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J45
^gSOCTEVi
**
No ! I am a lady gay,
It is very well known I may
Have men cf renown
In country or town ;
So, Roger, without delay,
Court Bridget or Sue,
Kate, Nancy, or Prue;
Their loves will soon be won ;
But don’t you dare
To speak me fair
As if I were
Ax try last prayer
To marry a farmer’s son.
“
A fig for your cattle and corn !
Your proffered love I scorn.
’T is known very well
Myname it is Nell,
And you ’re but a bumpkin born.
He. Well, since it is so,
Away I will go,
And I hope no harm is done.
Farewell 1 Adieu 1
I hope to woo
As good as you
And win her too,
Though I’m but a farmer’s son.
"He. My father has riches in store,
Two hundred a year, and mor®;
Besides sheep and cows,
Carts, harrows, and ploughs ;
His age is above threescore ;
And when he does die,
Then merrily I
Shall have what he has won.
Both land and kine,
All shall be thine,
If thou ’It incline
C And wilt be mine,
E And marry a farmer’s son.
“ She. Be not in such haste, quoth she,
Perhaps we may still agree ;
For, man, I protest
I was but in jest :
Come, prythee, sit down by me :
For thou art the man
That verily can
Win me, if e’er I’m won.
Therefore I shall
Be at your call,
To marry a farmer’s son.”
J. V. Blake.
BEYOND.
HAVE a friend, I cannot tell just where,
I For out of sight and hearing he has gone ;
Yet now, as once, I breathe for him a prayer,
Although his name is carved upon a stone.
O blessed habit of the lips and heart!
Not to be broken by the might of Death.
A soul beyond seems how less far apart,
If daily named to God with fervid breath.
If one doth rest in God, we well may think
He overhears the prayer we pray for him :
Our Father, let us keep the sacred link;
The hand of Prayer Love’s holy lamp doth trim.
Were the dear dead once heedless of God’s will,
Needing our prayer that he might be forgiven ;
Against all creeds, that prayer uprises still,
With the dim trust of pardon and of heaven.
Charlotte F. Bates.
vol. xxxi.—no. 184.
IO
�146
Boy^B^a in a, Scottish Co^ntry^S&A,
[February,
BOY-LIFE IN A SCOTTISH COUNTRY-SEAT.
A CHAPTER OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
MUST have been, from my earliest
I years, a very self-willed youngster,
I recollect my mother telling me of
some of her troubles, dating from the
time when I was still unable to walk ;
the old story of the baby screaming per
sistently, if refused anything he had set
his little heart on. Very gentle though
she was, the doctrine of innate deprav
ity, in which she had been bred, urged
her to slap me into quiet. But my
father — an advocate of system, and an
undoubting believer in his favorite ten
et that “ man’s character is formed for
him, not by him”—stoutly opposed
that. Yet the screams, whenever my
mother objected to having her lace
collar torn, or a teacup, of some old
china-set, snatched from the table and
flung to the floor, remained a stubborn
reality which no theory could get over ;
and it seriously disturbed my father as
well as the rest of the house. Some
thing must be done.
“ When the child screams from tem
per, my dear Caroline” (my father
thought my mother’s middle name more
romantic than the plain Ann ; but I
think I should have called her Annie),
— il when the child screams, set him in
the middle of the nursery floor, and be
sure you don’t take him up till he stops
crying.”
“ But, my dear, he ’ll go on crying
by the hour.”
“ Then let him cry.”
“It may hurt his little lungs, and
perhaps throw him into spasms.”
I think not. At all events it will
hurt him more if he grows up art tongovernable boy. Man is the creature
of circumstances.”
My mother, who had been a dutiful
daughter, was also an obedient wife,
and she had a great respect for my
father’s judgment —in temporal mat
ters. So the next time I insisted on
trying innocent ^piwlments on teacup
or collar, I was carried off to the nur
sery and set down, screaming lustily,
on mid-floor.
My mother must have suffered dread
fully for the next hour; but soon after
that the fury of disappotatmgtoB wore
itself out, and I dropped asleep on the
pillow behind me.
This punishment had to be repeated
five or six times. My jnotfcftf was be
ginning to despair when she found,, one
day, to her great relief, that baby could
be crossed in his wishes and Blade to
give up, with just a Tittle frettifi^
After a time even the fretting ceased.
The infant culprit had learned a great
lesson in life, —submission to the in
evitable.
This was all very well; but the tem
per remained, and culminated, six or
seven years after the nursery experi
ments, in a fit of indignant rage, aider
this wise.
Braxfield House was situated about
half-way between the village of New
Lanark and the ancient shire-town of
Lanark. The latter is famed in Scottish
history; and on “the Moor” near to
it wappin-schaws used to be held in
the olden time. There was no post
office in the village, and one of the sup
plementary workmen there, a ■certaift
James Dunn, an old spinner who had
lost an arm by an accident in the mills,
was our letter-carrier, — the bearer
of a handsome leather bag with gay
brags padlock, which gave him a sort
of official dignity to the eyes of the ris
ing generation; and by this time there
were some three or four young vine
shoots growing up around the Owen
family table.
If James Dunn had lost one arm, he
made excellent use of the other; con
structing bows and arrows and fifty
other nice things, for pur delectation,
�i873-]
V
y '
Boy-Life in & Scottish Cotmtry-Seat.
and thus coming into distinguished
favor. One day he gave me a clay pipe,
showed me how to mix soap-water in
due proportion, and then, for the first
ift ottr'we chUdren witee^ged
the marvellous rise, from the pipe-bowl,
of the brightly variegated bubble ; its
slow, graceful ascent into upper air ;
and, alas! its sudden disappearance,
at the very climax of our wonder. My
delight was, beyond all bounds ; and so
was my gratitude to the one-armed
magician. I take credit for this last
sentiment, in extenuation @f the crime
which was to follow.
We had in the house a sort of odd
job boy, who ran errands, helped
occasionally in the stables, carried
coals to the fires, and whose earlymorning duty it was to clean the boots
and shoes of the household. His par
ents had named him, at the fount, after
the Macedonian conqueror; but their
son, unlike King Philip’s, suffered
nicknaming, or at least contraction
of his baptismal title into Sandy.
Sandy, according to my recollection
of him, was the worst of bad boys.
His chief pleasure seemed to consist
in inventing modes of vexing and en
raging us ; and he was quite ingenious
in his Wicks of petty torture. Add to
this that he was most unreasonably
jealous of James Dunn’s popularity ;
especially when we told him> as we
often did, that we hated him.
One day my brother William, a year
younger than myself, and I had been
out blowing soap-bubbles (“all by ourselves,” as we were wont to boast, in
proof of our proficiency), and had re
turned triumphant In the court-yard
*
we met Sandy, to whom, forgetting, for
the moment, by-gone squabbles, we
joyfully related our exploits, and broke
out into praises of the pipe-giver as
the nicest man that ever was. That
nettled the young scamp, and he began
to abuse our well-beloved post-carrier
as a “lazy loun that hadna’ but yin
arm, and could do naething with the
tither but cowp letters into the postoffice and mak up bairns’ trashtrie.”
TbU incensed me^ and I suppose I
147
Wist have made some bittear reply
*
whereupon Sandy snatched the richly
prized pipe from my hand,, deliberately
broke off its stem close to the bowl,
and threw the fragments into what
we used to call the “ shoe-hole ” ; that
contemptuous appellation designating
a small outhouse, hard by, where our
tormentor discharged his duties as
shoeblack.
Unwilling to be set down as telltales,
we said not a word about this to father
or mother. But when, an hour later, I
burst into tears at the sight of JamesDunn, I had to tell him our story. He
made light of it, wisely remarking that
there were more pipes in the world ;
and, shouldering his post-bag, went off
to the “auld town.” If my readers
can look back far enough into their
early years, they may imagine my joy
ful surprise when, on his return, he
presented me with another pipet
I took it up to an attic room of which
I had the run when I wished to be
alone ; locked the door, with a vague
feeling as if Sandy were at my heels ;
sat down and gazed on the regenerated
treasure. The very ditto of the pipe I
had tearfully mourned ! brand new,
just from the shop. But the delight
its first sight had given me faded when I
thought of the sacrifices that dear, good
man had been making for my sake. It
was so generous of him to give me the
first pipe 1 I had no idea whatever of
its money value ; to me it was beyond
price. Then here his generosity had
been taxed a second time. Again he
had been spending for me out of his
wages, which I supposed must be small,
since he had only one arm to work with.
And who had been the cause of all this
woful self-immolation ? That vile, cruel,
rascally Sandy ! To him it was due
that James Dunn had felt compelled to
make a second purchase, — to the stint
ing, perhaps, of his poor wife and chil
dren I And — who could tell ? — the
same malignant ill-turn might be re
peated again and again. Ah ! then
my indignation rose, till I could hear
the heart-beats.
I remember distinctly that no plans
�148
Boy-Lift in a Scottish Cowitry-Ssat.
of revenge had arise® in my mind
caused by the destruction of my first
pipe, however enraged I was at the per
petrator of that outrage. It was only
when I found one of my dearest friends
thus plundered, on my account, that
my wrath, roused to white heat, gave
forth vapors of vengeance.
' I brooded over the matter all day, so
that I must needs plead guilty to malice
aforethought. Toward evening my
plans took shapes and, ere I slept,
which was long after I went to bed,
every detail had been arranged. My
adversary was a large, stout, lubberly
fellow, more than twice my age ; and I
had to make up in stratagem for my
great inferiority in strength.
Next morning, before the nursery
maid awoke, I crept furtively from bed,
dressed in silence, descended to the
court-yard, and armed myself with a
broom : not one of your light, modern,
broom-corn affairs, but a downright
heavy implement, with a stout handle
and heavy wooden cross-head attached,
set with bristles. It was as much as I
could do to wield it.
Then I reconnoitred the enemy’s
camp. No Sandy yet fa the “shoe
hole
I went in, set the door ajar, and
took post, with uplifted weapon, behind
it.
I had long to wait, Sandy being late
that morning ; but my wrath only boiled
the more hotly fof the delay. At last
there was a step, and the door moved^
Down with all the might of concen
trated rage came the broom — the
hard end of the cross-piece foremost —
on the devoted head that entered. The
foe sank on the ground. I sprang for
ward — but what was this ? The head
I had struck had on a faultlessly white
lace cap ! It flashed on me in a mo
ment. Not the abhorred Sandy, but
our worthy housekeeper, Miss Wil
son 1
Miss Wilson was one of a class com
mon in Great Britain, but rare in this
country,— a notable, orderly, pains
taking, neatly dressed maiden of thirtyfive or forty summers ; deeply read in
all the mysteries of household-craft;
[February,
but kindly withal, and mucb disposed
to make pets of the children around
her. With the exception of James
Dunn, she was one of our greatest fa
vorites. I am afraid one element fa.
our affection for this good woman was
of a selfish nature. She had obtained
fro® my mother permission to have
us all to tea with her every Sunday
evening, on condition of a two thirds
dilution with warm water, but with
out any sumptuary regulation as to the
contingent of sugar.
Now, in that country and fa those
days, young folks, both gentle and sim-'
pie, were restricted to very frugal fam
For breakfast, porridge and milk I
*
for supper, bread and milk only. At
dinner we were helped once sparingly
to animal food and once only to pie of
pudding ; but we had vegetables and
oatmeal cake ad libitum. Scottish
children under the age of fourteen were
rarely allowed either tea or coffee ; and
such was the rule in our house. Till
we were eight or ten years old we were
not admitted to the evening meal in
the parlor. Mis? Wilson’s tea-table
furnished the only peep we had of the
Chinese luxury.
■ Thus the Sunday evening in the.
housekeeper’s parlor (for Miss Wilson
had her own nicely appointed parlor
between the kitchen and the servants’
dining-hall) was something to which
we looked eagerly forward. On that
occasion we had toast as well as tea;
and the banquet sometimes culminated
with a well-filled plate of sugar-biscuit,
a luxury doubly prized because its vis
its were rare as those of angels.
* It may or may not be necessary here to say that
porridge is a sort of mush, or hasty-pudding, made by
gradually dropping oatmeal into boiling water, sea
*
soned with salt. The cake spoken of was composed
of oatmeal and water, rolled out thin, and browned
before the fire.
In the Scottish dialect oatmeal porridge is called
frirritch; and there is a story illustrating the ridicu
lous extent to which early promotion, even of mere
children, in the British army is, or was, obtained by
family influence ; and marking also the customary
breakfast-fare in the nursery. A gentleman, visiting
a family of distinction in the Highlands and coming
down stairs in the morning, beard a loud bawling,
Meeting a servant, he asked him what was the mat
ter. “ O sir,” said the man, “it’s naething but the
Major, greetin’ for his parritch.”
�Boy-Life in a Saltish Country-Seat.
These hebdomadal symposia gave
rise, among us, to a peculiar definition
of the first day of the week. We took
this, not from the sermons we heard,
or the catechism we learned, on that
day, but from the delicacies on Miss
Wilson’s table, somewhat irrever
ently falling Sunday the toast-biscuittea-day. I am not certain whether this
'Jtwgnile paraphase ever reached my
WOtha^fe ears j for Miss Wilson was
too discreet to retail the confidential
.jokes which we permitted ourselves in
the privacy of \\ex petits soupers.
Under the circumstances one may
judge of my horror when I saw on whom
the broom-head had fallen. The sight
stunned me almost as much as my
blow had stunned the poor woman who
lay before me. I have a dim recollec
tion of people, called in by my screams,
raising Miss Wilson and helping her
to her room | and then I remember
Slothing more till I found myself, many
hours later, in the library ; my mother
standing by with her eyes red, and
my father looking at me more in sor
row than in anger.
“Wouldn’t you be very sorry, Rob
ert,” he said at last, “if you were
blind ? ”
I assented, as well as my sobs would
allow.
Well, when a boy or man is in such
a rage as you were, he is little better
than blind, or half mad. He does n’t
Stop to think, or to look at anything.
You did n’t know Miss ’Wilson from
Sandy.”
My conscience told me that was true.
I had struck without waiting to look.
“ Yola may be very thankful,” my
father went on, “ that it was n’t Sandy.
You might have killed the boy.”
I thought it would have been no
{great harm if I had, but I did n’t say
so.
| “Are you sorry for what you have
done?”
I said that I was very, very sorry
that I had hurt Miss Wilson ; and that
, I wanted to tell her so. My father
feng the bell and sent to inquire how
she was. '
149
“ I am going to take you to ask her
pardon. But it’s of no use to be sorry,
unless you do better. Remember this I
Z have never struck you. You must
never strike anybody.”
It was true. I cannot call to mind
that I ever, either before or since that
time, received a blow from any human
being ; most thankful ana I that I have
been spared the knowledge of how one
feels under such an insult. Nor, from
that day forth, so far as I remember,
did I ever myself give a blow in anger
again.
The servant returned. “ She has a
sair head yet, sir; but she’s muckle
better? She’s sittin’ up in her chair,
and would be fain to see the bairn.”
Then, in an undertone, looking at me :
“It was a fell crunt, yon. I didna
*
think the bit callan could hit sae
snell.”
When I saw Miss Wilson in her
arm-chair, with pale cheeks and ban
daged head, I could not say a single
word. She held out her arms ; I flung
mine round her neck, kissed her again
and again, and then fell to crying, long
and bitterly. The good soul’s eyes
were wet as she took me on her knee
and soothed me. When my father
offered to take me away, I clung to her
so closely that she begged to have me
stay.
I think the next half-hour, in her
arms, had crowded into it more sincere
repentance and more good resolves for
the future than any other in my life.
Then, at last, my sobs subsided, so
that I could pour into her patient ear
the whole story of my grievous wrongs :
Sandy’s unexampled wickedness in
breaking the first pipe ; James Dunn’s
unheard-of generosity in buying the
second ; the little chance I had if I
did n’t take the broom to such a big
boy ; and then —
“ But, Miss Wilson,” I said when I
came to that point, “what made you
come to the shoe-hole, and not
Sandy ? ”
* Crunt, to be interpreted in English, must be
paraphased. It means a blow on the head with a
cudgel.
�150
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat.
“I wanted to see if the boy was
attending to his work.”
I then told her I would love her as
long as she lived, and that she must n’t
be angry with me ; and when she had
promised to love me too, we parted.
It only remains to be said, that about
a month afterwards, Bandy was quietly
dismissed. We all breathed more freely
when he was gone.
If I deserved more punishment for
this outbreak than my father’s reproof
and the sight of Miss Wilson’s suffer
ings, I came very near receiving it, iaj
a fatal shape, a few months afterwards.
The estate of Braxfield is beautifully
situated on the banks of the Clyde.
The house stands on a bit of undulating table-land, then set in blue-grass,
containing some thirty or forty acres ;
and the slope thence to the river was
covered with thick woods through
which gravel-paths wound back and
forth till they reached the Clyde, a quar
ter of a mile below the mills. What
charming nutting we used to have
th ere !
At low-water there was a foot-path,
under the rocks, by which these woods
could be reached from the village ; and
*
of c&urse, there was great temptation,
on Sundays, for the young people —
.pairs of lovers especially — to encroach
o® this forbidden ground, f to say noth?
*
ing of the hazelnut temptation, when
autumn came. Nothing could be more
romantic and inviting.
Of course it would not have done to
give two thousand people the, range of
the woods : so trespassing therein was
stricfly forbidden. Yet I remember,
one Sunday afternoon when my father
had taken me out to walk, seeing,
through the underwood in a path below us and to which our road led, a
lad and lass evidently so intent in Con
versation; that they were not alive to
anything else ; ff they had known who
was near, they would have taken to
flight at once. My father stopped and
looked at them, calling to mind, I dare
say, his own walks in the Green with
Miss Ann Caroline. “ They don’t see
us,” he said to me ; “ let us turn back.
[February,
If I meet them, I must order them off
the place ; and they have so few pleas
*
ures and so much work I It’s
So we took another path; and the
lovers pursued their way, unconscious
of the danger that had approach^
them.
Besides thisAWfeded M ferae w in front
of She mansion, there wa%@#otee side,,
a steep declivity into a deep, bushy
dingle, with large, old trees inter
spersed, and, rising on>, the other side,
a precipitous bank of similar character,
on the summit of which was perched
the house of our next neighbor. This
could not be reached, by vehicle, with
out making a circuit of a mile and a
half; but a slanting foot-path led, from
our stable-yard, down •into the glen,
and a rough, scrambling way ascended
thence the opposite bank, conducting
the pedestrian, by a short cut, to the
old town. This rude pass Was know®)'
*
far and near, by the euphonious name
of Gullietoodelum. a
All this afforded good cover for
foxes ; and one of these midnight
prowlers had carried off certain fowls
and ducks belonging to James Shaw,
a burly farmer who tilled the arable
portion of the Braxfield estate, and
whose cottage we were wont to fre
quent, attracted bythe excellent mashed
potatoes, prepared with milk, with which
Mrs,, Shaw secretly treated, us. They;
turned a penny by supplying our fami
ly, from time to time, with poultry ; and
now the “ gudeman ” took arms in
defence of his live stock. Having
loaded a _ fowling-piece heavily with
slugs, he deposited it in a dark cor
ner of the coach-house, which, with
stables attached, stood on the edge of 1
the wooded dingle where Reynard had
been seen.
There, during a morning ramble, my
brother William and I canM upon the
gun. It was a flint-lock, of course ; for
the days of pg rCB®s,ion-g&ps were yet
afar off. Having brought it out to the
light, for inspection, my brother amused
himself by pointing it at me and at
tempting to draw the trigger I re
*
minded him that our mother had for
�i873-J
Boy-Life
a Scottish Country-Seat.
bidden W ever to point gnus at one
another.
“ But it’s not loaded,” remonstrated
William.
“I know that,” was my reply (though
how I came to that hasty conclusion
I am quite enable to explain), “ I
know it isn’t loaded, but mamma said
WO were new to pretend to shoot one
pother, whether the gun was loaded or
not.”
Whereupon he submitted, and I furfer informed him that the flint of a gun
O0®fld not be snapped without draw
ing back the cock, which I showed him
how to do, having once snapped a gun
before. With my aid he then hugged
the stock of the weapon under his
ttglrt arm, pointing the barrel in the
air, and pulled the trigger; this time
so effectually that the recoil threw him
flat on his back.
He struggled to his feet and we
looked at each other. Not a word was
Spokem I seized the gun, flung it back
i»to the coach-house, not quite certain
Whether that was the end of the explosion, and, by a common impulse, we
both took to our heels, fled down the
glen-path, nor stopped till at the foot
of Gullietoodelum. There we paused
to take breath.
do befieve, Robert,” my brother
ejaculated at last, — “ I do believe that
gun was loaded ! ”
I had gradually been coming to the
same conclusion ; so I did not dispute
the point. Slowly and silently we re
ascended from that dark glen to the
upper world again, sadder and wiser
boys.
I have often thought since how
fejtjng America would have laughed us
to scorn as Molly-caudles, for our green
ignorance, at seven or eight, touching
fire-arms and their use. Half a year
later, however, I obtained leave to go
fen a shooting expedition with a young
man who had a salary from the New
Lanark Company as surgeon of the
village, and who attended the sick
there gratuitously. We proceeded to
a weiglibesring rookery where sportsfcen were admitted on certain condi
*
t
tions. I carried a light fowling-piece,
and w® then and there initiated into
the mysteries of loading and firing.
Though at heart mortally afraid, J
stood stoutly to my gun, and brought
down two confiding young crows who
were yet inexperienced in the wiles
and murderous propensities of men
and boys.
As we were returning home in the
dusk I overheard a brief conversation,
not intended for my ears, between the
surgeon and a comrade of his who
had accompanied us. They had been
pleased, it seems, with the spirit I had
shown; and the mention of my name
attracted me.
“ He’s a fine, manly boy, that,” said
the comrade.
“ He’s a noble little fellow,” rejoined
the surgeon.
Most children, I think, accustomed
to hear themselves commended, would
have forgotten the words within twen
ty-four hours ; but they sunk into my
heart, and I could swear, to-day, that I
have textually repeated them here. This
wineglass full of praise intoxicated
me; for I think it was the first I had
ever tasted. My father’s creed was
that “man is not the proper subject of
praise or blame ” ; being but what
circumstances, acting on his original
organization, make him. So his ap
proval, when I deserved approval, was
testified only by a pleased smile oar a
caress.
The words haunted me all the way
home and for days afterwards. Their
effect was similar to that sometimes
produced during the excitement of
such camp-meetings as I have wit
nessed in our Western forests. They
woke in me what, in revival-language,
is called “ a change of heart.” I sol
emnly resolved that I would be what
these men had said I was.
Next morning, accordingly, I not
only myself submitted, with exemplary
forbearance, to the various matutinal
inflictions of cold bathing, scrubbing,
hair-combing, and the like, but I ex
horted my younger brother and sisters
to similar good conduct. The nursery-
�152
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat.
maid was amazed, not knowing what to
make of it; no doubt I had been re
bellious enough in the past.
“ What’s come over the bairn ? ”
she exclaimed. “ Where has he been ?
I think he must hae gotten religion.”
Then, looking at my sober face, she
asked me, “ Were you at the kirk
yestreen, Robert ? ”
No,” said I, “ I was shooting
crows.”
“ Shootin’ craws ! ” I remember to
this day that look of blank perplexity.
The girl was actually alarmed when
she missed my wonted wilfulness. “ It
passes me,” she said at last; “ the
callan must hae gane daft. He’s no
the same bairn ava.”
This fit of meekness lasted, in its
extreme phase, so far as I remember,
about ten days. Yet — strange if it
seem — I think it left its impress on
my character for years.
The powerful influence which seem
ing trifles exerted over my conduct
in those days — now stirring to re
venge, now prompting to reformation
— may in part be traced to the recluse
lives we led in that isolated country
seat ; a seclusion the more complete
because of the unquestioning obedience
to the strictest rules (especially as to
metes and bounds) in which we were
trained. The Clyde, though the largest
river in Scotland, was not, at its usual
stage and where we were wont to
bathe, over thirty or forty yards wide ;
and we were pretty good swimmers.
The enterprise of any urchin, ten years
old, in our own day and country, would
undoubtedly have suggested the con
struction of a small raft on which to
convey our clothes across, and then
an exploration of the unknown regions
beyond. But we were forbidden to
trespass there ; and it did not enter
into our heads to break bounds.
There was a bridge over the river,
but little more than a mile below our
house ; but, during the first decade,
my mother was unwilling to trust us
so far from home, and we had never
crossed this bridge except in our car
riage and on the turnpike road. I had
[February,
passed my tenth bfehday- when my
father t&ld William and myself, one
day, that he was going to take us a
walk across the bridge and on the
other side of the river. Our blissful
anticipations of this remote expedition
were enhanced by knowing that tjye&d!
was to be found, close to the bridge, a
far-famed baker’s shop, of Which the
parleys (that is, thin, crisp ginger
cakes) were celebrated all over the,
county ; and when my mother put into
our pockets sixpence apiece, to be
there expended as we pleased, our joy
was full.
But if, as regards pedestrian excur
sions, we were held under strict tale,,
in other matters we were free :a®tjd
privileged. We had the unrestricted
range of my father’s library, which, was
®, pretty extensive one.
I have no recollection as to when
and how I learned my letters. All I
remember is that, at seven or eight
years of age, I was an omnivorous
reader. “ Robinson Crusoe,” pored over
with implicit faith, made the first deep
impression. Then, one after another
in succession, came Miss Edgeworth’s
winning stories, —household words
they were in our family/ “ Sandford
and Merton” came next into favor;
succeeded by “ Thaddeus of War
saw ” and the “Arabian Nights.” Af
ter these I devoured Miss Porter’s
“Scottish Chiefs”; not g, doubt ob
truding itself as to whether the gallant
and romantic military gentleman —the
courteous Knight of Ellerslie, whom
the lady’s pencil’has depicted in rosy
colors — was the veritable champion
of Scotland,— the same hot-blooded
and doughty warrior, sung by Blind
Harry, who, while yet a stripling,
stabbed, in a Scottish castle, the son
of its governor, in requital of a few in
sulting words. My indignation, origi
nally roused by nursery legends,. was
rekindled, and my national prejudices
confirmed, by this more modern ver
sion of Monteith’s treachery and his
noble victim’s cruel fate. These feel
ings were intensified during a visit to
Cartland Crags (or Craigs, as we pro
�1873-]
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat.
nounced th© word), — a deep, narrow
gulch a little way beyond the town of
Lanark^- walled by precipitous rocks
gome two hundred feet high, and form
*
jng the water-cou-rse of a small stream
Called the Mouse. From the bed of
that stream we climbed thirty or forty
feet up the fee© of the rocks to a deep
cleft known to all; Scotland as “Wal
lace’s Ctve,” and to which, when in
peril of his life, that sturdy chieftain
was wont to retreat. No Fourth-ofJuly oration, no visit to Plymouth
rock, ever produced, on young scion
of Puritan, a deeper impression than
did the sight of this narrow, secluded
cell upon me, — its pavement worn by
the feet of patriotic pilgrims. I think,
if 1 had but been stirred by a Hamilcar
of a father prompting me, I might have
sworn, then and there, eternal enmity
against the English. But, in my case,
the paternal sentiment was, “ Love to
the whole human race ”; so that, out
growing hate-bearing prejudices in the
genial atmosphere of home, I have re
formed, and can say, as Webster said
of himself on a well-known occasion,
am very little like Hannibal”;
having come to eschew strife of all
kinds, and' devoutly believing that
“love is the fulfilling of the law.”
My mother, a devout Presbyterian,
though too gentle to be bigoted, was
thoroughly imbued with the belief that
the most orthodox form of Protestant
ism is essential to happiness, if not to
virtue. Upon this conviction she acted
with persistent conscientiousness. It
colored her daily conduct. Was any
one among us sick ? She sat, hour
after hour, by his bedside ; and admin
istered, by turns, temporal comforts
and spiritual consolation. Had we lost
a pious friend ? His death was spoken
of as a translation to a world of bliss.
Did any of us ask for a pretty story ?
It was selected out of the Scriptural
pages. We were told of the place
above for good boys and girls, and of
the fire below for the wicked ; and
when we asked who were good and
who were wicked, we were taught that
all boys and girls and men and women
i53
were wicked unless they believed, in
the first place, that Jesus Christ was
the only Son of God, and, in the sec
ond place, that nobody could escape
from hell except by vicarious atone
ment through his death and sufferings.
My mother added that all who believed
that, and who read the Bible every
morning, and said prayers every night,
and went to church twice every Sun
day, became good people, and would
be saved and go to heaven ; while all
who disbelieved it were lost souls, who
would be punished forever with the
Devil and his angels.
My father, a Deist, or free-thinking
Unitarian, was tender of my mother’s
religious sentiments, and did not, in
those days, interfere with her instruc
tions or seek to undermine our belief.
I recollect, one day when he had been
explaining to me how seeds produced
plants and trees, that I asked him
where the very, very first seeds came
from, and that his answer did not go to
shake my faith in the Mosaic account
of the creation.
Thus left to orthodox teaching, I
Soon became an apt and zealous schol
ar ; often prejudiced, I was never in
different ; still more often mistaken, I
was sincere in my errors, and I always
sought to act out what I believed.
Very peculiar was my state of mind
in those early years. Breathing an
orthodox atmosphere, I never doubted
that it extended over the whole earth.
I had just heard of pagans and Ro
manists and infidels ; but I thought
of all such dissenters from the creed I
had learned as a handful of blinded
wretches, to be met with in some small
remote quarter of this vast world, —a
world that bowed to Christ alone as its
God and Saviour. To set up my own
opinion against all the pious — that is,
against all good men, or rather against
all men except a few who were des
perately wicked— was an acme of ar
rogance that did not once crass my
thoughts.
My good mother — more amiable
than logical — did not perceive the
perilous insecurity of a creed so nar-
�154
Boy-Life in a Scottish
row in a character like that of her
eldest son. In a chart given tome, in
the year 1827, by Spurzheim, causality
and conscientiousness are marked as
predominant organs, and self-esteem
as a large one, If that diagnostic may
be trusted, the danger to my orthodoxy
was the greater, The first doubts as
to the religious belief of my infancy
were suggested when I was about
eleven years old.
By this time the New Lanark estab
lishment had obtained considerable
Celebrity, and was frequented by visit
ors of some distinction. Among these
a bishop of the Anglican Church, hav
ing brought a letter of introduction to
my father, was invited to his table, and
I sat next to him. During dinner
conversation turned on the original
depravity of man, which, to my utter
astonishment, my father called in ques
tion. J the bishop, of course, stoutly
affirming it. I listened, with greedy
ears, to the discussion ; and, during a
pause, I put in my word.
“ Papa,” said I, “ I think you’d find
it a very difficult thing to make a bad
heart a good one.” ,,
The bishop, amused and astonished
to find so youthful an auxiliary, patted
me, laughingly, on the back and said,
“You’re in the right, my little fellow.
God only can do that.” Then he en
couraged me to proceed, to the no
small increase of my vanity and self
importance. My father, instead of
checking me,, replied patiently to my
argument ; and his replies left me
much tq think about.
Next day I had a lecture from my
mother on the sin of self-sufficiency,
and was told that little boys must listen,
and not join in grown people’s conver
sation. But this did not quiet me.
When I pressed my mother closely
about my father’s opinions, she con
fessed, to my horror, her doubts whether
he firmly believed that Christ was the
Son of God.
I remember, to this day, the terrible
shock this was to me, and the utter
confusion of ideas that ensued. My
state of mind was pitiable. J knew
[February,
there were wicked unbfiftev®®Ss among
the Hottentots and New - Zealanders
. whom I had read about; and my moth
er had once confessed to me that, even
in England and Scotland, Were were a
few low, ignorant people whoi
the
books of an infidel called Tom Paine 1
but my own father ! — kind, indulgent
to; us B’ll, and loved and respected by
everybody, — was he widggd ? was he
as bad as the pagans ? I took to
watching his benevolent fac© ; but he:
talked and smiled ®s usual. There
was no cloven foot to be seen, nor
any sinister inference to be drawn from
his quiet, pleasant demeanor.
In fear and trembling I laid my per
plexities before my mother. Excel
lent woman ! I know well now in wteja
a strait she must have found herself,
between her creed as a Calvinist and
her love as a wife. Somewhat at ex
pense of conscience, perhaps, she com
promised matters. Swayed by her
great affection for my father, and doubt
less also by her fears that the disclosure
of his heresies might weaken the pa®
ternal authority# she sought to soften
their enormity by declaring that, but
for these, he was everything that was
good and estimable. “ Pray to God,
my child,” she would say, “ that be
will tarn your dear father’s heart froffl
the error of his way and make him
pious like your grandfather.” Then,
with tears in het eyes, “ O, if he could
*
only be converted, he would- be every
thing my heart could desire ; and
when we die he would be an heaven
with us all.”
“If he could only be converted!”
These words sank deep. “ My father
is too good a man,” J said to myself,
“ to sin on purpose Perhaps nobody
*
ever explained holy things to him as
my mother did to me. If I could only
save his soul ! ”
The more I pondered upon this, the
more it seemed possible, probable, at
last unquestionable. I called to mind
some texts my mother had read to I
us about the mouths of sucklings, and
what they might do ; also what Jesus
Christ had said about little children as
�1873.]
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat.
*55
being of the kingdom of Heaw®. I the class of sins to which I was prone
did not, indeed, conceal from myself differed somewhat from those of the
®ay father was a wise and prudent French monarch, they weighed heavily
man : I saw that men listened to him upon me, nevertheless. A hundred
with respect and treated him, on all oc times my mother had told me that I
casions, with consideration. But my was a miserable sinner ; and conscience
mother, whose habit it was to read a brought up before me many proofs of
chapter from the Bible to us every this.
My activity being great, and my
evening, happened, about that time, to
select one from the Gospel of Matthew, spirits of a restless order, the breach
in which Christ returns thanks to of the fourth commandment was my
God that things hidden from the wise besetting sin. Though I had success
and prudent are revealed to babes. It fully resisted a great temptation to play
occurred to me that perhaps God had at foot-ball on Sundays, yet when James
caused my mother to read that chapter Dunn, one Saturday evening, brought
me a new hoop of his own manufac
for my especial encouragement.
Thea again, I had great faith in ture, I hid it in the woods, stole away
th© efficacy of prayer. Several years in the afternoon of the next day, and
before, while we were staying, for a “ broke the Sabbath ” by trundling
time, in my grandfather’s town-house, it for an hour, stung with compunc
I had been shooting with bow and tion the while. Then there was that
arrow in the same garden where Da- conspiracy against Sandy, with its aw
vid Dale found that honest man. I had ful result! Add to this that I was
lost my best arrow, and sought for it terribly given to yawning in church,
a long time in vain. Then, instead of and that, on two different occasions, I
had fallen sound asleep during evening
following Bassanio’s plan,—»
prayers. Worse still, there was a ro
“ When I had lost one shaft,
mance (entitled “ Anne of Brittany,” I
I shot his fellow of the self-same flight
The self-same way, with more advised watch,
remember) in which, when I was sum
To find the other forth,” —
moned to bed one Saturday evening, I
I dropped on my knees behind a goose had left the heroine in a most interest
berry-bush and prayed to God that he ing and perilous situation, and next
would show me where my missing ar morning, when my mother came quiet
row was. Rising and turning round, ly into the library to tell me it was
fo 1 there it stood, deep sunk in the time to prepare for church, so absorbed
ground close to another bush. My was I in Anne’s imminent danger, that
mother, when I told her of this, had, I was detected — flagrante delicto —
indeed, expressed doubt as t© the pro in the very act of reading a novel on
priety of prayer for a thing so trifling ; the Lord’s day ! Could there be a
but I retained the conviction that God doubt as to my innate depravity ? And
had answered my supplication : and was it strange that, while Louis sought
every night, on my knees, I prayed, as salvation by coercing millions of Hu
fervently, I think, as any young creature guenots to flee or to embrace Catholi
ever did, that He would help me also cism, I should strive to have my fa
ther’s redemption placed to my credit
to convert my father.
But, as commonly happens to propa on that great book that was to be
gandists, more selfish motives super opened on the Day of Judgment ?
But aside from religious convictions
vene^, to enkindle my zeal. We learn
from history that Louis XIV. was and the desire to atone for my sins
prompted to repeal that charter of re urging me on, there was that organ of
ligious freedom, the edict of Nantes, self-esteem, hereditary perhaps, the
by the desire to save an abject soul, size of which in my brain the great
loaded down with the debaucheries of phrenologist had detected. Under its
a lifetime, from perdition. And though influence I could not get away from
�z56
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat.
the resolve to convert my father. I
say the resolve to convert him, not to
attempt his conversion ; for so I put it
to myself, nothing doubting.
I don’t think I had any clear con
ception what a mission is. Yet I had
a vagu.e idea that God had chosen me
to be the instrument of my father’s
salvation, so that he might not be sent
to hell when he died.
I was mightily pleased with myself
when this idea suggested itself, and I
set about preparing for the task before
me. Summoning to my recollection
all my mother’s strongest arguments, I
arranged them in the order in which I
proposed to bring them forward. Then
I imagined my father’s replies ; already
anticipating my own triumph and my
mother’s joy, when I should have
brought my father to confess his errors
and repent. But I said not a word of
my intentions to her or to any one.
The joyful surprise was to be complete.
I recollect, to this day, the spot on
which I commenced my long-projected
undertaking. It was on a path which
skirted, on the farther side, the lawn in
front of our house and led to the gar
den. I could point out the very tree
we were passing when — with some
misgivings, now that it was to be put
to the test — I sounded my father by
first asking him what he thought about
Jesus Christ. His reply was to the
effect that I would do well to heed
his teachings, especially those relating
to charity and to our loving one an
other.
This was well enough, as far as it
went; but it did, not at all satisfy me.
So,, with some trepidation, I put the
question direct, whether my father dis
believed that Christ was the Son of
God?
He looked a little surprised and
did not answer immediately. * Why
■
do you ask that question, my son ? ”
he said at last.
“ Because I am sure — ” I began
eagerly.
“ That he is God’s Son ? ” asked
my father, smiling.
“ Yes, I am.”
[February,
“Did yfflttever hear of the Mahome
tans ? ” said my father,while I had
paused to collect my proofs.
• I replied that I had heard of such a
people who lived somewhere, far off.
“ Do you know what their religion
is ? ”
“ No?
*
“ They believe that Christ is not the
Son of God, but that another person,,
called Mahomet, was God’s chosen
prophet.”
“Do they not believe the Bible?”
asked I, somewhat aghast.
“ No., Mahomet wrote a book called
the Koran ; and Mahometans believe
it to be the word of God. That book
tells them that God sent Mahomet to
preach the gospel to them^ and to save
their souls.”
Wonders crowded fast upon me. A
rival Bible and a rival Saviour 1 Could
it be ? I asked, “ Are you quite sure
this is true, papa ?®
“ Yes, my dear, I am quite sure.
*
“ But I suppose there are very few
Mahometans : not near — near so many
of them as of Christians.”
“ Do you call Catholics Christians,
Robert ? ”
“ O no, papa. The Pope is Anti
christ.”
My father smiled. “ Then by Chris
tians you mean Protestants ? ”
“ Yes.’*
“Well, there are many more Ma
hometans than Protestants in the
world : about a hundred and forty mil
lion Mahometans, and less than a hun
dred million Protestants.”
“ I thought almost everybody be
lieved in Christ, as mamma does.”
“ There are probably twelve hundred
millions of people in the world. So,
out of every twelve persons one only is
a Protestant. Are you quite sure that
the one is right and the eleven
wrong ? ”
My ereed, based on authority, was
toppling. I had no answer ready. Dur
ing the rest of the walk I remained al
most silent, engrossed with new ideas,
and replying chiefly in monosyllables
when spoken to.
�1873.]
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Se&tt,
And w ended this notable scheme
of mine for my father’s cooversfo®.
My mother had claimed too much.
Over-zealous, she had not given her own
opinions fair play. Even taking the
most favorable view of the Calvinistic
creed, still what she had taught me
was prejudice only. For if looking to
the etymology of that word, we inter
pret it to mean a judgment formed be
fore examination, then must we regard
as prejudices his opinions, however
true, who has neglected to weigh them
against their opposites, however false.
Thus ©ven a just prejudice is always
vulnerable.
Had my mother been satisfied to
teach me that the Old Testament was
a most interesting and valuable contribution to ancient history, filled with
important lessons ; had she encouraged
me to compare the ethical and spiritual
teachings of Christ with those of the
Koran, or of Seneca, or Socrates, or
Confucius (all of which were to be
found in our library) ; and had she bid
me observe how immeasurably superior
they were in spirit and i© civilizing ten
dency to all that had gone before,—
she would, I think, have saved me
from sundry extreme opinions that
lasted through middle life.
But she was not content without
getting up the Bible, as Caliph Omar
did the Koran, not only as the infallible
but also as the solitary source of all
religious knowledge whatever. The
days of Max Muller were not yet. My
mother had no doubt heard of compar
ative anatomy, but never of comparative religion. Lowell’s lines had not
then been written :—•
“ Each form of worship that hath swayed
The life of man and given it to grasp
The master-key of knowledge, reverence,
Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right.”
The immediate effect, however, of
my mishap in the attempt to make a
Calvinist of my father was good. My
failure served as a practical lesson in
humility. I listened and thought and
doubted more than had been my wont,
and I spoke less.
157
Nor did I give up fee creed of my
childhood without a long and painful
struggle.
I daily searched the Scriptures as
diligently, I think I may say, as any
child of my age could be expected to do ;
coming upon many seeming incongrui
ties and contradictions, which were sad
stumbling-blocks. The frequent dis
cussions between my father and his
visitors, to which I eagerly listened,
still increased my doubts. After a
time I lost faith in my mother’s favor
ite doctrine of the infallible. The axe
had been laid at the root of my ortho
doxy.
For more than a year, however, I lis
tened with exemplary patience — even
with more attention, indeed, than for
merly — to my mother’s pious homilies,
and was seldom deficient when called
up to repeat my catechism-task. I did
not say anything, during all that time,
to betray my growing scepticism ; but
neither did I, as I formerly had done,
profess zeal for religion, or implicit
faith in the Bible. I do not recollect
ever to have deceived a human being
on a matter of conscience ; and this I
owe to my parents.
On one point the teachings of my
father and mother strictly harmonized.
My father sought to impress it upon
me that I could never become a gentle
man unless 1 spoke, on all occasions,
the exact truth ; while my mother’s
teaching on that subject was that the
Devil is the father of lies; and that,
if I told falsehoods, God would reckon
me among the Devil’s children. The
organ of conscientiousness, if Spurzheim had made no mistake, may have
aided these lessons. At all events, I
grew up to regard a lie as of all sins
the most heinous.
To this sentiment it was due that, in
the end, my conscience sharply re
proached me for a deceptive silence,
and I determined to tell my mother
that my faith was changed. Once or
twice I had resolved to do so after
our evening devotions ; but her sad
face — for she had begun to surmise
that all was not right — deterred me,
�158
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat*
Finally I stated the facts, plainly and
succinctly, in a letter which I in
trusted, one evening just before going
to bed, to an aunt who was staying
with us.
Had I known the effect my missive
was to produce, I do not think I should
have sent it.. My mother did not ap
pear next morning at breakfast, and I
afterwards found out that she had spent
the night in tears. She had always
Considered me, as she told me after
wards, the most devout among her
children, —the most careful for the fu
ture welfare of my soul, the most ear
nest in my zeal for the things of an
other world, her most attentive listener
too; and her disappointment, when
she found me a. backslider, was the
greater because of the hopes she had
cherished.
Unwilling to add to her sorrow by
engaging with her in any religious de
bate, I fell back, for a solution of some
of my difficulties, on a good-natured
private tutor, named Manson, who,
for a year or two, had been doing his
best to teach my brother and myself
Greek and Latin, after the tedious,
old-fashioned manner. He had stud-,
ied to qualify himself as a minister
of the Scottish Kirk, was orthodox,
but mild and tolerant also, and did
not meddle with my spiritual educa
tion.
The old, old enigma, unsolved through
past ages and but dimly guessed at to
day, came up of course, — the enigma
of evil and its punishment.
“ Mr. Manson,” said I one day,
“ does God send all unbelievers to
hell, and are they tormented there in
the flames forever ? ”
[February,
“ Certainly. Have n’t you read that
in the Bible ? ”
“Yes. Does not God love all men,
and wish them to be happy ? ”
“ He .surely does. His tender mer
cies are over all his works.’®
“ Yes ; I know the Biblg says that
too. Then I don’t understand aboutthe unbelievers. God need not have
created them, unless he chose ; and hg
must have known, before they were
*
born, that they would sin and that they
would soon have to be burned to all
eternity.’9'
“ But you know that God puts it in
our power to save ourselves ; and if
we neglect to do so, it is our fault, no|
his.”
“ But yet,” persisted I„ “ God was
not obliged to create a man that was
sure to be an unbeliever. Nobody!
said he must. He might have pre
vented him from being born, and that
would have prevented him from being
wicked, and prevented him from going
to hell. Would n’t it have been much
better for such men not to be born,
than to live a few years here and then
be tormented for ever and ever ? ”
I took my tutor’s silent hesitation
for consent, and added, “ Well, then,
if it would have been better, why did n’t
God do it ? ”
“ I cannot tell you,” Mr. Manson
said at last; “ and I advise you not to
think of such things as these. It seems
better to our human reason ; but it
cannot be better, or else God would
have done so.”
As may be supposed, this putting
aside of the question was unsatisfac
tory ; and from that day I became a
Universalist.
Robert Dale Owen.
�1S73-]
The Bride of Torrisdell.
159
THE BRIDE OF TORRISDELL.
ONG ago while yet the Saga’s dream-red haze
L Lay o’er Norway’s dales and fjords unbroken ;
Ere \vith Olaf’s * cross men saw her steeples blaze,
Ere their mighty iron tongues had spoken ;
Thea the Neck, the Hulder, elves, and fairies gay
Wooed the summer moon with airy dance and play.
But alas ! they fled,
As with flaming head
O’er the valley shone St. Olaf’s token.
Thorstein Aasen was forsooth the boldest swain
Ever church-road trod on Sabbath morning ;
As a boy he fought the savage bear full fain,
Spite of mother’s tears and father’s warning ;
Never yet was rafter for his heel too high, f
Haughtiest mien he fronted with unquailing eye;
And the rumor’s tide
Bore his glory wide,
Still with virtues new his name adorning.
Like a ling’ring echo from the olden time,
Wondrous legends still the twilight haunted,
And o’er Brage’s goblet still heroic rhymes
In the merry Yule-tide oft were chanted,
How of Thorstein’s race had one at Necken’sJ will
Stayed the whirl and roar of many a noisy mill;
How in wild delight
At the fall of night
He would seek the river’s gloom undaunted.
Late one autumn night, as wild November storms
Whirled the withered leaves in frantic dances,
And half-moonlit clouds of huge fantastic forms
Swift to horror-dreams from rapturous trances
Plunged the restless earth, anon in sudden fear
E’en the raging storm-wind held its breath to hear:
* St. Olaf was the king who finally Christianized Norway. The Pope, after his death, made him the
patron saint of the country.
t To be able to kick the rafter is regarded as a great proof of manliness in Norway.
+ Necken or the Neck is the spirit of the water. He is usually represented as an old man, who plays his
harp or (according to others) his violin in the roaring cataracts. His music is said to consist of eleven chords,
which are the very essence of all music, and all music appeals to the human heart in the same degree as it
pawtakes of the inherent qualities of “ Necken’s chords.” The legends tell of mortals who have attempted to
Jearn these chords, and have succeeded. Some have learned two, others three, but few more than six. He
who is taught to strike the eleventh chord, it is said, must give his own soul in exchange. At the ninth, life
less objects begin to dance, and when the tenth is struck, the player is seized with such a rapture that he can
never sleep, but plays on forever.
�The Bride of Torrisdell.
l6o
[February,
From the river’s lair
Rose a tremulous air,—
Rose and fell in sweetly flowing stanzas.
•
But as morning came forth with frosty splendor keen
Where the birch-trees o’er the waters quiver,
Found the grooms their lord with bow and violin,
Ghastly staring down the brawling river.
To his instrument was closely pressed his ear,
,
As if there some charmed melody to hear;
In his sunken sight
Shone a weird delight;
But life’s mystery had flown forever I
From that time the secret sorcery of the tone,
Passed from sire to son by sure transmission,
Had full oft a witching web of music thrown
O’er the lonely forests of tradition ;
And full oft the son with pride and secret dole
Heard those strange vibrations in his inmost soul,
Like the muffled knell
Of a distant bell
Fraught with dark and bodeful admonition.
Where the river hurls its foam-crests to the fjord,
There lies Torrisdell in sunshine gleaming;
Oft its valiant lord ’gainst Aasen drew his sword,
And the red cock crew while blood was streaming.
*
But his daughter Birgit, — by the holy rood
Ne’er a fairer maid on church or dance-croft stood I«—
Like the glacier’s gaze
In the sun’s embrace
Shone her eye with tender brightness beaming.
And when Thorstein Aasen saw that lily maid
On her palfrey white on church-road riding,
Aye his heart beat loud, and fierce defiance bade
To ancestral feuds their hearts dividing,
And young Birgit, the fair maid of Torrisdell,
Little cared or strove that rising flame to quell;
For, ere spring new-born
Did the fields adorn,
Him she pledged her word and faith abiding.
Loud then swore her angry sire with mead aglow,
(Deadly hate was in his visage painted,)
, Rather would he see his daughter’s red blood flow,
Than with shame his ancient scutcheon tainted.
In her lonesome bower then fair Birgit lay,
Wept and prayed by night and prayed and wept by day ;
* “ The red cock crew” is the expression used in the old Norse Sagas for a nightly attack with fire and
sword.
�
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Title
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Title
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Boy-life in a Scottish country-seat : a chapter of autobiography
Creator
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Owen, Robert Dale [1801-1877]
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [s.l.]
Collation: 145-160 p. ; 22 cm.
Notes: Pp. 146-158 apparently extracted from Owen's autobiography, published in an unidentified periodical (The Atlantic), Vol. 31, No. 184 (February 1873). Printed in double columns. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
Publisher
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[s.n.]
Date
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1873
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N517
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Autobiography
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Boy-life in a Scottish country-seat : a chapter of autobiography), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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Text
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English
NSS
Robert Owen
-
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1fbae01cd789ada4a71128fb01268b0a
PDF Text
Text
RATIONAL PIETY
AND
PRAYERS FOR FAIR WEATHER.
BY
A CLERGYMAN OF THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND.
PUBLISHED BY THOMAS SCOTT,
NO. 11, THE TERRACE, FARQUHAR ROAD,
UPPER NORWOOD, LONDON, S.E.
Price Threepence.
�TURNBULL AND SPEARS PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
�RATIONAL PIETY AND PRAYERS
FOR FAIR WEATHER.
Dear Mr Scott,
You told me, the other day, that some Papers
on Prayer, which you intended soon to publish, were
in your hands. The few remarks I send, may, perhaps,
seem to you too poor and scanty to appear in good com
pany, but if you should think them worth printing, they
are at your service.
The unusually large rainfall of last year caused some
serious inconveniences, though there are good reasons
for believing that its entire results will be far more
beneficial than injurious. But many Christian people
recognized chastisement, and suspected angry dealing,
and so, after traditional precedent, displayed their faith
in God’s wisdom and goodness by calling for the use of
that modest expostulation and entreaty wherein the
Anglican Church deprecates “ a worthily deserved
plague of rain and waters.”
If the distribution and intensity of wet and dry
seasons were, in any conceivable manner or degree,
affected by the wills and actings of mankind, such
prayers as the Church was urged to offer might have
received an answer somewhere within the inscrutable
province of human intelligence, energy, and free will,
and, at any rate, would have gratified devout instincts
without crossing the dictates of reason and reverential
faith. But no relationship of physical cause and effect
can be imagined to exist between human power and
changes of weather.
The subject of prayer generally, regarded from an
�4
National Piety and
intellectual point of view, is profoundly difficult, if not
utterly inexplicable, and I shall not presume to enter
Upon it. But, believing firmly that, in God we live,
and move, and have our being, and that our spirits are
in contact with, and inspired by, Him, I can detect
nothing unreasonable in praying for spiritual blessings
—for moral strength, mental enlightenment, practical
wisdom. All things which are, or can be, influenced
by human knowledge, zeal, and aptitude, belong to
that mixed domain of created and Creative power, in
relation to which, prayer may rationally find a place,
and the intercourse of pleading want and dependence,
legitimate and profitable exercise. Such intercourse
can cite widely accumulated experience, in evidence
that it is a means of opening the soul to receive ac
cessions of light, and vigour, and love, and is thus a
powerful auxiliary for the conquest of difficulties, the
endurance of trial, and the more fully realized participa
tion of the Divine Nature. But when, quitting the
domain wherein finite co-operation and instrumentality
blend with Infinite Might, we pass into the higher
region occupied solely by superhuman wisdom and.
power, prayer has no defensible ground; it loses
its reasonable and pious features ; it asks for changes,
not in ourselves, but in God, and expresses only lack
of faith, of contentment, and of resignation.
To say that the aim of prayers for fine weather was
‘ to bend our will to God’s, not His to ours,’ is to mis
represent and evade the question really at issue.
Prayers for resignation imply no wish that God’s mode
of acting should be altered, but rather, a confession
that we are tempted to doubt and murmur, when we
ought humbly to submit and confide. Complaints of
excessive rain, and entreaties for different weather,
must not be confounded with supplications for enlarged
trust and readier submission. The fancy that God
punishes human sins by adjustments of physical ad
ministration within a sphere into which human actions
and their consequences do not penetrate, is too absurd
�Prayers for Fair Weather.
5
to merit attention. It is nnspiritual as well as puerile,
and suggests predominant vindictiveness too thirsty
to be satiated in the line of natural connection and
results. It draws no warrant from reason and ob
servation, and does nothing but arbitrarily multiply
difficulties, and undermine faith.
To acknowledge transgressions, and ill-desert, is well,
but the acknowledgment ceases to be devout, when
coupled with petitions that God will treat us more
kindly, by amending those general methods of His action
which we call laws of Nature. Can we not pray without
implying indictments against Him ? Piety should teach
us that He always does what is best, whatever our state
may be. Let us seek His presence to cleanse our con
sciences, to aid us in the work of self-reformation, and
in meeting the calls of duty, but let us shun thoughts
and words which impeach His government by craving
that rain and sunshine may be dispensed with greater
amiability, and a more tender consideration for our
needs. The rule of His dealings may be read in the
declaration : He maketli His sun to rise on the evil, and
on the good, and sendeth rain on the just, and on the
unjust, (St Matt. v. 45.)
Among the letters published in the Times newspaper,
on what was jocosely termed The Dilemma of the
Clergy, was one which illustrates the mingled credulity
and carelessness so frequently associated with Evan
gelical views. The Vicar of St. Mary’s, Islington, a
man respected and venerable, and (his theology ex
cepted) not deficient in shrewdness and common sense,
adduced in support of prayers for fine weather, a re
markable statement from St. James’s Epistle: Elias
was a man subject to like passions as toe are, and he
prayed earnestly that it might not rain ; and it rained
not on the earth by the space of three years and six
months. And he prayed again, and the lieaoen gave
rain, and the earth brought forth her fruit, (v. 17, 18.)
Now, there can be no dispute what the writer of
these words meant. He meant to affirm that three and
�6
Rational Piety and
a half years of drought, said to have been inflicted on
• the land of Israel, were begun, and ended, at Elijah’s
* - request. The case is cited as a clinching confirmation of
verse 16. The prayer of a righteous man availeth much
in its working, as the great prophet’s successful sup
plication proved. Before rashly quoting a passage of
this nature, Mr. D. Wilson ought, surely, to have
turned to the pages of the Old Testament, to see what
ground exists there for so startling an announcement.
The narrative of the drought and famine in Elijah’s
days is the same both in the Hebrew and Septuagint
Texts, and conveys no sort of intimation that prayer on
the prophet’s part either obtained, or removed, the heavy
visitation. On the contrary, the statement made in St
James’s Epistle seems to be not merely baseless, but
forbidden. The prophet declares,—As Jehovah the
God of Israel Liveth, before Whom I stand, there shall
not be dew nor rain these years, but according to my
word,—the sense quite plainly being, that he had re
ceived a revelation, and was commissioned to proclaim,
first the withholding, and then the granting of rain.
In the third year, the word of Jehovah came to Elijah,
saying, go shew thyself to Ahab, and I will send rain
upon the earth. Soon afterwards, Elijah said unto
Ahab ; get thee up, eat and drink, for there is a sound of
abundance of rain, (1 Kings xvii. 1 j xviii. 1 and 41.)
How the idea of much-availing prayer, averting and
procuring rain, can be grafted upon, or reconciled with,
these records, no rational mind can discover.
After the prophet knew, by the word of Jehovah,
that rain was at hand, he went up to the top of Mount
Carmel, and pending himself toward the earth, put his
face between his knees, and desired his servant to go
seven times and look towards the sea, and when he
heard that a little cloud was rising, he sent to Ahab
the message, prepare thy chariot, and get thee doivn,
that the rain stop thee not. (1 Kings xviii. 43, 44.)
The inaccuracy of haste, or imperfect memory, might
confuse this proceeding on the top of Carmel, with
�Prayers for Fair Weather.
7
prayer, and, aided by a lively imagination, might give
birth to such a representation as that which stands in
St James’s Epistle. But defects and blunders of this * •
kind must not be ascribed to a plenarily inspired ‘
Apostle. If he, while contributing to the second great
division of God’s Infallible Word, could make erroneous
inferences from the first, we cannot be sure that other
New Testament writers enjoyed absolute freedom from
error, and so are deprived of what is at once the
greatest bulwark to our faith, and the greatest barrier
to our thought.
In the judgment of the Vicar of St Mary’s, Islington,
the infallibly guided (and we must also presume in
fallibly preserved) words of St James, are an end of
all controversy; ‘The Holy Ghost has spoken,’ and
therefore, no matter what has been said, the saying must
be true. And the assumption that no single line of the
Canonical Books can be unfaithful or untrustworthy, is
not confined to dogmatists of the Evangelical School.
An Anglo-Catholic Divine of the straitest sect, dis
tinguished for his learning, modesty, and Christian
courtesy, Mr. J. W. Burgon, Fellow of Oriel College,
has assured all ‘who have ears to hear,’ that the Holy
Spirit has inspired every sentence, word, and syllable
of the Bible. And yet,—since the Sacred'Writings
nowhere claim for themselves an universal Inspiration
covering every statement, and exempting particular pas
sages from criticism,—this unreserved, easy confidence,
when indulged by Protestants, betrays a faculty of be
lieving without evidence, and requires, in order to
rational consistency, the intrusion of assumptions and
theories hardly compatible with Mr. D. Wilson’s wellknown opinions. Not to go beyond the instance under
consideration :—the existence of a third and finally
authoritative Inspiration, within the Church, is mani
festly needed to harmonize the inspired record of the
Old Testament Scriptures, with the inspired deductions
of St James. Rational interpretation must be shut out,
�8 Rational Piety and Prayers for Fair Weather.
and how can it be shut out otherwise than by the voice
of the Holy Ghost speaking decisively in, and through,
the organization of the Church 1
Rationalizing critics, at the suggestion of the
Devil, or of their own depraved hearts, would get rid
of difficulty, by the plausible supposition that St
James made a mistake, or that the obnoxious paragraph
is not his writing at all, but the interpolation of an early
transcriber. If against this view, the absolute truth
and genuineness of the verses should be maintained,
the innate corruption of intelligent but ‘unregenerate’
minds will probably (for is not Satan himself trans
formed into an angel of light ?) assume the garb of
reverence for the All-wise Ruler of Heaven and earth,
and protest that He is debased and slandered, when
He is said to have sent forth and recalled frightful
national calamity, at the instigation of one of His own
creatures, a man of like passions with ourselves. And,
if still the marvellous assertion of St James’s Epistle
should be upheld as among the veritable words of God,
and utterances of His Spirit, then, reflecting men
in their perverse malignity and self-reliant rebellion,
will say, “ so much the worse for faith in the Bible,
and in the God the Bible thus exhibits.”
Had some notorious sceptic written in the Times, as
the Rev. Daniel Wilson did, on the 4th of January
1873, the design of drawing attention to a weak point
in the Sacred Volume would have been obvious. But
no one will imagine that Mr Wilson acted in guile.
Is there not room to suspect, notwithstanding our
eager professions, that Christian trust in the Great
Creator and Preserver of all mankind, falls short of
the standard attained by the Frenchman who remarked,
that ‘ he did not believe he could himself manage the
universe better than God does ? ’
I am, dear Mr. Scott,
Yours, &c., &c.
A CLERGYMAN OF THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND.
�
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The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Rational piety and prayers for fair weather
Creator
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Clergyman of the Church of England
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: 8 p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Printed by Turnbull and Spears, Edinburgh. Date of publication from British Library.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Thomas Scott
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1873
Identifier
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CT164
Rights
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<img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /><br /><span>This work (Rational piety and prayers for fair weather), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
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application/pdf
Type
The nature or genre of the resource
Text
Language
A language of the resource
English
Subject
The topic of the resource
Prayer
Conway Tracts
Prayer
-
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51575f56889e196e29f586dcf3318ce6
PDF Text
Text
THE
EXERCISE OE PRAYER.
BY
THOMAS LUMISDEN STRANGE.
LATE A JUDGE OF THE HIGH COURT OF MADRAS.
AUTHOR OF “THE BIBLE, IS IT ‘THE WORD OF GOD,*” “THE SPEAKER’S
COMMENTARY REVIEWED,” “ A CRITICAL CATECHISM,” ETC.
PUBLISHED BY THOMAS SCOTT,
•*’.* ■«- ■
NO. 11, THE TERRACE, FARQUHAR ROAD,
UPPER NORWOOD, LONDON, S.E.
Price Threepence.
��THE EXERCISE OF PRAYER.
E have had an interesting article on the “ Province
of - Prayer,” from an able writer in this series,
who signs himself W. E. B. He describes what others
have said on the proper action and effects of prayer,
and gives his own conclusions on this momentous sub
ject. There are some positions taken by him to which
many will be ready to yield assent. We may, for
example, cordially agree with a writer cited by him
from the Contemporary Review, who says, “ I cannot
express my repugnance at the notion that supreme
intelligence and wisdom can be influenced by the
suggestion of any human mind, however great.” It is
also most true that the phenomena of the exact sciences
are beyond the province of prayer, and that it is only
because ignorant of the prevailing laws which govern
the weather, or the progress of disease, that persons,
who would not dream “ of praying that the sun should
always be visible in England,” expect by prayer to
change the weather and avert disease. But if we are
to conclude, as W. E. B. appears to do, that all con
nected with ourselves is so absolutely under the do
minion of fixed regulation, as to make variation in the
distribution of effects an impossibility, and that the
result of prayer is merely to put into operation our
own proper resources, mental and spiritual, and to
create a “reflex action” -upon our individual minds,
without causation by any power beyond us, it seems to
W
�6
The Exercise of Prayer.
me that we are introduced to two very serious nega
tions ; \st, that the Creator has ceased to interfere
with the concerns of those whom he has created, but
has committed all affecting them to the ministration of
his appointed laws; 2d, that no desire expressed by
us reaches him, but merely serves to excite emotions or
thoughts of our own, which are turned back upon our
selves. If this be so, there is an end of prayer. No
one would address a being who cannot be moved, or
put his aspirations in the shape of prayer, when all
that is to be looked for is the promotion of his own
mental activities. Reflection and resolution would be
his resources, hut never prayer.
The physicist, cited by W. E. B. from the Contem
porary Review, in the consciousness of the immutability
of the laws of the universe, describes himself as one
who “ fears no catastrophe—regards calmly all that
happens. . . . Bor the future he has no anxiety ;
the supreme order in which he has a place and work
cannot fail to provide, and he submits, without suggest
ing limits, or a definition, to the plan he never could
have devised, and cannot compass—too glad to believe
that all such order is not to be influenced by human
interference.” This is an enviable condition to have
arrived at, doubtless; but are we limited to the acquisi
tion of mere contentment ? Have we no thought of
bettering ourselves, dr those around us ? Have we no
aspirations for what lies beyond us ? Are existing
conditions for ever to satisfy us ? Is every considera
tion to centre in the narrow element of ourselves ?
Man is assuredly not constituted for this impassive
and isolated state. He has relations with all that is
present to his senses, which draw him continually
beyond the contemplation of his individual being.
He can enter into the joys and woes of others. He
can exert himself to minister to their necessities, or to
take part in their gratifications. He has sentiments
and desires of his own that are never stagnant. He
�The Exercise of Prayer.
7
has aspirations of the highest order. There is nothing
existing, within his reach, but what he grasps at, seeks
to understand, and to utilize. He places before hinr
ideal perfections to which he strives to attain. He is
in continual progress to what is higher, better, vaster,
than what characterizes his existing status. A creature
go greedy of gain, so willing to associate all creation in
the wealth of his advancement, can never rest, with
out something like the process of emasculation, in the
cold immovable condition of placid resignation to
which the physicist would condemn himself. The
question is, can a being, large-hearted, emotional, and
ambitious, as I conceive man to be by nature, be de
pendent, for the realization of his most exalted aims,
upon himself, without requiring, or receiving, external
guidance and support ? If the answer can be yes, then
prayer is uncalled for. If otherwise, then he will
surely address himself to the source wherein may lie
his hope of help.
In respect of his physical state, man is by no means
a self-contained being. He has innumerable wants,
all of which have to be satisfied from what is external
to him. He has to build up his abode, to weave his
apparel, warm his dwelling, and feed himself. He has
to guard himself from hostilities and dangers, to trans
port himself from place to place by sea and land. He
resorts to endless devices to procure himself all that
his necessities require. All his materials are gathered
from outside his system; nor does he work alone. Mostly
he serves himself through the means of others. His
mental wants are similarly satisfied. Many have
laboured in the fields of knowledge, and he profits by
the accumulated results. Is he, in respect of spiritual
attainments, cast only upon himself ? When he takes
in his food, assimilates it, and adds it to the replenish
ment and support of his physical system; when he
feeds, enlivens, and sustains his thinking powers by
resorting to the intellectual productions of others ; is
�8
The Exercise of Prayer.
the process a “ reflex action. ” created out of his indi
vidual resources ? Has he not been drawing upon
materials outside himself for the invigoration and ad
vancement of his own proper condition? And in
seeking the satisfaction of the higher desires of the
soul, in striving to avoid what is hurtful to his spiritual
state, and to acquire that which will fortify and promote
the powrer of his inner life, is he cast absolutely upon
himself ? Are there no wells, no magazines, beyond him,
to which he may look for continual and unfailing supplies?
Centralization presents itself to us everywhere as the
universal method of arrangement. Every organized
object, vegetal or animal, is endowed with some
governing power which watches over and promotes all
its interests. In our social systems, whether constitut
ing families, communities, or nations, there is always
an ultimate ruler and director, from whom the different
administrations derive their authority, and whose
edicts they have to obey. In physics the same rule
obtains. The various forces of nature act together to
effect some common end, the scheme of which betrays
the existence of some influencing medium. Isolation
exists nowhere. All that we come in contact with
exhibits combination, and there must be some combin
ing power. The globe which we inhabit is associated
with other globes, the whole being placed under the
domination of a central governor. There are countless
systems beyond us, which are apparently similarly
associated and directed. And these, there is room to
believe, are held together in one mighty embrace, and
revolve in subordination to some universal centre. Has
the designer of these magnificent arrangements left
himself without any proper action of his own ?
In physics there is always some subtle source which
evades detection. We see certain chemical effects,
but how produced, no one can describe. How our
food is converted into the various elements upon
which our bodies subsist we have not discovered.
�The Exercise of Prayer.
9
Certain combinations terminate in the production of
life. But what life is, and how introduced, none can
say. The prime origin of any force or movement is
beyond our means of discernment. The region of
thought, how it germinates, develops, and multiplies
itself, none have apprehended. Is it not possible that
in these phenomena we have the threads which lead
up to some central influencing and governing power—
the links of the creation with the Creator ?
We have to do on all sides with infinitude. Our
minds stretch back to trace the course of time. We
are satisfied that it has had no beginning, and can
have no end. The same of space; it cannot be con
fined within any bounds. The same of power; it
must have existed always, and can never be absolutely
expended. The same of all the sensations of the mind ;
they are illimitable. Atoms as we are, we are bound up
with this infinitude. Perfect satisfaction is a condition
never attained, and would seem to be unattainable.
With an inexhaustible storehouse before ,us, we are, and
probably shall for ever be, emulous of further good.
The highest result of the creative mind of which we
are conscious is man himself. With his faculty for
adaptation, for designing ends to be accomplished by
selected means, he is continually rearranging, transform
ing, and utilizing the objects around him. He turns
clay into bricks, cuts down the trees and shapes them
to his purposes, quarries and makes use of the slatey
deposits of the hills, and so constructs for himself
dwelling-places. Where there was a marsh, he drains
and converts it into dry arable land. He digs up the
ore, smelts it, and makes therewith an endless variety
of useful implements. He tunnels the mountains,
diverts the course of rivers, bridges their channels,
crosses in comfortable habitations the ocean, skims the
earth in conveyances with the fleetness of a bird, and
sends his messages across seas and continents, round the
globe, with the speed 'of lightning. In these operations
�io
The Exercise of Prayer.
he does not controvert nature, but makes use of her
resources. Is the contriver of all these means debarred
from interference with his provided materials ? Has he
no voice in the endless adaptations and developments
of which they are susceptible ? Is man himself placed
beyond his reach for direction and control ? Does he
call the individual into being, and not rule his cir
cumstances ?
We see it to be otherwise. The discipline of life
gives us the highest testimony of the operation of a
purposing director. Its events, as they pass before us,
each occupy us with their seeming importance; but the
combination of them, and their effect in influencing
our apprehensions and estimate of all with which we
are associated, convey lessons, arriving to us from out
side ourselves, as from a supreme instructor. The
culture of the soul, to those who are awakened to
obedience, produces very marked and durable effects
upon the character. The action of the inward monitor
is as an inspiration from one beyond us. A watchful
and enlightened mind is conscious of being under better
direction than its own. Such a one can compare his
former with his existing self, and be satisfied that he
has been brought under systematic and effectual train
ing by a master-hand. This experience is beyond
estimate in its value. Any one who has had it should
evermore resign himself with gladness and entire con
fidence to the guidance of his maker. He is no
isolated atom, but is in communion, for everlasting
interests, with the central ruler of the universe.
If, then, we do in truth stand associated with some
common centre—the source of life, of power, and of
thought—the creator of every visible object, the ruler
of all that exists—one who has planned everything,
ordered everything, purposed the ultimate design of all
that he has called into being—who commands the
abundance, and the perfection, of all that we can desire;
what more reasonable and allowable exercise of the
�The Exercise of Prayer.
11
mind than that we should turn to him in every
emergency and every need ?
W. E. B. holds that “ Science owes no allegiance to
Religion.” He probably is' here referring to what
passes for revealed religion. Science introduces us to
the works of the Creator, enabling us to comprehend
something of the wTisdom and beneficence with which
they have been ordained, and to appreciate the certainty
with which all the appointments answer their ends.
To study the laws of nature, moral as well as physical,
is therefore, so far, to study the Creator himself. They
read us, in their action, perpetual lessons by which we
may judge of the fitness of things, and estimate results.
We can see the unerring consequences of conforming to
or disobeying these laws. They never violate their
integrity, and they execute their designed sentences
with unfailing fidelity. No sane person should dream
of requiring the disturbance of such a system. He
would be warring in mind against his central ruler,
and courting evil, and not good. No request can be
effectual, but what may consist with the constitution of
the authority addressed. If we could not legitimately
ask an earthly potentate to break through, in our be
half, the settled laws of his dominions, still less should
we expect the supreme ruler to set at nought, for us,
his decreed arrangements. In the compass of our own
necessities, to express the sense of a felt want, or the
fear of a threatening danger, is a natural and a perfectly
legitimate movement. We do our best to obtain a
remedy, and may call upon one mightier than ourselves,
who is ever present, to direct and aid us. We may not
get what we ask for. Seldom is there such a response
as to make it clear that we have had a direct answer to
the particular prayer uttered. But relief in some way
is certain. The apprehensions will in time be tran
quillized, the sense of destitution removed, or positive
help may be brought in. Or we may undergo the
feared calamity, and eventually find we have been
�12
The Exercise of Prayer.
introduced to what has been profitable to us. And
should the danger, to ourselves or another, end in
death, there is a further sphere, beyond this life, in
which the Creator’s action has to be maintained; and
we may look forward for others, and for ourselves, in
hopefulness, beyond the dark inevitable passage that has
to be made. One who sets himself against at,t, evil,
ONE WHOSE POWER AND RESOURCES ARE LIMITLESS,
KNOWS HOW TO TRIUMPH IN EVERY INSTANCE, AND TO
CONDUCT HIS CREAT.URES, BY ASSURED STEPS, TO THEIR
ULTIMATE GOOD.
The writer whose pamphlet is before me has appar
ently a sense of this desired end. He notices the
existence among us of “ a natural craving for sympathy,”
and observes, “there is never perfect sympathy between
two human beings. To no human friend, however
dear, can we talk as unreservedly as we can think and
feel. But we can pray, at least silently, with a freedom
as unrestrained as the thoughts and desires of our
minds. The Divine Being is to us the infinite personi
fication of our purest ideal. We may believe, in an
indefinite way, that He is also infinitely more than this;
but it is as this that we pray to Him. Prayer, then,
in its highest, purest, and, as I think, its only useful
form, consists in a yearning after the loftiest ideal.”
With such a goal before us, with such a friend to
whom to open out our inmost thoughts and aspirations,
may we not ask for help, as we feel the need of it, at
every step of our onward progress; and when we have
the support and guidance wanted, acknowledge, grate
fully, the source beyond us as that from whence the
aid has come ?
Great Malvern,
September 1873.
TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
�
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The exercise of prayer
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Strange, Thomas Lumisden
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Collation: 12 p. ; 18 cm.
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Thomas Scott
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CT112
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Prayer
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Text
God the Image of Man. Man’s Dependence upon
Nature the last and only Source of Religion.
BY
LUDWIG FEUERBACH,
_A.uth.or of “The Essence of Christianity,” &o., &o.
TRANSLATED BY
ALEXANDER LOOS,
-----
♦
3VE,
------------
New York :
K. BUTTS <& CO.,
No. 36 DEY STREET
�Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
ASA K. BUTTS,
in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.
�nxao
■;
LUDWIG FEUERBACH,
A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.
In submitting to the American public the subsequent
argument for the natural origin of religion, by a thinker
whose name has, during the last year, received a well-de
served but long withheld prominence on this side of the
Atlantic, by the eloquence of"one of his noblest peers in
the realm of thought, as well as by the lamentable news
of his recent death: we consider it not altogether su
pererogatory to introduce it by a brief sketch of the
author’s life, especially for the sake of assigning to the
following paragraphs their true place in his life work.
Ludwig Feuerbach was the fourth of the five sons of the
celebrated German criminalist Anselm von Feuerbach,
born July 28th 1804, at Landshut in Bavaria. The vi
cissitudes of his simple life do not present any sensation
al features, and neither his position in life, nor his incli
nation tended to bring him prominently before the pub
lic. His life was eminently a life of thought, and his
writings are his real biography.
What Feuerbach was at any time of his fife, he was
with his whole soul. In his youth, as a pupil of the Gym
nasium at Anspach, he was a pious Christian—pious with
all the energy of his character. In the fervor of his piety,
he devoted himself from free choice to the study of the
ology at the University of Heidelberg, but without find
ing there any satisfactory nourishment for the restless
cravings of his aspiring mind. He therefore left Heidel-
�li
LUDWIG FEUERBACH.
berg in 1824 for Berlin, whence he wrote to his father as
follows : “ I have abandoned theology, not however wan
tonly or recklessly or from dislike, but because it does
not satisfy me, because it does not give me what I indis
pensably need. I want to press Nature to my heart, from
whose depth the cowardly theologian shrinks back; I
want to embrace man, but man in his entirety.” Feuer
bach could not resist the power with which Hegel then
attracted the young students ; but he possessed too inde
pendent a mind to swear upon the master’s word, and
gradually not only emancipated himself from Hegel’s
philosophy, but determined to throw off speculative phil
osophy altogether and to exclusively devote himself to the
only true science, that of Nature. But the death of
King Max the First of Bavaria, whose liberal patronage
had enabled Anselm von Feuerbach to give to each of his
five talented sons a liberal education, frustrated this inten
tion, and prevented Ludwig Feuerbach from continuing
his studies. He accordingly settled in 1828 as a private
tutor at the University of Erlangen and lectured on
Logic, and Metaphysics, but he soon realized that the
prevailing scholasticism of a royal university was not a
congenial atmosphere for his independent mind, and
throwing up all official connection with licensed institu
tions and systems, he retired into the rural solitude of
Bruckberg, a small villagenear Anspach,where Nature and
Science absorbed all the fervor of his enthusiasm and in
spired him, during a residence of 25 years, with the most im
portant of his literary creations—a residence that was in
terrupted only by a short visit at Heidelberg in 1848,
whither he had been invited by the student youth to give
a course of lectures before a promiscuous audience on
“ The Essence of Religion.” The feelings with which
he hailed this self-emancipation from the thraldom of of
fice and scholastic influences can best be realized from the
words in which he gave vent to his exultation, when in
1838 he had been united in blissful wedlock to the sisterin-law of the friend who had secured for him the asylum
at Bruckberg: “Now I can do homage to my genius; now
�LUDWIG FEUERBACH.
I can devote myself independently, freely, regardlessly
to the development of my own being !”
Among his writings which have been published in a
uniform edition comprising ten volumes, the following
deserve especially to be mentioned: Thoughts on Death
and Immortality, (1830); History of Modern Philosophy
from Bacon of Verulam to Spinoza, (1833); Representa
tion, Development and Criticism of Leibnitz’s Philosophy,
(1837); Pierre Bayle, (1838); Essence of Christianity,
(1841, second edition 1843, third edition 1848—trans
lated by Marion Evans); Essence of Religion, (1845).
This last named work which is here for the first time
presented to the American public in translation, forms
the principal basis for the thirty lectures on “ The
Essence of Religion,” which Ludwig Feuerbach, as before
stated, held in the winter of 1848-1849 at Heidelberg
before a promiscuous audience, and in which he endeavor
ed to fill a gap left in his “Essence of Christianity,” by
enlarging the argument of the latter, according to which
“all theology is anthropology” by the addition of “and
physiology,” so that his doctrine and conception of religion
is embraced in the two words Nature and Nan. The
last principal work of Ludwig Feuerbach is “Theogony
according to the sources of Classic, Hebrew and Christian
antiquity,” which forms the 9th volume of his works;
the 10th volume (1866) consisting of a promiscuous col
lection of essays on “ Deity, liberty and immortality from
the stand-point of anthropology.”
