way with confidence, to inspect the resources of the bar, or join the gay throng of dancers between-decks.
There must be something singularly fascinating in this curious pastime of fishing with a hand-line from the jumping-off places of a steamboat or pier. Doubtless it is from a defective sympathetic organization that the writer of these pages does not himself “seem to see it.” Nevertheless, I look upon the illusion with a respect almost bordering upon fear, although not quite in that spirit of veneration which moves illogical savages to fall down and worship the stranger lunatic whom chance has led to their odorous residences. Dwelling one summer on the New Jersey shore, I used to loiter, day after day, upon a deserted wharf, at the end of which was ever to be seen a broad-beamed fisherman, sitting upon an uncomfortably wooden chair, from which he dabbled perpetually with his whip-cord line in the shallow water that washed the slimy face-timbers of the wharf. There he sat, day after day, and all day, and, for aught I know, all through the summer-night, a big-timbered, sea-worthy man, reading contentedly a daily paper of local growth, and pulling up never a better bit of sea-luck than the puny, mean-spirited fishling called by unscientific persons the _burgall_. I would at any time have freely given ten cents for the privilege of overhauling old broad-beam’s carpet-bag, which he always placed before him on the string-piece, with a view, I suppose, of frustrating anything like a guerrilla plunder-movement upon his widely extended rear. Ay, there must be something strangely entrancing in dragging the shoal waters with a hand-line, for unsuspicious, easily duped members of the acanthopterygian tribe of fishes,–under which alarming denomination come, I believe, nearly all the finny fellows to be met with on these sand-banks, from the bluefish to the burgall. Only think how stuck up they would be above the lowly mollusks of the same waters, if they knew themselves as Acanthopterygii, and were aware that their great-grandfather was an Acanthopteryx before them, and so away back in the age of waters that once were over all! “Very ancient and fish-like” is their genealogy, to be sure!
In the far-away days, when Neversink _was_, but the twin beacon-towers that now watch upon its heights were _not_,–when Sandy Hook was a hook only, and not a telegraph-station, from which the first glimpse of an inward-bound argosy is winked by lightning right in at the window of the down-town office where Mercator sits jingling the coins in his trousers’ pockets,–in those days, the only excursion-boats that rocked upon the ground-swell over the pale, sandy reaches of the Fishing-Banks were the tiny barklets that shot out on calm days from the sweeping coves, with their tawny tarred-and-feathered crews: for of such grotesque result of the decorative art of Lynch doth ever remind me the noble Indian warrior in his plumes and paint. Unfitted, by the circumscribed character of their sea-craft, their tackle, and their skill, for pushing their enterprise out into the deeper water, where the shark might haply say to the horse-mackerel,–“Come, old horse, let you and me hook ourselves on, and take these foolish tawny fellows and their brown cockle-shell down into the under-tow,”–they supplied their primitive wants by enticing from the shallows the beautiful, sunny-scaled shoal-fish, well named by ichthyologists _Argyrops_, the “silver-eyed.” But the poor Indian, who knew no Greek,–poor old savage, lament for him with a scholarly _eheu!_–called this shiner of the sea, in his own barbarous lingo, _Scuppaug_. Can any master of Indian dialects tell us whether that word, too, means “him of the silver eye”? If it does, revoke, O student, your shrill _eheu_ for the Greekless and untrousered savage of the canoe, suppress your feelings, and go steadily into rhabdomancy with several divining-rods, in search of the Pierian spring which must surely exist somewhere among the guttural districts of the Ojibbeway tongue.
And here there is diversion for philologist as well as fisherman; for while the latter is catching the fish, the former may seize on the fact, that in this word, _Scuppaug_, is to be found the origin of the two separate names by which Argyrops, the silver-eyed, is miscalled in local vernacular. True to the national proclivity for clipping names, the fishermen of Rhode Island appeal to him by the first syllable only of his Indian one,–for in the waters thereabout he is talked of by the familiar abbreviation, _Scup._ But to the excursionists and fishermen of New York he is known only as _Porgy,_ or _Paugie_, a form as obviously derived from the last syllable of his Indian name as the emphatic “siree” of our greatest orators is from the modest monosyllable “sir.” _Porgy_ seems to be the accepted form of the word; but letters of the old, unphonetic kind are poor guides to pronunciation. And a beautiful, clean-scaled fish is Porgy,–whose _g_, by-the-by, as I learned from a funny man in the heterogeneous crowd, is pronounced “hard, as in ‘git eowt.'” A lovely fish is he, as he comes dripping up the side of the vessel from his briny pastures. Silver is the pervading gleam of his oval form; but while he is yet wet and fresh, the silver is flushed with a chromatic radiance of gold, and violet, and pale metallic green, all blending and harmonizing like the mother-o’-pearl lustre in some rare sea-shell. The true value of this fish is not of a commercial kind, for he cannot be deemed particularly exquisite in a gastronomic sense; neither is he staple as a provision of food. His virtue lies in the inducement offered to him by the citizen of moderate means, who, for a trifling outlay, can secure for himself and family the invigorating influence of the salt sea-breezes, by having a run down outside the Hook any fine day in summer, with an object. The average weight of the porgy of these banks may be set down at about a pound.
Five minutes after we came to anchor, there must have been at least two hundred and fifty whip-cord lines stretching out into the three-fathom water from every available rail and fender of the old boat. Most of the men had brought their tackle with them, and their tin canisters of bait. To those who had not, the articles were ready at hand; for speculators had mingled in the crowd, one of whom affixed his “shingle” to a post between-decks, setting forth,–“Fishing-Lines and Hooks, with Sinkers and Bait,”–the latter consisting of clams in the shell, contained in a barrel big enough for the supply of the whole flotilla of green boats and red shirts, which still hung around us like swallows in the wake of an osprey. Two or three of our excursionists–men, perhaps, whose minds indulged in dear memories of a brook that babbles by a mill–had fishing-rods with them, and made great ado with scientific lunges and casts, producing much discord, indeed, by flicking away wildly outside their proper sea-limits. Most industrious among the hand-fishers I remarked a small, spare man, who, under the careful supervision of a buxom young wife in a “loud” tartan silk, baited no hook nor broke water with his lead until he had first folded and put carefully away between the handle and lid of the family prog-basket his tight little black frock-coat, and passed his small legs through the tough creases of a pair of stout blue “Denim” overalls. These, pulled up to his neck, and hitched on there with shoulder-straps, served for waistcoat and trousers and all, imparting to him the cool atmospheric effect so much admired in that curious picture of Gainsborough’s, known to connoisseurs as “The Blue Boy.” Then he fished the waters with a will; and it was but a scurvy remark of Flashy Joe, who said that “it was about an even chance whether he took porgy or porgy took _him_.” But it seems to me that this unskilled labor of fishing from a steamboat must be epidemic, if not contagious; for even Young New York, who in the early forenoon doubted visibly his discretion at having got himself into such an ugly scrape as an “excursion-spree,” put off his delicate gloves, and set to hauling, hand over hand, as if for a bet.
But I believe I have committed a breach of etiquette in giving precedence to Scuppaug over the skipper, a very large and thoroughly pickled old man, who now bustled deliberately about the decks, with as few clothes on his broad back and stern-post legs as were consistent with decorum and with the requirements of those by-laws of society which extend even to Sandy Hook and the rest of the Jerseys, as well as to the fishing-banks that shoal out from the same. Strictly speaking, this old man of our part of the sea was not the captain of the boat, but the pilot, who takes command of her when she abandons her proper line on the rivers, and ventures to that “far Cathay” of city-navigators indefinitely spoken of as “outside the Hook.” The smooth-water captain of the steamer, who was nobody to talk of now, was a slim, pale young man, in a black dresscoat, tall, silky hat, and shoes of a material which has long years ago been patented, on account of its matchless ability to shine. This commander remained permanently within the “office,” where he was probably very poorly by himself during all this “high old time.” The stout old pilot was the real skipper; and now that the vessel had come to anchor, he turned from his lighter duties to the grave pastime of the day, and fished earnestly through a large hole in the paddlebox,–the porgies that came to his allurements arriving at their destination by a series of flapping manoeuvres from blade to blade of the wheel. For so burly a man, and one with such a chest for the stowage of sea-breezes and monsoons, the skipper was provided with a wonderfully small voice, suggesting, as he lectured upon sea-fishing to the novices who were getting into “snarls” with their tackle hard by where he sat, the circumstance of a tree-toad discoursing from the hollow of a brave old oak.
“If you want to ketch good fish,” said he, sententiously, to Young New York, whose hook persisted in baiting itself with his thumb,–“if you want to ketch reel snorters, you must have a heavy line, heavy lead, and gimp tackle. Then take your own time, haul in, hand over hand, and no matter what the heft, you’ll be sure to fetch him.”
Young New York produced from his breast-pocket the blue enamelled case in which reposed his ivory tablets, and, seating himself upon the chain-box, wrote down with golden pencil the dictum of the sage.
Notwithstanding the storm of yesterday, from which the discontented foreboded a stampede of the fish to deeper waters, porgies to an extraordinary amount were soon heaped on the decks, at the feet of each fisherman, the more careful of whom put them into baskets or barrels. But in general they were thrown carelessly on the deck, with a string passed through their gills to keep them from straying out of their proper lots. When these bright fishes are lying the deck, it is curious to watch them flushing and gasping there, with that singular, dubious expression of mouth peculiar to fishes out of water, as if more struck by the absence of that element than by their novel position among the accessories of dry life. Now and then a blackfish was hauled in,–an event greeted with a loud cheer from all parts of the boat. When a very large one was announced, people came rushing from all quarters to see it; but the greatest tribute to largeness in a fish that I remember anywhere to have seen was the altered expression on the face of a baby some six months old, whose features settled permanently down into the collapse of imbecility, from the moment of the arrival on the upper deck of a blackfish two feet long.
By this time the scene on the forecastle was quite a picture of the Dutch school. Grouped everywhere among the fish and fishers were matronly women and unbonneted damsels, most of them with handkerchiefs tied upon their heads; for they had got over their sea-sickness, now, and were coming by twos and threes from the saloon, to breathe a little fresh air and look on at the sport. One pretty, Jewish-looking girl, wrapped in a red and white shawl, was sitting on the big anchor near the bows, and three or four others looked quite picturesque, as they reclined on the heavy coils of the great cable. More central to the picture than was at all advantageous to it sat our friend Raw Material, with his head jammed recklessly into the capstan, abandoning himself to his misery. For the inevitable malady had fallen upon him among the first; and as he sat there, helpless and without hope, upon one of those life-preserving stools that remind one, by their shape, of the “properties” of Saturn in the mythology of old, he looked like Languor on an hour-glass, timing the duration of Woe. All along the bulwarks on both sides of the boat, men and boys were crowding upon each other, casting out and hauling in their lines with unflagging spirit. Slim city-children, blistered wholesomely as to their legs, from knee to ankle, by the sun and the salt air, harnessed themselves to little heaps of fish, and were driven about the upper deck in various fashionable styles, including four-in-hand and tandem, by other slim city-children, whose lower extremities had been treated in the same beneficial manner by the same eminent physicians. The musicians had laid away their cornopeans and other cunningly twisted horns upon the broad disk of the big drum, in a dark alcove between-decks, and were fishing savagely in German and broken English, according to the nationality with which their affairs happened to get entangled. Even the colored _chef de cuisine_, a muscular mulatto, with a beard of a rash disposition, coming out on wrong parts of his face in little eruptive pustules of black wool, sported his lines out of the galley-airholes, and his porgies were simmering in the pan while their memories were yet green in the submarine parishes from which they came. Have these finny creatures their full revenge upon fishermankind, when a smack sinks foundered into the swallowing deep? Do the midnight revellers in the sea-caverns call out in broad Scuppaug to the attendant mermaid for a “half-dozen large-sized jolterheads on the half monkey-jacket?” To these queries I hope that Poetical Justice, if still living, will forward a reply at her earliest convenience. Porgy now began to pervade the air with an astringent perfume of the sea: none of your Fulton Market smells of stagnating fish, but a clean, wholesome, coralline odor, such as we may imagine supplied to the Peris “beneath the dark sea” by the scaly fellows in the toilet line down there, who are likely to keep it for sale in conch-shells,–quarts and pints. Porgy prevailed to that extent, in fact, that it came to be talked of, by-and-by, as a circulating medium; and a hard-fisted mechanic averred his intention of compensating his landlady for his board with porgy, for the week that was passing away.
