Chapter V (3)

Animals certainly have the power of communicating thoughts to each other, as the following story proves: "At Horton, in Buckinghamshire, (a village where Milton passed some of his early days,) about the year 1818, a gentleman from London took possession of a house, the former tenant of which had moved to a farm about half a mile off. The new inmate brought with him a large French poodle, to take the duty of watchman in the place of a fine Newfoundland dog which went away with his master; but a puppy of the same breed was left behind; and he was incessantly persecuted by the poodle. As the puppy grew up, the persecution still continued. At length he was one day missing for some hours; but he did not come back alone; he returned with his old friend, the large house-dog, to whom he had made a communication; and in an instant the two fell upon the unhappy poodle and killed him before he could be rescued from their fury. In this case the injuries of the young dog must have been made known to his friend, a plan of revenge concerted, and the determination formed to carry the plan into effect with equal promptitude." Count Tilesius, a Russian traveller, who wrote at the beginning of the present century, tells a wonderful anecdote of a dog of his which had been sadly worried by a larger and stronger animal. For some days it was observed that he saved half his food and laid it up as a private store. {520} When he had accumulated a large supply, he went out and gathered around him several dogs of the neighborhood, whom he brought to his home and feasted on his hoard. The singular spectacle of a dog giving a supper-party attracted the count's attention, and he determined to watch their proceedings. As soon as the feast was over, they went out in a body, marched deliberately through the streets to the outskirts of the town, and there, under the leadership of their entertainer, fell upon a large dog and punished him severely. This incident not only shows that dogs can communicate their thoughts to one another, and can follow out a fixed plan of action, but it looks very much as if they had what is generally supposed to be peculiar to man--namely, some idea of a bargain. They can be magnanimous in their behavior toward their fellows, and the measures which large dogs occasionally adopt to get rid of the annoyance of little curs display a great deal of judgment and good feeling. In Mr. Youatt's book, On the Dog, we have a story of a Newfoundland dog in the city of Cork which had been greatly worried by a number of noisy curs. He took no notice of them until one carried his presumption so far as to bite him in the leg, whereupon the large animal ran after the offender, caught him by the back of the neck, and carried him to the quay. There, after holding him suspended over the edge for a few moments, he dropped him into the river. But he had no purpose to inflict more than a mild punishment, for after the cur had been well ducked and frightened and was beginning to struggle for his life, the Newfoundland dog plunged into the water and brought him safe to land. That animal certainly showed good sense, a good heart, and a lively appreciation of what was just and proper. A very comical example of a dog's feeling of propriety is quoted by Mr. Watson from Jesse's Gleanings in Natural History. "A gentleman going out shooting obtained the loan of a pointer from a friend, who told him that the dog would behave very well as long as he killed his birds: but that, if he frequently missed, it would leave him and run home. Unhappily the borrower was extremely unskilful. Bird after bird was put up and fired at, but flew off untouched, till the pointer grew careless. As if willing, however, to give his client one chance more, he made a dead stop at a fern bush, with big nose pointed downward, his forefoot bent, and his tail straight and steady. In this position he remained firm till the sportsman was close to him, with both barrels cocked; he then moved steadily forward for a few paces, and at last stood still near a bunch of heather, his tail expressing his anxiety by moving slowly backward and forward. At last out sprang a fine old black cock. Bang, bang, went both barrels, but the bird escaped unhurt. This was more than the dog could bear; he turned boldly round, placed his tail between his legs, gave one long, loud howl, and set off homeward as fast as he could."

Perhaps, after all, one of the most curious exhibitions of reason is afforded by the crows, which, in the northern parts of Scotland and in the Faroe Islands, hold extraordinary meetings every now and then, apparently for the purpose of judging and punishing evil-doers among their community. The sessions are sometimes prolonged two or three days; and as long as they last, flocks of crows continue to arrive in great numbers from all quarters of the heavens. In the mean while, some of the assembly are active and noisy; others sit with drooping heads as grave as judges. When the gathering is complete, a very general noise ensues--we are tempted to call it _talking_--and then the whole body fall upon one or two individuals and put them to death. Justice thus vindicated, the convention straightway disperses. {521} Now, the crows show every appearance of having been summoned to these councils; indeed, it is almost inconceivable that they should meet by chance; but how the summons is given; how they know when all have arrived; what are the offences they punish; whether the criminals know the fate that awaits them, and are restrained by force from making their escape; and how the knowledge of the crime is dispersed amongst the whole assembly--these are curious questions to which we fear no satisfactory answer will ever be given. The idea of hundreds of birds sitting in deliberation, like a court of justice, is indeed marvellous. We can only say that the narrative, as we have given it, seems to be well authenticated, and we leave our readers to draw their own conclusions.

