Chapter I (10)

Zschokke, the German writer and teacher, is a peculiarly honorable and unimpeachable witness. What he affirms, as of his own knowledge, we have no right to disbelieve. Many of us have read the marvelous account given by him of his sudden discovery, that he possessed the power in regard to a few people—by no means in regard to all—of knowing, when he came near to them, not only their present thoughts, but much of what was in their memories. The details will be found in his Autobiography, which, being translated, has become a common book among us. When, for the first time, while conversing with some person, he acquired a sense of power over the secrets of that person’s past life, he gave, of course, little heed to his sensation. Afterward, as from time to time the sense recurred, he tested the accuracy of his impressions, and was alarmed to find that, at certain times, and in regard to certain persons, the mysterious knowledge was undoubtedly acquired. Once when a young man at the table with him was dismissing very flippantly all manner of unexplained phenomena as the gross food of ignorance and credulity, Zschokke requested to know what he would say if he, a stranger, by aid of an unexplained power, should be able to tell him secrets out of his past life. Zschokke was defied to do that; but he did it. Among other things he described a certain upper room, in which there was a certain strong box, and from which certain moneys, the property of his master, had been abstracted by that young man; who, overwhelmed with astonishment, confessed the theft.

Many glimmerings of intuition, which at certain times occur in the experience of all of us, and seem to be something more than shrewd or lucky guesses, may be referred to the same power which we find, in the case just quoted, more perfectly developed. Nothing supernatural, but a natural gift, imperceptible to us in its familiar, moderate, and healthy exercise, brought first under our notice when some deranged adjustment of the mind has suffered it to grow into excess—to be, if we may call it so, a mental tumor.

We may now come to a new class of mysteries—which are receiving, for the first time in our own day, a rational solution.

The blind poet, Pfeffel, had engaged, as amanuensis, a young Protestant clergyman, named Billing. When the blind poet walked abroad, Billing also acted as his guide. One day, as they were walking in the garden, which was situated at a distance from the town, Pfeffel observed a trembling of his guide’s arm whenever they passed over a certain spot. He asked the cause of this, and extracted from his companion the unwilling confession, that over that spot he was attacked by certain uncontrollable sensations, which he always felt where human bodies had been buried. At night, he added, over such spots, he saw uncanny things. “This is great folly,” Pfeffel thought, “and I will cure him of it.” The poet went, therefore, that very night into the garden. When they approached the place of dread, Billing perceived a feeble light, which hovered over it. When they came nearer, he saw the delicate appearance of a fiery, ghost-like form. He described it as the figure of a female with one arm across her body, and the other hanging down, hovering upright and motionless over the spot, her feet being a few hand-breadths above the soil. The young man would not approach the vision, but the poet beat about it with his stick, walked through it, and seemed to the eyes of Billing like a man who beats about a light flame, which always returns to its old shape. For months, experiments were continued, company was brought to the spot, the spectre remained visible always in the dark, but to the young man only, who adhered firmly to his statement, and to his conviction that a body lay beneath. Pfeffel at last had the place dug up, and, at a considerable depth, covered with lime, there was a skeleton discovered. The bones and the lime were dispersed, the hole was filled up, Billing was again brought to the spot by night, but never again saw the spectre.

This ghost story, being well attested, created a great sensation. In the curious book, by Baron Reichenbach, translated by Dr. Gregory, it is quoted as an example of a large class of ghost stories which admit of explanation upon principles developed by his own experiments.

The experiments of Baron Reichenbach do not, indeed, establish a new science, though it is quite certain that they go far to point out a new line of investigation, which promises to yield valuable results. So much of them as concerns our subject may be very briefly stated. It would appear that certain persons, with disordered nervous systems, liable to catalepsy, or to such affections, and also some healthy persons who are of a peculiar nervous temperament, are more sensitive to magnetism than their neighbors. They are peculiarly acted upon by the magnet, and are, moreover, very much under the influence of the great magnetic currents of the earth. Such people sleep tranquilly when they are reposing with their bodies in the earth’s magnetic line, and are restless, in some cases seriously affected, if they lie across that line, on beds with the head and foot turned east and west, matters of complete indifference to the healthy animal. These “sensitives” are not only affected by the magnet, but they are able to detect, by their sharpened sense, what we may reasonably suppose to exist, a faint magnetic light: they see it streaming from the poles of a magnet shown to them, in a room absolutely dark; and if the sensibility be great, and the darkness perfect, they see it streaming also from the points of fingers, and bathing in a faint halo the whole magnet or the whole hand. Furthermore, it would appear that the affection by the magnet of these sensitives does not depend upon that quality by which iron filings are attracted; that, perfectly independent of the attractive force, there streams from magnets, from the poles of crystals, from the sun and moon, another influence to which the discoverer assigns the name of Odyle. The manifestation of Odyle is accompanied by a light too faint for healthy vision, but perceptible at night by “sensitives.” Odyle is generated among other things by heat, and by chemical action. It is generated, therefore, in the decomposition of the human body. I may now quote from Reichenbach, who, having given a scientific explanation upon his own principles, of the phenomena perceived by Billing, thus continues:

“The desire to inflict a mortal wound on the monster, Superstition, which, from a similar origin, a few centuries ago, inflicted on European society so vast an amount of misery, and by whose influence not hundreds, but thousands of innocent persons died in tortures, on the rack and at the stake; this desire made me wish to make the experiment, if possible, of bringing a highly sensitive person, by night, to a churchyard. I thought it possible that they might see, over graves where mouldering bodies lay, something like that which Billing had seen. Mademoiselle Reichal had the courage, unusual in her sex, to agree to my request. She allowed me, on two very dark nights, to take her from the Castle of Reisenberg, where she was residing with my family, to the cemetery of the neighboring village of Grünzing.

