol about you. Pistol-shooting

is pleasant sport enough, and there is no reason why you should not

practise it like other young fellows. And now," the Doctor said, "I have

one other weapon to give you."

He took a small piece of parchment and shook a white powder into it from

one of his medicine-jars. The jar was marked with the name of a mineral

salt, of a nature to have been serviceable in case of sudden illness in

the time of the Borgias. The Doctor folded the parchment carefully and

marked the Latin name of the powder upon it.

"Here," he said, handing it to Mr. Bernard,--"you see what it is, and

you know what service it can render. Keep these two protectors about

your person day and night; they will not harm you, and you may want one

or the other or both before you think of it."

Mr. Bernard thought it was very odd, and not very old-gentleman like,

to be fitting him out for treason, stratagem, and spoils, in this way.

There was no harm, however, in carrying a doctor's powder in his pocket,

or in amusing himself with shooting at a mark, as he had often done

before. If the old gentleman had these fancies, it was as well to humor

him. So he thanked old Doctor Kittredge, and shook his hand warmly as he

left him.

"The fellow's hand did not tremble, nor his color change," the Doctor

said, as he watched him walking away. "He is one of the right sort."

CHAPTER XVI.

EPISTOLARY.

_Mr. Langdon to the Professor._

MY DEAR PROFESSOR,--

You were kind enough to promise me that you would assist me in any

professional or scientific investigations in which I might become

engaged. I have of late become deeply interested in a class of subjects

which present peculiar difficulty, and I must exercise the privilege of

questioning you on some points upon which I desire information I cannot

otherwise obtain. I would not trouble you, if I could find any person or

books competent to enlighten me on some of these singular matters which

have so excited me. The leading doctor here is a shrewd, sensible man,

but not versed in the curiosities of medical literature.

I proceed, with your leave, to ask a considerable number of

questions,--hoping to get answers to some of them, at least.

Is there any evidence that human beings can be infected or wrought

upon by poisons, or otherwise, so that they shall manifest any of

the peculiarities belonging to beings of a lower nature? Can such

peculiarities be transmitted by inheritance? Is there anything to

countenance the stories, long and widely current, about the "evil eye"?

or is it a mere fancy that such a power belongs to any human being? Have

you any personal experience as to the power of fascination said to be

exercised by certain animals? What can you make of those circumstantial

statements we have seen in the papers of children forming mysterious

friendships with ophidians of different species, sharing their food with

them, and seeming to be under some subtile influence exercised by those

creatures? Have you read, critically, Coleridge's poem of "Christabel,"

and Keats's "Lamia"? If so, can you understand them, or find any

physiological foundation for the story of either?

There is another set of questions of a different nature I should like to

ask, but it is hardly fair to put so many on a single sheet. There

is one, however, you must answer. Do you think there may be

predispositions, inherited or ingrafted, but at any rate constitutional,

which shall take out certain apparently voluntary determinations

from the control of the will, and leave them as free from moral

responsibility as the instincts of the lower animals? Do you not think

there may be a _crime_ which is not a _sin_?

Pardon me, my dear Sir, for troubling you with such a list of notes of

interrogation. There are some _very strange_ things going on here in

this place, country-town as it is. Country-life is apt to be dull; but

when it once gets going, it beats the city hollow, because it gives its

whole mind to what it is about. These rural sinners make terrible work

with the middle of the Decalogue, when they get started. However, I hope

I shall live through my year's school-keeping without catastrophes,

though there are queer doings about me which puzzle me and might scare

some people. If anything _should_ happen, you will be one of the first

to hear of it, no doubt. But I trust not to help out the editors of the

"Rockland Weekly Universe" with an obituary of the late lamented, who

signed himself in life

Your friend and pupil,

BERNARD C. LANGDON.