We think we have quoted anecdotes enough to prove that brutes have souls and reason; or, if they have not, that they are much more wonderfully made than man, since they can perform without assistance from the reasoning faculty actions which in us require the exercise of the highest intelligence. And although we do not go to the length of saying, with the Rabbi Manasseh of old, and Dr. John Brown, the author of Spare Hours, in our own day, that there is a next world for the brute creation; and do not believe with another modern writer (the Rev. J. G. Wood) that divine justice absolutely requires that God should make amends to animals in the future life for the sufferings they endure in this--perhaps our readers will agree with us that we have shown it to be no ways impossible that God may have designed the souls of dumb beasts to outlast in this world their perishable bodies; that the intelligent part of the sagacious dog may animate a long succession of Rabs and Pontos; and the spirit of the dead pet may return into bodily form to delight new generations of masters.

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From The Month.

The Gladiators' Song.

Round about this grim arena, by the ghosts of thousands haunted,
Beckoned by our slaughtered comrades, move we on with hearts undaunted--
_Ave, Caesar Imperator, morituri te salutant!_
Dark the world and always darker, none to comfort, none to love us,
Grisly hell beneath us yawning, deaf or dead the gods above us--
_Ave, Caesar Imperator, morituri te salutant!_
Life and flesh and soul and sinew, beating heart and thought upsoaring--
Was the goblet of our being crowned but for this wild outpouring?
_Ave, Caesar Imperator, morituri te salutant!_
Voices come through dreary silence, still for righteous vengeance calling--
So we chant our stern defiance false relentless Rome is falling!
_Ave, Caesar Imperator, morituri te salutant!_
Countless years have tortured nations learned the truth of Roman mercies--
Ah! she falls in waste and carnage, 'mid the world's triumphant curses!
_Ave, Caesar Imperator, morituri te salutant!_
Gleams of vengeance, long delaying, scantly sate the spirit's yearning--
Guessing, groping, craving, hoping, must we go without returning?
_Ave, Caesar Imperator, morituri te salutant!_
Onward to our slaughtered comrades, round the arena, shadow-haunted,
On to endless night or morning pass we on with hearts undaunted!
_Ave, Caesar Imperator, morituri te salutant!_

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{522}

From Once a Week

Lakes of Lorraine.

On certain sultry and thunderous days in the middle of July, 1866, was celebrated, with fêtes and fireworks, illuminations by night, and brilliant shows by day, the first centenary of the union of the province of Lorraine to France. The scene was the city of Nancy, and splendor was added to the festival by the presence of the Empress Eugénie and the imperial prince, who lodged in the former palace of King Stanislaus of Poland, the last duke of Lorraine, and witnessed from its balcony the defiling of a long allegorical procession, representing in order the historical personages of the province, conspicuous among whom was the Maid of Orleans, personated by a youth of the town bearing in his hand a facsimile of her consecrated banner. The romance of the mediaeval spectacle was a little marred by certain laughable incongruities which the critical eye might detect; for instance, the arquebusiers of the sixteenth century were armed with percussion muskets; and the portly nymphs representing France and Lorraine seemed in consequence of the heat to be in somewhat too melting a mood for perfect dignity. The spectacle as a whole was, however, very imposing, and went off with a success peculiarly French, the clean and handsome city being crowded with well-behaved strangers from all the neighborhood, in such vast numbers that, in spite of their good behavior and good temper, they were fain to fight for their places in the trains, and one party had to wait till two A.M. at the station, after being in time to get away by ten at night. In bearing patiently such inconveniences in the pursuit of pleasure, our neighbors of the other side of the channel most undeniably surpass us. It was pleasant as a contrast to pass without let or hinderance the same station a few days later, following the line which runs parallel to the course of the Moselle past Épinal to Remiremont, on a visit to the lakes which lie in the country between that town and the terminus of St. Dié, which ends another branch of the Paris and Strasburg railway. Between Nancy and Épinal the stream of the Moselle is met winding through fertile meadows in a broad valley with low elevations on each side; near Épinal the scenery becomes more picturesque; there are more trees near the river, and the long level reaches are broken by occasional rapids with rocks about them. When Épinal is passed, the valley becomes narrower and prettier, shut in between two spurs of the Vosges, until the basin is reached, where Remiremont itself lies, and the waters of the Mosellote join those of the Moselle, each branch of the river from this point to the source having the character of a considerable mountain brook. The town of Remiremont itself resembles Freiburg in the Breisgau, minus its magnificent cathedral, in its size and general character, and especially in the abundance of fountains and runnels permeating the streets, which in their main portions are fronted with arcades like those of Bern or Bologna, a pleasant protection against sun and shower, and duly appreciated in the tempestuous summer of 1866.