Afterwards Feuerbach transferred his residence from
Bruckberg to Rechenberg near Nuremberg, where he
lived exclusively to his family and a small circle of inti
mate friends. Solely devoted as he had been to the ser
vice of science, he had not hoarded up any riches and in
consequence suffered toward the evening of his life from
severe and annoying deprivations. A due sense of grat
itude on the part of his contemporaries in Europe and
America, secured the success of a national subscription,
intended to relieve him and his family from want and
cares for the rest of his life. But his health, undermined
�.iv
LUDWIG FEUERBACH.
by severe mental labor and deprivation, failed more and
more rapidly and disabled him even from fully realizing
the enjoyment of a nation’s grateful recognition, when
a repeated stroke of apoplexy overshadowed his existence
with the gloom of partial unconsciousness, until, on the
12th of Sept., 1872, he died at Rechenberg.
In trying to briefly point out, in conclusion, the sub
stance of Ludwig Feuerbach’s writings in general and
of the subsequent argument in particular, we do not
know how to do this better or more strikingly, than in
his own words in which he speaks of his life-work as
follows:
“ My business was, and above everything is, to illu
mine the dark regions of religion with the torch of
reason, that man at last may no longer be a sport to
the hostile powers that hitherto and now avail them
selves of the mystery of religion to oppress man
kind. My aim has been to prove that the powers
before which man crouches are creatures of his own
limited, ignorant, uncultured, and timorous mind, to
prove that in special the being whom man sets
over against himself as a separate supernatural existence
is his own being. The purpose of my writing is to make
men tmzJ/iwpologians instead of /Aeologians ; man-lovers
instead of God-lovers ; students of this world instead of
candidates of the next; self-reliant citizens of the earth
instead of subservient and wily ministers of a celestial
and terrestrial monarchy. My object is therefore any
thing but negative, destructive, it is positive : I deny in
order to affirm. I deny the illusions of theology and re
ligion that I may affirm the substantial being of man.”
�THE
ESSENCE OF RELIGION,
GOD THE IMAGE OF MAN.
MAN’S DEPENDENCE UPON NATURE THE LAST AND ONLY
SOURCE OF RELIGION.
[The following treatise forms the basis and substance
of the author’s larger work, published under the same
title, as a complement to his previous: “Essence of
Christianity” (translated into English by Marion Evans,
the translator of Strauss’ “Life of Jesus.” It will re
commend itself to the unbiased reader as by far the most
striking and powerful argument for the human origin of
religion in general, and Christianity in particular, before
which all claims and pretensions of dogmatism sink into
naught.—Translator.]
§ 1. That being which is different from and inde
pendent of man, or, which is the same thing, of God, as
represented in the “ Essence of Christianity,”—the being
without human nature, without human qualities and
without human individuality is in reality nothing but
Nature.^)
§ 2. The feeling of dependence in man is the source
of religion; but the object of this dependence, viz., that
�2
THE ESSENCE OE RELIGION.
upon which man is and feels himself dependent, is orig
inally nothing but Nature. Nature is the first original
object of'religion, as is sufficiently proved by the history
of all religions and nations.
§ 3. The assertion that religion is innate with and
natural to man, is false, if religion is identified with
Theism ; but it is perfectly true, if religion is considered
to be nothing but that feeling of dependence by which
man is more or less conscious that he does not and can
not exist without another being, different from himself,
and that his existence does not originate in himself.
Religion, thus understood, is as essential to man as light
to the eye, as air to the lungs, as food to the stomach.
Religion is the manifestation of man’s conception of him
self. But above all man is a being who does not exist
without light, without air, without water, without earth,
without food,—he is, in short, a being dependent on Na
ture. This dependence in the animal, and in man as far
as he moves within the sphere^of the brute, is only an un
conscious and unrefiected one; but by its elevation into
consciousness and imagination, by its consideration and
profession, it becomes religion. Thus all life depends
on the change of seasons; but man alone celebrates this
change by dramatic representations and festival acts.
But such festivals, which imply and represent nothing
but the change of the seasons, or of the phases of the
moon, are the oldest, the first, and the real confessions of
human religion.
§ 4. Man, as well as any individual nation or tribe
considered in its particularity, does not depend on nature
or earth in general, but on a particular locality—not on
water generally, but on some particular water, stream or
fountain. Thus the Egyptian is no Egyptian out of
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
3
Egypt; the Indian is no Indian out of India. For this
very reason those ancient nations which were so firmly
attached to their native soil, and not yet attained to the
conception of their true nature as members of mankind,
but which clung to their individuality and particularity
as nations and tribes, were fully justified in worshiping
the mountains, trees, animals, rivers and fountains of
their respective, countries as divine beings; for their
whole individuality and existence were exclusively
based upon the particularity of their country and its
nature—just as he who recognizes the universe as his
home, and himself as a part of it, transfers the universal
character of his being into his conception of God.
§ 5. It is a fantastic notion that man should have
been enabled only by “Providence,” through the assist
ance of “superhuman” beings, such as Gods, Spirits,
Genii and Angels, to elevate himself above the state of
the animal. Of course man has become what he is not
through himself alone; he needed for this the assistance
of other beings. But these were no supernatural creat
ures of imagination, but real, natural beings—no beings
standing above but below himself, for in general every
thing that aids man in his conscious and voluntary actions,
commonly and pre-eminently called human, every good
gift and talent, does not come from above, but from
below; not from on high, but from the very depths of
Nature. Such assistant beings, such tutelary genii of
man, are especially the animals. Only through them
man raised himself above them; only by their protection
and assistance, the seed of human perfection could grow.
Thus we read in the book of Zendavesta, and even in
its very oldest and most genuine part, Vendidad:
“ Through the intellect of the dog is the world upheld.
�4
THE ESSENCE OE RELIGION.
If he did not protect the world, thieves and wolves would
rob all property.” This importance of the animals to
man, particularly in times of incipient civilization, fully
justifies the religious adoration with which they are
looked upon. The animals were necessary and indis
pensable to man ; on them his human existence depended
—but on what his life and existence depends, that is his
God. If the Christian no longer adores Nature as God,
it is only because in his belief his existence does not
depend on Nature, but on the will of a being different
from Nature; but still he considers and adores this being
as a divine, i. e. supreme being, only because he deems
it to be the author and preserver of his existence and life.
Thus the worship of God depends only on the self-ad
oration of man, and is nothing but the manifestation of
the latter; for suppose I should despise myself and my
life—and man originally and normally does not make
any distinction between himself and his life—how should
I praise and worship that upon which such pitiful and
contemptible fife depends ? The value which I con
sciously attribute to the source of life reflects therefore
only the value which I unconsciously attribute to life
and myself. The higher therefore the value of life, the
higher also the value and dignity of those who give fife,
viz. of the Gods. How could the Gods possibly be
resplendent in gold and silver, unless man knew the
value and the use of gold and silver ? What a differ
ence between the fullness and love of life among the
Greeks, and the desolation and contempt of life among
the Indians—but at the same time what a difference be
tween the Greek and Indian mythology, between the Olym
pian father of the Gods and of man and the huge Indian
opossum or the rattlesnake—the ancestor of the Indians J
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
5
§ 6. The Christian enjoys life just as much as the
Heathen, but he sends his thankofferings for the enjoy
ments of life upward to the father in Heaven: he accuses
the Heathen of idolatry for the very reason that they
confine their adoration to the creature and do not rise to
the first cause as the only true cause of all benefits. But
do I owe my existence to Adam, the first man? Do I
revere him as my parent ? Why shall I not stop at the
creature ? Am I myself not a creature ? Is not the
very nearest cause which is equally defined and individ
ual with myself, the last cause for me, who myself am
not from afar, as I myself am a defined and individual
being ? Does not my individuality, inseparable and
undistinguishable as it is from myself and my existence,
depend on the individuality of my parents ? Do I not,
if I go further back, at last lose all traces of my existence ?
Is there not a necessary limit to my thus going back in
search of the .first cause ? Is not the beginning of my ex
istence absolutely individual ? Am I begotten and con
ceived in the same year, in the same hour, with the same
disposition, in short under the same internal and exter
nal conditions as my brother? Is not therefore my
origin just as individually my own as my life without
contradiction is my own life ? Shall I therefore extend
my filial love and veneration back to Adam ? No, I am
fully entitled to stop with my religious reverence at those
things which are nearest to me, viz., my parents, as the
cause of my existence.
§ 7. The uninterrupted series of the finite causes or
objects, so-called, which was defined by the Atheists of
old as an infinite and by the Theists as a finite one, exists
only in the thoughts and the imagination of man, like
time, in which one moment follows another without
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THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
interruption or distinction. In reality the tedious mon
otony of this causal series is interrupted and destroyed
by. the difference and individuality of the objects, which
individuality causes each by itself to appear new, inde
pendent, single, final and absolute. Certainly water,
which in the conception of natural religion is a divine
Oeing, is on the one hand - a compound, depending on
hydrogen and oxygen, but at the same time it is some
thing new, to be compared to itself only, and original,
wherein the qualities of its two constituent elements, as
such, have disappeared and are destroyed. Certainly
the moonlight, which the Heathen, in his religious sim
plicity, adored as an independent light, is derived from
the immediate light of the sun, but at the same time, dif
ferent from the latter, the peculiar light of the moon,
changed and modified by the moon’s resistance, and
therefore a light which could not exist without the moon,
and whose particularity has its source only in her.
Certainly the dog, whom the Persian addresses in his
prayers as a beneficial and therefore divine being on ac
count of his watchfulness, his readiness to oblige and his
faithfulness, is a creature of Nature, which is not what
he is through himself; but still it is only the dog himself,
this particular and no other being, which possesses those
qualities that call for my veneration. Shall I now in
recognition of these qualities look up to the first and
general cause, and turn my back on the dog ? But the
general cause is without distinction just as much the
cause of the friendly dog as of the hostile wolf, whose
existence I am obliged to destroy, in spite of the general
cause, if I will sustain the better right of my own
existence.
§ 8. The Divine Being which is revealed in Nature,
�THE ESSENCE OE RELIGION.
is nothing but Nature herself, revealing and representing
herself with irresistible power as a Divine Being. The
ancient Mexicans adored among their many Gods alfeo a
God ( or rather a Goddess ) of the salt. This God of the
salt may reveal to us in a striking exemplification the
God of Nature in general. The salt ( rock-salt) repre
sents in its economical, medicinal and other effects, the
usefulness and beneficence of Nature, so highly praised
by the Theists ; in its effect on the eye, in its colors, its
brilliancy and transparency, her beauty ; in its crystalline
structure and form, her harmony and regularity ; in its
composition of antagonistic elements, the combination of
the opposite elements of Nature into one whole — a
combination which by the Theists was always considered
as an unobjectionable proof for the existence of a ruler
of Nature, different from her, because in their ignorance
of Nature they did not know that antagonistic elements
and things are most apt to attract one another and com
bine into a new whole. But what now is the God of the
salt ? That God whose domain, existence, manifestation,
effects and qualities are contained in the salt ? Nothing
but the salt itself which appears to man on account of its
qualities and effects as a divine, i. e., as a beneficent,
magnificent, praiseworthy and admirable being. Homer
expressively calls the salt divine. Thus, as the God of
the salt is only the impression and expression of the
deity or divinity of the salt, so also is the God of the
world or of Nature in general, only the impression and
expression of Nature’s divinity.
§ 9. The belief that in Nature another being is mani
fested, distinct from Nature herself, or that Nature is
filled and governed by a being different from, herself, is
in reality identical with the belief that spirits, demons.
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THE ESSENCE OE RELIGION.
devils &c. manifested themselves through man, at least
in a certain state, and that they possess him ; it is in
very truth the belief, that Nature is possessed by a
strange, spiritual being. And indeed Nature, viewed in
the light of such a belief, is really possessed by a spirit,
but this spirit is the spirit of man, his imagination, his
soul, which transfers itself involuntarily into Nature and
makes her a symbol and mirror of his being.
§ 10. Nature is not only the first and original object
but also the lasting source, the continuous, although
hidden background of religion. The belief that God,
even when he is imagined as a supernatural being, differ
ent from Nature, is an object existing outside of man,
an objective being, as the philosophers call it; this belief
has its only source in the fact, that the objective being,
which really exists outside of man, viz., the world or Na
ture, is originally God. The existence of nature is not,
as Theism imagines, based upon the existence of God
but vice versa, the existence of God, or rather the belief
in his existence, is only based upon the existence of Na
ture. You are obliged to imagine God as an existing
being, only because you are obliged by Nature herself to
pre-suppose the existence of Nature as the cause and con
dition of your existence and consciousness, and the very
first idea connected with the thought of God is nothing
but the very idea that he is the existence preceding your
own and presupposed to it. Or, the belief that God
exists absolutely outside of man’s soul and reason, no
matter whether man exists or not, whether he contem
plates him or not, whether he desires him or not—this
belief or rather its object, does not reflect anything to
your imagination but Nature, whose existence is not
based upon the existence of man, much less upon the
�ESSENCE OE RELIGION.
9
action of the human intellect and imagination. If, there
fore, the theologians, particularly the Rationalists, find
the honor of God pre-eminently in his having an exist
ence independent of man’s thoughts, they may consider
that the honor of such an existence likewise must be at
tributed to the Gods of blinded Heathenism, to the stars,
stones and animals, and that in this respect the existence
of their God does not differ from the existence of the
Egyptian Apis.
Those qualities which imply and express the difference
between the divine being and the human being or at
least the human individual, are originally and implicitly
only qualities of Nature. God is the most powerful or
rather the almighty being, i. e., he can do what man
is not able to do, what infinitely surpasses his powers,
and what therefore inspires him with the humiliating
feeling of his limitedness, weakness and nullity. “ Canst
thou,” says God to Job, “bind the sweet influences of
Pleiades or loose the bands of Orion ? Canst thou send
lightnings, that they may go unto thee and say, here we
are ? Hast thou given the horse strength ? Does the
hawk fly by thy wisdom; Hast thou an arm like God, or
canst thou thunder with a voice like Him?” No, that
man cannot do, with the thunder the human voice can
not be compared. But what power is manifest in the
power of the thunder, in the horse’s strength, in the
flight of the hawk, in the restless course of the Pleiades ?
The power of Nature.
God is an eternal being. But in the Bible itself we
read: “ One generation passeth away and another gener
ation cometh : but the earth abideth forever.” In the
books of Zendavesta, sun and moon are expressively
called “ immortalf on account of their duration. And
�10
ESSENCE OK RELIGION.
a Peruvian Inca said to a Dominican monk, “ You adore
a God who died on the cross, but I worship the Sun
which never dies.”
God is the all-kind being, “for he maketh the sun to
rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the
just and on the unjust;” but that being which does not
distinguish between good and evil, between just and un
just, which distributes the enjoyments of life not accord
ing to moral merits ; which in general impresses man as
a kind being, because its effects, such as for instance the
refreshing sunlight and rain-water are the sources of the
most beneficial sensations : that being is Nature.
God is an all-embracing, universal and unchangeable
being; but it is also one and the same sun which shines
for all men and beings on the earth; it is one and the
same sky which embraces them all; one and the same
earth which bears them all. “ That there is one God,”
says Ambrosius, “is proved by common Nature: for
there is only one world,” “ just as the sun, the sky, the
moon, the earth and the sea are common to all,” says
Plutarch, “ although they are differently called by each
one, so exists also one spirit, who rules the universe, but
he has different names and is worshipped in different
ways.”
God “ dwelleth not in temples made with hands,” but
Nature neither. Who can enclose the light, the sky, the
sea, within human limits? The ancient Persians and
Germans worshipped only Nature, but they had no tem
ples. The worshipper of Nature finds the artificial, wellmeasured halls of a temple or of a church too narrow,
too sultry; he feels at his ease only under the lofty,
boundless sky which appears to the contemplation of his
senses.
�ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
11
God is that being which cannot be defined with human
measure, a great, immeasurable, infinite being; but he
is such a being only because his work, the universe, is
great, immeasurable and infinite, or at least appears to
be so. The work praises its master: the magnificence of
the creator has its origin only in the magnificence of his
product. “ How great is the sun, but how much greater
is he who made, it ?”
God- is a superterrestrial, superhuman, supreme
being, but even this supreme being is in its origin and
basis nothing but the highest being in space, optically
considered: the sky with its brilliant phenomena. All
religions of some imagination transfer their Gods into
the region of the clouds, into the ether of the sun, moon
and stars: all Gods are lost at last in the blue vapor
of heaven. Even the spiritual God of Christianity has
his seat, his basis above in heaven.
God is a mysterious, inconceivable being, but only
because Nature is to man, especially to religious man, a
mysterious inconceivable being. “ Dost thou know,”
says God to Job, “ the balancings of the clouds ? Hast
thou entered into the springs of the sea ? Hast thou
perceived the breadth of the earth ? Hast thou seen the
treasures of the hail ?”
Finally, God is that being which is independent of the
human will, unmoved by human wants and passions,
always equal to himself, ruling according to unchange
able laws, establishing his institutions unchangeable for
all time. But this being again is nothing but Nature,
which remains the same in all changes, never exhibiting
the vacillations of an arbitrary, willful ruler, but subject
in all her manifestations to unalterable laws: inexorable,
regardless Nature. (3)
�12
ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
§ 12. Although God, as the author of Nature, is
imagined and represented as a being different from
Nature, still what is implied and expressed by this being,
its real contents, is nothing but Nature. “Ye shall
know them by their fruits,” we read in the Bible, and
the apostle Paul points expressively to the world as to
the work wherein God’s existence and being can be un
derstood, for what one produces, that contains his being
and shows what he is able to do. What we have in
Nature, that we have in God, only imagined as the
author or cause of Nature—therefore no moral and
spiritual, but only a natural, physical being. A worship
founded only upon God as the author of Nature, without
attributing to him any other qualities, derived from man,
and without imagining him at the same time as a poli
tical and moral, i. e. human lawgiver—such worship
would be a mere worship of Nature. It is true that the
author of Nature is thought to be endowed with intellect
and will; but what his will desires, what his intellect
thinks, is just that which requires no will nor intellect,
but only mechanical, physical, chemical, vegetable and
animal forces and impulses.
§ 13. As little as the formation of the child in the
womb, the pulsations of the heart, digestion and other
organic functions are effects of the intellect and will, so
little is Nature in general the effect or production of a
spiritual being, i. e. of a being that wills and knows or
thinks. If Nature was originally a product of the mind,
and therefore a manifestation of mind, then also the
natural phenomena of the present time would be spiritual
effects and manifestations. A supernatural commence
ment necessarily requires a supernatural continuation.
For man thinks intellect and will to be the cause of
�THE ESSENCE OK RELIGION.
13
Nature only where the effects defy his own will, and
surpass his intellect, where he explains things only
through human analogies and reasons, where he knows
nothing of the natural causes, and therefore derives also
the special and present phenomena from God, or—as
for instance the movements of the stars which he cannot
understand—from subordinate spirits. But if now-a-days
the fulcrum of the earth and of the stars is no longer the
almighty word of God, and the motive of their move
ment no spiritual or angelic but a mechanical one: then
the first cause of this movement is also necessarily a
mechanical, or, in general, a natural one. To derive
Nature from intellect and will, or in general from the
mind, is to reckon without the host, is to bringforth the
saviour of the world from the virgin without the co
operation of a man, through the Holy Ghost,—-is
to change water into wine,—is to appease storms with
words, to transfer mountains with words, to restore sight
to the blind with words. What weakness and narrow
mindedness does it betray to do away with the secondary
causes of superstition, such as miracles, devils, spirits
etc., in explaining the phenomena of Nature, but to
leave untouched the first cause of superstition !
§ 14. Several of the ancient ecclesiastical writers as
sert, that the Son of God is not a product of God’s will,
but of God’s nature ; that the product of Nature is ear
lier than the product of the will, and that, therefore, the
act of begetting, as an act of Nature, precedes the act of
creation as an act of the will. Thus the acknowledg
ment of Nature and her omnipotent laws prevails even
within the sphere of the belief in the supernatural God,
although in the plainest contradiction of his own will
and being. The act of begetting is presupposed to the
�14
THE ESSENCE OE RELIGION.
act of the will; the activity of Nature is considered as
preceding the activity of thought and will. This is per
fectly true. Nature must necessarily exist before any
thing exists which distinguishes itself from Nature, and
which places Nature, as an object of the act of thinking
and willing, in opposition to itself. The true way of
philosophy leads from the want of intelligence to intel
lect ; but the direct way into the madhouse of theology,
goes from the intellect to the want of intellect. To base
the mind not upon Nature, but, vice versa, Nature upon
the mind, is the same as to place the head, not upon the
abdomen, but the latter upon the former. Every higher
degree of development presupposes the lower one, not
vice versa, (4) for the simple reason, that the higher one
must have something below it, in order to be the higher
one. And the higher a being stands and the greater its
value or dignity is, the more it presupposes. Eor this
very reason not the first being, but the latest, the last,
the most depending, the most needful, the most compli
cated being is the highest one, just as in the history of
the earth’s formation, not the oldest and first works, such
as the slate and granite, but the latest and most recent
products, such as the basalts and the dense lavas, are the
heaviest and weightiest ones. A being which has the
honor of presupposing nothing, has also the honor of
being nothing. But it is true that the Christians under
stand well the a_t of making something out of nothing.
§ 15. “ All things come from and depend upon God.”
—so the Christian says in harmony with his godly faith—
“ but,” he adds immediately with his ungodly intellect,
“only indirectly^ God is only the first cause after
which comes the endless host of subordinate Gods, the
regiment of intermediate causes. But the intermediate
�THE ESSENCE OB RELIGION.;
15
causes, so-called, are the only real and effective ones, the
only objective and sensible causes. A God who no
longer casts down man with the arrows of Apollo, who
no longer arouses the soul with Jove’s thunder and
lightning, who no longer threatens the sinner with
comets and other fiery phenomena, who no longer with
his own high hand attracts the iron to the loadstone, pro
duces ebb and tide, and protects the Continent against
the overbearing power of the waters which always threat
en another deluge—in short, a God driven from the em
pire of the intermediate causes is only a cause by name,
a harmless and very modest creature of imagination—a
mere hypothesis for the purpose of solving a theoretical
problem, for explaining the commencement of Nature or
rather of organic life. For the assumption of a being
different from Nature, with the purpose of explaining
her existence, lias its origin only in the impossibility—
although this is only a relative and subjective one—of
explaining organic and particularly human life from Na
ture, inasmuch as the Theist makes his inability to ex
plain life through Nature, an inability of Nature to
produce life out of herself, and thus extends the limits
of his intellect to limits of Nature.
§ 16. Creation and preservation are inseparable. If,
tnerefore, a being different from Nature—-a God— is
our creator, he is also our preserver, and not the power
of the air, of heat, of the water or of bread, but the power
of God sustains and preserves us. “In him we live and
move and have our being.” “ Not bread ” says Luther,
“ but the word of God nourishes also the body naturally,
as it creates and preserves all things.” “Because it
exists, he ( God ) nourishes by it and under it, so that
we do not see it, and think that the bread does it. But
�16
THE ESSENCE OE RELIGION.
where it does not exist, he nourishes without the bread,
through his word only, as he does it by the bread.” “In
fine, all creatures are God’s masks and mn mm cries
which he permits to assist him in all kind of work that
he otherwise can, and really does perform without their
co-operation.” But if, instead of Nature, God is our
preserver, Nature is a mere disguise of the Deity, and,
therefore, a superfluous and imaginary being, just as vice
versa, God is a superfluous and imaginary being if Nature
preserves us. But now it is manifest and undeniable
that we owe our preservation only to the peculiar effects,
qualities and powers of natural beings, therefore we are
not only entitled, but compelled, to conclude that we
owe also our origin to Nature. We are placed right in
the midst of Nature, and should our beginning, our origin,
lie outside of Nature ? We live within Nature, with Na
ture, by Nature, and should we still not be of her ? What
a contradiction!
§ 17. The earth has not always been in its present
state, on the contrary, it has come to its actual condition
through a series of developments and revolutions, and
geology has discovered that in the different stages of its
development several species of plants and animals existed,
which no longer exist nor even have existed for ages.
Thus, for instance, there exist no longer any Trilobites
nor any Encinites or Ammonites or Pterodactyles or
Ichthyosauri, or Plesiosauri, or Megatheria or Dinotheria, &c. And why not ? Apparently because the
condition of their existence no longer exist. But if the
end of any life coincides with the end of its conditions,
then also the beginning, the origin of such life coincides
with the origin of its conditions. Even now-a-days
where plants, at least those of higher organizations,
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
17
come to life only by organic procreation, they can—in a
very remarkable, yet unexplained manner—be seen to
appear in numberless multitudes as soon as the pecu
liar conditions of their life are given. The origin of or
ganic life cannot, therefore, be thought of as an isolated
act, as an act after the origin of the conditions of life, but
rather as the act by which and the moment in which the
temperature, the air, the water, the earth in general, re
ceived such qualities, and oxygen, hydrogen, carbon, nit
rogen entered into such combinations as were necessary
for the existence of organic life — this moment must
also be considered as the moment when these elements
combined for the formation of organic bodies. If, there
fore, the earth, by virtue of its own nature, has in the
course of time developed and cultivated itself to such a
degree that it adopted a character , agreeable to the exist
ence of man and suitable to man’s nature, or so to say,
a human character: then it could produce man also by
its own power.
§ 18. The power of Nature is not unlimited like the
power of God, i. e. the power of human imagination ; "she
cannot do everything at all times and under all circum
stances—her productions and effects on the contrary
are dependent on conditions. If, therefore, Nature now-adays cannot or does not produce any organic bodies by
generatio cequivoca, this is no proof that she could not
do it in former times. The present character of the earth
is that of stability; the time of revolutions is gone by,
the earth has done raging. The volcanoes only are some
single turbulent heads which have no influence on the
masses, and which therefore do not disturb the existing
order of things. Even the grandest volcanic event with
in the memory of man, viz., the rising of Jorullo in
�18
THE ESSENCE OE RELIGION.
Mexico, was nothing but a local rebellion. But as man
manifests only in extraordinary times extraordinary
powers, or as he can do only in times of the highest
exultation and emotion what at other times is impossible
for him, and as the plant only at certain epochs, such as
the period of germinating, blooming and impregnation
produces heat and consumes carbon and hydrogen, thus
exhibiting an animal function, which is directly in con
tradiction to its ordinary vegetable functions; so also
the earth only in the time of its geological revolutions,
when all its powers and elements were in a state of
highest fermentation, ebullition and tension, developed
its power of producing animals. We know Nature only
in its present state; how then could we conclude that
what does not happen now by Nature, might not happen
at all—even at entirely different times, under entirely
different conditions and relations ?5)
§ 19. The Chi’istians have not been able to express with
sufficient strength their astonishment that the heathen
adored created beings as divine ones, but they might
rather have admired them on that account, for such ado
ration was based on a perfectly true contemplation of
Nature. To be produced, to come into life, is nothing
else but to be individualized. All individual beings are
produced, but the general fundamental elements or be
ings of Nature which have no individuality are not
produced. Matter is not produced. But an individual
being is of a higher, more divine quality than that with
out individuality. It is true that birth is disgraceful
and death painful, but he who does not wish to begin and
to end may resign the rank of a living being. Eternity
excludes life, and life excludes eternity. Certainly does
the individual presuppose another being which pro
�the essence
or
religion.
19
duces it; but the latter does not stand above, it
stands below its product. True, the producing being
is the cause of existence and in that respect the first
being; still it is at the same time the mere means
and material; the basis of another being’s existence, and
therefore a subordinate being. The child consumes the
mother, disposes of her strength and of her substance to
his own advantage, paints his cheeks with her blood.
And the child is the mother’s pride; she places it above
herself, subordinating her existence and welfare to that
of the child; even the animal mother sacrifices her own
life for that of her young ones. The deepest disgrace of
any being is death, but the source of death is the act of
begetting. To beget is nothing but to throw one’s self
away, to make one’s self common, to be lost among the
multitude, to sacrifice one’s singleness and exclusiveness
to other beings. Nothing is more full of contradiction,
more perverse and void of sense, than to consider the
natural being as produced by a supreme, perfectly spirit
ual being. According to such a process, and in consis
tency with the creature’s being only an image of the
creator, also the human children ought not to originate
in the disgraceful, lowly placed organ of the womb, but
in the highest organization, the head.
§ 20. The ancient Greeks derived all springs, wells,
streams, lakes and oceans from Oceanos ; and the ancient
Persians made all mountains of the earth originate in the
mountain Albordy. Is the derivation of all beings from
one perfect being any tiling different or better ? No, it is
based upon the same manner of thinking. As Albordy
is a mountain like all those which have their origin in it,
so also the divine being, as the source of those derived
from it, is like them, not different from them as to
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THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION
species; but as the Albordy is distinguished from all
other mountains ■ by preserving their qualities preemin
ently, i. e. in a degree exaggerated by imagination to the
utmost, up to heaven, beyond the sun, moon and stars, so
also the divine being is distinguished from all other beings.
Unity is unproductive; only dualism, contrast, difference
is productive. That which produces the mountains is not
only different from them, but something manifold in
itself. And those elements which produce water, are
not only different from the water, but also from them
selves, nay, even antagonistic to one another. Just as
genius, wit, acumen and judgment are produced and de
veloped only by contrasts and conflicts, so also life was
produced only by the conflict of different, nay, of
antagonistic elements, forces and beings.
§ 21. “ How should he who made the ear not hear ?
How should he who made the eye not see ?” This
biblical or theistical derivation of the being endowed
with the senses of hearing and seeing from another being
endowed with the same senses, or to use an expression of
the modern, philosophic language, the derivation of the
spiritual and subjective being from another spiritual and
subjective being, is based upon the same foundation, and
expresses the same as the biblical explanation of the
rain from heavenly masses of water collected beyond or
in the clouds, or the Persian derivation of the mountains
from the original mountain, Albordy, or the Grecian ex
planation of fountains and rivers from Oceanos. Water
from water, but from an immensely great and all-embrac
ing water; mountain from mountain, but from an infinite
all-embracing mountain; so spirit from spirit, life from
life, eye from eye—but from an infinite, all-embracing
eye, life and spirit.
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
21
§ 22. When children inquire about the origin of
babes, we give them the explanation that the nurse
takes them from the well where they swim like fishes.
The explanation which theology gives us of the origin of
organic or natural beings in general is not much differ
ent. God is the deep or beautiful well of imagination in
which all realities, all perfections, all forces are contained,
in which all things swim already made like little fishes.
Theology is the nurse who takes them from this well, but
the chief person, Nature, the mother who brings forth
the children with pangs, who bears them during nine
months under her heart, is left entirely out of considera
tion in such an explanation, which originally was only
childlike, but now-a-days is childish. Certainly such an
explanation is more beautiful, more pleasant to the
heart, easier, more intelligible and conceivable to the
children of God than the natural way, which only by
degrees and through numberless obstacles rises from
darkness to fight. But also the explanation which our
pious forefathers gave of hailstorms, epidemics among
cattle, drought and thunderstorms, by tracing them to
the agency of weather-makers, sorcerers, and witches, is
far more practical, easier, and, to uneducated men even
now-a-days much more intelligible than the explanation
of these phenomena from natural causes.
§ 23. “The origin of life is inexplicable and incon
ceivable.” Be it so; but this incomprehensibility does
not justify us in drawing from it the superstitious conse
quences which theology draws from the deficiencies of
human knowledge, nor in going beyond the sphere of
natural causes: for we can only say, “we cannot explain
life from these natural phenomena and causes which are
known to us, or as far as they are known to us”—but
�22
THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
we cannot say, “life cannot be explained at all from
Nature, without pretending to have exhausted al
ready the ocean of Nature even to the last drop.
This incomprehensibility does not justify us in explain
ing the inexplicable by the supposition of imagined be
ings, and in deceiving and deluding ourselves and others
by an explanation which explains nothing. It does not
justify us in changing an ignorance of natural material
causes into a non-existence of such causes, and in deify
ing, personifying, representing our ignorance in a being
which is to destroy such ignorance, and which yet does
not express anything but the nature of such ignorance,
the deficiency of positive, material reasons of explana
tion. For what else is the immaterial, incorporeal, not
natural, extramundane being to whom we thus try to
trace back all lite, but the precise expression of the
intellectual absense of material, corporeal, natural,
cosmical causes? But instead of being so honest and
modest as to say frankly: “We do not know any reason,
we do not know how to explain it, we have no data nor
materials,” you change these deficiencies, these nega
tions, these vacancies of your head by the activity of
your imagination into positive beings, into immaterial
beings, i. .e into beings which are not material nor
natural, because you do not know of any material or
natural causes. While 'ignorance however is contented
with immaterial, incorporeal, unnatural beings, her in
separable companion, wanton imagination, which al
ways and exclusively indulges in the intercourse with
beings of the highest perfection, immediately elevates
these poor creatures of ignorance to the rank of super
material, supernatural beings,
§ 24. The idea that Nature or the universe in general
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
23
has a real beginning, and that consequently at sometime
there was no Nature, no universe, is a narrow idea,
which seems acceptable to man only as long as he has
a narrow, limited conception of the world. It is an
magination without sense and foundation—this imagin
ation that at some time nothing real existed, for the
universe is the totality of all reality. All qualities or
definitions of God which make him an objective, real
being are only qualities abstracted from, Nature, which
presuppose and define Nature, and which therefore
would not exist if Nature did not exist. It is true, if
we abstract from Nature : if in our thoughts or our ima
gination we destroy her existence, i. e. if we shut our
eyes and extinguish all images of natural things reflected
by our senses and conceive Nature not with our senses
(not in concreto as the philosophers say) there is left a
being, a totality of qualities such as infinity, power,
unity, necessity, eternity; but this being which is left
after deducting all qualities and phenomena reflected by
our senses is in truth nothing but the abstract essence
of Nature, or Nature ££ in abstract? in thought. And
such derivation of Nature or the universe from God is
therefore in this respect nothing but the derivation ci
the real essence of Nature, as it appears to our senses,
from her abstract, imagined essence, which exists only in
our idea—a derivation which appears to be reason
able because in the act of thinking we are accus
tomed to consider the abstract and general as that which
is nearer to thought, and which therefore must be pre
supposed to the individual, the real, the concrete, as that
which is higher and earlier in thought, although in
reality just the reverse takes place, inasmuch as Nature
exists before God, i. e. the concrete before the abstract
�24
THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
that which we conceive with our senses before that
which is thought. In reality, where everything passes
on naturally, the copy follows the original, the image
the thing which it represents, the thought its object—
but on the supernatural, miraculous ground of theology,
the original follows the copy, the thing its own likeness.
“ It is strange ” says St. Augustine, “ but nevertheless
true, that this world could not exist if it was not known
to God.” That means: the world is known and thought
before it exists; nay, it exists only because it was
thought of—the existence is a consequence of the knowl
edge or of the act of thinking, the original a conse
quence of the copy, the object a consequence of its
likeness.
§ 25. If we reduce the world or Nature to a totality
of abstract qualities, to a metaphysical, i. e. to a merely
imagined object, and consider this abstract world as the
real world, then it is a logical necessity to consider it as
finite. The world is not given to us through the act of
thinking, not at least through the metaphysical and hy
perphysical thinking which abstracts from the real world
and founds its true and highest existence upon such ab
straction—the world is given to us through life, by per
ception, by the senses. For an abstract being which
only thinks there exists no light, because it has no eyes,
no warmth, because it has no feeling, in general no world
because it has no organ for its perception; for such a
being there exists in reality nothing. The world, there
fore, exists for us only because we are no logical or meta
physical beings, because we are other beings, because
we are more than mere logicians and metaphysicians.
But just thisj?Zw<s appears to the metaphysical thinker as
a minus, this negation of the art of thinking as an abso
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
25
lute negation. Nature to him is nothing but the oppo
site of mind. This merely negative and abstract definition
he makes her positive definition, her essence. Conse
quently it is a contradiction to consider as a positive
being that being, or rather that nonentity which is only
the negation of the act of thinking, which is an imagined
thing, but according to its nature an object of the senses,
that is antagonistic to the act of thinking and to the
mind. The being which exists in thought is for the
thinker the true essence, therefore it is self-evident to
him that a being which does not exist in thought cannot
be a true, eternal, original essence. It implies already a
contradiction for the mind to think only of its opposite ;
it is only in harmony with itself when it thinks only itself
( on the standpoint of metaphysical speculation,) or at
least (on the standpoint of theism) when it thinks an es
sence which expresses nothing but the nature of the act
of thinking, which is given only by thought, and which
therefore in itself is nothing but an imagined being.
Thus Nature disappears into nothing. But still she exists,
though according to the thinker she neither can nor
should be. How then does the metaphysician explain
her existence ? By a self-privation, a self-negation, a self
denial of the mind which apparently is a voluntary one?
but which in very truth is contradictory to, and only en
forced upon his inner nature. But if Nature on the
standpoint of abstract thinking disappears into nothing,
on the other hand on the standpoint of the real observa
tion and contemplation of the world, that creative mind
disappears into nothing. On this standpoint all deduc
tions of the world from God, of Nature from the mind,
of physics from metaphysics, of the real from the ab
stract, are proved to be nothing but logical plays.
�26
THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
§ 26. Nature is the first and fundamental object of
religion, but she is such an object even where she is the
direct and immediate object of religious adoration, as e.
g. in the natural religions so-called, not as such, as
Nature, i. e., in the manner and in the sense in which
we regard her from the standpoint of theism or of
philosophy and of the natural sciences. Nature is to
man originally, i. e., where he regards her with a relig
ious eye, rather an object of his own qualities, a person
al, living, feeling being. Man originally does not dis
tinguish liimself from Nature, nor consequently Nature
from himself, therefore the sensations which any object
in Nature excites in him appear to him immediately as
qualities of the object. The beneficial, good sensations
and effects are caused by good and benevolent Nature,
the bad, painful sensations, such as heat, cold, hunger,
pain, disease, by an evil being, or at least by Nature in a
state of evil disposition, of malevolence, of wrath. Thus
man involuntarily and unconsciously, I. e., necessarily—
although this necessity is only a relative and historical
one—transforms the essence of Nature into a feeling,
i. e. a subjective, a human being. No wonder that he
then also expressively, knowingly and willingly trans
forms her into an object of religion, of prayer, i. e. an
object which can be influenced by the feelings of man,
his prayers, his services. Really, man has made Nature
already subservient and subdued her to himself by
assimilating her to his feelings and subduing her to his
passions. Besides, uneducated natural man does not
only presuppose human motives, impulses and passions
in Nature, he sees even real men in natural bodies.
Thus the Indians on the Orinoco think the sun, the moon
and the stars, to be men—“ those up there,” they say “are
�THE ESSENCE OE RELIGION.
27
men like unto usThe Patagonians think the stars to
be “ former Indiansthe Greenlanders think the sun,
moon and stars, to be their ancestors, who at a particular
occasion were translated into heaven.” Thus also the an
cient Mexicans believed that the sun and the moon which
they adored as gods had been men in former times.
Behold thus the assertion made in my “ Essence of
Christianity ” that man in religion is in relation to an
intercourse with himself only, and that his God in reality
reflects only his own essence—this assertion is confirmed
even by the most uncultivated, primary manifestations
of religion ; where man adores things the most distant
from and most unlike to himself, such as stars, stones,
trees, nay, even the claws of crabs, and snail shells ; for
he adores them only because he transfers himself into
them, because he believes them to be such beings, or at
least to he inhabited by such beings as himself. Re
ligion therefore exhibits the remarkable contradiction,
which however is easily understood, nay, even necessary,
that, while on one hand (from the standpoint of theism
or anthropologism) she worships the human essence as a
divine one, because it appears to her as different from
man, as an essence not human—on the other hand (from
the materialistic standpoint) she adores vice versa the
essence which is not human as a divine one, because it
appears to her as a human one.
§ 27. The mutability of Nature, especially in those
phenomena which most of all cause man to feel his de
pendence on her, is the principal reason why she appears
to man as a human, arbitrary being, and why she is re
ligiously adored by him. If the sun stood always in the
sky, he would never have kindled the fire of religious
passion in man. Only when he disappeared from man’s
�28
THE ESSENCE OE RELIGION.
eye and inflicted upon him the terrors of night, and when
again he re-appeared, man fell down on his knees before
him, overcome by joy at his unexpected return. Thus
the ancient Apalachites in Florida greeted the sun with
hymns at his rising and setting, and prayed to him at
the same time that he might return and bless them with
his light. If the earth always produced fruits, where
would there be a motive for religious celebrations of the
time of sowing and harvesting? Only in consequence of
her now opening, now closing her womb, her fruits ap
pear to be her voluntary gifts which oblige man to be
grateful. The changes in Nature make man uncertain,
.humble, religious.. It is uncertain, whether the weather
to-morrow will be favorable to my undertakings; is it
uncertain whether I shall harvest what I sow, and there
fore I cannot depend upon the gifts of Nature as upon a
tribute due, or an infallible consequence. But where
mathematical certainty is at an end, there theology
commences, even now-a-days in weak minds. Religion
is the conception of the necessary—or of the accidental
—as of something arbitrary, or voluntary. The opposite
sentiment, that of irreligion and ungodliness, on the
other hand, is represented by the Cyclops of Euripides,
when he says: “Earth must produce grass for feeding
my flock, whether she be willing to do so or not”
§ 28. The feeling of dependence upon Nature in
combination with the imagination of her as of an arbi
trarily acting, personal being, is the motive of the sacri
fice,. the most essential act of natural religion. The de
pendence upon Nature is particularly sensible to me by my
want of her. The want is the feeling and expression of
my nothingness without Nature; but inseparable from
want is enjoyment, the opposite feeling, the feeling of
�THE ESSENCE OE BELTGION.
29
my self-existence, of my independence in distinction from
Nature. Want, therefore, is pious, humble, religious—
but enjoyment is haughty, ungodly, void of respect, fri
volous. And such frivolity, or at least want of respect
in enjoyment, is a practical necessity for man, a necessi
ty upon which his existence is founded—but a necessity
which is in direct contradiction to his theoretical respect
for Nature as for an egotistic, sensible being, which
suffers as little as man that anything be taken from her.
The appropriation or the use of Nature appears therefore
to man, as if it were an encroachment upon her right, as
an appropriation of another one’s property, as an outrage.
In order now to propitiate his conscience as well as the
object of his imaginary offence; in order to show that his
robbery has its origin in want, not in arrogance, he dimin
ishes his enjoyment and returns to the object a part of
its plundered property. Thus the Greeks believed that
if a tree were cut down, its soul, the Dryad, lamented
and cried to Fate for revenge against the trespasser.
Thus no Roman ventured to cut down a tree on his ground
without sacrificing a farrow for • the propitiation of the
god or goddess of this grove. Thus the Ostiaks, after
having slain a bear, suspend its skin on a tree, pay to it
all sorts of reverences, and. apologize as well as they can
to the bear for having killed him. “ They believe in this
manner politely to avert the damage which the spirit of
the animal possibly could inflict upon them.” Thus
North American tribes by similar ceremonies propitiate
the departed souls of slain beasts. Thus the Philippines
asked the plains and mountains for their permission, if
they wished to cross them, and deemed it a crime to cut
down any old tree. And the Bramin hardly dares to
drink water or to tread upon the ground with his feet,
�so
THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
because each step, each draught of water causes pain and
death to sentient beings, plants as well as animals, and
he must therefore do penance “in order to atone for the
death of creatures which he possibly, although unconsci
ously might destroy by day or night.” (6)
§ 29. The sacrifice makes perceptible to the senses
the whole essence of religion. Its source is the feeling
of dependence, fear, doubt, the uncertainty of success, of
future events, the scruples of conscience on account of
a sin committed; but the result, the purpose of the sacri
fice is self-consciousness, courage, enjoyment, the cer
tainty of success, liberty and happiness. As a servant of
Nature I observe tlie sacrifice; as her master I depart
from it. Therefore, although the feeling of dependence
upon Nature is the source and motive of religion: its
very purpose and end is the destruction of such feeling,
the independence from Nature. Or, although the divin
ity of Nature is the basis, the foundation of religion
generally and of Christian religion in particular, still its
end is the divinity of man.
§ 30. Religion has for its presupposition the contra
diction between will and ability, desire and satisfaction,
intention and success, imagination and reality, thought
and existence. In his desire, in his imagination, man is
unlimited, free, almighty—God; but in his ability, in
reality, he is bound, dependent, limited—man] man in
the sense of a finite being, in contradistinction from God.
“Man proposes, God disposes,” as the saying is. “Man
plans and Jove accomplishes it differently.” The
thought, the will is mine; but what I think and will is
not mine, is outside of me, does not depend on me. The
destruction of such a contrast or contradiction is the ten
dency, the purpose of religion; and that being in which
�THE ESSENCE OK RELIGION.
31
it is destroyed, and wherein that which I wish and imag
ine as possible, which however my limited power proves
to be impossible for me, is possible, nay even real—that
being is the divine being.
§ 31. That whieh is independent from the will and
the knowledge of man is the original, proper, character
istic cause of religion—the cause of God. “ I have
planted” says Paul, “Apollos watered, but God gave
the increase. So then neither is he that planteth any
thing, neither he that watereth, but God that giveth the
increase.” And Luther says: “We must praise and
thank God that he suffers grain to grow, and acknowl
edge that it is not our work, but his blessing and his
gift, if grain and wine and all sorts of fruit grow which
we eat and drink to satisfy our wants.” And Hesiod
says, that the industrious husbandman will richly harvest
if Jove grants a good end. The tilling of the soil then,
the sowing and watering of the seed, depends on me, but
not the succes. This is in God’s hand, therefore it is
said: “ God’s blessing is the main thing.” But what is
God? originally nothing but Nature, or the essence of
Nature ; but Nature as an object of prayer, as an exorable and consequently willing being. Jove is the cause
or the essence of meteorological phenomena; but this
does not yet constitute his divine, his religious charac
ter ; also he who is not religious assumes a cause of the
rain, of the thunder storm, of the snow. He is God
only, because and in so far as these phenomena de
pend on his good will. That which is independent
of man’s will is, therefore, by religion, made depen
dent upon God’s will as far as the object itself is con
cerned (objectively); but subjectively (as far as man is
concerned,) it is made dependent on prayer, for what
�32
THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
depends on will is an object of prayer and can be
changed. “Even the Gods are pliable. A mortal can
change their minds by incense and humble vows, by li
bations and perfume.”
§32. The only or at least the principal object of re
ligion is an object of human purposes and wants, at least
where man has once risen beyond the unlimited arbi
trariness, helplessness and accidentalness of Fetishism
proper. For this very reason those natural beings which
are most necessary and indispensable to man enjoyed al
so the most general and the highest religious adoration.
But whatever is an object of human wants and purposes,
is for the same reason an object of human wishes. I
need rain and sunshine for the successful growth of my
seeds. In times of continuous drouth I therefore wish
for rain; in times of continuous rain I wish for sunshine.
This wish is a desire whose gratification is not within my
power ; a will, but without the might to prevail, although
not absolutely so, yet at least at a given time, under cer
tain circumstances and conditions, and such as man
wishes it on the stand point of religion. But just what
my body, my power in general, is unable to do, is within
the power of my wish. What I ask and wish for, that I
enchant and inspire by my wishes. (7) While under the
influence of an affect—and religion roots only in affect,
in feeling—man places his essence without himself; he
treats as living what is without life, as arbitrary what
has no will; he animates the object with his sighs, for he
cannot possibly in a state of affect address himself to an
insensible being. Feeling does not confine itself within
the limits prescribed by intellect; it gushes over man ;
his breast is too narrow for it; it must communicate it
self to the outer world and by so doing make the insensi
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
33
ble essence of Nature a sympathetic one. Nature en
chanted by human feeling, Nature agreeing with and as
similated to man’s feeling, i. e., Nature herself endowed
with feeling, is Nature such as she is an object of reli
gion, cl divine being. The wish is the origin, the very
essence of religion—the essence of the G-ods is nothing
but the essence of the wish. (8) The Gods are superhu
man and supernatural beings; but are not wishes also of
a superhuman and supernatural nature ? e. g. am I in
my wish, in my imagination still a man, if I wish to be
an immortal being, free from the fetters of the earthly
body? No ! He who has no wishes has no gods either.
Why did the Greeks lay such a stress upon the immor
tality and happiness of the Gods ? Because they them
selves did not wish to be mortal and unhappy. Where
no lamentations about man’s mortality and misery are
heard, no hymns are heard in honor of the immortal and
happy Gods. Only the water of tears shed within the
human heart evaporates in the sky of imaginatian into
the cloudy image of the diVine being. From the univer
sal stream, Oceanos, Homer derives the Gods ; but this
stream abounding with Gods is in reality only an efflux
of human feelings.
§ 33. The* irreligious manifestations of religion are
best adapted to disclose in a popular manner the origin
and essence of religion. Thus it is an irreligious mani
festation of religion and therefore most severely criticized
already by the pious heathen, that as a general thing
man takes recourse to religion, that he applies to God
and thinks of him, only in times of misfortune ; but this
very fact reveals to us the source of religion. In times
of misfortune or distress, no matter whether it be his
own or another one’s, man realizes the painful experience
�34
THE ESSENCE OK RELIGION.
of his.inability to do what he wishes—he finds his hands
tied. But the palsy of the motory nerves is not at the
same time also the palsy of the sensory nerves; the fetters
of my physical power are not also at the same time the
fetters of my will, of my heart. On the contrary, the
more my hands are tied, the more boundless are my
wishes, the more ardent is my desire for redemption, the
more energetic my strife after freedom, my will not to
be limited. The power of the human heart or will which
by the influence of distress has been exaggerated and
overexcited to a superhuman one, is the power of the
Gods for whom there is no necessity nor limit. The
Gods are able to do what man desires, i. e. they obey
the laws of the human heart. What man is only in re
gard to his soul, the Gods are also physically; what he
can do only within his will, his imagination, his heart, i.
e., mentally, as e. g. to be in the twinkling of an eye at
a distant place, that the Gods are able to do physically.
The Gods are the embodied, realized wishes of man—
the natural limits of man’s heart aud will destroyed—
creatures of the unlimited will, creatures whose physical
powers are equal to those of the will. The irreligious
manifestation of this supernatural power of religion is
the practice of witchcraft among uncivilized nations,
where in & palpable manner the mere will of man ap
pears as God, commanding over Nature. But when the
God of Israel at Joshua’s command bids the sun stand
still or suffers it to rain in compliance with Elijah’s
prayer, and when the God of the Christians for the sake
of proving his divinity, i. e., his power to fulfill all wishes
of man, by his word alone appeases the raging sea, cures
the sick, raises the dead : here as well as in the practice
of witchcraft, the mere will, the mere wish, the mere
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
35
word is declared a power that overrules Nature. The
only difference is that the sorcerer realizes the end of re
ligion in an irreligious manner, whilst the Jew and the
Christians do it in a religious manner, inasmuch as the
former places within himself, what the latter transfers
into God, inasmuch as the former makes the object of
an expressive will or command what the latter make the
object of a still submissive will, of a pious wish; in short
inasmuch as the former does by and for himself, what
the latter do by and with God. But the common say
ing : “quod quis per alium fecit ipse fecisse putaturf
i. e. what one does through another one that is imputed to
him as his own deed, finds its application also here:
what one does through God, that he does in reality
himself.
§ 34. Religion has—at least originally and in rela
tion to nature—no other office and tendency than to
change the unpopular and haunted essence of Nature into
a familiar and known one; to melt Nature, who in her
self is impliant and hard as iron, in the glowing fire of
the heart for the sake of human purposes; i. e., it has the
same end as civilization or culture, whose end also is no
other than to make Nature theoretically an intelligible
and practically a pliable being, agreeable to the wants of
man—with this only difference, that what culture tries to
attain by means, and that too by means learned from Na
ture, religion attains without means, or what is the same,
through the supernatural means of prayer, of faith, of
sacraments, of witchcraft. Thus we find that everything
which with the progress of the civilization of mankind
became a cause of activity, of self-activity, of anthropol
ogy, in former times was a cause of religion or theology ;
as, for instance, jurisprudence, politics, medicine, which
�36
THE THENCE OF RELIGION.
latter even now-a-days among uncivilized nations is a
thing of religion. (9) It is true, culture and civilization
always come short of the wishes of religion, for it cannot
destroy those limits of man which have their foundation
in his Nature. Thus culture succeeds for instance in
improving the science of prolongating life (Macrobio
tics) but it never attains to immortality. This as a
boundless wish which cannot be realized is left to re
ligion.
§ 35. In natural religion man addresses himself to an
object directly antagonistic to the original will and sense
of religion; for here he sacrifices his feelings and his
intellect to a being which in itself is without feeling and
intellect; he places above himself what he would like to
have below himself; he serves what he wishes to govern,
adores what in reality he abhors, entreats for assistance
that against which he seeks assistance. Thus the Greeks
at Titane sacrificed to the winds in order to appease
their rage; thus the Romans dedicated a temple to the
Fever in order to render it harmless; thus the Tungusians at the time of an epidemic pray devotionally and
with solemn bows to tke disease that it may pass by
their huts (according to Pallas.) Thus the Widahians
in Guinea sacrifice to the raging sea in order to prevail
upon it that it may be calm and not prevent them from
fishing; thus the Indians at the approach of a storm ad
dress the Manitou (z. e. Spirit, God, Being) of the air,
at the crossing of water the Manitou of the waters, that
he may preserve them from all danger ; thus in general
many nations expressively do not adore the good but the
evil essence (10) of Nature, or at least what appears to
them, as such. Upon the standpoint of natural religion
Iman declares his love to a statue, to a corpse; no wonder
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
37
therefore, that in. order to make himself heard he resorts
to the most desperate, most insane means; no wonder
that he divests himself of his humanity in order to ren
der Nature humane, that he even sheds the l>lood of man
in order to inspire her with human feelings. Thus the
northern Germans believed expressly that “ sanguinary
sacrifices were apt to bestow human language and feel
ings to wooden idols and to endow with the gifts of
language and divination the stones which they adored
in the houses devoted to gory sacrifices.” But in vain
are all attempts to imbue her with life ; Nature does not
respond to man’s lamentations and questions ; she throws
him inexorably back upon himself.
§ 36. As the limits which man imagines or at least such
as he imagines them on the standpoint of religion (as e. g.
the limit which is the cause that he does not know the
future, or does not live forever, or does not enjoy happi
ness without interruption and molestation, or has no body
without weight, or cannot fly like the Gods, or cannoi
thunder like Jove, or cannot add anything to his size
nor make himself invisible at will, or cannot, like the
angels, live without sensual wants and impulses, or in
short cannot do what he wills and desires)—as all these
limits are such only in his imagination and mind, while
in reality they are no limits, because they have their
necessary foundation in the essence, in the nature of
things; so also is that being which is free from such
limits, the unlimited divine being, only a creature of
imagination, of reflection, and of a mental disposition
which is governed by imagination. Whatever therefore
may be the object of religion, be it even only a snail
shell or pebble, it is such an object only in.its quality as
a creature of the heart, of reflection, of imagination.
�38
THE ESSENCE OK RELIGION.
This justifies the assertion that men do not adore the
stones, the trees, the animals, the rivers themselves, but
the Gods within them, their manitous, their spirits. But
these spirits of natural objects are nothing but their re
flected images or they as reflected objects, as creates
uf imagination in distinction from them as real, sen
sual objects, just as the spirits of the dead are nothing
but the imagined images of the dead which live in our
remembrance—beings that once really existed, as imag
ined beings, which however by religious man, i. e. by
him who does not discriminate between the object and
its idea, are considered to be real, self-existing beings.
Man’s pious, involuntary self-deception upon the stand
point of religion is therefore within the natural religion
an apparent, self-evident truth ; for here man gives to
his religious object eyes and ears which he knows and
sees to be artificial eyes and ears of s e or wood, and
yet believes to be real eyes and ears. Thus religious
man has his eyes only in order not to see, to be stoneblind, and his reason only in order not to reason, to be
block-headed. Natural religion is the manifest contra
diction between idea and reality, between imagination
and truth. What in reality, is a dead stone or log, is in
the conception of natural religion a living individual;
apparently, no God, but something entirely different,
yet invisibly, according to belief, a God. For this rea
son, natural religion is always in danger of being most
bitterly undeceived, as it requires only a blow with an
axe in order to satisfy her, <?. g. that ,no blood flows from
adored trees, and that therefore no living, divine being
dwells within them. But how does religion escape these
strong contradictions and disappointments to which she
is exposed by adoring Nature? Gnly by making her
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
39
object an invisible, not sensual one, by making it a
being that exists only in faith, reflection, imagination—
in short, within the mind, which therefore itself is a
spiritual being.
§ 37. As soon as man from a merely physical being
becomes a political one, or in general a being distinguish
ing himself from Nature, and concentrating himself
within himself, his God is also changed from a merely
physical being into a political one, different from Na
ture. That which leads man to a distinction of his
essence from Nature, and in consequence to a God dis
tinguished from Nature, is therefore only his association
with other men to a commonwealth, wherein the objects
of his consciousness and of his feeling of dependence
are powers distinguished from those of Nature and ex
isting only in thought or imagination; political, moral,
abstract powers, such as the power of law, of public
opinion, (u) of honor, of virtue—while his physical ex
istence is subordinated to his human, political or moral
existence, and where the power of Nature, the power
over death and life, is degraded to an attribute and in
strument of political or moral power. Jove is the God
of lightning and thunder; but he possesses these terrible
weapons only in order to crush those who disobey his
commandments, the perjurer, the perpetrators of vio
lence. Jove is father of the kings—“from Jove are
the kings.”
With lightning and thunder therefore Jove sustains
the power and dignity of the Kings. (12) “The King,”
we read in the law-book of Menu, “ burns eyes and
hearts like the sun, therefore no human creature upon
earth is able even to look upon him. He is fire and air,
he is sun and moon, he is the God of criminal laws.
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THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
Fire burns only a single one who by carelessness may
have approached too near to it, but a King’s fire when
he is in wrath, burns a whole family with all their cattle
and property-------------------- In his courage dwelleth con
quest and death in his wrath” In a similar manner
the God of the Israelites commands amid lis-htnine’ and
thunder his people to walk in all ways which he has
commanded them “in order that they may prosper and
live long in the land.” Thus the power of Nature as
such and the feeling of dependence on her disappears
before political or moral power! Whilst the slave of
Nature is so blinded by the brilliancy of the sun, that he
like the Katchinian Tartar daily prays to him: “do
not kill me,” the political slave on the other hand is so
much blinded by the splendor of royal dignity, that he
prostrates himself before it as before a divine power, be
cause it commands over death and life. The titles of the
Soman Emperors, even still among the Christians were:
“Your divinity,” “Your eternity.” Nay, even now-adays among Christians “Holiness” and “Majesty,” the
titles and attributes of the Deity, are titles and attributes
of kings. It is true the Christians try to justify this
political idolatry with the notion that the king is nothing
but God’s representative upon earth, God himself being
the King of kings. But such a justification is only a
self-deception. Not considering that the king’s power is
a very sensible, direct and sensual one which represents
itself, while that of the King of kings is only an indirect
and reflected one—God is defined and regarded as the
world’s ruler, as a royal or political being in general,
only where the royal being occupies, influences and rules
man so as to be considered by him as the supreme being.
“Brahma” says Menu, “formed in the beginning of time
�THE ESSENCE OE RELIGION.
41
for his service the genius ofpunishment with a body of
pure light as his own son, nay even as the author oi
criminal justice, as the protector of all things created.
Fear ofpunishment enables this universe to enjoy its
happiness.” Thus man makes even the punishment of
his criminal code divine, world-governing powers, the
criminal code itself the code of Nature, no wonder that
he makes Nature to sympathize most warmly with his
political sufferings and passions, nay, that he even makes
the preservation of the world dependent on the preserva
tion, of a royal throne or of the Holy See. What is im
portant to him, naturally is also of importance for all
other beings ; what dims his eye, that also dims the bril
liancy of the sun; what agitates his heart, that also
moves heaven and earth—his being to him is the univer
sal being, the world’s being, the being of beings.
§ 38. Why has the East not a living, progressive
history such as the West? Because in the East to man
Nature is not concealed by man, nor the brilliancy of
the stars and precious stones by the brilliancy of the eye,
nor the meteorological lightning and thunder by the
rhetorical “ lightning and thunder,” nor the course of
the sun by the course of daily events, nor the change of
the year’s seasons by the change of fashion. It is true,
the eastern man prostrates himself into the dust before
the magnificence of royal, political power and dignity,
but this magnificence itself is only a reflex of the sun and
the moon; the king is an object of his adoration not as
an earthly and human, but as a heavenly and divine
being. But man disappears by the side of a God; only
where the earth is. depopulated of Gods, where the Gods
ascend into heaven and change from real beings to imagined ones; only there men have space and room for
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THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
themselves, only there they can show themselves without
any restraint as men and put themselves forward as such.
The eastern man bears the same relation to the western
man as the husbandman to the inhabitants of the city.
The former depends on Nature, the latter on man; the
former is led by the barometer, the latter by the state
of the stock-market; the, former by the ever equal con
stellations of the zodiac, the latter by the ever fluctuating
signs of honor, fashion and public opinion. Only the
inhabitants of cities, therefore, make up history, only
human “vanity ” is the principle of history, only he who
can sacrifice Nature’s power to that of opinion, his life
to his name, his physical existence to his existence in
the mouth and in the remembrance of generations to
come—he only is capable of historical deeds.
§ 39. According to Athenaeus, the Greek writer of
comic plays, Anaxandrides addresses the Egyptians as
follows: “I am not fit for your society; our manners
and laws do not agree,—you adore the ox which I sacri
fice to the Gods; the eel to you is a great God, but to
me a great dainty; you shun pork, I enjoy it with a
relish; you revere the dog, I beat him if he snaps a
morsel from me; you are startled if something is the
matter with the cat, I am glad of it and strip off her skin;
you give a great deal cf importance to the shrew-mouse,
I none.” This address perfectly characterizes the con
trast between the bound and the unbound, i. e. between
the religious and irreligious, free, human consideration of
Nature. There Nature is an object of adoration, here
of enjoyment; there man exists for Nature’s sake, here
Nature for man’s sake, there she is the end, here the
means; there she stands above, here below man.(13) For
this very reason man is there eccentric, out of himself, out
�THE ESSENCE OE RELIGION.
43
of the sphere of his destination which points mm only to
himself; here, on the other hand, he is considerate, sober,
within himself, self-conscious. There man degrades him
self consistently even to coition with animals (accord
ing to Herodotus), in order to prove his religious humil
ity before Nature; but here he rises in the full conscious
ness of his power and dignity up to amalgamation with the
Gods as a striking proof that even in the heavenly Gods
courses no other than human blood, and that the peculiar
ethereal blood of the Gods is only a poetical imagination
which does not hold good in reality and practice.
§ 40. As the world, as Nature appears to man, so
she isi. e. for him, according to his imagination; his
sensations and imaginations are to him directly and un
consciously the measure of truth and reality; and Nature
appears to him just as he is himself. As soon as man
perceives that in spite of sun and moon, heaven and
earth, fire and water, plants and animals, man’s life re
quires the application and even the just application of his
own powers; as'soon as he perceives that “the mortals
unjustly complain of the Gods, and that they themselves
in spite of fate, through imprudence, produce their
misery,” that the consequences of vice and folly are di
sease, unhappiness and death, but those of virtue and wis
dom, health, life and happiness, and that, therefore, those
powers which influence man’s destiny, are intellect and
will; as soon, therefore, as man no more like the savage,
is a being governed by the habits of momentary impres
sions and effects, but becomes a being which decides him
self by principles, rules of wisdom, laws of reason, i. e. a
thinking, intelligent being—then also Nature, the world
appears and is to him a toeing dependent on, and influ.
enced by, intellect and will.
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THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
§41. When man with his will and intellect rises
above Nature and becomes a supematuralist, then also
God becomes a supernatural being. When man estab
lishes himself as a ruler “ over the fishes in the sea, and
over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all
the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth
over the earth,” then the Government of Nature is to
him the highest idea, the highest being ; the object of his
adoration, of his religion therefore, the creator of Na
ture, for creation is a necessary consequence, or rather
presupposition, of Government. If the Lord of Nature is
not also her author, then she is independent of him as to
her origin and existence, his power is limited and de
ficient ;—-for if he had been able to create her, why
should he not have created her ?—his government is only
an usurped one, no inherent, legal one. Only what I
produce and make is entirely within my power. Only
from authorship the right of property is to be derived.
Mine is the child, because I am his father. Therefore,
only in creation government is acknowledged, realized,
exhausted. The Gods of the heathen were also already
masters of Nature, it is true, but no or :ators of hers,
therefore they were only constitutional, limited, not ab
solute monarchs of Nature, L e. the heathen were not
yet absolute, unconditional, radical sup ernaturalists.
§ 42. The Theists have declared the doctrine of the
unity of God a revealed doctrine of supernatural origin,
without considering that the source of Monotheism is
in man, that the scource of God’s unity is the unity of
the human conscience and mind. The world is spread
before my eyes in endless multitude and diversity, but
still all these numberless and various objects : sun, moon
and stars, heaven and earth, the near and the distant,
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
45
the present and the absent, are embraced by my mind,
my head. This being of the human mind or conscience,
so wonderful and supernatural for religious, i. e. unedu
cated man, this being which is not restrained by any
limits of time or space, which is not limited to any par
ticular species of things, and which embraces all things
and beings, without being himself an object or visible
being—this being is, by Monotheism, placed at the head
of the world, and made its cause. God speaks, God
thinks the world and it is, he says that it is not, he
thinks and wills it not, and it does not exist, i. e. I can
in my imagination cause at will all things and conse
quently also the world itself to come and to disappear, to
originate and to pass away. That • God has also created
the world from nothing, and, if he will, thrusts it again
into nothing, is nothing but the personification ofthe human power of abstraction and imagination,
which enables me at will to imagine the world as exist
ing or not existing, and to affirm or deny its existence.
This subjective or imagined non-existence of the world,
is by Monotheism made its objective, real non-existence.
Polytheism and natural religion in general make the
real objects imagined ones. Monotheism, on the other
hand, makes imagined objects and thoughts real objects,
or rather the essence of intellect, will and imagination
die most real, absolute, supreme being. The power of
God, says a theologian, extends as far as the imaginative
power of man, but where is the limit of this power ?
What is impossible to imagination ? I can imagine every
thing that is, as not existing, and everything that does
not exist as real; thus I can imagine “this” world as
not existing, and on the other hand, numberless other
worlds as existing. What is imagined as real is possible.
�46
the essence oe religion.
But God is the being to whom nothing is impossible,
he is the creator of numberless worlds, as far as his
power is concerned, thepossibility of all possibilities, of
everything that can be imagined ; i. e. in reality, he is
nothing but the realization or personification of human
imagination, intellect and reflection, thought or im
agined 4 as real, nay, as the most real, as the absolute
being.
§ 43. Theism, properly so-called, or Monotheism, arises
only where man refers Nature only to himself, because
she suffers herself to be used without will and conscious
ness, not only to his necessary, organic functions, but
also to his arbitrary, conscious purposes and enjoyments,
and where he makes this relation her essence, conse
quently making himself the purpose, the centre and uni
ty of Nature. (14) Where Nature has her end outside of
herself, she necessarily has also her cause and beginning
without herself; where she exists only for anotherbeing, she necessarily exists also by another being, and
that by a being whose intention or end at the time of
her creation was man, as that being who was to enjoy
and to use Nature for his good. The beginning of Na
ture coincides therefore with God only where her end
coincides with man, or in other words, the doctrine that
God is the creator of the world has its source and sense
in the doctrine that man is the end of creation. If you
feel ashamed of the belief that the world is created,
made for man, then you must feel ashamed of the belief
that it is created, made at all. Where it is written:
“In the beginning God created the heaven and the
earth,” there it is also written: “ God made two great
lights. He made the stars also, and set them in the fir
mament of the heaven, to give light upon the earth, and
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
47
to rule over the day and the night” If you declare the
belief in man as the end of Nature to be human pride,
then you must also declare the belief in the creator of
Nature to be human pride. That light only which
shines on account of man is the light of theology, that
light only which exists exclusively on account of the
seeing being, presupposes also a seeing being as its cause.
§ 44. The spiritual being which man places above
Nature and presupposes as her founder and creator, is
nothing but the spiritual essence of man himself, which,
however, appears to him as another one, different from
and incomparable to himself, because he makes it the
cause of Nature, the cause of effects which man’s mind,
will and intellect cannot produce, and because he conse
quently combines with that spiritual essence of man, the
essence of Nature which is different. (15) It is the di
vine spirit who makes the grass grow, who forms the
child in the womb, who holds and moves the sun in his
course, who piles up the mountains, commands the winds,
incloses the sea within its limits. What is the human mind
compared with this spirit! How small, how limited, how
vain ! If therefore the rationalist rejects God’s incarna
tion, the union of the divine and human nature, he does
so particularly because the idea of God in his head hides
only the idea of Nature, especially of Nature such as she
was disclosed to the human eye by the telescope of astron
omy. How should—thus he exclaims provoked—how
should that great, infinite, universal being, which has its
adequate representation and effect only in the great, in
finite universe, descend for man’s sake upon the earth,
which certainly disappears into nothing before the im
measurable greatness and fullness of the universe ? What
unworthy, mean, “ human” imagination ! To concentrate
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THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
God upon earth, to plunge God into man, is about the
same as to try to condense the ocean into one drop, to
reduce the ring of Saturn into a finger-ring. Truly it is
a rather narrow idea to think the universal being as
limited only to earth or man, and to believe that Nature
exists only on his account, that the sun shines only on
account of the human eye. You do not see, however,
short-sighted rationalist, that it is not the idea of God, but
the idea of Nature, which within yourself objects to a
union of God and man, and shows it to be a nonsensical con
tradiction; you do not see that the centre of union, ter
tium comparationis, between God and man is not that
being to which you directly or indirectly attribute the
power and effects of Nature, but rather that being which
sees and hears, because you see and hear, which possesses
consciousness, intellect and will, because you possess
these faculties, or, in other words, that being which you
distinguish from Nature, because you distinguish your
self from her. What, then, can you really object if this
being finally appears as areal man before your eyes?
How can you reject the consequences if you adhere to
the premises ? How can you deny the son if you ac
knowledge the father ? If the God-man to you is a creat
ure of human imagination and self-deification, then you
must acknowledge, also, the creator of Nature to be a
creature of human imagination and self-exaltation over
Nature. If you wish for a being without any anthro
pomorphism, without any human additions, be they addi
tions of the intellect, or the heart, or of imagination,
then be courageous and consistent enough to give up
God altogether, and to appeal only to pure, naked, god
less nature as to the last basis of your existence. As
long as you admit a difference, so long you incarnate
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
49
in God your own difference, so long you incorporate
your own essence and, nature in the universal and
primary being ; for as you do not have nor know in
distinction from human nature any other being than
Nature, so, on the other hand, you neither have nor
know any other being in distinction from Nature than
the human one.
§ 45. The conception of man’s essence as an objective
being different from man, or, in short, the personification
of the human essence, has for its presupposition the in
carnation of the objective being which is different from
man, i. e. the conception of Nature as of a human
being. (16) Will and intellect therefore appear to man as
the primary powers or causes of Nature only because the
unintentional effects of Nature appear to him in the light
of his intellect as intentional ones, as ends and purposes;
Nature herself consequently as an intelligent being (or at
least as a mere thing of intellect). As everything is seen
by the sun—the God of the sun, “ Helios ” hears and sees
everything—because man sees everything in the sunlight,
sc everything in itself has been thought, because man
thinks it; a work of intellect, because for him an object
of his intellect. Because he measures the stars and their
distances, they are measured; because he applies mathe
matics in order to understand Nature and her laws, they
have also been applied to her production; because he
sees the end of a certain motion, the result of a certain
development, the function of a certain organ, this end,
function or result is in itself a foreseen one ; because he
can imagine the opposite of the position or direction of
a heavenly body, nay even numberless other directions,
while at the same time he perceives that if this direction
were changed, also a series of fruitful, benevolent con
�50
THE ESSENCE OE RELIGION.
sequences would be made impossible, so that he com
siders this series of consequences as the motive of that
very direction: therefore such direction has really and
originally been selected with admirable wisdom, and
only with regard to its benevolent consequences, from
the multitude of other directions which also exist only
in man’s head. Thus the principle of thinking is to man
directly and without discrimination the principle of exist
ence ; the thing thought, the thing existing; the idea of
the object, its essence, (the a posteriori the a priori))
Man thinks Nature otherwise than she really is; no won
der that he also presupposes as her cause and the cause of
her existence another being than herself, a being which
exists only in his mind, nay, which is even only the es
sence of his own mind. Man reverses the natural order
of things; he founds the world in the very sense of the
word upon its head, he makes the apex of the pyramid
its basis—the first thing in or for the head, the reason
why something is, the first thing in reality, the cause
through which it exists. The motive of a thing precedes
in the mind the thing itself. This is the reason why to
man the essence of reason or intellect, the essence of
thinking not only logically, but also physically, is the
first, the primary being.
§ 46. The mystery of teleology is based upon the con
tradiction between the necessity of Nature and the ar
bitrary will of man, between Nature such as she really
is and such as man imagines her. If the earth were
placed somewhere else, if e. g. it were placed where Mer
cury now is, everything would perish in consequence of
insupportable heat. How wisely, therefore, is the earth
placed just where it appears best according to its quality.
But in what does this wisdom consist ? Only in the con
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
51
tradiction, in the contrast to human folly, which arbi
trarily in thought places the earth somewhere else than
where it is in reality. If you first tear asunder what in
Nature is inseparable, as for instance the astronomical
place of a heavenly body from its physical quality, then
certainly the unity in Nature must afterwards appear
to you as expediency, necessity as plan, the real and
necessary place of a planet which agrees with its nature
in contrast to the unfit one which you have thought of
and chosen, as the reasonable one which has been justly
chosen and wisely selected. “ If the snow had a black
color, or if such color prevailed in the arctic regions, all
the arctic countries of the earth would be a gloomy
desert, unfit for organic life. Thus the arrangement of
the colors of bodies offers one of the most beautiful proofs
for the wise arrangement of the world.” Certainly, if
man did not change white into black, if human folly
had not disposed arbitrarily of Nature, no divine wisdom
would rule over Nature.
§ 47. “Who has told the bird that it has only to
raise its tail if it wants to fly downward, or to depress it,
if it wants to ascend ? He must be perfectly blind, who,
in observing the flight of birds, does not perceive any
higher wisdom
has thought in their stead” Cer
tainly he must be blind, not for Nature, but for man,
who makes his nature the original of Nature, Xkw, power
of intellect the original power, who makes the birds’
flight dependent upon the insight into the mechanical
laws of flying, and who elevates his ideas abstracted from
Nature into laws which the birds apply to .their flight,
just as the rider applies the rules of the art of riding, or
the swimmer the rules of the art of swimming; with the
only difference that to the birds the application of the
�52
THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
art of flying is created with them. But the flight of birds
is founded on no art. Art is only where also the oppo
site of art is to be found, where an organ performs a
function which is not directly and necessarily connected
with it, which does not exhaust its essence, and is only a
particular function by the side of many other real or
possible functions of the same organ. But the bird can
not fly otherwise than it does, nor is it at liberty not to
fly; it must fly. The animal always knows how to do
only that whicli it is able to do, and for this very reason
it can do this one thing so perfectly, so masterly, so unsurpassably, because it does not know anything else, be
cause its power is exhausted in this one function, because
this one function is identical with its nature. If we
therefore are unable to explain the actions and functions
of the animals, especially those of the lower ones, which
are endowed with certain artistic impulses, without pre
supposition of an intellect which has thought in their
stead, this is only because we think that the objects of
their activity are objects to them in the same manner as
they are objects to our consciousness and intellect. As
soon as we consider the works of the animals as work of
arty as arbitrary works, we must necessarily also con
sider the intellect as their cause, for a work of art pre
supposes choice, intention, intellect, and consequently, as
we know by experience that animals do not think them
selves, another being as thinking in their behalf. (17)
“ Do you know how to advise the spider how it is to
carry and to fasten the threads from one tree to another,
from one housetop to another, from a height this side of the
water to another one on the other side ?” Certainly not;
but do you indeed believe that there is any advice needed
in this instance, that the spider is in the same condition
�THE ESSENCE OE RELIGION.
53
in which you would be, if you were to solve this problem
theoretically, that for it, as well as for you, there is any
difference between “ this side ” and “ that side ?” Between
the spider and the object to which it fastens the threads
of its net, there is as necessary a connection as between
your bone and muscle; for the object without it is for
it nothing but the support of its thread of life, as the
support of its fangs. The spider does not see what you
see; all the separations, differences and distances which,
or at least such as your intellectual eye perceives them,
do not at all exist for it. What therefore to you is an
insolvable theoretical problem, that is done by the spider
without any intellect, and consequently without all
those difficulties which exist only for your intellect.
“Who has told the vine-fretters that they find their
food in the fall of the year in greater abundance at the
branch and at the bud than at the leaf? Who has shown
them the way to the bud and to the branch? For the
vine-fretter which was born upon the leaf, the bud is not
only a distant but an entirely unknown province. I
adore the creator of the vine-fretter and of the cochineal
and remain silent.” Certainly you must be silent if you
make the vine-fretters and cochineals preachers of
Theism, if you endow them with your thoughts, for only
to the vine-fretter viewed from the standpoint of man
is the bud a distant and unknown province, but not
to the vine-fretter itself, to which the leaf and the bud
are objects not as such, but only as matter which can be
assimilated and is chemically related to it. It is there
fore only the reflex of your eye which shows you Nature
as the work of an eye, which obliges you to derive the
threads the spider draws from its hind part, from the
head of a thinking being. Nature is for you only a
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THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
spectacle, a delight of the eye; therefore you think that
what delights your eye, also rules and moves Nature.
Thus you make the heavenly light in which she appears
to you, the heavenly being which has created her ; the
rays of the eye the lever of Nature ; the optic nerve the
motory nerve of the universe. To derive Nature from a
wise creator is to produce children with a look; to sat
isfy hunger with the perfume of food; to move rocks by
the harmony of sounds. If the Greenlander derives the
shark’s origin from human urine because it smells to
man like it, this zoological genesis has the same founda
tion as as the cosmological genesis of the Theist, when
he derives Nature from intellect, because she makes upon
man the impression of intellect, and intention. Certainly
the manifestation of Nature for us is reason, but the
cause of such manifestation is as little reason as the cause
of light is light.
§ 48. Why does Nature produce monsters? Because
the result of a formation to her is not the object of a pre. existing purpose. Why supernumerary limbs ? Because
she does not number. Why does she place at the left
hand side what generally lies on the right hand side, and
vice versa ? Because she. does not know what is right or
left. Monsters are therefore popular arguments, which
for this very reason have been insisted on already by the
Atheists of old, and even by such Theists as emancipated
Nature from the guardianship of theology, in order to
prove that the productions of Nature are unforeseen,
unintentional,’ involuntary ones; for all reasons which
are adduced for the sake of explaining monsters, even
those of the most modern naturalists, according to which
they are only consequences of diseases of the foetus,
would be done away with, if with the creative or pro
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
55
ductive power of Nature at the same time will, intellect,
forethought and consciousness were connected. But
although Nature does not see, she is not therefore blind;
although she does not live (in the sense of human, that
is subjective, sensible life) she is not dead; and although
she does not produce according to purposes, still her
productions are not accidental ones; for where man de
fines Nature as dead and blind, and her productions as
accidental ones, he defines her only so in contrast to him
self, and declares her to be deficient because she does not
possess what he possesses. Nature works and produces
everywhere only in and with connection—a connection
which is reason for man, for wherever he perceives con
nection, he finds sense, material for the thinking, “suf
ficient reason,” system—only from and with necessity.