_The Professor to Mr. Langdon._

MY DEAR MR. LANGDON,--

I do not wonder that you find no answer from your country friends to the

curious questions you put. They belong to that middle region between

science and poetry which sensible men, as they are called, are very shy

of meddling with. Some people think that truth and gold are always to be

washed for; but the wiser sort are of opinion, that, unless there are so

many grains to the peck of sand or nonsense respectively, it does not

pay to wash for either, as long as one can find anything else to do. I

don't doubt there is some truth in the phenomena of animal magnetism,

for instance; but when you ask me to cradle for it, I tell you that

the hysteric girls cheat so, and the professionals are such a set of

pickpockets, that I can do something better than hunt for the grains of

truth among their tricks and lies. Do you remember what I used to say in

my lectures?--or were you asleep just then, or cutting your initials on

the rail? (You see I can ask questions, my young friend.) _Leverage_ is

everything,--was what I used to say;--don't begin to pry till you have

got the long arm on your side.

To please you, and satisfy your doubts as far as possible, I have looked

into the old books,--into Schenckius and Turner and Kenelm Digby and the

rest, where I have found plenty of curious stories which you must take

for what they are worth.

Your first question I can answer in the affirmative upon pretty good

authority. Mizaldus tells, in his "Memorabilia," the well-known story

of the girl fed on poisons, who was sent by the king of the Indies

to Alexander the Great. "When Aristotle saw her eyes _sparkling and

snapping like those of serpents_, he said, 'Look out for yourself,

Alexander! this is a dangerous companion for you!'"--and sure enough,

the young lady proved to be a very unsafe person to her friends.

Cardanus gets a story from Avicenna, of a certain man bit by a serpent,

who recovered of his bite, the snake dying therefrom. This man

afterwards had a daughter whom no venomous serpent could harm, though

_she had a fatal power over them_.

I suppose you may remember the statements of old authors about

_lycanthropy_, the disease in which men took on the nature and aspect of

wolves. Aëtius and Paulus, both men of authority, describe it. Altomaris

gives a horrid case; and Fincelius mentions one occurring as late as

1541, the subject of which was captured, still _insisting that he was a

wolf_, only that the hair of his hide was turned in! _Versipelles_, it

may be remembered, was the Latin name for these "were-wolves."

As for the cases where rabid persons have barked and bit like dogs,

there are plenty of such on record.

More singular, or at least more rare, is the account given by Andreas

Baccius, of a man who was struck in the hand by a cock, with his beak,

and who died on the third day thereafter, looking for all the world

_like a fighting-cock_, to the great horror of the spectators.

As to impressions transmitted _at a very early period of existence_,

every one knows the story of King James's fear of a naked sword and the

way it is accounted for. Sir Kenelm Digby says,--"I remember when he

dubbed me Knight, in the ceremony of putting the point of a naked sword

upon my shoulder, he could not endure to look upon it, but turned his

face another way, insomuch, that, in lieu of touching my shoulder, he

had almost thrust the point into my eyes, had not the Duke of Buckingham

guided his hand aright." It is he, too, who tells the story of the

_mulberry mark_ upon the neck of a certain lady of high condition, which

"every year, in mulberry season, did swell, grow big, and itch." And

Gaffarel mentions the case of a girl born with the figure of a _fish_ on

one of her limbs, of which the wonder was, that, when the girl did eat

fish, this mark put her to sensible pain. But there is no end to cases

of this kind, and I could give some of recent date, if necessary,

lending a certain plausibility at least to the doctrine of transmitted

impressions.

I never saw a distinct case of _evil eye_, though I have seen eyes so

bad that they might produce strange effects on very sensitive natures.

But the belief in it under various names, fascination, _jettatura_,

etc., is so permanent and universal, from Egypt to Italy, and from the

days of Solomon to those of Ferdinand of Naples, that there must be some

_peculiarity_, to say the least, on which the opinion is based. There is

very strong evidence that some such power is exercised by certain of the

lower animals. Thus, it is stated on good authority that "almost every

animal becomes panic-struck at the sight of the _rattlesnake_, and seems

at once deprived of the power of motion, or the exercise of its usual

instinct of self-preservation." Other serpents seem to share this power

of fascination, as the _Cobra_ and the _Bucephalus Capensis_. Some think

that it is nothing but fright; others attribute it to the

"strange powers that lie

Within the magic circle of the eye,"--

as Churchill said, speaking of Garrick.