For some time, luck appeared to favor the starboard side of the boat, at which the take was much greater than at the other. Hence, discontent began to crawl in at the port-gangways, and the fishermen on that side were gradually edging over to the other, to look for a chance of stealing in their lines clandestinely between the ranks. This led to an interchange of bad compliments, as well as to a very perceptible slanting of the deck, and the captain piped out to the hands to shift the chain-box. And by this action was resolved for me a riddle with regard to the properties and uses of a prematurely stout man of fabulous girth, who had been dimly revealed to me, once or twice in the course of the voyage, through some long vista of the ‘tween-decks, but seemed always to melt into air,–or, more probably, oil,–upon any advance being made to a closer inspection. Now, as a couple of the deck-hands hauled and howled unsuccessfully at the unwieldy chain-box, this mysterious person suddenly appeared, as if spirited up, and, throwing himself stomach on to the loaded vehicle, shot across with it to the other side of the deck with wonderful velocity, retiring, then, with a gliding movement, so as to preserve the rectitude of the deck, which now seemed inclined to slope rather too much the other way. I will not undertake to say, for certain, that the stout man was paid for doing this; but, as his hands were small and remarkably white, indications that he toiled not with _them_, and as he made his appearance on deck only when movable ballast was wanted, I am bound to suppose that he secured a living by sitting heavily and throwing himself on for weight, in circumstances under which such actions command a standard value.
Three hours having gone by since we came to anchor, the healthful toil of fishing in the salt sea produced its natural result,–a ravenous appetite for food and drink; and a common consent to partake of refreshments now began to develop itself. The wives had much to do with this, as they detailed themselves along the railings, influencing their husbands with hints about the hamper and flask. For most of the family-people had brought their provisions with them; and, in many cases, the basket was flanked by a stone jar which looked as if it might contain lager-beer,–as, in several instances, it did. Where there were many small children in a party, however, I noticed that the beverage obtained from the jar was milk,–real Orange County cow-produce, let us hope, and none of that sickly town-abomination, the vending of which ought to be made by our legislators a felony, at least. Ham-sandwiches, greatly enhanced in flavor by the circumstance of their outer surfaces being impressed with a reverse of yesterday’s news, from the contact of the pieces of newspaper in which they were wrapped up, formed the staple of the feast. Large bowls of the various, seasonable berries were also in request; and all the shady places of the ship were soon occupied by families, who distributed themselves in independent groups, as people do in the sylvan localities dedicated to picnics. All were hungry and happy, all better in mind and body,–illustrating the wise providence of the instinct that whispers to the over-wrought artisan and bids him go sometimes forth on a summer’s day to the woods and waters,–a move which the marine character of the subject impels me to speak of nautically, but reverently, as taking himself and family into the graving-dock of Nature, for the necessary repairs.
Some of the girls now stole slyly about among the lines, and popped the baits timidly into the blue water. The pale seamstress, who has quite a rose-flush on her cheek now, has hooked a good-sized porgy, and her screams in this terrible predicament have brought several smart young men to her rescue. Another girl, pretty and well-dressed,–in the glove-making line, as I guess from the family she is with, all of whom, from paterfamilias to baby, are begloved in a manner entirely irrespective of expense,–is kneeling pensively on the stern-benches of the upper deck, paying out the line with confidence in herself, but evidently hoping for masculine assistance in the process of hauling it in.
And where were our dear friends, the roughs, all this time? and how came it that they were so quiet? They have been asleep,–snoring off the effects of last night’s diversions, and fortifying their constitutions against the influences to come. Ever since the music ceased playing, these fellows have been rolled away, singly or in heaps, in crooked corners, into which they seem to fit naturally. But now they began to rally, waking up and stretching themselves and yawning,–the last two actions appearing to be the leading operations of a rowdy’s toilet; and, gathering round Lobster Bob, who has been steadily employed in opening oysters for all who have a midsummer faith in those mollusks, they commenced rapidly swallowing great quantities of the various kinds, which they seasoned to an alarming extent with coarse black pepper and brownish salt. The fierce thirst, which, with these men, is not a consequence, because it is a thing that was and is and ever will be, was brought vividly to their minds by this unnecessary adstimulation; and now the bar-keeper, whose lager-beer was wellnigh exhausted, from its connection with ham-sandwiches, had enough to do to furnish them with whiskey, of which stimulant there was but too large a supply on hand. The consequence of this was soon apparent in the ugly hilarity with which the rowdies entered upon the enjoyment of the afternoon. First, in spite of the remonstrances of the Teuton whose proper chattel it was, they seized upon the large drum, with which they made an astounding din in the public promenades of the vessel, abetted, I am sorry to say, by some who ought to have known better,–and did, probably, before the whiskey had curdled their wits. In this proceeding, as in all their movements, they were marshalled by Flashy Joe, whose comparatively spruce appearance, when he came on board in the morning, had been a good deal deteriorated by broken slumbers in places not remote from coals, and by the subsequent course of drinks. Quiet people were beginning to express some dissatisfaction with the noise made by these fellows, who, however, kept pretty much by themselves, as yet, and had got only to the musical stage of the proceedings, chorusing with unearthly yells a song contributed to the harmony of the afternoon by the first ruffian, the burden of which ran,–
“When this old hat was ny-oo, my boys, When this old hat was ny-oo-ooo!”
No voice in this chorus dwelt more decidedly by itself than the shrill one belonging to the small, spare man already spoken of as having a buxom young wife and blue cotton overalls. During his wife’s adjournment to the ladies’ cabin, this person, I am obliged to record, had become boisterously drunk,–a condition in which the contradictory elements that make up the characters of most men are generally developed to an instructive extent. In his first paroxysm, the fighting man within him was all aroused, as is generally the case with diminutive men, when under the influence of drink. Already he had tucked his sleeves up to fight a large German musician, who could have put him into the bell of his brass-horn and played him out, without much trouble. But the song pacified him; and, with a misty sense of his importance in a convivial point of view, on account of the manner in which he had acquitted himself in the chorus, he now essayed a higher flight, and treated the party to a new version of “The Pope,” oddly condensed into one verse, as follows:–
“The Pope, he leads a happy life,
He fears no married care nor strife, His wives are many as be will:
I would the Sultan’s place, then, fill!”
At this moment the buxom young wife descended suddenly from the upper deck by the forecastle-ladder, like Nemesis from a thunder-cloud, and, seizing upon the small warbler, to whom she administered a preliminary shake which must have sadly changed the current of his ideas, drove him ignominiously before her toward the stern of the vessel, rapping him occasionally about the ears with the hard end of her fan, to keep him on a straight course. Persons who traced the matter farther said that he was driven all the way to the upper deck, pushed with gentle violence into a state-room, the door locked upon him, and the key pocketed by the lady, who said triumphantly, as she walked away,–“That’s the Sultan’s place for _him_, I guess!” The moral to this little episode is but a horn-book one, and without any pretension to didactic force: That respectable citizens, like the small, spare man, would do well, on excursion-trips or elsewhere, to avoid whiskey and black-guards; and that wives might be saved a deal of trouble by keeping their eyes permanently on their husbands, when the latter are of uncertain ways.
This little domestic drama had hardly been played out, when a more serious one–almost a tragedy–was enacted on the forecastle. It originated in the misconduct of the red man, who, seized with a desire to catch porgies, went a short way to work for tackle, by snatching away the line of a peaceable, but stout Frenchman, who was paralyzed for a moment by the novelty of the thing, but, immediately recovering himself, expressed his dissent by smashing an earthen-ware dish, containing a great mess of raw clams for bait, upon the head of the red man, as he stooped over the railing to fish. This led to a general fight, in which blood flowed freely, and the roughs were getting rather the upper-hand. Knives were drawn by some of the Germans and others in self-defence, and great consternation reigned in the afterpart of the boat and the neighborhood of the ladies’ cabin. Then the slim captain of the boat–the one in the black dress-coat–hurriedly whispered something to Lobster Bob, who rushed away aft, where the fight was now agglomerating, headed by the red man and Flashy Joe, both covered with blood, and looking like demons, as they wrestled and bit through the Crowd. Just as they hustled past a large chest intended for the stowage of life-preservers, Lobster Bob kicked the lid of it open with a bang, and, seizing up the red man, neck and crop, with his huge, tattooed hands, dropped him into it and shut down the lid, which was promptly sat upon by the large, stout, smiling man already favorably spoken of in these pages, who suddenly made his appearance from nowhere in particular. The picture of contentment, he sat there like one who knew how, caressing slowly his large knees with his short, plump hands, until the cries from the chest began to wax feeble, when he slowly arose, vanished, and I never saw him again. The red rowdy was then dragged, half-suffocated, from his imprisonment, and as much life as he ought ever to be intrusted with restored to him by the stout old skipper, who was at hand with a couple of buckets full of cold salt-water, with which he drenched him liberally, as he slunk away. A diversion thus effected, the disturbance was quelled. All was quiet in a short time, and the word was passed to heave the anchor and ’bout ship for home.
On the way back, we took a pleasant course inside the Hook, which brought the charming scenery of the Jersey shore and of Staten Island before us, as a pleasant drop-curtain on the melodrama just closed. The music again struck up, and dancing was resumed with fresh vigor,–the waltzing of all other couples being quite eclipsed by that of Young New York and little Straw-Goods, who had effectually got rid of her tipsy persecutor ever since the ground-swell, and was keeping rather in the background of late, with a sober-minded lady whom she called “aunty.” With the exception of the few who took to whiskey and bad company, all appeared contented, and the better for their sea-holiday. The very musicians played with greater spirit than they did before, owing, perhaps, to their remarkable success in the porgy-fishery. One of the horn-players, far too knowing to let his fish out of sight, has propped his music-book up against a pyramid of them, as upon a desk. The good-looking man who plays upon the double-bass is equally prudent with regard to his trophies, which he has hung up around the post on which is pinned the score to which he looks for directions when it becomes necessary to bind together with string-music the pensive interchanges of the sax-horn and bassoon.
And now, as our vessel neared the wharf from which we had started while the sun was yet in the east, I looked forward to see what signs of the times were astir on the forecastle. All had deserted it, and were tending aft, with their tackle, their fish, and their prog-baskets,–all, at least, except Raw Material, of whom we enjoyed now an uninterrupted view, as he sat in his old position, with his head jammed obstinately into the capstan. But how was this?–he was round at the opposite side of it now; and I puzzled myself for a moment, thinking whether this change of bearings could be accounted for by the fact of the boat being headed the other way.
But Young New York, who is far more nautical than I am, and has a big brother in one of the yacht-clubs, derided the idea, and said he must have gone round with the handspikes, when the anchor was hove.
And there he remained, as we went our way,–a modern Spartan slave in a kind of marine pillory,–conveying to the red-legged children of Gotham, as they toddled ashore, a useful lesson on the doubtful relations existing between whiskey and pleasure.
COBBLER KEEZAR’S VISION.
The beaver cut his timber
With patient teeth that day,
The minks were fish-wards, and the cows Surveyors of highway,–
When Keezar sat on the hillside
Upon his cobbler’s form,
With a pan of coals on either hand To keep his waxed-ends warm.
And there, in the golden weather,
He stitched and hammered and sung; In the brook he moistened his leather,
In the pewter mug his tongue.
Well knew the tough old Teuton
Who brewed the stoutest ale,
And he paid the good-wife’s reckoning In the coin of song and tale.
The songs they still are singing
Who dress the hills of vine,
The tales that haunt the Brocken
And whisper down the Rhine.
Woodsy and wild and lonesome,
The swift stream wound away,
Through birches and scarlet maples Flashing in foam and spray,–
Down on the sharp-horned ledges
Plunging in steep cascade,
Tossing its white-maned waters
Against the hemlock’s shade.