“The result justified my expectations in the fullest measure. She saw, very soon, a light, and perceived, on one of the grave mounds, along its whole extent, a delicate, fiery, as it were a breathing flame. The same thing was seen on another grave, in a less degree. But she met neither witches nor ghosts. She described the flame as playing over the graves in the form of a luminous vapor, from one to two spans in height.

“Some time afterward I took her to two great cemeteries, near Vienna, where several interments occur daily, and the grave mounds lie all about in thousands. Here she saw numerous graves, which exhibited the lights above described. Wherever she looked, she saw masses of fire lying about; but it was chiefly seen over all new graves, while there was no appearance of it over very old ones. She described it less as a clear flame than as a dense, vaporous mass of fire, holding a middle place between mist and flame. On many graves this light was about four feet high, so that when she stood on the grave, it reached to her neck. When she thrust her hand into it, it was as if putting it into a dense fiery cloud. She betrayed not the slightest uneasiness, as she was, from her childhood, accustomed to such emanations, and had seen, in my experiments, similar lights produced by natural means, and made to assume endless varieties of form. I am convinced that all who are, to a certain degree, sensitive, will see the same phenomena in cemeteries, and very abundantly in the crowded cemeteries of large cities; and that my observations may be easily repeated and confirmed.” These experiments were tried in 1844. A postscript was added in 1847. Reichenbach had taken five other sensitive persons, in the dark, to cemeteries. Of these, two were sickly, three quite healthy. All of them confirmed the statements of Mademoiselle Reichel, and saw the lights over all new graves more or less distinctly; “so that,” says the philosopher, “the fact can no longer admit of the slightest doubt, and may be every where controlled.”

“Thousands of ghost stories,” he continues, “will now receive a natural explanation, and will thus cease to be marvelous. We shall even see that it was not so erroneous or absurd as has been supposed, when our old women asserted, as every one knows they did, that not every one was privileged to see the spirits of the departed wandering over their graves. In fact, it was at all times only the sensitive who could see the imponderable emanations from the chemical change going on in corpses, luminous in the dark. And thus I have, I trust, succeeded in tearing down one of the densest vails of darkened ignorance and human error.”

So far speaks Reichenbach; and for myself, reverting to the few comments with which we set out, I would suggest, that Reichenbach’s book, though it is very likely to push things too far—to fancy the tree by looking at the seed—is yet not such a book as men of sense are justified in scouting. The repetition of his experiments is very easy if they be correct. There are plenty of “sensitives” to be found in our London hospitals and streets and lanes. Unluckily, however, though we live in an age which produces, every day, new marvels, the old spirit of bigotry, which used to make inquiry dangerous in science and religion, still prevails in the minds of too many scientific men. To be incredulous of what is new and strange, until it has been rigidly examined and proved true, is one essential element of a mind seeking enlightenment. But, to test and try new things is equally essential. Because of doubting, to refuse inquiry, is because of hunger to refuse our food. For my own part, I put these matters into the livery of that large body of thoughts already mentioned, which walk about the human mind, armed each with a note of interrogation. This only I see, that, in addition to the well-known explanations of phenomena which produce some among the many stories of ghosts and of mysterious forebodings, new explanations are at hand which will reduce into a natural and credible position many other tales by which we have till recently been puzzled.

KEEP HIM OUT!

“What noise is that?” said a judge disturbed in the hearing of a case. “It’s a man, my lord,” was the answer of the doorkeeper. “What does he want?” “He wants to get in, my lord.” “Well, keep him out!”

The audience is comfortably seated; the case is going forward; to make room for the newcomer, some must shift their seats, and perhaps be jostled about a little; so they are all perfectly satisfied with the judge’s dictum of “Keep him out.”

You have yourself been in an omnibus when a stout passenger has presented himself to the conductor, and petitioned for a place. You are all snugly seated—why should you be disturbed? “The seats are full!” “Keep him out!” But the intruder is in, he presses forward to the inner corner, perhaps treading on some testy gentleman’s toes. How you hate that new-comer, until you get fairly “shook down” and settled again in your places! The door opens again—another passenger! “Keep him out!” cry the company, and strange to say, the loudest vociferator of the whole, is the very passenger who last came in. He in his turn becomes conservative, after having fairly got a place inside.

It is the same through life. There is a knocking from time to time at the door of the constitution. “What’s that noise?” ask the men in power. “It’s a lot of men, my lords and gentlemen.” “What do they want?” “They want to come in.” “Well, keep them out!” And those who are comfortably seated within the pale, re-echo the cry of “Keep them out.” Why should they be disturbed in their seats, and made uncomfortable?