But also the necessity of Nature is no human, i. e. no
logical, metaphysical or mathematical, in general no ab
stracted one; for natural beings are no creatures of
thought, no logical or mathematical figures, but real,
sensual, individual beings; it is a sensual necessity and
therefore eccentric, exceptional, irregular, which, in con
sequence of these anomalies of human imagination, ap
pears even as freedom, or at least as a product of free will.
Nature generally can be understood only through herself;
she is that being whose idea depends on no other being; she
alone admits of a discrimination between what a thing is
in itself and what it is for our conception; she alone
cannot be measured with any human measure, although
we compare and designate her manifestations with analo
gous human manifestations in order to make them intelligi
ble for us, and although in general we apply, and are obliged
to apply to her, human expressions and ideas, such as
order, purpose, in accordance with the nature of our
�1)6
THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
language, which is founded only upon the subjective ap
pearance of things.
§. 49. The religious admiration of divine wisdom in
Nature is only an incident of enthusiasm ; it refers only
to the means, but is extinguished in reflecting on the
purposes of Nature. How wonderful is the spider’s web,
how wonderful the funnel of the ant-lion in the sand 1
But what is the purpose of these wise arrangements ? No
thing but nourishment—a purpose which man in regard
to himself degrades to a mere means. “ Others,” said
Socrates—but these others are animals and brutish men—
“ others live in order to eat, but I eat in order to live.”
How magnificent is the flower, how admirable its struc
ture I But what is the purpose of this structure, of this
magnificence ? Only to magnify and protect the genitals
which man in himself either hides from shame, or even
mutilates from religious zeal. “ The creator of the
vinefretters and of the cochineals'1'’ whom the naturalist,
the man of theory adores and admires, who has only
natural life for his purpose, is therefore not the God and
creator in the sense of religion. No! only the creator of
man, and that of man such as he distinguishes himself
from Nature, and rises above Nature, the creator in
whom man has the consciousness of himself, in whom
he finds represented the qualities which constitute his
nature in distinction from external Nature, and that in
such a manner as he imagines them in religion, is the
God and creator such as he is an object of religion.
“ The water” says Luther, “ which is used in baptism
and poured over the child is also water not of the crea
tor but of God the SaviourS Natural water I have in
common with animals and plants, but not the water of
baptism ; the former amalgamates me with the other nat-
�THE ESSENCE OE KELIGrlON.
57
ural beings, the latter distinguishes me from them. But
the object of religion is not natural water, but the water
of baptism; consequently not the creator or author of
natural, but of baptismal water is an object of religion.
The creator of natural water is necessarily himself a nat
ural, and therefore no religious, i. e. supernatural being.
Water is a visible being, whose qualities and effects there
fore do not lead us to a supernatural cause ; but the
baptismal water is no object for the corporeal eye,', it is
a spiritual, invisible, supersensuous being, i. e. one that
exists and works only for faith, in thought, in imagina
tion—a being which therefore requires also for its cause
a, spiritual being that exists only in faith and imagination.
Natural water cleanses me only of my physical, but
baptismal water of my moral impurities and diseases;
the former only quenches my thirst for this temporal,
transient life, but the latter satisfies my desire for life
eternal; the former has only limited, defined, finite ef
fects, but the latter infinite, all-powerful effects which
surpass the nature of water, and which therefore repre
sent and show the nature of the divine being, which is
bound by no limit of Nature, the unlimited essence of
man’s power to believe and to imagine, bound to no limit
of experience and reason. But is not also the creator of
baptismal water the creator of natural water ? In what re
lation therefore does the former stand to the latter ? In the
very same as baptismal to natural water; the former can
not exist if the latter does not exist; this one is the con
dition, the means of that one. Thus the creator of Na.
ture is only the condition for the creator of man. How
can he who does not hold the natural water in his hand
combine with it supernatural effects ? How can he who
does not rule over temporal life give life eternal ? How
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THE ESSENCE OE RELIGION.
can he whom the elements of Nature do not obey,
restore my body turned to dust ? But who is the master
and ruler of Nature unless it be he who had power and
strength to produce her from naught by his mere will ?
He, therefore, who declares the union of the supernatural
essence of baptism with natural water a contradiction,
without sense, may also declare the union of the super
natural essence of the creator wkh Nature such a con
tradiction ; for between the effects of baptismal and com
mon water is just as much or as little connection as
between the supernatural creator and natural Nature.
The creator comes from the same source from which the
supernatural, wonderful wate® of baptism gushes forth.
In the baptismal wrater we see only the essence of the'
creator, of God, jn a sensible illustration. How there
fore can you reject the miracle of baptism and other
miracles, if you admit the essence of the creator, i. e. the
essence of the miracle ? Or in other words: how can you
reject the small miracle if you admit the great miracle
of creation ? But it is in the world of theology just as in
the political world; the small thieves are hanged, the
great ones are suffered to escape.
§ 50. That providence which is manifested in the
order, conformity to purpose and lawfulness of Na
ture, is not the providence of religion. The latter is
based upon liberty, the former upon necessity; the latter
is unlimited and unconditional, the former limited, de
pending on a thousand different conditions; the latter is
a special and individual one, the former is extended only
over the whole, the species, while the individual is left
to chance. A theistic naturalist says: “ Many (or rather
all those in whose conception God was more than the
mafrhematioal, imagined origin of Nature) have imagined
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
59
the preservation of the world and especially of mankind,
as direct and special., as if God ruled the actions of all
creatures, and led them according to his pleasure. But
after the consideration of the natural laws, we are unable
to admit such a special government and superintendence
over the actions of men and other creatures. . . We learn
this from the little care which Nature takes of single
individuals. (1§) Thousands of them are sacrificed with
out hesitation or repentance in the plenty of Nature. . .
Even with regard to man we make the same experience.
Not one half of the human race reach the second year of
their age, but die almost without having known that
they ever lived. We learn this very thing also from the
misfortunes and mishaps of all men, the good as well as
the bad, which cannot well be made to agree with the
special preservation or co-operation of the creator.”
But a government, a providence which is no special
one, does not answer to the purpose, the essence, the idea
of providence; for providence is to destroy accident, but
just that is upheld by a merely general providence which
therefore is no better than no providence at all. Thus,
e. g. it is a “law of divine order in Nature,” i. e. a conse
quence of natural causes, that according to the •number of
years also the death of man occui’s in a definite ratio ; that
' for instance, in the first year one child dies out of from
three to four children, in the fifth year one out of twentyfive, in the seventh one out of fifty, in the tenth one out
of one hundred, but still it is accidental, not regulated by
this law, depending on other accidental causes, that just
this one child dies, while those three or four others sur
vive. Thus marriage is an “institution of God,” a law
of natural providence, in order to multiply the human
race, and consequently a duty for me. But whether I
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THE ESSENCE OK RELIGION.
am to marry just this one, whether she is not perhaps in
consequence of an accidental organic deficiency unfit or
unproductive, that I am not told. But just because
natural providence, which in reality is nothing but
Nature herself, does not come to my assistance when I
come to apply the law to the special, single case, but
leaves me to myself just in the critical moment of decis
ion, in the pressure of necessity; I appeal from her to a
higher court, to the supernatural providence of the
Gods whose eye shines upon me just where Nature’s
light is extinguished; whose rule begins just where that
of natural providence is at an end. The Gods know and
tell me, they decide what Nature leaves in the darkness
of ignorance and gives up to accident. The region of
what commonly, as well as philosophically, is called ac
cidental, “positive,” individual, not to be foreseen, not
to be speculated upon, is the region of the Gods, the
region of religious providence. And oracles and prayer
are the religious means by which man makes the acci
dental, obscure, uncertain, an object of certainty, or at
least of hope. (19)
§ 51. The Gods, says Epicurus, exist in the intervals
of the universe. Very well; they exist only in the void
space, in the abyss which is between the world of imagi
nation and the world of reality, between the law and its
application, between the action and its result, between
the present and the future. The Gods are imagined
beings, beings of imagination which therefore owe also
their existence, strictly speaking, not to the present but
only to the future and the past. Those Gods who owe
their existence to the past, are those who no longer exist,
the dead ones, those beings which live only in mind and
imagination? whose worship among some nations consti
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
61
tutes the whole religion, and with most of tnem an im
portant essential part of religion. But far more might
ily than by the past, is the mind influenced by the future;
the former leaves behind only the quiet perception of re
membrance, while the latter stands before us with the ter
rors of hell or the happiness of heaven. The Gods which
rise from the tombs are therefore themselves only shades
of Gods; the true living Gods, the rulers over rain and
sunshine, lightning and thunder, life and death, heaven
and hell, owe their existence likewise only to the powers
fear and hope, which rule over life and death, and
which illuminate the dark abyss of the future with beings
of the imagination. The present is exceedingly prosaic,
ready made, determined, never to be changed, final, ex
clusive ; in the present, imagination coincides with real
ity ; in it therefore there is no place for the Gods; the
present is godless. But the future is the empire of
poetry, of unlimited possibility and accident—the future
may be according to my wishes or fears; it is not yet
subject to the stern lot of unchangeableness; it still
hovers between existence and non-existence, high over
“ common ” reality and palpability; it still belongs to
another a invisible ” world which is not put in motion
by the laws of gravitation, but only by the sensory
nerves. This world is the world of the Gods. Mine is
the present, but the future belongs to the Gods. I am
now; this present moment, although it will immediately
be past, cannot be taken any more from me by the
Gods; things that have happened cannot be undone
even by divine power, as the ancients have already said.
But shall I exist the next moment ? Does the next mo
ment of my life depend on my will, or is it in any neces
sary connection with the present one ? No ; a number
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THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
less multitude of accidents; the ground under my feet,
the ceiling over my head, a flash of lightning, a bullet,
a stone, even a grape which glides into my windpipe in
stead of passing into the eesophagus, can at any moment
tear forever the coming moment from the present one.
But the good Gods prevent this violent breach; they
fill with their external, invulnerable bodies, the pores of
the human body which are accessible to all possible de
structive influences; they attach the coming moment
to the one that is past; they unite the future with the
present; they are, and possess in uninterrupted con
tinuity, what men—the porous Gods—are and possess,
only in intervals and with interruptions.
§ 52. Goodness is an essential quality with the Gods ;
but how can they be good if they are not almighty and
free from the laws of natural providence, i. e. from the
fetters of natural necessity, if they do not appear in the
individual instances which decide between life and
death, as masters of nature, but friends and I)enefac
tors of men, and if they consequently do not work any
miracles'? The Gods, or rather Nature, has endowed man
with physical and mental powers in order to be able to
sustain himself. But are these natural means of sustain
ing himself always sufficient ? Do I not frequently come
into situations where I am lost without hope if no super
natural hand stops the inexorable course of natural order?
The natural order is good, but is it always good ? This
continuous rain or drought e. g. is entirely in order; but
must not I or my family, or even a whole nation perish
in consequence of it, unless the Gods give their aid and
stop it ? (20) Miracles therefore are inseparable from
the divine government and providence; nay, they are the
only proofs, manifestations and revelations of the Gods,
�THE ESSENCE OE RELIGION.
63
as of powers and beings distinguished from Nature ; to
deny the 'miracles is to deny the Gods themselves. By
what are Gods distinguished from men ? Only by their
being without limits, what the latter are in a limited
manner, and especially by their being always what the
latter are only for a certain time, for a moment. (21)
Men live—living existence is divinity, essential quality
and primary condition of the Deity—but alas ! not for
ever; they die—but the Gods are the immortal ones
who always live; men are also happy, but not without
interruption as the Gods; men are also good but not
always, and just this constitutes according to Socrates
the difference between Deity and humanity, that the
former is always good; according to Aristotle, men
also enjoy the divine happiness of thinking, but their
mental activity is interrupted by other functions and
actions. Thus the Gods and men have the same quali
ties and rules of life, only that the former possess them
without, the latter with limitations and exceptions. As
the life to come is nothing but the continuation of this
life uninterrupted by death, so the divine being is no
thing but the continuation of the human being uninter
rupted by Nature in general—the uninterrupted, un
limited nature of man. But how are miracles distin
guished from the effects of Nature ? Just as the Gods are
distinguished from men. The miracle makes an effect
or a quality of Nature which in a given case is not good,
a good or at least a harmless one; it causes that I do not
sink and drown in the water, if I have the misfortune of
falling into it; that fire does not burn me; that a stone,
falling upon my head, does not kill me—in short, it
makes that essence which now is beneficent,' then de
structive now philanthropic, then misanthropic, an essence
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THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
always good. The Gods and miracles owe their exist
ence only to the exceptions of the rule. The Deity is
the destruction of the deficiencies and weaknesses in man
which are the very causes of the exceptions; the miracle
is the destruction of the deficiencies and limits in Nature.
The natural beings are defined and consequently limited
beings. This limit of theirs is in some abnormal cases
the cause of their injuriousness to man ; but in the sense
of religion it is not a necessary one, but an arbitrary one,
made by God and therefore to be destroyed if necessity,
i. e. the welfare of man requires it.—To deny the mir
acles under the pretext that they are not becoming to
God’s dignity and wisdom in virtue of which he has fixed
and determined everything from the beginning in the
best manner, is to sacrifice man to Nature, religion to
intellect, is to preach Atheism in the name of God. A
God who fulfills only such prayers and wishes of men as
can be fulfilled also without him, the fulfillment of which
is within the limits and conditions of natural causes,
who therefore helps only as long as art and Nature help,
but who ceases helping as soon as the materia medica is
at an end—such a God is nothing but the personified ne
cessity of Nature hidden behind the name of God.
§ 53. The belief in God is either the belief in Nature
(the objective being) as a human (subjective) being, or
the belief in the human essence as the essence of Nature.
The former is the natural religion, polytheism, (22) this
one spiritual or human religion, monotheism. The poly
theist sacrifices himself to Nature, he gives to the human
eye and heart the power and government over Nature ;
the polytheist makes the human being dependent on
Nature, the monotheist makes Nature dependent on the
human being; the former says: if Nature does not
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
65
exist, I do not exist ; but the latter says vice versa: if
I do not exist, the world, Nature does not exist. The
first principle of religion is : Iam nothing compared with
Nature, everything compared with me is God ; every
thing inspires me with the feeling of dependence ; every
thing can bring me, although only accidentally, fortune
and misfortune, welfare and destruction, (but man origi
nally does not distinguish between cause and accidental
motive); therefore everything is a motive of religion.
Religion on the stand-point of such non-critical feeling
of dependence is fetishism so-called, the basis of poly
theism. But the conclusion of religion is : everything is
nothing compared with me—all the magnificence of the
stars, the supreme Gods of polytheism disappear before
the magnificence of the human soul; all the power of
the world before the power of the human heart; all the
necessity of dead unconscious Nature, before the neces
sity of the human, conscious being; for everything is
only a means for me. But Nature would not exist for
me, if she existed by herself, if she were not from God.
If she were by herself and therefore had the cause
of her existence in herself, she would for this very
reason have also an independent essence, an original
existence and essence without any relation to myself,
and independent from me. The signification of Nature
according to which she appears to be nothing for
herself, but only a means for man, is therefore to
be traced back only to creation; but this signification is
manifested above all in those instances where man—as
e.. g. in distress, in danger of death—comes into collision
with Nature, which however is sacrificed to man’s wel
fare— in the miracles. Therefore the premiss of the
miracle is creation ; the miracle is the conclusion, the
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THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
consequence, the truth of creation. Creation is in the
same relation to the miracle, as the species to the single
individual; the miracle is the act of creation in a
special, single case. Or, creation is theory ; its practice
and application is the miracle. God is the cause, man
the end of the world i.e. God is the first being in theory,
but man is the first being in practice. Nature is nothing
for God—nothing but a plaything of his power—but
only in order that in an exigency, or rather generally, she
is and can do nothing against man. In the creator man
drops the limits of his essence, of his “ soul,” in the mira
cle the limits of his existence, of his body; there he makes
his invisible, thinking and reflected essence, here his in
dividual, practical, visible essence, the essence of the
world; then he legitimates the miracle; here he only per
forms it. The miracle accomplishes the end of religion
in a sensual, popular way—the dominion of man over Na
ture, the divinity of man becomes a palpable truth.
God works miracles, but upon man’s prayer and although
not upon an especial prayer, still in man’s sense,in agree
ment with his most secret innermost wishes. Sarah
laughed when in her old age the Lord promised her a
little son, but nevertheless even then descendants were
still her highest thought and wish. The secret worker of
miracles therefore is man, but in the progress of time—
time discloses every secret—he will and must become the
manifest, visible worker of miracles. At first man re
ceives miracles, finally he works miracles himself; at first
he is the object of God, finally God himself', at first God
only in heart, in mind, in thought, finally, God in flesh.
But thought is bashful, sensuality without shame; thought
is silent and reserved, sensuality speaks out openly and
frankly; its utterances therefore are exposed to be ridi
�THE ESSENCE OK RELIGION.
67
culed if they are contradictory to reason, because here
the contradiction is a visible, undeniable one. This is
the reason why the modern rationalists are ashamed to
believe in the God in the flesh i. e. in the sensual, visible
miracle, while they are not ashamed to believe in the
not-sensual God, i. e. in the not sensual, hidden miracle.
Still the time will come when the prophecy of Lichten
berg will be fulfilled, and the belief in God in general,
consequently also the belief in a rational God will be con
sidered as superstition just as well as already the belief
in the miraculous Christian God in flesh is considered as
superstition, and when therefore instead of the church light
of simple belief and instead of the twilight of rational
istic belief, the pure light of Nature and reason will en
lighten and warm mankind.
§ 54. He who for his God has no other material than
that which natural science, philosophy, or natural obser
vation generally furnishes to him, who therefore con
strues the idea of God from natural materials and con
siders him to be nothing but the cause or the principle
of the laws of astronomy, natural philosophy, geol
ogy, mineralogy, physiology, zoology and anthropology,
ought to be honest enough also to abstain from using the
name of God, for a natural principle is always a nat
ural essence and not what constitutes the idea of a G-od.
(23) As little as a church which has been turned into a
museum of natural curiosities, still is and can be called
a house of God, so little is a God really a God, whose
nature and efforts are only manifested in astronomical,
geological, anthropological works; God is a religious word,
a religious object and being, not a p/hysical, astronomi
cal, or in general a cosmical one. “ Deus et cultus” s&ys
Luther in his table-discourses, “ sunt relativaf God
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THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
and worship correspond to one another, one cannot be
without the other, for God must ever be the God of a
man or of a nation and is always in prraedicamento
relationis, both being in mutual relation to each other.
God will have some who adore and worship him; for to
have a God and to adore him correspond to each other,
sunt relativa, as man and wife in marriage—neither
can be without the other.” God therefore presupposes
men who adore and worship him; God is a being the
idea or conception of whom does not depend on Nature
but on man, and that on religious man; an object of
adoration is not without an adoring being, i. e. God is
an object whose existence coincides with the existence of
religion, whose essence coincides with the essence of
religion, and which therefore does not exist apart from
religion, different and independent from it, but in whom
objectively is contained no more than what religion con
tains subjectively. Iff) Sound is the objective essence,
the God of the ear; light is the objective essence, the
God of the eye; sound exists only for the ear, light only
for the eye; in the ear we have what we have in sound:
trembling, waving bodies, extended membranes, gelatin
ous substances; but in the eye we have organs of light.
To make God an object of natural philosophy, astronomy
or zoology, is therefore just the same thing as making
sound an object of the eye. As the tone exists only in
the ear and for it, so God exists only in religion and for
it, only in faith and for it. As sound or tone as the
object of hearing expresses oidy the nature of the ear, so
God as an object which is only the object of religion
and faith, expresses the nature of religion and faith. But
what makes an object a religious one? As we have
seen, only man’s imagination and mind, Whether you
�THE ESSENCE CE RELIGION.
69
worship Jehovah or Apis, the thunder or the Christ, your
shadow, like the negro on the coast of Guinea, or your
soul like the Persian of old, the flatus ventris or your
genius—in short, whether you worship a sensual or spirit
ual being, it is all the same; something is an object of
religion only in so far as it is an object of imagination
and feeling, an object of faith ; for just because the object
of religion, such as it is its object, does not exist in real
ity, but rather contradicts the latter, for this very reason
it is only an object of faith. Thus e. g. the immortality
of man, or man as an immortal being is an object of re
ligion, but for this very reason only an object of faith,
for reality shows just the contrary, the mortality of man.
To believe, means to imagine that something exists which
does not exist; e. g. to imagine that a certain picture is
a living being, that this bread is flesh, wine blood, i. e.,
something which it is not.
Therefore it betrays the
greatest ignorance of religion if you hope to find God
with the telescope in the sky of astronomy, or with a
magnifying glass in a botanical garden, or -with a miner
alogic hammer in the mines of geology, or with the ana
tomic knife and microscope in the entrails of animals and
men—you find him only in man’s faith, imagination and
heart; for God himself is nothing but the essence of
man’s imagination and heart.
§ 55. “As your heart, so is your God.” As the
wishes of men, so are their Gods. The Greeks had
limited Gods—that means: they had limited wishes.
The Greeks did not wish to live forever, they only
wished not to grow old and die, and they did not ab
solutely wish not to die, they only wished not to die
now — unpleasant things always come too soon for
man—only not in the bloom of their age, only not of a
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THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
violent, painful death ;
they did not wish to be saved
in heaven, only happy, only to live without trouble and
pain; they did not sigh as the Christians do, because
they were subject to the necessity of Nature, to the wants
of sexual instinct, of sleep, of eating and drinking; they
still submitted in their wishes to the limits of human na
ture ; they were not yet creators from nothing, they did
not yet make wine from water, they only purified and
distilled the water of Nature and changed it in an or
ganic way into the blood of the Gods; they drew the
contents of divine and blissful life not from mere imagi
nation, but from the materials of the real world; they
built the heaven of the Gods upon the ground of this
earth. The Greeks did not make the divine, i. e. the
possible being, the original and end of the real one, but
they made the real being the measure of the possible
one. Even when they had refined and spiritualized
their Gods by means of philosophy, their wishes were
founded upon the ground of reality and human nature.
The Gods are realized wishes; but the highest wish, the
highest bliss of the philosopher, of the thinker as such,
is to think undisturbed. The Gods of the Greek philos
opher—at least of the Greek philosopher par excellence,
of the philosophical Jove, of Aristotle—are therefore un
disturbed thinkers; their happiness, their divinity, con
sists in the uninterrupted activity of thinking. But this
activity, this happiness is itself a happiness, real within
this world, within human nature—although here limited
by interruptions—a defined, special, and therefore, in
the conception of Christians, limited and poor happiness
which is contradictory to the essence of true happiness;
for Christians have no limited but an unlimited God, sur
passing all natural necessity, superhuman, extramundane
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
71
transcendental, i. e. they have unlimited, transcendental
wishes which go beyond the world, beyond Nature, beyond
the essence of man — i. e. absolutely fantastic wishes.
Christians wish to be infinitely greater and happier
than the G-ods of the Olympus ; their wish is a heaven
in which all limits and all necessity of Nature are de
stroyed and all wishes are accomplished; (26) a heaven
in which there exist no wants, no sufferings, no wounds,
no struggles, no passions, no disturbances, no change
of day and night, light and shade, joy and pain, as
in the heaven of the Greeks. In short the object of their
belief is no longer a limited, defined God, a God with
the determined name of Jove, or Pluto, or Vulcan, but
God without appellation, because the object of their
wishes is not a named, finite, earthly happiness, a deter
mined enjoyment, such as the enjoyment of love, or of
beautiful music, or of moral liberty, or of thinking, but
an enjoyment which embraces all enjoyments, yet which
for this very reason is a transcendental one, surpassing all
ideas and thoughts, the enjoyment of an infinite, unlim
ited, unspeakable, indescribable happiness. IT :ppiness
and divinity are the same thing. Happiness as an object
of belief, of imagination, generally as a theoretical object,
is the Deity, the deity as an object of the heart, of the
will, (27) of the wish as a practical object generally, is
happiness. Or rather, the deity is an idea the truth and
reality of which is only happiness. As far as the desire
of happiness goes, so far, and no further, goes the idea of
the deity. He who no longer has any supernatural
wishes, has no longer any supernatural beings either.
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
(1) The theme of this treatise, or at least its starting point, is Religion, Inas
much as its object is Nature, which I was obliged to disregard in my “Essence of
Christianity,” since the centre of Christianity is not God in Nature, but Godin
man.—[Author’s note].
(2) Nature, according to my conception, is nothing but a general word for
denoting those beings, things and objects which man distir guishes from himself
and his productions, and which he embraces under the common name of “Na
ture,” but by no means a general being, abstracted and separated from the real
objects and then personified into a mystical existence.
(3) All those qualities which originally are derived only from the contempla
tion of Nature, become in later times abstract, metaphysical qualities, just as
Nature herself becomes an abstraction or creation of human reason. On this
later standpoint, where man forgets the origin of God in Nature, when God no
longer is an object of the senses, but an imag:nary being, we must sav: God
without human qualities, who is to be distinguished from the properly human
God, is nothing but the essence of reason. So much as regards tbe relation
between this work and my former ones “ Luther” and “The Essence of Christi
anity.”
(4) This may be true in a logical sense, but never as far as the real genesis is
concerned.
(5) It is self-evident that I do not intend to finally dispose in these few words of
the great problem of the origin of organic life; but they are sufficient for my
argument, as I give here only the indirect proof that life cannot have any other
source but Nature. As regards the direct proofs of natural science, we are still
far from the end, but in comparison with former times—especially in consequence
of .the lately proved identity of organic and inorganic phenomena—at least far
enough to be able to be convinced of the natural origin of life, although the man
ner of this origin is yet unknown to us, or even if it never should be revealed
unto us.
(6) Under this head we may also mention the many rules of etiquette which the
ancient religions lay upon man in his intercourse with Nature, in order not to
pollute or to violate her. Thus, e. g. no worshiper of Ormuzd was permitted to
tread barefoot on the ground, because earth was sacred; no Greek was allowed
to ford a river with unwashed hands.
(7) The expression for to wish is in the ancient German language the same as
that for to “enchant."
(8) The Gods are blissful beings. The blessing is the result, the fruit, the end
of an action which is independent from, but desired by me. “To bless” says Lu
ther, “means to wish some thing good." “If we bless, we do nothing else but to
wish something good, but we cannot give what we wish ; but God's blessing sounds
fulfillment and toon proves its effect.” That means : men are desirii.g beings;
the Gods are those beings which fulfill the desire. Thus even in common life the
word God, so frequently used is nothing but the expression of a wish. “ May God
grant you children!” That means : I wish you children, with the only difference
that the latter expression contains the wish as a subjective, not religious one,
while the former implies it as an objective religious one.
(9) Thus in uncultivated times and among uncivilized nations religion may be a
means of civilization, but in times of civilization religion represents the cause of
rudeness, of antiquity, and is hostile to education.
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
73
(10) Under this head we may also consider the adoration of pernicious animals.
(11) Hesiod expressly says ; also pheme (i. e., fame, rumor, public opinion) is a
deity.
(12) The original kings, however, are well to be distinguished from the legiti
mate ones, so-called. The la tt<r, except in some extraordinary instances, are
ordinary individuals, insignificant in themselves, while the former were extraor
dinary, distinguished, historical individuals. The deification of distinguished
men, especially after their death, forms therefore the most natural transition
from the properly naturalistic religions to the mythological and anthropological
ones, although it may also take place at the same time with natural adoration.
The worshiping of distinguished men, however, is by no means confined to fab
ulous times. Thus the Swedes deified their king Erich at the time of Christianity
and sacrificed unto him after his death.
(13) I range here the Greeks with the Israelites, while in my “Essence of
Christianity” I contrast them with each other. This is by no means alogical con
tradiction, for things which, when compared with one another are different, coin
cide in comparison with atnird thing. Besides, enjoyment of Nature includes also
her aesthetic, theoretical enjoyment.
(14) An ecclesiastical writer expressively calls man “the tie of all things”
{syndesmon hapanton), because God in him wished to embrace t.l.e universe into a
unity, and because, therefore, in him all things as in their end are combined, and
result in his advantage. And certainly man, as Nature’s individualized essence,
is her conclusion, but not in the anti-natural and supernatural sense of teleology
and theology.
(15) This union, or the amalgamation of the “ moral" and "physical" of the
human and not human being, produces a third, which is neither Nati.re norman,
but which participates of both, like an amphibial, and which, for this very mystery
of its nature, is the idol of mysticism and speculation.
(16) Viewed from this standpoint the creator of Nature is therefore nothing but
the essence of Nature, which, by means of abstracting from Nature, has been dis
tinguished and abstracted from Nature, and such as she is anobject of the senses
and by the power of imagination has been changed into a human or man-like
being, and thus popularized, anthropomorphized, personified.
(17) Thus, generally, in all syllogisms from Nature tb a God, the antecedent,
the presupposition, is a human one; no wonder therefore that their result is a human
being or being similar to man. If the world is a machine there must necessarily be
an architect. If the natural beings are as indifferent toward one another as the
human individuals which can be employed and uni cd only by means of higher
power for any arbitrary purpose of state, as for instance war, there must natu
rally also be a ruler, a governor, a chief general of nature—a captain of the cloud—if she shail not be dissolved into nothing. Thus man first makes Nature un
consciously a human work, i. e. he makes his essence her fundamental essence,
but as he afterwards or at the same time perceives the difference between the
works of Nature and those of human art, his own essence appears to him as an
other, but analogous, similar one. All arguments for God’s existence have there
fore only a logical or rather anthropological signification, since also the logical
forms are forms of human nature.
(18) Nature however “cares’’ just as little for the species or genus. The
latter is preserved because it is nothing but the totality of the individuals which
�Y4
-
THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
by coition propagate and multiply themselves. While single individuals are ex
posed to accidental, destructive influences, others escape them. The plurality is
thus preserved. But still, or rather from the same reasons which cause the single
individual to perish, even species die away. Thus the Dronte has disappeared,
thus the Irish gigantic deer, thus even now-a-days many animal species disappear
in consequence of man’s persecution and of the evermore extencing civilizati n
from regions where they once or even a short time ago still existed in great
numbers, as, e. g. the seal from some inlands ; and in time will disappear entirely
from the earth.
(19) Compare in regard to this matter the expressions of Socrates in Xen
ophon’s writings as to oracles.
(20) The Christians pray likewise to their God for rain as the Greeks did to
Jove, and believe that they are heard with such prayers. ‘‘There was,” says
Luther, in his table-discourses, “ a great drought, as it had notrained fora long
time, and the grain in the field began to dry up when Dr. M. L. prayed continu
ally and said finally with heavy sighs: O, Lord, pray regard our petition in behalf
of thy promise.......... I know that we cry to thee and s'gh desirously; why dost
thou not hear us ? And the very next night came a very fine fruitful rain.”
(21) It is true the omission of the limits has increase and change for its conse
quences ; but it does not destroy the essential identity.
(22) The definition of polytheism generally and without further explanation as
natural religion, holds good only relatively and comparatively.
(23) Arbitrariness in the use of words is unbounded. But still no words are
used so arbitrarily, nor taken in so contradictory significations as the words God
and religion. Whence this arbitrariness and confusion ? Because people from
reverence or from fear to contradict opinions sanctioned by age, retain the old
names (for only the name, the appearance, rules the world, even the world of believers
in God), although they connect entirely different ideas with them which have been
gained only in the course of time. Thus it was in regard to the Grecian Gods
which in the course of time received the most contradictory significations; thus
in regard to the Christian God, Atheism calling itself theism is the religion,
anti-Christianity calling itself Christianity is the true Christianity of the present
day.—Mundus vult decipi.
(24) A being therefore which is only a philosophical principle, and conse
quently only an object of philosophy, but not of religion, of worship, of prayer,
of the heart; a being that does not accomplish any wishes, nor hear a>'y prayers,
is only a nominal God, but not a God in reality.
(25) While therefore in the paradise of Christian phantasms man could not
die and would not die if he had not sinned, with the Greiks man died even in the
blissful age of Kronos, but as easily as if he fell asleep. In this idea the natural
wish of man is realized. Man does not wish for immortal life; he only wishes
for a long life of physical and mental ht alth and a painless death agreeable to Na
ture To resign the belief in immortality requires nothing less than an inhuman
Stoic resignation ; it requires nothing but to be convinced that the articles of
the Christian cr< ed are founded only upon supematuralistic, fantastic wishes,
and to return to the simple real nature of man.
�THE ESSENCE OF RELIGION.
75
(26) Luther e.g. says: ‘‘But where God is (i.e. in heaven) there must also he all
good things which even we may possibly wish for.’’ Thus in the Koran, accord
ing to Savary’s translation it is said of the inhabitants of Paradise : “ Tous leurs
desirs seront combles." (All their wishes will be accomplished.) Only their
wishes are of a different kind.
(27) The will however, especially in the sense of the moralists, does not consti
tute the specific essence of religion ; because what I can attain by my will, for
that I need no Gods. To make morals the essential cause of religion is to retain
the name of religion, but to drop its essence. One can be moral without God, but
happy—in the supernaturalistic, Christian sense of the word—one cannot be
without God ; for happiness in this sense lies beyond the limits and the power
of Nature and mankind, it therefore presupposes for its realizition a supernatural
being which is and can do, what is impossible to Nature and mankind. If Kant
therefore made morals the essence of religion, he was in the same or at least a
similar relation to Christian religion as Aristotle to the Greek religion, when the
latter made theory the essence of the Gods. As little as a God who is only a spec
ulative being, nothing but intellect, still is a God, so little a merely moral being
ora “personified law of morals” is still a Ged. It is true, Jove already is also
a philosopher, when he looks smilingly dowu from Olympus upon the struggles of
the Gods, but he is still infinitely more; certainly also the Christian Gad is a
moral being, but still infinitely more ; morals are onlv the condition of happiness.
The true idea which is at the bottom of Christian happiness, especially in contrast
to philosophic heathenism, is however no other than the one, that true happi
ness can be found only in the gratification of man's whole nature, for which reason
Christianity admits also the body, the flesh, to the participation in the divinity
or what is the same thing, in the enjoyment of happiness. But the development
of this thought does not belong here, it belongs to the “Essence of Christianity.”
�Seleot List of Books published and for sale by Asa K. Butts & Co.
-A. NEW ZKTDITIOUST OF*
BY
O. B. FROTHINGHAM.
‘With Fine Steel Portrait.
One Volume, IQ JVEo. Olotb., $1.50.
“ It is rich, strong, weighty, fresh, original—not merely in the sense of
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The two closing chapters are, “The Soul of Good in things Evil/'and
“ The Soul of Truth in Error.” They will help many a sensitive and no
ble nature in its struggle to save itself from a relapse into Romanism or
Calvinism.”—The Index.
“Frotningham has his feet always on the earth; he knows precisely what
he means to say, and says it. When it is said, he finds—so clear is his
brain, and firm and consecutive his thought- -that it is precisely the state
ment for which many are waiting, and in which many can sympathize.
“ The careful student must recognize in Frothingham a more original,
more continuous, and far better trained thinker than Parker. Heis intel
lectually far closer grained; rivets his thoughts together; whereas Parker
was discursive, popular and repeated himself profusely. More than any
man in America, Frothingham occupies the middle ground between Emer
son and Parker,—sharing the high literary standard of the one with the
other’s hearty allegiance to men and to affairs; and uniting a systematic
method which is all his own.”—T. W. Higginson.
The Influence of Christianity upon Civilization.
BY B. F. UNDERWOOD,
12mo. PAPER, 88 PAGES, 25 CKNTTS.
For Distribution, 10 copies Two Dollars.
By the same Author,
Christianity and. Materialism Contrasted.
12mo. PAPER, 4-3 PAGES, 15 CENTS.
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The essence of religion : God the image of man. Man's dependence upon nature the last and only source of religion
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Place of publication: New York
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Notes: "Forms the basis and substance of the author's larger work, published under the same title, as a complement to his previous: 'Essence of Christianity'."--p. [1]. First published in German in 1845. Publisher's advertisements on back cover. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
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1Z3S6
MS 4-1
NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY
THE
RELIGION AND MORALITY
OF
SHAKESPEARE’S WORKS;
BEING A LECTURE DELITEBED BEFORE THE
SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY,
The 16th of November, 1873.
By CHARLES J. PLUMPTRE,
Lecturer at King's College, London.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED
by the
SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY.
1873.
Price Threepence.
�ADVERTISEMENT.
SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY.
To provide for the delivery on Sundays in the Metropolis, and
to encourage the delivery elsewhere, of Lectures on Science,
—physical, intellectual, and moral,—History, Literature,
and Art; especially in their bearing upon the improve
ment and social well-being of mankind.
THE SOCIETY’S LECTURES
ARE DELIVERED AT
ST GEORGE’S HALL, LANGHAM PLACE,
On SUNDAY Afternoons, at FOUR o'clock precisely.
(Annually— from November to May.)
Twenty-four Lectures (in three series), ending 3rd Mav
1874, will be given.
Members’ £1 subscription entitles them to an annual ticket
transferable and admitting to the reserved seats), and to eight
single reserved-seat tickets available for any lecture.
Tickets for each series (one for each lecture), or for any
eight consecutive lectures, as below :
To the Shilling Reserved Seats—5s- 6dTo the Sixpenny Seats—2s- being at the rate of Three
pence each lecture.
For tickets apply (by letter) to the Hon. Treasurer, Wm.
Henry Domville, Esq., 15 Gloucester Crescent. Hvde
Park, W.
Payment at the door One Penny ;—Sixpence ;_ and
(Reserved Seats) One Shilling.
�PREFACE.
The Author of this Lecture has to acknowledge
the assistance rendered him in its preparation
from three different sources, viz., the Rev. George
Gilfillan’s Lecture on Shakespeare ; a very inter
esting little work entitled ‘ Bible Truths and
Shakespeare Parallels ’ by James Brown ; and a
most learned critique on ‘Gervinus on Shake
speare’which appeared in the Westminster Review
about ten years ago.
A 2
��THE RELIGION AND MORALITY
OF
SHAKESPEARE’S WORKS.
----- *----F any Englishman were asked who is the
greatest Poet that ever adorned his country’s
Literature, he would answer, without any hesi
tation, I imagine, ‘Milton’ or ‘Shakespeare.’
Two great minds indeed, enriched with the
highest powers of that creative faculty which is
the very essence of the Poet’s nature ; and which
the word in its original signification literally
means:—but how different in their natures and
attributes I Milton, it seems to me, might fitly
be compared to some grand Alpine mountain
range, rising majestically above the sunny smiling
plains by which it is surrounded. As we strive,
with adventurous spirit, to ascend to its loftiest
heights, we soon leave the green pastures and
the golden cornfields, the village spires and the
peasants’ chalets, with all their sweet human
associations, far, far away beneath us. We pass
through the thick, dark forests of fir and pine,
which belt the mountains’ side. We emerge from
their gloomy shades to find (it may be), as I have
known it in my wanderings but a few weeks ago,
I
�6
The Religion and Morality
the sunlight gone, the blue sky vanished—and,
in their place, clouds, almost as black as midnight,
riven only by the incessant flashes of the lurid
lightning; while above, around, the roar of the
thunder is heard, echoing and re-echoing in the
seemingly fathomless ravines and gorges on every
side. We seek what shelter we may for awhile ;
and then, when the violence of the storm is past,
and the lightning flashes remotely in the distance,
and the sound of heaven’s artillery is heard only
far away, we continue our ascent. Through dense
clouds, through huge shadowy masses of vapour
and mist, that rise slowly and solemnly like vast
spectral forms from the depths below, we make
our way, until at length we seem to have left
this lower world altogether, and emerge on a scene
which leaves on the minds of those who for the
first time behold it an impression that can never
be forgotten. We are no longer in the regions of
Life—on every side are wide plateaus of snow
and ice—we stand upon a mountain crag, ‘and
on the torrent’s brink beneath, behold the tall
pines dwindled as to shrubs in dizziness of dis
tance;’ we hear, from time to time, the ava
lanches below ‘ crash with a frequent conflict ’—
while still, far up the heights, shoot forth those
monarch peaks crowned with their diadems of
eternal snow, now blushing like the rose, as they
are kissed by the first beams of Day—then,
standing pure and dazzling in their snowy whiteness against the deep, dark blue of noon—anon
glowing in lurid light of crimson, gold and ame
thyst, as they are lit up by the fiery radiance of
the setting sun—then slowly, in the approaching
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
p
twilight and darkness, fading 1 like the unsub
stantial fabric of a vision,’ silently and solemnly
away; until, a few hours later, they gleam forth
again, robed in fresh garments of unearthly
beauty, and shining pale and spectral-like in all
the mysterious loveliness of moonlight on the Alps.
Now, such a scene as this, on which my eyes
so lately rested, seems to me no inapt type of the
genius of Milton; and of the visions of grandeur,
wonder, sublimity, and awe through which ‘ he
bodies forth the forms of things unknown.’
Regions peopled by beings of supernatural origin
and dark malignity, whose dwellings are like the
halls of Eblis in Eastern mythology; realms of
celestial happiness tenanted by angels, archangels,
and all the company of heaven, over whom reigns
as sovereign the Eternal Father, and only inferior
to him in the poet’s description, the Eternal Son ;
the formation of the universe out of chaos : the
creation of the human race; the entrance of evil
in the world; all these, surely, are the very
elements of sublimity and awe, and well may
Milton be compared in the loftiness of his range
of thought to the sky-aspiring monarchs of the
mountains. But I venture to think the analogy
holds further yet. The mountain has its attendant
shadow, and the loftier the mountain the further
does its shadow extend. Dare I then say, with
all the admiration I feel for Milton’s genius, with
all the veneration with which I regard the
purity of his motives, and the sterling inde
pendent worth of his character, that I yet think
a shadow has been cast by the very altitude of
all these, over much of the theological thought of
�8
The Religion and Morality
England, and which has only comparatively of
late years begun to fade away before the advancing
light of a cultured reason—surely man’s noblest,
greatest prerogative, which I, for one, believe to
have been given him by his Creator, to be rightly
used, to discover all the wise laws by which
He rules; to see His power and goodness in all
nature ; and to worship him as the All-Father:
and which right man ought not to put aside, to
bow down in slavish submission before any
unreasonable dogma, however venerable for its
antiquity, or sanctioned by an authoritative
name.
I do not think I go too far, when I say, such a
shadow has been cast by the very height of
Milton’s genius over much of our popular
theology. To take one instance only, I would
ask, Is not the embodiment of Satan as the Prin
ciple of evil, in the Serpent form that persuaded
Eve in Paradise, rather an idea we owe to Milton,
than to anything that is to be found in the
Hebrew Scriptures ? I remember well the late
Frederic Denison Maurice in a remarkable sermon
of his that is published, commenting on this nar
rative, asks why we should presume to be wiser
than the record, whatever it may mean, and
add statements for which that record affords in
itself no foundation. But I venture not further
in this direction.
• Let me turn then to that poet, who is so essen
tially the poet, not of an age, but of all Time —
Shakespeare.
If I likened Milton in his sublimity, to the
Alpine mountain, soaring upwards to the sky, I
�9
Of Shakespeare s Works.
would compare Shakespeare to a majestic river,
on whose vine-clad steeps I was lately standing,
in a foreign land. Springing forth at first, from
its remote birthplace in the rocks, a few scarcely
noticeable threads of water, it slowly gathers
strength and size; flowing through tranquil val
leys, and gently laving the grass and flowers
that fringe its banks, it receives tributary streams
on every side, and begins now to broaden and
deepen rapidly, as it passes onward in its course,
associated in every age with momentous events
in the history of the neighbouring nations. As
it gradually pursues its appointed course, this
mighty river, to which I refer, calls up before our
minds, the memory of Roman conquests and de
feats ; of the chivalrous exploits of feudal times;
of the coronations of Emperors, whose bones re
pose by its side ; of the wars and negotiations in
more recent days. Its scenery becomes as varied
as its history—now it flows through wild and
picturesque rocks and lofty mountain crags,
crowned with castles, fortresses, and ruins, with
which a thousand wild and romantic legends are
connected; then through thick forests and fertile
plains; then through wild ravines and gorges,
with vineyards sloping from their summits to the
water’s edge ; then through populous cities,
flourishing towns, and quiet villages; bringing
to them all, on its broad bosom, the riches of
Trade and Commerce, and all the varied products
of its shores : until at last its magnificent course
is run ; and nearly a thousand miles away from
its secluded birthplace, it is absorbed in the allembracing ocean.
B
�IO
The Religion and Morality
Now, I think, to such a river the course of
Shakespeare’s genius may be well compared, and
the influence of his works likened. But com
paratively little felt at first were ‘the earnest
thought and profound conviction, the homely yet
subtle wisdom, the deep, historical interest, the
poetic truth, the sweet lyrical effusion, the soar
ing imagination, and grand prophetic insight.’
But, as the noble river broadens and deepens, so
does the intellect, the genius, the influence of
Shakespeare. As the ages roll on, and one gene
ration succeeds another, still more deeply, still
more widely, is that influence felt; enriching
men’s minds, exalting their souls, humanising
their affections with all its precious stores, its
boundless wealth of Religion and morality.
‘ Next to the Bible ’ (we are told by a brilliant
critic), ‘ next to the Bible, I believe in Shake
speare ! ’ once exclaimed to him, an intelligent
woman; who, like most of us, had felt something
of the catholic wisdom enshrined in the writings
of the world’s greatest Poet: and, echoes a learned
Professor, ‘ his works have often been called a
secular Bible.’ Common sense and erudition thus
agree in recognising the same broad simplicity
and universal natures, in the splendid utterances
of Hebrew and English intelligence, preserved in
these perennially popular books. Both alike deal
with the greatest problems of Life; both open
those questions which knock for answer at every
human heart; both reflect the humanity which
is common to us all; both delineate the features
which mark and distinguish individual men. (a)
(a) Westminster Review, No. 48—New Series.
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
i i
A true and just comment indeed, for it is in the
highest sense of the word, this catholic spirit
which vivifies Shakespeare’s works, that forms
one of their chief and special characteristics.
And now I proceed to the task I have more
particularly undertaken, to gather from the
broad river of Shakespeare’s genius, some of the
precious wealth of Religion and morality with
which his priceless argosies are so richly laden.
And first, as regards Religion. Nothing strikes
me as more beautiful than the religious element
which marks Shakespeare’s writings. Here is
nothing gloomy, nothing narrow, nothing ascetic.
It is not thrust obtrusively upon us ; but it breaks
forth as naturally and spontaneously as the sun
light which irradiates and warms, which cheers
and comforts this lower world. It is this spirit
of love, of trust, and confidence in an all-wise
and all-merciful Creator which is the Religion
that Shakespeare preaches and inculcates. Hear
how he tells us all that ‘ we are in God’s hand,’
that ‘though our thoughts are ours, their ends are
none of our own;’ that ‘ heaven has an end in all
that ‘ God is the wisdom’s champion and defence ;’
and in one of his noblest passages he bursts forth
in the sublime exclamation :—
God shall be my hope,
My stay, my guide and lantern to my feet!
The last finishing touch, which he gives to the
portraiture of one of his finest historical charac
ters is, when he tells us, that ‘ to add greater
honours to his age, than man could give him, he
died, fearing God.’
B 2
�12
The Religion and Morality
Again, how beautifully does the religious spirit
in reference to God’s highest attributes, as we
conceive them, continually break forth in his
pages,—like a fountain in the golden sunshine.
Take, for instance, one of these divine attributes
and that the loveliest—Mercy. Does he not tell
■us that
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless’d ;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes ;
’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown ;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway ;
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s,
When mercy seasons justice.
In another place too, dwelling on the same
theme, how full of pathos is his eloquent
appeal—
How would you be,
If He who is the top of judgment, should
But judge you, as you are ? Oh, think on that,
And mercy then will breathe within your lips,
Like man new-made !
Then, too, conspicuous, in innumerable places,
is the sense of Shakespeare’s abiding faith in the
over-ruling Providence of God; as when he says—
Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,
When our deep plots do fail: and that should teach us,
There’s a Divinity that shapes our ends,
Kough-hew them how we will!
i
�Of Shakespeare s Works.
i 3
What a solemn warning, too, does he give us,
in respect to prayer for mere temporal blessings
and advantages, in the words—
We, ignorant of ourselves,
Beg often our own harm, which the Wise Powers
Deny us for our good ; so we find profit
By losing of our prayers.
But prayer in the highest sense of the com
munion of our souls with God, and trust in his
all-righteous dealings with us, he ever inculcates.
‘ God knows of pure devotion,’ he says, and
counsels us ‘to put our quarrels to the will of
heaven,’ for
God will be avenged for the deed :
Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm ;
He needs no indirect or lawless course,
To cut off those who have offended him.
And in holy exultation raises the cry
Now, God be praised ! that to believing souls
Gives light to darkness—comfort to despair.
Repentance, with mere lip services, repentance,
that would only be manifest in words, but not in
deeds, that would strive to obtain pardon for the
«c£, and yet enjoy all its sensual and worldly ad
vantages, meets ever with the sternest and
severest rebuke. Where was a self-tormented—
a justly tortured soul, in its inmost workings,
ever laid more awfully bare and naked before our
eyes, than in the vainly attempted prayer of the
wicked King in Hamlet ?
Oh, my offence is rank—it smells to heaven,
Itjiath the primal, eldest curse upon’t,
�14
The Religion and Morality
A brother’s murder! Pray, I cannot;
Though inclination be as sharp as will :
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And like a man to double business bound,
1 stand in pause, where I shall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood,
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it, white as snow 1 Whereto serves mercy
But to confront the visage of offence ?
And;what’s in prayer, but this twofold force,
To be forestalled, ere we come to fall;
Or pardon’d, being down. Then 1’11 look up,
My fault is past. But, oh ! what form of prayer
Can serve my turn ? ‘ Forgive me, my foul murder,’—
That cannot be, since I am still possest
Of those effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardon’d and retain th’ offence ?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice,
And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law. But ’tis not so above ;
There is no shuffling ; there the action lies
In its true nature ; and we ourselves compell’d,
Even in the teeth and forehead of our faidts,
To give in evidence. What then ? What rests?
Try what repentance can ? W hat can it not ?
Yet what can it, when one can not repent ?
Oh, wretched state 1 oh, bosom, black as death !
Oh, limed soul that struggling to be free,
Art more engaged ! Help, angels ! make assay !
Bow, stubborn knees, and heart with strings of steel,
Ke soft as sinews of the new-born babe I
My words fly up I my thoughts remain below !
Words, without thoughts, never to heaven go !
If there is any preacher who would deter us
from sin and crime, by the se^-punishment which
they bring, and the tortures which, sooner or
later, they inflict upon the human conscience, it
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
15
is Shakespeare. In this he is not surpassed even
by the greatest of the Greek Dramatists. Truly,
in his scenes, does the man of blood and crime
create, out of his thoughts, his- own Eumenides.
What language can depict more vividly the hor
rors of a self-accusing conscience than passages
such as these ?
I am alone, the villain of the earth,
And feel I am so most !
Oh ! when the last account ’twixt heaven and earth
Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal,
Witness against us to damnation.
How oft the sight of meaus to do ill deeds
Makes ill deeds done !
And, again, never surely were so much awe,
dread, and terror at the close of a wicked life,
suggested in three lines, as in those addressed to
the dying Cardinal Beaufort:—
Lord Cardinal, if thou think’st on heaven’s bliss
Hold up thy hand ! make signal of thy hope !
He dies and makes no sign ! Oh, God, forgive him !
Shakespeare, indeed, is ever warning us that
the hour must come to us all, when our vices and
crimes will rise, like spectres before us, in all
their horror, and stand ‘ bare and naked trem
bling at themselves.’ What a sermon is contained
in this brief text!
Death ! thou art he, that will not flatter princes,
That stoops not to authority ; nor gives
A specious name to tyranny ; but shows
Our actions in their own deformed likeness.
I shall offer but one quotation more in regard
�16
The Religion and Morality
to this solemn lesson which Shakespeare is so
continually enforcing in all his greatest dramas
—the sense of our responsibility to God and our
accountability to him, for all the faculties, gifts,
and talents which he has bestowed upon us ; and
that all the riches, honours and dignities of this
world are but the merest vanities—are as nothing
compared to a well-spent life, and a conscience
void of offence to God and man. No solemn
dirge, pealing forth from some great organ and
rolling in waves of harmony down the ‘ dim,
mysterious aisles ’ of some venerable cathedral,
affects me more, whenever I read them, than the
last words which Shakespeare has put into the
lips of Cardinal Wolsey. I know no music
more touching than the flow of their exquisite
and melancholy rhythm:—
Nay, then, farewell !
I have touched the highest point of all my greatness ;
And from that full meridian of my glory,
I haste now to my setting I I shall fall,
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.
This the state of man : to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him :
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And when he thinks—good easy man—full surely
His greatness is a ripening, nips his root ;
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
(Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders)
These many summers in a sea of glory ;
But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride
At length broke under me ; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world I hate ye !
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
17
I feel my heart new opened. O ! how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours !
There is betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes and his ruin,
More pangs and fears, than wars or women have ;
And when he falls, he falls, like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
Oh, Cromwell 1 Cromwell !
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies !
And now Time warns me that I must leave
this first portion of my subject,—the religion con
tained in Shakespeare’s works, and pass on toconsider the morality with which they are im
bued ; although I know well, that I have but
barely opened this part of the mine of religious
wealth with which his writings teem. Well
indeed may Shakespeare be termed a Lay-Bible,
and it is certain that it is to a diligent study of
the English version of the Bible we are indebted
to him for some of his finest thoughts and
language. In his dramas alone I have myself
counted upwards of eighty distinct allusions or
paraphrases of scriptural characters, incidents, or
language. But before I finally quit this division
of my Lecture, I would notice, that what is so
strikingly characteristic of Shakespeare’s religion
is, that it is so pre-eminently coloured with the
Spirit of that religion which was taught by the
Great Master. It has, indeed, been well said that
the peculiarly Christian spirit, in the highest and
most comprehensive sense of the word, leavening
the whole of Shakespeare’s philosophy, is every
where observable in the fondness with which,
�i8
The Religion and Morality
through the medium of his noble characters, he
produces, in endless change of argument and
imagery, illustrations of that wisdom, which is
‘ first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy to
be entreated ’ In his allusions to the Deity, he
delights in all those attributes that more par
ticularly represent Him as the God of Love and
Peace ; and as between man and man, would
rather inculcate the humanising doctrine of
forgiveness, and recommend 1 the quality of
mercy ’ than the rugged justice of 'the eye for
eye and tooth for tooth ’ morality of the Hebrew
Code of Ethics. With what tenderness, and yet
with what power, he advocates in innumerable
passages, those virtues which the Christian spirit
more especially enjoins upon us for our guidance.
See how he holds up to our admiration that
gentleness of soul ‘ that seeketh not her own,’
That hath a tear for pity, and a hand,
Open as day, for melting charity.
The true spirit of forgiveness breathes in the
line ‘ I pardon him as God shall pardon me !’
Does he not tell us that
God’s benison goes with us, and with those
That would make good of bad, and friends of foes ;
that ‘ we are born to do benefits,’ that ‘ kindness
is the cool and temperate wind of Grace ’ ‘ nobler
even than revenge,’ and that to help another in
adversity, we should
Strain a little ;
For ’tis a bond in men.
‘ To revenge/ he says, 'is no valour, but to
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
19
bear,’ and that ‘ rarer action is in virtue, than in
vengeance.' With what gems of epithets does he
adorn the idea of Peace—‘ Peace that draws the
sweet infant breath of gentle sleepbut it is
not the inglorious ‘ peace at any price ’ of the
coward or the slave ; not the peace of inaction or
a shameful yielding up of what we hold to be
good and true, at the command of tyrannical
oppression, for he bids us remember also that
Rightly to be great,
Is greatly to find honour in a straw
When honour’s at the stake.
But the Peace that he would commend to us is
that self denying, self restraining, self victorious
Peace which
Is of the nature of a conquest;
For then both parties nobly are subdued,
And neither party, loser.
Again, of Compassion, he does not merely say
that it hates ‘ the cruelty that loads a falling
manbut he bids us remember, too,
That ’tis not enough to hold the feeble up
But to support him after.
Of Contentment, he speaks in passages more
than I can dare quote ; but it is ever an active,
healthy contentment that he praises. He grandly
exclaims:—
My crown is in my heart, not on my head ;
Not deck’d with diamonds and Indian stones ;
Nor to be seen ; my crown is called Content ;
A crown it is, that seldom kings enjov.
�20
The Religion and Morality
And he assures us—
’Tis better to be lowly born
And range with virtuous livers, in content,
Than to be perk’d up in a glistening grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.
And where can there be found a more beauti
ful picture of a contented mind than in these
exquisite lines : —
Now my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court ?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The season’s difference ; as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind,
Which, when it bites, and blows upon my body
E’en till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
This is no flattery ; these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity ;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in its head ;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
But it is not merely as a moralist of the higher
grade that Shakespeare shines so conspicuously
—it is not merely as a Preacher of the loftier
virtues that he is so deserving of our admiration.
View him on a lower level. Regard him as the
exponent of sound practical wisdom in common
life—in every-day experience. Where was ever
more sensible advice given in regard to a young
man’s social intercourse with the world than
in these memorable lines, and what pitfalls
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
21
would be avoided, if they were but borne
in mind 1
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel,
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch’d unfledg’d comrade.
Beware of entrance to a quarrel; but being in,
Bear it that the opposer may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear; but few thy voice :
Take each man’s censure ; but reserve thy judgment.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be ;
°
For loan oft loses both itself and friend ;
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This, above all—to thine own self be true,
And it must follow—as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
I could go on, far beyond the scope to which I
am limited, in my quotations illustrating the
soundness of Shakespeare’s ethical teaching, and
his enforcement of every form of morality. ’ But
let us see how he deals with vice in every form,
no matter under what mask its visage may be
hidden. Injustice, in its broadest sense, ever
meets with his sternest reprobation. He asks,
with all the fire of enthusiasm:
What stronger breast-plate than a heart untainted ?
Thrice is he arm’d, that has his quarrel just ;
And he but naked, though lock’d up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
Hear, too, how he reprobates that assassin of
the soul whose dagger has so often sought to slay
the good and noble character that has at all risen
above, or placed itself in opposition to, the false
�24
The Religion and Morality
grows with such pernicious root‘Deceitfulness,
which to betray doth wear an angel’s face, to
seize with eagle’s talons;’ ‘ Implacability,’ relent
less ; that is, ‘ beastly, savage, devilish ;’ ‘ Dupli
city,’ 1 that can smile and smile and be a villain
and last ‘ Hypocrisy,’ ‘ with devotion’s visage and
pious action,’ can ‘ sugar o’er the Devil himself.’
Surely (as George Gilfillan says) Shakespeare
was the greatest and most humane of all moral
ists. Seeing more clearly than mere man ever
saw into the evils of human nature and the cor
ruptions of society, into the natural weakness
and the acquired vices of man, he can yet love,
pity, forget his anger, and clothe him in the
mellow light of his genius, like the sun, which
in certain days of peculiar balm and beauty,
seems to shed its beams, like an amnesty, on all
created beings.’
I know full well that in the hour’s limit to
which the lectures given before this Society are
properly confined, I have been enabled only to
bring to the surface comparatively a few of the
precious ores of the religious spirit, the wisdom,
and the morality, which lie in such rich profusion
in the golden mine of Shakespeare’s works. But
I think I have said enough, to justify the claim
of Shakespeare to rank foremost amongst the
world’s greatest, wisest, noblest, Preachers of
Religion and Morality; and in conclusion, I know
of no words that could serve me so eloquently
as a peroration, as those of the writer and critic
whom I last named. ‘If force of genius—sympathy
with every form and feeling of humanity—tlie
heart of a man united to the imagination of
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
25
a Poet, and wielding the Briarean hands of
a Demigod — if the writing of thirty-two
Dramas, which are colouring, to this hour, the
literature of the world—if the diffusion of harm
less happiness in immeasurable quantity—if the
stimulation of innumerable minds—if the promo
tion of the spirit of Charity and universal
brotherhood ; if these constitute, for mortal man,
titles to the name of Benefactor, and to that
praise which ceases not with the sun but ex
pands with immortality ; then the name and
the praise must support the throne which
Shakespeare has established over the minds of
the inhabitants of an earth which may be known
in other parts of the Universe as Shakespeare’s
World.’
��WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
Just Published, Price One Shilling.
tfutart of $oicc nnir Ssttcij.
* An Introductory Lecture on Elocution con
sidered in reference to “ Public and Social Life,”
delivered at King’s College, London, at the be
ginning of the Winter Session of the Evening
Classes Department for 1873-4, by Charles
John Plumptre, Lecturer on Public Reading
and Speaking at King’s College, Evening Classes
Department.
London: T. J. Allman, 463 Oxford Street.
------- ♦-------
PRESS NOTICES.
A very interesting discourse.— The Times, October 11.
An excellent address.—Dailt News, October 11.
“ Clergyman’s Sore Throat” would cease to exist, and laryn
geal and bronchial affections generally would be diminished,
if the vocal organs received early and adequate training.—
Lancet, October 18.
�11
Advertisements.
Preparing for Publication a new and greatly enlarged
Edition, cloth 8vo (price Six Shillings), of
JVmtfs {^allege H’tcfiirts dll (tfotufion,
Being the substance of the Introductory Course
of Lectures and Practical Instruction in Publid
Reading and Speaking, annually delivered by
Charles John Plumptre, Lecturer on Public
Reading and Speaking, King’s College, Evening
Classes Department.
Dedicated by permission
to H.R.H. the Prince of Wales.
*#* This volume will contain special courses of
Lectures on the various branches of Elocution,
Public Reading, and Speaking, considered in
reference to the various Professions, the art of
Extempore Speaking, the vocation of Lecturing
generally, Social Speech-making, and the causes
and means of removal of the various kinds of
Impediments of Speech.
London: T. J. Allman, 463, Oxford Street.
�Advertisements.
111
PRESS NOTICES OF LAST EDITION.
------- ♦-------
Mr. Plumptre has now for several years fulfilled with signal
ability the duties devolving upon him as the Lecturer on Pub
lic Reading and Speaking at King’s College, London, in the
Evening Classes Department. Happily he has afforded us,
one and all, the opportunity for judging of him, not merely by
hearsay—of estimating him not simply by the range or scope
of his reputation. He has now given to the outer public the
means of weighing in the balance his various capabilities as
an instructor in Elocution. He has, in the shape of a goodly
volume of 200 pages octavo, presented to every one who lists
a series of fourteen of these famous King’s College Lectures of
his on Elocution—fourteen sub-divisions of a most instructive
and comprehensive theme—the substance of the introductory
Course of Lectures and Practical Instruction he has now for
some time past been annually delivering. The book is Dedi
cated, by Permission, to H.R.II. the Prince of Wales. It is
followed by two very remarkable appendices—one of them
singularly instructive, the other very curiously interesting. So
far as any merely printed book on Elocution could accomplish
its object, this one by Mr. Plumptre is entitled to our
highest commendation. The eye, the face, the voice, the ges
ture are of course all wanting, but the argument throughout
is so lucid in itself, while the illustrations of that argument are
so animated and so singularly felicitous, that reading the
work attentively page by page and lecture by lecture, is the
next best thing to seeing and hearing the gifted Professor him
self, when he is, in his own person, exemplifying the manifold
and ever-varying charms of the all-conquering art of the
Rhetorician and Elocutionist.—Sun, March 5, 1870.
This, although not a law book, is a book for lawyers. Prac
tical treatises on various branches of the law may be essential
to store the mind of the advocate with ideas, but unless he
has the power of expressing them in such a way as to com
mand the attention of the court, his learning will prove of but
little avail. To a barrister the brains are of but little use
without the tongue, and even the tongue, however fluent, may
fail to give due expression to the ideas, unless the voice is
properly regulated so as to pronounce with both clearness and
force the words that are uttered, and the gestures of the body
�IV
Advertisements.
enforce what the language has attempted to impress. Many
are the failures of those who would otherwise have been suc
cessful advocates from want of attention to the principles of
elocution. Their matter has been excellent, but their manner
has been so bad as entirely to destroy the effect that their ad
dress must otherwise have produced. We would point to
instances of this kind in Parliament, at the Bar, and in the
Pulpit. To all such persons the work before us will be found
invaluable ; and indeed there are few, if any, whose duties re
quire them to speak in public, who will fail to derive advan
tage from its perusal. The subject is treated in a thoroughly
practical manner, and is fully investigated with care and
judgment. Mr. Plumptre speaks with the authority of a pro
fessor, and he appears to understand his subject entirely, and
in all its different branches. He is quite aware of all the
difficulties to be encountered, and is ready with advice how
to meet them. His work evinces considerable research, ex
tensive classical and general knowledge, and is moreover full
of interesting matter. We commend it heartily alike to
those who aspire to become orators in Parliament, to the
Clergy, and to the Bar.—Quarterly Law Review, May,
1870.
In these days, when Lectures and “ Penny Readings ” are
patronised by the “upper ten thousand,” and Dukes, Mar
quises, Earls, Viscounts, Barons, Baronets, M.P.’s, and
Esquires take part in them, and when at public dinners no
one is supposed to be “ unaccustomed to public speaking,” it
is highly desirable that those who appear on the platform, or
who rise at public banquets, should be able to go through their
parts satisfactorily. To accomplish this there are only two
ways, one, to take lessons in Elocution, the other to read works
published with a view of imparting as much practical instruc
tion as can possibly be imparted by precept, where practice
cannot be attained. Mr C. J. Plumptre, Lecturer at King’s
College, London, has just published a volume upon the Prin
ciples and Practice of Elocution, which will be found to be of
the highest value to every one who is called on, either con
stantly or at intervals, to speak in public. As a teacher, Mr
Plumptre is most skilful: he is a Master of his Art, and those
who cannot avail themselves of his services will do well
to study his treatise, which is lucid, sound, and practical.
The “King’s College Lectures” of Mr Plumptre have been
honoured by the patronage of the Prince of Wales, to whom
the volume is by permission dedicated.—Court Journal,
Dec. 11, 1869.
�Advertisements.
v
Mr Plumptre has, in this volume, reproduced his lectures on
public reading and speaking, which were delivered at King’s
College. We consider that the chief novelty in the hook is
that it contains instruction for public reading as well as
speaking. The science of public reading is very much neglected,
and we are very glad to see that Mr Plumptre favours the
world with a tolerably comprehensive book, which is partly
devoted to this science. We purposely rank Elocution as a
science, as we agree with Mr Plumptre in thinking that it lies
far above a mere art. We believe that if everyone who wishes
to read and speak well were to read and learn by heart
Lecture V., the benefit would be enormous, and the effect
almost immediately appreciable. We find some practical
directions for the management and preservation of the voice,
and although we are not qualified to give an opinion on the
medical part, yet we have the authority of the Lancet for saying
that the suggestions are very practical and the curative mea
sures recommended excellent. We believe that this is by far
the best volume yet published on the subject, and it must
succeed on account of its own worth, as no man who has to
speak or read in public should be without a copy.—Wilts
Advertiser, March 26, 1870.
Mr Plumptre will be known to most of our readers as a very
scientific and successful Teacher of Elocution ; and in this
volume he has put forth the substance of the course of Lectures
that he delivers at King’s College, with such alterations and
additions as may meet the wants of those who are unable to
avail themselves of oral instruction. It is unnecessary to
enlarge upon the advantage of obtaining complete command
of all the powers of the voice, or to point out how very much
a good manner of delivery may promote the success of a
medical practitioner. These considerations are obvious ; and
if they stood alone we should hardly have thought the lectures
within our province as reviewers. We find, however, that Mr
Plumptre enters at length, and with much ability, into the
curative treatment of impediments of speech. We have
perused this portion of the treatise with great care, and have
much pleasure in bearing testimony to its great merit. The
views advanced rest upon sound physiology, and the practice
advocated is in complete accordance with them. Mr Plumptre
states, and our experience enables us to confirm his opinion,
that all cases of stammering and stuttering are curable, if only
the patient will exercise a certain degree of care and perse
verance. It is common for medical practitioners to be consulted
�VI
Advertisements.
about such impediments; and we feel sure that in Mr
Plumptre’s Lectures they will find not only much valuable
practical information, but also a basis of sound principles, upon
which the details of treatment may be founded. We recom
mend thebookverywarmlytoour readers.—Lancet, February
12, 1870.
Professor Plumptre, who is so well known for his elocution
ary powers, has just published a volume of fourteen of his
Lectures on Elocution, delivered some time since at King’s Col
lege, London. The book is a handsome volume of more than
200 pages, and is dedicated to the Prince of Wales. A more
entertaining work it would be difficult to find, and it is one
which we cordially recommend to the student of divinity, the
barrister, the debater ; in a word, to all who desire to cultivate
the faculty of speech, and to be able to express their ideas
with clearness, force, and elegance.—Irish Gazette, March
19, 1870.
This is a book from which we will not quote, but instead
heartily commend, and advise all our readers to purchase and
study it for themselves.—Victoria Magazine, May, 1870.
&c., &c., &c.
C. W. REYNELL, PRINTER, LITTLE PVLTENEY STREET, HAYMARKET, W,
�
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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The religion and morality of Shakespeare's works : being a lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, the 16th of November, 1873
Creator
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Plumptre, Charles J.
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 25, vi p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: Part of the NSS pamphlet collection. Advertisements for works by Plumptre, lecturer in public reading and speaking at King's College, London, on six pages at the end.
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The Sunday Lecture Society
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1873
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N541
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Religion
Literature
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (The religion and morality of Shakespeare's works : being a lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, the 16th of November, 1873), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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application/pdf
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Text
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English
Drama
English Literature
NSS
Shakespeare
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07
THE PENTATEUCH
IN CONTRAST WITH
THE SCIENCE AND MORAL SENSE
OF OUR AGE.
By
A
PHTSICIAN.
PART II.
“Zufallige Geschichtswahrheiten konnen der Beweis von nothwendigen
Vernunftswahrheiten nie werden ” — Contingent historical truths can never be
demonstration of necessary rational truths.—Lessing.
PUBLISHED
BY
THOMAS
SCOTT,
NO. II THE TERRACE, FARQUHAR ROAD, UPPER NORWOOD
LONDON, S.E.
1873.
Price Sixpence.
��THE BOOK OF EXODUS.
MOSES—THE FLIGHT FROM EGYPT—THE
WILDERNESS—LEGISLATION.
HE descendants of Jacob, sur named Israel,
called Israelites and children of Israel, increased
amazingly, according to the text, “ multiplying and
waxing exceeding mighty, so that the land was
filled with them,” the effect of which is said to have
been— ?
That the jealousy of the Egyptians their masters
was roused, and the Pharaoh, or king, fearing that,
in case of war with a neighbour, they might join the
enemy, fight against him, and so “ get him out of the
land,” therefore were taskmasters set over them to
afflict them, and make their lives bitter with hard
bondage in brick and mortar and service in the fields ;
the straw held needful in brick-making, among other
things, being finally withheld, whilst the tale of bricks
made was required to be the same as before.
Bricks and mortar, we may presume, from their
being particularly mentioned, were the materials
employed by the Egyptians in their buildings ?
The great structures of Egypt, nevertheless, appear
to have been invariably built of stone without mortar.
The temples and palaces of Babylon and Nineveh,
however, were uniformly built of brick and mortar.
In the hard bondage in brick and mortar of the text
we have, therefore, one of the many traits to be had,
when they are looked for, of the age and authorship
T
L
�138
The Pentateuch.
of the Pentateuch • the compiler of which was neither
Moses nor any contemporary of his, but one who
must have lived after the Babylonian Captivity, and
had had, as it seems, occasion to learn something of
the art and mystery both of brick-making and brick
laying—arts little practised either in alluvial Egypt
or rocky Palestine, but pursued as a principal industry
around Babylon and Nineveh on the clay bottoms of
the Euphrates and Tigris.
The Pharaoh of Egypt is said to have fallen on
what seems an extraordinary device to keep down
the numbers of the now obnoxious Israelites?
He speaks to the Hebrew midwives—Shiphrah
and Puah—the names of these women, strange to
say, having survived the wreck of ages ! and orders
them, when they do their office by the Hebrew
women, to kill all the male children, but to save
the females alive.
A most unkingly command; no less unkingly than
unlikely ever to have been given. In a despotic
country like Egypt, however, the midwives would have
nothing for it but to obey ?
So we should have thought; but they, according to
the text, set the king’s order at defiance: “They
feared God,” it is said, and spared the lives of both
the male and female Hebrew children.
Pharaoh would punish the midwives, as matter of
course, for their contempt of his royal commands ?
So might we also fairly have supposed that he would;
but the midwives plead in excuse that “ the Hebrew
women are lively, and are delivered ere the midwife
can come in to them.”
This needed not to have hindered them from carry
ing out the Pharaoh’s orders F
Certainly not; for the new-born child must have
come immediately into their hands—the first moment
under any circumstances at which they could have
obeyed the ruler. But, as if the tale were made to
�Exodus : Israel in Egypt.
139
bear witness to its own. absurdity, we learn that not
only did Pharaoh not punish the contumacious mid
wives, Shiphrah and Puah, but even rewarded them
by building houses for them !
Failing to enlist the two midwives—two midwives
for the service of a people who must have been mil
lions in number, if every part of the narrative be true
—what is said to have been the Pharaoh’s next move
against his obnoxious slave-subjects, the children of
Israel?
He charges them, saying : “ Every son that is born
ye shall cast into the river, and every daughter ye
shall save alive;” transferring his orders, set at
nought by the midwives, to the parents of the children
themselves.
Such an order is surely as little likely as the one that
goes before it, either to have been given by a king to
any section of his subjects as it was to be obeyed by
them ?
No command of the kind is recorded in the annals
of any other policied or even semi-savage community.
More than this, the Nile was a sacred stream, furnish
ing the sole water-supply of the country; and the
signal progress the Egyptians had made in civilisation,
even at the early date to which the records we are
discussing refer, assures us that all pollution of the
river by dead bodies and the like must have been for
bidden. The dead were not even buried in the soil
of the cultivated lands of Egypt, but, being em
balmed, were stowed away beyond the reach of the
inundation.
Looking at the Hebrew scriptures in the way we
do, as ordinary literary compositions, what might we
say was the writer’s object in the narrative before us ?
That it is contrived, all unartistic as it is, by way
of prologue to the story of the wonderful manner in
.which the life of the male child Moses was preserved.
The future leader and legislator of the chosen people
�140
The Pentateuch.
could not be left with the uneventful entrance into
the world that is the lot of ordinary men. His life
must be in danger from his birth, and miraculously
guarded; he must be the nursling and adopted son of
a queen or of a king’s daughter at the least. And so
it all falls out. Born of parents of the house of Levi,
as it is said, the mother of the future leader conceals
his birth for three months, and then exposes him in
an ark or cradle of bulrushes which she lays among
the flags by the river’s brink. The daughter of
Pharaoh comes down “ to wash herself at the river,”
and, seeing the cradle, she sends her maid to fetch it.
There she finds the infant; presumes that it is one of
the Hebrews’ children, and, instead of ordering it to
be thrown into the river, as a dutiful daughter would
have done, in obedience to her royal father’s orders,
she procures a nurse for it, who turns out to be its
own mother, and gives it the name of Moses—the
saved from the stream—because, as she says, “ I
drew him out of the water.”
With such a nurse the child was likely to do well ?
He throve, grew up, and became as a son to Pha
raoh’s daughter—no inquiry being made, we must
presume, by the princess’s father or mother how she
came by such a treasure !
The first incident recorded in the independent life
of Moses grown to man’s estate is of a somewhat
compromising nature ?
Seeing an Egyptian smiting an Hebrew, one of his
brethren, and looking this way and that, to make sure
that he himself was seen of none, he slew the Egyp
tian and hid his body in the sand.
This was surely murder, against the laws of God
and man ?
It was no less ; but it is not so characterised, and
is not meant to be so considered, in the narrative,
nor has it wanted apologists among modern writers.
Murder, however, as the saying is, will out, and the
�Exodus : Moses at Horeb.
14-1
deed must have got wind; for, seeing two of his own
people contending on the very next day, and saying
to him who began the fray: Why smitest thou thy
fellow ? he is met by the counter question: Intendest thou to kill me as thou killedst the Egyp
tian ? Learning by this that what he had done was
known, he had to seek safety in flight from the justice
of the country. He flies, therefore, and comes to the
land of Midian, where he abides, as shepherd, appa
rently, with Beuel, the priest of the country, one of
whose daughters, Zipporah by name, he by-and-by
receives to wife.
The next incident in the life of Moses that is re
corded is a very remarkable one ?
Whilst keeping the flock of his father-in-law (now
called Jethro) in the desert by Horeb, the mountain
of God, the angel of Jehovah appears to him in a
flame of fire out of the midst of a bush, which burned
yet was not consumed. Astonished at the appear
ance of a bush on fire yet not consumed, he turns
“ aside to see the great sight why the bush was not
burnt,” and is then addressed by a voice calling to
him out of the midst of the bush, saying: Moses!
Moses ! and Moses answers, “ Here am I.” Ordered
to put off his shoes from his feet, for the ground on
which he stood was holy ground, he is then informed
by the speaker that he is the God of Abraham, of Isaac,
and of Jacob; that he had seen the affliction of his
people in Egypt, and was come down to deliver them
out of the hand of the Egyptians, to bring them into
a land flowing with milk and honey, and to settle
them there in place of the Canaanites, Horites,
Hittites, Amorites, and others already in possession
of the country. “ Come, now, therefore,” proceeds
the narrative, “ I will send thee unto Pharaoh that
thou mayest bring my people the children of Israel
’ out of Egypt.”
To this extraordinary intimation, so delivered,
Moses makes answer— ?
�142
The Pentateuch.
“ Who am I,” says he, “ that I should go unto
Pharaoh, and that I should bring forth the children
of Israel out of Egypt ? When I say to them that
the God of their fathers had sent me to them and
they ask me his name, what shall I say ?”
“ Thou shalt say I am that Am hath sent me. More
over, thus shalt thou say : Jehovah, the God of your
fathers, appeared unto me, saying: I have considered
you and what is done to you in Egypt; and I will
bring you up out of the affliction of Egypt unto a
land flowing with milk and honey; and they shall
hearken to thy voice; and thou shalt come, thou and
the elders of Israel, unto the King of Egypt, and
ye shall say unto him: Jehovah Elohim, the God
of the Hebrews, hath met us; and now let us go,
we beseech thee, three days’ journey into the wilder
ness that we may sacrifice to Jehovah our God.”