You ask me about those mysterious and frightful intimacies between

children and serpents of which so many instances have been recorded. I

am sure I cannot tell what to make of them. I have seen several such

accounts in recent papers, but here is one published in the seventeenth

century which is as striking as any of the more modern ones:--

"Mr. _Herbert Jones_ of _Monmouth_, when he was a little Boy, was used

to eat his Milk in a Garden in the Morning, and was no sooner there, but

a large Snake always came, and eat out of the Dish with him, and did so

for a considerable time, till one Morning, he striking the Snake on the

Head, it hissed at him. Upon which he told his Mother that the Baby (for

so he call'd it) cry'd _Hiss_ at him. His Mother had it kill'd, which

occasioned him a great _Fit of Sickness_, and 'twas thought would have

dy'd, but did recover."

There was likewise one "_William Writtle_, condemned at _Maidston

Assizes_ for a double murder, told a Minister that was with him after he

was condemned, that his mother told him, that when he was a Child, there

crept always to him a Snake, wherever she laid him. Sometimes she would

convey him up Stairs, and leave him never so little, she should be sure

to find a Snake in the Cradle with him, but never perceived it did him

any harm."

One of the most striking alleged facts connected with the mysterious

relation existing between the serpent and the human species is the

influence which the poison of the _Crotalus_, taken internally, seemed

to produce over the _moral faculties_, in the experiments instituted by

Dr. Hering at Surinam. There is something frightful in the disposition

of certain ophidians, as the whip-snake, which darts at the eyes of

cattle without any apparent provocation or other motive. It is natural

enough that the evil principle should have been represented in the form

of a serpent, but it is strange to think of introducing it into a human

being like cow-pox by vaccination.

You know all about the _Psylli_, or ancient serpent-tamers, I suppose.

Savary gives an account of the modern serpent-tamers in his "Letters on

Egypt." These modern jugglers are in the habit of making the venomous

_Naja_ counterfeit death, lying out straight and stiff, _changing it

into a rod_, as the ancient magicians did with their serpents, (probably

the same animal,) in the time of Moses.

I am afraid I cannot throw much light on "Christabel" or "Lamia" by any

criticism I can offer. Geraldine, in the former, seems to be simply

a malignant witch-woman, with the _evil eye_, but with no absolute

ophidian relationship. Lamia is a serpent transformed by magic into

a woman. The idea of both is mythological, and not in any sense

physiological. Some women unquestionably suggest the image of serpents;

men rarely or never. I have been struck, like many others, with the

ophidian head and eye of the famous Rachel.

Your question about inherited predispositions, as limiting the sphere of

the will, and, consequently, of moral accountability, opens a very wide

range of speculation. I can give you only a brief abstract of my own

opinions on this delicate and difficult subject. Crime and sin, being

the _preserves_ of two great organized interests, have been guarded

against all reforming poachers with as great jealousy as the Royal

Forests. It is so easy to hang a troublesome fellow! It is so much

simpler to consign a soul to perdition, or gay masses, for money, to

save it, than to take the blame on ourselves for letting it grow up in

neglect and run to ruin for want of humanizing influences! They hung

poor, crazy Bellingham for shooting Mr. Perceval. The ordinary of

Newgate preached to women who were to swing at Tyburn for a petty theft

as if they were worse than other people,--just as though he would not

have been a pickpocket or shoplifter, himself, if he had been born in

a den of thieves and bred up to steal or starve! The English law never

began to get hold of the idea that a crime was not necessarily a sin,

till Hadfield, who thought he was the Saviour of mankind, was tried for

shooting at George the Third;--lucky for him that he did not hit his

Majesty!

It is very singular that we recognize all the bodily defects that unfit

a man for military service, and all the intellectual ones that limit his

range of thought, but always talk at him as if all his moral powers were

perfect I suppose we must punish evil-doers as we extirpate vermin; but

I don't know that we have any more right to judge them than we have to

judge rats and mice, which are just as good as cats and weasels, though

we think it necessary to treat them as criminals.