But somehow, by dint of loud knocking, the men, or a rush of them, at length do contrive to get in; and after sundry shovings and jostlings, they get seated, and begin to feel comfortable, when there is another knocking louder than before. Would you believe it? the last accommodated are now the most eager of all to keep the door closed against the new-comers; and “Keep them out!” is their vociferous cry.

Here is a batch of learned men debating the good of their order. They are considering how their profession may be advanced. What is the gist of their decisions?—the enactment of laws against all intruders upon their comfort and quiet. They make their calling a snug monopoly, and contrive matters so that as few as possible are admitted to share the good things of their class. “Keep them out!” is the cry of all the learned professions.

“Keep them out!” cry the barristers, when the attorneys claim to be admitted to plead before certain courts. “Keep them out!” cry the attorneys, when ordinary illegal men claim to argue a case before the county court. “Keep her out!” cry both barristers and attorneys, when Mrs. Cobbett claims to be heard in her imprisoned husband’s cause. “What! a woman plead in the courts? If such a thing be allowed, who knows where such license is to end?” And she is kept out accordingly.

“Keep them out!” cry the apothecaries, when a surgeon from beyond the Tweed or the Irish Channel claims to prescribe and dispense medicine to English subjects. “Keep them out!” cry the doctors, when the Homœopathists offer the public their millionth-grain doses. “Keep them out!” cry physicians and surgeons and apothecaries of all ranks, when it is proposed to throw open the profession to the female sex.

But you find the same cry among the working classes of every grade. Mechanics and tradesmen insist on all applicants for admission to their calling serving long apprenticeships. If the apprenticeships are not served, then “Keep them out!” is the word. Shoulder to shoulder they exclude the applicants for leave to toil. “Knobsticks” are pelted. They must join the union—must be free of the craft—must conform to the rules—subscribe to the funds—pay the footings, and so on; otherwise they are kept out with a vengeance.

In the circles of fashion the same cry is frequent. A new man appears in society. “Who is he?” “Only So-and-so!” He is a retired grocer, or as Cobbett called Sadler, “a linen-draper;” and the exclusive class immediately club together for the purpose of “Keeping him out.” He is “cut.” Even the new man of high-sounding title is accounted as nothing among the old families who boast of their “blue blood.” Wealth goes a great way, but still that does not compensate for the accident of birth and connections among these classes.

Every class has its own standard. The money classes have theirs too. Even tradesmen and their wives go in sets, and there is always some class outside their own set, which they contrive to “keep out.” The aristocratic contagion thus extends from the highest to the verge of the lowest class of society in England. Is not monopoly the rule among us, whenever we can find an opportunity of establishing it? Monopoly or exclusivism in art, in theology, in trade, in literature, in sociology. Look at the forty Royal Academicians setting their backs up against every new-comer in art, and combining with one accord to “Keep him out.” That is the monopoly of art; and people at large call it a humbug; but they are not more tolerant or wise when their own craft comes to be dealt with. Each in his turn is found ready to combine with somebody else, to “keep out” all intruders on their special preserves. The “Flaming Tinman,” in Lavengro, pummels and puts to flight the poor tinker who intrudes upon his beat; the costers combine to keep out freshmen from theirs; English navvies band together to drive Irish navvies off their contracts; and Irish tenants pick off, from behind a hedge, the intruders upon their holdings. Even the searchers of the sewers maintain a kind of monopoly of their unholy calling, and will recognize no man as a brother who has not been duly initiated in the mysteries of the search. The sewer-searcher is as exclusive in his way as the leader of fashion at Almacks. “Keep him out!” is, in short, the watchword of all classes, of all ranks, of all callings, of all crafts, of all interests. We used to “keep out” the foreign corn-grower, but though he may now come in, there is exclusiveness and monopoly in ten thousand other forms, which no legislation can ever touch.

STORY OF REMBRANDT.

At a short distance from Leyden may still be seen a flour-mill with a quaint old dwelling-house attached, which bears, on a brick in a corner of the wide chimney, the date of 1550. Here, in 1606, was born Paul Rembrandt. At an early age, he manifested a stubborn, independent will, which his father tried in vain to subdue. He caused his son to work in the mill, intending that he should succeed him in its management; but the boy showed so decided a distaste for the employment, that his father resolved to make him a priest, and sent him to study at Leyden. Every one knows, however, that few lads of fifteen, endowed with great muscular vigor and abundance of animal spirits, will take naturally and without compulsion to the study of Latin grammar. Rembrandt certainly did not; and his obstinacy proving an overmatch for his teacher’s patience, he was sent back to the mill, when his father beat him so severely, that next morning he ran off to Leyden, without in the least knowing how he should live there. Fortunately he sought refuge in the house of an honest artist, Van Zwaanenberg, who was acquainted with his father.

“Tell me, Paul,” asked his friend, “what do you mean to do with yourself, if you will not be either a priest or a miller? They are both honorable professions: one gives food to the soul, the other prepares it for the body.”

“Very likely,” replied the boy; “but I don’t fancy either; for in order to be a priest, one must learn Latin; and to be a miller, one must bear to be beaten. How do _you_ earn your bread?”