How can we, with the views of our age, conceive
God addressing man in human speech, or imagine
Moses asking God for his name, and God answering
first in abstract terms, and then more definitely, as if
he were but one among a number of gods, and the
particular God of the Hebrew people ? How, indeed,
think of Moses—scion, as said, of the house of Levi—
not knowing by what name the God of his kindred and
country was called ? The designation, I am that
Am, would scarcely have got him credit with his
people; and the name Jehovah now imparted to him,
far from helping, would only have earned him mis
trust ; for El, Elohe, Chiun, or Baal, in so far as we
know, appear to have been the names by which
God or the gods were known to the times in which
Moses is reputed to have lived ; neither he nor they
who for ages came after him having ever heard of
Jehovah. How, further, imagine God dealing deceit
fully with Pharaoh and ordering his messenger to sue
for leave to go a three days’ journey into the wilder
ness to offer sacrifice, when it was his purpose that the
�Exodus : Moses and Jehovah.
143
people should escape from Egypt altogether ? How,
Still further, and to go back, bring our minds to con
template the Supersensuous Infinite Cause we call
God as limited in space and hidden in a bush that
burned yet was not consumed ? How, in fine, believe
that God bade Moses put off his shoes from his feet,
for the ground he stood on was holy, as if any one
foot-breadth of earth were holier than another ?
How, indeed I But so stands it written in the text.
Something, however, may be said for the bush that
burned yet was not consumed ?
In so far as we know that Light and Fire were the
symbols of Deity to the whole of the ancient policied
world, and the Hebrews were scions of the Semitic
stock, the Light and Star worshippers of Chaldea
and Mesopotamia.
Determining to deliver his people, Jehovah would,
of course, smooth the way for their going by dis
posing the heart of Pharaoh favourably towards
them ?
So might we reasonably have expected; on the
contrary, however, he is made to say that he is sure
the King of Egypt will not let them go.
This seems strange to modern conceptions of God’s
providential dealings with the world. What may
have been the writer’s motive in ascribing such
words to God ?
To give him an opportunity, doubtless, of showing
his God, in conformity with the notions of unenlight
ened men, setting at nought the laws we now recog
nise as constituting the very essence of the Godhead,
“smiting Egypt with the wonders he would do in
their midst, getting him honour on the Egyptians,
and giving them to know that he was the Lord.”
God get him honour by smiting the Egyptians ! Do
we read aright ?
So says the text as well here as in several other
places yet to be considered.
�144
The Pentateuch.
God is also made by the scribe to give particular
instructions as to what the people are to do when at
length they find themselves at liberty to depart F
They are not to go empty, but are to borrow of
their neighbours jewels of silver and jewels of gold
and raiment, which they are to put upon their sons
and their daughters, and so spoil the Egyptians I
This is an extraordinary injunction made to come
from God F
It is no less; and the writer must have believed
that Jehovah had no more respect for the m&mn and
tuurn than he could have had himself when he put
such an order into the mouth of his Deity.
What happens when Moses, not taking the word
of his God of the burning bush as sufficient creden
tials to his countrymen, suggests that they will not
believe him, and will say that Jehovah had not really
appeared to him ?
Jehovah asks : What is that in thy hand F And he
said, a rod. Cast it on the ground, says Jehovah ; and
he cast it on the ground and it became a serpent, to his
horror, for he fled from it; but being commanded to
take it by the tail, it forthwith became a rod as
before.
And this was to satisfy the people that the God of
their fathers had appeared to him, Moses, and given
him his commission to them ! What would be thought
nowadays of the man who should say that God had
personally appeared to him, given him an important
commission, and as guarantee for the truth of his
statement performed a feat of the kind before an
assembly of people F
He would be regarded either as a madman or a
juggling impostor, most certainly as no ambassador
from God.
There is more of this preliminary miraculous, or
rather—and not to speak it irreverently—conjuring
matter F
�Exodus : Moses and Pharaoh.
145
Much : Moses is bidden in addition, and as a further
assurance to himself that it is Jehovah-God who
speaks with him, to put his hand into his bosom, and
when he takes it out again it is “ leprous as snow; ”
but returning it to his bosom and then withdrawing
it, “ it is as his other flesh.”
Do any of the diseases known to us by the name of
leprosy come and go in such sudden fashion ?
Several diseases now pass under this name, but
they are all alike of slow growth and generally of
difficult cure when they are not altogether incurable.
These signs, however, Moses is to exhibit to the
people in case of their proving incredulous of his
mission to them; and when he returns to Egypt,
should they not be convinced by such signs and
induced to hearken to his voice, he is then to take
water from the river and pour it on the land when it
should become blood. Furthermore, being slow of
speech himself, he is to prompt Aaron his brother,
“who can speak well,” and make of him his mouth
piece in his efforts to have Pharaoh grant their
petition. “ But I will harden his heart ” says Jehovah,
“ that he shall not let the people go; ” and so all
must necessarily prove in vain.
Moses from the above showing would seem to have
been of a somewhat sceptical temper, hard of belief,
Hot easily satisfied ?
As every reasonable man ought to be when extra
ordinary courses are prescribed, to him, and contra
ventions of the common course of nature are adduced
as evidence of a divine commission or command. But
God is far more indulgent to the doubts of Moses
than men in after times have commonly shown them
selves to the misgivings and questionings of their
brothers.
Pharaoh’s heart being hardened by Jehovah so that
he must refuse to let the people go, Moses is next to
say to him— ?
�146
The Pentateuch.
“ Israel is my son, my first-born ; let my son go ;
and if thou refuse to let him go I will slay thy son,
even thy first-born.”
What! in spite of the hardening the man’s heart
has undergone at the hands of Jehovah, which must
needs make him incapable of yielding ? And is it
possible to think of God threatening retaliation in any
event—retaliation above all for non-compliance with
an order which he himself has made it impossible
should be obeyed, and upon the unoffending first-born
of the land because of its ruler’s obstinacy ?
To the simple moral sense of intelligent man it is
indeed impossible to form such incongruous and un
worthy ideas of God and his dealings with the world.
The tale as it stands is no less irreverent than absurd.
It is not God who hardens the heart of man, but man
who is faithless to his better self when he yields the
sway to his animal appetites and passions, and turns
a deaf ear to the suggestions of his reason and higher
moral nature. Neither does God, like a spiteful man,
retaliate in any human sense for non-compliance with
his behests. Pharaoh by the usage of his age and in
virtue of ordinances propounded in these ancient
writings as from Jehovah himself was entitled to exact
all he required of his slave-subjects the Israelites.—But
to proceed, we have now to note an extraordinary in
terruption of the narrative at this place by the inter
polation of a few verses, the significance of which has
sorely tried the ingenuity of bible-expositors. “ By the
way, in the Inn,” it is said, “ Jehovah came upon him
(Moses) and sought to kill him; and Zipporah took
a knife and cut off the foreskin of her son and cast it
at his feet, and said : A bloody bridegroom art thou to
me I And he let him go. She said : blood-bridegroom,
because of the circumcision.” (De Wette.)
What meaning can we possibly attach to this piece
of information. What is to be thought of Jehovah
coming upon Moses and seeking to kill him ?
�Exodus: Moses and Jehovah.
147
In any literal sense it is impossible to say,—the
words have no meaning : had God sought to kill
Moses, he would not assuredly have failed of his
purpose.
And what farther of Zipporah circumcising her son,
casting the foreskin at “ his ” feet, and calling him a
blood or bloody bridegroom to her ?
Also impossible to say ; for the reason given : “ she
called him a bloody bridegroom because of the cir
cumcision,” does not help to any solution of the diffi
culty.
What yet farther of the phrase: “ So he let
him go ” ?
Still beyond our power to conjecture ; unless it
were said that Jehovah, propitiated by Zipporah’s act,
abandoned his purpose of killing Moses.
Has any other explanation of this episode in the life
of Moses been suggested ?
A learned writer conceives that Jehovah’s seeking
to kill Moses may be significant of a serious illness
that befel him at a certain time: and farther that his
recovery was only wrung from his God by the sacri
fice of more than the foreskin of his son; whence the
passionate exclamation of Zipporah.
*
Such an interpretation seems scarcely warranted by
anything in the text as it stands ?
It is not; but the text of the old mythical tale is
obviously imperfect; made so, it may be, by its modern
editor, who, finding matter in it offensive to the ideas
of the times in which he lived and wrote, has substi
tuted circumcision for sacrifice. The interpretation of
the German writer is fully borne out by the whole of
the blood-stained ritual of the Hebrew religious
system, the sacrifice of the first-born of man and beast
which so long formed one of its most essential
* See ‘Ghillanij Ueber den Menschen Opfer der alten
Hsebraaer : On the Human Sacrifices of the Ancient Hebrews,’
p. 683.
�148
The Pentateuch.
features, and the conclusion now generally come to
in regard to the rite of circumcision as signifying a
sacrifice to the reproductive principle in nature of
a small but significant part in lieu of the holocaust
of former days. The epithet bridegroom used by
Zipporah may find its explanation in a custom said
to have prevailed among Jewish mothers in a later
age, whilst stilling their newly circumcised sons, of
speaking to them as their little bridegrooms.
*
So improper and unprofitable a tale as that of God
seeking to kill a man and failing in his purpose, and
of a woman performing a painful and needless opera
tion on her child and then rating her husband and
calling him or her son her bridegroom, cannot surely
be presumed to come by the inspiration of God for
the guidance of mankind in morals and religion ?
Most assuredly it cannot. And so we may fancy
that the tale of Moses threatened to be slain is
given as a pendant to the one in which Jacob is said
to have been met in the dark by a man, who
turns out to be Jehovah himself, with whom he has
a wrestling bout; for each succeeding hero in the early
Hebrew records is more or less a copy of one who
has gone before. But it is more difficult in the present
instance to find a satisfactory interpretation of the
story than it was to elicit a meaning in conformity
with known mythological ideas for the other.
Moses and his brother Aaron, now associated with
him and fully instructed, proceed from Midian to
Egypt on their mission to the Pharaoh, with whom
they have an interview ?
They inform him that they have met with the God
of the Hebrews and petition for leave to “go three
days’ journey into the wilderness to sacrifice to their
God, lest he should fall on them with pestilence or
the sword.”
* See Dozy, 4 Die Israelite!! zu Mekka.’
S. 99.
�Exodus: Moses and Pharaoh.
149
But their God had not threatened anything of the
kind ?
He had not; but the pretext is notable as the first
instance on record in which Religion is made the
cloak to cover an ulterior design.
Pharaoh’s heart being hardened by Jehovah, he of
course refuses the suit ?
As matter of course, and it may be said of neces
sity. “Who is Jehovah,” asks Pharaoh, “that I
should obey his voice and let the people go ? I know
not Jehovah ; neither will I let Israel go.”
Pharaoh indeed could not have known anything of
Jehovah ?
No more than Moses himself, according to the tale ;
for it is only whilst receiving his commission that
he learns from the speaker of the burning bush that
it was he who had appeared to Abraham, Isaac and
Jacob as El-Schaddai, God the mighty, but by his
name Jahveh was he not known to them. Neither
indeed could Pharaoh have spoken of his Hebrew
slave-subjects as a people and by the name of Israel,
the title being of much more modern date than the
period referred to : Pharaoh’s Hebrew subjects were
his slaves.
Pharaoh, reasonably enough, therefore does not
credit the envoys, and in pursuance of the gist of the
story proceeds to impose yet heavier tasks on the
Israelites. What does Moses on the Pharaoh’s refusal
of his petition ?
He returns into the land of Midian, we must
presume, for the Hebrew God was not ubiquitous,
and reproaches him with having sent him on an use
less errand : “ Lord,” says he, very irreverently as
it seems, “why hast thou so evil entreated this
people ? why is it that thou hast sent me ? for since I
came to Pharaoh to speak in thy name, he hath done
evil to this people ; neither hast thou delivered them
at all.”
�150
The Pentateuch.
Does not Jehovah take Moses to task for this dis
respectful and reproachful address ?
By no means; he merely says to him : “ Now shalt
thou see what I will do to Pharaoh. Through strength
of hand shall he let them go, and by strength of hand
shall he drive them out of his land; return ye there
fore to Pharaoh, and when he asks for a sign saying :
Show a miracle for you, then thou shalt say unto
Aaron : Take thy rod and cast it before Pharaoh, and
it shall become a serpent.”
Returning to Egypt and doing as directed, the sign
ordered by Jehovah will, we may presume, have a
notable effect on Pharaoh ?
Strange to say, however, it has none. He calls the
magicians of Egypt, his own wise men, and they with
their enchantments do as much as the delegates of
Jehovah ; they do more, in fact, for they every one cast
down their rods, and each rod turns into a serpent!
But the serpent of Jehovah’s men proves itself
superior to the serpents of Pharaoh’s conjurors ?
By swallowing the whole of them !
And details of such jugglery as this are presented
to us in evidence of God’s power and purpose, through
the minds of inspired men, to guide and inform us ?
The writer, no doubt, believed in magic and con
juring, and so makes his God a magician and con
juror. The serpent-feat of Moses and Aaron, how
ever, paralleled by the court magicians, is not striking
enough to induce Pharaoh to let the Israelites go;
and, indeed, how should it ? His heart is hardened
by Jehovah, and he cannot yield; neither is it in
tended that he should. Moses is therefore to address
him again; and, as it is foreseen that he will still
hold out, the envoy is to turn the water of the Nile
into blood by striking it with his magic wand, the
effect of which will be that the river shall stink, the
fish die, and the water become unfit for the people to
drink.
�Exodus : Moses and Pharaoh.
151
So formidable a visitation, unless immediately re
dressed, must have proved universally destructive,
and not to the fishes only in the stream, but to the
whole of the living creatures ou its banks—to man
and beast, oppressors and oppressed alike, and must
needs have forced the Pharaoh instantly to relent ?
We learn, nevertheless, that it does not; neither
do we discover that the water of the country turned into
blood, stinking and destructive to the fishes, has any
ill effect on the people or their cattle, as if fishes
alone of living things must have water! The Pha
raoh persists in his refusal—a course in which he is
encouraged by his magicians, who with their en
chantment do again precisely what Moses and Aaron
are said to have done; for they, too, says the narrative,
turned all the water of the country into blood;—
whence the water came on which they practised we
are not informed.
The inhabitants and animals of a country cannot,
however, live without water ; and the dilemma into
which the writer has fallen by cutting off the supply
from the river being seen by him, he makes the
people dig wells to meet their wants. But could
they have found water by their digging ?
They could not; for the river being the sole source
whence the water of Egypt is derived, if it were
turned into blood the wells which it fed must have
furnished blood also.
Can water be turned by any process, natural or
magical, into blood ?
We throw the magic overboard, and say that God,
by his eternal laws, has declared that it cannot.
Water is a simple binary compound of the two che
mical elements, oxygen and hydrogen; blood a com
plex quaternary compound of oxygen, hydrogen, car
bon, and azote—the elements, moreover, here existing
in a peculiar state of molecular arrangement not seen
in the inorganic realm of nature. But art is incom
�I52
The Pentateuch.
petent to create chemical elements, or to force such
as exist into combinations out of conformity with
natural law. Water is water in virtue of one of the
great all-pervading laws of the inorganic world, and
blood only makes its appearance when the organising
force inherent in nature comes into play and living,
sensient, self-conscious creatures rise into existence.
The turning of the waters of Egypt into blood
must therefore be an impossibility ?
It is no less, in virtue of laws consentient with the
existence and definite properties of matter.
The next move made by Moses and Aaron will
, surely induce Pharaoh, in spite of the hardening of
heart he has received at the hands of Jehovah, to
relent ?
Although the river has been turned into blood, has
become stinking, so that all the fishes have died, and
the people cannot drink of it, he still persists in his
obstinacy. Moses is then commanded by Jehovah to
say to Aaron : Stretch forth thine hand with thy rod
over the streams, the rivers, and the ponds, and cause
frogs to come up over the land of Egypt.
The writer would seem here to be drawing after
what he saw in Palestine, his native country, where
there are the Jordan and numerous smaller streams
and rivulets; in Egypt there is one great river, but
no secondary streams, though, doubtless, there were
then as now innumerable ditches for irrigation and
ponds for supply. The frogs, however, come up in
spite of the circumstances that must have made it as
impossible for them as for the fishes to live; for the
river has been turned into blood, and we have not
had it restored to its natural condition.
They come up and cover the land of Egypt, making
their way into the houses, the beds, the kneading
troughs, and even the ovens !
The feat of the frogs would surely be found to
exceed the powers of the magicians to imitate ?
�Exodus: Moses and Pharaoh.
153
It is said not; they too brought up frogs over the
land-—small thanks to them!—for by so doing they
could only have made matters worse, if worse may
be imagined.
So formidable a nuisance so increased must have
brought Pharaoh to his senses and induced him to
relent ?
For a while it seems to have had this effect; but
only for a while. “Intreat Jehovah,” says he be
seechingly to Moses and Aaron, “ that he may take
away the frogs from me and my people, and I will
let the people go, that they may sacrifice to Jehovah.”
Moses improves the occasion with this show of
relenting on the part of Pharaoh ?
He is not slow to do so, and says: Resolve me
when I shall intreat for thee and for thy people the
removal of the frogs—in the river only shall they
stay. To which Pharaoh meekly and oddly enough
replies : “ To-morrow,” instead of to-day ! “ Be it
according to thy word,” rejoins the envoy, “that
thou mayest know that there is no God like unto
Jehovah our God.”
Moses is made to speak here as if he acknowledged
the existence of other gods besides Jehovah ?
He is made to speak as, doubtless, the writer be
lieved the fact to be: Jehovah, to Moses and the
early Hebrews, was no more than one, albeit the
greatest, among the gods. He is the God of Miracle
also, opposed to the God of Law, and so assuredly
not the true God.
Intreated by Moses, Jehovah causes the frogs to
die out of the houses and fields, and they are gathered
into heaps, so that the land stank. Pharaoh, we may
presume, will now keep his word and suffer the people
to depart ?
The respite he obtains makes him give signs of
yielding; but the wonder-working powers of Jehovah
through his agents not being yet sufficiently shown
M
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The Pentateuch.
forth, he is made by the writer to relapse into his
hardness of heart. The dust of the ground, conse
quently, is now smitten, and is turned into lice
{kinnim, properly gnats), which crawl over man
and beast, and now only is it that the Egyptian
conjurors are found wanting. They cannot imitate
the Hebrew wonder-workers : they did with their
enchantments try to bring forth lice, says the text,
but they could not—very happily, we may be per
mitted to add—and they say to Pharaoh : This is the
finger of God. But Pharaoh’s heart being hardened
by Jehovah, he heeded them not. Why they should
have found it harder to turn dust into lice than
rods into serpents or water into blood, and to call up
swarms of frogs from the ditches at the word of
command, does not appear. And how the despotic
Pharaoh of Egypt should have been so indulgent as to
suffer Moses and Aaron to afflict his people with such
a succession of scourges, instead of throwing them
into prison or shortening them by the head, is surely
as much of a miracle as any of those we have had
detailed.
How are frogs and lice produced under God’s own
natural law ?
Frogs once a year, on the return of spring, from
spawn that has been maturing in the body of the female
parent from the same period of the preceding year;
lice from eggs called nits, which are attached to the
hair and clothes of the lousy, and are hatched at all
seasons of the year; frogs and lice being alike the
product of pre-existing kinds, male and female, and
alike requiring a certain time before they can be
hatched ; frogs, moreover, having to pass some weeks
in the tadpole state previous to appearing in their
proper definite shape.
Do we in the present day ever see any such pro
duction of living creatures, whether of higher or
lower type in the scale of being, as is here said to
have taken place ?
�Exodus: Moses and Pharaoh.
155
We do not; but we are privileged to see what, by
a metaphor, may be spoken of as the finger, and far
more appropriately as the mind, of God, in the har
monious and invariable sequences of nature; and
seeing so much, we are bound to acknowledge neither
interruption nor contravention of the all-pervading
laws—expressions of the Godhead—that rule the
universe in its measureless immensities as in its
individual atoms.
But Pharaoh, when he finds his wise men at their
wits’ end, and referring the production of the lice to
the finger of God, will give in and let his bonds
men go ?
Not yet; though with the plague of flies which
has now to be endured he yields so far as to say to
Moses that he and his people were at liberty to sacri
fice to their God, so as they did it in the land. But
this did not suit the views of Moses, who answers :
Lo, it is not meet to do so; for we shall sacrifice
the abomination of the Egyptians unto Jehovah
our God.
What may be understood by the objection made
by Moses ?
The text does not help us to any interpretation of
its meaning. There is no hint in any preceding
part of the book that the Hebrews were ever inter
fered with by the Egyptians in their religion—we
know nothing, indeed, of the religion of the Israelites
during the long period of their servitude in Egypt—
or that they were required to conform to the religious
system of their masters. Neither is Moses’ objection
taken so much to any sense he may have entertained
of the impropriety of the sacrifice referred to in itself,
as to the danger to the Israelites that might accom
pany its performance, for he says: Lo, shall we
sacrifice the abomination of the Egyptians before
their eyes and will they not stone us ? What the
abomination of the Egyptians may have been we are
�i$6
The Pentateuch.
not informed. Shepherds are said to have been an
abomination to the Egyptians, but not sheep; they
are reputed, indeed, to have objected to mutton as
food, but they sacrificed rams to their god Amun.
Pharaoh again shows signs of relenting. Twill let
you go, says he now, that ye may sacrifice to Jehovah
your God in the wilderness ; only ye shall not go
very far away ; intreat for me, adds the sorely-tried
and singularly submissive sovereign. So Moses
intreats Jehovah, and the plague of flies is abated.
But Jehovah, according to the record, having other
and more terrible wonders in store whereby he should
further “ proclaim his power and make his name
known throughout all the earth,” Pharaoh’s yielding
is only for a day.
_ Among the number of new plagues inflicted in this
view we find enumerated— ?
A murrain, which killed all the cattle of the Egyp
tians, but spared those of the Israelites, not one of
these being lost; an epidemy of blotches and blains
upon man and beast, to bring about which we for the
first time find certain physical means prescribed by
Jehovah : Moses is to take handfuls of ashes from the
furnace and scatter them toward heaven, the effect of
which would be that wherever the dust fell there
should follow boils and blains upon the flesh.
Would casting cart-loads of furnace ashes into the
air cause blotches and blains upon the men and cattle
of a country a thousand miles and more in length ?
It were absurd to suppose that it would; wood
ashes, used as directed, could only have caused in
flammation of the eyes among such as were somewhat
near at hand. To abrade the skin, wood-ashes must be
mixed with quicklime and applied moist to its surface.
What further plagues or calamities do we find
enumerated ?
A grievous hailstorm, such as had not been seen in
Egypt since its foundation, with thunder and light-
�Exodus: Moses and Pharaoh.
157
ning and fire that ran. along the ground and smote
everything that was in the field—man and beast, herb
and tree, flax and barley; only “ in the land of
Goshen, where the children of Israel dwelt, was there
no hail; ” next we have
of locusts that came
up with an east wind—another physical agency—and
ate up all that had been spared by the hail; and then
a thick darkness in all the land for three days, so
thick that people “ saw not one another, even dark
ness that could be felt,—but the children of Israel
had light in their dwellings.”
Jehovah, the God of Moses, as pictured by the
Jewish writer, shows himself utterly ruthless in this ?
No doubt of it; but the writer’s purpose was to
show Jehovah, as patron God of the children of Israel,
superior to the gods of Egypt. His visitations must
obviously have affected the individual Pharaoh much
less than his subjects, whose hearts had not been
hardened for the occasion, like that of the ruler. To
have punished Pharaoh at all, indeed, when he was
only exercising his prescriptive rights, and must be
presumed to have lost all power of self-control—his
heart having been expressly hardened by Jehovah—
was manifestly unjust; and to make Jehovah spread
desolation over the land of Egypt, when he was him
self the author of its ruler’s obstinacy, can only be
characterised as derogatory to the Idea of God that
must be entertained by rational man, and at variance
with the goodness and mercy always associated with
the essential nature of Deity.
Considerations these which seem satisfactorily to
dispose of the Plagues of Egypt as occurrences
founded on fact ?
Effectually. And then murrain and pestilence and
the light of the sun make no distinctions, but by pre
existent eternal ordinances affect all that live alike.
The narrative, interrupted at this point, gives us
an opportunity of asking what we, as reasonable men,
�!58
The Pentateuch.
gifted with understanding and moral consciousness,
assured moreover of the changeless nature of God and
his laws, are to think of the long array of unavailing
miracles thus far detailed with wearisome prolixity,
and of the motive assigned for their exhibition ?
On such grounds we can but think of them as tales
of Impossibilities — Myths, Embodiments in language
of Ideas belonging to a rude and remote antiquity, and
worthy henceforth of notice only as records of erro
neous conceptions of the attributes of God and the
nature of his dealings with mankind and the world of
things. The means brought into requisition prove
inadequate to satisfy Pharaoh of the superiority of the
Hebrew wonder-workers over the magicians of his own
country, or of their God over the God whom he and
his people adore. JDid we think of God using means
to ends at all, which our philosophy forbids—purpose,
or end, mean and act being one in the nature of God,
and not distinct from one another, or sequences in
*
time —it were surely falling short of a worthy con
ception of The Supreme to imagine him making use
of any that were inadequate to the end proposed.
What is to be said of the reiterated allegation that
God so hardened the heart of Pharaoh that he would
not suffer the Israelites to be gone ?
That it is not only derogatory to the name of God,
but in contradiction with his avowed purpose, which
was from the first that the children of Israel should
quit Egypt and settle in the land of Canaan as his
peculiar people, in fulfilment of contracts entered
into with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the last of
them made some four hundred and thirty years before
the time at which Moses is believed to have appeared
on the scene ; for so long, according to the record,
was the interval between the date of Jacob’s arrival
in Egypt and that of the Israelites leaving it.
* See ‘ Dialogue by Way of Catechism,’ Part II. page 35.
�Exodus: Moses and Pharaoh.
159
Bu.t we have no information about the children of
Israel during the four hundred and thirty years of
their reputed sojourn in Egypt?
We have not a word of or concerning them through
the whole of this long time.
How then believe that we should have such par
ticular intelligence about Adam and Eve, Cain and
Abel, Noah and the flood, Lot and his daughters,
Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, Joseph and his brethren,
&c. &c., comprising a period of a thousand years and
more, according to the computations of our Bible
chronologists ?
How, indeed, unless we assume that it reaches us
through the imaginations of writers who lived during
and after the era of the kings, the Babylonian Cap
tivity, and still later periods in the history of Judah
and Israel.
Pitiless as he has hitherto appeared, Jehovah will
now interpose, soften the heart of Pharaoh, and so
spare the unoffending Egyptian people from further
disasters ?
Not yet. Mercy, with the object the writer has in
view, must still be made foreign to the nature of his
God. Pharaoh does indeed now call Moses, and says :
Go ye; serve Jehovah ; only let your flocks and herds
be stayed. But Moses answers that they must have
the means of sacrificing to Jehovah their God. “ Our
cattle,” continues he, in the haughtiest tone, “ shall
go with us; there shall not a hoof be left behind.”
Jehovah, however, continuing to harden Pharaoh’s
heart, he will not suffer them to go. “ Get thee from
me,” says the now indignant and sorely-tried so
vereign ; “ take heed to thyself; see my face no more ;
for in the day thou seest my face thou shalt die.”
Moses, we may presume, will be more cautious in his
communications with such a threat hanging over him ?
So we might have expected; but he is more arro
gant and outspoken than ever, for he replies : “ Thou
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The Pentateuch.
hast spoken well—I will see thy face no more.” Yet
he does ; for, as the writer now makes Jehovah say :
“Yet will I bring one plague more upon Egypt;
afterwards he will let you go,” Moses has to return
to the presence with the following message : “ Thus
saith Jehovah : About midnight will I go out into the
midst of Egypt, and all the first-born in the land of
Egypt shall die, from the first-born of Pharaoh that
sitteth on the throne even unto the first-born of the
maid-servant that is behind the mill, and all the first
born of beasts. And there shall be a great cry
throughout all the land of Egypt, such as there was
none like it nor shall be like it any more. But against
any of the children of Israel there shall not a dog
move his tongue.”
Threatened with such calamities as the death of
his own first-born son, and the death of the first-born
of man and beast throughout his dominions, taught,
moreover, by the experience of preceding plagues,
Pharaoh will now assuredly take security against the
threatened visitation by laying hands on Moses,
whom he has already doomed to die did he venture
again to come before him ?
So might we reasonably have expected; but this
would not have tallied with the end the writer has
in view. Pharaoh is therefore made to forget his
purpose of putting Moses to death, and very incon
siderately, as it seems, to treat the announcement just
made as an idle threat. The envoy, consequently, is
left at large, and even goes out from the Pharaoh’s
presence “ in a great anger.” And so it comes to
pass, as had been predicted, that at midnight Jehovah
smote all the first-born both of man and beast in the
land of Egypt.
The wholesale slaughter of the Egyptians and their
cattle accomplished—by what means we are not in
formed, unless we take the text literally as it stands,
and assume Jehovah himself to have been the agent—
�Exodus : Egyptians and Israelites.
161
we learn that against the children of Israel not even
a dog was to move his tongue. The ground for the
distinction is plain enough: the Israelites were the
cherished, the Egyptians the hated, of Jehovah; but
there is a particular reason given for the heavy visi
tation which had now befallen the Egyptians ?
The reason assigned is this: “ That it might be
known how Jehovah had put a difference between
the Egyptians and Israel.”
What difference had God —and here we add, not
the Jewish Jehovah—really put between the Egyp
tian people and the children of Israel ?
God had made the Egyptians, as the superior race,
the masters; and the Israelites, as the inferior race, the
slaves. He had given the Egyptians the valley of the
Nile for an inheritance, and the ingenuity and industry
needful to turn it into “ the garden of the Lord,”
which it was; he had further made them astronomers,
architects,, engineers, sculptors, painters, inventors of
the loom and of paper; contrivers of more than one
system of writing, and familiar, besides, with many
of the most useful and elegant arts of settled and
civilised life—workers in gold and silver and precious
stones, &c. Morally and religiously, moreover, he
had enabled them to approximate to the idea of the
Oneness of Deity though seen under various aspects
—here propitious, there adverse—and led them to
the great conception of Duty or Responsibility for
their doings in the present life to be answered for in
a life to come.
And the Hebrews or Israelites ?
God had left in the lower grades of neat-herds,
shepherds, labourers in the fields; settlers by suffer
ance if not by compulsion in an outlying district of
their masters’ territory, ignorant of astronomy,
architecture, mechanics, sculpture, and of every one
of the arts that “put a difference” between the
nomad barbarian or savage and the policied citizen of
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The Pentateuch.
the settled State : he had conferred on. them no fine
sense of the distinction between the mine and the
thine ; and to conclude, had left them without the
conception of a judgment and immortality beyond
the present state of existence.
The first-born of man and beast in the land of
Egypt, then, are smitten, and Jehovah has now,
according to the veracious writer, had sufficient
opportunity of displaying his power over the Gods of
Egypt and the Egyptians themselves. The Israelites
may therefore at length be suffered to depart ?
Brought to his senses at last, — or shall we say
taught by the terrible calamities that had befallen his
people, yielding to the pressure of circumstances and
getting the better of the hardness of heart imposed
on him by Jehovah, Pharaoh is now as urgent with
the Israelites to be gone as he had hitherto been reso
lute to keep them from going. Rising up in the
night and summoning Moses, he says: “ Get you
forth from among my people both you and the chil
dren of Israel, and go and serve Jehovah, as ye have
said ; take also your flocks and your herds and be
gone.” The Egyptians too were urgent upon the
people that they might send them out of the land in
haste, for they said: “We be all dead men.”
The Israelites on their part, though the permission
to depart must have come on them unexpectedly, are
not slow to take Pharaoh at his word or remiss in
yielding to the urgency of their masters ?
They pack up their kneading troughs at once in
their clothes with the dough that is in them; but
they do not neglect the order they had received to
borrow of their neighbours jewels of silver and jewels
of gold and raiment, with which and their own be
longings they set off immediately on their journey
towards the promised land.
Can we imagine the Egyptians ready to lend their
jewels of silver and gold and their garments to
�Exodus : The Israelites quit Egypt.
163
people—their slaves—whom they were driving out of
their country with as little prospect as wish ever to
see them again ?
It certainly is not easy under the circumstances to
imagine any such favourable disposition on the part
of the Egyptians.
When men borrow, it is still with the understand
ing that they are to make return, as when they lend
that they are to have return made ?
There appears to have been no such understanding
in the present instance, on one side at all events.
Jehovah, it is even said, “ gave the people favour in
the sight of the Egyptians, so that they lent them all
they required, and they spoiled the Egyptians.”
But this makes Jehovah an aider and abettor in
the theft ?
No doubt of it. But the Jewish writer believed it
not only lawful but meritorious to spoil the enemies
of his people, and he does not scruple to make his
God of the same mind as himself. But the tale is
libellous and false; for God, the universal father,
emphatically forbids theft through the sense of the
mine and the thine implanted in the mind of man—
not to allude to the express commandment which a
later and more conscientious writer in the Hebrew
Bible sees fit to put into the mouth of his God when
he makes him say : Thou shalt not steal!
The Israelites fly or are driven out of Egypt at
last ?
The first-born of the land both of man and beast
being dead, there was no longer any ground for delay.
What extraordinary and utterly incomprehensible
means were used to accomplish the discriminating
slaughter of the first-born of the people and their
cattle in the course of a single night we are not in
this place informed; and the reason given for the sin
gular despite in which Jehovah is presented to us as
having held the Egyptians—the hard service in brick
�164
The Pentateuch.
and mortar imposed on the Israelites, to wit—
does not accord with the flourishing state in which
they meet us at the moment of the Exodus, millions
as they must have been in numbers, if they could
bring six hundred thousand able-bodied men into the
field with arms in their hands, possessed besides of
flocks and herds innumerable, and enjoying such
credit with the native people that they lent them
freely of all they had.
The slaughter of the first-born of Egypt must
therefore be another of the mythical tales contrived
by the writer to exalt and glorify in his own mis
taken way the tutelary God of his people, Jehovah ?
Let the candid reader, with any conception which
he as living in this nineteenth century of the Chris
tian era can form of the nature of God, answer the
question for himself by yea or by nay.
The narrative provokingly enough and on the very
eve of the Exodus is interrupted to speak of a change
to be made in beginning the year ; and, in immediate
connection with this change, of the institution of
the Passover and the dedication to Jehovah of the
first-born of man and beast among the children of
Israel?
Jehovah, says the record, now speaks to Moses and
Aaron in the land of Egypt, saying: <l This month
shall be to you the first month of the year,” without
naming the month. But we by-and-by discover that
it is Nisan, called Abib of old, that is meant; this
being the month in which the Exodus is believed to
have taken place, as it is known to be the one in
which the vernal equinox occurred in ancient times.
The notification, however, is prefatory and subordi
nate to the order for the celebration of the Passover,
which the writers of the Hebrew scriptures show
particular anxiety to connect with the escape from
Egypt,—which they would present in fact as a feast
commemorative of this event in the legendary annals
�Exodus : The Passover.
165
of their people, the whole procedure as set forth being
made to harmonise with this intention.
The rites connected with the celebration of the
Passover were peculiar and solemn ?
On the tenth day of the first month the head of each
house, or where the families were small, the heads of
two or more houses, were to take a lamb or kid, a
male of the first year, without spot or blemish, and
sever it from the flock until the evening of the four
teenth day, when it was to be killed. With a bunch
of hyssop dipped in the blood the lintels and door
posts of the houses were to be struck, and no one was
to leave his home until the morning. The carcase was
to be eaten in the night with unleavened bread and
bitter herbs, and it is particularly ordered that the
flesh shall not be eaten raw, nor sodden with water,
but roast with fire. The meal is farther to be de
spatched in haste, the people having their loins girded,
their shoes on their feet, and their staves in their
hands.
This is plainly enough an account by a relatively
modern writer of the way in which he imagines the
feast of the Passover might have been kept by his
forefathers on the eve of their flight from Egypt, and
so of the way in which it was ever after to be observed
in memory of that event. “ And it shall come to
pass,” says the record, “ when your children say unto
you : what mean ye by this service, that ye shall say :
It is the sacrifice of Jehovah’s passover, who passed
over the houses of the children of Israel in Egypt,
when he smote the Egyptians and delivered our
houses.”
The Passover, however, could not have been cele
brated in any such way by the Israelites on the eve
of their flight ?
There was no possibility of its having been so cele
brated, for they fled in such haste that they had no
time to leaven the dough that was in their kneading
�166
The Pentateuch.
troughs, much less to bake it. A family feast, more
over, is turned by the writer into a Sacrifice to Jehovah,
in every indispensable element of which it is wanting.
The reason for striking the lintels and door-posts
of the Israelites’ houses with the blood is not very
satisfactory ?
Being done to guide Jehovah in his visitation to
slay the first-born of Egypt, it meets us as a poor
contrivance of the writer : “ When I see the blood,”
says he in the name of his God, “ I will pass over you,
and the plague shall not be upon you to destroy you
when I smite the land of Egypt.” Jehovah must,
therefore, as he imagined, have required an outward
and visible sign to guide him in his acts of mercy as
of vengeance.
The colour of the blood may have had something
to do with the act enjoined ?
Red was the proper colour of the Sun-God, among
the ancients generally; and with the Egyptians came
into special use in the spring of the year for the
decoration of their dwellings, as well as the statues
of their Gods. The Hebrew writer would therefore
seem, after a play upon the word Pass or Passover
(Pesah in Hebrew, with which our word Transit
corresponds exactly), to be substituting red blood, for
the red paint of the Egyptians, Phoenicians, and other
cognate peoples, and using, as a safeguard for the
children of Israel, a sign which the Egyptians, from
time immemorial, had been wont to employ with a
view to ornament and propitiate their gods.
In immediate connection with this unsatisfactory
account of the institution of the Passover, we have
the dedication to Jehovah of the first-born among
the children of Israel themselves. He had slain the
first-born of the Egyptians, and must, as it appears,
have the first-born of the Israelites also ?
“ Sanctify to me all the first-born; whatsoever
openeth the womb among the children of Israel, both
�Exodus : Dedication of the First-born.
167
of man and beast, it is mine,” are the terrible words
in which Jehovah is made to announce his will.
It seems singular that the Jewish writers of the
Bible should manifest the same desire to connect the
sacrifice of their first-born with the most awful of the
incidents said to have accompanied the flight from
Egypt, as they show to associate the Passover with
this event ?
“ It shall be,” says the text, “ when thy son asketh
thee in time to come, saying : What is this F that thou
shalt say to him : By strength of hand Jehovah
brought us out from Egypt, from the house of
bondage; and it came to pass when Pharaoh would
hardly let us go that Jehovah slew all the first-born
in the land of Egypt, both the first-born of man and
the first-born of beast; therefore I sacrifice to Jehovah
all thatopeneth the matrix, being males ”—the words
being males must have been added, the requisition in
several other places being general.
Such a reason for such a sacrifice is surely neither
logical nor satisfactory. Because Jehovah slew all
the first-born of Egypt, therefore were the Israelites to
sacrifice all that opened the womb both of man and
beast among themselves ! They were to pay a much
heavier tax, in fact, than that exacted of the
Egyptians ; for the sacrifice of their children by the
Israelites was to be in perpetuity, whilst that of their
old oppressors had been required but once. How
should such an event as the escape from slavery,
only to be thought of as subject of rejoicing, be fitly
associated with the tears and heart-wringings of
parents that must needs accompany the immolation
of the first-born of their children ?
The dedication to Jehovah of the first-born of man
and beast can scarcely therefore have any connection
with the mythical slaughter of the first-born of Egypt,
the legendary flight from the country, or the feast of
the Passover ?
�i68
The Pentateuch.
There can be little question that it has none. The
consecration or making Clierem implying the neces
sary sacrifice to their God of all that opened the
womb is not so associated in other parts of the
Hebrew Scriptures. “ Sanctify to me all the first
born ; whatsoever openeth the womb among the
children of Israel, both of man and beast, it is mine,”
says the text already quoted (Exod. xiii. 2). “ The
first-born of thy sons shalt thou give to me,” says
another (Tb. xxii. 29). “All that openeth the
matrix is mine,” yet another (lb. xxxiv. 19). In
every instance, therefore, without reference to Egypt,
the Exodus, or any other event. The requirement is
absolute, unconnected with any historical or quasihistorical incident. The sacrifice of the first-born of
man and beast was in truth a custom sanctioned by
general usage among the whole of the Semitic tribes
or peoples and their colonies inhabiting Western Asia
and the shores of the Mediterranean Sea.
But the first-born of man are ordered to be re
deemed ?
Not as the ordinance stands where it is first met
and has not been tampered with, and as the custom
of child-sacrifice is repeatedly referred to in other
places, more especially by the prophetical writers.
The redemption clauses are all interpolations by later
hands; they had no place in the text even so late as
the time of Ezekiel; and then there is the positive
ordinance concerning things Cherem or devoted to
Jehovah, which puts redemption out of the question.
“None devoted, which shall be devoted of men shall
be redeemed, but shall surely be put to death ”
(Levit. xxvii. 29).
May not the Passover also have been a festival
having no connection with the Exodus from Egypt ?
There can be as little doubt of this as of the sacri
fice of the first-born of Israel having no reference to
the slaughter of the first-born of Egypt. The festival
�Exodus: The Passover.
169
galled Pesach by the Jews is a much older institu
tion than the notice we have of it in the Book of
Exodus. Its Hebrew name is exactly rendered as
said, by the English word Transit; and the transit
celebrated was no passage of Jehovah over the
Egyptians to destroy, or over the Israelites to spare,
but of the Sun over the Equator at the epoch of the
vernal equinox—a season of rejoicing that may be
said to have been universal among all the policied
peoples of antiquity, and that is still observed with
fresh accessories and under a new name in the world
of to-day; for the Easter of the present age is in
reality no other than the Pascha, Neomenia, and
Hilaria of the old world—a tribute Deo Soli Invicto.
Mounting from the inferior or wintry signs, trium
phant as it were over darkness and death, the Sun
then appears to bring back light and life to the
world; and the God he symbolized seems to have
been held entitled in return to a portion at least of
the good things so obviously and immediately de
pendent on his presence. Hence the offerings in the
spring of the year of the first fruits of the fields, the
sacrifice of the firstlings of the flocks and herds, and
at length, and as the influence of the offering on the
God was believed to rise in the ratio of its worth to
the giver, of the first-born of his sons by man—victim
of all others the most precious to him, and so thought
to be the most potent of all to propitiate the God.
The Passover may, therefore, have been truly a
solar festival, and by no means peculiar to the Israel
ites ?
The period of the year at which it was celebrated
suffices of itself to proclaim it a feast in honour of the
Sun, and the universality of its celebration over the
whole of the ancient world shows that the Israelites
only followed suit in its observance. But the great
Spring festival of the year has been obscured by the
miraculous and mythical wrappings in which it has
N
�V]O
The Pentateuch.
been presented by the Jewish post-exilic Jehovistic
writers, seeking to hide its meaning by turning this
among other Pagan observances of their age and
country into institutions appointed by their God
Jehovah through the agency of his servant Moses.
The Jewish writers, however, are not even agreed
as to the grounds they assign for the observance of
the Passover ?
In one place it is to be kept as a memorial feast
because the Israelites were spared the visit of the
destroying angel when the first-born of Egypt were
slain ; in another it is to be observed in memory of
their delivery from Egyptian bondage. But it was in
the spring time of the year that the barley harvest of
the East occurred ; and with the bringing of the first
sheaf as an offering to the Sun-God at the season of
his awakening from his death-like wintry sleep, and
the season of rejoicing’ then universally observed, was
by and by associated the legendary escape in exagge
rated numbers of the Israelites from Egypt and the
veritable sacrifice of the first-born of their sons.
The Jewish Passover is often said to have been
derived from the Egyptians ?
That the Israelites had various festivals in common
with the Egyptians and other ancient peoples is cer
tain. That they borrowed so much from Egypt as it
is often said they did is very questionable. Such a
conclusion would seem rather to be grounded on
assuming the large amount of influence which a people
so far advanced in civilisation as the Egyptians must
have had on the rude descendants of Jacob, than on
any strong resemblance between the social, political,
and religious ideas and doings of the Egyptians and
Israelites. To unprejudiced minds the Israelites, when
they meet us on the eve of the Exodus, and for ages
afterwards, appear as having profited so little by their
contact with the Egyptians that additional doubt is
thrown over the whole story of their relationship with
�Exodus: The Flight from Egypt,
171
the land of the Nile. For some ages after the reputed
epoch of the Exodus we never see the Israelites save
as a horde in quest of a settled home, at war with all
around them, and but little, if at all, removed from
utter barbarism.
Having spoiled the Egyptians to the utmost of the
borrowing and lending powers of the two parties, the
Israelites set off, a mixed multitude with flocks and
herds, “ even very much cattle.” We are not without
data from which their aggregate number may be
computed F
We have such in the “ Six hundred thousand on
foot that were men ” (Ex. xii., 87) ; “ six hundred
and three thousand five hundred and fifty from twenty
years old and upwards, all able to go forth to war in
Israel.” (Numb, i., 46.)
Such a number of able-bodied men, harnessed or
armed, as said, implies a gross population approach
ing three millions of souls ?
Something like that of the great city of London or
the whole of Scotland a few years ago !
And this vast multitude quit their homes in a single
night and betake themselves to the desert with no
other preparation iii the shape of supplies than the
dough that is in their kneading troughs ?
“ They were thrust out of Egypt, neither had they
prepared for themselves any victual.” (Ex. xii., 39.)
Without a word of the first requisite for even a
single day’s journey in the burning desert—water ?
There is nothing said about water.
What of the means of transport for the sick and
infirm, who must have numbered ten thousand at
least; for the three hundred women busy in bringing
children into the world, and something like the same
number of men and women going out of it—for so
many are ever thus engaged in a population approach
ing three millions in number during each day of the
year ?
�172
The Pentateuch.
There is nothing said of the sick and infirm, of the
parturient and the dying.
Then must the story in its proportions be a fable
involving contradictions innumerable and impossi
bilities in the nature of things. The whole population
of the valley of the Nile, from Nubia to the Mediter
ranean, did not probably at any time in its most
palmy days of old amount to so many as the Israelites
are said to have been when they fled, were driven out,
or were brought out from Egypt with a high hand, so
various are the words used in the accounts we have
of the way in which the Exodus was effected. Six
hundred thousand and odd able-bodied men with
arms in their hands needed to have asked no leave of
the Pharaoh of Egypt either to go or to stay. Instead
of fleeing to the desert on the faith of promised settle
ments in a land, even though reported to be flowing
with milk and honey, they would have been apt to
think that the fertile land of Egypt, watered by the
mysterious river which rose and fell no man knew
how, was possession preferable and enough. Instead
of consenting to the expulsion, they are allowed in more
than one place to have suffered, from the soil where
they had lived so long and grown to such a multitude,
they would most assuredly have either expelled or
enslaved where they had not slain their oppressors.
Instead of robbing them of their jewels of silver and
jewels of gold and fine raiment, anl stealing away like
thieves in the night, they would have installed them
selves in their masters’ places and taught them in
turn what it was to make mud bricks without
straw !
But this would have interfered with Jehovah’s pro
vidential arrangements for the settlement of his chosen
people in the land of Canaan ?
The providence of God is over all his works in
differently and alike. God was then as now the Father
of the Egyptian as of the Jew; more partial as parent
�Exodus: The Flight from Egypt.
173
to the Egyptian than to the Jew, indeed, were his love
to be truly tested by the Hebrew standard—the mea
sure of temporal good enjoyed.
The Jews did not think, and have not yet learned
to think, that God is verily the impartial parent of
mankind ?
No; they were, and still are, presumptuous enough
to fancy themselves the objects of their Jehovah’s
peculiar care; and the world may be said, in spite of
its persistently cruel treatment of their race, to have
been complacent enough to take them at their word.
Lately, however, there has been something like an
awakening out of this baseless dream; a suspicion has
at length got abroad in the world of the possibility of
its having been mistaken. With the recent discovery
of the Vedas and Zendavesta, the Buddhistic scrip
tures, and the Chinese moral writings, we have come to
know that other more ancient, more moral and better
policied peoples than the Israelites had also their sacred
books, though none of them presume, as do those of
this people, to make God the mouthpiece of some few
good and reasonable, yet of many bad, barbarous,
childish, objectionable, and indifferent ordinances, and
the immediate agent in innumerable cruel and un
justifiable acts.
The Israelites, however, escape or are driven out of
Egypt at last, and in such numbers, it is said, as plainly
appears impossible. Have we any clue to the way in
which the exaggerated multitude of the fugitives may
have been arrived at ?
.Curiously enough we have. In one of the latest
Midraschim—Hebrew Commentaries or Expositions of
the Law we possess (Jalkut Thora, 386), there is a
passage to this effect: “ God said to Moses : Number
the Israelites. Then said Moses: They are as the
sands of the sea ; how can I number them ? God
said : Not in the way thou thinkest of; but wouldst
thou reckon them, take the first letters of their tribes
�!74
The Pentateuch.
and thou hast their number.”* And sure enough, if
the numerical values of the initial letters of the names
of the twelve tribes be added together, the sum
that comes out is five hundred and ninety-seven
thousand ; to which if the three thousand slain on
occasion of the worship of the golden calf which
Aaron made be joined, the exact number of the men
in arms, as first given, six hundred thousand, is
obtained.
This, however, is not the only number of ablebodied men that is mentioned ?
Elsewhere (Ex. xxxviii., 26, and Numb, i., 46) it is
set down at “ six hundred and three thousand five
hundred and fifty men.”
There may perhaps be some recondite and not very
obvious way in which this number too may have been
arrived at ?
It tallies exactly with the number of bekahs or
half shekels said to have been produced by the
capitation tax imposed for erecting and furnishing the
Tabernacle. The whole amount collected is stated to
have been 100talents 1,775 shekels, = 301,775 shekels,
which x by two gives 603,550 shekels, the precise
number of the able-bodied men of the second Census.f
Once on their way, whither do the Israelites go ?
If it were towards the promised land they certainly
took a very roundabout road to reach it. Elohim,
it is said, led them not by the way through the land
of the Philistines, although that was near ; for Elohim
said : “ Lest peradventure the people repent when they
see war and they return to Egypt.” Elohim there
fore led them through the way of the Wilderness of
the Red Sea, from Rameses, whence they set out, to
Succoth and Etham in the edge of the Wilderness;
* Comp. ‘ Popper Der biblische Berichtuber die Stiftshiitte ;
ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Composition und Diaskeuse des
Pentateuch.’ S. 196. 8vo. Leipz., 1862.
f ‘ Popper.’ Op. cit. P. 196.
�Exodus : The Flight from Egypt.
17 5
Jehovah (it is no longer Elohim) going before them
as a pillar of cloud by day, as a pillar of fire by night
to guide and light them on their way. But Moses
must have thought that a native of the country would
be a good addition as a guide through the trackless
waste ; he would not trust entirely to Jehovah’s pillar
of cloud and of fire—for he says to his brother-in-law,
Hobab the Midianite : “ Come thou with us ; thou
mayest be to us instead of eyes ; and it shall come to
pass, if thou wilt go with us, that what goodness
Jehovah shall do unto us the same shall we do unto
thee.” (Numb, x., 29-32.)
Jehovah, we might have imagined, as miracles were
so much in course, would have steeled the hearts of
the Israelites and made the hearts of all opposed to
them like wax, as he is said to have done on other
and later occasions. Why he did not see fit so to do
at this time, when it would have spared so much toil
and suffering, we are not informed. But where are
the places mentioned—Barneses, Succoth, and Etham ?
Rameses, a town and district on the Nile; Succoth,
a station (now unknown), presumably northward
from Rameses, in the direction of Palestine ; Etham,
a place east from Rameses, between thirty and forty
miles away, and not far from the northern extremity
of the western head of the Red Sea. Instead of
advancing from this, however, and nearing their
final destination, the Israelites are strangely enough
now ordered to turn and encamp before Pihahiroth,
between Migdol and the sea, over against Baalzephon on the opposite coast.
What extraordinary reason is given for this diver
gent course, and, in the event of any pursuit by the
Egyptians, ill-chosen position in a strategical point
of view ?
It was, according to the text, that Jehovah might
get him honour on Pharaoh and let the Egyptians
know that he was the Lord. “ For Pharaoh will say
�iy6
The Pentateuch.
of the children of Israel: They are entangled in the
land—the wilderness hath shut them in; and I will
harden the heart of Pharaoh that he shall follow after
them, and I will be honoured upon Pharaoh and
upon all his host.”
Pharaoh pursues the fugitives, to bring them back
we must presume, though he and his had lately been
so eager to be rid of them. They are sore afraid when
they see his host behind them, and turn upon Moses
and reproach him for having led them out of their bon
dage. “ Were there no graves in Egypt, say they,that
thou hast taken us away to die in the Wilderness?
Better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in
the Wilderness.”
But Moses encourages the faint-hearted crew ?
He bids them not to fear ; for Jehovah shall fight
for them. He has but to lift up his rod and stretch
out his hand towards the neighbouring sea to have
its waters divide and part asunder, so that the people
shall go through on dry ground. “ And I will harden
the hearts of the Egyptians,” the narrative proceeds,
Jehovah himself being now brought in as speaker,
“ and they shall follow after; and I will get me
honour upon Pharaoh and his host and his chariots
and his horsemen; and the Egyptians shall know
that I am the Lord.”
The pillar of cloud which had hitherto headed the
column of fugitives is made to interpose between
them and their pursuers at this point ?
It moves most accommodatingly from the front to
the rear, coming between the camp of the Israelites
and that of the Egyptians, and as there was now an
opportunity for another miracle, or violation of a
physical law, we are told that, “ Whilst it was a
cloud of light to the fugitives, it was a cloud of dark
ness to the pursuers, so that the one came not near
the other all night.”
And Moses— ?
�Exodus: The Flight from Egypt.
177
Stretches out his hand over the sea, and it is driven
back by a strong east wind which blew all night, so
that the children of Israel advanced on dry land,
“ the waters being as a wall unto them on their right
hand and on their left.”
A wind of the sort, however, would not have piled
the waters of the Red Sea to the right and left,
but have swept them clean away ?
It would had it blown hard enough; so that the
writer had better have left all to the magic rod, and
not had recourse to any natural agency that would
have failed of the effect described.
The Egyptians pursue ?
As arranged by the narrator—“ Even all Pharaoh’s
horses, his chariots, and his horsemen into the midst
of the sea.”
Jehovah now interferes actively ?
“ Looking out through the pillar of cloud and fire
in the morning watch, he troubles their host; and
takes off their chariot wheels, so that they drave
heavily ! ” And now had the moment for the dis
comfiture and destruction of the enemy arrived:
“ Stretch out thine hand over the sea,” says the re
vengeful man speaking in the name of his God, “ that
the waters may come again upon the Egyptians 1 ”
“ And the sea,” it is said, “ returned in his strength
and covered the chariots and the horsemen and all
the host of Pharaoh: there remained not one of
them.”
The great work of immediate deliverance and de
struction thus accomplished— ?
Moses and the children of Israel sing a grand song
of triumph to Jehovah; and Miriam the Prophetess,
the sister of Aaron, and all the women, with tim
brels in their hands and with dances, answer them in
chorus : “ Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed
gloriously; the horse and his rider hath he thrown
into the sea.”
�178
The Pentateuch.
Though we miss any word of thanksgiving for
their deliverance by the Israelites in this song of
triumph, we meet with phrases that point conclu
sively to the late period of its composition ; for we
discover that the people have been already “ guided
in the strength of the Lord to his holy habitation; ”
the meaning of which is that they are dwelling in
the city of Jerusalem conquered by King David from
the Jebusites, and having the Temple on Mount
Moriah built by King Solomon as the habitation of
their God. And we see farther that the peoples
of Palestine, the Dukes of Edom, the mighty princes
of Moab, and the natives of Canaan, have all already
had cause “ for trembling and amazement,” according
to the words of the poem.
What in brief may be said of the account we have
of the Exodus from Egypt ?
That the story in so far as the accessories are
concerned—the serpent charming, the river turned
into blood, the frogs, the gnats or lice, the flies and
the locusts—must be the work of a writer who had
some acquaintance with Egypt and its natural his
tory : the river in the beginning of the inundation
coming down of a red colour; frogs abounding in a
land so thoroughly irrigated as Egypt; gnats and
flies swarming at particular seasons of the year, and
locusts invading occasionally and devouring all before
them. The thunder and lightning and hail, though
not impossible, must still have been extremely rare
in Egypt. The receding of the Red Sea from its
northern shores, moreover, by the action of the tides,
was known to the writer. At complete ebb the sea
became fordable (or was so before the cutting of
the Great Canal) for a short time, twice in the
twenty-four hours, at the new and full of the moon.
The writer used facts in the natural history of Egypt
in his narrative ; but possessed of a love of the mar
vellous and a fine spirit of exaggeration, he has turned
�Exodus : The Flight from Egypt.
179
the natural into the supernatural, and, it may be, the
actual into the impossible, for the purpose of display
ing the power of his God Jehovah, not only over the
Gods of the Egyptians, but over the domain of the
true God—the world and the laws that inhere in it,
and all to favour the escape of a party of thankless
slaves from their fetters !
Is it either reasonable or reverent to think of God
“ getting him honour” by the destruction of the
beings who can only have come into existence through
conformity with his natural laws ?
It is both against reason and reverential feeling to
entertain such thoughts of God.
Or to hold that the men were inspired by God who
formed such ideas of his nature and attributes, as the
words they presume to ascribe to him, and the acts
they make him do, proclaim them to have enter
tained ?
It is not merely unreasonable, but verily impious to
believe that they were.
Or that they could have been inspired by the holy
spirit of truth associate with knowledge, who make
God say at one time that he brought the Israelites
out of Egypt with a high hand, and at another, that
they were driven out of the land after having been
ordered by their Deity to rob the natives of their
jewels of silver and jewels of gold and fine raiment ?
Inspiration from God can only be fitly spoken of
as coming through the mind of man, and in harmony
with the right and the reasonable in his nature,
never with the irrational in thought and the repre
hensible in deed.
Or that between the dusk and the dawn, a popula
tion approaching three millions in number, with
flocks and herds innumerable, could have crossed an
arm of the sea, were it but a mile in breadth, laid dry
by the receding tide for half-an-hour or less ?
The thing is physically, andso absolutely, impossible.
�180
The Pentateuch.
Pharaoh and his host effectually disposed of, the
Israelites we must presume will now proceed on their
way towards the land reported as flowing with milk
and honey ?
Most singular to say, however, they do not; thev
even turn clean away from it, advance along the
eastern shore of the Red Sea towards the southern
extremity of the Sinaitic peninsula and come, it is
said, into the wilderness of Shur.
Where is Shur ?
Not where the Israelites could have been at this
time, if it was on the way to Shur that Hagar was
found by the Angel of Jehovah when she had been so
ruthlessly driven from his tent by Abraham, then
encamped in the land of Canaan. The desert of
Shur is on the east side of the Dead Sea towards its
northern extremity.
The first stage of the fugitive Israelites after
leaving Rameses is farther said to have been Succoth.
Succoth, we should consequently conclude, must be
within an easy march of Rameses ?
Yet the only Succoth of which we read elsewhere
in the Old Testament is the one to which Jacob came
on his way from Mahanaim after his interview
with his brother Esau, Lord of Seir, in Moab, some
hundreds of miles away from Rameses in Egypt and
the Red Sea. It is, therefore, impossible that the
children of Israel could have reached the Succoth and
Shur mentioned in the histories of Abraham and
Jacob; and as neither desert nor camping place is
known on the borders of Egypt by these names, the
only conclusion possible is, that the redactor of the
part of the Pentateuch which now engages us must
have had two documents before him, severally de
tailing incidents pertaining to different periods in the
earlier nomadic wanderings of the Hebrews in search
of better feeding grounds or more settled homes.
The confusion in the account of the Exodus as we
�Exodus: The Flight from Egypt.
181
have it, and the impossibility of following the Israel
ites in their course by the names of the stations or
camping places given, has even led to the suggestion
that the Misr, translated Egypt, from which they are
described as having escaped was not the Misr of the
Nile, but an outlying district of Phoenicia called
Goshen (see Josh, x., 41 and xi., 16), in which they
had been slaves ; and farther, that the sea they are
said to have crossed dry-shod was not the Red Sea at
all, but an inland lake characterised in the original as
the reedy, rushy, or sedgy sea (Schilf Meere, De Wette),
a title totally inapplicable to the briny Arabian Gulf
on whose shores reed or rush never grew.
*
The Israelites, however, in the account we possess,
have made great speed in reaching the east coast of
the Red Sea after quitting Rameses in Egypt ?
They seem to have spent but a few days—three
days ?—if we may judge by the narrative, in getting
thus far.
What is the distance from Rameses to Suez on the
western head of the Red Sea ?
About thirty-five English miles.
How long would it take a column of men, women,
and children, approaching three millions in number,
burthened with all their belongings in the shape of
furniture, baggage, tents for shelter, &c. &c., to say
nothing of sick and infirm, hampered besides by
numerous flocks and herds, to march in the most
perfect order—impossibility under the circumstances
indicated—from the borders of Egypt to the coast of
the Red-Sea?
A satisfactory answer will be found in the Bishop
of Natal s exhaustive work, ‘ The Pentateuch and
Book of Joshua.’ Very many days, at all events—■
if not even weeks, or, by possibility, months!
* Vide ‘ Badenhausen, Die Bibel wider die Glaube.’ 8vo.
Hamb., 1865. Also ‘ Goethe : Zum West-Ostlichen Divan •
Israel in der Wiiste,’ Bd. vi., S. 158 Stuttg. and Tubing, 1828 ’
�182
The Pentateuch.
Yet the Exodus is said to have been effected in the
course of a single night ?
Between midnight and the next morning, as we
read the account; Etham, on the coast of the Red
Sea, being reached by the following day at farthest;
how much longer it was before Pi-hahiroth, between
Migdol and the sea, was attained we do not learn.
Surely this was impossible ?
On natural grounds certainly. But the process of
evacuation is to be seen as it presented itself to, or
rather as it was elicited from, the writer’s imagina
tion—viz., as miraculous ; which, being interpreted,
means against nature, therefore against God, and so
impossible. For, with our faith in the changeless
laws of nature, expressions, as we perforce apprehend
them, of the power and attributes of God, we acknow
ledge no reported interferences with the necessities
they impose as other than fables devised by ignorance
in view of particular ends—the end in the case before
us being to show forth the superiority of the Jewish
God Jehovah over the Gods of Pharaoh and the
Egyptians, and the peculiar favour in which he held
the children of Israel.
What befals the fugitives next ?
They come to Marah, where the water is found so
bitter that it cannot be drunk, and the people murmur
against their leader.
But the bitterness of the water is said to have
been removed or remedied ?
Jehovah is said to have showed Moses a tree,
which, being cast into the water, made it sweet.
Does the knowledge we now possess of the chemical
nature of the salts which cause brackishness in water,
and of the principles which give plants their special
properties, warrant us in believing that any tree
grows, or did ever grow, capable of neutralising or
eliminating the alkaline and earthy chlorides and
sulphates which commonly embitter and make water
undrinkable ?
�Exodus: The Flight from Egypt.
183
It does not. On the contrary it enables us to
speak positively, and to say that no such tree did
ever grow or could ever have grown. Distillation
alone is competent to make bitter or brackish water
sweet and wholesome; and the art of distillation,
though it came from Arabia, could hardly have been
known in the days of Moses and Aaron, or, if it were,
it is not said, at all events, that it was called into
requisition.
The Israelites next reach Elim, where there are
said to be twelve wells, and threescore and ten
palm-trees. Suppose a mixed multitude of nearly
three millions of men, women, and children—to say
nothing of cattle—how many would there be to a
well ?
Two hundred and fifty thousand.
And if thirty of these may be supposed to have
drunk in the course of every hour of the twenty-four,
and each to have had access to the well twice a day,
how long would it be before all could have quenched
their thirst ?
A very long time—the reader who is curious to
know the exact number of hours, days, weeks, months,
and years may amuse himself by making the calcu
lation.
And reasonable men are still asked to give credit
to so impossible a tale as that of the Exodus of the
Israelites from Egypt—that some two and a-half or
three millions of men, women, and children, several
thousands of sick, infirm, parturient, dying, and dead,
besides vast herds of kine, sheep, and goats, left their
homes in a single night and subsisted for forty years
in a desert that does not furnish food for the four
thousand souls with a few camels and goats who now
possess it ?
They are, indeed, and have it propounded to them
as part of a revelation from the God of Reason for
their guidance in learning to know something of him
�184
The Pentateuch.
and the nature of his agency in the world they
inhabit.
Does not the exaggeration in regard to the num
bers of the Israelites who leave Egypt find its
corrective subsequently ?
Elsewhere we learn that the Israelites were not
chosen by Jehovah “ because they were more in
number than any people, for they were the fewest of
all people ” and truly when the history of the tribe
is perused with unbiassed mind, such an indifferent
reason is seen to be as good as, or possibly better
than, any other that could be given for the choice
—all things else considered. The population of
Palestine—Phoenicians, Syrians, Edomites, Moabites,
Israelites, &c., did not at any time of old amount to
the numbers said to have left Egypt under the
leadership of Moses in a single night.
*
The palm-trees need not detain us, for, as the
Exode is said to have taken place in the spring of
the year, their fruit could not have been ripe; and
had it been so, what would the fruit of threescoreand-ten palm-trees have been among three millions
of hungry human beings, the produce of each tree
having to be divided between 42,857 mouths ! Food,
as well as water, failing, and supplies being indis
pensable, how says the record they^were furnished ?
Flesh meat by means of a flight of quails which
* An excellent authority estimates the population of
Palestine never to have exceeded two millions (Movers ‘ Die
Phoenizier,’ B. ii,, S. 303); and the inhabitants of the Sinaitic
Peninsula, in which the children of Israel, approaching three
millions in number, are said to have wandered and found sub
sistence for themselves and flocks for forty years, do not now,
and probably never did, exceed four thousand souls, who are
not even dependent on the produce of the land for their means
of living, but on the wages they earn in forwarding merchan
dise and travellers through the desert they inhabit; food and
necessaries of every kind reaching them from Egypt and
Palestine. See Robinson’s ‘ Travels in Palestine.’
�Exodus: The Eduth.
185
covered the camp, and bread by a fall of manna from
the skies. Of the latter every man was to gather, or to
have gathered for him, an omer by measure. Did he
gather more on any working day, it was found next
day to stink and to have bred worms ; but, that
wonders might not cease, and as it was unlawful in
the writer’s mind to do any work on the Sabbath,
two omers were to be gathered on the preceding
day, and the one reserved was found to keep sweet
and good, as if there had been a preservative or
antiseptic quality in the air of the Sabbath.
There was also an omer ordered to be gathered
and kept for a memorial and a witness to coming
generations of the wonderful way in which the
chosen people had been fed in the Wilderness. This
omer of manna, like that gathered on the eve of the
Sabbath, was also miraculously preserved from stinking and breeding worms, and is ordered to be laid
up first before Jehovah—the Lord (xvi., 83), and
then before the Eduth—the Testimony (lb., 34).
What may the object be which is thus designated
indifferently Jehovah and Eduth ?
The Hebrew word Eduth, here met with for the
first time and translated Testimony with us, is com
monly understood to signify the Law or Tables of the
Law. But the Law had not yet been delivered to
Moses; the stones on which it was written were still
in the quarry, and the ark in which it was kept was
in.the tree, so that the word Eduth must mean some
thing other than the Law, though it may have the
sense of Testimony.
The literal meaning of the Hebrew word Eduth
might lead us to the sense in which it is here used ?
The word among other meanings implies brightness,
and as the type of all splendour is the Sun, and the
Sun was the chief God of all the ancient peoples, so
the Eduth has been held by some learned mythologists to signify either an Image of the Sun-God, or
0
�18 6
The Pentateuch.
a Symbol of the Deity in one of his most notable
attributes.
Is there anything in the Hebrew Scriptures that
countenances such an interpretation ?
Hadad, Hadod, or Adod was a Phoenician name for
the Sun-God; and the passage from this to Edud or
Eduth is easy. Jehovah, in the text quoted above,
is spoken of by the name of Eduth, and Eduth is
used as synonymous with Jehovah.
*
Journeying through the Wilderness of Sin there
is no water, and the people chide with Moses for
bringing them out of the land of Egypt to kill them
and their children and their cattle with thirst in the
desert. This gives occasion to another great miracle ?
To the notable one, so much made of by painters
and poets in later times, where Moses strikes the
rock with his wonder-working rod, and water flows
for the people to drink.
What are we to think of this ?
As of the report of a miracle, i.e., a statement im
plying contravention of an eternal and changeless
Law of God.
No more possible therefore than that a touch of the
same rod could have turned the water of the Nile into
blood and the dust of the ground into gnats or lice ?
Certainly not; unless we are prepared to give up
our trust in the changeless nature of God and his
Laws, and to live in a state of chaos in which, as the
poet has it: “ Function is swallowed in surmise and
nothing is but what is not.”
Does not the mention of a Wilderness of Sin and
a Meribah, or bitter well, in connection with the early
tale of the Exodus and the southern extremity of
the Sinaitic peninsula, arouse suspicions of the trust
worthiness of the record ?
* See, farther on, what is said about the contents of the
Sacred Arks or Coffers of the Ancients.
�Exodus: Encounter with Amalek.
187
It certainly does so, coming as we do by and by
upon a Wilderness of Sin and a Meribah on the
borders of Palestine, when the spies are sent out by
Moses to report on the land,—the long-looked for
goal of all the desert toils.
Passing over this difficulty, ascribable to the writer
having different documents before him and drawing
from one or other without critical tact or discrimina
tion, we find that the Israelites as they advance come
in contact with some of the desert-dwelling tribes by
whom they are met and opposed ?
And first by the Amaleks in Rephidim, against
whom Joshua as Captain is ordered out, whilst Moses
with the rod of God in his hand takes his stance on
a hill overlooking the field. “ And it came to pass,”
says the story, “ when Moses held up his hand that
Israel prevailed, and when he let down his hand
Amalek prevailed.”
Observing this, what do Aaron and Hur who have
conveniently accompanied the leader to the hill-top ?
They set him on a stone, and one on either side
stayed up his hands until the discomfiture of Amalek,
which was only completed with the going down of
the sun.
Can we conceive any connection between a rod in
the hand of a man on a hill-top and the success of
one of the parties engaged in a skirmish on the plain
below ?
It is impossible to imagine any: force is force, and
courage is courage, and the greater force and the
greater courage by the law of necessity, which is ever
the law of God, prevail over the less : the Israelites,
braver, more numerous, better armed or better led’
defeated the Amalekites.
What does Moses after the battle ?
He builds an altar and calls it by the name of
Jahveh-Nissi, notin thankfulness for his victory, how
ever, but because “Jehovah hath sworn that'he will
�i88
The Pentateuch.
have war with Amalek from generation to genera
tion.”
Is this, according to our modern notions, a seemly
oath to have been ascribed to God ?
To God, conceived of as the impartial parent of
the universe, and in the light of the ideas of our day,
it certainly is not; though it perfectly accords with
such notions of Deity as might be entertained by a
presumptuous, barbarous, cruel, and ignorant people,
or of a later writer, with a dramatic turn of mind,
throwing himself into the ideas and feelings of his
rude progenitors.
The name which Moses gives his altar has a sin
gular affinity with that of one of the principal Gods
of the ancient world ?
Jahveh-Nissi is not far from Jao-Nissi (Ja or Jao,
being the name of a Phoenician deity), nor this from
Dio-nissi or Dionysos, the God of fertility and increase
of the Greeks and other ancient peoples. The Israelites,
with all their exclusiveness, cannot be supposed to
have remained through the whole of their history
uninfluenced by surrounding nations—Phoenicians,
Egyptians, Assyrians, and Medo-Persians, their pre
decessors in civilisation and so much better policied
and more powerful than themselves.
Moses is now visited by Jethro his father-in-law,
who brings him his wife and children ?
He is ; and in the interlude here introduced we meet
with another of those simply natural and purely
human incidents artistically used which lend so many
parts of the mythical and legendary history of the
Hebrews the charm and imposing aspect of reality.
Jethro or Beuel, the priest of Midian, Moses’ fatherin-law, hearing of all that God had done for Moses
and for Israel his people, takes Zipporah, Moses’ wife,
and her two sons, and with them comes to him in the
Wilderness where he was encamped by Horeb the
Mount of God; and says to him : “I, thy father-in-
�Exodus : Jethro counsels Moses.
189
law Jethro, am come unto thee, and thy wife, and her
two sons with her.” “ And Moses went out to meet
his father-in-law, and did obeisance, and kissed him ;
and they asked each other of their welfare ; and they
came into the tent.”
Jethro tenders his son-in-law some sensible advice ?
“ Now I know,” says he, “ that Jahveh is greater
than all the Gods ; for in the thing wherein they dealt
proudly he was above them.” But Jethro sees that
no single man can do the whole of the work which
Moses has imposed on himself, sitting from morning
Until evening with the people standing about him,
judging between them and making them to know the
statutes of God and his laws. “ This thing,” says he,
*l is too heavy for thee ; thou art not able to perform
it thyself alone. Now hearken to my voice. Be thou
for the people to God-ward, that thou mayest bring
the causes unto God ; but provide out of all the people
able men, such as fear God, men of truth, hating
covetousness, and place such over them, to rule them
and to judge them at all seasons ; and it shall be that
every great matter they shall bring to thee, but every
small matter they shall judge; so shall it be easier for
thyself, and thou shalt be able to endure.”
Moses hearkens to Jethro’s reasonable counsels ?
He does, and in so doing shows us that all is not
effected by immediate divine agency and miraculous
means in this legendary narrative. Jethro’s inter
ference here, however, may fairly be held to be im
pertinent. A God-commissioned man must be pre
sumed competent for every emergency and neither to
need nor to take advice from another. In hearkening
to Jethro Moses descends from his eminence as Envoy
and Agent of his God, and so brings suspicion on all
that is ascribed to him as leader of the children of
Israel. Jethro, a Midianitish priest, has a clearer
vision of human capabilities than Moses himself, the
chosen of Jehovah. But the recommendation of
�190
The Pentateuch.
Jethro is by a modern writer, and is inserted in this
place to countenance a favourite assumption of the
later Jews that their Sanhedrim dates as an Institution
from even so far back as the age of Moses !
Having now—a few weeks we must presume—after
quitting Egypt, come to the desert of Sinai and pitched
before the mountain, God, it is said, calls to Moses
therefrom, bids him remind the people of all that had
already been done for them, and say that if they will
obey the voice of Jehovah and keep his covenant, they
shall be a peculiar treasure to him above all people,
—a kingdom of priests and a holy nation ?
Promises greatly calculated to foster pride and
exclusiveness as regards themselves, contempt, hate,
and uncharitableness as regards other peoples, to give
a colour, moreover, to proceedings for which rapine
and murder are the only appropriate names.
The people on their part declare their readiness to
obey in all things ?
Of course they do; the people are ever as ready to
pledge their word as they are careless to keep it. Not
Moses only but Jahveh-Elohim himself, according to
the record, had at all times a heavy handful in trying
to keep the wayward and stiff-necked people they had
led out of Egypt in something like order, a task,
indeed, in which it may be said that neither God nor
man ever completely succeeded, as we shall find in the
course of our exposition.
A great event is now impending and an imposing
prelude is required ?
What is called the delivery of the Law from Sinai,
preceded by injunctions for the people to sanctify
themselves, to wash their clothes, and be ready
against the third day, when Jehovah will come down
in sight of all the congregation on Mount Sinai.
This great event takes place ?
Wrapt about by a thick cloud, amidst thunder
and lightning and trumpet sounds exceeding loud,
�Exodus; Delivery of the Law.
191
Jehovah comes down, as said, and Mount Sinai is
“ altogether on a smoke, and quakes greatly, because
Jehovah descends in fire.” After the trumpet has
sounded long and waxed ever louder and louder—by
whom it was blown we do not learn—Jehovah speaks
to Moses by a voice, and calls him up to the top of
the Mount. There he is ordered to go down and
charge the people that they break not through and
many of them perish; he and Aaron are alone to
come up; the people and the priests—of whom we
have heard nothing till now—are not even to set foot
on the sacred mountain, “ lest Jehovah break out on
them.”
This is a strange materialistic exhibition and
derogatory statement to be connected with the
supersensuous, ubiquitous power conceived by civi
lised man as Immanent Cause in Nature, and by us
in these parts personified and called God ?
Of whom as one and sole in any sense now under
stood, in spite of all that has been said to the con
trary, the Hebrew people until a very late period in
their history had not a notion. The representation
here is only in harmony with the jealous, irascible,
partial, and ruthless human impersonation of the
greatest among the Gods, their own peculiar God who,
until after the era of the kings and the captivities,
they continued to apprehend under various names at
different times—Chiun, Chamos, El-Schaddai, IsraEl, &c.,. to whom they gave the title of Melek-—King,
turned into Moloch, the God to whom they sacrificed
the first-born of their sons and their cattle, and who
was in truth no other than the Kronos or Saturn of
neighbouring cognate tribes and peoples.
The people and the priests, it is said, are not to set
foot on the mountain lest Jehovah break out on them
and consume them ?
We have as yet had no intimation of the existence
of priests among the Israelites. Aaron is still no
�192
The Pentateuch.
more than the subordinate of Moses, though his
brother, and no priest as the word came afterwards
to be understood. The mention of priests is conse
quently a slip of the pen of the late compiler of this
part of the Pentateuch.
The thundering, smoking, quaking, and trumpet
sounds having ceased, the delivery of the Decalogue
or Ten Commandments follows ?
Prefaced by the important announcement that
“ God spake these words saying : I am Jehovah thy
God, thou shalt have no other Gods before me.”
What is to be understood by the words: “ God
spake ? ”
“ When God is described as speaking to man,”
says a learned and pious divine, “ He does so in the
only way in which He who is a Spirit can speak to
one encompassed with flesh and blood ; not to the
outward organs of sensation, but to the intelligence
that is kindred to himself.”* Not in human
language, consequently, as if God were a man, having
the parts essential to articulate utterance, but by and
through the mind of man, whose activities, aroused
by impressions from without, and as emotions and
thoughts proceeding from within, find expression by
the instrumentality of his vocal organs in words as
various as the races that people the earth.
The Decalogue is generally associated in a more
especial manner with the name of Moses ?
It has long been customary so to connect it.
By the concurring testimony of the scholar and
critic, however, the Decalogue has of late been
recognised as an Eclectic Summary made in times
* Davidson (S.), D.D., ‘Introd, to Old Test.,’ I., 233. See
also our ‘ Dialogue by way of Catechism,’ pt. I., p. 13. It is
strange and unaccountable to us to find Spinoza saying that
he thinks it was by a “ real voice that God revealed to Moses
the Laws he desired should be given to the Jews.” Tract.
Theologico-Politicus, pp. 34 and 38, English Version.