The limitations of human responsibility have never been properly

studied, unless it be by the phrenologists. You know from my lectures

that I consider phrenology, as taught, a pseudo-science, and not a

branch of positive knowledge; but, for all that, we owe it an immense

debt. It has melted the world's conscience in its crucible and cast it

in a new mould, with features less like those of Moloch and more like

those of humanity. If it has failed to demonstrate its system of special

correspondences, it has proved that there are fixed relations between

organization and mind and character. It has brought out that great

doctrine of moral insanity, which has done more to make men charitable

and soften legal and theological barbarism than any one doctrine that I

can think of since the message of peace and good-will to men.

Automatic action in the moral world; the _reflex movement_ which _seems_

to be self-determination, and has been hanged and howled at as such

(metaphorically) for nobody knows how many centuries: until somebody

shall study this as Marshall Hall has studied reflex nervous action in

the bodily system, I would not give much for men's judgments of each

other's characters. Shut up the robber and the defaulter, we must. But

what if your oldest boy had been stolen from his cradle and bred in a

North-Street cellar? What if you are drinking a little too much wine and

smoking a little too much tobacco, and your son takes after you, and so

your poor grandson's brain being a little injured in physical texture,

he loses the fine moral sense on which you pride yourself, and doesn't

see the difference between signing another man's name to a draft and his

own?

I suppose the study of automatic action in the moral world (you see what

I mean through the apparent contradiction of terms) may be a dangerous

one in the view of many people. It is liable to abuse, no doubt.

People are always glad to get hold of anything which limits their

responsibility. But remember that our moral estimates come down to us

from ancestors who hanged children for stealing forty shillings' worth,

and sent their souls to perdition for the sin of being born,--who

punished the unfortunate families of suicides, and in their eagerness

for justice executed one innocent person every three years, on the

average, as Sir James Mackintosh tells us.

I do not know in what shape the practical question may present itself to

you; but I will tell you my rule in life, and I think you will find it

a good one. _Treat bad men exactly as if they were insane_. They are

_in-sane_, out of health, morally. Reason, which is food to sound minds,

is not tolerated, still less assimilated, unless administered with the

greatest caution; perhaps, not at all. Avoid collision with them, as far

as you honorably can; keep your temper, if you can,--for one angry man

is as good as another; restrain them from injury, promptly, completely,

and with the least possible injury, just as in the case of maniacs,--and

when you have got rid of them, or got them tied hand and foot so that

they can do no mischief, sit down and contemplate them charitably,

remembering that nine-tenths of their perversity comes from outside

influences, drunken ancestors, abuse in childhood, bad company, from

which you have happily been preserved, and for some of which you, as a

member of society, may be fractionally responsible. I think also that

there are _special influences_ which _work in the blood like ferments_,

and I have a suspicion that some of those curious old stories I cited

may have more recent parallels. Have you ever met with any cases which

admitted of a solution like that which I have mentioned?

Yours very truly,

* * * * *

_Bernard Langdon to Philip Staples._

MY DEAR PHILIP,--

I have been for some months established in this place, turning the

main crank of the machinery for the manufactory of accomplishments

superintended by, or rather worked to the profit of, a certain Mr. Silas

Peckham. He is a poor wretch, with a little thin fishy blood in his

body, lean and flat, long-armed and large-handed, thick-jointed

and thin-muscled,--you know those unwholesome, weak-eyed, half-fed

creatures, that look not fit to be round among live folks, and yet not

quite dead enough to bury. If you ever hear of my being in court to

answer to a charge of assault and battery, you may guess that I have

been giving him a thrashing to settle off old scores; for he is a

tyrant, and has come pretty near killing his principal lady-assistant

with overworking her and keeping her out of all decent privileges.

Helen Darley is this lady's name,--twenty-two or -three years old,

I should think,--a very sweet, pale woman,--daughter of the usual

country-clergyman,--thrown on her own resources from an early age, and

the rest: a common story, but an uncommon person,--very. All conscience

and sensibility, I should say,--a cruel worker,--no kind of regard for

herself,--seems as fragile and supple as a young willow-shoot, but try

her and you find she has the spring in her of a steel crossbow. I am

glad I happened to come to this place, if it were only for her sake. I

have saved that girl's life; I am as sure of it as if I had pulled her

out of the fire or water.