“You know very well I am a painter.”

“Then I will be one, too, Herr Zwaanenberg; and if you will go to-morrow and tell my father so, you will do me a great service.”

The good-natured artist willingly undertook the mission, and acquainted the old miller with his son’s resolution.

“I want to know one thing,” said Master Rembrandt, “will he be able to gain a livelihood by painting?”

“Certainly, and perhaps make a fortune.”

“Then if you will teach him, I consent.”

Thus Paul became the pupil of Van Zwaanenberg, and made rapid progress in the elementary parts of his profession. Impatient to produce some finished work, he did not give himself time to acquire purity of style, but astonished his master by his precocious skill in grouping figures, and producing marvelous effects of light and shade. The first lessons which he took in perspective having wearied him, he thought of a shorter method, and _invented_ perspective for himself.

One of his first rude sketches happened to fall into the hands of a citizen of Leyden who understood painting. Despite of its evident defects, the germs of rare talent which it evinced struck the burgomaster; and sending for the young artist, he offered to give him a recommendation to a celebrated painter living at Amsterdam, under whom he would have far more opportunity of improvement than with his present instructor.

Rembrandt accepted the offer, and during the following year toiled incessantly. Meantime his finances were dreadfully straitened; for his father, finding that the expected profits were very tardy, refused to give money to support his son, as he said, in idleness. Paul, however, was not discouraged. Although far from possessing an amiable or estimable disposition, he held a firm and just opinion of his own powers, and resolved to make these subservient first to fortune and then to fame. Thus while some of his companions, having finished their preliminary studies, repaired to Florence, to Bologna, or to Rome, Paul, determined, as he said, not to lose his own style by becoming an imitator of even the mightiest masters, betook himself to his paternal mill. At first his return resembled that of the Prodigal Son. His father believed that he had come to resume his miller’s work; and bitter was his disappointment at finding his son resolved not to renounce painting.

With a very bad grace he allowed Paul to displace the flour-sacks in an upper loft, in order to make a sort of studio, lighted by only one narrow window in the roof. There Paul painted his first finished picture. It was a _portrait_ of the mill. There, on the canvas, was seen the old miller, lighted by a lantern which he carried in his hand, giving directions to his men, occupied in ranging sacks in the dark recesses of the granary. One ray falls on the fresh, comely countenance of his mother, who has her foot on the last step of a wooden staircase.(3) Rembrandt took this painting to the Hague, and sold it for 100 florins. In order to return with more speed, he took his place in the public coach. When the passengers stopped to dine, Rembrandt, fearing to lose his treasure, remained in the carriage. The careless stable-boy who brought the horses their corn forgot to unharness them, and as soon as they had finished eating, excited probably by Rembrandt, who cared not for his fellow-passengers, the animals started off for Leyden, and quietly halted at their accustomed inn. Our painter then got out and repaired with his money to the mill.

Great was his father’s joy. At length these silly daubs, which had so often excited his angry contempt, seemed likely to be transmuted into gold, and the old man’s imagination took a rapturous flight. “Neither he nor his old horse,” he said, “need now work any longer; they might both enjoy quiet during the remainder of their lives. Paul would paint pictures, and support the whole household in affluence.”

Such was the old man’s castle in the air; his clever, selfish son soon demolished it. “This sum of money,” he said, “is only a lucky windfall. If you indeed wish it to become the foundation of my fortune, give me one hundred florins besides, and let me return to Amsterdam: there I must work and study hard.”

It would be difficult to describe old Rembrandt’s disappointment. Slowly, reluctantly, and one by one, he drew forth the 100 florins from his strong-box. Paul took them, and with small show of gratitude, returned to Amsterdam. In a short time his fame became established as the greatest and most original of living artists. He had a host of imitators, but all failed miserably in their attempts at reproducing his marvelous effects of light and shade. Yet Rembrandt prized the gold which flowed in to him far more than the glory. While mingling the colors which were to flash out on his canvas in real living light, he thought but of his dingy coffers.

When in possession of a yearly income equal to £2000 sterling, he would not permit the agent who collected his rents to bring them in from the country to Amsterdam, lest he should be obliged to invite him to dinner. He preferred setting out on a fine day, and going himself to the agent’s house. In this way he saved two dinners—the one which he got, and the one he avoided giving. “So that’s well managed!” he used to say.

This sordid disposition often exposed him to practical jokes from his pupils; but he possessed a quiet temper, and was not easily annoyed. One day a rich citizen came in, and asked him the price of a certain picture.

“Two hundred florins,” said Rembrandt.

“Agreed,” said his visitor. “I will pay you to-morrow, when I send for the picture.”

About an hour afterward a letter was handed to the painter. Its contents were as follows:

“MASTER REMBRANDT—During your absence a few days since, I saw in your studio a picture representing an old woman churning butter. I was enchanted with it; and if you will let me purchase it for 300 florins, I pray you to bring it to my house, and be my guest for the day.”

The letter was signed with some fictitious name, and bore the address of a village several leagues distant from Amsterdam.