�Exodus: The Decalogue.
193
very much, later than the age of Moses, and only
derived in part from the earlier documents that
■underlie the Pentateuch in its present form. A little
study and reflection indeed suflice to show the
ordinary reader, that the Decalogue in the compact
form in which it meets us in Exodus (xx., 1-17)
must be the work of a' relatively modern hand. Some
of the ordinances here artistically grouped have no
bearing on the concerns of a tribe but just escaped
from slavery and wandering in the Wilderness as
Nomads. Several of them again exist among a great
variety of others that are often not only objectionable,
but indecent, or positively iniquitous in character,
scattered throughout the next two or three chapters
of the Book, which have an unmistakable air of much
higher antiquity than the first seventeen verses of
the twentieth chapter, and give us glimpses of a
state of things among the early Hebrews that is
never suspected when the polished summary pre
sented under the ten heads of the Decalogue is alone
Considered.
The Decalogue being held of such high signi
ficance, everything connected with its delivery, we
are to presume, must be beyond the sphere of question
or of doubt F
Unfortunately this is not the case. The original
delivery of the Ten Commandments is not connected
with any tables of stone on which they are subse
quently said to have been written ; they are delivered
viva voce by Jehovah himself amid thunder and
lightning, and it is not until we come to the twenty
fourth chapter that we meet with a word about
Tables of the Testimony, interpreted as Tables of the
Law, which are ordered to be laid up in the Ark of
th© Covenant. By and by again, when we hear of
two Tables of Testimony having been given to Moses
(xxxi., 18), their contents are not specified; and the
account in the next succeeding chapter (xxxii., 15,16),
�194
The Pentateuch.
where two Tables of Testimony are again spoken of,
leads to the idea that it must have been some more
lengthy document than the Decalogue that was
engraved upon them ; for they are now said to have
been written on both their sides by the finger of
God,—a fact, however, if it could by possibility have
been a fact, of which the writer could by no possi
bility have known anything. It is not in fine until
we come to the thirty-fourth chapter that the
words said to have been in the first Tables are
promised to be rewritten in the second : “ Hew thee
two tables of stone like unto the first, and I will
write upon these tables the words that were in the
first which thou brakedst,” says the writer in the
name of Jehovah.
We have no absolute assurance consequently as to
the contents of these Tables of the Testimony ?
None whatever. For when we look on to the four
teenth and following verses of the thirty-fourth chap
ter, we find several of the Commandments included
among the ten side by side with a number of others,
which are not there to be found. Here the text runs
thus in brief : “ Thou shalt worship no other Gods,
for Jehovah is a jealous God ; thou shalt not make a
covenant with the inhabitants of the land, and go a
whoring after their Gods; thou shalt not take of their
daughters to thy sons ; thou shalt make thee no
molten Gods; the feast of unleavened bread shalt
thou keep ; all that openeth the matrix is mine; six
days shalt thou work, but on the seventh day thou
shalt rest; thou shalt observe the feast of weeks;
thrice in the year shall all your men children appear
before Jehovah Elohim, the Elohim of Israel; thou
shalt not offer the blood of my sacrifice with leaven ;
the first fruits of thy land thou shalt bring into the
house of Jehovah thy God ; thou shalt not seethe a
kid in its mother’s milk.” This enumeration of acts
to be done and left undone concludes with these
�Exodus: The Decalogue.
195
words : “ And Jehovah said unto Moses, write thou
these words, for after the tenor of these words I have
made a covenant with thee and with Israel. And
he, Moses, was with Jehovah forty days and forty
nights; he did neither eat bread nor drink water ; and
he wrote upon the tables the words of the covenant,
the Ten Commandments.” Besides the change in the
Tenor of the words as here delivered, we have, there
fore, Moses as the writer and not Jehovah, in oppo
sition to the statement elsewhere made. The confu
sion that reigns in connection with the delivery of the
Decalogue points not only to a variety of hands en
gaged on the text, but to much uncertainty of the
commandments that were really at different times
comprised in the summary. Each writer doubtless
followed the tradition of his day or of his ken ; and
would have his readers infer, as he himself believed,
that something in the shape of the then accredited
Decalogue was that which was engraved upon the
stone tables.
So much of the thirty-fourth chapter as refers to
the Decalogue has a marked paraphrastic and supple
mentary look about it ?
It certainly has. But it is • not the only chapter
bearing on the Decalogue that meets us in the same
way; for, turning to the nineteenth of Leviticus, we
find a repetition in varied terms of many of the old
ordinances, with sundry additions, some of them, in
all probability, from an ancient document, but others
unmistakably from one of the most modern of all the
editors of the Pentateuch.
The late writer of the Book of Deuteronomy, how
ever, says positively that the tables were inscribed
with the Ten Commandments, and the still more recent
writer of the Books of the Kings (I. Kings, viii,,
7-9) informs us that when the Ark of the Covenant
was “ brought into its place under the wings of the
Cherubim ” within the Temple of Solomon, “ the two
�196
The Pentateuch.
tables of stone which Moses put there at Horeb ”
were still to be seen. As this must have been done,
hard upon five hundred years before the writer’s day
(he having lived some time after the destruction of
Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar), and he shows himself
familiar with the Mosaic Saga, he can only be held
as giving expression to the popular belief; and else
where we learn that when the ark was examined
at a later period it was found empty; the mythical
stone tables writ by the finger of God, had they
ever been there, as well as everything else,—the
Agal/ma tou Theou, fyc., which we believe had been
there, had disappeared.
Looking narrowly into these Ten Commandments,
of which so much is made, we ask first on what
authority they rest ?
On that of the immediate spoken word of God,
says the text. “ Elohim spake these words,” is preface
to the first of the versions we have of them (Ex. xx.) ;
“ These words Jehovah spake,” is the introduction to
the second (Deut. v.). But we have determined the
sense in which these statements can alone be taken:
they are the utterances of men, not the words of God ;
for God never speaks, and never spoke in words to
man.
The two versions, we must presume, will be found
to agree ?
In every essential particular they do, save one : the
reason given for the observance of the seventh day of
the week as a Sabbath or day of rest.
The religious sense, the moral sense, and the reason
of man we may farther presume will be efficiently
met and appealed to in the ordinances of the
Decalogue ?
Inasmuch as with a single exception they are
entirely negative in their character, the important
elements in the nature of man now named may be
said to be left uncared for. The entire domain of
�Exodus : The Decalogue.
197
D#ty, or of acts to be done, is untouched in the
Decalogue, and reason and intelligence are left wholly
out of the question.
The words, “I am Jehovah thy God,” meet us at
the very outset as an announcement that could fitly
have come from the tutelary God of the Jews only ?
And never from the God of humanity at large.
The next clause again, “ Thou shalt have no other
Gods before me,” was assuredly not wanted; for
there are no other Gods, but One God only ; a truth,
however, which the writer could not have known, or
he would have guarded himself from speaking as he
does.
“ Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image
or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above
or in the earth beneath ; thou shalt not bow down to
them nor serve them, fori Jehovah am a jealous God.”
The writer makes God speak in terms of his own
apprehension, little dreaming that the heaven abooe
him now became a heaven below him by and by ! The
injunction here is obviously enough directed against
practices long familiar to the countrymen of the
writer, and still followed in the late times in which he
lived. Through by far the greater part of their his
tory the Hebrews were mere idolaters; they made
images of the sun and moon, and of their own pecu
liar star Baal-Chiun (Saturn) ; they burned incense,
and poured out drink offerings to the Queen of
Heaven (the Moon), as their fathers, their kings,
their chiefs, and they themselves had done in the
cities of Judah and the streets of Jerusalem ; and they
had had plenty to eat, and were well, and saw no
evil so long as they continued to do so. “ But since
we left off to burn incense to the Queen of Heaven,
and to pour out drink-offerings to her, we have
wanted all things, and have been consumed by the
. sword and by famine ; and as to the word that thou
hast spoken to us in the name of Jehovah, we will
�198
The Pentateuch.
not hearken unto thee,” say the people in reply to
Jeremiah’s exhortation to them to forsake the Queen
of Heaven and their other Gods for Jehovah (Comp.
Jerem. xliv., 15-19).
*
The Hebrews undoubtedly
worshipped many Gods, even into late periods of
their history, and under a variety of emblems, from
the unhewn stone block to the sculptured column ;
from figures of the Serpent and the Tree, to those
of the Bull, the Goat, and, we may safely conclude,
the nobler image in human form enthroned between
the Cherubim upon the mercy-seat, and present as
part of the furniture of every house under the title
of Teraphim or Ephod.
Observing such discrepancy between commandment
and practice, it is not easy to conceive the writings
in which the Commandments are set forth as being
in any sense inspired by God, or as dating from any
remote period, such as the age of Moses ?
God trusts his eternal ordinances neither to stone,
to parchment, nor to paper, but implants them in
the nature of things and the mind of man.
We should conclude, then, against the inspiration
of which these disjointed, mythical, legendary, and
contradictory Hebrew records are held up as evi
dence ?
And say that it had no existence out of the imagi
nation of those who proclaim it.
Moses could then have been no God-inspired man?
Had he been so, the writings ascribed to him could
be none of his. Of the life and laws of Moses we
have, in fact, but “ a few scattered and unconnected
* “ Is it not,” says Professor Dozy, “ as if we had here the
Romans speaking in times when the Empire had become the
prey of the Barbarians ? Eor to the neglect of the Old Reli
gion they, too, ascribed all the misfortunes that had come upon
them ; Christianity, in their opinion, being to blame for the
disruption of the State, which the Old Gods had so well and
truly protected.”—Dozy, ‘Die Israel, zu Mekka,’ 162.
�Exodus: The Decalogue.
199
fragments; and even these, for the most part,
obscured and altered by the tamperings of later
times.”* The idolatry that prevailed through the
period of the Judges, and for ages after this, suffices
to prove that the Commandment against making and
worshipping graven images is of relatively modern
date.
Jehovah is made to announce himself as “a jealous
God ”—and we naturally ask of what in heaven or
earth might God, body and soul of the universe in
one, be jealous ?
Of other Gods, doubtless, according to the Jehovistic writer whose work we have before us. Of
them, indeed, might the Jewish Jehovah well be
jealous, for his service was constantly deserted for
theirs,—was never popular, indeed, until more than
one of the few pious and respectable kings ever
boasted by Judah had lived and died, and the
country, at war with itself, was verging to its fall.
“Visiting the iniquities of the fathers on the
third and fourth generation”—proceeds the tale.
But God does not visit the sins of parents upon
children in any sense intended in the text, a truth
which a later writer than the compiler of the Deca
logue, and at variance with him, announced when he
said : “ The fathers shall not be put to death for the
children, neither shall the children be put to death
for the fathers : every man shall be put to death for
his own sin.” (Deut. xxiv., 16.)
“ Showing mercy to thousands of them that love
me and keep my commandments.”
Surely God is merciful to all who study to know
and faithfully obey his laws, written as they are, and
far more at large, in the great open book of Nature
* “Profecto non nisi fragmenta Vitse et Legum Mosis
supersunt pauca, dissipata disjectaque, et hsec ipsa pleraque
•temporum seriorum injuria denuo obscurata et turbata.”—
Ewald, in ‘ Comm. Soc. Gotting,' vol. viii., p. 176.
�200
The Pentateuch.
than in the Hebrew of Exodus or Deuteronomy;
even as they who know them not, or knowing who
neglect them, assuredly bring penalties upon them
selves.
“ Thou shalt not take the name of Jehovah thy
God in vain.”
The name of their God Jehovah was held of such
sanctity by the Jews in later times that they believed
it could not be spoken by man without sin. The
high priest alone was authorised to utter it aloud,
and that once only in the course of the year, on the
great day of atonement. It is to enforce this usage
that we have the story of the man born of an
Israelitish mother by an Egyptian father stoned to
death for having blasphemed the name of Jehovah—
by which we are to understand nothing more than
having dared to take the sacred name into his un
hallowed lips (Levit. xxiv., 10-14). The verses here
are plainly interpolated, and the text of verse sixteen
that follows has been tampered with. In reading
the scriptures aloud the name was at all other times
either slurred so as to be inarticulate, or a title was
substituted for it, Adonai,—Lord, being the one
that first came into use, though this, too, was by and
by esteemed so holy that it must not be pronounced
articulately. Ha Schem—the name—is the word that
is now spoken in the synagogue instead of either
Jahveh or Adonai.
“ Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy (£as
Jehovah thy God hath commanded thee,’ ” adds the
Deuteronomist, referring doubtless to the text of
Exodus) ; “ six days shalt thou labour and do all thy
work, but the seventh day is the Sabbath of Jehovah
thy God, in it thou shalt not do any work, thou,
nor thy son, nor thy daughter,” &c. And here
occurs the important difference between the texts of
Exodus and Deuteronomy:—“ In six days,” says the
former, “ Jehovah made heaven and earth, the sea
�Exodus: The Decalogue.
201
and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day ;
wherefore Jehovah blessed the Sabbath day and
hallowedit.” “ Remember that thou wast a servant
in the land of Egypt, and that Jehovah thy God
brought thee out thence .... therefore Jehovah thy
God commanded thee to keep the Sabbath day,” says
the latter. The reasons given for the observance of the
seventh day as a day of rest are as plainly at variance
with one another as the writers of the several texts
are seen to be at a loss for any reason for the Sabbath
observance that might prove entirely satisfactory. The
late writer of Deuteronomy may have seen the absurdity
of having God, like a man foredone with the labour
of six days, resting on the seventh day; and so
have shifted the ground for its special observance
from God to the Exodus. A priest, he may farther
have seen that men might possibly be better kept to
the religious observances enjoined them, and so made
more submissive, by having these relegated to one
day of the week rather than spread over the seven.
The Semitic races do not appear, like the Aryans, to
have held each day of the week dedicated to a par
ticular divinity—the first to the Sun, Sunday, the
second to the Moon, Monday, &c. But their seventh
day has, nevertheless, the same significance as the
Saturn’s day of the Phcenicians, Greeks, and Romans,
even as their Chiun, El, Bel, Baal, Ja, and Jahveh
have their type in the Kronos-Saturnus so familiar
to us through our classical studies. The planet
Saturn was The Star of the Hebrew people, and to
the God it typified also belonged the seventh day of
the week. The Sabbath, however, may be said to
have lost its religious significance when God was
conceived of as One and Sole, when all days were
declared to be alike in his sight—as most assuredly
they are—and when charity between those who
thought one day holier than another and those who
looked on all days as holy alike came to be enjoined.
p
�202
The Pentateuch.
Is it not likely that neither in the Decalogue of
Exodus nor of Deuteronomy have we the Originals
of the Ten Commandments ?
It is not only likely, but may be said to be certain
that we have not. The Decalogue, as already said,
is an eclectic summary by a late writer of certain
ordinances scattered among many others over the
books of Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers, which he
held of the highest import and significance. The
Commandment concerning the Sabbath, in particular,
is to be met with as often as three times in different
chapters of Exodus, in close proximity with the one
which contains the Decalogue, and in what may be
safely assumed as earlier forms than that in which it
meets us there. “ Six days shalt thou work, but on
the seventh day thou shalt rest,” says the text, that
is probably the earliest of any (Exodus xxxiv., 21).
“ Six days shalt thou do thy work, and on the seventh
day thou shalt rest, that thine ox and thine ass mav
rest, and the son of thy handmaid [concubine] and
the stranger [slave] may be refreshed,” says another
version, somewhat amplified and having a purely
human motive for the observance of the day appended
(Exodus xxii., 12). “ Six days may work be done,
but the seventh is the Sabbath of rest, .... for in
six days Jehovah made heaven and earth, and on the
seventh day he rested and was refreshed,” says the one
that appears to be followed most closely in the Deca
logue (Exodus xxxi., 15-17). Such are the different
forms in which the order, as well as the reason for
observing the seventh day of the week as a day of
rest are delivered, the last quoted being in all likeli
hood from the hand that gave the Commandments
final shape in the Decalogue of Exodus.
Have we any clue to the probable composer of the
Decalogue ?
In him the lynx-eyed criticism of modern times
thinks it sees the writer to whom so much of the
�Exodus: The Decalogue.
203
Pentateuch in its present shape can be fairly ascribed
—“ Ezra the Priest, the Scribe, even a scribe of the
words of the Commandments of Jehovah and of his
statutes to Israel.”*
With the final triumph of Jehovism, the Jewish
scribes could not suffer the seventh day to continue
sacred to Baal-Saturn, the old tutelary God of the
country; neither could they have the Tabernacle and
Ark dedicated to the same Divinity. The day holy to
him and the Tent and Ark in which he dwelt had,
therefore, to be given to the modern God Jehovah.
“ In the veiled sagas of the Pentateuch,” says an able
writer, “ we discover many elements of the idolatrous
worship which prevailed so long among the Israelites.
The mass of the people honoured Saturn as their
national God; they carried about with them in a
Tent his Image in the form of a Bull, as it seems ; to
him they sacrificed the first-born of their sons, and to
his service they devoted the seventh day of the
week.”f Until the time of the exile, says another
accomplished scholar, the Jews were without a pass
able religious motive for the observance of the seventh
day of the week as a Sabbath. It was Ezra who
found for them the one that came finally to be
adopted ; for without misgivings may we assume that
it was he who wrote the Persian story of the Creation
and Paradise as it exists in the beginning of Genesis.
And who, indeed, had such opportunity of learning
something of the Persian sagas as he who lived so
long in exile in the kingdom of Persia, and was
finally sent by its king to Judea “ with the Law of
his God in his hand”—we venture to add; and
with what was not in his hand, in his head. J
The Sabbath, as a day of rest, must have been
much more a matter of necessity in times when all
* Ezra vii. 11 and 14.
f Vatke, ‘Bibl. Thcologie’ I., 201.
I Comp. Dozy, op. eit 34, 35.
�204
The Pentateuch.
below the ruler and the land-owning classes were
slaves, as they appear to have been among the
Israelites, as among the nations of antiquity
generally ?
Then, indeed, was the day of rest a most humane
and beneficent institution. Imposed m religious
grounds, it stood between the arbitrariness that so
commonly comes of wealth and irresponsible power
and the impotency that inheres in dependence. At
the present time, the Sabbath as a religious institu
tion has lost much of its significance : slavery no
longer exists in the civilised world, and, in trading
and manufacturing communities, the labouring classes
give it little heed. They no longer look forward to
one especial day of rest in the week, but make several
Sabbaths in its course ; in many cases they even
dictate the terms on which they will consent to work
at all, and make the accumulated fund of the
capitalist available for profit. Unhappily they do
not commonly use their power aright, turning the
two or three days of the week in which they
do no work into days of idleness and dissipation,
instead of using them for the cultivation of the higher
and nobler elements in their nature. But with our
faith in the possible limitless advance of man in
science and morals, and our belief in the influence of
education freed from the trammels of Churches and
the blight of dogmatic indoctrination, we have no
doubts of the brighter phase of humanity that will in
the course of ages make its appearance.
“Honour thy father and thy mother (‘ as Jehovah
thy God hath commanded thee,’ adds the Deuteronomist, referring again to the version of the
Decalogue he found in Exodus) that thy days may
be long upon the land which Jehovah thy God
giveth thee.”
�
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The Pentateuch in contrast with the science and moral sense of our age. Part II: [Exodus]
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Bible
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Text
RELIGION:
ITS PLACE IN HUMAN CULTURE.
A LECTURE,
Delivered in the Freemasons’ Hall, Edinburgh,
On Sunday, May 18, 1873.
BY
JOHN MACLEOD.
PUBLISHED BY THOMAS SCOTT,
NO. 11 THE TERRACE, FARQUHAR ROAD, UPPER NORWOOD,
LONDON, S.E.
1873.
Price. Sixpence.
��RELIGION :
ITS
PLACE
A
IN
HUMAN
CULTURE.
LECTURE,
BY
JOHN
MACLEOD.
��RELIGION:
ITS PLACE IN HUMAN CULTURE..
T is now well-nigh two years since first I stood on
this platform, and although I did not feel then so
hopeful of the immediate success of our undertaking,
yet I felt convinced that our movement contained in
itself all the elements on which true and permanent
success depends. I knew it was not an arbitrary
movement propped up by artificial aids, and appealing
for support to low and vulgar motives, but a free and
spontaneous outcome of the intellectual vigour of our
time—the masculine birth, as it were, of the nine
teenth century. It says very much for the intelligence
and manliness of Edinburgh citizens, that some years
ago there could be found among them several men and
not a few women who broke away from the enervating
influence of orthodox Christianity; scorned that soft
sentiment which languishes and sickens at its ancient
altars, and in spite of the obloquy which invariably
awaits the revelation of great truths, asserted the
divine right of their manhood and womanhood—the
freedom of the human soul. Although only a few
years have elapsed since you left that worse than
Egyptian bondage, yet the influence which your con
duct, and that of your noble-minded leader, Mr Cranbrook, has had on society is incalculable. Ten years
ago, few men would believe that society could so
rapidly advance in intelligence as it has' done; that
the tone of our daily press could rise from faint and
scarcely audible mutterings against spiritual tyranny
to a tone of rolling thunder, loud, heavy, and crushing,
against everything that is hypocritical and false; and
fewer still could believe that nearly every clergyman
who has any pretension to a highly-cultivated intellect
and refined taste in every Christian sect or denomina
I
�4
Religion :
tion would, in eighteen hundred and seventy-three, be
following in the lead of Bishop Colenso. I cannot say
that I admire the conduct of a man who signs a
document such as the Confession of Faith, or the
Thirty-nine Articles, and pledges himself by a solemn
oath to maintain every proposition therein contained
against all criticism, if, on finding that some of those
propositions do not harmonise with his better judg
ment and more enlightened reason, he seeks to force
his own meaning into them, and then to inter
pret them, not according to the obvious meaning
of the text, but in accordance with the subjectivity
of his own mind, and the false poetic gloss with which
he can invest them. I say I cannot admire the
conduct of these men; it lacks in manhood and
fearless honesty. Christian dogmas have been dead
these many years, and they cannot now be gal
vanised into life; it is against the analogy of
nature, of science, of history. Christian dogmas are
interesting to us only as the fossilized remains of
ancient life; of life which may or may not have been
bright and useful, but which was certainly inferior to
our own in comprehensiveness and breadth of human
sympathy. I know several men in the churches who
believe no more than I do in the literal interpretation
of their own creeds, or indeed in the Biblical authority
which is supposed to establish these creeds; and yet
these men are contented to remain within their respec
tive churches as the paid representatives of orthodox
Christianity, satisfying their conscience with the old
but miserable subterfuge, which was once the glory of
the Jewish philosophers of Alexandria, and of the
early Christian fathers — namely this, that every
passage and even word in Holy Writ contained two
meanings, a primary and a secondary one; in other
words, a literal and a mystical meaning. It has been
said that a coach and six can be driven through any
Act of Parliament; but ecclesiastical acts are still
more elastic, in the opinion of not a few, for they can
�Its Place in Human Culture.
5
be expanded into dimensions which look anything but
orthodox; and immediately on the pressure being
withdrawn, they contract within limits which, from
their narrowness and convenience of manipulation,
might satisfy the most expert advocate for “particular
redemption,” or “ eternal reprobation.”
We say, then, that when a man ceases to believe,
not only in the distinctive dogmas of his Church, but
even in the so-called “ external evidences ” of Chris
tianity itself—prophecies, miracles, &c., that man does
violence to his own nature, to his entire moral and intel
lectual powers, if he still remains a professed believer
in orthodox Christianity, and a paid advocate of it.
Let such a man scorn to sell his birthright for a little
comfort and ease; let him scorn to sacrifice those gifts
with which God endowed him at the gloomy shrines of
a vulgar superstition; let him stand forth as the
champion of truth, of the light of reason and the law
of conscience; and howsoever the hysterical screams
of weak women and sentimental clergymen may annoy
him, he will find higher sympathy and a more serene
intellectual repose in that unclouded atmosphere
which is breathed by the loftiest spirits of our age.
Nay more, posterity will bless him, and call him noblehearted and brave; and he will shine as a benignant
star on the path of many a weary pilgrim to the shrine
of truth. I have no doubt that many remain in the
Churches from higher motives than those of mere ease
and comfort. They hope, perhaps, or fancy they can
“reform” the Church from within, and render it, if
not attractive, at least as little offensive as possible to
the scientific intellect of the day. Such motives might
be ably defended by those who are honestly influenced
by them ; but, in my opinion, that man places himself
in a false position—and all false positions are weak and
untenable—who professes friendship to the Church and
secretly undermines its foundations. The world cannot
much admire a traitor, even if he should betray a false
cause; men cannot make him a hero who is a spy in
�6
Religion :
his own camp, who reveals to the enemy all the best
modes of attack on a citadel which he pledged himself
to defend. He may do useful work for the world, but
the world will not give him credit for it; his work
lacks all the elements which go to constitute heroism.
Place the grand figure of Luther or of John Knox
beside that of Origen or Pelagius, and say which would
you most admire, that of the dreamy spiritual Reformer,
or that of the terrible Iconoclast and matter-of-fact
denunciator? Surely the latter, for it stands alone,
picturesque, bold, and transfigured by the divine
radiancy of truth, seeking no protection from a Church
which he abhors, uttering no “ uncertain sounds ” for
battle, but a peal which was responded to by thousands
of bewildered and benighted souls, who yearned after
a brighter, freer, and happier life.
We want such men now. There never was a time
in which society would more gladly welcome a true
hero than at the present; never a time in which such
a hero would be more worshipped or adored. We feel
so much oppressed by the conventionalities and un
realities of modern life—by its gross materialism on
the one hand, and its downright spiritual charlatanism
on the other, that we should hail with unbounded
enthusiasm any great Thunderer whose flashes of
genius would clarify our social atmosphere, and
purge it of that fulsome incense which daily rises from
the altars of our little gods. In commercial and poli
tical development we are no doubt daily advancing,
and far be it from us to indulge in the cant phraseology
of the pulpit against material wealth and prosperity;
on the contrary, we regard all these as among the
noblest triumphs and achievements of modern science
in its application to the industrial arts. But the
miserable state of our religious institutions, the effemi
nacy and debilitating effect of the instruction there
obtained on the one hand, and the absurd, antiquated
nature of their dogmas on the other, have well-nigh
killed all spirituality out of us.
�Its Place in Human Culture.
7
To a calm outsider—that is, to a man who is not
accustomed to feel intensely on any of the great prob
lems which concern human happiness—it may appear
very strange that we should make any attacks on the
Church, or charge it with any of the social vices of our
age. But a little reflection can hardly fail to satisfy
even the most unimpassioned intellect that we have
good reasons for the attitude which we bear towards
that venerable institution. The religious emotion or
sentiment which arises from reverence, love, and fear
are at once the weakest and the strongest, as well as
the noblest, elements of our nature. When a man’s
religion is made for him—not made to order, as we say,
but ready-made before he was bom—it arrests the
growth of all his mental powers. If he is an ordinary
man he remains a stinted and timorous soul all his life;
it is only when he has that vitality in him, the develop
ment of which into the highest spirituality cannot be
forecast by theology, it is only when he has snapped
the cords which bound down his growing energies, that
he can realize the intense joy of being free to develop
himself religiously. If, then, pure theological training
is so fatal to the growth and development of the indi
vidual mind, it is clear that it must be so to society at
large. Every branch of human knowledge has certainly
advanced more rapidly in proportion as it disengaged
itself from the influence of theology. All the physical
sciences are now free, and no man of any note mixes
them up with crude theological arguments: and mark
the result. More advance has been made' in these
sciences during the last fifteen years than during all
the centuries which preceded them. Political economy
is also free, although in the practical application of it
in our legislative assemblies it is still encumbered by
religious notions, and trammelled by theological pre
possessions. Nevertheless, we may say that political
science is virtually free; and the result is that we have
advanced rapidly in liberal reform during the last teji
or fifteen years,
�8
Religion:
Now, observe the vast difference between the pre
sent state of these departments of human knowledge
which I have just mentioned, and those which are still
claimed by the Church, and conceded to it as its legiti
mate sphere of operation. I mean the general education
of the country, at least in its more elementary aspect,
with which I may couple all those social questions
which bear on the comfort and happiness of the poorest
part of our population, of those miserable outcasts which
crowd together in the east ends of our large cities, de
prived not only of the light of reason and conscience,
but even of the light of the sun. What has become
of the boasted influence of that Christianity which
has been so often eulogised as the great civilizer of
mankind, when thus we behold its territories lying
waste, stricken with plague and famine, with all kinds
of physical and moral disease? O mockery! tell me
not that we are to stand idly by, and see, without
a murmur, our fellowmen perish for want of truth and
light, while white-robed hypocrisy builds its temples
and synagogues, fares sumptuously, languishes for want
of work, and preaches to the poor the Sermon on the
Mount, or threatens them with phials of the Apoca
lypse. Is this not enough to stir you up to mutiny
and rage, not against our social laws, but against those
who have, or who profess to have, the direction of
them?
But it may be asked, if the progress of intellect is
so great in our age, and the advancement of civiliza
tion so rapid as you represent them to be—in other
words, if men of science are the benefactors of mankind,
and the Church a mere stumbling-block in their way,
why do not scientific men ameliorate the worst aspects
of our social life ? I answer, so they have; and so
they are still doing for all those who have the wisdom
to listen to them. They have purified and ennobled
everything they have yet touched, and when that light
they have shed on man’s nature, and on his relation to
the external universe, shall stream down into the lowest
�Its Place in Human Culture.
9
stratum of society, then we shall see a state of things
for which few men venture to hope. We shall see
wretchedness and crime banished out of the world, and
even war itself slain by the mightiness of its own
weapons; for if men of science have not yet been able
to extinguish the unruly passions of mankind, they
have at least been able to bring the implements of war
to such a degree of perfection that they can only hence
forth be used in defence of the most sacred cause, and
can only be taken up when every other means will have
failed for the maintenance of our freedom, and the pre
servation of truth and justice. We shall see also that
great enemy of human progress and liberty, the Church,
branded with shame, and vanishing like a spectral
shadow into eternal silence; we shall see, in short, all
the civilized nations of our earth living in peace and
human brotherhood.
We often hear it asserted, and nowhere more fre
quently than in the pulpit, that pure intellect is not a
safe guide, that we must not confide too implicitly in
its cool judgments. “Intellect,” it has been said, “can
destroy, but cannot restore life.” Now these state
ments, and many such as these, are absolutely without
meaning. They are simply the wise aphorisms—should
we not rather say sophistries ?—of men who have been
trained in scholastic theology, and who have received
their knowledge of the human mind through the
logic of the schoolmen. Yet these neat epigrammatic
assertions take hold of the popular mind, and pass as
current coin, stamped with the authority of some
“great” man, who could not in the least explain his
own meaning, till half uneducated people begin to think
that there is something wicked in “pure” intellect.
So strongly has this feeling taken hold of the popular
mind that many timorous hearts, even in this en
lightened age, tremble with alarm at the least mani
festation of intellect, either in their own heads or in
those of their neighbours. Hence also the suspicion
with which semi-theological writers, and indeed all
�IO
Religion.
writers who have not attained to a scientific habit of
thought, regard what they call the “destructive school,”
by which they mean those men who expose the fallacies
which permeate all the great religions of the world.
What, “destroy life?” Pure intellect cannot destroy,
it rather creates. As well might you say that Kepler
and Newton destroyed the mechanism of the heavens
when they flung back the astrological and superstitious
veil which hid their grandeur for ages from the intel
lectual vision of mankind; as well might you say that
these master minds destroyed the life of the soul
when they only purified its vision, and revealed to its
awakened consciousness the majesty of those laws
which embrace in one grand universal sweep the whole
of infinite space, as say that the results of modern
science (which are certainly the achievements of pure
intellect), when brought to bear on the creeds of former
ages, will be more detrimental than beneficial, more
degrading than ennobling, to the free spirit of -man.
No. Intellect does not destroy, but constructs; and in
proportion as the intellect is pure and unprejudiced, its
work is more enduring, because more free from error.
“Dry light,” says Bacon, “is always the best.” Dry
light, or light unclouded by the passions and emo
tions of the man, or by the prejudices of early train
ing; that is, pure light, fed by the warmth of a large
human heart. I do not say that the intellectual powers
ought to receive exclusive attention from us, and be
cultivated at the expense of other elements of our
being, such as the moral and religious sentiments; but
I do say that unless the intellectual or rational part of
our nature is supreme, unless it is free to exercise itself
without prejudice on all human problems, we never
can be safe guides to others, for we are ever liable to
be carried away, either by the impulse of excited
emotion or by the whims of an undisciplined imagina
tion. Need I remind you that it was not pure intellect,
but intellect perverted by the undue cultivation of the
religious sentiment, which caused all those frightful
�Its Place in Human Culture,
n
ecclesiastical persecutions and massacres which deluged
Europe with human blood during the Middle Ages ?
Need I remind you of the fact that religion, when not
subordinated to the light of reason, destroys every
vestige of natural love and affection in the heart of
man; that, to use the language of Christianity, it “sets
a man at variance against his father, and the daughter
against her mother, and the daughter-in-law against
her mother-in-law,” and that it makes a man’s enemies
those of his own household1? This one sentiment,
morbidly cultivated, has caused more blood to be shed
in Europe since the establishment of Christianity than
all other passions put together. It nursed the madness
and fury of the Crusaders, it kindled those dismal
funeral piles which consumed the wretched bodies of
thousands of poor women who went by the name of
“witches,” it was at the root of the French Revolution,
and bore its full purple blossom in the massacre of
Saint Bartholomew.
It is clear, therefore, from the experience of the
past, that we need not trust to the power of religion
for the improvement of the individual or the elevation
of the human race. Everything that has hitherto been
done in that direction has been effected, not by means
of religion, but in spite of it—not by the aid of the
Church, but by repudiating her pretensions and ignor
ing her authority. Do we then say that all religions
should be abolished1? By no means. The religious
sentiment is a radical part of our nature, and it is as
natural for a good man to be religious and pious as it
is for a flower to blossom. If great crimes and most
lamentable human sufferings have too frequently fol
lowed in the wake of religious organizations, we must
also admit that there is a kind of inspiring power in re
ligion which gives moral force and character not only
to individuals, but to nations. In the absence of that
mental and moral culture which the higher education
confers, the religious sentiment is the strongest motive
that can influence a man to deeds of self-sacrifice and
�12
Religion:
noble heroism. Uneducated men cannot appreciate
philosophical arguments, they cannot follow out a train
of thought which involves a logical and analytical
power of reasoning; but they can easily understand
figures and metaphors, and all those personifications of
natural phenomena which assume a bodied form in the
imagination. A child can understand the meaning of
a Sinai in flames, and of a God delivering his laws to
a rebellious world amid thunder and lightning; he can
understand and realise with intense vividness the
Undying torment of those lost souls which are supposed
to bum for ever in fires unquenchable; for the im
agination, which is nothing more or less than the image
of the external world reflected in the mind, is vivid
and in full play long before the reasoning faculty is
called into active exercise. Every uneducated man,
every man who not only has not mastered the elements
of physical science, but who has not the mental capacity
and culture necessary for the appreciation of the results
of philosophical and historical criticism, I say every
such man is, all his life, precisely in the position of a
child. Early impressions, whether he has received
them direct from external nature or from early training,
are to him a part, indeed the whole, of his being. They
are incorporated in his very organization, and sooner
than surrender them he would surrender his life. If
you reflect for a moment how much pain and suffering
are endured by the best minds before they can emanci
pate themselves from the errors of imagination, and
from the bondage of superstition; if you consider
how frequently it happens that the superstitions of
early childhood return in old age when the mind
shows symptoms of decay, you can then appreciate the
enormous difficulties which men of science had to en
counter; you can understand the strength of the motive
power which opposed them; and you will wonder rather
that they should succeed at all, than that their success
should be so slow. We know that when the errors of
imagination are regarded, not as mere “airy nothings”
�Its Place in Human Culture.
13
which, have no foundation in fact, but as the veritable
revelations of Divine truth; when there is no longer
doubt in the religious mind, but faith and profound
conviction, then these errors, or delusions—as we call
them—become so powerful, that their authority over
the reasoning faculty is absolute, and from which there
is no appeal. Now, observe, that it is on faith and
absolute conviction of their Divine authority all reli
gions are founded. Every religion under the sun
claims a “ Divine Authority.” “ God spake these
words and said ” is the fundamental doctrine of them
all; and “ their motive-power over humanity has been
in proportion to the absoluteness of the belief they
commanded,” or in proportion to the conviction and
certainty they inspired. But though we know that
this high claim which is common to them all is itself
a mere delusion, yet such a claim is always necessary
to ensure their success—to unite men together in one
Faith, and to inspire them with enthusiasm for one
great work; for in the unity of one Faith all minor
differences merge and are lost sight of.
But, you may ask, if all religions have hitherto
been founded on false premises, to which of them
would you give the preference—to which of them
would you adhere ?■ I answer in the words of Schiller
—“ To none that thou mightest name. And wherefore
to none 1 For Religion’s sake.” Religion in itself, as
it is commonly understood, is useless, and worse than
useless, unless it is founded on a sound moral basis.
If the ethical part of religion is false, and, as it is in
many cases, revolting to our moral sentiment, then we
ought to abhor it with our whole heart, and to listen
to no fine disquisitions concerning its “ External and
Internal Evidences.” But is not Christianity founded
on a sound moral basis ? By no means. Paul makes
Faith the standard of human virtue, a position which
directly leads to the monstrous principle, that “ What
ever is of Faith is no sin.” How many noble hearts
that single dogma has crushed ! How many has it in
�14
Religion:
spired with ignorant zeal to perforin deeds of violence
and pitiless inhumanity; and how many, on the other
hand, has it reduced either to absolute despair or to
blasphemous rebellion against everything which hu
manity holds sacred ! I am well aware that, in the
mind of Paul, Faith meant something purer and in
finitely more exalted than it does in the mind of either
an ignorant man who has received but little moral
training, or of a superstitious man who has but mean
and vulgar ideas of God. Faith was to Paul religiously
what pure intellectual contemplation was to Aristotle
philosophically—it was to him the unity and harmony
of all thought, where the mind rests in undisturbed
repose, and enjoys the purest mental pleasure attain
able by man. It was to him, in short, the gravitating
force which unites in everlasting harmony the entire
spirituality of the universe, without distinction of
age or sex, of Greek or Roman, of Jew or Gentile.
But what is Faith in the mouth of the ordinary theo
logian? It is—“.Believe this formula, believe that
dogma; believe our interpretation of all the religions
and philosophies under the sun ; or, without doubt,
thou shalt perish everlastingly !” I need not say, that
to make Faith, in this peculiar acceptation, the standard
of moral virtue, is simply to banish all virtue and
intellect out of the world. We know that Faith
inspired the sublimest virtues, such as in the case of
Paul himself; but alas, we also know how often it has
inspired the most terrible crimes. Indeed if we make
Faith the standard of human virtue (observe that I use
the term in its strict theological sense), if we make it
the fundamental doctrine of religion, we shall find the
purest specimens of religious men among the inmates
of a lunatic asylum. We shall find there men who
believe absolutely and without doubt in all the dogmas
of that religion in which they were originally trained
—men who see visions and hear voices confirmatory of
their belief, and who would willingly go to the stake
as martyrs to their faith. It is indeed a most remark
�Its Place in Human Culture.
15-
able fact that either religious enthusiasm, or religious
despondency is characteristic of almost all forms of
insanity. I cannot afford space to enter upon the
rationale of this singular phenomenon, but I may state
generally that if parents and teachers were more careful
in not filling up the minds of children with “vain
opinions, flattering hopes, false valuations, imagina
tions, as one would say, and the likeif they could
avoid the teaching of fable, and took more pains to
store the youthful mind with a knowledge of facts, and
to inspire it with a love for Nature and for Art, I
firmly believe that the number of our asylum patients
would soon diminish. What was the cause of so much
insanity in Europe during the earlier part of the Middle
Ages, when nearly all the religious world was dancing
mad with paralysis, epilepsy, St Vitus’ dance, and
other nervous diseases which are generally character
istic of the insane ? Was it not owing to the unnatural
mode of living peculiar to those times ; to the morbid
and vicious habit of dwelling exclusively on the
emotional part of human nature, and to the utter
ignoring of facts, and the profound contempt for
physical nature which such a habit cherishes ? Indeed
all nature was then regarded as a thing accursed, and
the first men who ventured to study her secrets, and
to explain her laws, were either imprisoned for heresy
or burnt for witchcraft. This battle between school
divinity and physical science has not yet ceased; it is
still carried on with a good deal of the old spirit in
some corners of the world. The iniquitous barrier,
however, which the imaginations of men had set up
between God and Nature, between the natural and the
supernatural, has been broken down; the outworks 'of
Christianity itself—its so-called external evidences—
have been levelled to the ground, and although a few
obscure individuals may be seen here and there endea
vouring to rebuild their Zion out of the debris of the
old ruins, yet their labour is in vain. Men of science
look on with infinite pity for such a waste of intellect,
�i6
Religion:
and of misguided ingenuity; literary men smile at them
for the small amount of culture and taste which their
works display; and even our intelligent working men
stand idly by, amused as they would be by the labours
of little children when they build their sand castles in
the face of a returning tide, while every wave from the
great deep, in its own majestic, irresistable manner,
overwhelms and sweeps them away for ever. Nature
is once more restored to her proper place; if we build
anything likely to endure, it must have its foundation
in her—if we wish to be enlightened intellectually and
morally we must live and act according to her eternal
laws. But “ a mixture of a lie,” says Bacon, “ doth
ever add pleasure ;” and it is quite true that men must
live, and cannot help living, on the mere shadows of
thought till they have' learned to begin with first
principles. “ A mixture of a lie doth evei' add plea
sure.” Now, eliminate the lie from our theologies,
apply the scientific method to our orthodox religion,
and the whole thing will shrivel up and vanish like
vapour before the sun. Religions are ■ built on what
Bacon calls a “lie.” Certain things are assumed as
axiomatic truths which not only cannot be proved, but
which are most repugnant to our enlightened reason,
a,nd on these barbarous assumptions our expert meta
physical theologians rear a superstructure of syllogisms
which makes one feel sad to look at. We will not
waste our time in exploding these superstructures,
whether they be Catholicism, Protestantism, Calvinism,
Mahometanism, or Christian Unitarianism. We will
not even turn aside to discuss such childish problems
as these—“Whether the Bible is the Word of God?”
“ Are miracles possible?” “ Can prayer alter the course
of nature?” We need not answer these—Science has
answered them long ago. When men are bewildered
by the conflicting voices of so many churches, when
they see the old mythologies dying out, and every
religion one after another strangled in the grasp of
science, they do not ask, “what are miracles?” or
�Its Place in Human Culture.
17
“ what pi’ophecies are yet to be fulfilled ?” but they fall
back on first principles, and in a kind of half-despairing,
half-defiant spirit, they ask if there is a God at all, and
if Religion is not altogether a great imposture. They
see the intellectual force of the age overwhelming
everything that goes by the name of “God” and “Re
ligion,” and they wonder why any men should be so
foolish as ever to have believed in such a God or in
such a religion. All other questions, except the great
fundamental ones, “ What is God—what is Religion,”
are idle and impertinent. It is my duty, as your
teacher here, to work out these two problems from week
to week to the best of my power. It is my duty, and
it will be my infinite pleasure, to reconcile so far as I
am able the conflicting aspects of human thought, to
explain to you the significance and end of human life,
to throw some light on its dark enigmas, and to make
you feel the happiness and exquisite joy which are the
certain heritage of every man who lives righteously—
true to himself and true to his fellowmen.
I have thus far spoken of religion as a formulated
creed, or as a “ Body of Divinity,” which can be learned
out of books. Religion in this sense is what we com
monly understand by Systematic Theology; it is the
logical arrangement of metaphysical notions which
men have formed of God and of the universe. I say
the logical arrangement, for if we grant the soundness
of the premises which are assumed by theologians,
we have, logically, no fault to find with their “ sys
tems.” But a more liberal education, and a more
intimate acquaintance with the physical laws of
nature—in other words, both culture and science
have long since convinced us of the futility of all
conclusions which are based on mere metaphysical
speculations. Now it is clear to every man who is in
the least acquainted with the inductive mode of
reasoning, that all religions hitherto given to the
world are based on false premises. Let us take
Christianity as that form of religion with which most
�i8
Religion:
of us are best acquainted. First of all, the existence
of a personal God is assumed as an unquestionable
fact, and although we make no objection to this
position, we have no reason whatever to accept as
final and ultimate the psychological analysis which
theologians have given us of His nature and character.
In other words, we have no reason to believe in their
Science of God, for it is really not science but meta
physics. It is again assumed that God has once and
for all given to mankind a Revelation of Himself,
which contains, in the words of the Catechism, all
“that man is to believe concerning God, and what
duty God requires of man.” But we find that this
“ Revelation,” contained in the Bible, contains many
things which no intelligent man can believe con
cerning God, and that it inculcates duties which are
either impracticable in modern society, or simply
barbarous. To make the matter worse, and render
it still more bewildering, this so-called Revelation
contradicts itself on so many important points that
theologians have always found it necessary to write
large folios on the best method of “ reconciling” and
“ harmonising” the more glaringly contradictory pas
sages. And finally, we are gravely asked to believe
all this on the strength of prophecies which were
never meant by their writers to be prophecies at all,
and on the strength of miracles which, if they had
taken place, could only prove that the government of
the world is a mere blunder.
Now all this is theology, that is, the Science of
God, which ecclesiastics have evolved out of their
own imaginations; and we shall have frequent occa
sions to see that it is to theology, and not to religion
properly so-called, physical science is opposed. Nor
is science opposed to the Bible as a religious, any
more than it is opposed to Homer as a poetical, book.
Our position, which I may state in one sentence,
is this:—True culture has outgrown the barbarous
character which theologians ascribe to God. But
�Its Place in Human Culture.
19
theologians say that this character of Him. is revealed
in the Bible; therefore true culture has outgrown the
belief in Revelation. Science has also revealed to us
the majesty and immutability of natural laws. But
theologians say that in some dark periods of human
history, in certain rude ages when men had no con
ception of the grandeur of the universe, or of the
method of its creation and evolution, these laws were
capriciously interfered with by some supernatural
power; therefore scientific men refuse to believe in a
God who would “palter with them in a double sense,”
and reveal himself by what are called “ miracles.”
The question, then, is not between science and
religion, but between science and theology; not
between science and the Bible, but between science
and so-called Revelation.
What, then, is religion ?
Religion has been defined as a “self-surrender of
the soul to God.” This is quite a theological defini
tion, and a very feeble and sentimental one it is. It
proceeds, of course, on a knowledge of the Science of
God which theologians have developed in a cloud of
metaphysics. Matthew Arnold defines religion as
simply “ morality enkindled, or lit up by emotion.”
If this is not the whole truth, it is the nearest to the
truth that has ever been given, and it coincides
exactly with all that I have ever thought on the sub
ject. Morality is the groundwork of refigion, the
very life and soul of religion, and without morality all
religion is a false glare. It is for this reason that I
admire Aristotle more than Plato, because he is more
definite and clear in his rules of conduct. Religion is
to morality as poetry is to prose; and it is curious
that as Aristotle defined poetry to be imitation, so
Thomas a Kempis calls his religious meditations,
Imitations. Poetry has, like all the ideal arts, intellec
tual beauty for its object; religion has moral beauty
or holiness for its object. And both are imitations,
that is, imitations of ideal excellence. If, therefore,
�20
Religion:
religion—I mean true personal religion—be moralitylit up or enkindled by emotion, it is very clear that
the purity of religion must necessarily depend on the
moral enlightenment of society, or, in other words,
that religious development depends on moral develop
ment. This explains again how men are often a great
deal better than their theology; for as theology is
simply the religious experiences of past generations
fossilized in dogma, it is quite inadequate to the
expression of the religious experiences of succeeding
generations, which have far surpassed them in moral
and physical science. Hence it is that the life and
conduct of modern Christians are so very different
from what one would expect to result from their
theology. But the truth is, they have outgrown
Christianity, and they are not aware of it.
Again, we might say that religion, or the religious
sentiment, is one aspect of mental development, or
one phase of the collective thought of mankind. This
aspect is presented to us in bolder relief during a short
period in Jewish history, just as the ideal and fine-art
aspect is presented to us during a short period in
Greek history, and as the positive, and legal or poli
tical, aspect is presented to us in Roman history.
The Semitic race gave to humanity the religious
impulse and aspiration; the Greek and Latin races
gave to it respectively the sense of ideal beauty and
the method of government. Since the revival of
learning, all these elements have been tumultuously
struggling to blend and coalesce in the mind of the
great Indo-European races, and although the effer
vescence caused by the contact of these elements is
gradually settling down, although, in other words,
these various aspects are beginning to look more
approvingly on each other, the gloomy aspect of
Judaism through Christianity still frowns on science,
and its attitude would seem to indicate that many
hard blows will be exchanged between them before
science and so-called religion can understand each
�Its Place in Human Culture.
21
others temperament, and embrace as friends. It will
be part of our duty to reconcile, not science and
theology, for they are irreconcilable, but the scientific
and the religious aspects of thought. It will be our
duty also to show how the religious mind can be scien
tific, and the scientific mind religious; and how the
perfection and completeness of our nature depend,
not on religion alone nor on science alone, nor on
morality alone, but on the completeness by which we
are able to absorb into our very being the spirit of all
the three. It is then only we can be said to live
nobly, and in the front rank of our age, when we open
our souls freely for the reception of all light and
truth, whencesoever they come; it is then only we
can be said to think and act religiously, when we can
radiate that light and truth around us to bless and to
cheer our fellowmen, and to make them feel that life,
when lived truly, is indeed a joyous thing. Already
we see the collective wisdom of mankind rounding
itself into a perfect orb, and we can infer from the
light which it already sheds what shall be the bril
liancy of its full shining. What the destiny of our
race shall be—to what unknown shores the tide of
history rolls—are questions which we reserve for the
last lecture of our course on history. It is enough
for us at present to know that it does roll on, gathering
strength in its course; that it has come down to us
laden with all the wealth of human thought to which
all the nations have been tributaries; that it has
overwhelmed, and buried for ever, everything that
has resisted its progress, and that even now it roars
at the walls of our temples and at the gates of our
palaces; and that we see it pass by us bearing on its
bosom all that we have of real knowledge, of truth
and holiness, to scatter them as seeds for future
harvests in some happier climes, and under purer
heavens.
Smith & Brown, Printers, Edinburgh,
��
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Religion: its place in human culture.
Creator
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Macleod, John
Description
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 21 p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: A lecture delivered in Freemasons' Hall, Edinburgh, on Sunday, May 18, 1873. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Printed by Smith and Brown, Edinburgh.
Publisher
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Thomas Scott
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1873
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CT113
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Religion
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Religion: its place in human culture.), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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Text
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English
Conway Tracts
Culture
Religion
Religion and culture
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Victorian Blogging
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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In memoriam. John Stuart Mill, ... South Place Chapel, Finsbury, Sunday, May 25th, 1873
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Collation: [6 p.] ; 18 cm.
Notes: Hymn by W.J. Fox, music by E. Taylor; Readings; hymn adapted from Gaskell, music from Beethoven; Meditation; poem by George Herbert; Discourse; poem by Sarah F. Adams, music by Miss Flowers. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
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[s.n.]
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G5202
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South Place Religious Society
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
John Stuart Mill
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Conway Tracts
John Stuart Mill
Memorials
South Place Chapel
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THE
WESTMINSTER
AND
FOREIGN
QUARTERLY
REVIEW.
JANUARY 1, 1873.
Art. I.—Sophokles.
1. Sophokles, erlddrt wnF. W. Schneid ewin. Sechste Avflage,
besorgt von A..HKUGK., Berlin. 1871.
2. The Tragedies of Sophocles, with a Biographical Essay.
By E. H. Plumptre, M.A. London. 1867.
3. Die Religosen und Sittlichen Vorstellungen des Aeschylos
und Sopholdes. Von Gustav Dronke. Leipzig. 1861.
4. Sopholdes und seine Tragodien. Von 0. Ribbeck. Heft
83 in der Sammlung gemeinverstdndlicher wissenschaftlicher Vortrdge. Berlin. 1869.
ENGLISH scholarship has not done much for the better
J’j understanding of Sophokles. He is not a poet who has
taken close hold of the English mind. His works are studied of
course in the general university curriculum ; but he has not become
a poet often read and oftener quoted as have some of the classic
writers. Those who really find in him a source of intellectual
delight read his works in a German edition. But of what classical
writer may not this be said ? It is very seldom that an English
editor has the patience to make a complete presentation of a
classical author—to do for him what Professor Munro has done for
Lucretius—with that loving study and exhaustive research which
characterize the labours of the German editor. So far the case
of Sophokles is not single. But perhaps there is no instance of
an author of such renown as Sophokles, with so general a con
sensus of people willing to admit his claims, who has made so
little impression upon the majority of cultivated minds. The
[Vol. XCIX. No. CXCV.J—New Series, Vol. XLIII. No. I.
B
�2
Sophokles.
reason is that the majority of cultivated people never bring them
selves under his influence. The English scholar is for the
most part satisfied with a textual or critical knowledge: the
whole field of classical literature must be hurried through rather
than any part explored. And the result of this is scholarship
rather than knowledge.
Now with many authors this may be sufficient; it cannot be
so with all. Homer, for instance, will give up his. beauties in
broad and easily taken bands of continuous narrative. . Apart
from the necessities of philological studies, which are beside the
present question, Homer, like Chaucer, is easy reading. Those
that run may read the alto rilievo of the Iliad or Odyssey. But
before a group of statuary you must stand. And the difficulty
is that the intellectual life of the present day does not admit of
long standing. The progress of science and the march of new
ideas are continually urging on the student mind. And to almost
all the doubt must occasionally present itself, Is it worth while
to spend this time before these works of ancient art? . Now,
whatever the answer to this question may be, it is certain that
the. secret of Sophokles cannot be won without loving and
leisurely study. For in his works exists the highest form of one
species of art; and that an art which will yield its essence to no
hurried student. It is a significant circumstance that few English
translations of the works of Sophokles have been attempted.
The version of Mr. Plumptre is the fourth of its kind. Those
that have preceded it are of little importance. It is true that no
author suffers more from translation than Sophokles : but that
is the least element in the unpopularity of his dramas amongst
English readers. The reader unacquainted with the Greek
language may yet be fascinated by the “ tale of Troy divine
in the musical and monotonous lines of Pope, or the inadequate
interpretations of Cowper and Lord Derby : he may even, if.he
be a Keats, find his vision dazzled by the misty prospect which
he catches of the vast Homeric continent; but he is not at all
likely to be charmed with Sophokles. To understand Sophokles
one must place oneself in the intellectual position of ^n average
Athenian of the time of Perikles. Mr. Galton says : “ The
*
average ability of the Athenian race is, on the lowest possible
estimate, very nearly two grades higher than our own—that is,
about as much as our race is above that of the African negro?
The average English reader, therefore, whose knowledge of
Sophokles is derived from Mr. Plumptre’s very creditable version,
will probably lay down the book without any extraordinary
interest in the subject. He will miss the plaintive clink and
Hereditary Genius,” p. 3&2.
�Sophokles.
- 3
jingle of subjective sentimentality which he has been accustomed
to associate with poetry, and he will probably wonder at the
renown of the poet. But the earnest student of Sophokles will
find in the original enough to reward him. His mind will be
strengthened by the contemplation of perfect types of character,
bold, severe, and beautiful. He will pass .into a gallery of
statuary where he will see sights that can never leave his inner
eye. Serene faces, familiar, yet unusual in their lofty humanity,
will look down upon him •, voices, more divine than human,
though rising from the depths of the human heart, will speak to
him, and his ears will be filled with a holy and awful music.
The best guides to the higher knowledge of Sophokles are the
German works whose titles are given at the head of the present
*
paper. Schneidewin’s edition is known to students of Sophokles ;
so ought also to be the essay by G. Dronke, snatched from his
friends and from literature by an all too early death. Dr. Bib
beck’s paper, though short, is a concise estimate of the extant
dramas, and is written in a genial and scholarly style. The
present essay is an attempt to connect the works of Sophokles
with the periods of the poet’s life, and to point out the chief
dramatic characteristics of the several plays.
It was in the year 469 before our era, at the spring festival
of the greater Dionysia, that Athens saw the first trilogy of
Sophokles. The city was then full of new life ; it was the charmed
period when future greatness lay in bud, and not yet in blossom.
The terror of the Persian had been changed into an immortal
memory, and Athens was winning for herself the hegemony of
more than the Grecian race. This spring festival had drawn
many strangers to the city. The islands had not yet learned to
dread her power or doubt her justice, and sent their loyal visitors
to join in her rejoicing.
Two days of the festival had already passed, and a trilogy or
rather tetralogy had been presented each day. One was the
work of Aeschylus, for fourteen years the master of the Athenian
stage. Upon the third day a trilogy by a new poet was presented.
What thi^work really was is uncertain; it has, however, been
inferred from a passage in Pliny, that one drama was the Triptolemus. It was a subject that had never before been chosen for
the stage, but it was well adapted to win favour at Athens at the
present time. Already the city had conceived the design of
* No writer upon the life of Sophokles can forget the obligation which he
is under to Gotthold Ephraim Lessing—Mr. Plumptre most unaccountably
(p. xxii.) calls him Gottfried Lessing—whose splendid fragment of a ‘‘Life ot
Sophokles ” remains to show later writers what the great German critic might
have done in this direction.
B 2
�4
Sophokles.
uniting under a central power the scattered members of the Ionian
race, and the confederacy of Delos was in part a realization of
her desire. In the subject which he chose, Sophokles would
have an opportunity of idealizing the national aspiration.
Triptolemus was the youthful hero of Eleusis, the herald of
agriculture and peace, the friend and host of Demeter. He was
a traveller too, and where he lighted from his winged car, he
left a blessing of corn and wheat behind him. Thus Sophokles
was enabled to depict, as we know from Pliny he did depict, far
lands and foreign places, gladdened by the gifts that came from
Attica.
Whether he fully indicated such a mission for the new Attica
we cannot know; he was certainly too wise to miss the op
portunity altogether. It may well be that this power of repre
senting the national feeling, formed the distinctive characteristic of
the first trilogy of Sophokles; it is at least easier to believe this,
than that he surpassed the veteran JEschylus in technical ex
cellence. There was, however, a large section of the audience,
who preferred the JEschylean trilogy. Never, perhaps, in such
a cause, had party-feeling run so high. JEschylus was himself from
Eleusis; the new writer had won the suffrages of the elder poet’s
own townsmen. But the victory was not to be adjudged by
popular acclamation. The custom was that ten judges should be
elected by lot, one from each tribe. Why the ordinary mode of
decision was not retained, it is not easy to ascertain. At any
rate the presiding archon Aphepsion did not venture, in the
excited state of popular feeling, to follow the ordinary practice,
and this accident inaugurated a change in the method of electing
the tragic judges.
Kimon and his nine colleagues representing the Attic tribes
were at this moment the popular heroes. They had but newly
returned from their victorious contest with the Persians atEurymedon, and they had brought back from Skyros the bones of
Theseus to be laid in Attic soil. Moreover, they had been absent
during the preparation of the competing choruses, and, if any,
they were free from bias and prejudice Whatever their decision
might be, it would be accepted by the Athenians. With happy
tact, Aphepsion chose them as judges, and they were at once
sworn into the office. Their verdict was for Sophokles. Erom the
fact that henceforth only those who had seen service were allowed
to adjudge the tragic prizes, we may infer that the decision was
both memorable and satisfactory. Such at least seems to be the
sentiment with which Plutarch speaks of it : “ eOevto c’ dp
fj.v/]jur]v avrov Kai tt)v to>v rpaywcMv Kpiatv ovopacrrrjv ytvoplvriv.”
Whether it was the subject, the poetical handling, or the grace
and beauty of the principal actor, Sophokles himself, that turned
�Sophokles.
5
the scale in favour of the Triptoleinus, we miss the play with
regret. The result of the decision was that for many years
Sophokles became the favourite actor of the Athenian stage. There
is greater importance to be attached to this fact than at first sight
appears. It means not only that the successful dramatist was able,
to present his views cf art and ethics to the Athenian people ; but
that he was able to mould and perfect the form of presentation.
Nor must we forget the rival interests of the several tribes as an
element of success. The Choragus who had assisted in the pro
duction of a successful trilogy was rewarded even more than the
author. The actors were chosen for the same places in the
representations of the ensuing year, and we know that Sophokles
not only established a society of the best actors, but also wrote
his plays with special reference to their powers and capacities.
One success, therefore, was earnest of farther renown, and a
stepping-stone to it. The Choragus naturally granted to his
successful author more liberty than would be conceded to an
untried competitor, and it was this feeling of confidence in the
poet, which enabled Sophokles, as it had already enabled
.zEschylus, to achieve his ideal of dramatic art upon the stage.
But before we pass on to relate the gradual growth of the drama
in the hands of Sophokles, it will be well to speak of the young
poet in his personal relations to the Athenian people, who had
just crowned him with the ivy-chaplet.
If tradition is to be believed, he was not unknown to them. He
was not born of low or ignoble parents, for in this case the comic
stage would have rung with jesting allusions to his parentage.
His father, Sophillus, was undoubtedly a man of respectable rank,
a knight it may be. Plutarch speaks of Sophokles as a person
of good birth, and other writers attribute to him an excellent and
complete education. Probably with truth, for it is undoubted
that he possessed in a high degree those elegant personal accom
plishments which were deemed necessary accessories to an
Athenian gentleman. As the promising son of a well-known
citizen, he would be a youth who claimed attention ; and the
story of Athenaeus, which speaks of his surpassing beauty, is a'
record of the influence of his boyish grace upon his contem
poraries. It declares that he of all the Athenian youths, was
chosen to lead the choir of boys who danced round the trophies
in Salamis, after the defeat of the Persians. Aftertimes gladly
recalled the happy coincidence which linked the three great
names of Attic tragedy around the memorable victory of Salamis,
for Aeschylus fought in the battle, Sophokles led the paean, and
Euripides was born on the day of victory, within the fortunate
isle. The years which immediately followed the victory formed a
bright era in the history of the Athenians. They feared no more
�Sophokles.
6
for the barbarian invader, nor, by the prudence of Themistokles,
for the treachery of the selfish Spartans. At home there was room
in every sphere for the development of genius, and genius was
not absent. Under the hands of ./Eschylus the drama was
growing towards perfection, and the people built the great stone
theatre of Dionysus. A tradition says that ZEschylus was the
teacher of Sophokles in the dramatic art: it is most likely he
was his teacher only as he was the teacher of every Athenian
who had the right to hear his dramas. In this sense, each one
of his audience was his pupil, and not with regard to art alone.
It was his province to bring the minds of men from the dim
religious darkness of old theogonies into a fuller light, though a
light by no means so full as it was hereafter to be. Great
questions had been asked, and there was none to answer them ;
men’s minds were troubled with the inconsequence of virtue and
sorrow, and the polytheistic heaven of Homer was dark and
silent above them. The leading ideas of the tragedies of Adschylus
were the supremacy of Zeus, and the moral order of the Universe.
By chains, not always of gold, the world is bound about the
throne of Zeus. Vice leads to punishment in this generation,
and the next, and the third. Yet no voluntarily pure man can
come to ruin :
3’ avdyicaQ arep
(Action tiv ovk avoXfioQ
ekmv
carat.
H>vp.
550.
The contest of Destiny and Free-will is a mystery which finds
its solution only in this moral order. ’ wQpoavvir or moderation is
S
a conscious voluntary submission to the moral order. Any trans
gression of the line between Bight and Wrong is vfiptQ, and leads
to ruin. It is a disorder of the mind, a disease, a distemper,
without expiation and without cure. ZEschylus does not repre
sent the gods as leading man into the commission of guilt. In
the choice between good and evil, man is free. A good deed
must be, as an evil one is, dvdyaa^ drtp. No one is punished by
the Divine hand without fault of his own. But sin once com
mitted is followed by a judicial blindness which leads to other
and greater guilt. This dangerous downfall is accelerated by
means of a divine power known simply as “ Daimon,” or as
“ Alastor,” or sometimes “ Ate/’ whose influence may extend to a
whole race. This brings us to the subject of “family guilt,”
which is frequently a motive in the Greek dramas. The idea
that guilt was hereditary sprang from the notion that it was
inexpiable. Hence a house fell from one crime to another,
until the anger of the gods swept it away root and branch. It
is an extension of the primitive “ lex talionis murder brings
murder, rvppa TvppaTL rival, and guilt gives birth to guilt. And
�Sophokles.
7
what Ate or Alastor is to the individual, that Erinnys is to the
family, working it madness and blindness, and involving it
deeper and deeper in the slough of crime.
/3oct yap Xotyog ILpivvv
7rapa tGjv Trporspov (pQtpevwv drrjv
tTEpcw iTrayovaav £7r' dry.—Cho. 402.
Yet the individual is free. If he belongs to a doomed raise,
then it is true there is in him an hereditary tendency which
shall lead him to guilt and ruin, but the decision rests with him
self. He is not given over to Ate until he has himself been
guilty of sin (vj3ptc). In much of this ethical system 2Eschylus
has taken and arranged prevailing popular beliefs. By his
monotheism, which made Zeus supreme, he attained to the idea
of order in the universe. His conception of sin is one which
is not alien from some forms of modern thought, and his belief
in free-will and individual responsibility, exercised considerable
influence upon later philosophy.
Sophokles did not remain unaffected by the teaching of his
contemporary, though his nature was essentially different. His
works are to the works of Aeschylus, as the clear light succeeding
to a thunderstorm. He took the gain and added to it. We
shall see in what way.
Whatever had been the progress made by JEschylus, Sophokles
at once perceived that the mechanical and technical appliances
of the art, of which he now held supreme command, were by no
means perfect. It would be strange if they had been, while the
art itself was so young. The old monologue with the chorus as
interlocutor, gave place to the drama, when the earlier poet
introduced a second actor, and made dialogue possible. But
this, it is clear, left room for farther changes. Sophokles
availed himself of the opportunity. His first change was the
separation of the functions of author and actor. It is said that
he took this course for a personal reason, the weakness of his
own voice, which could not fill the vast space occupied by his
audience. But there was probably another reason also, the feeling
namely, that each character would more readily attain to its ade
quate excellence if separated from the other. He himself did
not take any leading character after the appearance of the
Triptolemus, but the care with which he trained his actors,
testifies to the importance which he attached to this branch of
the art. A more significant change was the introduction of a
third actor upon the stage. That this improvement was made
by Sophokles we have the testimony of Aristotle. It is possible
that even earlier, AEschylus may have used three actors, and it is
difficult to understand how some of the scenes of his earlier plays
�8
Sophokles.
could have been represented by two actors only, but the adoption
of this number as a permanent feature of each play, is due to
Sophokles. Besides these greater changes, no matter of detail
escaped him; we learn from the same source that he carefully
directed the arrangement of the scenery and the stage. The
palace of 2Eschylus, with doors central, right and left, gave place
to a more elaborate stage, and much art must have been required
in fitting the theatre for the scenery of the (Edipus at Kolonus.
Yet the greatest innovation was the mode which Sophokles
adopted in treating a subject itself. 2Eschylus wrote his dramas,
and treated the subject in the form of a trilogy. When Sophokles
abandoned this form of composition, and chose to develop his
subject in a single play, it is certain he risked much. But his
artistic sense could not err. What the poetical material lost in
breadth and depth, it gained in concentration and intensity. It
followed, that in the plays of Sophokles first was seen the real
spirit of Greek dramatic art, the perfect statuesque poise of form
and expression which we have learnt to look upon as the chief
characteristic of the Athenian drama.
We return to the year of the first victory of Sophokles, from
which these improvements have led us. It was a year marked
by an event of more importance for mankind than the supremacy
of Sophokles, the birth of Sokrates. Herodotus was then a boy
of sixteen years, Thukydides an infant of three, and Euripides a
child of twelve. Seven years later Perikles rose to the height
of his power, and Athens of her glory. This is the date of the
appearance of the Oresteian trilogy, a trilogy worthy of JEschylus
and of Athens, and the only one we possess. But it unquestion
ably exhibits marks of the influence of Sophokles. A third actor
appears in every play. Three years later fiEschylus died in Sicily,
and for the next fifteen years we know nothing of the personal
history of Sophokles. History has not much to say even about
the silent growth and development of the city under the govern
ing hands of Perikles, nor is it necessary that much should be
said when the memorials are imperishable. At the end of this
period, by some caprice of popular taste Euripides was allowed to
gain the first prize.
The next year Sophokles exhibited his Antigone.
It is almost as fatal to an author’s reputation to write too
much as it is to write too little. We learn that Sophokles had
written one-and-thirty dramas before he composed the Antigone;
yet if any of these lost dramas approached at all in majesty or
power the thirty-second, which remains to us, we may well
lament the irreparable theft of time. Perhaps they, as well as
the Antigone, aided in securing the election of Sophokles to a
general’s rank. The time at which it was exhibited has not
�Sophokles.
9
been fully illustrated by the luminous pen of Thukydides, but
some rays of historical light allow us to see the internal political
activity of the city. The establishment of a complete democracy
by Perikles and Ephialtes was not accomplished without much
resistance, and it was difficult to keep aloof from party strife.
The conservative or stationary faction, under the leadership of
Kimon, drew around them the wealthy Athenians, who saw
their oligarchical power passing away with the old order of
things. The centre of their union was the Council of the
Areopagus, and any change in that institution appeared to them
as sacrilege and profanity. But the victorious cause was with
their opponents. The Areopagites were stripped of their timehallowed privileges, which were certainly not in Accordance with
the spirit of a pure democracy. 2Eschylus had been a vigorous
partisan of the conservative party, and took occasion in his
Oresteian trilogy to inculcate popular respect for that court and
the other decaying institutions whose power Perikles and
Ephialtes sought to banish or curtail. And the artistic effect of
the poem is lessened by the zeal of the partisan. Muller says
with truth, that JEschylus seems almost to forget Orestes in the
establishment of the Areopagus and the religion of the Erinnys.
Sophokles never forgot that his first duty was to his art. And
so far is the
above the atmosphere of controversy
and dispute which blurred the Eumenides of ^Eschylus, that it
was actually claimed by both parties as a witness to their views,
and was received by both with un mixed applause. We cannot
wonder at it. No play of Sophokles seizes with such over
mastering power the human heart, no play is so full of noble
thought, and in no play is the lyric element so harmoniously
blended with the maich of events, accompanying it as with the
sound of serene and divine music.
The plot is as follows :—Eteokles and Polyneikes have fallen
at the gates of Thebes in contest: Eteokles fighting for the
Thebans, Polyneikes, with seven great princes, against them.
Both brothers perish, and Kreon is made king in the place of
Eteokles. At- once he issues a decree that Eteokles shall be
buried with due honours, and that the body of Polyneikes shall
be left unburied and exposed. When the drama opens, Antigone
has just heard of the proclamation of the decree. She therefore
suggests to her sister, Ismene, that they should bury the body of
their brother. Ismene shrinks from the attempt, and is met by
the full scorn of Antigone, who goes forth, daring “ a holy crime.”
Shortly the news is brought to Kreon that his authority has
been defied, and that rites of sepulture have been performed
upon the body. As yet the offender is unknown. But this is
soon revealed, and Antigone appears, led in by the guard. A
�10
Sophokles.
great scene follows, when Antigone appeals to > the divine
unwritten laws against human ordinances. Kreon pronounces
her doom ; she is to be buried in a living sepulchre—a bloodless
but horrible fate, not unknown of old. The action is, however,
delayed by the entrance of Hremon, Kreon’s son and Antigone’s
affianced husband, who pleads for her. Yet it is not to Kreon’s
paternal affection that he appeals, but to the principle which
the new king has set before himself—the safety and unanimity
of the state. There are already murmurs, indistinct but deep,
heard in the city against the severity of the king’s decree.
Kreon’s passion and blindness grow more intense as he listens to
his son, and before the king’s fiery words Hee mon is driven away,
crying that his father shall see his face no more. From the
depths of this-darkness the audience are lifted by the strains of
the Chorus, who sing, “ Love, ever victor in war and as their
music dies away, Antigone is led across the stage to her lingering
doom. Again the Chorus waken to music, but it is music in the
minor key, and can no longer lighten or delay the growing
terror. Teiresias, the blind but infallible prophet, appears, and
describes the imminence of the divine anger for Kreon’s crime.
His prophetic utterances terrify the king, who hurries to undo
the wrong he has committed. In vain. Upon reaching the tomb
of Antigone, he finds her hanging dead by her girdle to the
vaulted roof, and is in time only to receive the passionate curse
of his son, and to witness his self-inflicted death. When Kreon
reaches home, bearing the corpse of Haemon, he finds that
Rumour, swifter than his laden steps, has already told all to the
ears of his wife, and that she has slain herself in anguish and
despair. So all the fountains of feeling, young love and parental
affection, which can never be long pent up, have broken loose,
and are all the more terrible for the unholy obstructions which
they have swept away.
The character of the chief person, Antigone, stands forth
in just and magnificent proportions. All that is beautiful
in womanly nature—nay, rather in human nature—shine
forth from that supreme ideal, a mind that sees the right,
and a soul that dares to do it in the face of death. Never had
love and strength been so combined upon the Athenian stage,
and the Athenian spectators must have experienced the same
feeling in gazing upon that representation as pilgrims did when
they were ushered into the presence of the Olympian Zeus of
Phidias. We have lost the one? we can still be taught by the
other. The heart of man has not ceased to be shaken by the
contest which is waged between temporary expediency and selfish
interests on the one side, and on the other the unchanging
laws of higher duty, for these laws “ are not of to-day, nor of
�Sophokles.
11
yesterday, but they live always, and their footsteps are not
known.”
The secondary characters throw the figure of Antigone into
bolder relief. Ismene, who knows what is right, follows the way
which leads to personal security. The grandeur of Antigone dwarfs
even the natural nobility of her sister when she seeks to share the
death she has not earned. Kreon errs through insolence. He is
wanting in the vision which has made the path of Antigone clear ;
he has forgotten the rights of the gods, and his own way leads
to ruin. Only when this ruin is full in view does he perceive
that he has gone astray, and discover that there is something
higher than love to the state and to his country—loyalty to the
great unwritten laws. Nor does the character of Hsemon, noble as
it is, disturb the unity of the impression which we receive from
Antigone. She stands the central commanding figure of the
group. And as she thus stands alone, so in her the one promi
nent feature is her heroic allegiance to duty. Other traits there
are, but they serve to bring out this one characteristic. She is
no unwomanly person, portrayed in rough masculine lines. Her
language to Ismene, if it seems harsh, is forgotten when she says
to Kreon :
ou rot tnwEyOetv dXXd avp,^>iXAv tcpuv,
for we know that these words come from the depth of her nature.
Then, when the work which she has set herself has been accom
plished, when the expression of her natural feelings can no longer
mar or render equivocal her devotion to the dead, she breaks
into lamentations like those of the Hebrew daughter, which show
how tender and womanly alife is about to be sacrificed. Once only
before has she shown any indication of the mental struggle
through w’hich she has passed, and that is when strung by Kreon’s
unconcern she breathes forth the sighing complaint, “ 0 dearest
Hsemon, how thy sire dishonours thee !”* The delicacy with
which Sophokles has treated the ove of Hsemon and Antigone
secures still farther the predominant effect. It is hard to imagine
such restraint in modern art.
The Chorus, of whose surpassing melody mention has already
been made, had certain peculiarities in this play. It did not, like
most choruses, consist of persons of the same age and sex as the
principal actor, but of Theban elders. Nor did it at once take
part with Antigone. Even here she is left alone. But by its
submission to Kreon it serves to deepen the impression of the
* The MSS. gives this line (572) to Ismene. Schneidewin has rightly,
and for unanswerable reasons, assigned it to Antigone.
Dindorf and
Ribbeck agree with him.
�12
Sophokles.
monarch’s irresistible power : and by not participating at once in
the action, it is enabled to rise to a higher atmosphere of wisdom,
which culminates in the choric song,
7roXXa ra Seiva k.t.X.
So, too, in its last songs, the painful instances of suffering which
are recalled added to the darkness of Antigone’s fate.
The effect of this perfect drama upon the Athenians was great,
and as has been said, universal. Although Sophokles had hitherto
taken only that share in public life which was the duty of
every Athenian citizen, they now elected him as one of the
college of generals, at whose head was Perikles. It happened to
be the time of the war with Samos, which had revolted from
Athens, and the ten generals with sixty triremes sailed for that
island. Sophokles took sixteen of these ships and proceeded to
Chios and Lesbos, to procure a further contingent. At the former
island we hear of him through Athenreus, who records the opinion
of Ion, that he was not able nor energetic in political affairs, but
behaved as any other virtuous Athenian might have done.
(Ath. xiii. 81.) This assertion probably had its origin in the
playful self-depreciation with which Sophokles spoke of his own
strategic power ; and it is quite possible that Perikles treated his
poet-colleague with a good-humoured irony, which he accepted in
the same spirit. This view is borne out by the story which
Atnenseus tells of Sophokles : that, having snatched a kiss from
a fair face at Chios, he exclaimed amidst the laughter of the
company, “ Perikles says that I know how to compose poetry,
but have no strategic power; now, my friends, did not my
stratagem succeed ?” It is certain, however, that, whatever his
power as a general, he did not lose the confidence and affection
of his fellow citizens ; for, five years later, he was treasurer of the
common fund of the Greek Confederacy. Afterwards for nearly
thirty years we do not hear of his taking any part in public life.
But it was no time to him of intellectual inactivity. During this
period he wrote eighty-one plays, which is almost at the rate of a
trilogy a year. If we remember all that this includes—the com
position and the instruction of actors for so many and so fre
quently successfuldramas—we shall cease to wonder that Sophokles
did not seek to meddle with statesmanship. And once more we
shall regret that so little has come down to us of that abundant
intellectual wealth.
The commencement of the Peloponnesian war, and the
death of Perikles, turned one page of Athenian history ; but
Sophokles to the end of his long life continued to live in the
spirit of the Periklean age. Ten year after the appearance of the
Antigone he published the (Edipus Rex. The general outlines
of the story are easily told. Laius, King of Thebes, and J okasta
�Sophokles.
13
his wife, were told by the God at Delphi, that should they have
a son, Laius would be slain by his hand, and Jokasta would
become his wife. Therefore, when their son CEdipus was born,
they determined to destroy him, and gave him to a herdsman
that he might be cast out upon Mount Kithoeron. This herds
man, however, smitten with pity, gave the child to a comrade
shepherd, who carried him to Corinth, where the boy was adopted
as son by the king of that city. Many years afterwards, CEdipus
at Corinth heard the oracle which had been delivered concerning
him ; but he was still in ignorance as to his parentage. Think
ing, however, that he was the son of the king of Corinth, he left
Corinth lest the oracle should come true, and travelled towards
Thebes. Upon his way he met his real father, and a quarrel
having arisen, a contest ensued in which his father fell and all
those who accompanied him save one. (Edipus then arrived at
the kingless city of Thebes, which was ravaged by the murderous
Sphinx. He freed the city from the Sphinx and accepted the prof
fered throne, and with it the hand of the widowed queen, little
dreaming that she was his own mother. For years the city was
prosperous, and four children were born to him. Then a plague
fell upon the people. All this was before the action of the play
begins. An oracle now declares that the pestilence is sent because
Laius has been forgotten. His murderer must be ejected.