Of course I'm in love with her, you say,--we always love those whom

we have benefited: "saved her life,--her love was the reward of his

devotion," etc., etc., as in a regular set novel. In love, Philip? Well,

about that,--I love Helen Darley--very much: there is hardly anybody I

love so well. What a noble creature she is! One of those that just go

right on, do their own work and everybody else's, killing themselves

inch by inch without ever thinking about it,--singing and dancing

at their toil when they begin, worn and saddened after a while, but

pressing steadily on, tottering by-and-by, and catching at the rail by

the wayside to help them lift one foot before the other, and at last

falling, face down, arms stretched forward----

Philip, my boy, do you know I am the sort of man that locks his door

sometimes and cries his heart out of his eyes,--that can sob like a

woman and not be ashamed of it? I come of fighting-blood on my mother's

side, you know; I think I could be savage on occasion. But I am

tender,--more and more tender as I come into my fulness of manhood. I

don't like to strike a man, (laugh, if you like,--I know I hit hard

when I do strike,)--but what I can't stand is the sight of these poor,

patient, toiling women, that never find out in this life how good they

are, and never know what it is to be told they are angels while they

still wear the pleasing incumbrances of humanity. I don't know what to

make of these cases. To think that a woman is never to be a woman again,

whatever she may come to as an unsexed angel,--and that she should die

unloved! Why does not somebody come and carry off this noble woman,

waiting here all ready to make a man happy? Philip, do you know the

pathos there is in the eyes of unsought women, oppressed with the burden

of an inner life unshared? I can see into them now as I could not in

those earlier days. I sometimes think their pupils dilate on purpose to

let my consciousness glide through them; indeed, I dread them, I come so

close to the nerve of the soul itself in these momentary intimacies. You

used to tell me I was a Turk,--that my heart was full of pigeon-holes,

with accommodations inside for a whole flock of doves. I don't know but

I am still as Youngish as ever in my ways,--Brigham-Youngish, I mean;

at any rate, I always want to give a little love to all the poor things

that cannot have a whole man to themselves. If they would only be

contented with a little!

Here now are two girls in this school where I am teaching. One of them,

Rosa M., is not more than sixteen years old, I think they say; but

Nature has forced her into a tropical luxuriance of beauty, as if it

were July with her, instead of May. I suppose it is all natural enough

that this girl should like a young man's attention, even if he were a

grave schoolmaster; but the eloquence of this young thing's look

is unmistakable,--and yet she does not know the language it is

talking,--they none of them do; and there is where a good many poor

creatures of our good-for-nothing sex are mistaken. There is no danger

of my being rash, but I think this girl will cost somebody his life yet.

She is one of those women men make a quarrel about and fight to the

death for,--the old feral instinct, you know.

Pray, don't think I am lost in conceit, but there is another girl here

that I begin to think looks with a certain kindness on me. Her name is

Elsie V., and she is the only daughter and heiress of an old family in

this place. She is a portentous and mysterious creature. If I should

tell you all I know and half of what I fancy about her, you would

tell me to get my life insured at once. Yet she is the most painfully

interesting being,--so handsome! so lonely!--for she has no friends

among the girls, and sits apart from them,--with black hair like the

flow of a mountain-brook after a thaw, with a low-browed, scowling

beauty of face, and such eyes as were never seen before, I really

believe, in any human creature.

Philip, I don't know what to say about this Elsie. There is a mystery

around her I have not fathomed. I have conjectures about her which

I could not utter to any living soul. I dare not even hint the

possibilities which have suggested themselves to me. This I will

say,--that I do take the most intense interest in this young person, an

interest much more like pity than love in its common sense. If what I

guess at is true, of all the tragedies of existence I ever knew this is

the saddest, and yet so full of meaning! Do not ask me any questions,--I

have said more than I meant to already; but I am involved in strange

doubts and perplexities,--in dangers too, very possibly,--and it is a

relief just to speak ever so guardedly of them to an early and faithful

friend.