Woodsy and wild and lonesome,
East and west and north and south; Only the village of fishers
Down at the river’s mouth;
Only here and there a clearing
With its farm-house rude and new,
And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, Where the scanty harvest grew.
No shout of home-bound reapers,
No vintage-song he heard,
And on the green no dancing feet
The merry violin stirred.
“Why should folk be glum,” said Keezar, “When Nature herself is glad,
And the painted woods are laughing At the faces so sour and sad?”
Small heed had the careless cobbler
What sorrow of heart was theirs
Who travailed in pain with the births of God, And planted a state with prayers,–
Hunting of witches and warlocks,
Smiting the heathen horde,–
One hand on the mason’s trowel,
And one on the soldier’s sword!
But give him his ale and cider,
Give him his pipe and song,
Little he cared for church or state, Or the balance of right and wrong.
“‘Tis work, work, work,” he muttered,– “And for rest a snuffle of psalms!”
He smote on his leathern apron
With his brown and waxen palms.
“Oh for the purple harvests
Of the days when I was young!
For the merry grape-stained maidens, And the pleasant songs they sung!
“Oh for the breath of vineyards,
Of apples and nuts and wine!
For an oar to row and a breeze to blow Down the grand old river Rhine!”
A tear in his blue eye glistened
And dropped on his beard so gray.
“Old, old am I,” said Keezar,
“And the Rhine flows far away!”
But a cunning man was the cobbler;
He could call the birds from the trees, Charm the black snake out of the ledges, And bring back the swarming bees.
All the virtues of herbs and metals, All the lore of the woods he knew,
And the arts of the Old World mingled With the marvels of the New.
Well he knew the tricks of magic,
And the lapstone on his knee
Had the gift of the Mormon’s goggles Or the stone of Doctor Dee.
For the mighty master Agrippa
Wrought it with spell and rhyme
From a fragment of mystic moonstone In the tower of Nettesheim.
To a cobbler Minnesinger
The marvellous stone gave he,–
And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, Who brought it over the sea.
He held up that mystic lapstone,
He held it up like a lens,
And he counted the long years coming By twenties and by tens.
“One hundred years,” quoth Keezar,
“And fifty have I told:
Now open the new before me,
And shut me out the old!”
Like a cloud of mist, the blackness
Rolled from the magic stone,
And a marvellous picture mingled
The unknown and the known.
Still ran the stream to the river,
And river and ocean joined;
And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line, And cold north hills behind.
But the mighty forest was broken
By many a steepled town,
By many a white-walled farm-house
And many a garner brown.
Turning a score of mill-wheels,
The stream no more ran free;
White sails on the winding river,
White sails on the far-off sea.
Below in the noisy village
The flags were floating gay,
And shone on a thousand faces
The light of a holiday.
Swiftly the rival ploughmen
Turned the brown earth from their shares; Here were the farmer’s treasures,
There were the craftsman’s wares.
Golden the good-wife’s butter,
Ruby her currant-wine;
Grand were the strutting turkeys,
Fat were the beeves and swine.
Yellow and red were the apples,
And the ripe pears russet-brown,
And the peaches had stolen blushes From the girls who shook them down.
And with blooms of hill and wild-wood, That shame the toil of art,
Mingled the gorgeous blossoms
Of the garden’s tropic heart.
“What is it I see?” said Keezar:
“Am I here, or am I there?
Is it a fete at Bingen?
Do I look on Frankfort fair?
“But where are the clowns and puppets, And imps with horns and tail?
And where are the Rhenish flagons? And where is the foaming ale?
“Strange things, I know, will happen,– Strange things the Lord permits;
But that droughty folk should be jolly Puzzles my poor old wits.
“Here are smiling manly faces,
And the maiden’s step is gay;
Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, Nor mopes, nor fools are they.
“Hero’s pleasure without regretting, And good without abuse,
The holiday and the bridal
Of beauty and of use.
“Here’s a priest and there is a Quaker,– Do the cat and the dog agree?
Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood? Have they cut down the gallows-tree?
“Would the old folk know their children? Would they own the graceless town,
With never a ranter to worry
And never a witch to drown?”
Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar,
Laughed like a school-boy gay;
Tossing his arms above him,
The lapstone rolled away.
It rolled down the rugged hill-side, It spun like a wheel bewitched,
It plunged through the leaning willows, And into the river pitched.
There, in the deep, dark water,
The magic stone lies still,
Under the leaning willows
In the shadow of the hill.
But oft the idle fisher
Sits on the shadowy bank,
And his dreams make marvellous pictures Where the wizard’s moonstone sank.
And still, in the summer twilights,
When the river seems to run
Out from the inner glory,
Warm with the melted sun,
The weary mill-girl lingers
Beside the charmed stream,
And the sky and the golden water
Shape and color her dream.
Fair wave the sunset gardens,
The rosy signals fly;
Her homestead beckons from the cloud, And love goes sailing by!
THE FIRST ATLANTIC TELEGRAPH.
“In the name of the Prophet:–Figs!”
“Eh, bien, Sare! wiz you Field and ze uzzers! Zey is ver’ good men, sans doute, an’ zey know how make ze money; mais–gros materialistes, I tell you, Sare! Vat zen? I sall sink I know, I! Oui, Monsieur, I, Cesar Prevost, who has ze honneur to stand before you,–I am ze original inventeur of ze Telegraphique Communication wiz Europe!”
It was about the period when, with the fast world of cities, De Sauty was beginning to become type of an “ism”; already the attention of excitement-hunters had travelled far from Trinity Bay, and Cyrus Field had yielded his harvest. Nevertheless, to me, who had just come to town from a quiet country seclusion into which news made its entry teredo-fashion only, the performances of the Agamemnon and Niagara were matters of fresh and vivid interest. So I purchased Mr. Briggs’s book, and went to Guy’s, to cut the leaves over a steak and a bottle of Edinburgh ale. It was while I was thus engaged that the little Frenchman had accosted me, calling my attention to his wares with such perfect courtesy, such airy grace, that I was forced to look at his baskets. And looking, I was induced to lay down my book and examine them more closely; for they were really pretty,–made of extremely white and delicate wood, showing an exquisite taste in their design, and being neatly and carefully finished. Then it was, that, having apparently noticed the title of my book, M. Cesar Prevost had used the language above quoted, and with such _empressement_ of manner, that my attention was diverted from his wares to himself. I looked at him with some curiosity.
He was a little old Frenchman, lean as a haunch of dried venison, and scarcely less dark in complexion,–though his color was nearer that of rappee snuff, and had not the rich blood-lined purple of venison. His face was wofully meagre, and seemed scored and overlaid with care-marks. Nevertheless, there was an energetic, nervous, almost humorsome mobility about his mouth; while his little beady black eyes, quick, warm, scintillant, had ten times the life one would have expected to find keeping company with his fifty years. In dress, he was very threadbare, and, sooth to say, not over-clean; yet he was jaunty, and moved with the air of a man much better clad. I was impressed with his appearance, and especially with his voice, which was vibrant, firm, and excellently intoned. It is my foible, perhaps, but I am always charmed with _bonhommie_, I class originality among the cardinal virtues, and I am as eager in the chase after eccentricity as a veteran fox-hunter is in pursuit of Reynard. M. Cesar promised a compensative proportion of all three qualities, could I only “draw him out”; and besides, he was not like Mr. Canning’s “Knife-Grinder,”–for, evidently, he _had_ a story to tell.
Observing my scrutiny, he smiled; a singular, ironical smile it was, yet without a particle of bitterness or of cynicism.
“Eh, bien!” said he; “you stare, Monsieur! you sink me an excentrique. Vraiment! I am use to zat,–I am use to have persons smile reeseeblement, to tap zere fronts, an’ spek of ze strait-jackets. Never fear,–I am toujours harmless! Mais, Monsieur, it is true, vat I tell you: I am ze origi_nal_ inventeur of ze Atlantic Telegraph! You mus’ not comprehend me, Sare, to intend somesing vat persons call ze Telegraph,–such like ze Electric Telegraph of Monsieur Morse,–a vulgaire sing of ze vire and ze acid. Mon Dieu, non! far more perfect,–far more grrand,–far more _original!_ Ze acid may burn ze finger,–ze vire vill become rrusty,–ze isolation subject always to ze atmosphere. Ah, bah! Vat make you in zat event? As ze pure lustre of ze diamant of Golconde to ze distorted rays of a morsel of bottle-glass, so my grrand invention to ze modes of ze telegraph in vogue at present!”
“Monsieur, you shall tell me about it,” said I, pointing to a seat on the other side of the table; “sit down there, and tell me about your invention, and in your native language,–that is, if you can spare the time to do so, and to drink a glass of Bordeaux with me.”
He accepted my invitation as a gentleman would, sipped his wine like a connoisseur, passed me a few compliments, such as any French gentleman might toss to you, if you had asked him to join you in a glass of wine in one of his city’s _cafes_, and then proceeded with his story. My translation gives but a faint echo of the impression made upon me by his life, vigor, and originality; but still I have striven to do him as little injustice as possible.
“Monsieur, it is ten years since I accomplished, put in practice, and evoked practical results from this international communication, which your two peoples have failed to establish, in spite of all their money, their great ships, and the united wisdom of their _savans_. I am a Frenchman, Monsieur,–and, you know, France is the congenial soil of Science. In that country, where they laugh ever and _se jouent de tout_, Science is sacred;–the Academy has even _pas_ of the army; honors there are higher prized than the very wreaths of glory. Among the votaries of Science in France, Cesar Prevost was the humblest,–_serviteur, Monsieur._ Nevertheless, though my place was only in the outermost porch of the temple, I was a faithful, devoted, self-sacrificing worshipper of the goddess; and therefore, because earnest fidelity has ever its crown of reward, it happened to me to make a grand discovery,–a discovery more momentous, it may be, than that of gunpowder or the telescope,–ten million hundred times more worth than the vaunted great achievement of M. le Professeur Morse. Not that its whole import came to me at once. No, Monsieur, it is full twenty years now since the first light of it glimmered upon Cesar Prevost’s mind, and he gave ten years of his life to it–ten faithful years–before it was perfect to his satisfaction. Ah, Monsieur, and ’tis more than one year now that I have been what you see me, in consequence of it. _Eh, bien!_ I shall die so,–rightly,–but my discovery shall live forever.
“But pardon, Monsieur,–I see that you are impatient. You shall immediately hear all I have to say,–after I have, in a few words, given you a brief insight into the nature of my invention. Come, then!–Has it ever occurred to Monsieur to reflect upon that something which we call _Sympathy?_ The philosophers, you know, and the physiologists, the followers of that _coquin_, Mesmer, and the _betes_ Spiritualists, as they now dub themselves,–these have written, talked, and speculated much about it. I doubt not these fellows have aided Monsieur in perplexing his brain respecting the diverse, the world-wide ramifications of this physiological problem. The limits, indeed, of Sympathy have not been, cannot be, rightly set or defined; and there are those who embrace under such a capitulation half the dark mysteries that bother our heads when we think of Life’s under-current,–instinct,–clairvoyance,–trance,–ecstasy,–all the dim and inner sensations of the Spirit, where it touches the Flesh as perceptibly, but as unseen and unanalyzed, as the kiss of the breeze at evening. _Sans doute,_ Monsieur, ’tis very wonderful, all this,–and then, also, ’tis very convenient. Our ships must have a steersman, you know. And, _par exemple,_ unless we call it sympathetic, that strange susceptibility which we see in many persons, detect in ourselves sometimes, what name have we to give it at all? Unless we call it sympathy, how shall we define those mysterious premonitions, shadowy warnings, solemn foretokens, that fall upon us now and then as the dew falls upon the grass-leaf, that make our blood to shiver and our flesh to quake, and will not by any means permit themselves to be passed by or nullified? ‘T is a fact that is irrepressible; and, in persons with imagination of morbid tendency, this spontaneous sympathy takes a hold so strong as to present visibly the image about which there is concern,–and, behold! your veritable spectre is begotten! So, again, of your ‘love at first sight,’ _comme on dit_,–that inevitable attraction which one person exerts towards another, in spite, it may be, both of reason and judgment. If this be not child of sympathy, what parentage shall we assign it? And antipathy, Monsieur, the medal’s reverse,–your _bete noire_, for instance,–expound me that! Why do you so shudder at sight of this or that innocent object? You cannot reason it away,–‘t is always there; you cannot explain it, nor diagnose its symptoms,–‘t is a part of you, governed by the same laws that govern your ‘elective affinities’ throughout. But note, Monsieur! You and I and man in general are not alone in this: the whole organic world–nay, some say the entire universe, inorganic as well as organic–is subject to these impalpable sympathetic forces. Is the hypothesis altogether fanciful of chemical election and rejection,–of the kiss and the kick of the magnet? Your Sensitive-Plant, your Dionea, your Rose of Jericho, your Orinoco-blossom that sets itself afloat in superb faith that the ever-moving waters will bring it to meet its mate and lover,–are not these instances of sympathy? And tell me by what means your eye conquers the furious dog that would bite you,–tell me how that dog is able to follow your traces, and to find the quail or the fox for you,–tell me how the cat chills the bird it would spring upon,–how the serpent fascinates its victim with a flash of its glittering eye. Our ‘dumb beasts’ yet have a language of their own, unguessed of us, yet perfectly intelligible to them,–how? We call this, Instinct. _Eh, bien, Monsieur!_ what is Instinct, but Sympathy?