(Edipus pronounces a curse upon the unknown assassin, and
sends for Teiresias the blind seer, if peradventure he may be
able to declare the man. Teiresias, enlightened by his art,
scarce dares to tell what he knows, and is evilly treated by
CEdipus. Then Jokasta complicates the confusion. She openly
asserts her disbelief in oracles ; for her own son had been destined
by these lying witnesses to marry her; whereas he was slain, and
she was wedded to GEdipus. Yet out of this security
“ Surgit amari aliquid,”
Laius was slain at a “triple way
terrible words that
set sounding a sullen chord in the breast of (Edipus, for
long ago he slew a man upon a triple way. One witness there
was, and he is now summoned. Meanwhile a messenger
arrives to say that the king of Thebes, the reputed father of
(Edipus, is dead. This is a gleam of light upon the eyes of
CEdipus, for the oracle has been proved false.
The mes
senger has still farther comfort. CEdipus need not dread the
fulfilment of the oracle at all, since he is not the son of the king
and queen of Corinth, a fact dimly hinted before, but now for
the first time clearly told. Then whose son is he ? A new pas
sion seizes the king, and he is determined to unravel the mystery
of his birth. The messenger is able to aid him in this, for he
received the king as a foundling at the hands of a servant of
�14
Sophokles.
Laius. All is now ready for the catastrophe, which Jokasta, more
quickwitted than her son, at once foresees. The witness of his
murder of Laius, who at this moment comes up, is no other than
the herdsman who had given him as an infant to the Corinthians.
The electric circle is completed, the spark shatters the divine
edifice of royal prosperity and the hearts of the audience, and the
oracles of the gods are evidently true. Jokasta has already
ended her existence; and (Edipus. unable to endure the sight of
his own misery and that of his family, puts out his eyes.
There are several reasons why this drama should be assigned
to this period, notwithstanding the absence of authoritative data.
The vivid description of a pestilence was probably written by one
who had witnessed the virulence of the Athenian scourge. Some
commentators have believed the chorus tt poi
k.t.X. to have
reference to the mutilation of the Hermse. If this be true, the play
must necessarily be of later date than that supposed above. It
probably refers to the reckless spirit of licence w’hich exhibiteditself
in Athens as a reaction against the popular superstitions of the
earlier period, and which eventually led to the profanation. The
drama is in fact a protest against the disregard of religion, and a
magnificent exhibition of the vanity of human attempts to cross the
decrees of fate. In this respect it stands alone amongst the plays
of Sophokles. It depicts the contest of an honourable and noble
character with a foregone destiny. To add to the interest of the
picture, the man who is unable to solve the riddle of his own
history, is the one who alone was able to unravel the enigma
of human life proposed by the Sphinx, and it is only when the
eyes of his corporal vision are darkened for ever that the organs
of his spiritual sight are unclosed. At first his house is the only
one spared in the pestilence, and all eyes are directed to him as the
saviour of the state ; yet it is his house which is the cause of the
plague. Then his own blind eagerness to discover the regicide,
the curse which he unwittingly imprecates upon himself, 'the
gradual lifting of the curtain fold by fold till he breaks into the
exclamation,
lov, toil, ra navr av
<ra<p7j,
are terrible instances of the irony which Sophokles is accustomed
to ascribe to destiny, but nowhere so powerfully as in this play.
Surely but slowly the end approaches. Now the progress of
events is delayed by some joyous choric song like the imp tyii>
ptavriQ dpi, k.t.X. ; now there falls upon the play some beam of
hope which makes us believe that the gathering thunderstorm
will be dispersed or break up into sunny tears and the dewy
delight of averted calamity. But the vain hopes and the vanish
ing glory serve only as preludes to the complete darkness of the
catastrophe, which, at last, suddenly envelopes the w'hole heaven.
�Sophokles.
15
It is not only modern admiration which the play has won.
Aristotle has taken it as the model of a drama, and its effect
upon contemporary minds must have been great. It is equally
admirable as a whole and in single passages. The choruses are
generally like the atmosphere of the play, of a lurid and broken
colour, so that we know not whether light or darkness will
prevail. The earlier choruses approach in thought and expression
to the language of Milton, or of modern poetry. Thus the description of the rapid deaths in time of pestilence, so different as
it is from the picture given by Homer (II. 1) has that touch
about it which belonged later to Dante.
aXXor
av aXXp irpoffibote airep
kv7TTEpOV bpvcv,
Kpei&aoy apatpaKerov irupoQ Sp/ievoy
Q.KTCLV WpQQ ECTTTEpOU .&EOIK
“ And one soul after another might be discerned flitting like
strong-winged bird with greater force than invincible fire, to the
shore of the Western God.”
It recalls, too, the half-mediseval, wholly beautiful lines of Mr.
Rossetti in his poem of the “ Blessed Damozel.”
i
“ Heard hardly, some of her new friends
Amid their loving games
Spake evermore among themselves
Their virginal chaste names ;
And the souls mounting up to God,
Went big her like thinflames”
Another passage (lines 476 et seq.) is more Hebrew than
Greek in its description of the Cain-like homicide.
ipoird yap vir aypiciv
vXav, ava r ayrpa Kai
vrerpas are ravpos,
peXeo^ peXeip ~6ct ygripeviav,
ra. petropipaXa yaQ dirovoapiliiav
pavreia' rd 8’ dec
ZUvra irepcrrordrai.
"For sullenly turning his sullen step, he wanders moodily
under the wildwood, or amid caves and rocks, like a bull, and
avoids the divine voices that rise from the central oracle of the
land. But they live, and are whispered around him.”
Yet this incomparable poem won only the second prize; the
first was gained by the work of Philokles. Time, in preserving
this alone, has reversed the decision of the judges. The reason
of that decision may lie in the nature of the play itself. To the
Athenians, who after the taking of Miletus could not endure
�16
Sophokles.
the scenic shadow of their loss, the unsoftened representation of
their sufferings in the Theban plague, and the direct promulgation
of the doctrine of irresistible destiny may have seemed unwelcome
and ill-timed. And the conclusion of the play is less relieved
than that of any other. It is not broken up into those short
cries and natural lamentations, with which many tragedies
close, but solemnly and sadly to the beat of throbbing trochaics
the figures pass from the stage like the muffled pomp of a
funeral procession, and the curtain rises upon a silent- and awe
struck audience.
It is far otherwise with the (Edipus at Kolonus. Like the
Rhiloktetes, it has a plot which depends upon divine interven
tion, and one in which the sequence of the episodes is not
absolutely perfect in connexion, though each episode is perfect in
its own characteristic beauty. After the events depicted in
(Edipus Rex, the blind king with his daughters remained at
Thebes, until he and Antigone were thrust forth by Kreon. For
many long months they wandered through Greece, whilst Eteokles,
the younger son of CEdipus, drove out from Thebes Polyneikes
the elder, who betook himself to Argos and gathered an army to
make him king again. At last CEdipus and Antigone came to
the plain of Kolonus, near Athens. Here, beneath the shade of
an olive-grove, the aged king sits down to rest, and here an inward
confidence tells him that he is approaching the term of his suffer
ings. This olive-grove is sacred to the Furies, and it is sacrilege
for ordinary men to approach it. The news reaches Theseus that
stranger has set foot within the lioly precincts, and he hastens
to the place. Before his arrival Ismene comes in haste to tell
her father of the fratricidal war upon which her brothers have
entered, and that Kreon is hurrying to carry back CEdipus, since
an oracle has declared that his presence will bring victory on
either side. CEdipus pronounces a curse upon his son, and reveals
his intention of blessing Athens by remaining within her territory.
Theseus now arrives, and not ignorant of the responsibility he is
incurring, assures CEdipus of a courteous and secure hospitality.
CEdipus in return acquaints him with the benefits which his
presence will confer upon Athens, and the calamity which will
ensue to Thebes. Theseus accepts with confidence the divine
privilege which CEdipus offers, and once more assures him of his
protection. If ever a situation made a supreme demand upon
an Athenian chorus, it is the present. We have come to the
middle point between the beginning and the end of the action.
The Acropolis of Athens, though as yet unblessed by the works
of Phidias, rises within sight of the beholder. Kephissus draws
her silvery threads through the foreground, and the hero-prince
of Athens, in accepting the charge of CEdipus, unites the new and
�Sophokles.
17
the old, and links historic to heroic times. The music which
shall not mar the harmonious suspense of this situation must be
subtie indeed. But the music of Sophokles is never of a nega
tive kind. It increases and enhances the dramatic feeling.
Accordingly it is here that we find the greatest choric ode of the
Greek drama. The undying chords of the poem which follows
raise the mind of the hearer to a level with the exaltation of
CEdipus himself.
Pahttttov, Rve, raffle ^(ijpag.
“ Guest, thou art come to the noblest spot
Of all this chivalrous land.”
But this lofty tranquillity is broken by the entrance of Kreon,
who endeavours to persuade CEdipus to return to Thebes. Upon
his refusal, Kreon has recourse to violence, and carries off Anti
gone, Ismene having been previously secured. Theseus however
restores his daughters to the blind king. The next scene brings
upon the stage Polyneikes, who seeks reconciliation with his
father. This he does not succeed in obtaining, and he leaves
the stage begging for the kind offices of Antigone in his burial.
The play now draws to a close. The euthanasia of CEdipus is all
that remains. The hour of destiny has come, and the Passing
of CEdipus—no man knows where or whither—completes the
purpose of the gods.
A question so debated as the date of this play can scarcely be
Answered satisfactorily here. Critics both ancient and modern have
connected it with the latest period of the author’s life; but there
are portions of the drama which seem to belong to an earlier date,
and. to have reference to that period of reactionary licence which
was marked by the mutilation of the Hermse. By its subject it is
closely connected with the CEdipus Rex, and there is nothing im
probable in the supposition that even if it were first produced after
the author’s death, it was begun whilst the subject of CEdipus was
fresh in his mind. And if any parallelism is to be drawn
between Sophokles and the great German poet, this work may
well be compared with the “Faust,” from which the summa
manus was so long withheld. The allusions in the poem itself
do not fix it to any definite date. ' All that can be said with
certainty is that it is subsequent to the Antigone; for while
both plays that have CEdipus for their subject contain references
to the Antigone, that drama has not a single allusion to the
action of the other two. Whether, however, we are to credit it
with an earlier or later origin, we sh^ild be doing an injustice to
the spirit of Sophoklean poetry if we were to Suppose that
political allusions brought down the drama into a realistic atmo
sphere.’ It is idle to attempt to connect the Theban and Athenian
[Vol. XCIX. No. CXCV.J—New Series, Vol. XLIII. No. I.
C
�18
Sophokles.
struggle which the poet mentions, with any special date.
*
It is
more profitable to win the freedom of that ideal land in which
are brought together the blind old king and the hero of Athens.
In some respects the (Edipus at Kolonus differs from the
other dramas. There is in it a perplexing mixture of manner
which suggests both a return to the style of Aeschylus and a
concession to the growing influence of Euripides. The self
completion and perfection of outline, which marked the Antigone
and the (Edipus Rex are wanting here. The drama is the
fragment of a trilogy of Aeschylean breadth ; it is rhetorical and
lyric in the style of Euripides. The real Sophoklean charac
teristics are not, however, absent, sweetness and power of
expression, lofty and graceful sentiment, and a perfection of
rhythm and vivid delineation. But it is a series of linked
scenes rather than a drama proper. Of scenes that begin with
the peaceful olive grove, and end in the euthanasia of the
world-worn (Edipus. Nothing could be finer or more effective
than that touch of the pen of Sophokles which paints, not
indeed the death of (Edipus, but Theseus, who alone saw it,
with his face shaded by his hand, as though to shut out some
stupendous revelation. To this history of (Edipus Sophokles
has given the only satisfactory and worthy conclusion which
was possible. In his life he was a contradiction to the laws that
regulate human affairs ; he remained a contradiction in his
death. Others passed by the grove of the Eumenides with
bated breath and averted faces—he found there rest and a
conclusion of his toils. The grove trodden by Bacchus, nymphtraversed and nightingale-haunted, was to him, upon whom all
tempestuous airs had broken, a haven “ windless of all storms.”
And here the troubled life at length ceases, and peace is found
at last. In the choruses of this play the poet’s love of Athens
finds expression. Many poets had spoken with enthusiasm of
the “ violet-crowned city,” but never with such beauty and
exalted passion as does Sophokles in the ode, zviirirov,
k.t.X.
The legends connected with it are probably false, but they bear
witness to the opinion of the ancients concerning'it. Sophokles,
unlike his rivals in the dramatic art, remained true to his native
city. No offer of foreign patronage could tempt him to leave
Athens. Aeschylus died in Sicily, Euripides in Macedonia.
There were many princes who would gladly have welcomed
Sophokles to their courts—indeed, there were many who invited
him thither; but he remained unmoved by their offers, and
never left his city except to do her service and to further
* Schneidewin suggests the i7F7ro/xa^ta rts Bpax/ia ev Qpvpois, mentioned
Thukyd. ii. 22, as a possible occasion.
�Sophokles.
19
aer interests. The anonymous biographer says that he was
^adrivaioTaTOQ, (t most enamoured, of Athens.
And the city
repaid his affection. The same biographer says, “In a word,
such was the grace of his nature that he was beloved by all.
It is unfortunate—it is more than unfortunate—that of the
personal history of the poet we know so little. Few and far
between are the dates that we can assign to the events of his
life. The seventeenth year after the supposed date of the
(Edipus Rex saw the calamitous termination of the Sicilian
expedition. Amongst the names of the ten elderly men elected
Probuli to meet the emergency of the crisis, we find that ot
Sophokles. If this be indeed our poet, we have here another
instance of the confidence and love which the city felt towards
the tragedian, who was now eighty years old. The seventeen
years to which reference has been made are important in the
history of Greek literature. They include the birth of Plato, the
exhibition by Aristophanes of the Knights, the Clouds, and the
Peace, but they cannot definitely be connected with any play of
Sophokles. Possibly the Elektra falls within this period. It is
at any rate marked by the best characteristics of the poet. It
.dispenses with the breadth of treatment which a trilogy allows,
and concentrates the interest upon the action of a single play.
In the trilogy upon the same subject which AEschylus exhibited,
probably thirty years earlier, the death of Klytemnestra forms
an episode of the middle drama, and the ethical problem of
filial duty in antagonism to divinely-directed justice is sketched
only in outlines which leave much to be filled in.
Sophokles treated the subject as follows :—During the absence
of Agamemnon in the Trojan campaign, his wife Klytemnestra
formed an adulterous union with AEgisthus, and upon the return
of Agamemnon, slew her husband and wedded with AEgisthus.
Elektra, daughter of Agamemnon, fearing foul treatment for
her brother Orestes, then a child, sent him out of the country,
whilst she herself remained, together with her sister Chrysothenis,
at Argos, waiting for the manhood and return of Orestes to
claim his hereditary throne. When due time arrives, Orestes,
under the direction of Apollo, comes back to Argos unheralded
and unknown. He is accompanied by his faithful attendant the
Peedagogus, who brings to Klytemnestra an account of the death
of Orestes at the Pythean chariot contest. The play opens with
the arrival of Orestes and his attendant at Argos. Elektra comes
forth to bewail the death of her father and the delay of Orestes,
and is comforted by such consolation Us the chorus can offer her.
Next, Klytemnestra, who has been terrified by a dream, appears,
and
angry altercation takes place between her and Elektra.
When this is concluded, the Psedagogus enters and announces the
c 2
�20
Sophokles.
death of Orestes. The grief of Elektra occupies the attention of
the spectators until the entrance of the disguised Orestes and
Pylades his friend, bearing an urn which contains the pretended
ashes of Orestes. In the interview between Orestes and Elektra
which, follows, a recognition takes place, and nothing remains
to be done but to effect the revenge. Orestes therefore enters
the house and slays his mother, and ffEgisthus, upon his arrival,
shares the same fate.
The work of Sophokles is finer and fuller of artistic power
than the work of 2Eschylus. The character of Elektra is un
borrowed, and forms a contrast to that of the Aeschylean Elektra.
She, and not Orestes, is the centre of the action, and though
not the actual avenger, is really the prompter and promoter of
the deed. In the Choephorce we are perpetually reminded that
the death of Klytemnestra was the work of the gods; Elektra
falls into the background, a weak, suffering woman, whose
strongest trait is love for her brother, and he, a mere tool in the
hands of the deity, after numerous hesitations and delays in
accomplishing the divine purpose, becomes a victim of madness
and terror. The Sophoklean drama is more valuable than the
Aeschylean trilogy. In the Elektra we have, as in the Antigone,
a distinct and noble type of character set in full light and drawn
in clear lines of power. Elektra is the personification of justice
and fidelity, as Antigone is of love and strength. Like justice,
she never wavers from her purpose. When all hope of the
return of Orestes has ceased and his death seems certain, she
herself undertakes the work which should have been his, for
vengeance must be done, and the house of Agamemnon must
be freed from the accursed and abiding crime. And when
Orestes reveals himself as her brother, she does not leave the
central position of the group. One short burst of natural joy,
and she is ready to take any measures which may bring about
the punishment of the murderess. Nay, she stands on guard
while the deed is being done, and to the prayers of Klytemnestra
her answers are stern and inexorable as destiny. With subtle
words of double meaning she leads AEgisthus into the prepared
snare, and then forbids parley or delay—dXX’ wq rax^ra ktzivs,
she says—and the house of Athens is freed from its long and
intolerable servitude.
The character of Elektra, as we see it in its final manifestion, is
as terrible as it is grand. Klytemnestra endeavours to justify her
owm conduct, and to represent it as righteous; but Elektra strikes
the key-note in her long nightingale lament, when she says,
ooXoc r/i' 6 (ppaaac, tpoc o tcrtlvac.
Chrysothenis, weak and vacillating, ready to condone the past
�Sophokles.
21
and enjoy the present, serves as a foil to the stronger character
of her sister. The same may be said of the Chorus,, which
although sympathetic, does not rise to the same heights of
sublimity or lyric sweetness as in the other plays of Sophokles.
Dr. Ribbeck sees here a reason for believing the Elektra to be
an early work. Yet it is not the lyric element which we should
expect to see failing in a younger work, and the conception and
delineation of character in the Elektra is of the highest kind.
The balance of proportion between the brother and sister is
admirably kept. Orestes is not the instrument of the gods,
though under their protection, but of Elektra. By her side he
must not waver, he must proceed at once to vengeance.
That portion of the ethical question which yEschylus has
indicated in the Eumenides does not come into the drama of
Sophokles.
The description of the chariot race has always been regarded
with justice as a masterpiece of art, and there is scarcely any
thing more touching in literature than the scene which describes
the recognition of brother and sister, and the rapid change of
mood, which, in broken iambics, passes from hopeless sorrow into
Overpowering joy.
In the Elektra, Sophokles presents before us a character,
which, as it were, wrestles with destiny, and conquers ; in the
Ajax we have a character ennobled by its very defeat.
Ajax was the most distinguished of the Greek generals in the
Trojan war, next to Achilles, and upon the death of Achilles a
dispute arose for the arms of that hero. The claimants were
Ajax and Ulysses, and the arms were adjudged to the latter. Full
of anger at this decision, Ajax determined to slay both Ulysses
and the Atridse, who had acted as arbitrators; but as he was
going by night to accomplish his revenge, he was inspired with
madness by Athene, whose aid he had previously rejected. In
this madness he fell upon the flocks of cattle around the camp,
and slew some and carried others to his tent, thinking he had
captured in them his rival and his enemies. When day dawns
his right mind returns, and he is overwhelmed with the ignominy
of his position and resolves to put an end to his life. This he
accomplishes by falling upon his sword. The Atridee command
that his body should be left unburied, but Teucer resists
them, and he is honourably buried. This drama is placed
here, not because it certainly belongs to this period, but
because its date is undetermined and undeterminable. Schneidewin and others assign it to an earlier period, make it indeed
nearly contemporary with the Antigone, both on account
of its resemblance in lyric measures to the 2Eschylean dramas,
and on. account of the rarity with which a third actor is brought
�22
Sophokles.
forward. But the Antigone sufficiently shows that Sophokles
had passed this stage. Others see in the speeches which follow
the suicide of Ajax an approximation to the rhetorical style of
Euripides. Those who adopt a middle course, will place it rather
in the long undated period, when the literary activity of
Sophokles was at its height. It is a poem in which the national
feeling of Athens was likely to find especial gratification. Of all the
heroes celebrated in the Iliad, Ajax was the only one that Athens
could claim as connected with herself. Salamis had been in
close union with Athens from immemorial time, and one Athenian
tribe took its name from Ajax. Herodotus tells us (viii. 64), that
before the battle of Salamis, the Athenians prayed to all the
gods, and to Ajax and Telamon. This connexion gives rise to
the beautiful ode
<j) tcXeiva 'SiaXap.tQ k.t.X.
The drama opens with a scene which breathes the frenzy of fierce
hatred and lust for murder that mark Northern poetry rather
than Greek. Yet it serves to set a stamp upon the character of
Ajax, and to indicate his disposition, not without a warning note
of admonition. The degradation into which Ajax has fallen is a
punishment for the excess of that self-reliance which forms a
heroic character, the first sin which he commits is insolence
(w/3pic). When setting out to battle, he rejected the pious prayer
of his father, that he might wish to be victorious by the help of
the gods, and added the vaunt, “With a god’s help, even a
man of nought may win the victory; but I, I trust, without
God’s help shall be victorious.” And in the battle itself, when
Athene proffered aid, he bade her go elsewhere, for he would
none of it. Such is the disposition of the man who finds too late
that he is powerless against the gods. But against disgrace his
unyielding mind still contends. The real interest of the drama
lies in the moral conflict between heroic independence and the
necessity of submission to higher authority. The motives for
submission are forcibly brought out, the agony of disgrace, and
the strength of domestic affection. The turning point is reached
when Ajax says—“ I, once as strong as steel, have now been
softened by the words of this woman as steel is softened by the
bath, and I shrink from leaving amongst my enemies, her a
widow, and my son fatherless.” Yet from the shame there is
now but one escape, and from that he does not shrink—death.
But ere he goes to the baths of ocean and the sea-marge, where
he may appease the wrath of the goddess by his death, he freely
acknowledges his error. Honour and authorrty are worthy of
submission. Snowfooted winter yields to blooming spring, and
dark-tiaraed night gives place to bright-crowned day. Life is full
of change, so he too bends to authority, fears God and honours
�Sophokles.
23
the Atridse. Another scene reveals Ajax about to put an end
to the life he can no longer honourably cherish. His last prayer
is earnest and simple—That Teucer' may first raise his body,
and give it rites of sepulture; that Hermes may grant him
funeral escort; and that Helios may rein in his golden car, and
tell the sad news to his aged father and mother. Then follows
the farewell of the Greek to the bright sun, a long adieu to
Salamis and illustrious Athens, and all the plains and crystal
founts of Troy.
It is perhaps worth pointing out that this drama has severa
Shaksperian peculiarities. As in the works of our own drama
tist, overflowing sorrow finds relief in a play upon words.
aiai, r/c av ~or we0’ wi’ £7rwrvjuor
TOVjJ.OV
OVO/J-Cl TOIQ EpLOLQ KCLKOLQ j
The speech already referred to (line 646), which describes in the
form of a soliloquy a moral crisis, is in the manner of the English
writer, and the final monologue of Ajax recalls the meditation
of Hamlet.
Minuter resemblances might be noted. The cry of the sailors
in their search for their lost chief—ttovoq Trouw ttovov <pep&c—may
almost be translated by the “ Double, double toil and trouble
of the Witches in. Macbeth.
But a more characteristic peculiarity of the drama is the sea
air which blows through it, and the number of nautical allusions
which must have been grateful to a seafaring people. Sophokles
never forgets the mariners of Athens in his eulogies of the city.
In the great choric song of the (Edipus at Kolonus, the crowning
glory of the land is “ the well-used oar fitted to skilful hands,
that leaps through the sea in the train of the hundred-footed
Nereids,” and here from the first we are thrown into sailor
company. It is to the “ shipmates of Ajax, from over the sea/’
that Tecmessa turns in her trouble, and it is they who search
for their lost leader at the last, though Sophokles with poetic
propriety reserves the discovery of his body for Tecmessa herself.
And to the sea the thoughts of Ajax turn in his despair :
“ 0 ye paths of the watery reach,
O ye caves of the sea,
O ye groves of the Ocean beach,
Where my steps were wont to be.”
By the death of the hero atonement for all his sins is made,
and his body is honourably buried by' the sea he loved.
It is a real satisfaction to arrive at a period when we can
attach a date to a play of Sophokles. In B. C. 409 appeared the
Philoktetes. Before this time Athens had passed through
�24
Sophokles.
the conspiracy of the Four Hundred, and had seen the recall
of Alkibiades. In the measures of the oligarchical body we are
told Sophokles concurred, not because they were good, but
because they were expedient. “ ov yap vjv aXXa /BeXn'w/’ are
the words attributed to him. The anecdote, however, may
possibly refer to another Sophokles. It is possible also that
Sophokles had little sympathy with the later democracy, which
may have alienated amongst others the mind of the poet. But
his poetry retained the astonishing energy and freshness of his
younger days. The Philoktetes shows no sign of the, decay of in
tellectual power. It is worthy of the first prize which it received.
The subject was not a new one upon the Attic stage. kEschylus
and Euripides had handled it before, and other tragedians
had aided in making it familiar to an Athenian audience.
Sophokles, while adopting the well' known mythical outlines
as the groundwork, succeeded in lending the drama a new
and powerful motive. These outlines are to be found in
Homer. (II. 2. 716). Philoktetes, carrying the arrows of Her
cules, joined the expedition against Troy, but being wounded
in the foot by a serpent, he was left in the island of Lemnos.
In the tenth year of the war it was predicted by a Trojan
prophet that Troy could only be taken by the arrows of
Hercules, then in the possession of Philoktetes. Accordingly
Ulysses and Neoptolemus, son of Achilles, were sent to Lemnos
to bring Philoktetes with his arrows to Troy. The play opens
with the landing of these messengers upon the island of Lemnos.
Ulysses tutors Neoptolemus in deceit, and urges him to gain
possession of the arrows by falsehood. Neoptolemus obeys, and
having persuaded the suffering Philoktetes that he is about to
take him home is entrusted with the arrows. When Philoktetes
discovers the treachery that has been practised upon him, he
endeavours to commit suicide, but is prevented. Feelings of pity
and compassion now come upon Neoptolemus, and he restores
the arrows in spite of the angry remonstrances of Ulysses. The
mission has thus nearly failed of its object, when Hercules de
scends from heaven, and bids Philoktetes proceed to Troy, where
he shall win renown and be healed of his sore disease. The
interest of the play does not centre in the person whose name
it bears, but in the person of Neoptolemus. It is his character
that Sophokles has brought out from the massive block of
tradition in proportions of exceeding beauty. Between Philok
tetes hardened by suffering, and Ulysses wily and wise, the openhearted son of Achilles stands forth a contrast to both. This
contrast of character, together with the dramatic development of
natural nobility in the person of Neoptolemus, is the work of
Sophokles alone, and bears his stamp. The minor characters
�Sophokles.
25
are powerfully drawn. Philoktetes is immovable in his love to
his friends and in his hatred to his enemies. The extreme
agonies of physical suffering which wring from him cries and
groans, leave him still tears for the misfortunes of his friends
and imprecations for his foes. He is, in the words of Lessing,
a rock of a man,”* a hero still, though life has lost all that is
worth living for, except constancy and submission to the gods.
The Ulysses of this drama is differently portrayed from the
Ulysses of the Ajax, and the Ulysses of Homer. He is brought
forward in an ungracious part, and one more in accordance
with the role he takes in the plays of Euripides. He counsels
deceit and is willing to attain his end by means honourable or
dishonourable. We must not however forget that this end is
the well-being of the Greeks, and that the means are poetically
justified by his knowledge that neither persuasion nor violence
will avail to shake the firmness of Philoktetes. The psycholo
gical interest lies then in the struggle through which the mind
of Neoptolemus has to pass. On the one hand, with the bow of
Philoktetes he may win undying renown by the taking of Troy,
but he must desert and deceive his father’s friend, leaving him
doubly desolate and deprived of the means of supporting his
piteous existence. On the other hand he must bear the bitter
reproaches of Ulysses, the loss of the promised glory, and the
failure of the Achaean arms, but he will have respected the
rights of a suppliant and his plighted word. How will the
struggle end ? The sincerity of a noble nature prevails. Already
the treachery inspired by Ulysses has been successful; the bow
of Philoktetes is in his hand, but he can no longer endure the
part he has been compelled to play: he leaves the path of deceit
into which he has been misled, and assumes the character which
he has already shown to be his. The intervention of the “ deus
ex xnachina ” serves only to j ustify what has happened, it neither
diminishes the interest nor interferes with the action of the play.
The psychological question has been already answered.
The Trachinice is to be considered a later work than the
Philoktetes. Otherwise it is probable that Sophokles would
have used the connexion that lies in their subjects. For the bow
of Philoktetes was none other than that bequeathed him by
Hercules at his death. The Trachinice tells the story how
the death of Hercules was unwittingly brought about by his wife
Deianeira. Many years before the opening of the play, Hercules
had slain the Centaur Nessus by means of his unerring and
poisoned arrows. As he was dying, the Centaur bade Deianeira
take of the blood of his wound and the poison of the arrow, and
* “Laokoon,” ch. iv. p. 34.
�26
Sophokles.
preserve it, for it would prove an unfailing philtre to recover her
husband’s affection if he ever forsook her for another woman.
When the play opens, Hercules has been long absent, but is now
returning with captives, the reward of his victorious arms.
Amongst these captives, who arrive at Trachis before Hercules,
is the beautiful Iole, and Deianeira is not long in learning that
she it is who now possesses the affections of her husband. There
fore she imbues a garment with the philtre she had received
from Nessus, and sends it to Hercules, bidding him wear it whilst
transacting the sacred rites of Zeus. The venom of the mixture
does not fail in its efficacy. It seizes at once upon the body of
Hercules, who is consumed with intolerable burnings. In the
agony of death he orders himself to be borne home, but the news
flies before, and Deianeira ends her life with her own hand. Upon
his arrival, Hercules bids his son Hyllus erect a funeral pile for
him on Mount Oeta, and after his father’s death marry Iole.
The drama concludes with the promise of Hyllus to obey his
father.
The opinions as to the value of the drama have been
various. A. W. Schlegel deemed it of far inferior merit to that
of the other plays, and many modern readers have agreed with
him. Schneidewin, a critic of weightier authority, places it ex
ceedingly high amongst the works of ancient art. In looking at
it, however, we must regard it as a diptych rather than a single
picture. From this circumstance it suffers perhaps when compared
with the other works by the same author. Nevertheless each
part has its own merit. In the first part the figure of Deianeira
forms the centre; in the second, the half-divine half-savage cha
racter of Hercules exercises a strange imperious fascination upon
the spectator. Nothing can be more delicately and finely
represented than the amiable character of Deianeira, the faithful
and forgiving wife. It is in the true colour of Sophoklean irony
that the sympathy of a tender nature which leads her to express
pity for the captive woman, draws her most closely to Iole, who
is the cause of her misfortune. And it is the very strength of her
love for Hercules which brings about his ruin and her own. The
first part of the Trachinice may indeed be ranked with the best
dramatic exhibitions of character. Nor is it deficient in those
cross lights and special excellences in which the best abound. The
self-devotion and feminine dignity of Deianeira reaches its climax
when she implores Lichas to tell her the whole truth :—
ph 'ttvQegQu.i tovto p aXyovsiEV av‘
c’ EtSevat tI Seivov ; ov^l ^ciTEpas
teXelcetciq dv^p eiq HpaKXrjg EyypE c)/;;
kovttii) tlq avT(Sv ek y Epov Xoyov KOKOV
TJVEyKa.T' ovZ' ovelZoq.
to
to
�27
Sophokles.
This is in the very spirit of mediaeval devotion, and almost
in the words of the “ Nut-browne Mayde
“ Though in the wode I understode
Ye had a paramour,
All this may nought remove my thought
But that I will be your.
And she shall find me soft and kynde,
And courteys every hour.”
*
For vigorous word-painting, the passage which describes the
virulent corruption of the poisoned wool rotting away into nothing
ness, is unsurpassed. (Lines 695 et seq.)
The second portion of the diptych is less agreeable to modern
feeling, since the character of Hercules seems little fitted for the
tragic stage. By his semi-divinity he is above humanity, by his
semi-brutality he is below it. Hercules suffering is most likely
to gain our sympathy ; for the picture of excessive suffering is
redeemed from the peril of awaking horror or disgust by the
consistency and firmness of Hercules. He meets death with his
spiritual strength still unbroken, and his self-possession when he
recognises his real position changes the grief of the spectator into
admiration of his undaunted fortitude.
The marriage which he is represented as proposing between
Hyllus and Iole, however repugnant to modern, feeling, was too
firmly an article of popular belief rooted in popular tradition to
be neglected in the drama.
Nor does Herodotus (vi. 52) deem the tradition unworthy of
notice, since it was from Hyllus that he traced the descent of the
Dorian invaders of the Peloponnese.
The link which binds together the two portions of the drama
and preserves the unity of the action is the magic poison of the
Centaur. In the first part we have the motives which lead up
to its use; in the second we see its effects. The same protagonist
took the parts both of Deianeira and of Hercules.
The long and illustrious life of Sophokles was now drawing to
a close—a life more enviable, perhaps, than that of any man
who has lived so long. He had seen the growth of the Athenian
state ; he was spared the sight of her last declining days. He
was the contemporary of all the great men who had made Athens
glorious ; and he was the personal friend of many of them. Ten
years older than Euripides, he yet survived him, and lived to see
his own son Iophon wearing the ivy crown. One pleasing anec
dote is told of the last year of the poet’s life. When the news of
the death of Euripides in Macedonia reached Athens, Sophokles
was preparing a tragedy for exhibition. As a last tribute of
respect to the memory of his rival, he himself appeared in
mourning at the head of his chorus, and the choral company
�28
Sophokles.
were without the wreaths which they were accustomed to
wear. The wife of Sophokles was a native of Athens and was named
Nikostrate. By her he had one son, Iophon, already mentioned.
By Theoria of Sikyon he was the father of Ariston, whose son,
Sophokles, reproduced the (Edipus ad Kolonus two years after
the death of his grandfather. A story related by Cicero, and
often repeated, asserts that Iophon brought his father before the
Phratores on the ground of mental incapacity to manage his own
affairs. There is much improbability in the story and we may
well discredit any tradition of dissension in the family of
Sophokles. Hardly, if the story be true, could the comic writer
Phrynikus have written, as he did, a few months after the poet’s
death, a lament with the concluding words—
KaXwg
eteXeudjct’
inrop-EivaQ micov.
The immediate occasion of his death is unknown, and various
accounts are extant. One tradition asserts that it was joyous
excitement at again winning the tragic prize. Beit so. kuXwq
S’ EreXEurr/crEv. In the year B.C. 406, the year of the battle of
Arginusse, Athens lost her two great tragic writers, Sophokles
and Euripides.
Our consideration of the plays will be more than imperfect
unless we examine briefly the religious views with which they
are interpenetrated and coloured. What was the religious
position of the mind that conceived and brought them forth?
Art and religion have often been combined, but never more
intimately than in the dramas of Sophokles. rsyovs Ss koI
Oeo([>lXt)G o
wc
ovk. aXXoq,
says the anonymous
biographer: “ Sophokles was beloved of the gods as no other.”
And the attitude of the poet’s mind was one of reverent, almost
superstitious, adoration of the gods. ZEschylus, no less than
Sophokles, believed in the nothingness of human nature and the
omnipotence of Zeus. For man he marked out a narrow path
beyond which he could not go without offending those unsleeping
powers which punish the insolence of men to the third and fourth
generation of them that transgress. This narrow path he named
crw^poo-vvz/; Sophokles called it tvKpjtta, reverence.
In the Elektra the chorus says to Elektra (1093)
“ Thus have I found thee not in prosperous case
Advancing, but of all the highest laws
Wearing the crown by reverence (suth/SEta) of Zeus.”
And in the same play, commending her language, the chorus
says (464)
“ The maiden speaks with reverence.”
�Sopholdes.
29
In the chorus of the (Edipus Rex (863) the doctrine of
tvatflua is laid down at length. And in the praise which CEdipus
gives to Athens ((Ed. Koi. 1125) the highest is that she is the city
where Reverence dwells:—
E7TEI TO y EVffefjEC
povotQ irap vpiv -qvpov avOpuiruv Eya>.
How comes it then, if this be a chief article in the religion of
Sophokles, that so many of his characters are found speaking
against the gods ? The number of characters who so speak is
not very great. Tecmessa accuses Pallas of working the bane of
Ajax (Ag. 652). Philoktetes doubts the justice of the gods
(Phil. 447), and again (1035). Hyllus (Trach. 1266) speaks
Still more harshly of their unkindness, and reproaches (1272)
Zeus himself. But it is to be remembered that Sophokles him
self does not always speak by the mouth of his characters. Their
verisimilitude lends a force and warmth to the personification
which is absent from the poems of ZEschylus. It is quite in keep
ing with the Sophoklean stage that his dramatispersonce should
not be without a tinge of popular superstition. Instances may be
selected. Thus, Teucer is persuaded that the sword of Hector
was fabricated by the Erinnys ; Hercules calls the fatal robe
which takes away his life a web of the Erinnys ; Deianeira is
the victim of a popular superstition when she sets her hopes upon
a love-charm ; and the guardians of the corpse of Polyneikes are
instances of a similar delusion, when they believe that the unseen
burial was supernatural.
But Sophokles, as he bad received from the hands of ZEschylus
the drama already formed, so, too, he accepted from him a body
of religious doctrines already in advance of popular belief. Nor
was the progress which he inaugurated in this line of thought
less striking than his development of the dramatic art—as far
as the liberation of human thought is concerned it was more
important. ZEschylus, as we have seen, attributed the misfortunes
of mortals to a judicial blindness, the consequence of previous
guilt whereby a man falls into greater sin and supreme destruc
tion. His teaching is the teaching of Eliphaz the Temanite ;
* Remember, I pray thee, who ever perished being innocent ? or
when were the righteous cut off?” (Job iv. 7.) Sophokles dis
tinguished between the guilty blindness and involuntary crime.
With regard to the former he held the same position as did
ZEschylus. When a mortal willingly, and with full intent, com
mits a crime, the Deity punishes him with moral madness ; he
is delivered over to Alastor. Yet for all the actions committed
in this madness, he, and none other, is responsible. It is so with
Ajax. He deliberately rejects the aid of Athene, and falls into
a madness from which there is no escape. It is so with Kreon.
�Sophokles.
30
He designedly neglects the honour due to the gods below, and
pursues a course which is the result of madness. The chorus
recognise the chastisement of a divine hand when -ne.y speak
Kreon as—
ayfjp ettiirppov c/,a ytipoc
<■ idspiQ enrEiv, ovic aXXoTplav
li-ry aXX avrOQ anaorcov.
and he himse acknowledges it (1272),
paQibv cdXacoc. ev 3’ ejjm
Kapa
Oeoq tot apa tote piya fodpoc p
£7raicrEr.
But from this frenzy, involuntary guilt is separated by a wide
interval. As Ajax is a striking instance of the one condition, so
CEdipus is of the other. The contrast between the two is sharp
and complete. CEdipus is presented to us as a righteous prince,
wise above the common standard of humanity, for he alone could
solve the riddle of the Sphinx—as god-fearing, for he never doubts
the oracles of the gods. When he hears of the death of his sup
posed father, Polybus, there is mingled with his first cry of
wonder a note of distress for the credit of the oracle.
(pEu' (p£i>, ri cfjT ay w yvvat., <tkotto~it6 tiq
Trjv HvdopayTtv EGTiav ((Ed. R. 966.)
The sins which he committed were all involuntary, and he
repeatedly asserts it.
TTEirovdor
egti
ra y spya pov
paXXoy 7/ CECpaKOTa.
Yet upon him descend the heaviest misfortunes. What is the
conception which Sophokles designs to express by this ? There
is n'o answer in the CEdipus Rex ; it is found in the CEdipus at
Kolonus. It is this answer withheld that so closely unites the
former and the latter dramas. In the latter, CEdipus comes
before us under the guidance and protection of the gods. They
have used him for their purpose, a divine one, an unknown and
mysterious one, but a just one ; and now, having drunk the cup
of sorrow to the dregs, he is their sacred and especial care. He
himself says (287)
77/cw yap tpoc ev'teI'ji'iq te Kai (bepivv
OV'fjO’lV aOTOlQ TO~l(TC)E.
And therefore his passage from life is gentle and kindly. He
is not, for God takes him. As his life has been beyond all others
wretched though morally guiltless, so his death has beyond all
others a fuller promise of happiness.
If we gather up the teaching of Sophokles upon this point, we
find —That the gods have a great progressive plan of the
�Sophokles.
31
Universe, which they carry out in spite of, or sometimes by
means of individual suffering. That every man who seeks to do
right is, notwithstanding his misfortunes, under their protection,
and will finally be rewarded according to his merit. That volun
tary guilt tends to worse, and lastly to ruin. This advance from
the religious position of JUschylus is great, but it leads to results
no less important. It leads, firstly, to the possibility of making
a consciousness of right and justice an acting moral power. Thus
CEdipus sets before his daughters (Gild. K. 1613) as a recompense
for their laboursand sufferings on his behalf, the consciousness
that they had done their duty and won his love. Elektra and
Antigone are penetrated with this feeling. Elektra says (352)
“ Be it my only reward that 1 am conscious of doing my hard
duty?’ The sentiment of Antigone is the same (460) :
“ That I shall die I know without thy words,
And if before my time ’tis gain to me.”
This teaching of Sophokles is a herald of the truth declared
by Plato, that the moral consciousness of right in a man’s own
heart is the measure of his happiness.
Secondly, and here we must touch upon the mystic side of the
religion of Sophokles, it imbues his dramas with a lofty spiritual
ism. It stands in opposition to the religion of rite and profession.
It calls for the spirit and not the letter. CEdipus (CEd. K. 498)
declares that the sacrifice of one pure soul rightly offered, avails
more than ten thousand which are not so given. It adds a sig
nificance to the sincere unspoken prayer, for the god hears it
before it is said. Klytemnestra will not utter her prayer (El. 637)
for the god knows her desire, though she may not put it into
words. And the voice of the god speaks within the breast of
man to guide and direct him. This inward voice brought
CEdipus to the grove of the Eumenides, as he himself says (CEd.
K. 96) and led him—adtKrov riyprripo^—to his last restingplace.
°
And thirdly, it finds a place in the religion of Sophokles for
the doctrine of the immortality of the soul.
This doctrine was only dimly present to the popular mind ; it
was no active moral power. The motive to justice and righteous
ness lay in the fear of punishment in this life—of punishment at
the hands of the civil magistrate or the offended deity. True, in
Hades the unholy were unholy still, and suffered a shadowy
retribution for their crimes, but the real punishment was in this
life. Sophokles recognised a purer motive for human action, the
love of right for its own sake, and for the sake of the divine
approval. Antigone can look forward to a long and joyous
Existence with the dead (Ant. 73-76), for with them she will
*
�32
Sophokles.
dwell for ever. And so the highest duty is the duty of living
in accordance with the will of the gods, careless of praise or blame,
reward or punishment, from any but Their hands, and with eyes
directed to that other life, where wrongs are righted and where
j ustice is done.
ETTEl TtXeI(i)V XPOVOQ,
ov c?t p apEffKELV toIq Kara tojv oEvdai>E,
ekei yap asi KEi.trop.ai.
The monologue of Ajax sets this point of view rstill farther in
contrast with that of fiEschylus. 2Eschylus has exemplified the
terrors of conscience with appalling power in the persons of
Klytemnestra and Orestes, but the passion which he represents
is rather that of remorse than that of penitence. The fear of
punishment is the moving cause of terror. In the ethics of
Sophokles, conscience leads to a penitent recognition of personal
guilt and a desire of amendment—
ypsle ce irait; ov yvcvaopsaOa triotppovsiv;
is the cry of Ajax when he seeks to atone for his crimes by a
voluntary death. And the same moral revolution is exhibited
in the case of Kreon. (Ant. 1319.)
Thus in the hands of Sophokles, religion passed from a nega
tive to a positive phase. It was no longer sufficient as in the
time of AEschylus to live a quiet life with no overweening self
exaltation or insolent rivalry of the gods, but heart and hand
must be alike pure, and both devoted to the service of the gods.
Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, in his essay upon the “ Education
of Humanity,” has traced the process by which a single nation
rose stage by stage to fuller knowledge. The nation which he
selected was the Hebrew nation, but it is not the only one which
submitted to the divine education. In the works of Sophokles
we see the Greek mind passing to a higher stage. It is not a
final stage ; that can never be reached as long as humanity
endures, but it is one that could give strength and confidence to
minds that loved the truth. That it did so to the mind of
Sophokles himself we may learn from his works. The per
fection of restraint and repose which reigns like a summer
atmosphere in his compositions, is the result not only of a mastery
of diction and a supreme command of art. The knowledge of
the sorrows of humanity and a co-existing capacity of beholding
above alia ruling order, which recompenses and atones for all,
are the characteristics which give an immortal interest to the
dramas of Sophokles.
They reveal to us a man who was
indeed OeoQiXpq “ beloved of God.”
And however dimly his contemporaries may have understood
the humane theology which pervaded his works, they understood
�Sophokles.
33
time of his death the Lacedaemonians were threatening Athens
from Deceleia. The family burial-place of Sophokles lay eleven
stades from Athens, upon the road to Deceleia. When Lysander
the Spartan heard that Sophokles was dead, he granted a free
pass to the funeral procession, and the body of the great
tragedian was laid to rest under the protection of the Lacedae
monians. Nor were there wanting due tokens of respect at the
hands of his fellow-citizens. As a hero they honoured him with
a' yearly sacrifice. A siren was sculptured upon his tomb, to
indicate the entrancing sweetness of his strains, and Simmias the
pupil of Sokrates wrote his epitaph. Forty years after his
death, his bust was placed in the Athenian theatre, and the state
took in charge the text of his works.
And yet against the life of Sophokles there are those who
bring the charge of impurity and immorality. Such a charge
we can but dismiss with indignation. A few anecdotes retailed
*
by that prurient collector of slander, Atheneeus, form the body
of the charge. They are not worth the time that would be spent
in contradicting them. There is nothing in Plato, there is nothing
in Plutarch that can sully the pure lustre of the name of
Sophokles. Plutarch indeed relates (Perikles, viii.) that upon
one occasion Perikles bade Sophokles remember that a man
must not only keep his hands pure, but his eyes from beholding
evil. If there is in this anything more than a commonplace
application of a moral maxim, it is a testimony that at least the
hands of the poet were pure. Of his thoughts as mirrored in
his writings we can ourselves judge. Aristophanes amidst all
his baseless attacks upon his contemporaries, never brought this
charge against Sophokles; modern writers with less knowledge,
have had greater audacity. This, however, matters but little to
him or to us.
In looking back upon the life of Sophokles as a whole, perfect
and radiant, it is difficult to find in the range of literature another
like it. From his boyhood to his death, there seems to be
nothing to mar the beauty of his career. Germans find an
analogous instance in the life of Gothe, but the analogy does not
go far. Both Sophokles and Gothe lived long, and won that
favour from their countrymen which is generally given to the
illustrious dead alone. Each of them possessed the highest
culture of his time, and aided the diffusion of that culture. The
comparison cannot in reality go much farther. The life of Gothe
is open to us in its minutest details : we are compelled to be
satisfied with the merest outline of the life of Sophokles.
Gothe has dissected for us (not without vanity) his own
sentiments, emotions, and passions. Only behind the works of
Sophokles can we discern the calm and majestic figure of the
[Vol. XCIX. No. CXCV.]—New Series, Vol. XLIII. No. I.
D
�34
Sophokles.
Greek poet. Yet the dimmer personality is not the less
impressive. To something of the calm which belongs to the
works of Sophokles, Gotbe could, and did attain ; but it is the
same with a difference. Gothe by a sublime selfishness, and his
progress marked with the sorrows which he caused, rose into a
clear intellectual ether. Sophokles brought down the wisdom of
another sphere to brighten the ways of men. The one was a
child of earth who made a path for himself to the serene heights ;
the other was a son of Olympus, about whom the inextinguish
able glory of his birthplace shone for the delight and instruction
of the world.
P.S.—Two editions of Sophokles, at present only published in
part, will go some way towards familiarizing English students with
the spirit of Sophokles. The one is by Mr. Jebb, Public Orator of
Cambridge, the other is by Professor Campbell of St. Andrews.
As a portion only of each edition is before the public, it has
been deemed better to exclude them from comment in the body
of this paper, but this much may be said, that we can hope every
thing from the complete edition by Professor Campbell. His
essay on “ the Language of Sophokles ” is admirable and
exhaustive, and the notes and introductions to the plays already
published are full of refined and suggestive enthusiasm.
Mr. Jebb has set forth his views upon the genius of Sophokles
in a lecture recently delivered at Dublin, and since published in
Macmillan’s Magazine (Nov. 1872). This lecture is clear,
scholarly, and critical, but both the points selected and the views
expressed seem scarcely adequate to the subject. The four
manifestations of the genius of Sophokles 'which he chooses are :
First, the blending of a divine with a human characteristic in the
heroes of Sophokles. Secondly, the effort to reconcile progress
with tradition. Thirdly, dramatic irony ; and lastly, the por
trayal of character. The first of these manifestations is illustrated
by the cases of Ajax, of GEdipus, and of Herakles. Ajax, we are
told, is human by his natural anguish on his return to sanity; he is
divine by his remorse and the sense that dishonour must be effaced
by death. But surely his remorse and repentance are human
too. His mere cries of distress, apart from the higher feelings, are
ludicrous, and insufficient to link Ajax to human nature. Nor
does his nearness to Athene, as one who had spoken with her
face to face, suffice to give him a divine character. The heroes of
Euripides also speak with the gods face to face. The lecturer has
not here brought out a real manifestation of the genius of
Sophokles; he has united accidents and imagined them to be
the essence. The intense suffering of (Edipus the King, and the
marvellous death of GEdipus at Colonus are two conditions
�Sophokles.
35
through which the character of CEdipus passes, and are not
more especially characteristic than are the sufferings of Medea,
who is finally carried away by the dragon-chariot of the sun.
The genius of Sophokles is certainly not revealed in the union of
the superhuman and the commonplace; it is manifested by its
power of idealizing humanity. The superhuman element which
Sophokles introduces, forms no part of the essence of any
character, it belongs to the cycle of popular beliefs, which as we
have seen, he used for the purpose of verisimilitude.
Secondly.—The idea that Sophokles preserved the balance
between superstition and free thought, that he endeavoured to
graft progress upon tradition is misleading. In religious matters
we have seen that the advance which he made was both definite
and important; in politics he was the disciple, as he was the
colleague, of Perikles. If he shrank from the extreme measures
of a later democracy, it was because he clung to a system which
had raised Athens to her highest political efficiency, and because
he distrusted a variation which exaggerated and distorted the true
democratic principles. Moreover, he was justified by the results.
Thirdly.—The lecturer’s canon upon dramatic irony is only
partially true. “ The practical irony of drama depends on the
principle that the dramatic poet stands aloof from the world
which he has created.” In fact the question of dramatic irony
cannot be so summarily dealt with. The manner of Professor
Campbell in treating of this characteristic (pp. 112-118) is far
more diffident and satisfactory. Irony, as he says, is always
accompanied with the consciousness of superiority. But the
exhibition of this consciousness must be destructive of artistic
effect. It is better to refer the irony to fate than to ascribe it to
the author; it may, perhaps, be best not to use the word at all,
but to refer the effect which every one feels, to an artistic and
legitimate application of dramatic elements such as contrast and
pathos, which reach their highest power only when used by the
most skilful hands. .Mr. Jebb thinks that Sophokles delineates
broadly, and with a “ deliberate avoidance of fine shading,” the
characters of his primary persons, and seeks for the more delicate
touches of portraiture in the subordinate persons. The persons,
however, to whom he refers as illustrations must be spoken of as
secondary with caution. Thus Deianeira is of equal importance
with Hercules in the Trachinice; the same protagonist took
both characters. The real interest of the Philoldetes centres in
Neoptolemus. But perhaps the chief inadequacy of Mr. Jebb’s
view of Sophokles, a view which, as has been said before, is set
forth with the charm of a scholarly and balanced style, results from
his notion of the religion of Sophokles. In his opinion, Sophokles
is the highest type of a votary of Greek polytheism, and no more.
D2
�36
Parliamentary Eloquence.
He does not see in his hand that torch which was to be passed
on to Plato, and through him to other times. His religion had,
he says, shed upon it the greatest strength of intellectual light
which it could bear without fading. His art was indeed the
highest of its kind, and remained his own ; but the impulse which
he gave to a freer and more enlightened reverence may be traced
in the best of Greek literature, the works of Plato. It is
probable, therefore, that the edition by Professor Campbell will
be a truer guide to the appreciation of Sophokles, for the editor
has already acknowledged his obligation to Professor Jowett.
Art. II.—Parliamentary Eloquence.
1. A Book of Parliamentary Anecdote. Compiled from
Authentic Sources. By G. H. Jennings and W. S. John
stone.
Cassell, Petter, and Galpin : London, Paris, and
New York. 1872.
2. The Orator : a Treasury of English Eloquence, containing
Selections from the most Celebrated Speeches of the Past
and Present. Edited, with Short Explanatory Notes and
References, by a Barrister. London : S. 0. Beeton.
3. Select British Eloquence, embracing the best Speeches entire
of the most Eminent Orators of Great Britain for the last
Two Centuries : with Sketches of their Lives, an estimate
of their Genius, and Notes Critical and Explanatory.
By Chauncey A. Goodrich, D.D., Professor in Yale Col
lege, New Haven, Conn., U.S. London : Sampson Low
and Co.
4. Parliamentary Logic : to which are subjoined Two Speeches
delivered in the House of Commons of Ireland, and
other pieces. By the Right Hon. William Gerard
Hamilton. London. 1798.
5. Hansard. New Series.
ANY have been the writers on the theory of Government,
and the framers of model governments and paper constitu
tions. None of these, however, devised Parliamentary Govern
ment as it actually exists amongst us, or foresaw its rise. Yet to
all appearances it is the form of government which will
universally prevail. The English tongue bids fair to become
the speech of the greater part of the globe, and wherever an
English-speaking race is to be found, English parliamentary
M
�
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Sophokles
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Lester, Joseph Dunn [1841/2-1875]
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 36 p. ; 22 cm.
Notes: From The Westminster and Foreign Quarterly Review, January 1, 1873. Includes bibliography (p.1). From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Author attribution: The Wellesley Index to Victorian Periodicals 1824-1900.
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[s.n.]
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1873
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CT56
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Philosophy
Classics
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Ancient
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Philosophers
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Sophocles
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�r-»
. -a
�blese the men this night at sea.”
“SHIP AHOY!
A Yarn in Thirty-six Cable Lengths.
BEING THE
NNUÄL
HRISTMÄS
OF
Once
a
Wee k.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED AT THE OFFICE,
19, TAVISTOCK STREET,
COVENT GARDEN.
1873[All rights reserved.}
�liimM
LONDON:
SWEETING AND CO., PRINTERS,
80, gray's inn road.
�FIRST CABLE
LENGTH.
HOW THE “MERRY MAY
CAME IN.
“ Now, my sons, all toge
ther!”
“ Yo-ho!—hoy-y!”
“ Now another!”
“ Yo-ho!—a-hoy-y!”
“Now all together, my
lads!”
“Ahoy!—hoy! hoy! —
yer-hup! ”
“Now a good one!”
“ Y oy-hoy!—yer-hup!—
hoop!”
“ Another pull, my sons! ”
“ Hoy!—yoho!—yo-ho!
—hup!”
“Well pulled. Now your
song.”
“Ho! haulyyo! hoy-y!
Cheerly, men, ho !—yo-hoy-y!”
Pull, stamp, and haul together, and
the good ship, the Merry May, work
ing into dock, with her foretopmast
gone at the cross-trees, her maintop
�4
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
gallant badly sprung, a splice in her
spanker-boom, and her sides battered
' and denuded of paint. Two boats swept
away, and a big piece of her bulwarks
patched up in a sorry fashion after that
great wave pooped her, and cut its way
out of the port side as though the bul
warks had been made of bandbox.
Worse than all, too, there is about as
strange a makeshift of a rudder as was
ever seen; for, after a fair voyage from
Colombo, in rounding the Cape the sea
rose, and the wind blew what old Basalt
called a “snorer,” and he swore a dozen
times—pooh! a thousand times in oaths,
but a dozen times in his assertion-—that
the May would go to the bottom.
But she did not; for Captain John
Anderson knew his duty as well as any
sailor in the merchant service, and fought
the storm like a good man and true—■
beat it like a Briton, when a score of
other men would have given up, and
gone down on their knees in despair,
and prayed to God to save them.
“Like a set of lubbers!” said old
Basalt when telling the story at the
Jolly Sailors afterwards, over a glass of
Mrs. Gurnett’s best rum and water.
“ But there, Lord bless you! I taught
the boy to make his first knot—I made
a sailor of him; and a sailor he is, every
inch, God bless him!”
Here old Jeremiah Basalt wiped either
a tear or a drop of rum and water out
of his eye.
“Sink? Not she. We was knocking
about for a fortnight, and he never once
left the deck. Sails were blown outer
the bolt ropes, bulwarks swept away,
boats went, and the fellows was ready
to give up; but d’ye think he would ?
Not he. Why, bless yer, he’s that much
of a true Briton, that if Davy Jones his
self was to come and say to him, ‘ You’re
dead, now, as a copper fastener,’ he
wouldn’t believe him. Not he. He
says to me, just about the worst of it,
when it was blowing the greatest guns
as ever did blow, ‘Jerry,’ he says, ‘I
undertook to sail this here ship for Mr.
Halley,’ he says ; ‘and she’s got a cargo
in her of tea and silks as is worth a hun
[Christmas, 1873.
dred thousand pound,’ he says ; ‘ and I
mean to run her safe into London Dock
afore I’ve done.’
“He roared them there words—a bit
shorter, you know—into my ear as we
was holding on to the spokes of the
wheel, just in the werry worst on it;
for, bless you, he wouldn’t trust no one
else then. Drenched we was to the
skin, and puffing to get a breath now
and then—with the wind shrieking in
your ears, and the sea spitting in your
face, and cutting your very eyes out.
‘No, Jerry,’ he says, ‘while I’ve breath
in my body,’ he says, ‘I’ll never give
up.’ And then—bang!”
“What?” said Mrs. Gurnett, breath
lessly, as, in his excitement, old Basalt
swept his half drunk glass of grog on to
the floor.
“What? Why — bang!” cried old
Basalt, again bringing his fist down
upon the table with a blow that made
every glass in the snug bar parlour ring
again. “Bang! Mrs. Gurnett, bang!
The wheel spun round, and sent the
cap’n to leeward and me to windward,
half stunned, under the bulwarks; and
when we come to again, we found the
rudder swep’ away, and the poor old
ship wallering in the trough o’ the sea,
like a blown porpus in a tideway.
“ Ship seas ? Ah, we did ship seas ;
and anybody else ’ud a gone quietly to
the bottom ’cep John Anderson my Jo ;
and if he didn’t rig up a rudder out of
a boom, and work it with ropes and
blocks, and get her afore the wind again,
why I ain’t here without a drop o’ rum
and water to wet my throat, dry with all
this talking.”
But to go back to .the dock. There
was the good ship Merry May in sore
plight as to her outward appearance ;
but tight, and free from water. Her
whole cargo was safe, and in port; her
captain proud, and talking to his owner,
as the men, under old Basalt’s orders,
cheered, and hauled, and helped the
dock men till the vessel was through the
great flood-gates, and being warped in
amongst the tier of shipping in the inner
basin.
�“SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, 1873 ]
An hour after, the riggers were Oil
board, and up aloft, unbending sails;
while John Anderson was shaking hands
with Mr. Halley, a florid old gentle
man, at the gangway.
“ At one o’clock, then, to-morrow,
Anderson, at Canonbury. Lunch and
a glass of wine. And God bless you,
my boy, and thank you!”
"Don't say any more, sir, pray.”
“ But I must say more, Anderson,”
said the owner. “I don’t believe there’s
another captain who would have brought
her into port; and no insurance would
JSecond
have ever recompensed me for her loss.
Good-bye—God bless you!”
“ And you too, sir. Good-bye.”
“ At one to-morrow,” from the wharf.
“ At one to-morrow, sir,” from the
gangway.
Mr. Halley passed out of the dock
gates, and took a cab to his offices in
Shipping-street; and Captain John An
derson, aged twenty-nine, fair, sunburnt,
grey-eyed, and frankly handsome, went
home like a good son, as she said he
was, to think of some one else, and to
kiss his mother.
J3able
J^ENGTH.
HOW MRS. ANDERSON TALKED TO HER
you can
imagi ne
Mary, Queen
of Scots, at
the age of
seventy-two,
and wearing
a black silk
dress, you
have before
you Mrs.
A n d e r son,
standing
with her
c r o ss-handled stick in
one hand,
while with
the other she
caresses the crisp, brown, Saxon curls of
her son’s hair. Her fair old face stands
out from her stiffly starched ruff-like
collar and crimped cap. Her grey hair
is suitably arranged over her temples,
and every feature seems to speak and
say—“ This is my son! ”
It is a quaint old room where they
are; well furnished, but there is a nau
tical smack about it. You can even
smell the sea—the odour being fur
nished by some bunches of bladder
l’
5
SON.
wrack hanging from the nail that sup
ports the painting of “The Flying
Betsy barque passing the Nab Light”—
a finely executed work of art, wherein
you have every sail set, a series of
dots along the deck to represent cap
tain and crew, and the foaming billows
rising foam-capped with a regularity that suggests their all having been
formed in the same mould. Over the
chimney-piece hangs the portrait of the
late Captain Anderson père, who ap
pears to have run a good deal to fat.
Beneath it is suspended his spy-glass,
bearing upon its long tube the flags of
all nations. There are cabinets of
walnut, too, with curiosities from all
parts. A chest from China, a screen
from Japan, some New Zealand wad
dies, and bird skins and feathers from
the Cape—collections commenced by
the father and continued by the son.
“So, you’re going up to Mr. Halley’s,
John, are you?”
“Yes, to lunch, mother.”
“ I don’t think you ought to go, John
—the first day you’re home with your
poor old mother.”
“ But it’s business, dear—I could not
refuse,” said Anderson, gently, as he
passed his arm round the slight old
figure, and kissed the handsome old face.
�6
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“May be,’* said the old lady, enjoy
ing the embrace, but evidently only
half satisfied.
“ I’ll soon be back to you,” said the
son, smiling; “ they won’t want me
there long.”
“I don’t know, John, I don’t know.
I should not so much mind you going,
but Mr. Halley has a daughter.”
“Yes, of course he has,” said John
Anderson, starting, and with the blood
mounting to his forehead.
“ And I do not want her to be lay
ing traps for my boy.”
“Why, you dear old goose,” cried
John, laughing outright, “what a fine
fellow this son of yours is, isn’t he?”
The old lady bridled up, and knitted
her brows.
“Do you think it would be safe
for either of the Queen’s unmarried
daughters to see me?” laughed John.
“ They might have marriageable ideas.”
“They might do worse, John,” said
the old lady, stiffly, but stroking his hair
the while.
“Why, my dear old darling,” said
John, huskily, as he drew her down
upon his sturdy knee, and laid his fore
head against her shoulder, “ do you for
a moment think it possible that a rich
shipowner’s daughter could ever lower
herself to look with the eyes of favour
upon a poor ignorant merchant sailor,
who has only one idea in his head, and
that is the working of a ship?”
“ If you don’t wish to break your poor
old mother’s heart, John, say no more,”
said the old lady, sobbing angrily. “As
if there was a nobler, a finer, a hand
somer, a cleverer man anywhere in the
whole world than—”
“Phew—w—w—w! ” whistled Captain
Anderson, softly, as he drew the frail
old figure closer to him, and kissed the
wrinkled forehead reverently, saying to
himself—
“Thank God for making mothers!”
And then aloud—“ There, there, dear,
when I am about to sail a fresh ship and
want a character, I’ll send the owners
to you.”
“ Such nonsense,. John ! As if it were
[Christmas, 1873.
ever likely you would want a better
ship than the Merry May'' „
“Well spoke, Mrs. Anderson—-well
spoke,” said Jeremiah Basalt, entering
the room with two sways and a lurch;
“as if it was likely that the captain
would ever want to sail any other ship.
No, indeed. By the mark seven, as we
say, Master Halley knows good biscuit
when he sees it, and it’ll be a long
time afore he parts company with our
cap’.”
“ Mr. Basalt, will you take a glass of
strong waters?” said Mrs. Anderson,
primly, but all the same looking graj
ciously at the rough old salt.
“Thanky, Mrs. Anderson, I will,!
said Basalt. “Alius water when you
has a chance, and then your casks won’t
run dry.”
The old lady trudged softly across
the room to a corner cupboard; then
after searching amongst the folds of her
stiff silk dress she found a pocket-hole,
into which she plunged her arm almost
to the elbow and brought out a great
pincushion, then a housewife, next a
bodkin case, a piece of orris root, a pen
knife, and lastly, though not by any
means the bottom of her cargo, a shin
ing bunch of keys—one and all rubbed
bright and worn with many years of
friction. Selecting one key, she opened
the quaint cupboard and lifted out a
curious old leather-covered case, which
her son hastened to take from her hands
and place upon the table, while she
smiled her thanks, and then brought out
two old-fashioned glasses, in the stems
of which were quaint opal-lined spirals.
Then another key had to be brought
into requisition to open the case, from
which three square bottles were drawn.
“Your poor father’s own case, John,”
said the old lady, as she took out a
stopper and filled one of the glasses for
old Basalt. “ Hollands, Mr. Basalt,
that he brought himself from Flushing,
twenty years ago.”
“Is it really?” said the old mate,
holding up the greeny fluid to the light,
and squinting through the glass before
smelling it. “Took a good fire to ’stil
�Christmas, 1873.]
»SHIP AHOY!”
it, anyhow. Why, you can sniff the
smoke now.”
» Taste it, Mr. Basalt—taste it, and
drink my John’s health.”
• “ God bless him! that I will,” cried
the old fellow, rising glass in one hand
to slap his other into his captain’s open
palm, and shake it heartily. “John
Anderson, God bless you!”
The grasp was as heartily returned;
and then, shutting one eye, Jeremiah
Basalt poured the glass of Hollands
down his throat; and, grog-hardened
even as he was, gave a slight gasp
as he put down the glass, and turning
to Mrs. Anderson, said solemnly—
“Lor! I wish I’d been a Dutchman.”
Mrs. Anderson smiled graciously, and
held out her hand to take the emptied
glass and refill it, a movement half
resented in a sham bashful manner by
the old man, who pretended to draw
back the glass; but all the same drew it
softly to him as soon as it was refilled,
to take a sniff at its contents, and then
exhale a long breath, after the fashion
of a connoisseur learned in the bouquet
of wines.
John Anderson drained his glass,
filled for him by the old lady, who
even then could not resist the tempta
tion to have another stroke at her son’s
hair. The next minute he rose, saying—
“ I am going up to Mr. Halley’s now,
Basalt, and will come down to the docks
afterwards.”
“ Not much good your coming there,”
grumbled the old man. “The ship’s
mucked up with lubbers, and will be till
we get her loaded again; and the sooner
the better, say I. Mrs. Anderson, my
service to you, I drink your very good
health this time.”
And he poured the second glass of
Hollands down his throat, such is the
force of education, without so much as
a wink.
The next minute, he and his captain
were standing side by side in the
street.
».No news about the ship, I suppose ?”
said Anderson, more for the sake of con
versation than anything else.
7
»No,”said the mate, »only, as I said,
she’s full of lubbers—lubbers up aloft,
lubbers down below, lubbers hanging
over her sides, and lubbers on the wharf
taking her cargo.”
»Wait a bit—wait a bit,” said Ander
son, smiling, » and we’ll be off again to
sea.”
» Sooner the better,” said Basalt ; » for
if I stay ashore long, I shall never get
away at all. I shall be married and
done for, as sure as a gun.”
» Stuff!” said Anderson, laughing, and
holding out his hand to shake the mate’s
and part.
“ Stop a bit,” said Basalt ; » there’s
news of one of Rutherby’s ships.”
, »Good?”
» Damn bad !”
“ Not lost ?”
» Gone to the bottom of the sea—‘ the
sea, the sea, and she’s gone to the
bottom of the sea,’ as the old song
says.”
»Bad job that, Basalt.”
» Not it,” growled the old fellow.
» Heav’ly insured—rotten old hulk—
sent out apurpose. Halfthemen drowned,
and the owner turns his eyes up like
a gull in thunder, wipes the corners,
and then rubs his hands and goes to
church. There’s lots o’ them games
carried on, and owners makes fortunes
out of it. They say Rutherby’s does,
Langford and Co.’s does, and some more
of’em.”
» Basalt,” said Anderson, flushing up,
and speaking hotly, »you’re a prejudiced
old humbug. Do you mean to say that
in your heart you believe a shipowner
would be such a cold-blooded, hellish
scoundrel as to send a crew to sea in a
vessel that he knew to be unsafe, and
that he had heavily insured ?”
»Yes I do—swear to it!” said the
old fellow, stoutly.
“ It’s all confounded rubbish ! ” was the
reply. » Why, a demon would think
twice before he did such a thing. Why,
it’s rank murder.”
“To be sure it is,” said the old fellow.
» Why, I’ve known it done over and over
again. I could show you the men who
�8
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
[Christmas, 1873.
have done it, and made money by it. I demons. So put that in your next quid,
don’t say as their crews was always my boy.’i
Here the old fellow went growling
drowned; but they were sometimes. As
to demons, and them sort of chaps, I off, and Captain Anderson made his
never know’d one as was in the shipping way to the corner by the Bank, to get a
trade, and don’t know whether they Canonbury ’bus, muttering to himself
make good shippers; but I’ll tell you as he went—
“ As good an old fellow as ever
this, and swear to it too, my lad, I’ve
known shippers, and have sailed for ’em, stepped, but as prejudiced and obstinate
as would have made out-an’-out good as a wooden mule.”
J" HIRD
IIOW JOHN
ANDERSON
ANONBURY
is not fashion
able, but it is
comfo rtable.
The old red
brick houses
look snug
and prosper
ous. There is
an air of
wealth about the dis
trict, and oldf a s h i o n ed
ease. The
red walls
indicate
warmth; and
once beyond
them and
their coating
of ivy and
over-shadowing trees, you expect to
find solid furniture, good plate, and fine
linen.
You are quite right in your expecta
tions—they are all there; and as to ve
neering, it is not known in the older
parts. There are cellars to the houses
in Canonbury: none of your West-end
cellars, under the pavement, with an
iron disc in the centre for the admission
of coals, but rare old cellars of a hun
dred years and more, with fine fungous
MADE
LOVE.
growths amongst the brickwork, and a
glorious smell of damp sawdust. Tlat!
you know in a moment that there are
bins there with rare dry natural sherry
that has been lying for years, and rich,
tawny old port next door, whose bees
wing breeds glorious fancies in the mind
of him who sips it over the dark, glossy
mahogany of its owner. And that is
not all, for here and there, too, in Ca
nonbury are bins of that rare, priceless
old wine, of glistening topaz hue, rich
Madeira, treasured up as a store that
can never be replenished.
Your citizens have long favoured Ca
nonbury as a convenient abode; and
those who have never cared to migrate
westward cling to the old place still, to
look down with solid respectability upon
the new, semi-detached villa people, who
have hemmed them in on every side,
but have still left Canonbury in statu
quo.
It was at a quarter to one'that Cap
tain John Anderson, with his cheek
flushed and heart palpitating, pulled at
the bell by the old iron gateway of
Brunswick House—that great, red-brick,
ivy-covered mansion that faces you as
you go down from Upper-street towards
the Tower.
He had meant to ring gently; but
the bell sent forth a clamorous peal
which brought a formal-looking foot
man in drab to the door, where he stood
�Chris®®®, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY ! ”
for a moment, and then condescended
to come down to the iron gate.
“ Why didn’t you come in—the gate
was open ?*’ said the footman, looking
his visitor over superciliously—for Sa
muel had a most profound contempt
for Shipping-street, and the bluff, hand
some captain savoured to him of the
shop.
But Captain Anderson was distrait;
and merely saying, “Tell your master
I’m here,” passed on into the hall, from
whence he was shown into the drawing
room, where, as the door closed behind
him, he stood with palpitating heart—
trembling and nerveless, and with a
stifling sensation at his throat in the
presence of his fate.
You don’t believe it, perhaps, you !
Maybe you are not strong, and big, and
sturdy, and desperately in love with a
sweet-faced, loveable girl, in the first
flush of her beauty. You do not be
lieve, perhaps, in a huge Hercules be
coming slave to a beautiful Omphale ?
I am sorry for you: I do; and, what is
more, I have history on my side, with
hundreds of cases where the strong are
really the weak. It is a pity, but all
the same it is so; and the bigger, and
stronger, and more muscular you are,
the greater shall be your thraldom when
you are led captive by some such a fair
maiden as was May Halley.
Shall I try to paint her ? I will,
though I have but white paper and
black ink. No; upon second thoughts,
I will not, lest I fail; and therefore let
me say that, without the aid of classic
features, she was all that could be de
sired in a sweet English maiden, whose
eyes were grey, cheeks peachy, forehead
white, and who upon occasion could
flash up into a very Juno.
As Captain Anderson was announced,
he became aware of the fact that a tall,
fair young man was in the act of bid
ding a lady good-bye, and bending with
great empressement over her hand.
Then it seemed that the door was closed,
and that the room was all clouds; and
he, John Anderson, below them on earth,
and May Halley above them in heaven.
9
Then she spoke—words simple and
commonplace, but sufficient to thrill
him through and through.
“ I am glad to see you safely back,
Captain Anderson., Take a seat. Papa
will be disengaged very soon.”
John Anderson did not make any re
sponse, but stood, hat in hand, gazing
at the fair girl before him till she flushed
scarlet, and half turned away with re
sentment in her bright eyes.
He could not have spoken then to
have saved his life, for a great struggle
was going on within him. For a few
moments the room seemed to spin
round, and he saw Mary Halley through
a fiery mist; then two red anger spots
began to burn on his cheeks; a dull,
dead, aching sense of pain fell upon his
heart; and he stood with his hands
clenching till the great veins stood out,
swollen and knotted, while the dew
stood upon his forehead in big drops.
For John Anderson had awakened to
the fact that the idol he had worshipped
now for years, without ever thinking of
speaking of his love, was also the idol
of another. He had seen that tall, fair
young man—smooth, gentlemanly, with
the world’s own polish, fashionable of
exterior—bending over May’s hand,
and saying words that must have been
of a complimentary nature; for she
had smiled pleasantly as she bade him
adieu.
Yes, and he had taken that hand in his
—his, such a soft, white, well-cared-for
hand; while the hand J ohn Anderson
clenched, till the nails pressed savagely
into his flesh, was brown, hardened, and
rugged with toil. There was a great
tar mark, too, that had refused to be
washed off; and as for a moment the
young man’s eyes fell, it was to see that
black stain there.
That black mark! It was a brand
of his toil-spent life; and he shivered
as he thought of the house of cards he
had been rearing—dreaming, as he had
been, of May in the long watches of
many a night in the far-off seas, when
he had leaned over the bulwarks think
ing of home, and the fair girl whom he
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
*
had seen at each turn, growing more
and more in a beautiful woman.
Yes, he knew it all now: that he had
been dreaming; that he was but a
rough, coarse sailor, fit only to battle
with the sea; while this fair pearl was
to be worn upon the heart of a polished
gallant, and——John Anderson started, for May Hal
ley was standing before him with out
stretched hand.
“ I am very glad to see you back,”
she said.
In a moment John Anderson had the
soft little hand between both his, and in
another he would have raised it to his
lips, but the thought of what he had
witnessed came at that instant like a
chill; and, dropping her hand, he half
staggered back, and sank into a chair.
“CaptainAnderson!—is anything the
matter ? Are you unwell ? Shall I ring
for a glass of wine?” exclaimed May,
in tones full of concern, every word
thrilling the strong man’s heart, and
making every fibre vibrate.
“Yes—yes!” he exclaimed, half be
side himself, as he caught her hand in
his—■“ there is much the matter. I—I
—there—I must speak—I am half mad,
May—darling, I know I am but a rough
sailor—but—since a child—loved you
—Oh! for God’s sake, don’t turn away
from me! Tell me—tell me that I am
not right—that you do not love that—
that man I saw here ! I—”
He stopped, for May stood before
him with reddened cheek and flashing
eye. He heard but three words, but
they burned into his brain as she turned
away—
“ How dare you! ”
The next moment she was sobbing
in her father’s arms, for Mr. Halley had
entered unperceived with the visitor of
a short time before.
“What does all this mean ?”
“ Oh, papa,” sobbed the girl, “ Cap
tain Anderson has insulted me!”
[Christmas, 1873.
“A confounded cad!” exclaimed the
young man, facing Anderson, and laying
his hand upon his collar, as if to turn
him out of the room; but the next in
stant-—it was like a flash more than
anything else—he was lying on the
carpet, having crushed in his fall a frail,
spider-legged table, and carried with
him a vase of flowers, which pleasantly
ornamented his white visage as he lay.
The next minute John Anderson was
hurrying down the street on his way
back to town, seeing nothing, hearing
nothing, only feeling that he was mad—that he had acted like a madman—that
he had, in one wild moment, demolished
the idol that had been his sole thought
for years, and that now life was one
great burden, and the sooner he was
away again at sea the better.
“At sea!”
He said those two words aloud, and
stopped short so suddenly that he was
rudely jostled by a passer-by.
At sea! Why, after what had passed
this morning, he would lose the com
mand of the Merry May. Mr. Halley
would never allow the presumptuous
man who had insulted his daughter with
his impertinent pretensions to sail his
ship; and he would be without a com
mand !
It was horrible to think of; but the
thought would come, and John Ander
son gave a groan as he called himself a
maniac, and staggered along, feeling
that he had lost his love, his ship, selfesteem, and the confidence of his em
ployer. And all for what?
All for love: the love of as sweet a
woman as ever was made to give hap
piness to sinful, erring man.
“Yes,” said John Anderson, “I have
lost all. And all for what? All for
love! What shall I do now?”
He stood again for a moment or two
thinking; and then, with a half-mocking, half-tearful smile, he said, simply—
“ I’ll go home.”
»1«
Bg------- ----------------------------------------------------
�Christmas, 1873.]
«SHIP AHOY!
11
HOW JEREMIAH BASALT WENT TO SEE THE WIDOW.