Yours ever, BERNARD.

P. S. I remember you had a copy of Fortunius Licetus "De Monstris" among

your old books. Can't you lend it to me for a while? I am curious, and

it will amuse me.

ANNO DOMINI, 1860.

My youth is past!--this morn I stand,

With manhood's signet of command,

Firm-planted on life's middle-land!

Behind, the scene recedes afar,

Where cloudy mists and vapors mar

The lustre of my morning-star.

I mark the courses of my days,

Inwound through many a doubtful maze,--

To marvel at those devious ways!

They lead through hills and levels lone,

Green fields, and woodlands overgrown,

And where deep waters pulse and moan;--

By ruined tower, by darksome dell,

The home of night-birds fierce and fell,

Wherein strange shapes of Horror dwell;--

Out to the blessed sunshine free,

The breezy moors of liberty,

And skies outpouring harmony;--

By palace-wall, by haunted tomb,

Through bright and dark, through joy and gloom:

My life hath known both blight and bloom.

And now, as from some mountain-height,

Backward I strain my eager sight,

Till all the landscape melts in night;--

Then, whispering to my Heart, "Be bold!"

I turn from years whose "tale is told,"

To greet the Future's dawn of gold:

High hopes and nobler labors wait

Beyond that Future's opening gate,--

Brave deeds which hold the seeds of Fate.

Thy strength, O Lord, shall fire my blood,

Shall nerve my soul, make wise my mood,

And win me to the pure and good!

Or if, O Father, thou shouldst say,

"Dark Angel, close his mortal day!"

And smite me on my vanward way,--

Grant that in armor firm and strong,

Whilst pealing still Life's battle-song,

And struggling, manful, 'gainst the wrong,

Thy soldier, who would fight to win

No crown of dross, no bays of sin,

May fall amidst the foremost din

Of Truth's grand conflict, blest by Thee,--

And even though Death should conquer, see

How false, how brief his victory!

* * * * *

DARWIN ON THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES.

[Continued.]

"I can entertain no doubt, after the most deliberate study and

dispassionate judgment of which I am capable, that the view which most

naturalists entertain, and which I formerly entertained,--namely, that

each species has been independently created,--is erroneous. I am fully

convinced that species are not immutable; but that those belonging to

what are called the same genera are lineal descendants of some other

and generally extinct species, in the same manner as the acknowledged

varieties of any one species are the descendants of that species.

Furthermore, I am convinced that Natural Selection has been the main,

but not exclusive means of modification."

This is the kernel of the new theory, the Darwinian creed, as recited

at the close of the introduction to the remarkable book under

consideration. The questions, "What will he do with it?" and "How far

will he carry it?" the author answers at the close of the volume: "I

cannot doubt that the theory of descent with modification embraces all

the members of the same class." Furthermore, "I believe that all animals

have descended from at most only four or five progenitors, and plants

from an equal or lesser number." Seeing that analogy as strongly

suggests a further step in the same direction, while he protests that

"analogy may be a deceitful guide," yet he follows its inexorable

leading to the inference that "probably all the organic beings which

have ever lived on this earth have descended from some one primordial

form, into which life was first breathed."[a]

In the first extract we have the thin end of the wedge driven a little

way; in the last, the wedge is driven home.

We have already (in the preceding number) sketched some of the reasons

suggestive of such a theory of derivation of species,--reasons which

give it plausibility, and even no small probability, as applied to our

actual world and to changes occurring since the latest tertiary period.