Tempted by the additional 100 florins, and caring little for breaking his engagement, Rembrandt set out early next morning with his picture. He walked for four hours without finding his obliging correspondent, and at length, worn out with fatigue, he returned home. He found the citizen in his studio, waiting for the picture. As Rembrandt, however, did not despair of finding the man of the 300 florins, and as a falsehood troubled but little his blunted conscience, he said, “Alas! an accident has happened to the picture; the canvas was injured, and I felt so vexed that I threw it into the fire. Two hundred florins gone! However, it will be my loss, not yours, for I will paint another precisely similar, and it shall be ready for you by this time to-morrow.”

“I am sorry,” replied the amateur, “but it was the picture you have burned which I wished to have; and as that is gone, I shall not trouble you to paint another.”

So he departed, and Rembrandt shortly afterward received a second letter to the following effect: “MASTER REMBRANDT—You have broken your engagement, told a falsehood, wearied yourself to death, and lost the sale of your picture—all by listening to the dictates of avarice. Let this lesson be a warning to you in future.”

“So,” said the painter, looking round at his pupils, “one of you must have played me this pretty trick. Well, well, I forgive it. You young varlets do not know the value of a florin as I know it.”

Sometimes the students nailed small copper coins on the floor, for the mischievous pleasure of seeing their master, who suffered much from rheumatism in the back, stoop with pain and difficulty, and try in vain to pick them up.

Rembrandt married an ignorant peasant who had served him as cook, thinking this a more economical alliance than one with a person of refined mind and habits. He and his wife usually dined on brown-bread, salt herrings, and small-beer. He occasionally took portraits at a high price, and in this way became acquainted with the Burgomaster Six, a man of enlarged mind and unblemished character, who yet continued faithfully attached to the avaricious painter. His friendship was sometimes put to a severe test by such occurrences as the following:

Rembrandt remarked one day that the price of his engravings had fallen.

“You are insatiable,” said the burgomaster.

“Perhaps so. I can not help thirsting for gold.”

“You are a miser.”

“True; and I shall be one all my life.”

“’Tis really a pity,” remarked his friend, “that you will not be able after death to act as your own treasurer, for whenever that event occurs, all your works will rise to treble their present value.”

A bright idea struck Rembrandt. He returned home, went to bed, desired his wife and his son Titus to scatter straw before the door, and give out, first, that he was dangerously ill, and then dead—while the simulated fever was to be of so dreadfully infectious a nature that none of the neighbors were to be admitted near the sick-room. These instructions were followed to the letter; and the disconsolate widow proclaimed that, in order to procure money for her husband’s interment, she must sell all his works, any property that he left not being available on so short a notice.

The unworthy trick succeeded. The sale, including every trivial scrap of painting or engraving, realized an enormous sum, and Rembrandt was in ecstasy. The honest burgomaster, however, was nearly frightened into a fit of apoplexy at seeing the man whose death he had sincerely mourned standing alive and well at the door of his studio. Meinherr Six obliged him to promise that he would in future abstain from such abominable deceptions. One day he was employed in painting in a group the likenesses of the whole family of a rich citizen. He had nearly finished it, when intelligence was brought him of the death of a tame ape which he greatly loved. The creature had fallen off the roof of the house into the street. Without interrupting his work, Rembrandt burst into loud lamentations, and after some time announced that the piece was finished. The whole family advanced to look at it, and what was their horror to see introduced between the heads of the eldest son and daughter an exact likeness of the dear departed ape. With one voice they all exclaimed against this singular relative which it had pleased the painter to introduce among them, and insisted on his effacing it.

“What!” exclaimed Rembrandt, “efface the finest figure in the picture? No, indeed; I prefer keeping the piece for myself.” Which he did, and carried off the painting.

Of Rembrandt’s style it may be said that he painted with light, for frequently an object was indicated merely by the projection of a shadow on a wall. Often a luminous spot suggested, rather than defined, a hand or a head. Yet there is nothing vague in his paintings: the mind seizes the design immediately. His studio was a circular room, lighted by several narrow slits, so contrived that rays of sunshine entered through only one at a time, and thus produced strange effects of light and shade. The room was filled with old-world furniture, which made it resemble an antiquary’s museum. There were heaped up in the most picturesque confusion curious old furniture, antique armor, gorgeously-tinted stuffs; and these Rembrandt arranged in different forms and positions, so as to vary the effects of light and color. This he called “making his models sit to him.” And in this close adherence to reality consisted the great secret of his art. It is strange that his favorite among all his pupils was the one whose style least resembled his own—Gerard Douw—he who aimed at the most excessive minuteness of delineation, who stopped keyholes lest a particle of dust should fall on his pallet, who gloried in representing the effects of fresh scouring on the side of a kettle.

Rembrandt died in 1674, at the age of sixty-eight. He passed all his life at Amsterdam. Some of his biographers have told erroneously that he once visited Italy: they were deceived by the word _Venetiis_ placed at the bottom of several of his engravings. He wrote it there with the intention of deluding his countrymen into the belief that he was absent, and about to settle in Italy—an impression which would materially raise the price of his productions. Strange and sad it is to see so much genius united with so much meanness—the head of fine gold with the feet of clay.

THE VIPER.