The busy little town derives its euphonious name from one Saint Romary. In the circle of mountains enclosing the town one of conical shape is remarked, called Mont Habend, from _Castrum Habendi_, a camp erected on its site by the Romans.

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In the seventh century this holy mountain was the chosen retreat of two anchorites, Amé and Romary, who founded there two monasteries, one for women, another for men, and were canonized after their deaths. The monasteries were destroyed by the Huns in the tenth century, but the site of one was repeopled again by monks a century later, while the nuns, abandoning the mountain, fixed themselves in the valley. The convent of Remiremont was governed during its long existence by sixty-four abbesses, the last of whom, Louise Adélaide de Bourbon Condé, died in 1824. It was a foundation even more exclusive and aristocratic in its character than All Souls', Oxford. The abbesses were generally princesses, and royal honors were accorded them. When each abbess entered the town for the first time, a great holiday was kept, and the mayor, instead of presenting the keys of the city, offered her the wine of the spot in a cup of gold, which she just touched with her lips before she passed within the walls to be enthroned with great state in the palatial apartments prepared for her. One of the number of these religious princesses, Catherine de Lorraine, distinguished herself in 1637 beating off from the walls of Remiremont the great Turenne, who was endeavoring to take the town from the Duke of Lorraine.

The town is now famous chiefly for the production of some excellent cakes with the quaint name of "_quiches_" probably only a corruption of the German Küchlein.

To the guests at the baths of Plombières, the lake region which lies between Remiremont and St. Dié is better known than to the general world, as it lies out of the way of tourists' thoroughfares; but though it cannot quite compete in beauty with the English or Scotch lakes, or Killarney, it is well worth a visit to those who are not obliged to go a great distance to see it. Instead of going due east to the source of the Moselle and the pass over the main chain of the Vosges which leads to Wesserling, and thence by rail to Basel, the road to Gérardmer turns to the left along a valley parallel to the line of the mountains, and flanked by lower hills, well wooded, on its other side. The foregrounds have the usual broken and diversified character of a granitic country, and the height of the hills is sufficient to make the distant views in many parts highly pleasing. There is enough picturesque incident to beguile very pleasantly the eighteen miles or so which the diligence traverses to Gérardmer. The name, derived from Gérard, a duke of Lorraine, has been given to a fine oblong sheet of clear water, about two miles long, and half a mile broad, bounded for the greatest part of its circumstance by long slopes covered with meadows and white cottages at intervals, but on the east by a pine forest and rocks, which give a more savage aspect to its further banks. From the Swiss villas built on its banks, the numerous pleasure-boats, and the general lively aspect, it brings to mind the lake of Zurich in miniature. At its further end is an immensely long village, also called Gérardmer, the most distinguishing mark of which is an enormous wych elm of unknown antiquity, standing in the market place.

In the summer, Gérardmer is full of visitors, who are well entertained at the Hôtel de la Poste and the Hôtel des Vosges at a moderate rate. The latter of these is conducted by an indefatigable little landlady, who is full of civilities, assisted by a good-natured, gigantic husband, who seems to superintend the kitchen department, and generally was seen during our visit lounging somewhere about the entrance, conspicuous in white trousers and a shirt of violet flannel, trimmed with scarlet. The wide road beyond Gérardmer branches to the right and left. The left branch leads into a valley choked with a primaeval pine forest, in the depths of which roars the torrent of the Vologne. The trees are of immense size, and completely clad with pendants of moss and lichen, telling of a considerable elevation of site, and of such weird and grand forms as to make one wish that the art of forest culture which fells the trees at a premature age had never been introduced. {524} In one spot, not far from the so-called "Basse des Ours," or Bear Bottom, where the huge granite-blocks that have fallen from the crest of a mountain have been huddled together, a natural ice-house has been formed in the interstices, called "La glacière," and the fact of our finding no ice in it was accounted for by the summer not having been sufficiently hot to produce the necessary amount of evaporation. The road to the right passes over the torrent, by a bridge, and then divides again, its right branch leading over the mountains into the valley of Münster in Alsace, and its left to St. Dié. On the road to St. Dié two pines are seen which have grown together like Siamese twins.