NEVER
drinks but
one glass
of grog a
day at
sea,” said
old Basalt
—“ n eve r
but one,
Mrs. Gurnett. For
w h y ?
’Cause
there’s
dooty to
be done,
and may
be a watch
to keep;
and if your sooperior officers takes more
than’s good for them, what’s to be ex
pected of your men ? But now I’m
ashore, with nothing to do but amuse
myself, I don’t care if I do take
another.”
“And it’s welcome you are here to as
many as you like, and when you like, Mr.
Basalt,” said Mrs. Gurnett, rising with
alacrity from her side of the fire in her
snug bar to mix a fresh glass of steam
ing compound for her visitor, who took
it with a grunt of satisfaction and silently
drank the donor’s health before setting
the glass down, smoking slowly and
thoughtfully at his pipe as he stared at
the glowing fire and the bright black
bars.
A quarter of an hour passed, during
which Mrs. Gurnett, who was pleasant
and comely in spite of her fifty years,
knitted away at a pair of thick grey
worsted stockings; and then Jeremiah
Basalt spoke, saying, in a surly voice—
“I know I am!”
Mrs. Gurnett, landlady of the com
fortable old hostelry known as the Jolly
Sailors, gave a start.
“Know you are what, Mr. Basalt?”
“Know as I’m welcome, and have
been this ten year, or else I shouldn’t
come.”
Mrs. Gurnett sighed, drew at the grey
worsted ball far down in her pocket,
changed one of her knitting pins, and
began a fresh row.
“Who’s them for?” said Basalt, point
ing at the stocking with the stem of his
pipe.
“ I was thinking of asking you to
accept them before you go on your next
voyage, Mr. Basalt—that is, if you are
going to sea again.”
There was another pause, of quite ten
minutes’ duration, before Basalt again
spoke.
“What should I do ashore?”
“ I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Mrs.
Gurnett; “only it seems to me very
dangerous going to sea, and you are not
so young as you used to be, Mr. Basalt.
We none of us are.”
“Pooh!” said Basalt. “Fifty-seven
—nobbut a boy yet. And as to danger,
why, it’s a deal safer at sea than it is
here, I do know that. Why, if I was
to give up the sea, what ’ud become of
me? I should always be hanging about
here, and then you’d get tired of me.”
Mrs. Gurnett sighed, and continued
her knitting.
“You’re a good soul, though, and I
like you, Mrs. Gurnett, better than any
other woman I ever see in my life; and
if I was a marrying man, instead of
a chock of old salt junk, soaked and
hardened, and good for nowt but to
knock about aboard ship, I’m blessed if
I don’t think I should say to you some
fine day, ‘ Mrs. Gurnett, will you have
me?”’
Mrs. Gurnett sighed again, and looked
more attentively at her knitting, whilf
�12
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
Basalt smoked himself into the centre
of a cloud.
“ I think I’d make ’em a little more
slack in the leg this time,” he said at
last. “ Them others was so tight that
they opened in the back seams, and you
can’t werry well caulk when you’re out
at sea.”
“ You have very fine legs, Mr. Basalt,”
remarked Mrs. Gurnett, glancing at
her visitor’s lower extremities approv
ingly, as she gave another tug at her
worsted.
“ They do right enough,” said the old
fellow, disparagingly; “ and as long as
they keep me going I’m satisfied. But
what do you think of our cap’s choice
—speaking as a woman, now?”
“I did not know that he had made a
choice,” said Mrs. Gurnett, indifferently;
for the conversation was taking a turn
in which she felt no interest.
“He has, though,” said Basalt; “and
as nice a little craft as a man would wish
to own—clean run, pretty counter, all
taut alow and aloft, and I should say
as good a lass as the ship we sail in, and
as bears her name.”
Mrs. Gurnett dropped her knitting,
and gazed in her visitor’s face.
“You don’t mean to say—
“Don’t I? but I just do; and what is
there surprising in that? Here’s Cap.
John Anderson, as smart a sailor and
as handsome a young fellow as ever
stepped, and here’s Miss May Halley, as
pretty a gal; and if they wouldn’t make
a nice pair to consort together, and sail
these here stormy seas o’ life in com
pany, why tell me.”
Here old Basalt took a hasty sip of
his grog, and stooped to pick up the
knitting, which had glided to the floor,
as Mrs. Gurnett sat dreamily smoothing
one of her pleasant old cheeks with her
knitting needle.
“That’s dropping stitches wholesale
and for export,” said Basalt, with a grim
smile, as he laid the work upon its
owner’s lap; but the remark drew forth
no response, only Mrs. Gurnett said, in
a low, sad tone—
“ Dear—dear—dear—dear—dear!”
[Christmas, 1873.
“What’s dear, dear?” said Basalt,
gruffly.
“ Oh, Mr. Basalt, I’m very, very, very
sorry to hear all this.”
“What, about the cap?”
“Yes, very grieved indeed.”
“Gammon!” said the old sailor.
“Why, he loves the very ground she
walks on; thinks about her all day and
all night too. Many’s the time he’s
walked the deck with me in a dark
watch and talked about that gal—wdien
she was a gal, you know, of ten and
twelve and fourteen; but since she’s
been growed a woman, ‘No,’ says he to
hisself—I know just as plain as if he’d
told me—‘she’s too good and beautiful
to be talked about to a rough old sailor.’
For true love’s a thing to be kep’ snug
in the locker of yer heart like a precious
jewel. Look here, Betsy—”
Mrs. Gurney started; for Jeremiah
Basalt, in all the years she had known
him, had never before addressed her by
her Christian name.
“ Look here, Betsy,” he said, drawing
his chair closer, so that he could lay
one great horny paw upon the hostess’s
plump white hand.
“ Don’t, Mr. Basalt,” she said, with a
sob, “the customers might see you.”
“Blame the customers!” said Basalt,
sturdily; “what is it to them if I like to
speak out my mind like a man? Look
here, my lass, I’m rough but I’m ready;
and I aint known you fifteen year come
this Christmas without knowing as I’d
got a heart in my buzzum. ‘That’s a
good woman, Jerry,’ I’ve said to myself
hundreds o’ times, ‘and if ever you
marries, marry she, if she’ll have you.’
‘ I will,’ I says, ‘ I’ll ask her some day.’
But I aint going to be such a brute to
a woman as to ask her to have me, and
then keep going away to sea.’ There,
swab up those tears, my lass,” he con
tinued, for the great drops were chasing
one another down Mrs. Gurnett’s cheeks.
“‘No,’ I says, ‘I aint a-going to be
such a brute to a woman as I loves, as
to be always a-leaving her; and I aint
a-going to be such a brute to myself—as
is a man for whom I has a great respect
��14
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
—as to have to be leaving her. No. My
’pinion is that when you tie yourself
tight to a woman, you oughtn’t to be
parting the strands. ‘No,’ I says, ‘’taint
time yet, but there’s the port you hope
to reach, Jerry;’ and to reach that port
I’ve got eight ’undred and twenty
seven pun’ sixteen and sixpence saved
up, and it’s all safe in a pair o’ them
stockings as you knitted for me, my lass,
one put inside the other so as to be
strong. And I says to myself, I says,
‘There, Jerry Basalt, there’s your cap’n
as loves true, and there’s you as loves
true; and when he asks she to have he,
and she marries he, why you shall go
and empty that there pair o’ stockings
in Betsy Gurnett’s lap, and you says to
her, says you, My lass, you says, I brings
this here, not as you cares a ball o’ spun
yarn about money, but just so as no
spiteful ’longshore-going warmint should
say as Jerry Basalt wanted to marry
you for the sake of the snug business
and the few pounds as your master—
God rest him!—left you when he give in
the number of his mess; and then you
says, says you—-’ ”
“Oh, Mr. Basalt, Mr. Basalt!” cried
the hostess, clapping her apron to her
eyes, and sobbing loudly, as she rocked
herself to and fro, “then it won’t never
—never be ; for Miss May’s promised
to be married to somebody else.”
. “ Stow that! ” cried the old fellow,
excitedly, as he started from his chair,
and then stood looking down at the
weeping woman.
“ Don’t come no
woman’s games with a poor fellow as is
as innocent as a babby of all ’longshore
things, and has spoke out his mind free
and handsome.”
“ Oh, Mr. Basalt, I wouldn’t deceive
you for the world,” said Mrs. Gurnett,
turning up her wet eyes to look full in
his.
“That you wouldn’t,” he cried, taking
her hand in both his, and sawing it up
and down. “You’re deep water right
away, and there aint a rock or a shoal
in you from top to bottom, I’ll swear;
but I’m took aback, my lass, as much for
John Anderson’s sake as I am for my
[Christmas, 1B73.
own. Avast there a minute, and let me
give a look out ahead.”
He walked to the red-curtained win
dow, and stood looking out for a few
moments, as if into the stormy night;
but really into the dark, empty parlour
of the Jolly Sailors. Then he came
back to speak seriously, as he stood with
one hand resting on the table.
“It looks squally,” he said—“very
squally, my lass. And,” he continued,
giving a tug at his collar, “ it seems to
me weather as may be the wrecking of
a fine handsome teak-built, ship, A I at
Lloyd’s, and called the John Anderson
my Jo; and likewise of a weather-beaten
old craft that meant to come well into
port, and her name—his name I mean”
he added, correcting himself—“his
name I won’t say nothing about. But,
anyhow, you know the bearings of the
coast better than I do, so heave ahead.
I’ll have another glass the whiles, for
I’m for all the world as if I’d shipped a
heavy sea.”
“ I’ve known Miss May from a baby,
and nursed her when I was in Mr. HaL
ley’s service,” said Mrs. Gurnett. “ It
was from the old house in Canonbury
there that James Gurnett married me—
being coachman, and having saved a
little money.”
“ I think I remember,” said Basalt,
huskily.
“ And it’s been going on now some
time,”continued Mrs. Gurnett. “There’s
a gentleman there constant now, and he
wants Miss May, and they tell me at
the house that she has him there to see
her; and they do say that he has some
hold on poor old master, which I won’t
believe, for he’s too rich and too highspirited to be trampled on by any one.
Anyhow, he’s in the shipping trade, and
partner in a big house; and I do think
that they are to be married soon.”
Jeremiah Basalt filled his pipe slowly,
evidently thinking hard the while; then,
although there were splints in a holder
upon the chimney-piece, he stooped
down, picked a glowing cinder from be
tween the bottom' bars with his casehardened finger and thumb, and laid it
�“SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, if? 73.]
upon the pipe bowl, and then sat suck
ing at it for a few minutes before
he spoke—Mrs. Gurnett now sitting
drying her eyes and smoothing her
hair.
“ It ’ll about break that poor chap’s
’art,” said Basalt, at last.
Mrs. Gurnett sighed, and then there
was another pause. Then Basalt
said—
“What’s the gent’s name?”
“ Merritt—Mr. Philip Merritt.”
“ Never heard it afore,” said Basalt,
gruffly; “and I wish as I hadn’t heard
it now. He’s got a Co., I s’pose—
HOW THE
WIDOW
RS. GUR
NETT was
sitting quite
alone, with
her eyes still
red, and at
times swimming with
moisture,
though no
tears now es
caped to roll
down her
cheeks. She
had resumed
her knitting
— that is to
say, she had
taken it up
—and had
drawn more
and more
grey worsted from the great ball which
revolved in her pocket; but the work
did not progress. She had drawn the
leg out to see how wide it was, and sighed
heavily; she had counted the stitches,
and made up her mind to increase them
in the coming rows; she had stabbed
the stocking through and through with
i5
all shippers has—Merritt and Co., I
s’pose—blame ’em!”
“ No,” said Mrs. Gurnett, “he belongs
to a big house, and his name don’t ap
pear. I think he’s a Co. himself, instead
of having one; for the name up is Rutherby and Co.”
“The devil!”
Jeremiah Basalt let fall the glass he
was about to raise to his lips, and it was
smashed to atoms upon the white hearth
stone. Then he started to his feet, for
the outer door opened quickly, and a
well-known voice said at the bar—“ Is Mr. Basalt here?”
WAS
IN
TROUBLE.
her knitting needle, as if it were an old
charm to win its future wearer’s love;—
but still the work did not progress. She
had to lay it down too frequently to
wait on customers, who spoke- about
the weather, and to give change to Tom
the potboy, who was busily attending
upon a part of the crew of the Merry
May, sitting in the tap-room enjoy
ing themselves; and again she sighed
heavily, for as the tap-room door opened
there came the sound of a jovial voice
trolling out the words of 011S of the
finest of our old sea songs, and the tears
gathered again as she heard—
“And three times round went our gallant ship,
And three times round” went she.”
%
Then the door closed, and Mrs Gur
nett sighed again. The next minute
she gave quite a sob; for the door was
once more opened, and the same voice
trolled out, in the peculiar, half-mourn
ful tones of the old song—
“And she sank to the bottom of the sea, the
sea, the sea,
And she sank to the bottom of the sea.”
Then she held her breath as the cho
rus came rolling through the house,
lustily sung by a dozen voices—
�i6
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ While the raging seas did roar, and the
stormy winds did blow,
And we jolly sailor boys were up, up, up
aloft;
And the land lubbers lying down below, below,
below,
And the land lubbers lying down below.”
Poor Mrs. Gurnett heard not the rat
tling of pots and glasses upon the table,
nor the stamping of feet upon the floor;
for she had crossed softly to a corner
cupboard of old oak, upon whose top
were three goodly china punchbowls,
and within various glasses, ladles,
spoons, and sugar stirrers. But resting
upon the feet of the reversed glasses
were two books.
She took out one, the thicker of the
two, and it opened naturally at one
well-thumbed place; and then, taking
out a pair of spectacles, Mrs. Gurnett
did not put them on, but held them up
reversed to her eyes, and read softly,
but inan audible tone—
"And there came down a storm of
wind on the lake; and they were filled
with water, and were in jeopardy;
“And they came to him, and awoke
him, saying Master, Master, we perish.
Then he arose, and rebuked the wind
and the raging of the water; and they
ceased, and there was a calm.
"And he said unto them, Where is
your faith?”
Here Mrs. Gurnett closed the Book,
and, reverently replacing it, took up the
other; and it too fell open at another
well-thumbed place, where, if you had
been looking over her shoulder, you
might have read the words— .
“ Form of prayer to be used at sea.”
From this, too, she stood reading for
a time, and then replaced it, closing
the door softly, just as a hasty step
sounded on the passage floor, and a
voice said—
“ Mrs. Gurnett.”
It was only the postman; but Mrs.
Gurnett had so few correspondents that
a letter was a novelty; and she held it
for a few minutes, wondering who might
be the sender.
Then she sat down with it still un
opened, but lying upon the table before
[Christmas, 1873.
her; as she this time'took out her spec
tacles, carefully wiped them, and put
them on, wondering now what business
had brought Captain Anderson to her
house for Jeremiah Basalt, and whether
the latter had told him about May
Halley.
“ I suppose I am very foolish-—at my
time of life, too; but I suppose it comes
natural to a woman to want to have
something—somebody, I mean—to cling
to; and I’ve been all alone for a many,
many years now.
“Heigho!” she sighed again as she
looked dreamily before her over the
table. “ He’s a very good man, though;
and if I wasn’t so old I’d say I loved
him very dearly.
“Poor Captain Anderson!” she sighed
soon after. “ Such a proper man, too,
and so brave! It must be the salt in
the water that makes them so, for there’s
no men anywhere like sailors. But even
they aint perfect; but, poor fellows,
who would grudge them a glass when
they get ashore ?
“ Heigho! I wish people wouldn’t
write letters to me,” she said at last, tak
ing up her missive. “ Why, it must be
from Miss May.”
She turned it over again, and held
the neat, ladylike direction up to the
light.
Then a customer came in, and she
started, hoping it might be old Basalt
come back; but no, he was with John
Anderson; so she returned to the
light, opened the envelope, and ex
claimed—
“ Why, God bless the child, it is from
Miss May!”
Then she read the few lines slowly:
“My dear Nurse—-I’m in great
trouble. Come and see your poor little
girl to-morrow afternoon, when I shall
be alone. I have plenty of friends, but
no mother, and no one to whom I care
to turn more than to the kind old nurse
who so often kissed me as a child.—
Yours very affectionately,
“ May Halley.”
Mrs. Gurnett was very easily moved
�“SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, 1873.]
to tears that night, and her handker
chief grew rather moist with frequent
usage.
“ I knew she wouldn’t forget me,
17
though it’s little indeed I’ve seen of her
of late. And she grown such a bright,
handsome young lady. I wish it was
to-morrow.
pXTH
HOW JOHN
ANDERSON
WANT to have
a few words
with you, Ba
salt,” said John
Anderson, as
he entered Mrs.
Gurnett’s bar;
and evidently,
to use his own
words, “ taken
aback,” the old
mate left his
seat, broke his
pipe as he tried
to set it up on
end in the cor
ner, took his
old tarpaulin
hat and set it
on wrong way,
had quite a struggle to get into his pea
jacket, and lurched about as if his pota
tions had been too strong for him. But
this was not the case, for Jeremiah Ba
salt was as sober as a judge; and at last
he turned, gave a solemn nod to Mrs.
Gurnett, and walked out with his cap
tain.
The streets were wet and muddy, and
glistened in the light which streamed
from window and gas-lamp. It was
getting late now, and wayfarers were
few, so that the streets they passed
through they had pretty well to them
selves. It did not seem as if they were
going to any particular place, for in utter
silence John Anderson led, or rather
indicated, the way, as they passed from
street to street, sometimes crossing, some
times almost returning on their track.
SOLD
HIMSELF.
It was nothing, though, to Basalt.
The captain wanted him, and here he
was. He might have wanted his help
in keeping a watch ashore—in fact
it seemed so, when at last the aimless
tramping over the pavement had ended
in a short walk up and down beneath a
lamp-post, in a very quiet street.
They must have paced up and down
for quite half an hour in silence; for,
knowing what he did, Basalt would
hardly have spoken first to save his
life. It was very evident that his young
captain was in trouble, and he respected
it.
“ When he wants my advice he’ll ask
for it,” said Basalt to himself. “ Poor
chap, he’s found it out, safe! And now
what’s it all coming to?”
At last John Anderson stopped short
beneath the lamp-post, and said, hoarsely,
“ Basalt, J’ve given up my ship.
There, no—stop: I won’t be a humbug.
Jerry, I’ve tost my ship.”
“Lost be blessed,” said Basalt; “why
she’s safe in dock! But you said you’d
give her up. Don’t do that, my lad—
don’t do that. If it’s a bit of a tiff with
Master Halley, wink at it; don’t give
up a fine craft like the May for the
sake of a few hard words. Just think
of what we’ve done in her!—off the
Cape, you know; and when we ran
side by side with that man-o’-war that
thought she could overhaul us. Oh,
Master John, don’t give up the May'.'
“She’s given me up, Jerry,” said
Captain Anderson, bitterly. “ Look
here, if you care to read it. Here is
Mr. Halley’s dismissal.”
“Good Lord!” ejaculated Basalt,
�>
•
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
leaning against the lamp-post, and
staring at the paper his captain held in
his hand, but without attempting to read
it.
“I thought I’d see you, and tell you;
for I may not see much more of you, old
fellow, before I start.”
“Now, just look here, my lad. You’re
nobbut a boy to me, so I say ‘my lad,’
though you are my captain. I’m as
thick to-night as a Deal haze; so if you
want to make me understand, just
speak out, and then perhaps we can
get on.”
“Well, Basalt,” said John Anderson,
smiling, “ I’ve got in disgrace with Mr.
Halley, and am no longer in his ser
vice.”
The old man uttered a low, soft
whistle.
“ It’s a bad job, and I’m sorry to give
up so fine a ship; but there she is, and
some one else will command her. As
for me, I wanted to be off again some
where at once, and----- ■”
“Why, we’ve only just got back.”
“True,” said Anderson; “but all the
same I can’t stop; so I’ve lost no time,
but made an engagement with another
firm, and am off next week.”
“ Where ? ”
“China.”
“All right! It’s all the same to me.”
“ What do you mean ? ”
“ Why, what I say—it’s all the same
to me.”
“ But you have received no dismissal,
Basalt.”
“ Oh, yes. Took it myself.”
“ What do you mean ? ”
“ BGW do I mean? Why, after sail
ing together all these years, do you
think that I’m going to let you go afloat
like a helpless babby, without me to
take care of you ? No, my lad. I taught
you first to make a running bowline,
and to coil down a rope, and made you
box the compass afore you was fourteen
years old; and if you think I’m going to
leave you now, why, you’re mistaken,
that’s all.”
“ But, really, Basalt, I can’t think of
letting you give up for such reasons.”
--------------- i------------------------------------------------- .------- -
[Christmas, 1S73.
“ I’m ashore now, and won’t take no
notice of what you say; so I tell you this,
that as long as I sail the sea it shall be
in your wake, and if you won’t have me
as mate, I’ll go afore the mast along
with the lads, who’ll ship with you, every
man Jack of ’em.”
John Anderson, bitter and reckless an
hour before, was now too much moved to
speak; and after a few final attempts
to dismiss his old friend, he wrung his
hand tightly, and they walked on again
in silence.
“Good craft?” said Basalt at last, to
break the silence.
“ I’ve not seen her,” was the reply.
“What size?”
“ Thousand tons.”
“ And you want men ? ”
“ Badly.”
“ They shall come—every man Jack
of’em. But when’s she down to sail?”
“ Wednesday next.”
“We’ll be aboard, never fear,” said
Basalt, with a chuckle, which he instantly
suppressed, lest he should seem gay
while his captain was steeped in trouble.
“ But look here. What’s the name of
the ship?”
“ Victrix—lying in the south basin,
East India Dock.”
“Good!” said Basalt. “Owners?”
“ Rutherby and Co.”
“Who?” cried Basalt, hoarsely.
“ Rutherby and Co.”
“My God!”
John Anderson stood and gazed at
his companion’s chapfallen aspect for a
few moments; then, thinking he had
divined the reason for Basalt’s looks, he
said—“ There, you can draw back from your
promise. You are thinking of the bad
character they have had for coffin ships;
but, believe me, Basalt, I honestly think
these tales are a cruel libel on a firm of
gentlemen. No man would be such a
cowardly, cruel scoundrel as to risk the
lives of his sailors by sending them to
sea in an ill-found ship. Here’s proof
that I don’t believe it.”
“’Taint that,” said Basalt, hoarsely.
“What is it, then? I’ve told you
�«SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, 1873.]
that you are free to stay, glad as I
Should have been to have you. Stick
to the dear old—stick to the May, and
keep the men. They won’t want to go
to sea again till they’ve spent all their
coin. Good night, Basalt—come and
see me off.”
“ ’Taint that,” said Basalt, more
'huskily still.
“What is it, then?” said Anderson,
bitterly.
“ God help me,” groaned the old man
to himself. “ Shall I tell him, or sha’n’t
I tell him? It’s cruel to tell him, and
it’s cruel to let him go wi’out. Here,
don’t go yet-—stop a moment.”
“Good night, old fellow,” said John
Anderson, moving off.
“ I will tell him—it’s like murder not
to, and him half broken-hearted. Here,
just a moment. You must give up that
ship.”
19
“ Jerry Basalt,” said Anderson, “you
must give up going to the Jolly Sailors.
There, shake hands; good night."
“ I’m drunk, am I? P’raps I am; but
it’s with hard words and dizzy thoughts
—not with strong waters. There, I •
must tell you. John, my boy, I’ve
looked upon you as a son all these
years, and this news, put to what I know,
’most swamps me. You must give up
this ship, come what may.”
“ When I’ve signed and promised to
sail?” said Anderson, mockingly.
“ Yes, my lad, even if you was aboard
with your pilot, and the tow-boat casting
off to leave you free.”
“And why?” asked Anderson, half
startled at the other’s solemn earnest
ness.
“ Because, my boy,” cried Basalt,
gripping him tightly by the arm, “you’ve
been and sold yourself to the Devil!”
EYENTH
HOW MR. LONGDALE GAVE PHILIP MERRITT A HINT.
T was about ten
o’clock the next
morning that John
Anderson, closely
followed by Jere
miah Basalt,
walked slowly
down Shipping
street, and turning
up one of the nar
row courts, entered
the offices of Rutherby and Co.
They stood first
waiting in the outer
office, whose walls
were decorated
with coloured en
gravings of various
clipper ships in full
sail, and with cards
bearing the names
of vessels about to
journey half round the world. There,
too, were Shipping Gazettes, telegrams
of inward and outward bound craft, at
one and all of which Jeremiah Basalt
looked with a sidewise, supercilious
scrutiny.
At last the pair were shown in to Mr.
Longdale, one of the partners, who re
ceived them with a most bland smile,
and then discoursed with Anderson
upon business matters connected with
the ship, upon the wish of Basalt to join
■as second mate, and the necessity for an
early start.
“And so you think you can bring
ten or a dozen men, do you?” said Mr.
Longdale, looking at Basalt “with a
smile like a shark”—so the old man
expressed it afterwards.
“ Can’t say yet, sir,” replied Basalt.
“ I aint seen the ship. I’m going my
self—’cause why? my old captain’s
going. That’s quite enough for me;
but it won’t be enough for the men.”
�20
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Pooh—pooh! my dear sir, the men
are too dense — too animal to care
much about what ship they go in. It’s
all a matter of sentiment with the poor
fellows. Tell them a ship’s a bad one
—ill-found, and not a man will go in
her; tell them the ship’s a lucky one,
and all that could be wished for, or alter
her name, and they go in her like a
flock of sheep through a gap. Eh?
You made some remark?”
“ I said the more fools they,” said
Basalt, gruffly.
“Just so—exactly,” said Mr. Long
dale, smiling again. “ So, of course, you
must treat them accordingly. Get a
dozen men if you can; and you can
speak from authority when I tell you
our ships are famous for their qualities.
We never spare for anything in expense.
You’ll find the Victrix a perfect clipper
in every respect, A i, and a ship that
you may be proud of; well-found,
gentlemen, in everything.”
“ Glad to hear it,” said Basalt, gruffly
as ever.
“ Exactly. I knew you would be. So
now, gentlemen, you will take a run
down to the basin, and have a look at
her—see how matters are going on, you
know, and hurry everything possible, so
as to be off. Good morning, Captain
Anderson. Good morning, Mr. Basalt.”
Anderson had said but little, wearing
a dull, stunned aspect, save when he was
spoken to, when his face lit up for a few
moments, but only to subside again into
its heavy, listless expression. But as he
passed into the outer office his whole ap
pearance changed—his eyes flashed, his
nostrils dilated, and he seemed to grow
taller, as he stopped short, one foot ad
vanced and hands clenching; for at that
moment a fashionably dressed young
man alighted from a cab, and stepped
daintily into the office, holding an aro
matic cigar between two of the fingers
of his light kid-gloved hand.
In his turn, he started and turned pale
as he confronted Anderson, his eyelids
lowered till they were half closed, and
slightly turning his head away, he looked
swiftly at the young sailor, while a
[Christmas, 1873-
bitter, mocking smile played round his
thin lips, and half hid itself in the fair
moustache.
Snuffing mischief, though, Basalt
caught John Anderson’s arm in his grip,
and led him through the glass door out
into the fresh air; while—after glancing
spitefully after the retreating pair—
Philip Merritt’s whole aspect changed
to one of cruel animosity, and hurrying
into Mr. Longdale’s room, he exclaimed,
in excited tones—
“ There’s a man named Anderson just
gone out from here; do you know who
he is ? ”
“ Last captain of your future papa’s
clipper, the Merry Muy',' said Mr. Long
dale, laying down the paper.
“Yes, yes, I know that; but what
does he do here ? ”
“ He is one of the best captains in
the mercantile navy,” replied Longdale.
“ Well ? ”
“And his name is sufficient to give
confidence to half the consignors in the
port of London. We want cargo, my
dear boy. Now do you see ? ”
“But surely,”exclaimed Merritt,dash
ing down his cigar, “ you don’t mean to
say—”
“ Now, listen, my dear Merritt, and
don’t be excitable. You are young
yet with us, and you might have a little
confidence in your senior partners.
Rutherby gives way to my opinion in
such matters, for he has tried me for
many years—you may do the same.”
“ Look here, Longdale,” said Merritt,
savagely; “ I’ve brought money into
this firm, which you wanted badly; and
though I’m young, I don’t mean to be
treated as a nonentity. Just please
leave off beating about the bush, and
tell me why that scoundrel was here.”
Mr. Longdale slightly knit his brows,
and then said, calmly—
“ My dear boy, no one wants to make
you a nonentity, and I can assure you
that we shall always make a point of
consulting you on all important matters.
But this piece of business was done
while you were away—at Canonbury, I
think.”
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
Philip Merritt’s hand went uncon
sciously to his mouth, where he began
to move a loose front tooth backwards
and forwards, to see if there was any
risk of its coming out. The twinge of
pain that accompanied the operation
brought strongly back John Anderson’s
blow, and he said—
“ Well, go on; why is that fellow
here?”
“ Because he wanted a ship, and we
wanted a captain and a cargo. He
could offer us the captain with a good
name for trustworthiness, and we could
offer him the ship. The bargain was
struck, and the cargo comes as a matter
of course. In fact, it bpgan to pour in
directly I had the announcements made.
We shall get men, too, with ease. A
good name, my dear boy, is a most
valuable commodity in this wicked
world. Look here, have a glass of
sherry and a biscuit. I have a glass of
very fine dry wine here.”
He went to a cupboard, and brought
out a decanter and glass; while Merritt,
who was white with rage, strode up and
down the room till a clerk opened the
door, and upon him Merritt turned to
vent his spleen.
“If you please, sir—” began the clerk.
“Curse you! Don’t you see we are
engaged? How dare you intrude like
this?”
The clerk glanced at the sherry
decanter, and was gone in an instant.
“Now, my dear boy,” said Longdale,
suavely.
“Don’t ‘dear boy’ me, Longdale,”
cried Merritt, dashing his hand upon
the table.
Then, dragging up a chair, he seated
himself in front of his partner, who
was calmly pouring out a glass of
the amber fluid.
“Look here, I came into your firm
when your name stank so that you
could get neither cargo nor men. I
came in, and brought money.”
“Very true, my dear boy—your
sherry—but you need not raise your
voice so that the clerks can hear.”
“I came into-the firm with money,
21
and it was a stipulation that, though
junior, I should have full voice in all
matters.”
“Quite true, my dear boy; and so you
have. You are deferred to in every
thing—really senior partner.”
“What do youcall that,then,engaging
that fellow?”
“My dear boy, taste your wine; it
really is excellent.”
“D—■—11 the wine!” roared Merritt,
and he swept the glass off the table in
his rage. “I tell you I won’t have it. I
won’t put up with it. The scoundrel’s
papers shall be cancelled if it costs a
thousand pounds.”
“Now, my dear Merritt, how was it
possible that I could know you had any
animus against this man? For aught
I knew, you had never even seen him.”
“Animus?” shrieked Merritt, white
with rage, and tearing off his gloves—
literally tearing them off in shreds, and
casting them about the room—“ I tell
you I hate him—curse him! I hate him,
I tell you. If I saw him starving—
dying—drowning — burning, and by
raising a finger I could save his life, I
wouldn’t do it. I’d snatch away the
morsel that his soul craved; drag from
him the consolation of religion; take
from him the lifebuoy his fingers tried
to hold; force him back into the flames.
Curse him! curse him!” he hissed, be
tween his teeth. “ If I only had him
here!”
He stamped the heel of his patent
leather boot down upon the floor as he
spoke, and made as if he were grinding
his enemy’s face beneath it.
“Has he dared, then—?” said Long
dale, coolly sipping his sherry, and
crumbling a biscuit between his fingers,
as he curiously watched the working of
his partner’s face.
“ Never mind what he has dared, and
what he has not. The scoundrel struck
me—curse him!—and I could not strike
him again. I don’t care, I’ll own it,”
he cried, stammering in his speech, in his
rage and excitement. “ I was afraid of
him; but I’ll be even with him yet.”
Longdale did not speak, but rose from
�■MKi
a»»
22
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
his chair, obtained a fresh glass, filled
it, pushed it to his partner, and then re
seated himself, just as Merritt snatched
up the glass, poured its contents down
his throat, and thrust it forward to be
refilled.
“That’s better,” said Longdale, pour
ing out a fresh glassful.
“ I’ll have this stopped at once,” said
Merritt, suddenly changing from his
furious excitement to a hard, bitter,
business tone of voice. “ Ring for one
of the clerks.”
As he spoke he reached out his hand
for the table gong, but Longdale coolly
drew it back.
“ Stop a minute, Merritt,” he said,
quietly—“ don’t be rash.”
“ Rash? I tell you, I’ll have the whole
affair cancelled.”
“Listen to me. You are a business
man—a shrewd man. Have you thought
this over?”
“No; it wants no thinking over,”
“ Yes, it does—quietly. You are with
us now, Merritt, and I can speak plainly
as to Rutherby. Though I did not know
it, it seems that I have been working
in your interest.”
“ Now, look here,” cried Merritt,
fiercely, “ I’m not to be cajoled. Pass
me that bell.”
“ But you are to be spoken to, and
shown where you are wrong, when you
are wrong. Stop a moment,” he said,
for Merritt was about to interrupt.
“You will own it yourself. You hate
this Anderson ?”
Merritt sat silent and glaring; his
face of a leaden pallor, and his forehead
contracted.
“ Well, he was engaged to go for us
to China.”
Merritt did not speak; he was con
taining himself by a tremendous effort
of will.
“ It is sometimes a very dangerous
voyage, Merritt.”
Longdale spoke very slowly, and in
a cold, subdued voice: such an utter
ance as must have come from the ser
pent when he spoke to our first mother
in Paradise. He leaned forward, too,
-----------------------------
[Christmas, 1873.
as he spoke, with his elbows on the
table, and his fingers touching his tem
ples, and framing, as it were, his face,
which was now in shadow.
Merritt gave a sort of gasp, and sat
bolt upright in his chair, staring at his
partner.
“You are with me, Merritt?”
The younger man nodded; and a
faint smile flickered for a moment round
Longdale’s lips, as he saw the change
from passion to earnest attention come
over his partner’s face.
“ Yes,” he said again, more slowly and
calmly, “it is sometimes a dangerous
voyage to the eastern seas.”
_ Then Philip Merritt sat stiffly up
right in his chair, holding on by the
arms on either side, the jewelled rings
upon his white fingers twinkling and
scintillating, showing the nervous tre
mor that was agitating the man. For
fully a minute neither spoke, each try
ing to read the other’s thoughts; but
at last Merritt essayed to say some
thing. It was but an essay, though,
for only a husky sound came from his
throat.
He coughed, though, and cleared his
voice; and then said, in a strange tone,
that could not be recognized as his
own—
“What—what ship does he sail in ?”
“ The Victrix"
“The Victrix?”
“ Yes. The vessel that has been done
up.”
There was another pause, for what
might have been five minutes, during
which the ticking of the clock was
plainly audible. But though no word
was spoken, the two men sat still, read
ing each other’s thoughts, the pallor of
Merritt’s face being now painful to wit
ness.
At last he seized the decanter, and
filled and emptied his glass three times
running, before saying, in husky, sub
dued tones—“ You changed her name ?”
Longdale nodded, without removing
his hands.
“What was she before ?”
�“SHIP AHOY!
Christmas, 1873.]
“The Maid of Greece!” said Long
dale, almost inaudibly.
* Philip Merritt sank back in his chair
aS If nerve, strength, all had passed from
him. His lips parted, and his breath
Came painfully. Then he rose, and felt
23
about the table for his hat, never re
moving his eyes from Longdale’s till he
had half staggered to the door, through
which he passed hastily, and out into
the street like one walking in his
sleep.
jïlGHTH
HOW JOHN ANDERSON WENT TO SEE A COFFIN SHIP.
T was for
all the
world like
a dog agoing to
shake a
cat,” said
old Basalt
as he still
held by
John An
ders on’s
arm, and
walked
him down
the street.
“I don’t
know
which that
c h ap’s
most like,
a cat or a
shark; but he’d do for either. But
look here, my lad—you must give it
up. Now, promise me you will. You
can’t go on, you know.”
John Anderson turned round, and
gazed in the old fellow’s face before
speaking.
“ You must give it up, Jerry,” he said,
quietly. “I have undertaken the job,
and I will not turn back.”
Jeremiah Basalt let go of his compa
nion’s arm; spat savagely at a passing
dog, which snarled at him in reply; and
then, thrusting his hands into the bot
tom of his pockets, he drew from one a
knife, and from the other a cake of tobacco, off which he hacked a small
square of about an inch across, thrust it
into his cheek, and then walked forward
towards the station by his captain’s
side, as stubborn an old sea dog as
ever stepped a plank.
The railway soon took them within
easy reach of the dock, through whose
gates they passed in silence; for John
Anderson’s mood was anything but a
conversational one, He glanced to left
and right, at the tiers of shipping lading
and discharging cargo, as if in search of
the vessel he was to command ; but his
thoughts were far away. He seemed
to avoid by instinct the various obstacles
in his path, till he was roused to him
self by Basalt exclaiming—
“ Wictrix—there she lies.”
Anderson stood and looked across
the basin to where the long three-masted
vessel lay close to the wharf, glistening
with paint, and looking new, smart, and
perfectly seaworthy. A white, statu
esque figure of Fame stood out from
beneath her bowsprit, holding to its lips
a gilded trumpet; and at the stern, de
corated with scroll-work and conven
tional carving, was the name in gold
letters.
Men were very busy aloft unbending
sails ; and wheels and pulleys were
creaking as the stevedores busily hoisted
in bale, box, and cask, to lower them
into the gaping hold.
“Well, what do you think of her?”
said Anderson, after a nearer scrutiny.
Basalt stood gazing hard at the ship,
and did not answer.
“ What do you think of her ? ” said
Anderson again.
�24
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Don’t know,” was the rough re
sponse. “ Let’s go aboard.”
They walked round the end of the
basin, and crossed the gangway on to
the littered decks, where, in a quiet,
methodical manner, the two experienced
men looked over the vessel, inspecting
her from stem to stern, went up aloft to
see the standing and running rigging,
climbed over into the chains, went down
below, and ended by going ashore and
returning to Mrs. Gurnett’s without say
ing a word.
They found the old lady with her
bonnet on, apparently about to go out;
but she hurried away, and returned to
wait upon them in the little parlour,
where Basalt was soon busy with a pipe
and glass, Anderson refusing all refresh
ment.
They sat for quite ten minutes alone,
each watching the other. The silence
was broken by Anderson, who said—
“ Well?”
“ Ill, you mean,” was the reply.
“I’m afraid so, Jerry.”
“ ’Fraid so ? Why, the poor old
thing seems to me to groan through her
paint and patchery. They’ve stuffed
up the wrinkles ; but if ever rottenness
grinned out of an old vessel, there it is.
Why, it’s a dressed-up skeleton. You’ve
done wrong, cap’n, you’ve done wrong.
Give it up.”
Anderson half turned away his head,
and remained silent for a few minutes
before he spoke.
“No, Basalt,” he said; “I’ve under
taken to sail her to China and back,
and, please God, I’ll do it, though it will
be a hard task. You shall not go,
though.”
“ Sha’n’t I ?” said Basalt, gruffly.
“ No. It would not be fair to you.
You shall give it up.”
“What’s fair for you’s fair for me;
and if you go, I go. She’s a rotten old
hulk, patched up and painted to the
nines. But though I say it as shouldn’t
say it, I will say one thing, and that is,
that if a cap’n and a mate as knows
their business can sail that there wessel
to the Chinee seas, and back, that there
[Christmas, 1873.
cap’n and mate’s a-sitting now in the
parlour of the Jolly Sailors, the one
drinking his grog and smoking his pipe
like a Christian, and the tother a-looking at him. Give it up, and I sails with
you in another ship. Stick to your
lines, and I goes with you in the Wictrix ; but before I’ll ask one of my poor
lads as I’ve had afloat with me to go in
her, may I be----- well, I won’t say what
in this here house, with a plaster ceiling
over my head ; but if I was afloat, with
plenty of room aloft, I’d say something
stiff, and no mistake.”
Further conversation was stayed by
the entrance of Mrs. Gurnett with a
very troubled face.
“ If you please, Captain Anderson,
here’s some of the men want to see
you.”
John Anderson, from being heavy
and dejected, was in a moment all ani
mation now; and, turning to Basalt, he
said—“ Mind, not a man of them ships with
us.”
“ No, not with my consent,” said the
old fellow. “ I did think of getting the
lot, but not now. They may find their
own crew, and good luck to ’em, and
bad luck to us.”
“ Is it really true, then, Captain An
derson,” said the old lady, “ that you
are going directly in one of Rutherby’s
ships ?”
“Yes, it’s true enough,” said Basalt,
speaking for his superior; “ and I’m
a-going with him.”
“ Oh, Captain Anderson, don’t go—
don’t go—and don’t take him ! There
are such tales afloat about those ships,
and only just now one was lost. Pray,
pray don’t take him with you.”
“ Softly, my lass—softly,” cried Ba
salt, crossing to her side, and leading
her to the other end of the room.
“ Don’t you know,” he whispered, “ what
the song says—‘ There’s a sweet little cherub as sits up aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack’?”
“ Basalt,” said Anderson, quietly, “ I’ll
go into the tap-room and speak to the
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!
25
boys. I’ll come back here before I ferent altogether to your long-shore lub
bers. A sailor’s got his dooty to do,
go”
He went softly out of the room, leav while your long-shore lubber aint got
ing Mrs. Gurnett with Basalt, whose no dooty at all. Here we are, then.
arm, for the very first time, now stole My dooty says, ‘ Stand by your cap
round the widow’s waist—a movement tain like a man!’ and I must stand by
so far from resented that Mrs. Gurnett’s him. Why, don’t it say in the Book
head sank upon his shoulder as she as a sparrer sha’n’t fall to the ground,
clung to him sobbing.
and aint I something more than a
“ Betsy, my dear lass,” he whispered, sparrer ?”
“ they say as sailors aint religious, and
“ Oh, yes—yes ; but—”
I suppose they aint; for, as far as I’m
“There you are again with your
consarned, I never goes to church ashore, ‘ buts.’ Now, be my own true blue wo
and I always growls about going afloat man, and say, ‘ Go, Jerry, and God bless
when the cap’n has sarvice on the main you ; and when you come back—’ ”
deck. I don’t think as I’ve read my
“ Oh, but I can’t say all that,” sobbed
Bible, either, these forty year ; but I do Mrs. Gurnett—“ only God bless you ! ”
believe this, as God looks after them
“Then think the rest,” said Basalt;
poor chaps as puts their trust in Him ; “ and when I come back— There,
and I think I do this, after a fashion, there’s the cap’n coming.”
along with my dooty.”
He kissed the sobbing woman softly
“ Oh, but you musn’t, musn’t think of and reverently; then he gently un
going in that ship.”
clasped her clinging hands from round
“But, my lass, I must. Now, belay his neck, and seated her in a chair, just
there a minute, and I’ll put it to you. as John Anderson entered' the room.
Would it be right—would you like me
“ I’ve said good-bye to them, Basalt,
to let that poor chap, as has got his and promised that they shall sail with
heart half broke, go afloat by himself; me in my next ship, if ever I com
or would you have me stand by him mand another ; for I could not let them
faithful—true blue right through ?”
go in this.”
Mrs. Gurnett could not answer—she
“ They volunteered, then?” said Ba
only sobbed bitterly.
salt.
“Avast heaving, there!” cried the
“To a man,” said Anderson, huskily.
old man, softly smoothing her grey
“Oh, and don’t let him go neither,
sprinkled hair, and holding her more Captain Anderson,” sobbed Mrs. Gur
tightly to him. “ If you’re the woman nett, running forward to catch John
I take you to be, you’ll say ‘Go with Anderson’s hand in hers.
him, and God bless you !’ For it stands
“My lass!” said Basalt, reproach
to reason that you couldn’t care to con fully.
sort with a thundering sneak.”
“ Oh, I didn’t know what I was say
“ Oh, I can’t say it—I can’t say it— ing,” sobbed the poor woman; “ only
indeed I can’t!” sobbed Mrs. Gurnett. bring him back to me safe—oh, please,
“ I should know no rest, night or day, please do, or it will break my heart! ”
if you went.”
“ Hooray!” cried Basalt, excitedly—
“ Oh, I say, now, cheer up and be “hooray! There’s for you, cap’n_
hearty. Away with melancholy, and that’s all for love of this here old bat
be spry! Why should you go on like tered salt! Bring me back, my lass ?_
that ? Now look here—wouldn’t you why, of course he will; for, as I said
like me to be true and hearty to John afore, if there s any two men as knows
Anderson ?”
how to sail a ship—a boat—there, a
“Ah, yes ; but—” .
plank, if you like—the name o’ them two
“There aint no ‘buts’ in it, my lass. men’s Jerry—I mean Cap’n John Ander
A sailor’s a picked-out sorter, man, dif son and Jeremiah Basalt. Cap’n, I’m
B
�KBhMhBÍHM
26
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
in your wake—helm hard up—haul on
your main sheet, and away we go! ”
“Yes, Jerry, go, and God bless you ;
and I’ll pray for you night and day,”
sobbed Mrs. Gurnett.
“Go it is!” cried Basalt, excitedly;
“and come back safe and sound it is,
my lass; and then—”
HMMi
[Christmas, 1873.
“Yes,” sobbed Mrs. Gurnett; “and
then—”
“Then it is,” cried Basalt; “and
blame me if ever I go afloat again!”
The next minute John Anderson and
his mate were in the street, and Mrs.
Gurnett was upon her knees.
¡ABLE
J^ENGTH.
HOW MAY HALLEY KNEW SHE HAD A HEART.
twenty years before. She rose from
her knees at the end of five minutes,
went upstairs and bathed her face,
put on her bonnet and shawl, and
set off for Canonbury, where she was
received with great dignity by the
drab footman, who condescended to
let the plump old lady wait in the hall
while he finished arranging some part
of his work in the dining-room, after
which he sent word up by the lady’smaid, that “a person” wanted to see
Miss May; and was horribly scanda
lised at the maid fetching the stout,
common woman up to Miss May’s bed
room.
Such a nest! It was more like a
boudoir than a bed-room, with its light
paper of white and gold, floral chintz
hangings, and water-colour paintings,
the work of her own hand. There was
a bird too in the window, that rippled
forth the sweetest trills of song, as it
held its head from side to side, ruffled
the feathers, of its throat, and sang at
its mistress. It was into this room that
Mrs. Gurnett was shown, to. stand just
inside the door, and drop a formal
curtsey to the tall, handsome girl who
advanced to meet her.
“Oh, nurse, dear, I’m so glad you’re
come!” said May, taking her hands, and
kissing her on both cheeks. “ What a
time it is since I’ve seen you! Why
have you not been to me ?”
“Because, my dear,” said Mrs. Gur
nett, rather stiffly, “it was a little, tiny
girl I used to know, and not a young
lady.”
“But,” said May, softly, as she drew
the old lady, very prim and demure
now, to a sofa, where she sat down by
her side, and held one hand—“but,
nurse, do you know that sometimes,
though I know that I am grown into a
woman, and that people ”—here she
glanced at the tall cheval glass opposite
to her—“that people say all sorts of
nonsense about me—”
“They say, I suppose,” said Mrs.
Gurnett, who had seen the glance, “that
you are very handsome?”
“Oh! all sorts of nonsense,” said
May, blushing ; “but I don’t take any
�J
j
Christmas, 1873,]
((SHIP AHOY!”
I notice of it; for what does it matter ?
I After all, I sometimes feel just as I
j did years and years ago, nurse, when
you used to lay my head upon my little
pillow, and kiss me, and say ‘ Good
night—’ ”
“‘God bless you!”’ interpolated Mrs.
Gurnett, softly.
“Yes, to be sure,” said May, smiling.
“And oh, nurse, it seems such a little
while ago; and sometimes, as I lie down
to sleep, I get thinking of all the old
times, and almost wish that—that I was
as young as I was when you were with
me.”
“Ah, my dear,” said Mrs. Gurnett,
“it’s growing old enough you are to
find out that there are greater troubles
in life than a broken doll or a dirty
pinafore.”
And then, in spite of all her efforts,
the poor old lady broke down, took out
her handkerchief, and began to sob bit
terly.
“Why, nurse, nurse, what is it?” said
May, anxiously, as she drew nearer to
the weeping woman. “Are you in
trouble?”
“Oh, yes, yes, my dear,” she said, at
last, after choking again and again in
the effort to speak.
“ But I sent for you to get you to try
and comfort me,” said May, softly.
“ What is the matter?”
Oh, my dear!” sobbed Mrs. Gurnett,
“ I’m finding out that after fighting for
life years and years, and thinking I was
strong, and steady, and sensible, I’m
only a silly, weak old woman, with a
heart as soft as that of a girl of eighteen.”
May blushed, looked at her wonderingly, and more wonderingly as,
thoroughly wound up to give vent to her
feelings, and, womanlike, glad to have
a sympathetic woman’s breast into which
she could empty the urn of her affliction,
Mrs. Gurnett told all her trouble from
beginning to end, stopping now and then
to upbraid herself as “a silly old woman
who ought to know better;” but, made
selfish in the extreme by her distress
forgetting all but her own affairs as she
proceeded with her tale.
£__ _ _____ _ _
__ ______
27
May flushed . scarlet .as Anderson’s
name was mentioned. Then she turned
deadly pale as the narrative went on.
Then she flushed again; but only for the '
blush to give place to a greater pallor,
as step by step Mrs. Gurnett told of her
dread—of the bad name owned by the
firm of Rutherby, and her horror that
Basalt should sail in one of their vessels.
And I ve told him he might go,”
sobbed the poor woman; “and I’ve sent
him to his death; for sail he will in the
floating coffin, and I shall never see him
more.”
She sat sobbing for a time, and then
went on, heedless of May Halley’s
plainly displayed emotion—
And him so faithful and true to
Captain Anderson—as brave, and true,
and handsome a man as ever stepped ■
and, oh, Miss May—”
Mrs. Gurnett stopped short, for it had
just flashed across her mind that in her
utter selfishness she had absolutely for
gotten that which she knew concerning
the young captain and his employer’s
daughter.
She sat up, handkerchief in hand,
gazing at May, who was as white as
marble, but who did not flinch from the
old lady’s look, only returned her gaze
with one that was stony and dull, ft
“ They are going to sail in the Victrix” said Mrs. Gurnett.
There was no reply.
“ They are going to sail directly, and
I can’t believe that they will ever
return.”
Still May made no response; and
Mrs. Gurnett, wiping her eyes, said,
apologetically—
My dear, you sent for me because .
you were in trouble, and I’ve been
telling you all of mine. It was very
thoughtless of me; but I seldom see any
one to whom I care to talk, and when
you seemed so gentle with me I was
obliged to speak.”
I am very, very glad to see you,
nurse, and to talk with you,” said Mffy,
in a strange, cold voice.
“ But, my dear, you wanted to tell me
all your troubles.”
------ --------------- —----- ■—
--------- «s?
�28
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Did I, nurse ? Oh, it was nothing!
I was a little upset. I had nothing
much to say. It was a mere trifle,
and I did not know you were so worried,
or I would not have sent.”
“ But, my dear, it was very silly and
childish of me, and I’m sure that you
will laugh at me when I am gone.”
“ Oh, no, no, nurse ; don’t think that,”
said May, lapsing for an instant from
her cold, stern demeanour. No woman
could despise another for displaying that
which is waiting to bud in her own
breast.
(Christmas, 1873.
“ But what was the matter, my dear?
Was it anything I could talk to you
about ? I should have been here sooner,
but for my own trouble.”
“ It was nothing, nurse—nothing at
all—only I—”
She made a brave effort to curb down
the feelings that were struggling for
exit, but they proved too strong for
her. They burst forth like a flood, as
she exclaimed—“Oh, nurse, nurse! I’ve sent him
away like that, and—and — indeed—
indeed, I did not know!”
JT ENTH
HOW MR. HALLEY TALKED TO HIS DAUGHTER.
EOPLE as a
rule used to
respect Mr.
Halley, the
shipowner, of
Quarterdeck
court— Hal
ley, Edwards,
and Company
was the name
of the firm;
but Edwards
had been dead
twenty years,
and the Comp a n y had
been bought
out one by
one by Mr.
Halley, till he
was the sole
owner of the line of ships trading to the
East, and managed his business per
Mr. Tudge, of whom anon. People
used to say that Mr. Halley would cut
up well when he died; and City men
would make calculations as to his
warmth, of course alluding to the ruddy
glow of his gold.
He was a quaint, old-fashioned looking
man, who always persisted in ignoring
customs of the present day.
“Fashion !” he would say; “what has
fashion to do with me ? Fashion ought
to be what I choose-to wear.”
The consequence was that he wore
the garments that had been in vogue
forty years before—to wit, a blue coat,
with a stiff velvet collar and treble gilt
buttons, nankeen trousers, and a buff
waistcoat. He did not powder his hair,
for he could not have made it more white
if he had ; but he did wear it gathered
together, and tied behind with a piece
of black ribbon; which used to bob
about the collar of his coat, to the
great amusement of the street boys
who saw him pass.
Of course, he had a right to dress as
he pleased; but it was a source of great
unpleasantry to his footman, who looked
upon the left-off garments with ineffable
.contempt.
Mr. Halley had just finished his
breakfast, laid down his paper, and was
playing with his gold eyeglasses, while
May, who sat behind the urn, looked
pale and distraite.
Mr. Halley coughed—a short, forced
cough—and looked disturbed.
May started.
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
This was the opening for which Mr.
Halley had been waiting. He was fond
of authority and ruling, but he was
fonder of his child; and of late a feeling
had been creeping over him that he
was not satisfied with the course that
domestic matters had taken.
" “What’s the matter, my dear?” he
said.
“ Nothing, papa.”
“Yes — ahem — yes, there is, my
dear. I have noticed—er—er—noticed
lately—”
Here Mr. Halley’s voice grew husky,
and he had to cough two or three times
to clear it, while May’s face became
scarlet.
“ There—er—er—is something the
matter, and I have noticed lately that
you have been very strange and—er—er
—not what you should be. Merritt
came to me yesterday.”
He paused, as if expecting May to
speak; but she sat perfectly silent.
“I said Merritt came to me yesterday,
my dear; and he wanted to know if he
had given any offence.”
May still silent.
“ I told him no—nothing of the kind.
He said he was afraid somebody had
been trying to poison your ears against
him, and he hoped that you did not take
any notice of the absurd reports spread
about the shipping house to which he
belongs.”
“ Do you think, papa, that those re
ports are absurd ?” said May, so sud
denly that the old man started.
“Absurd ? Of course, my dear; un
less you think that the gentleman to
whom you are.engaged is about as black
a scoundrel and murderer as ever stepped.
May, I’m angry with you ; I am, indeed.
I can’t think what has come over you
of late. It is really too bad—it is,
indeed. I’ve been wanting to talk to
you about it; and really, you know, the
way in which you treated his partner,
Mr. Longdale, last night, was quite in
sulting.”
“Papa!” cried May, passionately, “I
can’t make friends with a slimy snake.”
“Now, my dear child,” cried the old
29.
man, petulantly, “this—this is absurd;
it’s—it’s—it’s cruel; it’s—it’s so like
your poor mother—bursting out in the
most unreasonable way against a man
whom you do not fancy.”
“ Fancy ? Oh, papa ! ” cried May,
“did you ever shake hands with him?”
“Why, of course, my dear. Shake
hands, indeed! ”
“ It was dreadful; so cold and dank,
and—and—and fishy,” said May.
“ Now, my darling child, I must beg of
you not to be absurd. Longdale is a man
of position, and Merritt’s partner. Long
dale and Merritt are really the men, for
pcfor old Rutherby is quite a nonentity.
And here, last night, you treated Long
dale as if he were—were—were—”
“ A nasty, cold, twining, slimy snake,”
said May, impetuously. “Ugh!”
“Tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated the old
man, peevishly ; “really, May!”
“Do you think, papa, there is any
truth in what has been said about
Rutherby’s ships ?”
“ Why—why—why—what do you
know about Rutherby’s ships, child?”
cried the old man, uneasily.
“ I’ve heard the reports, papa, about
their unseaworthy state,” said May, ex-'
citedly; “and it seems to me so dread
ful, so horrible, that it makes me
shudder.”
“ It’s all a cruel, atrocious lie. I’m
sure of it, my dear,” said the old man,
dabbing his forehead as he spoke. “ If
I—I—I for a moment thought that they
could be such—There, it’s nonsense—
absurd ! Men couldn’t do it.”
“ But people say they do, papa,” said
May.
“ People say any cruel thing of others
who are more prosperous than them
selves. Why they even say that—that
I—but there, I am not prosperous, my
dear, only comfortably off. But there,
don’t you take any notice of what people
say.”
“ But it sounds so horrible, papa.”
“ What, that they send men to sea in
rotten ships ? Yes, of course it sounds
horrible; but it isn’t true—it can’t be
true. Why, my dear, I should have
�30
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
been a very, very rich man now if it had
not been for the expense I’ve been put
to in keeping my ships in good con
dition ; and as to what they say of
Rutherby’s—pooh !”
The door opened, and the footman
appeared.
“ Lady wants to see you, sir, on busi
ness,” said the man.
“Who is it? What business? Why
doesn’t she go to the offices ?”
“ Said I wasn’t to say, sir,” said the
man, reluctantly. “She’s in the library.”
The old gentleman fixed him with
his eye, and the footman, with a shilling
in his mind, half whimpered—
“ If you please, sir, I couldn’t help it.
She says, sir, please, sir, ‘ Show me into
a private room, and tell your master a
lady wants to see him on business.’ ”
“Who is the lady?” said Mr. Halley.
“Mrs. Anderson, sir—Captain An
derson’s mother.”
May gave vent to a little cry, half
sob, half catch of the breath ; and'then
sat silent and intent upon what followed.
jlLEVENTH
“Tell her, I can’t see her,” cried the
old man, angrily; “tell her I won’t see
her; tell her—there, what the devil
does she want here ? She’s come to beg
that I will reinstate her son. It’s too
bad, May—it really is too bad ; and I
won’t be bothered like this. I won’t
see her. Here, stop, sir. How dare you
go away without orders?”
“ Please, sir, you said—”
“ Confound you, sir ! I didn’t said at
all,” cried the old man, angrily. “Here,
stop, I’ll—I’ll—yes, I’ll see her in the
library.”
“Yes, sir, she is there,” said the foot
man, hurrying to open the door obse
quiously for Mr. Halley, nervous and
evidently dreading the interview ; while
May sat with her face changing colour
each moment, and listening attentively
till she heard the library door closed,
when she hurried up to her own room,
to throw herself into a chair, and place
one hand upon her side, as if to stay
with it the heavy throbbings of her
heart.
JCaBLE
HOW MRS. ANDERSON CAME
T might
have been
thought
by any
one who
had been
a witness
of the
scene that
Mrs. An
derson, as
she sat in
the library
of the old
house at
Canonbury, was Queen paramount there,
and that Mr. Halley, the old shipowner,
approached her as a suppliant; for she
remained sitting—a stiff old figure, in
[Christmas, 1873.
J_vENGTH.
TO SPEAK ABOUT HER SON.
her rustling, great folded silk—while he
stood before her, evidently ill at ease.
“Mr. Halley,” she said, sternly, “I
have come to speak to you about my
son.”
“ I must beg, madam—” he ’ began,
nervously.
“Have the goodness to-listen to me
first, Mr. Halley.”
The old gentleman coughed/glanced
at the door, and then remained silent;
while his visitor drew off a black kid
glove, held up a thin white finger
threateningly at him, and said, slowly—
“Mr. Halley, you have murdered my
son! ”
The old gentleman started at the
tremendous charge, and was about to
speak; but Mrs. Anderson interrupted
him. ,
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“Yes—murdered him; for you have
deprived him of the command of the
ship he loved, and sent him afloat in
one that bears an ill name.”
“ I—I—I did nothing of the sort,
Mrs. Anderson ; I—I—really, this is a
most scandalous charge.”
“But it is quite true, Mr. Halley, and
you know it. And why was this ? ”
“Why, ma’am, why?” cried the old
gentleman, angrily, glad to have an
opportunity to speak, “ because he was
presumptuous ; but, stop—mind this, I
am only speaking of my breaking con
nection with him. I have nothing to do
with his shipping with another firm.”
“Yes, you have,” said Mrs. Anderson,
sternly.
“Nonsense! — absurd! 'I will not
have it,” cried the old man. “ Do you
know how this man, your son, behaved
here—here in my house, madam ? ”
“No, not quite,”said Mrs. Andersorf,
quietly; “but I am quite sure that my
son would behave like a gentleman.”
“A gentleman!” said Mr. Halley.
“ Why, he struck one of my visitors, and
insulted my daughter.”
“ If he struck one of your guests, Mr.
Halley,” said the old lady, speaking
haughtily as a tragedy queen, “he must
have been a villain and deserved it.
But my son would never insult your
daughter.”
“ But—but I tell you, ma’am, he did
—he did. Forgot his position altogether
as one of my servants, and—and—there,
it is too absurd! He actually had the
impertinence to propose—to—to make
love to her.”
“And pray, Mr. Halley, was that in
sulting her ?”
“ Of course.”
Mrs. Anderson rose from her chair, '
and stood menacingly before the old
gentleman.
“ Insult—proposed ! Mr. Halley, I
consider that my son conferred an
honour upon her.”
“ Honour ?”
“Yes, sir, an honour. I won’t say
anything about his birth, only that the
Andersons have been Scotch gentlemen
31
for many generations, while the Hal
leys— Do you remember coming to
borrow a sovereign of my husband, Mr.
Halley, when you were a struggling
man ?”
“I—I—I—there!—No; yes, yes, I
won’t deny it, Mrs. Anderson. I did
bor—but I paid it again!”
“Yes, you paid it again,” said the old
lady. “You always were an honest
man, James Halley; but because you
have made money in shipowning, I
can’t see that my son would be offering
any insult to your child.”
“ Mrs. Anderson, I am not going to—I can’t argue with you about that
matter. Your son is not connected with
me now, and I had nothing to do with
his engaging himself to other owners.”
“ But it was through you, Mr. Halley,
it was through you that the poor lad
went; and if evil come to him you are
to blame.”
“Mrs. Anderson, if you were not—
but I won’t be angry. I won’t say hard
things to you. You are an old lady,
and in troirble about your son, and
therefore speak more plainly than you
should.”
“No, Mr.' Halley, not more plainly
than I should. It is true that it is
about my poor boy; but I would speak
as plainly if it were about any other
woman’s son, for it is the duty of every
one to speak when evil is being done,
and no steps taken to avert it. James
Halley, you know the kind of ship my
son has gone in, and what they say
about it.”
“ I know what they say about it, Mrs.
Anderson,” said Mr. Halley, angrily;
“ but I don’t believe it—I won’t believe
it’s true.”
“No, that’s it—you won’t believe it’s
true.”
“ I can’t, I tell you,” said Mr. Halley.
“ Why, I never sent a ship to sea until it
had been thoroughly overhauled and
made trim.”
“That makes me believe you, James
Halley,” said the old lady, eagerly; and
she caught his hand and pressed it
between her own. “ I know you never
�g
32
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
did—my John has told me so a dozen
times; and I see now that you can’t
believe it in others. I did think though,
when I came here, that you knew of it
all, and winked at it that you might get
well rid of my son.”
“ If .1 thought—no, if I found out,
and could believe that Rutherbys could
be such scoundrels, they should never
darken my doors again; and as for—”
He stopped short, and looked
curiously at the old lady, who leaned
forward, and peered searchingly in his
eyes.
“Say what you were going to say to
me, James Halley. Don’t triumph over
me because I come as a suitor now.
You came as a suitor to me once—forty
years ago now, James Halley—and I
would not listen to you; but you are
too much of a man to bear me malice
for that.”
“Bear malice!” said the old gentleman, warmly ; “ not I. Well, I’ll say
it. No, I won’t.”
“ Then I’ll say it for you,” said Mrs.
Anderson. “You were gcing to say
that if you found out that Philip
Merritt knew of the state of the ship in
which my son sailed, he should never
wed daughter of yours. Say it, James
Halley, and I shall go away hap
pier.”
“No,” said the old gentleman, shak
[Christmas, 1873.
ing his head, angrily, and striding up
and down the room—“ no, I won’t say
it. There’s no need. It isn’t true. And
you’ve come here, on your son’s behalf,
to try and set me against that young
man, and I’ll hear no more of it. As
for the young man, I like him, and May
likes him, and—but there, I won’t—I
won’t enter any more into the matter.
Mrs. Anderson, good morning.”
“ Stop one moment, Mr. Halley,”
cried the old lady. “ We are very old •
acquaintances. You love your girl,
perhaps, as well as I love my boy.
That he hoped to have won May
Halley was his misfortune and mine.
But I don’t come on his behalf; for, poor
lad, he will never return—I know it
well. I should like, though, to know
that this engagement was broken off;
for I tell you it will bring with
it misery. The money Philip Merritt
brings to his home will be fouled with
the despairing curses of the dying
sailors he has sent to their grave ; and
every jewel he gives his wife will be
glistening with the tears of the wives
and mothers whose loved ones have
sailed in his rotten ships. I tell you,
James Halley, that you will go to your
grave a wretched and despairing man if
you marry your child to—”
“ Mr. Philip Merritt,” said the foot
man, suddenly opening the door.
�Ctóstmas, 187-3.]
“SHIP AHOY!
33
J^WELFTH
HOW PHILIP MERRITT ASKED IF HE LOOKED LIKE A SCOUNDREL.
OR a few mo
ments no one
spoke, during
which short
space the clos
ing of the door
* by the foot
man and his
retreating
steps across
the hall were
plainly heard.
Then Merritt
somewhat re
covered from
his surprise;
for he had ex
pected May to
be with her
father, and in
stead he found
himself confronted by the threatening,
angry countenance of Mrs. Anderson.
“ I—I beg pardon,” he stammered,
changing colour in spite of himself.
“ I’ll go into the next room.”
“No!” cried the old lady, fiercely, as
she took a step forward ; then, pointing
at him with her stick, she turned to Mr.
Halley. “ Look at him, James Halley
—look at him, and think of what I said.
It will bring a curse, I tell you—a curse! ”
She went slowly towards the door,
and turned once more as she took the
handle, to gaze sternly upon Merritt.
“The tears of mothers and sweet
hearts, the bitter wails of wives and
children, and the stifled curses and cries
to Heaven for vengeance of drowning
sailors, will be the dowry you bring to
your wife, Philip Merritt. I, as the
mother of one whom you have sent to
his death, will not add my curse. I will
not spit upon the ground where you
stand, and call down maledictions from
the Almighty to crush you ere your
misdoings become more. I only say,
for John Anderson and myself, may
God forgive you!”
Before Philip Merritt could recover
himself from the shock her words had
occasioned, the door had closed, and he
was alone with Mr. Halley, his face
blanched, and the perspiration standing
in beads upon his temples.
“ Why, what a dreadful old woman ! ”
he exclaimed at last, using his scented
handkerchief freely upon his forehead
and damp hands. “ I declare she has
made me feel quite uncomfortable.
And who is the strange old being ?”
“John Anderson’s mother,” said Mr.
Halley, sinking back into a seat, with
clouded brow.
“ Well, do you know, I half guessed it.
But is she—a little—touched ?”
He tapped his forehead significantly.
“Sane as you or I,” said Mr. Halley,
shortly.
“Oh!” said Merritt.
And there was an uncomfortable
silence for a few moments.
“Look here, Merritt,” exclaimed Mr.
Halley, suddenly; “ I’m a plain-spoken
old man, and very frank. I take to
myself the credit of being honest and
straightforward, so I will speak what is
on my mind at once. There are strange
reports afloat.”
“ Indeed,” said Merritt, calmly; “what
about ?”
“ About you, Merritt—about you.”
“About me?” said Merritt, with an
amused smile. “Why, what have I
been doing? Has a little bird whispered
that I was seen at the Casino last night;
or tipsy in the Haymarket, knocking off
policemen’s hats; and is my future papa
angry about it, and going to give me a
lecture?”
“Just listen to me seriously, Philip,”
�34
.ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
said Mr. Halley, leaning forward, and
speaking very earnestly. “ I keep hear
ing on all sides evil whisperings about
Rutherby’s vessels.”
“ Of course, yes—evil whisperings,”
said Merritt, with a contemptuous
“Pish!”
“ They say your ships go out unsea
worthy and heavily insured.”
“ Our ships ? Well, yes, they are ours
now; but I am a very young partner,
you know.”
“And if this is the case, Philip Mer
ritt, it is wholesale murder.”
Merritt grew a trifle paler, but the
amused smile never left his lips.
“A firm—a man who would counte
nance such things ought to be hung as
high as Haman,” said the old man,
excitedly. “ He ought to be—there,
there, I don’t know a punishment hard
enough for such a demon. It makes
my blood boil to think of it.”
“ Then why think of it ? ” said Mer
ritt, who was, however, blessed with
a face that was as tell-tale as a girl’s,
and now showed of a deathly pallor—
“why think of it?” he said coolly. “You
must know that it is all pure invention.”
“ But I don’t know,” cried the old
man. “ I want to know—want you to
tell me.”
“Want me to tell you!” said Merritt.
“Well, really, my dear sir, if it were any
one else I should rise and leave the
room. You ask me, so to speak, if it is
true that I am, according to your own
showing, as great a ruffian, scoundrel,
and murderer as ever stepped—that I,
the accepted suitor of your daughter,
am a wholesale destroyer of life, and
make money by swindling the marine
insurance companies. Mr, Halley, it is
monstrous!”
“ It is—it is, Merritt,” exclaimed the
old man.
“ I ask you a question,” continued
Merritt, rising with an aspect of injured
innocence; “do I look like the scoun
drel you have painted?”
“No, my boy—no,” cried the old man,
catching Merritt’s hands in his, and
shaking them heartily. “ It is mon
.-------------- -------------------------------- ------- ------- -------------------------
[Christmas, 36873.
strous. Indeed, I don’t believe a word
of it—not a word.”
“Thank you, sir—thank you,” said
Merritt, warmly returning the shake.
“ It is one of the evils of prosperity
that it must be backbitten by every
slandering scoundrel who has not been
fortunate.”
,
“Quite true, Merritt—quite true.”
“And because we have lost a ship or
two, they set it down to our own fault;
when I can assure you, Mr. Halley,
that no expense is spared to make our
vessels all that, could be wished.”
“ I am sure of it, Merritt—quite sure.
Depend upon it, some jealous scoundrel
is at the bottom of all this, for his own
ends.”
“ I fancy it comes from the under
writing fraternity,” said Merritt; “and
I’m glad you take my view, that it is
set afloat by some interested party;
for that is really what I feel about it.
An underwriter’s dodge to set a certain
number against our ships, so that they
may arrange per centage just as they
please.”
“Very likely—very likely,” said Mr.
Halley. “ There’s a deal of wickedness
in this world, my boy.”
“ Depend upon it, sir,” said Jderritt,
“that any roguery or false dealing in
commerce is sure to come upon the head
of its inventor.”
“ I am sure of it, my boy—quite sure
of it.”
“Why, even you know, Mr. Halley,
how hard it is to go on, even carrying
things along in the even, straightforward
way in which you have done business.”
“ True, my boy—quite true. I have
had very heavy losses in my time, though
none so bad that I have not been able
to stand against them.”
“ Then, I think we may change the
conversation, sir,” said Merritt.
“Ye-e-es,” said the old man, “we
will directly; but I will say this—I don’t
suspect you now, my boy, not at all—
but I’ll say this all the same. If I felt
that any one who wanted -to be related
to me—wanted to have that little pearl
of mine to wear for his own through
�Christmas, 1873 ]
“SHIP AHOY!'-’
life—if I had the slightest suspicion
that he was in any way connected with
such goings on, I’d turn my back upon
him at once.”
“But, my dear sir,” exclaimed Mer
ritt, “ that looks as if you were not quite
satisfied even yet.”
“Not at all, my boy, not at all—so
there, shake hands upon it. Are you
coming into the City with me, or are you
going to see May? Oh, of course—well,
you must excuse me. Give me a look
in as you go by the office.”
The old gentleman left the room, after
a very warm shake of the hand; and
Philip Merritt, after waiting for a few
minutes, made his way into the drawing
room, where he expected to find May.
The room, however, was empty; and
after looking at a few books, he rang
the bell.
“Tell Miss May I am here,” he said
to the man.
“ I’ll send word up, sir,” said the man;
“ she’s in her own room.”
Merritt waited a few minutes, full of
impatience; and then he heard the
closing of a door, and May’s voice on
the stairs. A minute later, and listen
ing attentively, he heard a step in the
hall, when, throwing open the door, he
stepped hastily out, open-handed, but
35
found himself confronting the stiff, stern
old figure of Mrs. Anderson.
For a few moments he stood as if
paralyzed, with the old lady’s flashing
eyes gazing straight into his, till he
cowered and blenched, and fell back a
step. Then relief came; for the footman
approached, and the old lady pointed
with her stick to the door.
So fixed was her stern look, that Philip
Merritt shivered as he obeyed her sign
and slowly opened the door, through
which she passed, gazing at him to the
last.
“What an idiot I am!” he said to
himself, as the door was closed ; “ and
before that fellow, too! Here,” he cried,
wiping his damp hands, “ did you send
word to Miss May that I was here ?”
“Yes, sir,” said the footman.
“And what did she say?”
“ I—oh, here’s her maid, sir,” was the
reply.
At this moment a smart little domes
tic came tripping down the stairs.
“If you please, sir, Miss May’s com
pliments, and she’s too poorly to leave
her room.”
“ D----- n,” muttered Merritt, catching
up his hat and stick. Then as soon as he
was outside, “This is all the doing of
that cursed woman.”
�36
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
■J" HIRTEENTH
pABEE
[Christmas, 1873.
J_ÆNGTH..
HOW MRS. ANDERSON WENT TO CURSE MAY HALLEY.
HALLEY had
no idea that he
left Mrs. An
derson closelycloseted with
his daughter
when he
started for the
City; for, in
place of going
1 iKg
away, she had
desired the ser
vant to tell
Ism®
Miss May that
she wished to
see her.
May, think
To
ing it was Mrs.
Gurnett, eager
ly sent word
down for her to be shown up, running
forward to meet her as the door was
opened, and then stopping short, sur
prised and confused, as she found her
self confronted by the prim old dame,
who was frowning at her from beneath
her grey eyebrows.
“You don’t know me,” the old lady
said, after a pause, during which May
stood blushing beneath the stern gaze.
“ No,”saidMay; and then the thought
flashed across her mind that this might
be Mrs. Anderson, of whom she had
heard, but whom she had never before
seen.
“Yes,” said the old lady, taking her
hand, and leading her to the window to
scrutinize her more narrowly. “ I am
not surprised—you are very pretty.”
She said this half to herself; but May
heard every word, and looked more than
ever conscious, with the ruddy hue suf
fusing neck and temples.
“Yes,” continued the old lady, “you
are very pretty, and I am not sur
prised.”
“ If you please,” said May, quaintly,
and with a half-amused smile upon her
face. “ I can’t help it.”
“ No,” said the old lady, more to her
self than May, “ you can’t help it; and
yet what misery and wretchedness a
pretty face can cause! Why should
your pretty doll’s face come between
me and my son, to wean his heart—
no, I won’t say that—but to make his
life a burden to him : so great a one
that he has thrown it away ?”
“No, no—not so bad as that,” cried
May.
“ Not so bad !” retorted the old lady.
“ It is worse. Did you know he loved
you ?”
May’s colour rose once more at this
sharp questioning, and she drew herself
up.
“Pride!” exclaimed the old lady.
“ Pride and coquetry ! Shame on you,
girl. I can see it all, as plainly as if I
had watched it throughout. To gratify
your girlish love of admiration, you have
led on and wrecked the heart of as true
a man as ever stepped. You ! Are you
listening ? Do you know how unworthy
of him you are—how brave and good
he is ? Why, a queen might have been
proud to own his love; while you—
what do you do, girl ? You spurn him
—send him away maddened; to throw
away his life—to let himself be trapped
into taking charge of a wretched, rotten
ship, that will hold together till the first
rough sea, and then sink, to help pave
the bottom of the sea with good men’s
bones.”
“ Oh, but tell me,” cried May—“ you
are exaggerating. It is not so bad as
this?”
“ So bad, girl!” cried the old lady, ex
citedly—“ it is worse ; for do you know
��ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
in whose ship he has gone ? No. I’ll
tell you. In his rival’s.”
“You are speaking without reason,
Mrs. Anderson. Your son had no rival,
for he was not acknowledged.”
“No,” said the old lady—“he was
not acknowledged, my son was not. He
'was but a poor merchant captain, and
no meet mate for his owner’s daughter.
Oh, that a few pounds of gold should
make so wide a gap between people.
But there—he could not see it, poor
boy! You are to marry, I suppose, that
man below—the man who has murdered
my son?”
“ Mrs. Anderson!”
“ Well, girl, what do you call it, if not
murder ? He owns a ship, and engages
men to sail it to some far distant land.
What ought he to do ? Ought he not'
to make that vessel safe ? ”
“ Oh, yes,” exclaimed May. “ Papa—”
“Your father is an obstinate, proud
man, May Halley; but he is honest and
true, and always did his duty by his
men.”
“ I am sure he did,” said May, with
animation.
“Yes, my son has told me so a score
of times. But this firm—these Rutherbys—what - do they do ? I’ll tell
you, girl—but come and sit down here
by this window, for I am an old. woman,
and weak.”
May hesitated for a 'moment, then
suffered herself to be led to a chair, as
if she were the visitor, and the old lady
mistress of the place.
“There,” said the latter, on seeing
the hesitation, “ you need not be afraid,
child—hard words break no bones; and
I have a right to speak to you—the
right of age—the right of an old woman
to a motherless girl.”
May glanced up at her quickly, for
the old lady’s face had wonderfully sof
tened, and she leaned forward to softly
stroke the girl’s peachy cheek.
“Yes, May Halley, I ought to be
very bitter and angry with you ; but I
cannot, for when I think, it seems to me
that I might perhaps have been your
mother.”
[Christmas, 1873.
“ My mother!”
“Yes, your »mother, child ; for in the
days gone by your father would have
made me his wife. But that matters
nothing now. I came to tell you of
your cruelty to my poor boy, who has
gone to his death.”
“ But, Mrs. Anderson,” exclaimed
May, “ it cannot be as bad as you say.”
“ Child, it is worse, I tell you. These
men buy wretched old ships, patch and
paint them up, engage good sailors to
man them, and send them to sea—to
their death.”
“ Oh, impossible I ” cried May.
“Impossible? It is done, I tell you,
and known to many, but no one inter
feres; and when one more bold than
the cowardly people who look on at the
wholesale murder interferes, and cries
boldly to the country, ‘ This should
not be,’ he is told that it is im
possible ; he is cried down as an
enthusiast, charged with interference
with that which he does not under
stand, and kept back when he calls for
proper inquiry.”
“But are you sure that this is true?”
cried. May, earnestly.
“ My son has told me, and he never
lied,” said the old lady, in a stately
way.