“Bah! it amounts to nothing, all this, if we only look at it in such relations. For centuries have _stupides_ bothered their brains about such matters, seeking to account for them. As well devote one’s time to puzzling over ‘Aelia Laelia’! Mysteries were not meant to be put in the spelling-books, Monsieur. Ah, bah! a far different path did Cesar Prevost pursue! He studied these phenomena, not to _explain_ them,–being too wise to dream of living _par amours_ with such barren virgins as are Whence and Why (your Bacon was very shrewd, Monsieur). What cared I about _causes_? Let Descartes, and Polignac, and Reid, and Cudworth, _et id omne genus_, famish themselves in this desert; but ask it not of Cesar Prevost! He is always considerate to the impossible. He says this, always:–Here we have certain interesting phenomena; their causes are involved in mystery impenetrable; their esoteric nature is beyond the reach of any microscope;–what then? My Heaven! let us do what we _can_ with them. Let us seek out their _relations_; let us investigate the laws regulating their interdependence,–if there be such laws; and _apres_, let us inquire if there be any _practical results_ obtainable from such relations and laws.
“You follow me, Monsieur? _Eh, bien!_ This was the system, and Cesar Prevost came speedily to _one_ law,–a law so important, that, like Aaron’s serpent, it put all the rest out of sight forever, engrossing thereafter his whole attention. This law, which pervades the entire animal economy, and is of course important in proportion to its universality, is as follows:–_The sympathetic harmony between animals, other things being equal, is _IN INVERSE PROPORTION _to their rank in that scale of comparison in which man is taken as the maximum of perfection._ Consequently, man is most deficient in this instinctive something, which, for lack of a better term, I have ventured to style ‘sympathetic harmony,’ while the simplest organization has it most developed. This last, you perceive, Monsieur, is only inductively true;–when we get below a certain stage in the scale, we find the difficulties of observation increase in a larger ratio than the augmented sympathy, and so we are not compensated; ‘t is, for instance, like the telescope, where, after you have reached a certain power, the deficiency of light overbalances the degree of multiplication. Knowing this, my first aim was to find out what animal would suit best,–what one that could be easily observed was most susceptible, most sympathetic. ‘T was a long labor, Monsieur; I shall not tire you with the details. Enough that I found in the _snail_ the instrument I needed,–and in the snail of the Rocky Mountains the most perfect of his kind. You smile, Monsieur. _Eh, bien!_ ‘t is not philosophic to laugh at the means by which one achieves something. Smile how you will, ‘t is a fact that in the snail which is so common and grows to such an enormous size in the valleys and on the slopes of your great Cordilleras I found an animal combining a maximum of sympathetic harmony with the greatest facility of being observed, the best health and habits, and the utmost simplicity of _prononcee_ manifestation. But, you ask, what seek I, then? My Heaven, Monsieur! there was the grand Idea,–the Idea upon which I build my pride,–the Idea that is _mine!_ When it came to me, Monsieur, this Idea, a great calm filled all my soul, and I felt then the spirit of Kepler, when he said he could wait during centuries to be recognized, since the laws he had demonstrated were eternal and immutable as the Great God Himself! Yes, Monsieur! For in that crude, undeveloped Idea were already germinating the wonders of an achievement grander than any of Schwartz, or Guttenberg, or Galileo. Oh, this beautiful, grand simplicity of Science, which was able, from the snail itself, the very type and symbol and byword of torpidity and inaction, to evolve what was to conquer time and space,–to outrun the wildest imaginings of Puck himself!”
—-What a coltish fire of enthusiasm pranced in the worthy little Frenchman’s veins, to be sure!
“_Eh, bien!_ Now, distance made no matter; it was forever subdued. I could as soon send messages to the Sun itself as to my next-door neighbor! Smile on, Monsieur! Cesar Prevost shall not be piqued at your incredulity. He also was amazed, prostrated, when all the stupendous consequences of his discovery first flashed upon his mind; and it was very long before he could rid his mind of the notion that he was become victim to the phantasms of a ridiculous dream. _Eh, bien!_ ‘t was very simple, once analyzed. Know one fact, and you have all. And this one fact, so simple, yet so grand, was just this:–_That a male and female snail, having been once, by contact, put in communication with one another, so as to become what magnetizers call en rapport the one with the other, continue ever after to sympathize, no matter what space may divide them._ ‘T is in a nutshell, you perceive,–and giving me the entire principle of an unlimited telegraphic communication. All that was to do was to systematize it. Tedious work, you may conceive, Monsieur; yet I did not shrink from it, nor find it irksome, for my assured result was ever leading me onward. Ah, bah! what did I not dream then?–_Passons!_
“I was not rich, and so, to save the trouble and expense of importing my snails to Paris,–vast trouble and expense, of course, since my experiments were so numerous,–I came across the Atlantic, and fixed myself at a point near St. Louis, where I could study in peace and have the subjects of my experiments close at hand. I used to pay the trappers liberally to get my snails for me, instructing them how to gather and how to transport them; and to divert all suspicion from my real objects, I pretended to be a _gourmet_, who used the snails solely for gastronomic purposes,–whereby, Monsieur,” said Cesar Prevost, with a humorous smile, “I was unfortunate enough to inspire the hearty _garcons_ with a supreme contempt for me, and they used to say I ‘vas not bettaire zan one blarsted Digger Injun!’ _Mon Dieu!_ what martyrs the votaries of Science have been, always!
“_Eh, bien!_ I shall not bother you with my experiments. In brief, let me give you only results, so as to be just comprehensible. Given my law, I had to find, _first,_ the manner exactly in which snails manifest their sympathy, the one for the other,–_c’est a dire,_ how Snail A tells you that something is happening to his comrade, Snail B. There was a constant law for this, hard to find, but I achieved it. _Second,_ to make my telegraph perfect, and pat my system beyond the touch of accident, I had to discover how to _destroy_ the _rapport_ between Snails A and B. Unless I could do this, I could never be sure my instruments were perfectly isolated, so to speak. ‘Twas a difficult task, Monsieur; for the snail is the most constant in its attachments of all the animal kingdom, and I have known them to die, time and again, because their mates had died,–
“‘Pining away in a green and yaller melancholie,’
“as your grand poet has it, Monsieur. Still, I succeeded, and I am very proud to announce it;–’twas a great feat, indeed–no less than to _subvert an instinct!_ _Third_, I found out the way to keep them perfectly isolated, so as to prevent any subvention of a higher influence from weakening or destroying the previous _rapport_. _Fourth,_ what sort of influence brought to bear upon Snail B would be sympathetically indicated most palpably in Snail A. So, Monsieur, you may fancy I had my hands full.
“But I succeeded, after long labor. Then I spent much time in seeking to perfect an Alphabetical System, and also a Recording Apparatus, capable of exactly setting forth the _quality_ of the sympathy manifested, as well as the _number_ of the manifestations. When these things were all perfected, I should have a complete system of Telegraph, which no circumstances of time, distance, or atmosphere could impair, which would put on record its every step, and permit no opportunity for error or for accident.
“_Eh, bien!_ Man proposes,–God disposes. Monsieur, when I began my experiments, when I devoted myself, my energies, and my life itself to developing and utilizing my discovery, my motives were purely, exclusively scientific. My sole aim was to win the position of an eminent _savant,_ who, by conferring a signal benefit upon the race, should merit the common applause of mankind. But, as time wore on, as my labors began to be successful, as the grand possibilities of my achievement arrayed themselves before me, other dreams usurped my brain. I, the inventor of this thing, so glorious in its aspect, so incomputable in its results,–was I to permit myself to go without reward? Fame? Ah, bah! what bread would Fame butter? ‘Twas a bubble, a name, an empty, profitless sound, this _coquin_ of Fame! _’Proximus sum egomet mihi,’_ says Terence,–or, as your English proverb has it, ‘Charity begins at home.’ I bethought me of the usual fate of discoverers and inventors,–neglected, scoffed at, ill-used, left to starve. The blesser of the world with infinite riches must nibble his crust _au sixieme._ Why, then? Because, in their sublime eagerness to serve others, they forget to care for themselves. _Eh, bien!_ One must still keep his powder dry, said your great Protector. This discovery was to double the effectiveness of men’s hands,–therefore, was grandly to enrich them. But could it not be also made a notable instrument for wealth in _one_ man’s hands? Ah! brave thought! How, if, none the less resolved to give man eventually the benefit of my Idea, I should yet keep it in abeyance, till I had made my own sufficient profit out of it? It could be done;–surely, to use it well were less difficult than to have invented it. So dreams of wealth and luxury began to fill my brain. I would enrich myself till I had become a _power_, emphatically,–till all purchasable things were within my reach. Then I should likewise become a benefactor of the race; for my intentions were liberal, and intelligence sustained adequately can effect miracles. Then, when I had made myself veritably the Apostle of Riches, I would put the capstone to man’s debt to me, by endowing him with knowledge in the uses of this great instrument whereby I had made myself so great. Ah, Monsieur, you see, Haroun Alraschid had set me on his throne for an hour by way of jest, and I imagined myself Caliph in Bagdad forever!
“Full of such purposes, and of the fiery impatience of yearning begotten of them, I hastened to bring my work to efficiency for use. I had worked in silence, alone, secretly; for I dreaded to have my discovery guessed, my aims anticipated and foreclosed upon. But, hasten how I would, the processes were too slow for my means,–and just when, like the alchemist, my crucible promised the grand projection, came the dreaded explosion. My money exhausted itself! I found myself, a stranger in a strange land, without a dollar. _Eh, bien, Monsieur!_ ‘t is not in Cesar Prevost to despair. Ah, in those days, especially, had I a heart big with the strength of hope! To accomplish my ends, a partner was needed at best, money or no money; so now it was only necessary for me to find one who to the essential qualities of heart and brain conjoined a purse of sufficient size. Before long, I came across the very man. Monsieur, when I recall the past, I behold many instances where I erred and was foolish; but the single bitter reflection I have is, that my own ruin involved the ruin of John Meavy, my partner and good comrade. I remember what he was when I found him,–happy, prosperous, large-hearted,–in every sense a noble man. I ruined him! Ah, could I but–_Eh, bien!_ ‘t is too late, now; he is dead; _requiescat!_ I have the bliss to know he found no fault with the end.–_Passons!_
“When I first knew John Meavy, he was a merchant, living with the quiet ease of a well-to-do bachelor. Though he had been brought up to trade, the stain of money was not upon him. Generous, charitable, liberal of thought, he was the gentlest enthusiast in other men’s behalf that ever the sun shone on. It was the fact that he possessed fifty thousand dollars and was trustworthy that first drew rue towards him; but I had not known him long ere I gave him my ardent love, and thereafter thoughts of wealth were pleasant to me as much for his sake as for my own. John was a student, and a lover of Science, as well as a man of trade; and, in the first moments of our intercourse, I took care to let drop words that I knew would attract his curiosity and interest. Like all you Americans, John Meavy was a man of perfect faith in all that regarded ‘Progress,’ and especially did he believe in the infinite perfectibility of Science in the hands of an energetic people. This was the chord upon which I played, and the responsive note was easily evoked. He sought me out, came to me eagerly, and, by degrees, I divulged to him all my plans. He was ambitious to work for mankind, and I convinced him that I could give him the means to do so. My faith, Monsieur! that John Meavy had not one least morsel of selfishness in all his character! How far was he from dreaming of wealth for its own sake, and for the voluptuous surroundings with which my fancy enlarged upon it! No, indeed,–my invention to John Meavy was nothing; but, as a means to profit you and me and the rest of us, ‘t was a thing of the grandest import. So, at first, he would not have had us keep our secret for a day; but I–by a sophistry that is only sophistic when we add to the consideration man’s impotent and easily perverted will–brought him into my plans, showing him what an instrument for good vast riches would be in his hands. And he was the more easily persuaded because of the very grand purity of his nature. _Sans doute_, he felt it to be altogether true, what I told him, that, in _his_ hands, a hundred million dollars would be worth more to mankind at large than the whole French kingdom. _Mais, Monsieur_, you cannot own a hundred millions and be good. As well expect to find the same virtue in London that prevails in a quiet country-town. You cannot filter oceans, Monsieur, and the dead fish in them _will_ cause a stink. But I did not know this till afterwards.