Near the bridge is a cascade of singular beauty, which, from a peculiarity it possesses in changing its entire aspect as the spectator changes his ground, is called the _Cascade des Fées_. Not far from this cascade is a large slab of granite, and a fountain where Charlemagne is said to have dined when he passed out of Alsace over the Vosges into Lorraine, at a time when all the country was wild forest. A rough bridle road to the right leaves the main road to the Schlucht pass and the valley of Münster, and, making for a gap in the hill, soon discloses the beautiful piece of water called Longemer, or "The Long Lake," the Ullswater, as Gérardmer is the Windermere of Lorraine. It runs in a long trough between beautifully wooded steeps for about two miles, with a slightly serpentine direction, prettily broken by spits of grassy land with a few low trees upon them. At the upper end is seen, above woody heights, the bald summit of the Honeck, (Hoheneck, "The High Corner",) an eminence about four thousand feet high. At the lower end, shaded by lofty trees, is a little chapel on a tongue of land, dedicated to St. Bartholomew by an anchorite named Bilon, and near it a solitary villa belonging to a medical gentleman of the neighborhood, who spends his summer holidays in this Arcadian seclusion, boating and fishing in the lake and the clear stream that runs out of it. By a path to the right, following the sinuosities of the lake, a rocky barrier is reached, down whose face tumbles, among rocks and trees, a lovely waterfall; and when this is passed, another lake is disclosed, a round, low-lying basin, among dense woods and frowning escarpments, one of them called the Rock of the Devil, which bears the name of Retournemer, or "The Lake of Return." A solitary dwelling, backed by fine beeches and other trees, stands on the brink, the cottage of the forester, where the wanderer to this end of the world finds hospitable entertainment. But notwithstanding the impassable look of the scenery round, a zig-zag path through the trees climbs the height behind the house, and joins the road which leads to the Col de la Schlucht, where a beautiful view opens into Alsace, its most prominent objects being that long spur of the Vosges which terminates by Colmar, and on the other side a broken granite wall, crowned by a peculiarly imposing cap of rock, under which the road descends to the green slopes about Münster, which are variegated with acres of bleaching linen, the product of the weaving industry which pervades the whole country. On the Col itself is a spacious chalet or hotel, with excellent accommodation and abundant fare, to which appetites whetted by the bracing mountain air are inclined to do full justice. From this point, by walking up a long slope in a southerly direction, the top of the Honeck is reached, grazed over by herds of cattle tinkling with Alpine bells, and commanding a spacious view over the valley of the Rhine to the distant Black Forest, with tremendous precipices in the foreground on the side of Alsace. Instead of returning from this point direct to Gérardmer, I walked through a forest of apparently blasted horn-beam, as grisly as the trees in Gustave Doré's drawings, into a long valley, which led in course of time to a busy place called La Bresse, and thence, turning to the right, over a moderately high pass back to Gérardmer. {525} Besides the three lakes already mentioned, there is Blanchemer, or the "White Lake," in the valley of the Mosellote; the Lac de Corbeaux, so-called from an overhanging cliff frequented by ravens; the Lac de Lispach, rich in fish, divided by a ridge from Longemer, and the Lac de Marchet, on the flank of a mountain not far from Bresse. The so-called White, Black, and Green lakes belonging to Alsace are situated further to the north on that side of the Vosges chain which looks toward the Rhine. On one of the mounds of the Honeck mountain there is an abundant and perennial spring, called La Fontaine de la Duchesse, which perhaps possesses a higher claim to be the source of the Moselle than the more trifling stream which descends by Bussang, though the latter pours its contribution in a more direct line. The sources of rivers, whether small or great, are generally controvertible. Some consider the Inn, which rises in the Grisons, as having more claim to be the real Danube than the river which rises at Donaueschingen, and, between the rival claims of the Victoria Nyanza of Speke and the Albert Nyanza of Baker, the real head of mighty Nilus himself still remains an open question for geographers.

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Original.

Columbus

Three Scenes.

'Tis midnight; through the lozenge panes
Flashes a southern storm;
And the lightning flings its livid stains
O'er a bowed and wearied form.
He stands, like a ship once staunch and stout
By billows too long opprest;
And a fiercer storm than whirls without
Tears through his heaving breast.
His hand is pressed on his aching brow,
And veils his eyes' dark light,
And a twinkling cresset's dim red glow,
When the lightning pales, doth sadly flow
O'er locks where many a thread of snow
Tells of time's troubled flight.
He stands--a fading, a clouded star,
Half-hid in the rack of heaven's war;
Or, like a vanquished warrior, one
Whose heart is crushed, whose hopes are gone
After many a gallant fight.