We are well pleased at this moment to find that the conclusions we were

arriving at in this respect are sustained by the very high authority and

impartial judgment of Pictet, the Swiss palaeontologist. In his review

of Darwin's book,[b]--much the fairest and most admirable opposing one

that has yet appeared,--he freely accepts that _ensemble_ of natural

operations which Darwin impersonates under the now familiar name of

Natural Selection, allows that the exposition throughout the first

chapters seems "_à la fois prudent et fort_" and is disposed to accept

the whole argument in its foundations, that is, so far as it relates

to what is now going on, or has taken place in the present geological

period,--which period he carries back through the diluvial epoch to the

borders of the tertiary.[c] Pictet accordingly admits that the theory

will very well account for the origination by divergence of nearly

related species, whether within the present period or in remoter

geological times: a very natural view for him to take; since he

appears to have reached and published, several years ago, the pregnant

conclusion, that there most probably was some material connection

between the closely related species of two successive faunas, and that

the numerous close species, whose limits are so difficult to determine,

were not all created distinct and independent. But while accepting, or

ready to accept, the basis of Darwin's theory, and all its legitimate

direct inferences, he rejects the ultimate conclusions, brings some

weighty arguments to bear against them, and is evidently convinced that

he can draw a clear line between the sound inferences, which he favors,

and the unsound or unwarranted theoretical deductions, which he rejects.

We hope he can.

[Footnote a: P. 484, Engl. ed. In the new American edition, (_Vide_

Supplement, pp. 431, 432,) the principal analogies which suggest the

extreme view are referred to, and the remark is appended,--"But this

inference is chiefly grounded on analogy, and it is immaterial whether

or not it be accepted. The case is different with the members of each

great class, as the Vertebrata or Articulata; for here we have in the

laws of homology, embryology, etc., some distinct evidence that all have

descended from a single primordial parent."]

[Footnote b: In _Bibliothèque Universelle de Genève_, Mars, 1860.]

[Footnote c: This we learn from his very interesting article, _De

la Question de l'Homme Fossile_, in the same (March) number of the

_Bibliothèque Universelle_.]

This raises the question, Why does Darwin press his theory to these

extreme conclusions? Why do all hypotheses of derivation converge so

inevitably to one ultimate point? Having already considered some of the

reasons which suggest or support the theory at its outset,--which may

carry it as far as such sound and experienced naturalists as Pictet

allow that it may be true,--perhaps as far as Darwin himself unfolds

it in the introductory proposition cited at the beginning of this

article,--we may now inquire after the motives which impel the theorist

so much farther. Here proofs, in the proper sense of the word, are not

to be had. We are beyond the region of demonstration, and have duly

probabilities to consider. What are these probabilities? What work

will this hypothesis do to establish a claim to be adopted in its

completeness? Why should a theory which may plausibly enough account for

the _diversification_ of the species of each special type or genus,

be expanded into a general system for the _origination_ or successive

diversification of all species, and all special types or forms, from

four or five remote primordial forms, or perhaps from one? We accept the

theory of gravitation because it explains all the facts we know, and

bears all the tests that we can put it to. We incline to accept the

nebular hypothesis, for similar reasons; not because it is proved,--thus

far it is wholly incapable of proof,--but because it is a natural

theoretical deduction from accepted physical laws, is thoroughly

congruous with the facts, and because its assumption serves to connect

and harmonize these into one probable and consistent whole. Can the

derivative hypothesis be maintained and carried out into a system on

similar grounds? If so, however unproved, it would appear to be a

tenable hypothesis, which is all that its author ought now to claim.

Such hypotheses as from the conditions of the case can neither be proved

nor disproved by direct evidence or experiment are to be tested only

indirectly, and therefore imperfectly, by trying their power to

harmonize the known facts, and to account for what is otherwise

unaccountable. So the question comes to this:

What will an hypothesis of the derivation of species explain which the

opposing view leaves unexplained?

Questions these which ought to be entertained before we take up the

arguments which have been advanced against this theory. We can only

glance at some of the considerations which Darwin adduces, or will be

sure to adduce in the future and fuller exposition which is promised.

To display them in such wise as to indoctrinate the unscientific reader

would require a volume. Merely to refer to them in the most general

terms would suffice for those familiar with scientific matters, but

would scarcely enlighten those who are not. Wherefore let these trust

the impartial Pictet, who freely admits, that, "in the absence of

sufficient direct proofs to justify the possibility of his hypothesis,

Mr. Darwin relies upon indirect proofs, the bearing of which is real and

incontestable"; who concedes that "his theory accords very well with the

great facts of comparative anatomy and zoölogy,--comes in admirably to

explain unity of composition of organisms, also to explain rudimentary

and representative organs, and the natural series of genera and

species,--equally corresponds with many palaeontological data,--agrees

well with the specific resemblances which exist between two successive

faunas, with the parallelism which is sometimes observed between the

series of palaeontological succession and of embryonal development,"

etc.; and finally, although he does not accept the theory in these

results, he allows that "it appears to offer the best means of

explaining the manner in which organized beings were produced in epochs

anterior to our own."