“So, having inoculated John, I bestowed upon him my confidence without reserve; for I knew he was one to appreciate such treatment, and would repay me in kind. ‘Here it all is, _mon ami_,’ said I; ‘this is my invention; these the means for reducing it to practice; money is all I need. If you will join me, and provide the funds required, we will enter into a partnership for ten years, enrich ourselves, and then give it to all the world.’
“‘Ten years! must the world wait so long?’
“‘The world has waited six thousand years for this century, _camarade_. We shall require so long to enrich ourselves. And then, remember,–the longer they are kept out of it, the more perfect will our invention be, and, consequently, the greater their profit from it. Science has suffered too much already by its seven-months’ children, my good friend. _Eh, bien!_ What say you? Will you be my partner?’
“‘Yes, Cesar. ‘T is a noble scheme, such as only a noble man could originate. But, Prevost, do not speak to me of an equal partnership. I must not pattern after my country’s way of overlooking the inventor. Let us go into business upon this basis:–Prevost one share, John Meavy one share, Invention one share.’
“‘Bah! John Meavy!’ I cried. ‘If I have discovered something, so also have you, namely: a pocket deep enough, a heart honest enough, and a faith strong enough to make that something available;–I expected sooner to find the philosopher’s-stone than all these, good friend. No, John Meavy,–if you share with me, you share equally. Then I shall be sure that you are equally interested with myself; so we shall succeed.’
“_Eh, bien!_ We arranged it; and that very day, after I had pointed out to John the state of my experiments, my noble comrade took me with him to his place of business, put all his books open before me, explained exactly the condition of his affairs, and concluded by giving me a check for five thousand dollars. ‘There,’ said he, ‘take that, pay your debts, provide for yourself, and go on and reduce your invention to the practical working you speak about. Meantime, I will wind up my business in readiness to join you. Six months from now, the firm of Prevost and Meavy, established to-day, will begin business together.’
“_Mon pauvre_ John Meavy!
“_Eh bien, Monsieur!_” resumed the little Frenchman, after a short pause,–“one cannot help one’s self, after it is too late. _Allons, donc!_–I had lately, thinking over the matter in the light of my intense desire to begin a career, and under the pressure of urgent poverty, given up the notion of bringing my invention to absolute perfection as a system of telegraphing. Instead of elaborating a complete alphabet, I proposed to carry into effect a substitute already perfected, one simple almost beyond belief, needing few preparations, involving trifling cost, and capable of being made immediately operative. Further experience has taught me that the very same means, aided by a little deeper generalization, and an arbitrary set of signals, would have given me an entire alphabet. But just now I had no time to extend my experiments, needing all my time to make sure and acquire skill in what was already achieved. I must insure against the chance of mistake; for when we were applying our invention to the acquisition of money, any error would necessarily be fatal.
“The six months went rapidly by, and before they were over I was all ready. But John said, ‘Wait!’ He saw no need of hurry; and his affairs were not quite settled. _Eh, bien!_ I tranquillized my eager, impatient soul by gaining an insight into the art of book-keeping and the theory and practice of trade. At last the probationary period expired, and, prompt to the hour, my comrade announced his readiness to begin our business. The friends of John Meavy were reluctant to have him leave St. Louis. They did not know what enterprise he was about to join in; but they heard that I had some share in it, and they did not scruple to hint that I might be an adventurer, who would ‘diddle’ him out of his money. However, John only smiled, and told me all they said, in his frank way, as if it were some good joke. So, finally, we took leave of St. Louis, and came to New York, to organize the great house of Meavy & Prevost: John bearing his share in the concern, forty odd thousand dollars, with many letters to persons of eminence and influence; and I carefully seeing to _my_ share,–a few scientific works, some valuable chemical apparatus, and two dozen jars full of Rocky Mountain snails! _Eh, bien, Monsieur!_ my stock in trade was _magnifique_, in comparison with that with which my compatriot Girard commenced business.
“By John’s advice, we began our operations in a plain, quiet way, as exporters of breadstuffs. This we did, first, that the firm might make itself well enough known, and gain the confidence of the Bourse, so that the doors might be open to our subsequent operations; that I, secondly, might learn the business, and secure the proper recognition as John’s partner. Meantime, John was making himself familiar with the way to practise my invention; and both of us, gaining daily assurance of our power by reason of the discovery, were also daily increasing in love and confidence for each other. Happy days, those, Monsieur! _Eh, bien!_ had the invention only proved a fiction then!
“In another six months we had matured our plans, and, as our present business seemed lamentably slow in the light of my gigantic projects, I was eager enough to begin work in earnest. I had proved our telegraph thoroughly, and, ere I set out for London, to establish there a branch of the house of John Meavy & Co., I advised my good comrade to venture largely, so as to turn our capital over as often as possible, for there was no room for doubt or fear. But John did not guess how high I dreamed of rising in fortune; _he_ had no ambition to rival the Rothschilds.
“Monsieur, let me explain to you now the system of work we had agreed upon, and each slightest detail of which was perfectly familiar to us from constant manipulation, so that mistake or mishap, from any conceivable cause, was utterly impossible.
“Our business, nominally the buying of breadstuffs for exportation, was really one of speculation upon the New York market _as affected_ by the European markets,–a species of brokerage, which, ostensibly and in the eyes of the world attended by great risk, was really a thing of specifically safe and certain profits, thanks to the telegraphic system, the secret of which we alone possessed. In our tentative efforts, we fixed upon _flour_ as the best-adapted subject for our experiments, being a commodity simple to deal with, and requiring fewer complications in our arrangements than anything else. But, in my own private mind, I had resolved, that, as soon as our capital had grown large enough, and our credit was become sufficiently extensive, we would change our business to that of buying and selling cotton, as a better speculative; or, perhaps, would enter upon that grand arena of sudden fortune and sudden ruin, the stock-market. For the present, however, flour suited us well enough. It is well known, that, at that time, much more than at present, the price of breadstuffs in New York was regulated by the price in Liverpool. But Monsieur is not a merchant, I think? _Eh, bien_!–then I must take care to make myself intelligible. You know, Monsieur, that, in the stock-market especially, and more or less in every other kind of speculation, the greater part of the transactions are _fictitious_, to a certain extent. _Par exemple:_ you buy or you sell so many barrels of flour, at such a price, _on time_, as it is called,–that is, you engage to receive, or to deliver, so many barrels, at the prices and in the times agreed upon, in the hope, that, before the period of your contract comes round, prices will have so varied as to enable you to buy, or sell, the quantity bargained for, upon terms that will give you a profit. In a word, you simply agree to _run the risk_ of a change of prices such as to give you a profitable return. The operation is identical with that of betting that such a card will be turned, or that such a horse will win in a race, or such a candidate be elected President. On ‘Change we are charitable enough to suppose each speculator possessed of _data_ such as to make his venture seem reasonable to himself. This is the system, and, though very like gambling, it has the advantage of presenting to men of small means the chance of large profits, provided they are willing to run the risk; since, while with a capital of ten thousand dollars I could make an _actual_ purchase of only two thousand barrels of flour at five dollars a barrel, the profit on which, at an advance of twenty-five cents per barrel, would be very small,–by risking _all_ my money upon a single venture, and leaving myself a ‘margin’ of fifty cents to cover the greatest probable decline in price per barrel, I may purchase ‘on time’ all of twenty thousand barrels, the profit upon which, at the same rate, would be equal to fifty per cent of my entire capital. This is the legitimate system by which such rapid fortunes are made and lost upon ‘Change. Now suppose, that, operating in this way, you are in possession of a secret means of intelligence, instantaneous, to be relied on, peculiar to yourself,–does not Monsieur perceive that it insures one a fortune incalculable, and to be made within the shortest time? If I to-day learn that to-morrow’s steamer will bring news that cotton has advanced one cent a pound, of course I am justified in buying cotton to the utmost extent that my capital and credit will afford me means, being sure of selling it to-morrow at a higher price; and if I am continually in the receipt of similar information, I can turn my capital over fifty times in a year, and double it every time. There is actually _no limit_ to the possible fortune of a man who is so favored, provided he conjoins prudence and boldness to his manner of transacting business. The supplying of such secret and unshared information to the firm of John Meavy & Co. was the end of my invention, Monsieur. I was to go to Liverpool, and act as signaller, while he was to stay in New York, receive the information, and buy or sell in accordance with it.
“Our apparatus was very simple. At each terminus of our line, so to speak, we had a room, inaccessible save to ourselves. These rooms, darkened, and carefully kept at a fixed temperature, contained nothing, save, in one corner of each, a chronometer regulated with precision, and, in opposite corners, a set of boxes, containing each a snail. At the signalling end, at a fixed hour, which the chronometer gives with the greatest accuracy, and when I know that my partner, by agreement, will be present at the other end to receive intelligence, I go into my room, informed as to the condition of the Liverpool market, and prepared to transmit particulars of the same to him. Here are two boxes, divided into three compartments each, and a _male_ snail in each compartment. If flour is down, offering a chance for profit in New York upon ‘time’ sales, I approach the box marked _minus_, the three snails of which are called _x_, _y_, and _z_. I take up a little tube,–such a one as is used by chemists to drop infinitesimal portions of any liquid; I dip this into a vial marked _No_. 1, containing a solution of salt in water,–there is a row of these vials, the solution in each being of a different strength,–and then, with the moistened tube, I touch snail _x_, or snail _y_, or snail _z_, or any two of them, or all three, once, twice, three times, or repeatedly, according to the news I wish to signal,–noting the effect of the poison, and recording the particulars in a book kept for the purpose,–recording them with a nicety of intelligent discrimination such as can be obtained only by long and practised observation. I send an abstract of this record by every mail to my partner, so as to verify our results and to detect immediately any derangement. At _his_ end of our line the brave John Meavy waits before two similar boxes, in each compartment of which is a _female_ snail. He is a skilled observer, and his quick eve beholds snails _a_, _b_, _c_ exactly (through sympathy) _repeating_ the effects I am producing in _x_, _y_, _z_,–though the distance between them is over three thousand miles! He knows the meaning of these slight effects, and, going upon ‘Change, buys or sells with a perfect assurance of profit.