At a recent monthly meeting of the Kendal Natural History Society, a letter was read from Mr. W. Pearson, on the natural history of Crossthwaite, from which we give the following extract:—“On the afternoon of 23d July last,” says Mr. Pearson, “the servant girl called me into the pantry in a great flurry. She said a hagworm was trying to get in at the window. And there it was, sure enough, raising itself straight up from the window-sill; first trying one pane, and then another; strangely puzzled, no doubt, that what seemed so clear an opening should offer any obstruction. The glass manufacture was evidently a mystery to it. The window being low, it had crawled over a heap of sand lying before it. It had probably smelt something tempting in the pantry, with which it wished to make nearer acquaintance. It was a beautiful creature. Its small head, prominent dark eyes, and pretty mottled skin, might have pleaded strongly for mercy; but, notwithstanding my general habit of sparing these reptiles when I meet with them in my walks, it was approaching too much in the guise of a housebreaker to be pardoned, so I gave orders for its instant execution. Moreover, there is little doubt that it was the same individual who had, in times past, come rather too near us to be pleasant. The year before, I had noticed a viper within a yard or two of our kitchen-door, with his head and about half a foot of his body thrust out from a hole in the wall right behind the kitchen grate. The genial climate had most likely attracted him. Be this as it may, before I could procure a switch to chastise him for his impudence, he very prudently withdrew into his hole, only protruding a part of his head and eyes, with which to make observations. For some days after this, I never entered the house by the back-door without thinking of our new neighbor; and once or twice I had a glimpse of him in his old quarters, but he very warily never exposed more of his precious person than his head and eyes, so that, if it had not been for his unfortunate expedition to the pantry, he might still have been a living hagworm. You are aware that this species of snake has at least three names in England—the viper, adder, and hagworm. The last is our own local term. Some authors class it with the amphibia. An extraordinary narrative appeared lately in the ‘Kendal Mercury,’ of a snake crossing Connistone Lake, which is at least half a mile wide. It was not the sea-serpent, but our poor little hagworm, that was engaged in this bold navigation. It was, however, unfortunately fallen in with by a piratical boatman, and put to death. Without disputing the truth of the narration, or settling the question how far the viper is amphibious, the remark is obvious, that the poor snake was taken at a disadvantage; for, if it had been equally at home on the water as on land, why did it not save itself by diving as an eel or a frog would have done under like circumstances? Again, why is not the name of the boatman given? Why should he be defrauded of his fair fame? It is to be wished that newspaper editors, in general, were more careful to authenticate their many marvelous tales in natural history. It would be a great satisfaction to the skeptical naturalist. One may easily credit that a viper will occasionally take the water, without going the length of a full belief in the Connistone voyage.

“One day last spring, when angling, I met with one of these snakes, coiled up, within a few feet of the Winster stream, and when disturbed he fled toward the water, though I did not see him enter it. It is curious the variety of situations in which they are to be met with; in the lowest parts of the valleys, and on the tops of our highest hills; sometimes close to our houses, as I have mentioned; in the plain field, and in the roughest wood—hence their name, hagworm; on the roadside, or on the ling moor, where they sometimes bite the sportsman’s dog, though I never heard of any fatal consequences. In crossing a turnpike road on a sunny day, they are often tempted to linger, such is their love of warmth, and bask on the heated stones and dust, where they are sure to be killed by the first passenger. They are never spared. Their sinuous tracks across the dusty roads in dry weather may be often observed. On riding out one day this summer, a hagworm crossed the road just before me. It exhibited a beautiful specimen of serpentine motion, and wriggled along with surprising celerity. It was a warm day; and the movements of all these reptiles are wonderfully quickened by a genial atmosphere.

“The ringed, or harmless common snake, if found at all in our district, is, I think, very scarce, for I have never seen one. It is said by Latreille and other naturalists to be fond of milk, and that it will sometimes enter farmers’ dairies to enjoy its favorite beverage. Does our viper, or hagworm, also possess this refined propensity? It seems probable enough, if one may judge from our pantry adventure. I am here reminded of a pretty little story which I heard in my youth, and which is well known to our rural population.

“A cottage child had been in the habit for some time of taking its porridge every morning into the orchard, to eat there, instead of in the house. Its mother was curious to know why it did this. At length it was watched, and found seated under an apple-tree in company with a huge serpent, its head dipt in the porringer sharing the child’s breakfast. But taking up a greater part of the dish than was consistent with fair play, or quite agreeable to good manners, the child was beating its head with the spoon, saying—‘Take at thy own side, Grayface; take at thy own side, Grayface’—the snake submitting to this rather uncourteous treatment with the most praiseworthy patience. Indeed, this reverence for innocence, felt by savage beast or venomous reptile, is a beautiful feature of many of those old romantic tales, from the most simple to be found in rustic life, to the grand allegorical fiction of Spenser’s ‘Fairy Queen,’ of

“Heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb,
And the brave Lion slain in her defense.”

“But may there not be some truth, after all, in this tale of the serpent and child? Remember the fact—that serpents have a strange propensity to come near our houses, and are not unfrequently found there, as was exemplified this last summer in our own locality by two instances: the one, that of the pantry burglar; the other, by a large hagworm being caught lying in wait, and killed close to the farm-house below. Then their acknowledged predilection for a milk diet: it is said that, when tamed, they eat it greedily. Giving due weight, therefore, to these two circumstances, is it not probable enough that there is a substratum of truth in this story, and that it is not a mere invention trumped up to please the nursery?”