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He turns and he paces the damp stone floor,
And his glance seeks the damper wall,
Where the charts, o'er which he had loved to pore,
Like arras rise and fall.
There is his heart's most cherished store,
There lie the fruits of his deepest lore,
And his lips, as he views them o'er and o'er,
His withered life recall:

"And was it all a dream?
Is this the bitter waking?
And is hope's heavenly beam
For aye my soul forsaking?
I thought to see the cross unfurled
Upon the hills of a far-off world!
To bear the faith of the Crucified
Far o'er the wild Atlantic's tide!
To see adored the Christian's God
Where Christian foot hath never trod!
Sure brighter dreams from heaven ne'er fell
And I wake in this cold, dim cell!

"And were they, too, but dreams----
Those lands far in the West,
Where robed in sunset beams
The Seven Cities rest?
Far, far beyond the blue Azores,
I thought to press the ocean's shores;
The heaving, restless main to span,
And give--and give--a world to man!
A new-born world of vernal skies
Fresh with the breath of paradise--
A world that yet would place my name
The foremost on the scroll of fame.
And now I wake, poor, friendless, lone,
'Mid these dripping walls of stone.

"And was it but a dream
I left fair Italy?
To chase the churchyard gleam
Of false expectancy--
That light which, like the swamp's pale glare,
Lures but to darkness and despair?
To crush the visions youth built up?
Drink to its poisoned dregs the cup
Of hope deferred and trust misplaced?
To feel heart shrink and body waste?
And still like drowning wretch to cry,
'One more effort and I die!'"

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II.

The drear, chill gray of dawning day
Dies in a golden glow,
And merrily on the dancing sea
The rippling sunbeams flow;
And they glance and glint, in many a tint,
Over minaret and tower,
Where the lofty cross shows the Paynim's loss
And the wane of Moslem power.
And waving high in the brightening sky,
Floating o'er town and sea,
And gleaming bright in the morning light,
Spain's flag flaunts haughtily.

Who passes through the antique street
Worshipped by all around?
Whom do the thousand voices greet
That to the heavens resound?
Proud is the flash of his dark eye,
Yet tempered with humility;
The softened radiance, high yet meek,
That doth the Christian soul bespeak;
Proud is his heaving bosom's swell,
And proud his seat in velvet selle;
His very courser paws the earth
As conscious of its master's worth.

And now his armed heel loud rings
Through a high, carved hall,
Where blazoned shields of queens and kings
Hang fluttering on the wall.
Around, the noblest of the land
In deepest awe uncovered stand:
Princes, whose proud sires had well
Upheld the cross with Charles Martel;
And knights, whose scutcheons flashed amid
The fiercest fights where blazed the Cid;
Soldiers, who by their sovereign's side
Hurled back in blood the seething tide
Of Moslem war; and churchmen sage,
The men who smoothed that iron age.
And all alone, 'mid that bright throng,
_His_ voice arises clear and strong.
He stands before a throne; even now
His dark plume waves above his brow,
As he, of all the courtier train,
Rivalled the majesty of Spain.
Fortune like this, what fate can mar?
He stands--a cloudless, risen star.

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III.

Once more 'tis the mid hour of night;
Once more the storm beats high;
But now it whirls its fearful might
Along the cloud-fraught sky
Which spans the drear Atlantic's waste,
All whitened with wild foam,
That cleaves the air, as sea-birds haste
At even to their home.

But even there, where nature's power
Laughs puny man to scorn,
Man lords it for his little hour
O'er fellow-man forlorn.
Within a Vessel's creaking sides
A chained prisoner sits;
Drooped, weary, careless what betides
His tired soul, ere it flits
Far from a world where gratitude
Yields ever to the selfish brood
That gold and thirst for honor bring
To breast of peasant and of king.
What now avails the world he gave
To thankless Spain? It cannot save
From slavish chains its whilom lord,
Nor shield him from the hatred poured
O'er his bowed head by those who late
But formed the puppets of his state.
Gone is his kindly mistress--laid
To sleep among Spain's royal dead.
Dead is her smile, her beaming gaze
So full of hope when darkening days
Hung o'er the crown she wore so well;
Yea, dead is queenly Isabel!
And where are now the crowds that hung
Upon his steps when every tongue
Shouted his praise? The station high
Above all Spain's plumed chivalry?
The high commands? Away! each thought
With saddening memory so deep fraught!
Call not pale flashes from afar
To mock with light a fallen star!
The past is dead, the future read,
Ay! see a broken, moss-grown stone,
And on it view a kingly meed
Of thanks to genius shown--
Ay! trace o'er that forgotten grave--
"ANOTHER WORLD COLUMBUS GAVE
TO CASTILE AND LÉON."

Front-de-boeuf.

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Original.

The Two Lovers of Flavia Domitilla.

by Clonfert.