“Such was my telegraph, in its rudest outline; but I had systematized it to a degree of far greater nicety. I provided entirely against man’s imperfect and defective powers of observation. These movements and squirmings, which in snails _x_, _y_, _z_, were the effect of a physical cause, (salt-water.) were, in snails _a_, _b_, _c_, the result of sympathy for _x_, _y_, _z_, as I have said,–a result constant, determinate, and always to be depended upon. That is the _law_ of their _rapport_,–not a _theory_, but a _law_, established by long, exhaustive, and conclusive experimentation. The reason for it I cannot assign,–did not pretend to investigate; but the _fact_ I had ascertained: _x_, _y_, _z_, so touched, squirm, contract, and expand their articulations, and exude from their pores a certain slimy sweat, of agony it may be,–anyhow, a slimy exudation comes from them, –and, _simultaneously_, and _just as much_ in kind, degree, quality, everything, snails _a_, _b_, _c_ repeat the process. Such is the law, constant as gravitation. Consequently, all that the _operator_ has to concern himself about is, to understand that so many touches, with fluid of such intensity, to so many snails, and repeated so often, produce such and such an effect upon them, as, collectively considered, to convey, through _a_, _b_, _c_, a certain piece of information. Knowing this, skill in manipulation and accurate memory are all the qualities he requires to conjoin to such knowledge. But the _observer_ has a much more delicate office to perform, and, until I invented my recording apparatus, the functions of this post could be discharged only roughly and imperfectly, so evanescent and complex the manifestations. But I discovered a _chemical_ observer, employing tests that nothing could escape, nor anything deceive. The clock that indicates the hour for receipt of news puts in motion the filaments of certain delicate machinery connected with the boxes wherein are _a_, _b_, _c_. These snails are placed upon a gauze-like substance, which, though firm enough to support them undisturbed, permits both their natural excretions, and their exudations under excitement, to filter through readily. As soon as the hour comes, the machinery moves, and there begins to pass the _recording paper_, so to speak, which I invented,–a paper not meant to receive any vulgar mechanical impression, but one which, to the instructed eye, and by the aid of the microscope, sets forth in _plain language_ the nature of the functional disturbance in each snail, its quality, its intensity, and its duration. I do not exaggerate, Monsieur. This paper, in a word, is chemically prepared, saturated in a substance that renders it perfectly sympathetic to whatever fluid exudes from the snail, and thus, and by means of its motion, it records the quantity and quality of the impression with unvarying accuracy. The observing hour over, the clock-work stops, the paper is examined, and the result recorded carefully. _Par exemple:_ I touch snail _x_, once, twice, three times, with the weak solution, No. 1; John Meavy, receiving this fact, through the sympathetic report of snail _a_, the chemical paper, and the microscope, reads, as plainly as if it had been printed in pica type: ‘_Flour declined threepence_.’ If the fluid used is stronger, the touches more numerous, and bestowed upon _y_ and _z_ also,–then the decline or advance is proportionately great. Is it not a grandly simple thing, this telegraph of mine, Monsieur?”
—-I was dazzled, perplexed,–so entirely new, strange, incredible was all this to me; but I expressed to the little Frenchman, in what terms I could command, my profound sense of his genius and originality.
“_Eh, bien!_ I went to Europe,” resumed he, “and John Meavy, my brave comrade, stayed in New York, buying and selling flour, and turning over his capital with a rapidity of success that surprised everybody; while his modest demeanor, his chivalry of manner, and his noble generosity won the admission of all, that Prosperity chose well, when she elected John for her favorite.
“At the end of a year we were worth nearly half a million of dollars, and our credit was perfect. Then, however, John wrote for me to come home. He was engaged to be married, he said, wanted me to be present at the ceremony, and wished my aid in effecting some changes in our mode of business. I was not unwilling, for I also had some suggestions to make. I was tired of my place as operator; I yearned to quit my post of simple spectator, and to plunge head-foremost into the strife of money-getting. Apart from my irksome position, I felt myself more fit for John’s post than he was. As the capital we worked with increased, John waxed cautious, and, most illogically, announced himself afraid to venture, –as if his risk were not as great with ten thousand as with a million! This did not suit me. I felt myself capable of using money as mere counters, I divested it of all the terrors of magnitude, and thus I knew I could do as much in proportion with five million dollars as with five dollars. And the result, I was perfectly aware, would be to those achieved by John as the elephant in his normal strength compares with the elephant whose strength is to his size as the flea’s strength to _his_ size. John could take the flea’s leap with five dollars, but was satisfied with the elephant’s leap with five million dollars.
“So I took the next steamer, reached New York safely, and was most cordially welcomed by my noble John Meavy, who seemed exuberant with the happiness in store for him. Before he would say a word about business, he insisted upon taking me to his betrothed’s, and introduced me to his lovely Cornelia. He had chosen well, Monsieur: his bride was worthy a throne; she was worthy John Meavy himself,–a woman refined, charming, entirely perfect. At John’s solicitation, I was his groomsman; I accompanied him upon his wedding-tour; and mine was the last hand he clasped, as he stood on the steamer’s deck, on his way to Europe to take my place at the head of the Liverpool house. How many kind words he lavished upon me! how many a good and kindly piece of advice he murmured in my ear at that farewell moment! Ah! I do not think John wished to go thither; he was ever a home-body; and I am sure his wife disliked it much. But they saw it was my desire, they seemed to regard me as the builder-up of their fortunes, and they yielded without a murmur. _Bete_ that I was! Yet I was not selfish, Monsieur. Building up in dreams my fortune Babel-high, I built up also ever the fortune of John Meavy and his peerless wife to a point just as near the clouds. _Eh, bien!_ it amounted to nothing in the end, all this; but–I was not selfish!
“Our business was nominally the old one; but, in fact, in accordance with the new arrangements John and I had agreed upon, I was to begin cotton-speculation, and John was to keep me informed regarding the fluctuations of the Liverpool market in that staple. My first efforts, though successful of necessity, were small, I wished John to gain confidence in my mode of conducting the business, before I ventured upon more extensive operations.
“Meantime, John’s letters put me in continual fine spirits. He kept his telegraphic apparatus at home, and so was much with Cornelia. He and his wife, he said, were very happy; people could not love one another more than they did. He blessed me a thousand times, because my invention had taken him to New York, and so had enabled him to meet Cornelia. But–ah, these ‘buts,’ Monsieur!–if you will search long enough the brightest, the clearest blue sky, you will always find some little speck, some faint film of cloud,–‘t is your ‘but,’ Monsieur!–John fancied his wife was not altogether so happy as it was possible for her to be. She did not like the cold, colorless Liverpool, nor the foggy people there. She pined a little, perhaps, for old home-associations, wrote John. Could I not think of some means to increase her content? I knew the human heart so well; I was such a genius, moreover. Ah, bah! Monsieur, ‘t is the old song: I felt myself capable of sweeping the little cloud from the sky also, as I had done everything else,–I, this sublime genius! Monsieur, a moment look upon him, this genius, this triple blind fool! _Eh, bien!_ I considered:–Cornelia, like all tender, susceptible people, owes much to _little things_. She will not have to remain there long; meantime, can I not revive in her mind the associations to which she is used, and so both make her happy and bless my good comrade, John Meavy? How, then? Once, during John’s wedding-trip, we had stopped one evening in a little country-town, and while we were there, talking pleasantly by the open window, a mocking-bird, caged before a house across the way, had struck up a perfect symphony of his rich and multitudinous song. Cornelia was delighted beyond measure, and seemed to yearn for the bird. John tried to buy it; but it was a pet; its owners were well-to-do, and would not sell: so Cornelia had to go away without it, and I fancied she was greatly chagrined, though, of course, she said nothing, and seemed soon to forget it. So now the notion came to me:–I will send Cornelia a mocking-bird. Its music will charm her,–its notes will recall a thousand sounds of home,–it will give her occupation, something to think about and to care for, until more important cares intervene,–and so it will help to banish this _triste_ mood of _ennui. Eh, bien!_ I soon had a very fine bird. Ah, Monsieur, I cannot tell you what a fine bird was that fellow,–_Don Juan_ his name,–such an arch-rascal! such a merry eye he had! such a proud, Pompadour throat! such volumes of song! such splendid powers of mimicry! I kept him with me a week to test his gifts, and I began to envy Cornelia her treasure,–he was so tame, so bold, so intelligent. In that week, by whistling to him in my leisure hours, I taught him to perform almost perfectly that lively _aria_ of Meyerbeer’s, _’Folle e quei che l’oro aduna,’_ and also to mimic beautifully the chirping of a cricket. Well, I sent _Don Juan_ out, and received due information of his safe arrival. The medicine acted like a charm. Cornelia wrote me a grateful letter, full of enthusiastic praises of ‘her pet, her darling, the dearest, sweetest, cutest little bird that ever anybody owned.’ And I was more than rewarded by the heartfelt thanks of my noble John Meavy. _Diantre!_ had I only wrung the thing’s neck!
“_Eh, bien!_ The period upon which I calculated for my grand speculative _coup_ had nearly arrived. Owing to a variety of circumstances, the cotton-market had for some months been in a very perturbed condition; and I, who had closely scrutinized its aspects, felt sure that before long there would be some decided movement that would make itself felt to all the financial centres. This movement I resolved to profit by, in order to achieve riches at a single stroke. I had recommended John to increase his observations, and keep me carefully preadvised of every change. But I did not tell him how extensively I meant to operate, for I knew ‘t would make him anxious, and, moreover, I wished to dazzle him with a sudden magnificent achievement. Well, things slowly drew towards the point I desired. There was a certain war in embryo, I thought, the inevitable result of which would be to beat down the price of cotton to a minimum. Would the war come off? A steamer arrived with such news as made it certain that another fortnight would settle the question. How anxiously, how tremulously I watched my telegraph then,–noting down all the fluctuations so faithfully reported to me by John Meavy,–all my brain on fire with visions of unwonted, magnificent achievement! For two days the prices wavered and rippled to and fro, like the uncertain rippling of the waters at turning of the tide. Then, on the morning of the third day, the long-expected change was announced, and in a way that startled me, prepared though I was,–so violent was the decline. Down, down, down, down to the very lowest! reported my faithful snails. I did not need to consult the sympathetic paper, for the agonized writhings of the poor animals spoke plainly enough to the naked eye. I seized my hat, rushed to my office, and began my grand _coup. Eh, bien!_ I shall not go into details. Suffice it to say, for three days I was in communication with cotton men all over the country; and, without becoming known abroad as the party at work, I sold ‘on time’ such a quantity of ‘the staple’ that my operations had the effect to put down the prices everywhere; and if John Meavy’s report were correct, our profits during those three days would exceed three millions of dollars! Having now done all I could, and feeling completely worn out, I went home, for the first time since the news, flung myself upon a bed, and slept an unbroken sleep during twenty-four hours. After that, refreshed and gay, I went once more to the operating-room to see what further reports had arrived since I had received the decisive intelligence. Decisive, indeed! Monsieur, when I looked through the glass lids into the boxes, there lay my snails, stiff and dead! Not only my faithful ones, _a, b, c,_ but likewise the _plus_ ones, _d, e, f!_ Yes, there they lay, _plus_ and _minus,_ each in his compartment, convulsed and distorted, as if their last agonies had been terrible to endure! Stiff and dead! _Mon Dieu, Monsieur!_ and I had pledged the name and credit of the house of John Meavy and Co. to an extent from which there _could_ be no recovery, if aught untoward had happened! _Eh, bien. Monsieur!_ Cesar Prevost is fortunate in a very elastic temperament. Yet I did not dare think of John Meavy. However, if the thing was done, it was too late for remedy now. _Eh, bien!_ I would wait. Meantime, I carefully examined to see if any cause was discoverable to have produced these deaths. None. ‘T was irresistible, then, that the cause was at John’s end. What? An accident,–perhaps, nervous, he had dosed them too heavily; but–I dared not think about it,–I would only–wait!
“_Eh, bien, Monsieur!_ It would be seven days yet before I could get news. I waited,–waited calmly and composedly. _Mon Dieu!_ they talk of heroism in leading a forlorn hope,–Cesar Prevost was a hero for those eight days. I do not think about them even now.
“On the third day came a steamer with news of uncertain import, but on the whole favorable. By the same advice a letter reached me from my old comrade, John Meavy: his affairs were prosperous, he and his wife very happy, and _Don Juan_ more charming than ever.