ESTHER HAMMOND’S WEDDING-DAY.

A few years ago, having made known to those whom it might concern that I wanted a footman, there came, among others, to offer himself for the situation, a young man, named George Hammond. He had a slight figure, and a pale, thin, handsome face, but a remarkably sad expression. Although he inspired me with interest, I felt, before I began to question him, that I should hardly like to have that melancholy countenance always under my eye.

“Where have you lived?” I asked.

“I have never been exactly in a situation,” he answered.

“Then,” said I, interrupting him, “I fear you will not suit me.”

“I meant to say,” he continued, turning paler than before, as if pained by my ready denial—“I meant to say that although I have never been in a situation, yet I know the duties of a servant, for I have been for several months under Lord Gorton’s house-steward, Mr. Grindlay, and he has taught me every thing.”

“Did Lord Gorton pay you wages?”

“No; but he allowed me to wait at table, and I acted just as if I had been paid wages.”

“Mr. Grindlay is a friend of yours, then?”

“Yes; he has been very kind, and has taken a great deal of pains with me.”

“And you think you are fit to undertake such a place as mine?”

“I think I am, and I should try to give satisfaction; for I am very anxious indeed to earn my own living.”

“And who is to give you a character?”

“Mr. Grindlay will; he has known me all my life.”

During the conversation of which the above is an abridgement, I found that my feelings were veering round to a more favorable quarter for the candidate. Young as he was, I thought I could discern that he had suffered, and that he was anxious to diminish, or repair, his ill fortunes by industry and good conduct. There was a moment, too, in which I fancied I saw the clew to his sorrows. It was when I said, “You are not married, I presume?”

“No,” said he.

“Because,” I added, “my house is not large, and visitors below are inconvenient.”

“I have nobody in the world belonging to me but one sister. And the only friend I have is Mr. Grindlay,” he replied, with some eagerness, as if to put a period to further inquiries in that direction, while he visibly changed color. Feeling sure there was some painful family history behind, I said no more, but that I would see Mr. Grindlay, if he would call on the following day.

“By-the-by,” I rejoined, as the young man was leaving, the room, “we said nothing about wages; what do you expect?”

“Whatever you are accustomed to give,” he answered.

“Very well; I’ll speak to Mr. Grindlay about it.”

It was the situation he was anxious about, clearly; not wages.

On the following morning Mr. Grindlay came.

“You are well acquainted with this young man?” I said.

“I have known him since he was that high,” he answered, placing his hand on the table; “and you can’t have a better lad; that I’ll engage.”

“He is honest and sober?”

“You may trust him with untold gold; and as for wine or spirits, such a thing never passes his lips.”

“But he has been under your guidance, Mr. Grindlay,” I answered; “he is young; do you think he will be able to stand alone?”

“I’ve no fear of him; none whatever,” he replied. “To say the truth, he had an awful lesson before his eyes in regard to excessive drinking. Such a lesson as he’ll never forget.”

“Indeed!” said I; “his father?”

Mr. Grindlay shook his head. I made no further inquiry then; but agreed to engage George Hammond.

At first, he was so anxious to please, and so nervous lest he should not please, that he tumbled up-stairs in his hurry to answer the bell, and very nearly broke my best decanters. His hand so shook with agitation when I had friends to dinner, lest he should be found deficient, that I momentarily expected to see him drop the plates and glasses on the floor. However, he got through this ordeal without any serious accident; and by degrees I discovered that I had found a treasure of fidelity and good service. He lived with me for six years, and then, to my regret, we parted; my only consolation being that our separation was consequent on a plan formed for his advantage.

During the first years, I knew nothing more of George’s history than I had gathered from Mr. Grindlay’s significant hint at our only interview. I concluded that in that hint the whole mystery was revealed. George’s father had been a drunkard, and his vice had probably ruined a decent family. The appearance of George’s only visitor, his sister, Esther, confirmed this view; she looked so respectable and so dejected! She never came but on Sunday, and then I was always glad if I could spare George to take a walk with her. After I had learnt his value, I gave him leave to invite her to dine, and to remain the evening with him, whenever he pleased. He told me she worked with a milliner in Pall Mall; and I observed that she always wore black, which I concluded she did from an economical motive. She seemed very shy; and I never troubled her with questions.

George had been with us upward of five years, when we were visited by an old friend whose home was on the opposite side of the earth. He had returned to England, partly to see his relatives, and partly to transact some business respecting a small property he had lately inherited. During his sojourn he frequently dined with us; and, while at table, we did not fail to ply him with questions regarding his experiences in the colony he inhabited. “The great difficulty of _getting along_, as we call it,” he answered, one day, “lies in the impossibility of gathering people about us, upon whom we can rely. I have made money,” he said, “and have no right to complain; but I should have made twice as much if I had employed honest and intelligent men.”

“You should take some abroad with you,” I replied.