What more than this could be said for such an hypothesis? Here,

probably, is its charm, and its strong hold upon the speculative mind.

Unproven though it be, and cumbered _primâ facie_ with cumulative

improbabilities as it proceeds, yet it singularly accords with great

classes of facts otherwise insulated and enigmatic, and explains many

things which are thus far utterly inexplicable upon any other scientific

assumption.

We have said (p. 116) that Darwin's hypothesis is the natural complement

to Lyell's uniformitarian theory in physical geology. It is for the

organic world what that popular view is for the inorganic; and the

accepters of the latter stand in a position from which to regard the

former in the most favorable light. Wherefore the rumor that the

cautious Lyell himself has adopted the Darwinian hypothesis need not

surprise us. The two views are made for each other, and, like the two

counterpart pictures for the stereoscope, when brought together, combine

into one apparently solid whole.

If we allow, with Pictet, that Darwin's theory will very well serve for

all that concerns the present epoch of the world's history,--an epoch

which this renowned palaeontologist regards as including the diluvial or

quaternary period,--then Darwin's first and foremost need in his onward

course is a practicable road from this into and through the tertiary

period, the intervening region between the comparatively near and the

far remote past. Here Lyell's doctrine paves the way, by showing that in

the physical geology there is no general or absolute break between the

two, probably no greater between the latest tertiary and the quaternary

period than between the latter and the present time. So far, the

Lyellian view is, we suppose, generally concurred in. Now as to the

organic world, it is largely admitted that numerous tertiary species

have continued down into the quaternary, and many of them to the present

time. A goodly percentage of the earlier and nearly half of the later

tertiary mollusca, according to Des Hayes, Lyell, and, if we mistake

not, Bronn, still live. This identification, however, is now questioned

by a naturalist of the very highest authority. But, in its bearings on

the new theory, the point here turns not upon absolute identity so

much as upon close resemblance. For those who, with Agassiz, doubt the

specific identity in any of these cases, and those who say, with Pictet,

that "the later tertiary deposits contain in general the _débris_ of

species _very nearly related_ to those which still exist, belonging to

the same genera, but specifically different," may also agree with Pictet

that the nearly related species of successive faunas must or may have

had "a material connection." Now the only material connection that

we have an idea of in such a case is a genealogical one. And the

supposition of a genealogical connection is surely not unnatural in such

cases,--is demonstrably the natural one as respects all those tertiary

species which experienced naturalists have pronounced to be identical

with existing ones, but which others now deem distinct. For to identify

the two is the same thing as to conclude the one to be the ancestors of

the other. No doubt there are differences between the tertiary and

the present individuals, differences equally noted by both classes of

naturalists, but differently estimated. By the one these are deemed

quite compatible, by the other incompatible, with community of origin.

But who can tell us what amount of difference is compatible with

community of origin? This is the very question at issue, and one to be

settled by observation alone. Who would have thought that the peach and

the nectarine came from one stock? But, this being proved, is it now

very improbable that both were derived from the almond, or from some

common amygdaline progenitor? Who would have thought that the cabbage,

cauliflower, broccoli, kale, and kohlrabi are derivatives of one

species, and rape or colza, turnip, and probably rutabaga, of another

species? And who that is convinced of this can long undoubtingly hold

the original distinctness of turnips from cabbages as an article of

faith? On scientific grounds may not a primordial cabbage or rape be

assumed as the ancestor of all the cabbage races, on much the same

ground that we assume a common ancestry for the diversified human races?

If all our breeds of cattle came from one stock, why not this stock from

the auroch, which has had all the time between the diluvial and the

historic periods in which to set off a variation perhaps no greater than

the difference between some sorts of cattle?