“Monsieur, the fourth day came,–the fifth,–the sixth,–the seventh,–finding me still waiting. No one, to see me, could have guessed I had not slept for a week. _Eh, bien!_ I will not dwell upon it!
“The morning of the eighth day came. I breakfasted, read my paper, smoked my cigar, and walked leisurely to my counting-room. I answered the letters. I sauntered round to bank, paid a note that had fallen due, got a check cashed, and, having counted the money and secured it in my pocket-book, I walked out and stood upon the bank-steps, talking with a business-friend, who inquired after John Meavy. ‘T was a pleasant theme to converse about, this,–for _me!_
“A news-boy came running down Wall Street, with papers under his arm. ‘Here you are!’ he cried. ‘Extray! Steamer just in! Latest news from Europe! All ’bout the new alliance! Consols firm,–cotton riz! Extray, Sir?’
“I bought one, and the boy ran off as I paid him and snatched the paper from his hand.
“‘You gave that rascal a gold dollar for a half-dime,’ said my friend.
“‘Did I?’
“A gold dollar! I wondered very quaintly what he would say, when, in a few days, he heard of the failure of John Meavy & Co. for three millions of dollars. A gold dollar!
“_Eh, bien, Monsieur!_ I shall not dwell upon it. Enough,–we were ruined. I had played my grand _coup,_ and lost. For myself, nothing. But–John Meavy! Oh, Monsieur, I could not think! I went to my office, and sat there all day, stupid, only twirling my watch-key, and repeating to myself,–‘A gold dollar! a gold dollar!’ The afternoon had nearly gone when one of my clerks roused me:–‘A letter for you, Mr. Prevost; it came by the steamer to-day.’
“Monsieur,” said the little Frenchman, producing a well-worn pocket-book, and taking out from it a tattered, yellow sheet, which he unfolded before me,–“Monsieur, you shall read that letter.”
It was this:–
“MY DEAR CESAR:–
“You must blame me and poor _Don Juan_ for the suspension of your Telegraph. I write, myself, to tell you how careless I have been; for poor John is in such a state of agitation, and seems to fear such calamities, that I will not let him write;–though what evil can come of it, beyond the inconvenience, I cannot see, nor will he tell me. You must answer this immediately, so as to prove to John that nothing has gone wrong; and so give me a chance to scold this good husband of mine for his vain and womanish apprehensions. But let me tell you how it happened to the poor snails,–_Don Juan_ is so tame, that I do not pretend to keep him shut up in his cage, but let him fly about our sitting-room, just as he pleases. The next room to this, you know, is the one where we kept the snails. I have been helping John with these for some time, and it is my custom, when he goes on ‘Change, to look after the ugly creatures, and especially to open the boxes and give them air. Well, this morning,–you must not scold me, Cesar, for I have wept enough for my carelessness, and as I write am trembling all over like a leaf,–this morning, I went into the snail-room as usual, opened the boxes, noted how well all six looked, and then, going to the window, stood there for some minutes, looking out at the people across the way preparing for the illumination to-night, (for we are going to have peace at last, and every one is so rejoiced!) and forgetting entirely that I had left open both the door of this room and that of the sitting-room also, until I heard the flutter of _Don Juan’s_ wings behind me. I turned, and was horror-stricken to find him perched on the boxes, and pecking away at the poor snails, as if they were strawberries! I screamed, and ran to drive him off, but I was too late,–for, just as I caught him, the greedy fellow picked up and swallowed the last one of the entire six! I felt almost like killing _him,_ then; but I could not,–nor could _you_ have done it, Cesar, had you but seen the arch defiance of his eye, as he fluttered out of my hands, flew back to his cage, and began to pour forth a whole world of melody!
“My dear Cesar, I know my carelessness was most culpable, but it _cannot_ be so bad as John fears. Oh, if anything should happen now, by my fault, when we are so prosperous and happy, I could never forgive myself! Do write to me as soon as possible, and relieve the anxiety of
“Affectionately yours, CORNELIA.”
The little Frenchman looked at me with a glance half sad, half comical, as I returned the letter to him.
“_Eh, bien, Monsieur!_” said he, shrugging his shoulders,–“you’ve heard my story. ‘Twas fate,–what could one do?”
“But that is not all,–John Meavy,”–said I.
The little Frenchman looked very grave and sad.
“Monsieur, my brave _camarade,_ John Meavy, had been brought up in a stern school. His ideas of credit and of mercantile honor were pitched very high indeed. He imagined himself disgraced forever, and–he did not survive it.”
“You do not mean”—-
“I mean, Monsieur, that I lost the bravest and truest and most generous friend that ever man had, when John Meavy died. And that dose of Prussic Acid should properly have gone to me, whose fault it all was, instead of to him, so innocent. _Eh, bien, Monsieur!_ his lot was the happiest, after all.”
“But Cornelia?” said I, after a pause.
The little Frenchman rose, with a quiet and graceful air, full of sadness, yet of courtesy; and I knew then that he was no longer my guest and entertainer, but once more the chapman with his wares.
“Monsieur, Cornelia is under my protection. You will comprehend _that_–after that–she has not escaped with impunity. Some little strings snapped in the harp. She is _touchee_, here,” said he, resting one finger lightly upon his forehead,–“but ’tis all for the best, _sans doute._ She is quiet, peaceable,–and she does not remember. She sits in my house, working, and the bird sings to her ever. ‘Tis a gallant bird, Monsieur. And though I am poor, I can yet make some provision for her comfort. She has good taste, and is very industrious. These baskets are all of her make; when I have no other employ, I sell them about, and use the money for her. _Eh, bien!_ ’tis a small price,–fifty cents; if Monsieur will purchase one, he will possess a basket really handsome, and will have contributed something to the comfort of one of the Good God’s _protegees. Mille remerciements, Monsieur,_–for this purchase,–for your entertainment,–for your courtesy!
“_Bon jour, Monsieur!_”
* * * * *
About half an hour after this, I had occasion to traverse one of the corridors of Barnan’s Hotel, when I saw a group of gentlemen, most of whom sported “Atlantic Cable Charms” on their watchchains, gathered about a person who had secured their rapt attention to some story he was narrating.
“_Eh, bien, Messieurs!_” I heard him say, in a peculiar naive broken English, “it would be yet seven days before I could get ze news,–and–I wait. Oui! calm_lie_, composed_lie_, with insouciance beyond guess, I wait”–
“I wonder,” said I to myself, as I passed on, “I wonder if M. Cesar Prevost’s account of his remarkable invention of the First Atlantic Telegraph have not some subtile connection with his desire to find as speedy and remunerative a sale as possible for his pretty baskets!”
LADY BYRON.
It is seldom that a woman becomes the world’s talk but by some great merit or fault of her own, or some rare qualification so bestowed by Nature as to be incapable of being hidden. Great genius, rare beauty, a fitness for noble enterprise, the venturous madness of passion, account for ninety-nine cases in the hundred of a woman becoming the subject of general conversation and interest. Lady Byron’s was the hundredth case. There was a time when it is probable that she was spoken of every day in every house in England where the family could read; and for years the general anxiety to hear anything that could be told of her was almost as striking in Continental society and in the United States as in her own country. Yet she had neither genius, nor conspicuous beauty, nor “a mission,” nor any quality of egotism which could induce her to brave the observation of the world for any personal aim. She had good abilities, well cultivated for the time when she was young; she was rather pretty, and her countenance was engaging from its expression of mingled thoughtfulness and brightness; she was as lady-like as became her birth and training; and her strength of character was so tempered with modesty and good taste that she was about the last woman that could have been supposed likely to become celebrated in any way, or, yet more, to be passionately disputed about and censured, in regard to her temper and manners: yet such was her lot. No breath of suspicion ever dimmed her good repute, in the ordinary sense of the expression: but to this day she is misapprehended, wherever her husband’s genius is adored; and she is charged with precisely the faults which it was most impossible for her to commit. For the original notoriety she was not answerable; but for the protracted misapprehension of her character she was. She early decided that it was not necessary or desirable to call the world into council on her domestic affairs; her husband’s doing it was no reason why she should; and for nearly forty years she preserved a silence, neither haughty nor sullen, but merely natural, on matters in which women usually consider silence appropriate. She never inquired what effect this silence had on public opinion in regard to her, nor countenanced the idea that public opinion bore any relation whatever to her private affairs and domestic conduct. Such independence and such reticence naturally quicken the interest and curiosity of survivors; and they also stimulate those who knew her as she was to explain her characteristics to as many as wish to understand them, after disputing about them for the lifetime of a whole generation.
Anne Isabella Noel Milbanke (that was her maiden name) was an only child. Her father, Sir Ralph Milbanke, was the sixth baronet of that name. Her mother was a Noel, daughter of Viscount and Baron Wentworth, and remotely descended from royalty,–that is, from the youngest son of Edward I. After the death of Lady Milbanke’s father and brother, the Barony of Wentworth was in abeyance between the daughter of Lady Milbanke and the son of her sister till 1856, when, by the death of that cousin, Lord Scarsdale, Lady Byron became possessed of the inheritance and title. During her childhood and youth, however, her parents were not wealthy; and it was understood that Miss Milbanke would have no fortune till the death of her parents, though her expectations were great. Though this want of immediate fortune did not prove true, the report of it was probably advantageous to the young girl, who was sought for other things than her fortune. When Lord Byron thought of proposing, the friend who had brought him to the point of submitting to marriage objected to Miss Milbanke on two grounds,–that she had no fortune, and that she was a learned lady. The gentleman was as wrong in his facts as mischievous in his advice to the poet to many. Miss Milbanke had fortune, and she was not a learned lady. Such men as the two who held a consultation on the points, whether a man entangled in intrigues and overwhelmed with debts should release himself by involving a trusting girl in his difficulties, and whether the girl should be Miss Milbanke or another, were not likely to distinguish between the cultivated ability of a sensible girl and the pedantry of a blue-stocking; and hence, because Miss Milbanke was neither ignorant nor silly, she was called a learned lady by Lord Byron’s associates. He bore testimony, in due time, to her agreeable qualities as a companion,–her brightness, her genial nature, her quiet good sense; and we heard no more of her “learning” and “mathematics,” till it suited her enemies to get up a theory of incompatibility of temper between her and her husband. The fact was, she was well-educated, as education was then, and had the acquirements which are common in every house among the educated classes of English society.
She was born in 1792, and passed her early years chiefly on her father’s estates of Halnaby, near Darlington, Yorkshire, and Seaham, in Durham. She retained a happy recollection of her childhood and youth, if one may judge by her attachment to the old homes, when she had lost the power of attaching herself, in later life, to any permanent home. When an offer of service was made to her, some years since, by a person residing on the Northumberland coast, the service she asked was that a pebble might be sent her from the beach at Seaham, to be made into a brooch, and worn for love of the old place.
Her father, as a Yorkshire baronet, spent his money freely. A good deal of it went in election-expenses, and the hospitality of the house was great. It was too orderly and sober and old-fashioned for Lord Byron’s taste, and he quizzed it accordingly; but he admitted the kindliness of it, and the amiability which made guests glad to go there and sorry to come away. His special records of Miss Milbanke’s good-humor, spirit, and pleasantness indicate the source of subsequent misrepresentations of her. Till he saw it, he could not conceive that order and dutifulness could coexist with liveliness and great charms of mind and manners; and when the fact was out of sight, he went back to his old notion, that affectionate parents and dutiful daughters must be dull, prudish, and tiresome.