“I purpose to do something of the kind,” he answered; “and, by-the-by, if you should hear of any honest, intelligent young man, who can write good plain English in a legible hand, and who would not object to seek his fortune across the water, let me know.”

George was in the room when this was said, and I involuntarily raised my eyes to his face. When I read its expression, a twinge of selfishness brought the color to my cheeks. “Now we shall lose him,” I said; and we did lose him. A few days afterward, Mr. Jameson, our colonial friend, told us that he was afraid his conversation had been the means of seducing our melancholy footman. He had found an extremely well-written letter on his table, signed “George Hammond,” expressing a wish to accompany him abroad, and dated from our house, which he had at first imagined was a jest of mine. “But I find it is from your servant,” he continued, “and I have told him that I can say nothing until I have consulted you on the subject.”

“I am afraid I can allege nothing against it,”

I answered, “if he suits you, and wishes to go. A more trustworthy, excellent person you never can meet with.”

“And what are his connections?” inquired Mr. Jameson; “for I would not be accessory to taking any young man out of the country without being sure that he was not doing wrong in leaving it.”

For this information I referred him to Mr. Grindlay; with whom an interview was arranged. Mr. Grindlay entered so warmly into the plan, that he declared himself willing to make some pecuniary advances to promote it.

“It is not necessary,” said Mr. Jameson. “I shall be very willing to undertake all the expenses of outfit and voyage.”

“You are very good, indeed, sir. But,” added Mr. Grindlay, “George has a sister, who would break her heart if he left her. She is a good, clever girl, and understands dress-making and millinery well. She works for Madame Roland. I suppose she would easily make a living in the parts you are going to?”

Mr. Jameson was quite agreeable that Esther should be of the party; and Mr. Grindlay under took the charge of her outfit. “But,” said our friend, “before we proceed farther, I must know who these young people are; and that their friends have no reasonable objection to our plan.”

“They have no friends!” answered Mr. Grindlay, shaking his gray head; “nobody to make any objection, reasonable or otherwise; but, as you are willing to undertake the charge of them, sir, I think it would be only right that you should know the exact truth.”

This was the train of circumstances which led to my acquaintance with the present story.

The parents of George and Esther Hammond kept a small but respectable inn, in one of the southern counties of England. The house was not situated in a town, nor yet very far from one, but it was a pretty rural spot, with a bowling green and garden; and it was a common thing for the inhabitants of the neighboring city to make parties there on Sundays and holidays, to dine and drink cider, for which the house was famous. It was, indeed, an extremely well-kept, clean, comfortable, little inn, the merit of which good keeping was chiefly referred by the public voice to Mrs. Hammond: an industrious, hard-working, thrifty woman. She was generally reputed to be more than thrifty. It was often remarked that when Hammond himself was absent from home, the tables were less liberally served, and the charge higher, than when he was there to moderate her besetting sin—the love of gain. Still, she was an excellent wife, and a good hostess; and she was devoted to her husband and her two children, George and Esther. In short, she was a woman who took every thing in earnest, and she loved her family, as she worked for them, with all her energies. She loved her children wisely, too: for she was extremely anxious to give them the best education she could afford; and, although, as was consistent with her character, she kept them somewhat rigidly, she was essentially a kind mother.

Hammond’s character was different. He was by nature an easy, liberal, good-natured fellow, with a considerable dash of cleverness and a very well-looking person. In youth he had gone by the name of “Handsome George;” and was still a universal favorite with his friends and customers. The only disputes that ever occurred between Hammond and his wife, arose out of those agreeable qualities. The guests were apt to invite the host into the parlor to drink with them; and when Handsome George once had his legs under his own or any body else’s mahogany, he was not disposed to draw them out for some time. If this happened on a Sunday—when there were more parties than one to attend—his wife would get angry, and accuse him of neglecting his business. The husband’s imperturbable good-humor, however, soon allayed the irritation.

At length the time arrived when the two children were to leave this pleasant home, to learn something beyond reading and writing, to which their acquirements had yet been limited. They were accordingly sent away to school.

As the business of Hammond’s Inn was not sufficient to keep it always lively, the absence of the children was very much felt. The mother was perhaps not less sensible of the privation than the father; as many an involuntary sigh testified. He lamented loudly; and, when there was no business to engage his attention, went listlessly about with his hands in his pockets, or sat gloomily at the door, puffing at his pipe, and spreading the fumes of his tobacco over the jessamine and wild roses that overran the porch. When company came, however, he was merrier; and, when he was invited to “make one,” he was apt to drink more freely than formerly.

In process of time, however, a circumstance occurred that diverted Hammond’s attention into another channel. A few convivial fellows residing at Tutton, proposed to get up a club, to meet every Saturday night; the winter meetings to be held at an inn called the King’s Arms, in the town, and the summer meetings at Hammond’s Inn; the members to be elected by ballot. To this last rule, however, there was one exception, and that was in favor of Hammond himself.

“It was no use balloting _him_” they said; “nobody would give him a black ball.” He was pleased with this testimony to his popularity; and, in spite of some misgivings on the part of his wife, he addressed his mind heartily to the new project, and fitted up a room, to be held sacred every Saturday night for six months in the year to these convivial meetings.