“Bell” was beloved as only daughters are, but so unspoiled as to be sought in marriage as eagerly as if she had been a merry member of a merry tribe. Lord Byron himself offered early, and was refused, like many other suitors. Her feelings were not the same, however, to him as to others. It is no wonder that a girl not out of her teens should be captivated by the young poet whom the world was beginning to worship for his genius as very few men are worshipped in their prime, and who could captivate young and old, man, woman, and child, when he chose to try. As yet, his habits of life and mind had not told upon his manners, conversation, and countenance as they did afterwards. The beauty of his face, the reserved and hesitating grace of his manner, and the pith and strength of such conversation as he was tempted into might well win the heart of a girl who was certainly far more fond of poetry than of mathematics. Yet she refused him. Perhaps she did not know him enough. Perhaps she did not know her own feelings at the moment. She afterwards found that she had always loved him. His renewed offers at the close of two years made her very happy. She was drawing near the end of her portion of life’s happiness; and she seems to have had no suspicion of the baselessness of her natural and innocent bliss. It is probable that nobody about her knew, any more than herself, how and why Lord Byron offered to her a second time, till Moore published the facts in his “Life” of the poet. The thrill of disgust which ran through every good heart, on reading the story, made all sympathizers ask how she could bear to learn how she had been treated in the confidences of profligates. Perhaps she had known it long before, as her husband had repeatedly tried his powers of terrifying and depressing her; but, at all events, she could bear anything,–not only with courage and in silence, but with calmness and inexhaustible mercy. According to Moore’s account, a friend of Byron’s urged him to marry, as a remedy for the melancholy restlessness and disorder of his life; “and, after much discussion, he consented.” The next proceedings were in character with this “consent.” Byron named Miss Milbanke: the friend objected, on the grounds of her possession of learning and supposed want of fortune; and Byron actually commissioned his adviser to propose for him to the lady he did not prefer. She refused him; and then future proceedings were determined by his friend’s admiration of the letter he had got ready for Miss Milbanke. It was such a pretty letter, it would be a pity not to send it. So it was sent.
If she could have known, as she hung over that letter, what eyes had read lines that should have been her own secret property, and as what kind of alternative the letter had been prepared, what a different life might hers have been! But she could not dream of being laid hold of as a speculation in that style, and she was happy,–as women are for once in their lives, and as she deserved to be. There was another alternative, besides that of two ladies to be weighed in the balance. Byron was longing to go abroad again, and he would have preferred that to marrying; but the importunity of his friends decided him for marriage. In a short time, and for a short time, Miss Milbanke’s influence was too strong for his wayward nature and his pernicious friends to resist. His heart was touched, his mind was soothed, and he thought better of women, and perhaps of the whole human race, than he had ever done before. He wrote to Moore, who owned he had “never liked her,” and who boded evil things from the marriage, that she was so good that he wished he was better,–that he had been quite mistaken in supposing her of “a very cold disposition.” These gentlemen had heard of her being regarded as “a pattern lady in the North”; and they had made up an image of a prude and a blue in their own minds, which Byron presently set himself to work to pull down. He wrote against Moore’s notion of her as “strait-laced,” in a spirit of justice awakened by his new satisfactions and hopes: but there are in the narrative no signs of love on his part,–nothing more than an amiable complacency in the discovery of her attachment to him.
The engagement took place in September, 1814, and the marriage in the next January. Moore saw him in the interval, and had no remaining hope, from that time, that Byron could ever make or find happiness in married life. He was satisfied that love was, in Byron’s case, only an imagination; and he pointed to a declaration of Byron’s, that, when in the society of the woman he loved, even at the happiest period of his attachment, he found himself secretly longing to be alone. Secretly during the courtship, but not secretly after marriage.
“Tell me, Byron,” said his wife, one day, not long after they were married, and he was moodily staring into the fire,–“am I in your way?”
“Damnably,” was the answer.
It will be remembered by all readers that the reason he assigned for the good terms on which he remained with his half-sister, Mrs. Leigh, was that they seldom or never saw each other.
When Moore saw him in London, he was in a troubled state of mind about his affairs. His embarrassments were so pressing that he meditated breaking off the match; but it was within a month of the wedding-day, and he said he had gone too far to retract.–How it was that Sir Ralph Milbanke did not make it his business to ascertain all the conditions of a union with a man of Byron’s reputation it is difficult to imagine. Every movement of the idolized poet was watched, anecdotes of his life and ways were in all mouths; and a prudent father, if encouraging his addresses at all, should naturally have ascertained the chances of his daughter having an honorable and happy home. Sir Ralph probably thought so, when there were ten executions in the house in the first few months after the marriage. Those difficulties, however, did not affect the happiness of the marriage unfavorably. The wife was not the less of the heroic temperament for being “a pattern young lady.” She was one whose spirit was sure to rise under pressure, and who was always most cheerful when trouble called forth her energies on behalf of others. Liberal with her own property, making light of privation, full of clear and practical resource in emergency, she won her husband’s admiration in the midst of the difficulties into which he had plunged her. For a time he was not ashamed of that admiration; and his avowals of it are happily on record.
They were married on the second of January. The wedding-day was miserable. Byron awoke in one of his melancholy moods, and wandered alone in the grounds till called to be married. His wayward mind was full of all the associations that were least congenial with the day. His thoughts were full of Mary Chaworth, and of old scenes in his life, which he fancied he loved because he was now leaving them behind. He declared that his poem of “The Dream” was a true picture of his wedding-morning; and there are circumstances, not told in his “Life,” which render this probable. After the ceremony and breakfast, the young couple left Seaham for Sir Ralph’s seat at Halnaby. Towards dusk of that winter-day, the carriage drove up to the door, where the old butler stood ready to receive his young lady and her bridegroom. The moment the carriage-door was opened, the bridegroom jumped out and walked away. When his bride alighted, the old servant was aghast. She came up the steps with the listless gait of despair. Her face and movements expressed such utter horror and desolation, that the old butler longed to offer his arm to the lonely young creature, as an assurance of sympathy and protection. Various stories got abroad as to the cause of this horror, one probably as false as another; and, for his own part, Byron met them by a false story of Miss Milbanke’s lady’s-maid having been stuck in, bodkin-wise, between them. As Lady Byron certainly soon got over the shock, the probability is that she satisfied herself that he had been suffering under one of the dark moods to which he was subject, both constitutionally and as the poet of moods.
It is scarcely possible at our time of day to make sufficient allowance for such a woman having entered upon such a marriage, in spite of the notoriety of the risks. Byron was then the idol of much more than the literary world. His poetry was known by heart by multitudes of men and women who read very little else; and one meets, at this day, elderly men, who live quite outside of the regions of literature, who believe that there never could have been such a poet before, and would say, if they dared, that there will never be such another again. He appeared at the moment when society was restless and miserable, and discontented with the Fates and the universe and all that it contained. The general sensibility had not for long found any expression in poetry. Literature seemed something quite apart from experience, and with which none but a particular class had any concern. At such a time, when Europe lay desolate under the ravage and incessant menace of the French Empire,–when England had an insane King, a profligate Regent, an atrocious Ministry, and a corrupt Parliament,–when the war drained the kingdom of its youth, and every class of its resources,–when there was chronic discontent in the manufacturing districts, and hunger among the rural population, with a perpetual extension of pauperism, swallowing up the working and even the middle classes,–when everybody was full of anxiety, dread, or a reactionary recklessness,–there suddenly appeared a new strain of poetry which seemed to express every man’s mood. Every man took up the song. Byron’s musical woe resounded through the land. People who had not known exactly what was the matter with them now found that life was what Byron said it was, and that they were sick of it. I can well remember the enthusiasm,–the better, perhaps, for never having shared it. At first I was too young, and afterwards I found too much of moods and too little of matter to create any lasting attachment to his poetry. But the music of it rang in all ears, and the rush of its popularity could not be resisted by any but downright churlish persons. I remember how ladies, in morning calls, recited passages of Byron to each other,–and how gentlemen, in water-parties, whispered his short poems to their next neighbor. If a man was seen walking with his head down and his lips moving, he was revolving Byron’s last romance; and children who began, to keep albums wrote, in double lines on the first page, some stanza which caught them by its sound, if they were not up to its sense. On some pane in every inn-window there was a scrap of Byron; and in young ladies’ portfolios there were portraits of the poet, recognizable, through all bad drawing and distortion, by the cast of the beautiful features and the Corsair style. Where a popularity like this sprang up, there must be sufficient reason for it to cause it to involve more or less all orders of minds; and the wisest and most experienced men, and the most thoroughly trained scholars, fell into the general admiration, and keenly enjoyed so melodious an expression of a general state of feeling, without asking too pertinaciously for higher views and deeper meanings. Old Quakers were troubled at detecting hidden copies and secret studies of Byron among young men and maidens who were to be preserved from all stimulants to the passions; and they were yet more troubled, when, looking to see what the charm was which so wrought upon the youth of their sect, they found themselves carried away by it, beyond all power to forget what they had read. The idolatry of the poet, which marked that time, was an inevitable consequence of the singular aptness of his utterance. His dress, manners, and likings were adopted, so far as they could be ascertained, by hundreds of thousands of youths who were at once sated with life and ambitious of fame, or at least of a reputation for fastidious discontent; young ladies declared that Byron was everything that was great and good; and even our best literature of criticism shows how respectful and admiring the hardest reviewers grew, after the poet had become the pet and the idol of all England. At such a time, how should “Bell” Milbanke resist the intoxication,–even before the poet addressed himself particularly to her? A great reader in the quietness of her home, where all her tastes were indulged,–a lover of poetry, and so genial and sympathizing as to be always sure to be filled with the spirit of her time,–how could she fail to idolize Byron as others did? And what must have been her exaltation, when he told her that the welfare of his whole life depended upon her! Between her exaltation, her love, her sympathy, and her admiration, she might well make allowance for his eccentricities first, and for worse afterwards. Thus, probably, it was that she got over the shock of that wedding-drive, and was again the bright, affectionate, trusting and winning woman whom he had described before and was to describe again to his skeptical friend Moore.
Before six weeks were over, he wrote to Moore (after some previous hankerings) that he should go abroad soon, “and alone, too.” He did not go then. In April the death of Lord Wentworth occurred, causing Sir Ralph and Lady Milbanke to take the name of Noel, according to Lord Wentworth’s will, and assuring the prospect of ultimate accession of wealth. Meantime, the new expenses of his married life, entered upon without any extrication from old debts, caused such embarrassment, that, after many other humiliations had been undergone, he offered his books for sale. As Lady Byron maintained a lifelong silence about the sufferings of her married life, little is known of that miserable year beyond what all the world saw: executions in the house; increasing gloom and recklessness in the husband; a bright patience and resoluteness in the wife; and an immense pity felt by the poet’s adorers for his trials by a persecuting Fate. During the summer and autumn, his mention of his wife to his correspondents became less frequent and more formal. His tone about his approaching “papaship” tells nothing. He was not likely to show to such men any good or natural feelings on the occasion. In December, his daughter, Augusta Ada, was born; and early in January, he wrote to Moore so melancholy a “Heigho!” on occasion of his having been married a year, as to incite that critical observer to write him an inquiry about the state of his domestic spirits. The end was near, and the world was about to see its idol and his wife tested in moral action of a very stringent kind.
By means of the only publication ever made or authorized by Lady Byron on the subject of her domestic life, her vindication of her parents, contained in the Appendix of Moore’s “Life” of the poet, we know, that, during her confinement, Lord Byron’s nearest relatives were alarmed by tokens of eccentricity so marked, that they informed her, as soon as she was recovered, that they believed him insane. His confidential servant bore the same testimony; and she naturally believed it, when she resumed her place in the household, and saw how he was going on. On the sixth of January, the day after he wrote the “Heigho!” to Moore, he desired his wife, in writing, to go to her parents on the first day that it was possible for her to travel. Her physicians would not let her go earlier than the fifteenth; and on that day she went. She never saw her husband again.
She had, in agreement with his family, consulted Dr. Baillie on her husband’s behalf; and he, supposing the insanity to be real, advised, before seeing Lord Byron, that she should obey his wish about absenting herself, as an experiment,–and that, in the interval, she should converse only on light and cheerful topics. She observed these directions, and, in the spirit of them, wrote two letters, on the journey, which bore no marks of the trouble which existed between them. These letters were afterwards used, even circulated, to create a belief that Lady Byron had been suddenly persuaded to desert her husband, though he at least was well aware that the fact was not so. It soon appeared that he was not insane. Such was the decision of physicians, relatives, and presently of Lady Byron herself. While there was any room for supposing disease to be the cause of his conduct, she and her parents were anxious to use all tenderness with him, and devote themselves to his welfare; but when it became necessary to consider him