“It is too dreadful!”
“Too dreadful, child, perhaps; but,
none the less, true. I give you my son’s
words—the words of the dead, for he
will never return. I read his thoughts
when he said good-bye. He knew only
too well the character of the ship in
which he had madly engaged to sail.”
“ But why did he go?” cried May.
“ Because you drove him to it,” cried
the old lady; “because you made him
mad by your coldness. But he did not
know when he engaged himself that it
was in one of Mr. Philip Merritt’s ships
that he was to sail unto his death.”
“But, stop a moment,” said May;
“are you sure of this?”
“Did I not tell you that my son told
me?” retorted the old lady. “Sure?
What became of three of Rutherby’s
.ships last year? You never heard?
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
No, nor any one else : they sailed from
port, and were never heard of more.
And do you know what that means, child?
No, you could never have painted it
in its right colours, or you would not
have engaged yourself to a man who
could join in such atrocities. Yes, you
may we lk cry,” she continued, as May
half-turned away her streaming eyes—
“ you weep at the thought of it; but
what must have been the agony of
those watching mothers and wives who
saw those they loved set sail? Poor
common people, my child; but they
have the same feelings as you have, and
perhaps suffer more sharply, for they
have not the wealth that plasters so
many sores. They watch and wait,
and watch and wait, till every hope is
crushed out; and then at last their
poor few shillings go in what might
have been bought at first—a piece of
crape.”
There was silence for a few minutes,
broken only by a sob from May.
“See here, my child,” continued the
old lady, more gently, as she held
one of May’s hands in hers, and
softly stroked it, after pointing to her
weeds—“see here, I have no need to
go buy mourning, for I wear it now.
This was for my poor husband, who
sailed away, happy and light-hearted,
to battle with the treacherous sea. He
had all that good owners could supply—
a stout, new vessel, and good crew; but
he never came back. What then can I
expect for my son, who has gone with
all as bad as bad can be? Oh, my
child, my child, you’ve broken his
mother’s heart!”
In a moment, the cold, almost harsh,
- dignity of the old lady had passed
away, and she was on her knees by
May, sobbing over the hand she tightly
clasped.
The tears fell fast, too, now from
May’s eyes, as she rested her other hand
upon the thin, bent shoulders of her
visitor, whom she raised at last and led
to a couch, seating herself beside her,
and trying to whisper comfort; as with
hot, wet cheek bearing witness to her
:-----------------_-------------------------------
39
emotion, she whispered, in broken
words—
“ Indeed, you wrong me. I never
treated Captain Anderson as you seem
to think. I always met him as a friend
and visitor. He took me by surprise—I
did not know—”
Mrs. Anderson sat up, and pushed
back the loose white hair that had
escaped from beneath her cap.
“ My child,” she said, “ I came here
ready to curse you for your cruelty to
my poor boy, and you make me feel as
if I could do nought but bless. I was
angry and very bitter against you ; but
think how a mother must have felt. I
do not wonder now at his despair. But,
tell me, child,” she half whispered, as
she drew May towards her, and kissed
her cheek — “ do you think, if it were
possible that my boy could come back,
you could—”
May started from her, the colour once
more flashing to her forehead.
“ Mrs. Anderson, you must not ask
me that. Only believe this of me, that
I never intentionally hurt the feelings
of—of your son. Please leave me now,
for I am—I am not well. You have
told me much that I did not know.
Papa could not know-it either.”
“ He knows it, child; but he will not
believe it. But I’ll go now—back to
my lonely home, to pray for his safe
return ; or if he come not back, that
He may take me where I may see him
once again, for I shall have nought to
live for then.”
She rose to go, then stooped to pick
up a bow of crape which had become
detached from her breast. May stooped
first, and held it in her hand, while the
old lady gazed searchingly in her face.
“ Good-bye, child,” she said at last, as
she laid her hands upon May’s shoulders.
“ Had he lived, I do not think, after all,
you would have been half good enough
for John ; but I’ll kiss you, and say God
bless you!”
The' tears sprang to May Halley’s
eyes; and, putting her arms round the
old lady’s neck, she warmly returned
the kiss.
�dfiQ3SaS¿BÉKB)
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
40
Mrs. Anderson trembled as she turned
to go, saying once more—
“ I’ll go and pray for his return; and
if, child—if you could—”
“Yes,” said May, simply, as she di
vined the wish but half expressed—
“ yes, I’ll join my prayers to yours.”
“ For him ?” said the old lady.
“ For him and all his crew—for all
poor sailors on the sea; and pray that
God may bring them safely home. No,”
she added, sadly, as Mrs. Anderson held
out her hand for the bow of crape—
“no, not now. I’ll keep this, and
send it to you when your son comes
back.”
“And if he should not?”
“If he should not!” repeated May.
[Christmas, 1873.
“Yes, child; and if he come not
back?”
The colour once more suffused May
Halley’s cheeks, as her eyelids drooped,
and she whispered, softly—
“ I’ll wear it for his sake!”
The next minute Mrs. Anderson was
descending the stairs, muttering to her
self—
“And I came to curse her with a
mother’s curse!”
Her worn old face looked very soft
and sweet, years seemed to have rolled
away as the soft light of love suffused it;
but the next minute it was bitter, hard,
and stern, and her eyes, yet wet with
emotion, flashed fiercely as she slowly
swept by Philip Merritt in the hall.
j^OURTEENTH
HOW JEREMIAH
BASALT
TALKED
ASN’T it Shakspeare as said
‘ Ignorance is
bliss,’ Master
John? But,
there, it don’t
matter who
said it, igno
rance A bliss.
Just look at
our chaps, as
rough a scratch
crew as was
ever got toge
ther, sailing in
this old tub
without so
much as a
grumble!”
“ D o n’t
speak ill of the bridge that carries you
well over, Jerry,” said John Anderson,
smiling. “We’ve walked over it safely
into Hong Kong here, and landed our
cargo dry and sound—what more would
you have?”
OF
WALKING
HOME.
“What’ more’d I have? A good
deal. I’d like to go to my hammock
feeling safe. If |you was ashore now,
would you take lodgings over a powder
magazine? Not you! And by the same
token, I don’t like sailing in a ship that
may go down at any moment.”
“There, don’t croak, Jerry,” said An
derson, trying to assume a cheerful
aspect; but it was a failure, for disap
pointment and the anxiety of his voy
age had made him age so, that thin
threads of white were beginning to ap
pear at his temples. “ Don’t croak, old
fellow—we’ve got here safely.”
“ Got here safely! Why, we couldn’t
help getting here safely. Look at the
weather we’ve had. Why, I could ha’
sailed one o’ them old Thames barges
here, with a boy for crew. Yes, we’ve
got here safe, and no thanks to nobody
but the clerk of the weather.”
“ And we shall get back safely, Jerry,”
said John Anderson, leaning over the
taffrail, and looking down into the water
of the harbour.
“ I don’t know so much about that,”
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!
growled the old man. “ If it wafn’t for
you, burn me if I wouldn’t buy a good,
stout bamboo stick, tuck up my trousers
and walk home.”
“ Do what?”
“Walk home! There, you needn’t
laugh; ’taint such a very long way, if
you make up your mind to do it; and
what’s more, the country chaps—the
Chinees and Tartarees, and others, would
give you a lift now and then. I’d find
my way, if I made up my mind.”
John Anderson, for the first time for
months, laughed aloud, to his male’s
great annoyance.
“ I don’t care,” he growled; “all you’ve
got to do is to steer doo west, and you
must come right sooner or later.”
“ There, never mind thinking about
that,” said Anderson. “ All being well,
we’ll sail the Victrix up the Thames a
few months hence.”
He turned round, and went down be
low; while Basalt, to show his disgust,
spat about the deck in all directions.
“ An old beast!” he growled. “ She’s
too bad for a breaker’s yard. Look at
that,” he grunted, “ and that, and that.”
As he spoke, he gave a kick here and
a kick there, at cordage, anchor, chains,
bulwarks—anything that came within
his reach.
“As for them Rutherbys, hanging’s
too good for ’em. I know what I’d do
with the beggars, I’d set ’em afloat in
their own ships, and if they came back
safe I’d forgive ’em.”
It was as Basalt had said, the weather
had been glorious; and from the time
that the Victrix had left the Downs till
she entered Hong Kong harbour they
had had nothing but favourable breezes
to waft them to their destination. Cer
tainly the vessel did not look so spick
and span as when they left the Thames;
for the sun and wind had played havoc
with the bright paint, which had peeled
off, leaving the old ship in a state which
exposed the patching and plastering
she had received.
A week passed, during which much
had been done, and John Anderson was
looking anxiously forward to the time
41
when he could start again, and get well
on his return voyage; for somehow of
late the old despairing feeling had grown
weaker, and hope had done something
towards restoring the tone of his mind.
“ It was my own fault,” he told him
self, again and again. “Here am I
admitted into the presence of a gently
born and nurtured girl, and I behave—
how ? Like a savage,” he said, bitterly.
“Well, and how are things your
way ?” said Anderson, one day, after a
general overhaul of rigging, standing
and running, previous to the start for
the voyage home.
Jeremiah Basalt thrust his hands
deeply into his pockets, walked to the
side of the vessel, and began to sprinkle
the water with tobacco juice. After,
which he walked, or rather rolled, slowly
back to his commander, stared him in
the face, and began to whistle.
Anderson waited for him to speak;
but as no answer came, he repeated his
question.
Basalt stared all the harder, if it were
possible, and whistled a little louder.
At last he spoke—
“ How’s things your way ?”
John Anderson looked at the dry,
screwed-up visage before him for a few
moments; and then he, too, began to
whistle softly, turned on his heel, and
walked away.
He glanced round once, though, to
see what caused a sudden fioise; but it
was only Basalt, heavily slapping his
thigh, as he muttered to himself—
“ Had him there ! Hadn’t a word to
say for himself. How’s things, indeed!
Why, they couldn’t be worse. There
aint a bit of new rope that aint spliced
on to a bit of old; and what’s the con
sequences? why—as the Scripter says
about the new wine in the old bottles—
it ’ll all go to smash. My stars, I wish
I was safe home alongside the missus.”
John Anderson had expected no good
news; but he had found everything he
had examined so bad that one word
of encouragement would have been a
blessing.
♦
�42
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
J^IFTEENTH
pABLE
[Christmas, 1873.
J^ENGTH.
HOW MR. HALLEY WAS BULLIED.
TUDGE sat
on the hol
lowed top of
his stool in
Halley’s office,
with his mouth
pursed up and
his face look
ing very fierce.
He was a little
round man was
Mr. T u d g e,
and as he sat
upon the top
3
of his high stool, it re
quired very little
stretch of the imagina
tion to fancy that na
ture had just been
playing atcup-and-ball
with his little round
body and had caught
him in the cup. He
was a very estimable
little fellow ; but his grizzly hair would
stick up like bristles on the top of his
head, and he would have himself shaved
so dreadfully clean all over the sides
of his face and under his chin, that,
every evening regularly, he looked as
if he had had the lights and shadows
of his countenance stippled in with
little dots by an engraver.
Mr. Tudge had been clerk at Halley’s
from the very commencement of that
business, and had grown clerkly in the
extreme. He was very wise in busi
ness matters, but most ignorant respect
ing himself. For instance, if unable—
being only five feet two inches high—to
reach a paper or book from a shelf, he
would salute a six-feet clerk with, “ Are
you any taller than I am ? If so,- try
and reach that down.” He hardly
seemed to conceive, either, that he was
any older than he had bSen forty years
before; and certainly never for a mo
ment doubted that when he grew old
he should retire from his duties and
take to gardening at Barnes. Being so
clerkly, the interest Mr. Tudge took in
other people was either compound or
shipping interest, and he always spoke
of matters from a shipping point of
view.
Mr. Tudge was sitting at his desk,
frowning and angry, awaiting the com
ing of his principal. He held a heavy
ruler in onehand, as if prepared to knock
some one down, and with the other he
stabbed the desk with a penknife. He
evidently felt that such a thing was
possible, for he had curbed himself by
sticking a pen across his mouth. But
he flushed very angrily as he glanced
from clerk to clerk, one and all of whom
scribbled away furiously.
He had not long to wait before Mr.
Halley came in,looking rather worn and
anxious; and his coming was greeted
with a stab of the penknife in the desk,
and an imaginary blow given with the
ruler at some person or persons un
known.
In a few minutes there was the sound
of a bell. A clerk answered it, and
then came to summon Mr. Tudge to his
principal’s room.
“Well,” said Mr. Halley, “whatnews
this morning?”
“ Bad.”
“How bad?”
“ You ought to have been here yester
day.”
“ Well, I know that,” said Mr. Halley,
peevishly; “ but I am poorly and wor
ried, Tudge, and I stayed at home.”
“ You heard about the Victrix, I suppose ?
“What, Rutherby’s ship? No; good
God!—what?”
“ Gone where she was expected to
go,” said Tudge, quietly.
�Christinas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“ Ah, to China,” said Mr. Halley, ap
parently relieved. “Arrival noted, or
spoken?”
“Gone to the bottom,” said Mr. Tudge,
bringing his ruler.down bang upon the
table.
Mr. Halley sat looking at his clerk
for a few moments in silence—a cold,
clammy dew making itself felt the while
upon his forehead.
“ It’s—it’s very dreadful, Tudge.”
“It’s—it’s damnable, sir!” said Tudge,
angrily. “ And do you know who’s
gone down in her? Why, of course you
do—Jack Anderson, the lad I loved like
a son, sir; and it’s all your doing, for
letting him go.”
Mr. Tudge made no scruple about
rubbing a tear out of each eye, as
he snatched a chair forward and sat
down.
“Don’t talk like that, Tudge,” said
Mr. Halley, huskily. “ It was a bad
job, certainly; but the young man was
presumptuous, and worked his own
ruin.”
“I’m not goingto quarrel about that,”
said Mr. Tudge, hotly; “but I know
what I know, poor lad! But hark here
—here it is per telegram: ‘ Queen steam
ship—picked up boat’s crew of Victrix
of London—men in the last stage of
starvation—left captain and mate on
board—ship couldn’t float an hour.”
“ Then, she may not have gone down,
Tudge,” cried Mr. Halley, anxiously.
“Not gone down!” echoed his clerk.
“ Hark here, sir. ‘ Loss of the ship Vic
trix. The White Swan, Bombay to
Alexandria, reports passing a quantity
of loose spars and timber, with portions
of the cargo floating, in long. — lat. —
many of the bales being marked Vic
trix. The next day a boat was picked
up stove in, with ‘ Victrix, London ’ on
her stern.’ There you are—there’s no
doubt about it. Three thousand pounds’
worth of teas consigned to you. You
would give the order.”
“Yes,Tudge,”said Mr. Halley, mildly,
“ I would give the order.”
“ But, I told you.”
“And I wouldn’t believe it.”
43
“ And you don’t now.”
“And I don’t now.”
“ But it’s true, I tell you, sir,” in
sisted Tudge; “it’s the common talk
everywhere.”
“ I won’t listen to common talk,
Tudge. Common talk is slander, and
I won’t hear people’s characters taken
away. The goods are lost; but they
were well insured, and it will be paid.”
“Yes,” said Tudge, “it will be paid ;
but I tell you what, sir, if you don’t
drop all connection with those people
your name will smell as bad as theirs.
The underwriters are setting dead
against you.”
“ Let them,” said Mr. Halley.
“They won’t look at the Emperor
and the Laura?
“Nexy well,” said Mr. Halley; “they
can do as they please.”
“And you’ll have to underwrite them
yourself, same as you did the Merry
May?
“Very good,” said Mr. Halley, smiling,
in an awkward fashion; “then I’ll insure
my own ships.”
“And send ’em to sea with poor cap
tains, same as you did the Merry May?
“Mr. Simmons is a very good sea
man,” said Mr. Halley.
“Bah!” exclaimed Tudge; “he’llsink
her or run her ashore. She’ll never come
back. I dreamed she wouldn’t, last
night.”
“Hold your tongue, Tudge! I won’t
be bullied this morning. I’m not well.”
“If I hadn’t bullied you any time
these thirty years, James Halley, you’d
have ruined yourself, and so I tell
you.”
“Well, well, Tudge—we won’t argue
that. What else is there?”
“ Isn’t that enough for one morn
ing?” said the old clerk, plaintively.
“Three thousand pounds lost in those
people’s ship! ”
“But well insured.”
“Yes,” said Tudge; “and that fellow
Longdale advised me to insure for four
thousand. He knew she’d go down, I’ll
swear.”
“Don’t say any more about it. We
�44
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
insured for the proper value, did we
not ? ”
“Yes, of course,” said Tudge, stoutly,
“and always have. But poor Anderson
wasn’t insured, and you can’t replace
him. He wasn’t Manchester goods, nor
Brummagem neither, poor lad. If ever
there was a bit of true steel, it was he.”
Mr. Halley turned uneasily in his
chair.
“You never ought to have parted
from him, Mr. Halley—never. He’d
have sailed the Merry May to good
fortune; while now, now—I know it as
well as if it was all over—she’ll never
come back.
A hundred thousand
pounds, that means, of our hard-scrapedtogether money, and all, James Halley,
because you will be proud, and obsti
nate, and won’t listen to those who know
what things are.”
“Tudge, you’ll make me angry di
rectly,” exclaimed Mr. Halley,peevishly.
“ I can’t help it, Master James, I must
talk this morning; and who’s a better
right to talk to you, when he sees things
going wrong, than your old clerk, who
has helped you for forty years to build
up your house ? Mark my words, James
Halley, if the Merry May is lost—as
I’m sure she will be—we’re ruined, ab
solutely ruined; for your credit will be
gone, and how can we get on without a
good name?”
“Tudge, you’ll drive me mad,” ex
claimed his exasperated employer.
“No, I won’t; but I will give you the
spur,” said Tudge. “ I don’t want to
drive you mad—I want to bring you
to your senses. Only fancy our house
ruined, and all through connection with
the Rutherbys. Oh, Master James, do
—pray do be warned in time! They’ve
got a bad name; but they won’t stick
at trifles, and so make money.”
“ It’s all a lie, Tudge.”
“It’s all true, Master James; but
people daren’t speak for fear of being
called up for libel. You can’t get on
with a bad name—it’s ruin to you;
because we’re a good, upright house,
and wouldn’t do a shabby thing or
send out a ship short-handed. A good,
[Christmas, 1873.
honourable house like ours, with its
great expenses for good things, can only
live with its name brightly polished. If
there’s a speck of mud thrown at it, it’s
all loss.”
“ But there is no speck of mud on it,
Tudge.”
“ I tell you there is, sir,” said Tudge;
“ and not a speck, but a big dab of mud;
and the underwriters see it, and they
hold back—all but the speculative ones,
and they want great premiums. I tell
you, sir, the brokers are beginning to
whisper; and if you don’t mind, that
whisper will become a shout, a yell, a
howl, a chorus of shrieks that will kill
us.”
“ Don’t, don’t, don’t,Tudge!” cried the
old man. “ What is the good of running
half-way to meet troubles that may
never come?”
“Run half-way, indeed! why, they’re
all close here,” exclaimed Tudge, bring
ing down his ruler upon the table.
“ It’ll be ruin, James Halley—ruin; and
if it does come to it, there’s my five
thousand pounds I’ve got in houses at
Barnes—you can have that; but it will
only be like a drop of water in a pail,
compared to what you want.”
“My dear Tudge,” exclaimed Mr.
Halley, reaching across the table to
shake his clerk’s hand warmly, “ I know
what a good old friend you are; but
you are imagining all sorts of unneces
sary troubles this morning.”
“Not I,” said Tudge, sadly. “All
my hopes have been in this house, and
I feel as strongly about it as if it were
my own. It aint the money I care for
—what’s money, after all ? It don’t
matter how much you have, you can’t
wear more clothes at once, nor eat more
mutton, nor drink more sherry than if
you have just enough to live on. Having
money don’t keep the doctor away.”
“ No, Tudge, nor yet trouble.”
“ No, nor yet trouble,” said the old
clerk, gloomily. “ Mr. Halley, sir, if
that ship, the Merry May, don’t come
back again, I shall—”
“What, Tudge?” said Mr. Halley,
smiling.
�Christmas, 1873 ]
“SHIP AHOY!
“I shall go home per cab,” said Mr.
Tudge, solemnly, “make out an invoice
of my effects, which will be disposed of
and the money given to the poor;
then I shall have a last glass of grog,
and smoke .a last pipe.”
“Last ones, Tudge?” said Mr. Halley,
smiling.
“Yes, last ones,” said Tudge, wiping
his eyes; “for I shall have nothing to
live for. Jack Anderson’s dead, and the
business ruined; and there ’ll be nothing
more for me to do but say my prayers,
and hang myself with my braces.”
“ Don’t talk in that way, Tudge,” said
Mr. Halley; “it is wrong, even in
jest.”
“But I’m not jesting,” said Tudge.
“What do you think May would say
to you, if she heard you?”
“Ah, what indeed!” said Tudge; “but
I should be obliged to do it. But I say,
sir, surely you never mean to marry
that dear girl to that young scoundrel,
Merritt ?”
“Tudge!” exclaimed Mr. Halley, an
grily, “ I will not have Mr. Merritt
spoken of like that. Why, confound it,
sir, may not I marry my daughter to
whom I like?”
“No,” said Tudge, stoutly, “you
mayn’t. You’ve no right to let her be
made miserable for life.”
“Pish!” ejaculated Mr. Halley.
“ ’Taint pish ! nor pshaw ! nor pooh !
nor tut! nor any of them,” exclaimed
Tudge.
“ Have you nearly done bullying,
Tudge ?”
“No, sir, I have not; though per
haps I shall never bully you again.
Look here, you know, sir. You’re such
a fine, honest, upright man that you
won’t believe any one you know to be
a scoundrel.”
“No, of course not,” said Mr. Halley,
good-humouredly. “Now, look here,
Tudge. Suppose some one was to come
forward and to say to me, ‘Look here,
Mr. Halley, there’s that fellow, Tudge,
feathering his nest at your expense.
He’s embezzling thousands.’ What
should you think of that?”
45
“Well—well—’’said Tudge, taken
aback, “I don’t know.”
“You wouldn’t like me to believe
it?”
“No, of course not.”
“ Then why should I believe ill of
somebody else ?”
“Ah, come now, look here,” cried
Tudge, recovering himself; “you’re an
eel, that’s what you are—a slimy, slippery
eel. You’re trying to wriggle yourself
out of a difficulty; but you see, I just
give you one crack over the tail, and
there you are done for.” And he brought
down the ruler again, bang. “Suppose
somebody did say I was swindling you.
What would you do, or what ought you
to do, eh ? Why, come and examine
my books thoroughly; and when you’d
done, you’d say, ‘ That man’s a liar and
a scoundrel. That man ought to be
transported who tries to take away an
other man’s character. Why, the books
are square to a farthing.’ ”
“ To be sure,” said Mr. Halley. “Then
how about Mr. Merritt’s character and
Rutherby’s ? You’re condemning your
self out of your own mouth.”
“Mr. Halley, you’re eeling again,”
said Tudge. “You’re coming the slip
pery, slimy eel, and you’ve got over
that crack on the tail I gave you; but
it won’t do. Here’s another for you.”
Bang went the ruler. “ There’s some
one—ah, a lot of some ones tell you
that Rutherbys are rotten, and that
Philip Merritt is a scoundrel.”
“Tudge, I won’t have it!” said Mr.
Halley, angrily.
“ They say—Rutherby’s—is—rotten,
and—Philip—Merritt—-a—scoundrel,”
said Tudge again, in measured tones,
and enforcing each word with a bang
from the ruler upon the table; “and
what do you do ?”
“ Say they’re a set of slanderous
rascals,” cried Mr. Halley, excitedly.
“To be sure you do,” acquiesced
Tudge; “instead of going and meta
phorically examining their books—see
ing into their characters ! James Hal
ley, you’re a blind mole, and a deaf
beetle, and an obstinate mule, as well as
�vjNCE a week annual.
46
an eel; and I won’t stand by and see
you ruin the finest old shipping trade
in the port of London—the trade we
made; and I won’t stand by and see
that dear girl thrown away, without
raising a voice against it. I don’t care,
I will speak—I’m up now; and I’d talk
now to anybody, because I’ve got right
on my side. I know I should have liked
to see John Anderson have her, and I’d
have left them my bit of money; but
that’s all over now. You’ll want that,
and you shall have it when you like;
but speak I will, and tell you to your
face that you’ve murdered a lad that I
looked upon almost as my own boy;
and now you’re'going to ruin the busi
ness, sell your own child into slavery,
and make me hang myself in my
braces!”
During the first part of this speech
Mr. Halley had been angry; next he
grew puzzled ; and lastly his face wore
^Sixteenth
HOW
THE
[Christmas, 1873.
a half-amused expression, as he rose,
with, a sigh and a weary look upon his
face to say—
“There, there, Tudge, let it rest now;
we’ve had enough for one day. I’m
not angry.”
“But I am,” said Tudge, sticking the
ruler under his arm, and making the
most of his height.
“Well, perhaps so; but we are too
old friends to quarrel. Hush, here’s
one of the clerks!”
“ Mr. Longdale and Mr. Merritt wish
to see you, sir,” said the man.
“ In a minute, Smith,” and the man
disappeared.
“Take care—pray take care, Mr.
Halley, sir. The wolf and the fox
come together—pray—”
“ Tudge, you’re going too far,” said
the old man, angrily, and he rang the
bell for the admission of the two mem
bers of Rutherby’s ship-owning firm.
J
“VICTRIX
C O MPLETE,
crew aboard,
the last coolie
out of the
ship, and the
sound ’o f
Pigeon - Eng
lish heard no
more.
“ Confound
their jabber!”
cried old Ba
salt, “I’m sick
of it. It’s for
all the world as if you took a bucketful
of English and a bucketful of Chinese,
and poured ’em into a cask, stirred
’em up with a capstan bar, and then
BEHAVED
IN
A
GALE.
swallowed it by spoonfuls. I gets that
savage when I hear them jabbering and
chattering, and smiling out of their
crooked eyes at you, that I could cut
their tails off, and stuff ’em down their
throats. And yet, I dunno, they’re
about the innocentest-looking chaps I
ever see. I don’t think I could hit one
on ’em werry hard.”
John Anderson’s spirits rose as the
soft winds wafted them homewards,
with studding sails set alow and aloft.
Hope was evidently very busy with
him, and Despair, with her lowering,
black wings, farther and farther away.
When he reasoned with himself, and
told himself that his aspirations were
mad, and that which he wished im
possible—that he had had his final
dismissal, he owned that it was so, that
there was not the most faint prospect
in life for the realization of his desires;
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
but he hoped all the same, and walked
his deck with a step daily growing more
elastic.
“There, Jerry,” he said, one evening,
after they had made a tremendous run
through the bright, creamy waves, that
softly foamed under the favouring gale
_ “ there, Jerry ! what do you think of
things now ? Will you come for another
voyage in the Victrix?"
Basalt screwed his face round, so as
to look at his captain, without moving
his body.
“,We aint finished this here yet.”
“No; but see how we are getting
on.”
“.Now, look here,” said Basalt, slowly.
“Do you for a moment think as this
here sort o’ weather’s going to con
tinue?”
“ Well, no,” said Anderson, smiling,
“ I can’t say I do.”
“ Nor I, my lad; and when the foul
comes, then look out.”
Another week passed, and still the
winds favoured their return; and the
Victrix, heavily laden though she was,
rose over the long swells, and forced her
way homeward, like some huge bird
eager to gain its nest.
“Home, home, sweet—sweet home,”
hummed Anderson, as he leaned over
the side, and thought of the parlour
where that pleasant old face would be
bending over some piece of work, to be
every now. and then raised in a far-off
look, as its owner wondered where “my
son” might be, and breathed a prayer
for his safety.
A smile played round John Ander
son’s lips, but there was a moisture in
his eye. Soon,-though, a troubled look
swept over his frank face, like a cloud ;
for the memory of the scene at Canonbury came back, and with it the re
collection of whose was the ship he
sailed, and its state.
“And if I do get back in safety,” he
muttered, “ if I don’t expose this scan
dalous state of affairs, I’m no true man.
I wouldn’t have believed it, that human
beings who call themselves men —
gentlemen, would send their fellow
47
creatures afloat in such a sieve as this,
just to make money. Good God ! it’s
frightful!”
He took a few steps up and down,
and then went on. So engrossed was
he with his feelings, that he did not
notice Basalt, who was peering anxiously
ahead.
“I can hardly believe it, at times,”
continued Anderson; “and if it were
not that we are having weather in
which the frailest craft might live—”
“Below there! Pipe up, boatswain,”
roared Basalt through his hands; and,
directly after, the shrill whistle was
heard.
“We’ll have a bit of this canvas off
her at once,” continued Basalt, coming
up to the captain. “Look there, and
there.”
John Anderson saw immediately the
necessity for executing the order; and,
all hands being called up, the stun
sails were had in, then the royals were
lowered, and by the time they were
taken in a complete change had come
over the sea, which, from being bright
and glorious, now looked leaden and
murky. Instead of the pleasant, full
breeze, the wind came in puffs—hot, as
if from a furnace door.
Orders were given quickly, and the
top-gallant sails were soon down; but
before the mainsail could be taken off
the ship, a squall struck her, and split it
to ribbons, while the vessel heeled over,
and her fate seemed sealed.
It was but for a minute, though; the
squall passed over, and an ominous calm
ensued. The ship righted; and now,
for the first time, Anderson felt how
short-handed he was. He knew that
at any minute now, another and a fiercer
squall might strike them; and, if so, what
would become of the ship? Sending
Basalt to the helm, though, he seized a
speaking-trumpet, and shouted his com
mands to such effect that, ere the next
squall came, topsails and stormjib only
were set, the former reefed; and the sails
left unfurled were let go,to flap and beat
about in the wind.
“Look out, there!” roared Basalt.
�48
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Send me another man here to the
wheel.”
Before Anderson—who ran himself
—could reach him, down came the storm
with a shriek and a roar, laying the Victrix on her beam-ends. The wheel flew
round, hurling Basalt to one side; but
he was up again in an instant, and cling
ing to the spokes. Anderson reached
him, too; and as the ship righted, she
answered her helm, and, paying off,
literally flew before the wind, with her
loose sails splitting into ribbons.
“ There’s too much on her by a
mile,” roared Basalt in Anderson’s
ear; but the words had hardly passed
his lips before the main-topsail split with
a crash, heard above the din of the
tempest, and two minutes after was
literally ripped from the yards, and
blown away.
It relieved the vessel, though, which
had been running, nose down, shipping
sea after sea, which swept the decks,
carrying all before them.
The noise was deafening; but, more
by signs than by voice, Anderson issued
one or two more orders, whose effect
was to throw reefs into the other sails,
beneath which the vessel forced her way
through the murky sea.
Half an hour before it was broad day
light—now they seemed sailing through
[Christmas, 1873.
a thick fog of spray, swept from the sum
mits of the boiling waves; while as far
as the eye could reach, all was one field
of lurid foam.
Crash! A wave leapt over the quarter,
swept along the deck, and cut its way
out through the rotten bulwarks, fol
lowed by another and another: casks,
hencoops, and the jolly boat went with
them, while on the vessel flew.
“Stick to her!” shouted Basalt to
Anderson, as they fought with the sea
for who should maintain the mastery of
the helm. “We shall soon know what
she’s made of now.”
It was a struggle for life—men cling
ing to belaying pins, or lashing them
selves under the shelter of the bulwarks,
that might at any moment be swept
away. As to the sail, any anxiety that
the young captain might have felt about
that, the storm relieved him of, ripping
one-half the canvas away as if it had
been tinder.
Shriek—roar—howl! how the tem
pest raged ! There was no time for fear
in the excitement, the men seeming for
the most part to be stunned.
But the storm was brief as it was
violent—sweeping, as it were, over the
vessel; and in an hour a dead calm
had fallen upon them, with the Victrix
almost a wreck.
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!
EVENTEENTH
49
JSable
HOW JOHN ANDERSON USED HIS REVOLVER.
where Anderson was anxiously waiting
him, and whispered hastily—“Ten foot
o’ water—gaining fast—-leaking, like a
sieve.”
The words were hardly out of his lips
before the man who had overheard
Anderson’s order, and had been be
low on his own account, came on deck
and shouted, in a panic-breeding yell—
“ Boats out, lads—she’s sinking fast!”
Then a half-smothered cry of terror
ran through the men, as from all parts
T was a change that was they made for the deck, running down,
almost startling—drama sliding down stay and sheet, and each
tic even; for it was as aiming for one or other of the boats.
though so much canvas, Some saw to the oars, some sought for
storm-painted, had been drawn aside to some, again, made for the
water; and
display a calm. But though the to get biscuit and spirits.
cabin, foam
had to a great extent disappeared, there
“Stop, there!” cried John Anderson,
was a heavy swell on the water; and in a voice of thunder. “ Every man
the state of the ship, as the men crept stand aside!”
from their shelter, was pitiable: sails
There was a low, ominous growl; but
in rags, cordage hanging broken from not a man ceased his busy work about
mast and yard, and bulwarks splintered. the boats.
“ Now, my lads, up aloft! ” cried
“Do you hear?” cried Anderson,
Anderson, cheerily. “ Knot and splice furiously. “ Leave those boats, and
there, while we get up the spare sails.” all hands to the pumps!”
About half the men, with their knives
Not a man stirred; and, in his rage,
ready, ran at once up the shrouds, where Anderson seized the nearest, and dashed
they began to cut adrift the ragged him against his fellows. But it had no
canvas; while the others set to knotting effect: a panic had seized the men, and
snapped cord age, and arranging the deck they still busied themselves about the
lumber that had broken loose.
boats.
“ Go below yourself, and sound the
“ Basalt, my revolver,” cried Ander
well,” whispered Anderson to Basalt.
son, fiercely. “ Am I captain of the
The words were meant for his ear ship, or not ?”
alone; but they were heard by one of
“ To be sure you are, so long as she is
the sailors, who followed him closely, a ship,” cried a man, tauntingly; “ but
with a strange, suspicious look.
there won’t be a plank soon.”
Basalt was not gone many minutes.
The next moment he was rolling on
He came back very slowly and quietly; the deck, struck down by one tremen
and before he was half-way to Ander dous blow. Anderson forced himself to
son he stopped short, and putting his the nearest davit, and seized the tackle.
hands to his mouth he shouted—“Back, men—to the pumps!” he
“Ahoy! there, you at the maintop-gal cried. “The ship shall not be forsaken.”
lant. We’ll have that spar down and
“ Go and pump yourself,” cried an
fish it. I can see it’s sprung from down other man. “Come on, lads. She’s sink
here.” Thea he continued his way to ing, and our only chance is the boats.”
B
c
�--------------------- -—g
S3
50
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
The men uttered a howl of rage, and
pressed on Anderson, so that in another
minute he would have been helpless,
when, with a blow from a marlinspike,
right and left, Jeremiah Basalt opened
a way for himself, and the next moment
John Anderson was facing the men, with
a revolver presented at the nearest
mutineer’s head.
The men involuntarily fell back, leav
ing captain and mate side by side by
the ragged bulwarks.
“ Look here, my lads,” said Ander
son ; “ I am captain here. I have charge
of this ship and her valuable cargo, and
she shall be stuck to as long as a couple
of planks hold together. So every man
to his post. There is a-lot of water in
the hold; but we’ll pump her dry, and
then go on again.”
“ She’ll sink in half an hour,” cried a
voice—that of the man who had sounded
the well on his own account.
“ Cowards!” cried Anderson. “ Can
you not trust your captain ?”
“ No,” cried the same voice. “ Down
with him, lads ; he trapped us into this
old sieve.”
“ Get out the boats,” cried another.
“ Stand aside,” cried others.
And the men pressed upon the pair;
but with a flourish of his marlinspike
Basalt drove them back.
“Look here, my lads,” cried Ander
son, “we’re wasting time. Get to the
pumps and work; and I tell you once
[ for all that as soon as there’s danger
we’ll take to the boats: but like men, not
like a set of cowardly, beaten hounds!”
“ The boats—the boats!” shouted the
men.
“Back, scoundrels!” roared Ander
son. “ I tell you there is no danger
yet. Do you think we don’t value our
lives as well as you do yours? This
ship, with a valuable cargo, is in my
charge, and I will not have her left
without an effort to save her.”
“The boats—the boats—rush him!”
shrieked the men, half insane with their
coward fears.
Basalt made an effort to beat them
back; but they knocked him down, and
g--------------------------- -----
------------
[Christmas, 1873.
'
were rushing at Anderson, when, by an
adroit leap, he reached the boat swing
ing from the iron davits, and presented
his revolver.
“Back, you scoundrels!” he roared.
“ Every man to his duty. By the God
who made me, I’ll send a bullet through
the first man who touches the falls!”
“ Come on, lads—he daren’t,” cried
the sailor. “He helped to decoy us
into the rotten old tub, and he don’t
stay us now.”
The man stepped forward.
“ Another'step, and I fire!” cried An
derson.
“ He daren’t. Come on, lads; it’s for
life!” cried the sailor.
He dashed at the ropes, and the others
gave a cheer, and followed his example.
Crash!
There was a flash of flame from John
Anderson’s pistol, as he stood there in
the boat; a wild shriek; the sailor who
had been ringleader in the mutiny
leaped up in the air, and fell with a
groan upon the deck, where he lay mo
tionless, with his comrades looking on
aghast.
“ One shot! ” said Anderson. “ I have
five more, and they shall all tell!”
The men shrank back shivering from
the deadly weapon without a word, and
Anderson leaped from the boat.
“Now to the pumps, every man!” he
cried.
And the fellows cheered, and ran to
the handles, which were the next minute
clanking furiously, and flooding the deck
with water, which streamed down the
scuppers.
“Is he much hurt?” said Anderson,
anxiously.
“ Thigh broke,” said Basalt, quietly.
Then he ran down to the cabin, and
brought up a pillow, which he laid under
the man’s head. After which, Anderson
and Basalt bound and bandaged the
poor wretch’s leg, before superintending
the pumping, now going on briskly.
Keeping watch on deck, Anderson
now sent Basalt below again, but he
returned with the ominous words—
“Eleven foot. Making water fast!”
Ms
�Christmas. 1873 )
“SHIP AHOYP
pGHTEENTH
Pable
5i
^Length.
HOW THE BOATS WERE PUT OUT.
AKING water
fast!”
J eremiah Ba
salt said the
words in a low
tone of voice,
but without
moving a mus
cle. As far as
fhis face was
concerned, the
news might
have been of
the simplest
nature.
John Ander
son did not
speak for a moment, he only stooped
and held a flask to the wounded man’s
lips, for the poor wretch was faint.
Then he rose, and said—
“ Go down again, and see if you can
make anything out—whether a plank
has started, or the seams opened.”
Basalt was busy hewing a piece of
tobacco from his cake; this he finished,
before nodding and going again below.
He was not down long, and returned
to the deck to find Anderson, with
sleeves rolled up, pumping with the
men, and cheering them on.
He crossed to where Basalt stood.
“ Well ? ”
“Plank started, and you can hear
the water pouring in.”
“Two men here!” cried Anderson.
“ Now, Basalt, look alive with that spare
mainsail.”
In less time than could have been
supposed, the four men had hauled on
deck the great spare canvas—not to
find it of new, clean material, but old,
patched, and rotten.
Anderson’s brow knit more closely
as, dragging at the sail, the rotten
canvas gave way, making a large rent
at the side; but there were no other
holes, and it bade fair to answer the
purpose for which it was intended.
“ Pump away there !” shouted Ander
son. “ We’ll soon ease you.”
The men cheered again, and the
water poured faster than ever from the
scuppers, as captain and mate fastened
on ropes to the four corners, and made
ready for what seemed their only hope.
At first the men had looked on wonderingly ; but now they saw the object
in view, they cheered more heartily than
ever, for John Anderson, climbing over
the side and making his way forward,
passed the ropes that held the lower
corners of the sail under the bobstay,
and then, partly aided by the ship’s pro
gress through the water, they hauled
and hauled till the great sheet of can
vas was drawn down below the water,
and applied like a great plaster to the
ship’s side where the plank was started
—the pressure of the water holding it
against the hull.
“ Now,” said Anderson, as he stood
making fast the last rope, “ down below,
and see how matters are.”
Basalt was gone longer this time, to
return and say, in a loud voice—
“ Can’t hear it pouring in now.” Then
he added, in a tone only meant to reach
the captain, “Making water fast as ever.”
“ Pump away, my lads,” cried Ander
son, cheerily, and he handed the revolver,
to Basalt—“ I ’ll bring you some grog.”
The men cheered again; and in a few
minutes Anderson returned with some
spirits, which he made one of the men
serve out while he took his place at the
pump. Then, while the men were pump
ing away with full energy, he went down
below himself, to find that, though the
sail had to some extent checked the in
rush of the water, yet it was still stea
dily rising, flowing in through the seams
�---52
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
which had opened with the heavy work
ing of the vessel; and before he had
been below five minutes he knew that
it was impossible to save her.
“ Well,” said Basalt, drily, as he re
turned the revolver, “what do you think
now of Rutherby’s ?”
“Don’t speak to me now, please,”
said Anderson, in a choking voice. “I’ve
joined in as murderous and cruel a deed
as ever was perpetrated, and look at
that poor fellow there.”
“ Deserved it,” said Basalt, laconi
cally. “ Served him right. I only wish
it had been one of the partners.”
“ Basalt,” said Anderson, in a low
voice, “ if it comes to the worst you
must forgive me for this.”
“ There, get out; don’t talk like that.
It aint come to the worst yet.”
The momentary gloom that had come
over Anderson now seemed to have
passed away, and he was all life again,
as he shouted to the men, so as to be
heard over the clanking of the pumps—
“ Look here, my lads; while there’s a
chance of saving the ship we ’ll stick to
her like men.”
“ Hear, hear!” roared some of the fel
lows who had been most forward in try
ing to get away.
“ While the weather holds good we
can keep the water down, and we are
right in the track of ships to get help.”
“ Hooray!” roared the men again.
“ But, look here,” continued Ander
son, “ I want you to act like men, and
do your duty by your owners ; but I
don’t want you to run any risks; so
while you stick to the pumps, we two
will get water, compass, and stores in
the boats, so that we can go at a mo
ment’s notice.”
“Hooray!” cheered the men again,
and the water bubbled and flashed from
the ship’s sides; though all the same it
rose darkly, silently, and surely in the
hold, as Basalt found when he once more
sounded the well.
Anderson was down on one knee, ar
ranging the pillow of the wounded man,
when Basalt whispered his bad news.
The moment before the sailor had
[Christmas, 1873.
lain still, with eyes closed and pallid face,
apparently insensible, while Anderson
wore an aspect of sad commiseration;
but the man heard Basalt’s announce
ment, and opening his eyes wide, with
horror in every feature, he uttered a
wild yell, and shrieked out—
“ Run for the boats, lads—she’s going
down!”
At the same moment, he turned on
one side, and struck at Anderson with
an open knife, which he had held ready
in his jersey sleeve.
Anderson’s quick action saved him ;
for leaping up to meet the effect that
he knew the words would produce upon
the men, the knife, instead of being
buried to the haft in his side, made a
long, ugly gash down his leg, from which
the blood spurted to stream down upon
the white deck at every step he took.
“Curse you! If you warn’t hurt—”
roared Basalt, as he wrested the knife
from the treacherous scoundrel’s hand,
hurling it overboard almost with the
same movement, and making as if to
dash his closed fist in the man’s face.
“Why, it oughter ha’ been eighteen
inches higher with you, that it ought.”
Then he turned to help Anderson,
who had started forward to confront the
men, pistol in hand, once more. For
at the cry of the wounded man they
had left the pumps, and rushed once
more for the boats, but only to back
slowly, as Anderson literally drove them
to their work with the pointed revolver.
“ I told you, when there was danger
of her going down we’d take to the
boats,” he said, sternly, through his
clenched teeth; and he pressed them
back, leaving a track in blood upon
the deck as he did so, till once more
“ clank — clank, clank — clank ! ” the
pumps were going again, and the water
foaming and flashing down into the sea.
“ Quick—tie my handkerchief tightly
round there,” said Anderson; and Basalt
bound up the'wound, but with his own
handkerchief, which he held ready.
“ Now for some biscuit, and a breaker
of water in each boat.”
Basalt worked with a will; but of the
�Christinas, 1873. ]
“SHIP AHOY!”
two boats left, one was so hopelessly
stove in that it was useless to think of
getting her afloat. He directed all his
efforts, then, to the other, and worked
alone; for John Anderson stood sentry
with his revolver, pale as ashes, and
evidently faint with his wound.
’ Water, biscuit, compass, some pork,
the sail, a coil of small rope, and, lastly,
some fishing lines—all were stowed in a
quiet, methodical way in the boat by Ba
salt, who stood thinking for a moment.
“More water,” he said, gruffly; and
proceeded to get another small breaker,
which he stowed forward before coming
back to think again.
INETEENTH
53
“Chart,” he said next, in the same
tone; and fetched one from the cabin, to
roll it tightly, and place it in a tin case.
Then he had another thoughtful sur
vey of his preparations.
“’Mother bag o’ biscuit,” he said; and
this he stowed away.
At last all seemed ready, and he stood
slowly counting the men pumping, and
then making calculations apparently
about the boat.
“What is it, Basalt?” said Anderson,
at last; for the old man stood growling
and grumbling at his side.
“ Why, I’ve reckoned up every way I
can, and two ’ll have to stop aboard!”
JCable
HOW JOHN ANDERSON WAS LEFT BEHIND.
WA S no
m istaking
the effect
of the sail
hauled
down be
neath the
vessel’s
bows, but
that only
stayed one
place.
“Lor’
bless you!” said Ba
salt, “ she’s pitted all
over with a regular
small-pox of holes,
and the water’s coming in at every seam.
It’s no more’n I ’spected, my lad. She
only wanted a bit of a shaking, same as
our storm give us, to make her open all
over like a sieve, fill and sink; and
that’s just what the owners wanted.”
w No, no, Basalt,” said Anderson, sadly.
“Ah! you may say no, no, my lad ;
but you think yes, yes. Yah! it’s all
plain enough. If they’d wanted her to
be anything better than a coffin for the
poor helpless sailors as navigated her,
■s.
why didn’t they see that she had ropes
that weren’t rotten, sails that weren’t
tinder, seams that weren’t like doors, and
timbers that weren’t worm-eaten ? Why,
she’s as full of devils as them there pigs
that ran down the steep place into the
sea, and perished in the waters. Why,
my lad, half the bolts in her hull are
sham ones—devils, as the shipbuilders
call ’em—just running an inch or two
into the plank, instead of right through
to hold her together. Copper-fastened,
A 1 at Lloyd’s! Lord’s truth! I wouldn’t
mind a pin if it warn’t for one thing.”
“ What’s that ? ” said Anderson.
“Why, them there beautiful owners
aint aboard,” said Basalt, savagely.
“ There, my lad, I do think, if that
smooth-tongued vagabond who wanted
me to get our old Merry May lads
aboard the rotten old hulk, cuss him!
was only here, I could just take a fresh
bit of’bacco and go to the bottom like
a man. No, I couldn’t,” he added,
quickly—“ I could a time back; but now,
my lad, there’s a something that seems
to draw me towards where there’s the
best woman in all the world, down on
her knees in her own room a-praying of
God to bring some one safe back again,
and that some one’s me. Now, my
�> ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
lad, it’s a nice thing to feel—that some
body wants you back home again; it
curls round your heart and makes you
say, ‘No, blame me if I do, I won’t die
a bit.’ ”
And all this time the pumps went on
“ clank, clank, clank,” till it seemed that
they had obtained the mastery over the
water. The vessel was low down; but
the water did not rise now, and Ander
son let half the men lie down, and eat
and drink, while the others pumped on.
It was a weary time, though. They
had to watch, Anderson and Basalt, re
volver ready; for they could not trust
the men, and they knew that if they
could once get the upper hand, disci
pline was gone for ever.
One, two, three weary days passed,
with the sea a dead calm. Not a breath
of air ruffled the surface of the long, low
swell that softly heaved and lowered the
Victrix; and all that time John Ander
son knew that he had done his best,
and that the case of the ship was hope
less. But still he clung to her: she was
entrusted to him as captain, and he had
his duty to do. That the owners were
scoundrels, and held in no more account
the lives of her crew than that of the
rats that swarmed in the hold, was no
thing to him: he had engaged to navi
gate the ship, and do it he would to the
very end.
At last a breeze sprang up, and John
Anderson felt that the end had come.
The men were wearied out with pump
ing, and could do no more. There was
no more sail on the vessel than was ab
solutely necessary for making her obey
her helm; and yet as she heaved, and
began to roll, the water rose rapidly,
and the men dropped the pump handles
in despair.
“ It aint no good, sir,” they said, in
chorus; “we’ve done our best now, and
it’s time to take to the boat.”
“Yes, she’s going down now,” cried
one of the men. Then in an agony of
dread, he shrieked out, “No, no—don’t
shoot, sir, don’t shoot!”
“I’m not going to shoot, my lad,”
said Anderson, quietly. “I wanted you
[Christmas, 1873.
all to do your duty to the owners, and
I’ve made you do it. Now the game’s
up, and we must save ourselves.”
“Hooray! yes, the boat!” shouted
the men, with a cheer.
“Stop!” roared Anderson. “Don’t
spoil all now. She ’ll float for an hour
yet; so don’t rush in that mad fashion.”
The men had been running to secure
places, with poor fallen man’s selfishness
uppermost; but, though no pistol was
displayed, they listened to the voice
that had so often enforced discipline,
and quietly took their posts in the boat
as it was lowered, Basalt going first
on being told, and ordering each man
to his place till the boat was full, and
there was no one left on deck but John
Anderson and the wounded sailor.
It was just sunset as the last man
passed over the side, and the boat, kept
off by a hitcher, rose and fell with the
increasing sea.
As the last man slid down a rope
and dropped in, he was greeted with a
murmur, for the boat was already over
loaded to danger pitch.
“We can’t take no more,” growled
the men. “ Come on, captain.”
“ Stop, make room there,” shouted
Anderson; “here’s Morris.”
And he made ready to haul on the
rope which was to lower the wounded
man into the boat.
“No, no, no, no!” roared the crew.
“We can’t have him; he’s sure to die.
Come on, captain, and leave him.”
John Anderson’s answer was to haul
at the rope, and the next moment he
was lowering down, by means of a block
and fall, the man who had made an
attempt upon his life.
“ Well,” roared one of the men, “you
can see for yourself. If you lower him
down there won’t be room for you too.”
“ I know it,” said Anderson softly to
himself.
“ Look here, my lads,” said the same
voice; “ we can’t leave the cap. He’s a
tartar; but he didn’t do more than his
dooty.”
“ But we can’t take him and this chap
too,” cried the others.
�“SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, 1873.]
The sun set as if at one bound, and
night was already stealing fast over the
waters. Great soft puffs of wind came,
as if to announce, like stragglers that
they were, that a breeze was coming on
in force, and the sea began to leap and
foam beneath the ship’s counter.
“Lookhere, cap’n,”shouted the same
voice again—“ haul on again, and have
him out, and come down. We can’t
hold on much longer.”
John Anderson did not answer; but
it was a bitter struggle. Spite of all,
the love of life was strong within him,
and it required a tremendous effort to
Stay himself from leaping down into
the boat- barely seen in the fast gather
J" WENTIETH
HOW JEREMIAH
55
ing darkness ; for in spite of the diffi
culty one man still held on to the chains
with a boat-hook.
It was evident that there were two
parties in the boat—one for pulling
off as they were, and the other for
getting the captain aboard; and at last
the dispute rose high. Then darkness
fell; the breeze sprang up as if by
magic, and as the Victrix rolled heavily,
and then surged through the water,
the boat fell off, and John Anderson
felt that he was in the midst of the
wide sea, standing upon a floating coffin,
that before long—perhaps in a minute’s
time—would sink beneath his feet: and
then ?
ENGTH
BASALT TURNED UP A TRUMP.
ANIGHT
7 had fallen
y black as
\ pitch, and
the wind
sang through
the cordage,
as John An
derson stood
listening at
tentively, and
trying to
pierce the obscurity for
one more last
look at the
boat* but though he peered through
his hands, held telescope fashion, he
could see nothing, and he turned away
at last, to utter aloud the one word—
“Gone!”
“Well, and what could you expect?”
said a gruff voice at his elbow.
“Basalt!”
“My lad!”
Choking with emotion, John Ander
son caught the rugged old salt by both
hands, too much moved to speak.
“ I know what you thought,” growled
the old fellow, but very huskily; “you
thought I’d gone wi’ ’em. Just like you!
But I hadn’t.”
John Anderson could not speak, for
he was weak with loss of blood and
anxiety. He sank down on the deck,
and sat there in silence, holding Basalt’s
hand in his; while the wind sang above
them, the water hissed and gurgled, and
washed round the vessel’s bows, and at
last the stars peeped out one by one, as
if looking down upon the perils of those
two true-hearted men, brave as any of
the heroes of old, sitting upon the deck
and waiting for the hour when their last
hold on life should sink from beneath
their feet.
The breeze blew freshly as the night
advanced, and at times a wave leaped
over the sides, to deluge the deck; for
the ship was very low now, and as she
heeled over, the water could be heard
rushing from side to side, and threaten
ing each moment to burst up the deck.
Quite two hours must have passed,
and still the two occupants of the ship
sat as if stunned with their misfortune.
At last a fair-sized wave rose slowly
by the side of the rolling vessel, and,
�I
56
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
without effort, seemed to heave itself
aboard, sweeping coops, ropes, all before
it, till it rushed out of the opening in
the bulwarks left by the storm.
This was too much for Basalt, and
seemed to rouse him from his lethargy.
“ Look ye here,” he growled; “ if we
are to die, we may as well die ship
shape, with the wind well abeam, and
not go down yawing about, and rolling
in the hollow of the sea, without a man
at the wheel.”
Anderson did not speak; but rose
slowly and painfully, to lean with one
arm upon the bulwark.
“ Let’s have a look at that wownd,”
said Basalt. “ Ugly cut!” he muttered,
as, in the dim starlight, he stooped down
and rebound it—tenderly as might a
woman—before helping his companion
up by the wheel, where he spread a
tarpaulin for him to lie upon, before
taking hold of the spokes in a quiet,
matter-of-fact way, and bringing the
rudder to bear with such effect that in a
few moments, water-logged as she was,
the ship slowly answered her helm, the
rolling motion ceased, and heeling over
a little under the three sails set, she
moved gently through the water.
“ You see,” said Basalt, after a pause,
“ I thought we should have been at the
bottom before this, or else I should have
been here sooner. Anyhow, we’ll go
down now like sailors, and that will be
some relief.”
Another hour passed almost in silence,
with the vessel slowly making way.
Basalt managed the helm so that, low
as the Victrix was in the water, the
waves ceased to leap aboard, and only
seemed to lick the sides as if in antici
pation of the coming feast.
“Well, you know,” cried Basalt at
last, in a pettish, impatient voice, “ I
can’t stand much more of this, for it’s
neither one thing nor the other. If
we’re going down, let’s go down ; and if
not, let’s float.”
“Don’t murmur, Jerry,” said Ander»
son, quietly. “We ought to be thank
ful that we have been spared so long.”
“ But I hate being humbugged,” cried
[Christmas, 1873.
the old man. “ Here, I come aboard
thinking we were going to sink with all
colours flying—romantic-like, after the
fashion as you reads of in books. I
thought we were going down directly,
and that’s hours ago. Only that I
thought as it was all over, I should have
tried to dodge something to get us clear.
I waited patiently like a man; but now
I sha’n’t wait no longer, for it’s just
come to me like, that one aint no call
to die till one’s reg’lar obliged. So here
goes.”
These words seemed to rouse Ander
son.
“ Let me try to hold the wheel,” he
said, getting up and taking the spokes.
“ Good for you,” cried Basalt. “That’s
cheery. Keep her just steady like that,
and she may hold out till morning.”
Then, with the greatest of alacrity, the
old fellow set to work.
First he brought some biscuit and
rum to Anderson, and stood over him,
holding the wheel while he took some
refreshment.
“ That’s right,” he said, “ you’ll hold
out better. Keep her steady; for if an
other sea comes aboard, it ’ll be the last.”
The next minute he was gone; and
soon Anderson saw him moving about
with a lantern, which he set down now
here, now there, in different parts of the
deck. Then there was the rolling about
of casks, the dragging here and there of
hencoops and gratings. Then Basalt
would trot to the wheel, to have a few
words with Anderson, begging him every
time to “handle her softly;” for as each
hour glided slowly by, the desire for life
grew stronger in both men, stunned and
ready for death as they had been the
evening before.
At last there was a broad belt of
light in the east, then a flash of orange
shafts, and a few minutes after the sun
rolled up above the purple water, turn
ing the vessel into gold, and showing
Jeremiah Basalt, with the sweat pouring
off his face, lashing and binding spars
and coops to four empty casks, and im
provising a raft that bade fair to float
I for an unlimited time in any calm sea.
�Christmas, 1S73.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“ Handle her softly!” he cried to An
derson. “ If she’ll only keep up another
hour I’ll be ready for her.”
He spoke as he ran to and fro—his
last effort being to drag a couple of
gratings on to the top of his raft, and
secure them there with lashings.
There were oars and a spare boat
hook, mast and sail, coils of small sheets
already on the raft; and, by almost super
human efforts, he had built up in the
centre an edifice composed of a couple
of breakers, or small fresh-water casks,
a pork cask, and some bags of biscuit.
The next hour was spent in adding
security to the rough affair by means
of fresh lashings, which Basalt added
wherever he thought they would have
good effect.
“There!” he cried, at last. “That’s
as rough an attempt at a craft as ever
Robinson Crusoe made; and if I could
have three wishes now, the first would
be for his uninhabited island to heave
in sight.”
As he spoke he shaded his eyes with
his rough hand, and swept the offing.
Then, as if he had not ceased speaking,
he continued—
“But,.as it don’t seem disposed so to
do, why, here goes for a launch.”
Armed with a bit of rope, he ran to
Anderson, and then, with a few dex
terous twists, he lashed the helm fast,
and then handed the rum bottle.
“Take one swig, my lad—it’ll give
you strength. That’s right. Now a
taste for Number One. And now come
and haul a pound with me.”
A few strokes from an axe cleared
away the rough projecting fragments of
the bulwark, where the sea had beaten
them out, leaving a broad opening just
opposite the raft, and the water was not
above five feet below.
“Now then, with a will,” said Basalt,
handing a capstan bar to Anderson to
use for a lever.
And between them they prised and
prised, till they had the raft partly
hanging over the side.
“ Let’s make fast a painter,” said
Basalt.
57
This he did, and then stood thinking
a moment.
“’Bacco and grog!” he cried, and ran
down to the captain’s cabin, to return
in a minute with a case of spirits and a
couple of boxes of cigars.
These he had no sooner stowed in a
cask than he seized the capstan bar again.
“ Quick, my lad—quick—heave.”
It was time, for a loud hissing sound
of escaping air told them that the water
was rushing faster into the vessel.
“Heave—-heave!” cried Basalt again.
And they forced the raft a few inches
farther over the side, where it seemed
to catch against something and stick.
“My God,we shall go down with her! ”
Another heave, and another, and then
Anderson’s bar snapped in two, just as
the ship gave a lurch, and the confined
air below shrieked again. But Ander
son stooped down, thrust his hands be
low the raft, and lifted with what little
remaining strength he had.
That little lift did it; and the un
wieldy mass overbalanced, and fell into
the sea with a heavy splash; was half
submerged, but righted again; and at
one and the same moment the confined
air, forced into a smaller and smaller
compass below by the rushing water,
literally blew up the deck of the vessel
with a loud crash.
“Over with you!” roared Basalt.
“ Jump.”
And together the men leaped on
to the frail raft, which rocked and
threatened to capsize with the sudden
weight thrown upon it. But it righted
slowly, and floated bravely, although
those who freighted it thought not of
this, but of their peril; for, though
launched upon their raft, they were close
alongside of the sinking ship, and Basalt
had let fall his knife between the spars
beneath his feet.
A few seconds would have decided
their fate; but John Anderson saw the
danger. His knife was out in an in
stant, and the rope that held them to
the ship was divided. The cut had also
set free a couple of oars lashed to the
side for safety; and with these they
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
paddled and rowed with all their might
to get the raft beyond the vortex of the
sinking ship.
“ Pull—for God’s sake, pull!” shrieked
Basalt. “ We can’t die now—we can’t
die now!”
But all seemed vain; for the great
"J" WENTY-J^IRST
f Christmas, i?73-
vessel, close to which they lay, now
seemed to give a shudder as she rolled
over, first on one side and then on the
other, preparatory to making a plunge
which would cause such a whirlpool as
must suck down the raft beyond all
possibility of redemption.
JCable
ENGTH.
HOW SERPENTS CRAWL.
iilip
Merritt
came regularly
to sit and talk,
nominally with
Mr. Halley; but
necessarily his
encounters with
May were very
frequent, and he
probably, from
reasons of po
licy, forbore to
make any osten
tatious display
of his claims. It
was an understood thing that he was
engaged to her, otherwise he might have
been an ordinary visitor.
“Wait a bit, my scornful beauty,” he
muttered to himself more than once, as
he left the house—“ I’ll bring you to
your senses yet.”
For he found poor May very bad
company; in fact, she had hard work to
keep from broaching the subject that
lay next her heart. Young and gene
rous, she found it hard to believe the
tales she had heard of her betrothed’s
dealings, for they seemed more asso
ciated with the character of the ruffian
than with that of the polished gentle
man.
It was the evening of the long dis
cussion between Mr. Halley and his
clerk, and the former had returned to
Canonbury, looking pale and anxious.
He had had a long business interview
with Merritt and Mr. Longdale, and had
invited the two gentlemen to dine with
him, sending up word by a messenger.
May was dressed and waiting when
he came, ready to question him about
his troubled aspect; but he put aside
her queries, went up to dress, and on
descending gave a slight start as he
caught sight of his child’s attire. For
May was dressed in white, and in place
of flowers wore at her breast a black
crape bow, which stood out marked and
singular.
For a moment the eyes of father and
daughter met, and a slight shiver passed
through the former as he placed his own
interpretation upon the mark; but no
word was uttered, and a moment after
Philip Merritt was announced, to come
forward subdued and gentlemanly. He
saluted May in a quiet,unobtrusive way;
started visibly as he caught sight of the
crape; and then, after a few remarks on
current topics, turned to talk with Mr.
Halley, just as Mr. Longdale was an
nounced, to enter bland and smiling,
exhibiting so much smooth surface that
it seemed as if all the genuine man had
been polished away.
The dinner was announced, and Mr.
Longdale took down May. He, too,
glanced at the crape bow; and, urged
at length by curiosity beyond his custo
mary caution, he hazarded the question—
“ I trust, Miss Halley, that you have
sustained no family bereavement ? I
had not heard—”
Merritt and Mr. Halley, who were
deep in conversation, paused on the
instant, and there was utter silence for
�Christmas, if73-3
“SHIP AHOY!"
a few moments, till May said, in a low,
deep voice—
“ I wear it, Mr. Longdale, according
to promise, in memory of a brave man.”
Longdale bowed and was silent; while
Merritt, white almost as the cloth before
him, hurriedly resumed the conversation
with Mr. Halley, but in an inconsequent
manner that was so broken as to enable
him to jealously listen for each utterance
of the others.
Longdale, though, talked upon indif
ferent topics for- a while. Then he said
suddenly, with a deep sigh—“Yes, Miss Halley, there are awful
changes in this life. Did you read the
announcement of our sad loss?”
“ I did,” said May, coldly.
“Is it not awful?” said Longdale,
ignoring a kick which he received from
Merritt below the table. “‘ They who
go down to the sea in ships,’ you know
the rest.”
May bowed her head; but Longdale
could not read the disgust written in her
countenance, and went on—
“So sad! A fine ship—one of the
finest in the service; a valuable cargo
and some of her best men lost, swal
lowed up.”
May had not meant to reply, but the
words escaped in spite of her—
“ You seem to place the losses in
order according to their value,” she said,
satirically, but with a heavy sense of
pain at her heart; and as Merritt looked,
he saw, with jealous rage, her hand
pressed upon the crape bow—all uncon
sciously, though, for she was only seek
ing to control the heaving of her breast.
“ Exactly,” said Longdale, who was
too cunning of verbal fence to be hit
by such a barbed lunge—“exactly so,
Miss Halley. I place our poor ship
first and least; then the cargo of our
merchants; and last and best, the brave
men who have been snatched away from
us. It is one of the great drawbacks
to a shipowner’s profession, having these
awful losses: they cause many a sleep
less night.”
May was checked. In her guileless
heart, much as she disliked the speaker,
59
she could not believe that he could
assume so much. It would have been a
blasphemous hypocrisy, she reasoned;
and after vainly trying to fathom the
depths of his cold grey eyes, she said—
“And is it certain to be true, Mr.
Longdale ? Is there no hope of the
others being saved ?”
“I will not say that,” he said, sadly.
“ It is too much to hope for, I fear; but
who can despair when rescues that are
almost miraculous continually meet our
notice?”
May Halley was confounded, and sat
in silence during the remaining few
minutes that she stayed at the table.
What did it mean? What was she to
think ? Were people wild, bitter, and
extravagant in their charges against
these men ? It must be so; for it was
impossible, utterly impossible, that this
quiet, courtly gentleman could sit and
talk to her so sadly of a loss that he
had almost, if not quite, helped to com-'
pass for his own vile ends.
It was cruel work, and her breast was
torn by a dozen contending emotions.
To whom could she fly for advice in
such a strait? She knew not; though
she felt that she could not trust herself.
Thought after thought, how they flashed
through her mind!—till she rose at last
to leave the party to their wine.
Philip Merritt hurried to open the
door for her; and as she swept by, there
was such an appealing look in his eyes
as they met hers—such a look of honesty
and love—-that in spite of all she had
heard, her pulses quickened, and the
look she gave him in return was softer
and less full of doubt; while he returned
to his chair, smiling and triumphant,
knowing that Longdale had helped his
suit more than a month’s wooing of his
own.
As he returned to his seat, it was to
find that his partner had at once re
sumed the subject of the business upon
which they had been to Mr. Halley’s
offices in the morning.
“You see, Mr. Halley,” he was say
ing, “Merritt has placed all his avail
able capital in our hands; but it is not,
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
as I explained, sufficient for the exten
sion we propose. Certainly the insur
ance money for that wretched Victrix
will help; but we should have another
thirty thousand, which I hope you will
determine to advance.”
Mr. Halley sat tapping the table with
his fingers as Longdale filled his glass and
pushed the claret jug towards Merritt.
“And, by the way,” he continued,
“you must not give Philip here the
. credit of proposing you as our banker;
; for certainly it would, I must own, have
been in bad taste. It was my sugges
tion. Merritt, try this claret, it is ex
quisite.”
The two partners exchanged glances,
for Mr. Halley still sat thoughtful and
silent.
“ That was very sad news about the
Victrix, gentlemen,” he said at last.
“Frightful!” replied Merritt; while
Longdale merely bowed and raised
his eyebrows slightly.
“ They have been talking over it a
great deal in the City to-day.”
“ Yes, I suppose so,” said Longdale,
calmly; while Merritt shifted uneasily
in his chair. “ It hits the underwriters
a little; but then they calculate for these
contingencies, and make money all the
same. Where would be their use if they
did not meet with losses?”
“Where, indeed!” said Merritt, un
easily.
“ The loss is looked upon very
seriously,” continued Mr. Halley.
“Of course,” said Longdale, applying
himself once more to the claret jug.
“ It is a very, very serious loss. I am
afraid, though,that we made a great mis
take in entrusting her to that Anderson;
but there, poor fellow, he’s no more!
You cast him off for some incompe
tency, I believe?”
“No, by Heaven!” exclaimed Mr.
Halley, impetuously, “ for a finer sailor
never trod a deck. Gentlemen, you
know the old proverb, ‘ De mortuis nil
nisi bonum’? I can use it here, and say
it with all sincerity; for a braver, truerhearted man was never trusted with the
care of property and the lives of men.”
$--------------------------------------------------
[Christmas, 1873.
“ I am very glad to hear your advo
cacy,” said Longdale, who was ever ready
to catch each current as it set; “you
relieve me of one anxiety which preyed
upon my mind. You can hardly tell,
Mr. Halley, how these responsibilities
tell on me. I was really afraid that we
had made a false step in engaging with
poor Anderson, and had not done our
duty to the crew.”
“ If seamanship could have saved
your vessel, it would have been now
afloat,” said Mr. Halley. “I grieve
much for the loss of John Anderson;
and would gladly give half I possess to
shake him once more by the hand.”
“ But we arc bearing away from our
subject,” said Merritt, who was anxious
to go to the drawing-room and join May.
“Yes,” said Mr. Halley, “ I was talk
ing about the loss of the Victrixi'
Longdale’s face gave an angry twitch,
for this was not the subject he wished
to discuss.
“ They have been saying very ugly'
things about her loss,” said Mr. Halley,
slowly.
“ Ugly things ? About her loss ?
Good heavens, Mr. Halley, what do you
mean?” exclaimed Longdale, turning
in his chair.
“ They say that Rutherby’s sent out
the ship ill-found, and heavily insured,
and did not expect to see her back.”
Crash!
Longdale’s clenched hand came down
upon the table with a heavy blow that
made every glass dance.
“ Some cursed, contemptible rascal of
an underwriter, who has fifty or a hun
dred pounds in the insurance! But who
is it, Mr. Halley, who is it?”
“Yes, sir,” exclaimed Merritt, “who
is it? If we could find out the villain,
we’d ruin him. We would, wouldn’t wre,
Longdale?”
“We would, as sure as there’s a law
for libel. Some anonymous, skulking
scoundrel, who is never happy without
he is blacking some one’s character.
Who was it ? Give us his name, Mr.
Halley.”
“ That I canr.ot do, gentlemen,” said
��ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
Mr. Halley, quietly. ft It would be dis
honourable in me. I should be betray
ing a trust. But these losses are very
awful, and, I must say, incomprehensible
to me. I never had them.”
“ Mr. Halley,” said Longdale, rising
stiffly, “your language is rather strange.
Surely, sir, you, as a shipowner, must
know enough of the risks of ocean
traffic to see that we have been rather
more unfortunate than is common. You
J'wENTY-JSeCOND
[Christmas, 1873.
do not, surely, for a moment, impute to
us, your guests, any—”
“ If you please, sir, here’s an old lady
—one of those who came to see Miss
May—-wants to see Mr. Longdale and
Mr. Merritt, and won’t take no for an
answer.”
“ It’s only me, gentlemen,” exclaimed
a pitiful voice; and before she could be
prevented, Mrs. Gurnett had forced her
way into the dining room.
J2aBLE
J_zENGTH.
HOW MR. LOiJGDALE WAS CALLED TO ACCOUNT.
YOUR
pardon,
gentlem e n,”
said Mrs.
Gurnett;
know it’s
I e and
ig of me,
b’s life and
h to me,
II e men,
I’ve been
to both
■ houses,
and found you were here ; and I knew
that my dear old master there wouldn’t
be so cruel as to stand in my way, and
keep me from seeing you, so I came—
Mrs. Gurnett, gentlemen, landlady of the
Jolly Sailors, gentlemen, and Mr. Basalt,
Jeremiah Basalt, sailed in your ship
mate in the Victrix—Captain John
Anderson—and I saw only an hour ago,
in the evening papers, that—Oh, oh,
it can’t be, it can’t be! Pray, pray tell
me it isn’t true !”
The poor woman had been speaking
with an effort, and now she staggered and
would have fallen, had not Mr. Halley
caught her and helped her to a chair.
“Wine here, Merritt,” he said; and
then angrily, to the gaping footman,
“ Go, and shut that door.”
“ No, no—no wine—water,” gasped
Mrs. Gurnett, pushing back the glass,
and looking appealingly at Mr. Halley
as she spoke to the two partners.
“We are old people, gentlemen; but
we loved each other in our poor simple
way, and we were to marry when he
came back. I felt he would be lost, and
begged him to stay.”
“ But, my good woman,” interposed
Longdale, in deprecatory tones.
“ It’s too bad, you know,” said
Merritt.
“ Let her speak,” said Mr. Halley,
sternly.
“ Thank you, dear master,” said the
poor woman, simply. “ I begged him to
stay; for I knew what Rutherby’s ships
were.”
“Confusion!” exclaimed Merritt. “I
cannot stand this.”
“ Be quiet, my dear boy,” said Long
dale, blandly; “you have nothing to
fear.”
“But—but,” sobbed Mrs. Gurnett, “he
was that loyal and true to his captain,
that go he would; and he made me—for
he had such influence over me that I
could have died for him if he had told
me—he made me—say—‘Go, and God
bless you;’ and I said it, and sent him
to his death.”
“But we are not sure yet, Mrs.
Gurnett,” said Mr. Halley, soothingly.
“ Sure, dear master ? oh, yes, we are
sure ! Why did you send him away from
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!
his own old ship, that he seemed to be
a part of, and while I knew he was with
it I felt almost that he was safe? But,
oh, gentlemen, it was you I came to see.
How could you—oh, how could you send
those poor brave men in that rotten
ship?’’
“ Confound it, woman, how dare you
makesuch a charge?’’exclaimed Merritt,
savagely; “you’re mad—a lunatic—you
ought to be put in an asy----- ”
He stopped short; for he suddenly
became aware that, with face white as
her dress, May Halley was standing in
the doorway. How long she had been
there he could not tell.
Longdale saw her at the same,
moment, and speaking blandly, he said,
in his soft, kid-gloved tones—
“ My dear Merritt, do not be hard
upon the poor woman, who is half beside
herself with grief. Think of what she
suffers, and make allowances.”
“What is it, nurse?” said May, ad
vancing into the room.
“ Oh, Miss May, my own darling, are
you there?” cried the weeping woman,
starting up to fling herself at the young
girl’s feet. “ Oh, my darling, they’ve
drowned him—they’ve murdered him !
Oh, no, no, no—what am I saying?
Please don’t notice me,” she cried, ap
pealingly. “ I say more than I mean ;
for it is so hard to bear. Mr. Halley,
sir—dear old master—you were always
kind to me; ask them for me—speak
to them for me; they’ll answer you.
But pray, pray don’t deceive me—don’t
say cruel falsehoods to comfort me and
get me away quietly, as if I was a
child. Only tell me, gentlemen, please,
is what I have read in the paper true,
that the ship, the Victrix went down, and
that my poor Basalt and the captain
went down with her ?”
“ It’s as true as that their murderers
stand there,” said a harsh voice from the
doorway; and all started to see the stern
old face of Mrs. Anderson at the door.
“Yes, you may shrink back and
cower, you gentlemen” she cried, bit
terly. “And you, James Halley, how
dare you consort with such villains ?”
63
“ My good woman,” exclaimed Long
dale — ”
“Good woman!” exclaimed the stern
old dame, pointing at him with her
stick. “ How dare you speak to me, you
cringing, smooth-tongued hypocrite?
Do you think I do not know you,
Reuben Longdale ? Yes. You have
crawled up and up the ladder of life
to be a shipowner, and every step has
been the dead body of a better man.
Yes, you will deny it, and quote Scrip
ture, and subscribe to missions, and give
to new churches; but when at the last
day the great God who made us all of
one blood shall say to you—1 What of
those men I trusted to your care?’
what then, coward-—murderer—unpro
fitable servant—what then ?”
“ This is too much,” exclaimed Mer
ritt; while May bent shivering over the
kneeling form of Mrs. Gurnett.
“Silence, boy!” exclaimed Mrs. An
derson. “You are young yet in such
villainy. Run from it while you have
time—run ere hell gapes for you more
widely. How dare you speak, when I
ask that man what he has to say that
I should not impeach him of the murder
of my son—of my son, a man so brave
and true that it seems horrible to me
that God could have let him be the
slave of that cringing reptile. Yes;
wipe your wet brow, and shiver, mur
derer ! Where is my son ? Where is
the crew of the Tiber? Drowned!
Where is the crew of the Great Planet?
Drowned! Where is the crew of the
Grey Dawn? Drowned! Where are
the crews of twenty other ships of which
you have been part owner—ships that
were rotten—ships that were bought
and patched—ships that were made by
cheap contractors with bad materials—
ships built to sink? James Halley, if.
you in your career had lost a tithe of
them, you would have been a beggar;
while this man—look at the well-fed,
smooth, sleek serpent, and see how he
has thriven !
“ But it will not last,” continued the
old woman, fiercely, in her denuncia
tion, and seeming, as she stood there,
�64
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
like some prophetess of old—“ it will not
last! The Lord shall hear the cries of
the widow, the fatherless, the bereft;
and a day of vengeance shall arrive for
such as you.”
•She stopped, and turned to May, and
laid a trembling hand upon her fair
head.
“ Be very pitiful to me, my child.
God bless you. You knew it, then ?”
she cried, as she saw the crape bow.
And now her voice was weak and feeble,
as she clung to the trembling girl.
“Yes,” she said, gently; “be very piti
ful to me, and think of me in your
prayers. Ah, my child, he loved you
with all a strong man’s love—my son,
my dear first-born, whom I worshipped
so, that God has taken him away as a
punishment for my vain idolatry. But
he loved you, my child; and if I see
you no more, think of me gently; for
though once I felt hard and cruel, and
jealous of you, I could have loved you
dearly, with all a mother’s love. And
now—now he is gone! He died for you
—for your sake, in his despair!
“ Come,” she added, after a few mo
ments, and she laid her hand upon the
younger woman—“ come, Mrs. Gurnett, let us go ; we have no place here.
Mr. Halley,” she said, with a sweet, calm
dignity, “forgive me this. I'f it had
been your ship that had been lost, with
my poor boy on board, I could have
come and wept pitifully at your feet,
and asked for comfort; but as for these
men—”
She said no more; but holding Mrs.
Gurnett’s hand, and looking fixedly at
Longdale, led her to the door, where
she was followed by May and Mr. Hal
ley to the cab that was in waiting.
Then, without comment, Mr. Halley
[Christmas, 1873.
led May, weeping bitterly and quite un
strung, to her room.
When he returned to the dining-room
it was empty.
“ Where is Mr. Merritt ? Has Mr.
Longdale gone ?”
“ They said, sir, as they thought they
would not stop, but would see you to
morrow,” said Samuel.
“Thank God!” muttered Mr. Halley,
throwing himself into a chair, while the
partners were walking slowly back to
wards town, heedless of the rain that
was falling heavily, and that they were
in evening dress.
“ I’ve had enough of this,” said Mer
ritt at last.
“Don’t be a fool!” was the abrupt
reply.
“ No, I won’t,” said Merritt, angrily;
“ I ’ll drop it at once. That old woman
made my blood run cold. It is worse
than D.T. Another such scene as that,
and I shall lose May Halley.”
“ Nonsense!” said Longdale, abruptly.
“ Nonsense! I tell you I couldn’t
stand it; but I’ll have’no more of
it.”
“No more of what?” said Longdale,
in a fierce tone that made his companion
start, and stand listening beneath the
wall of an old house.
“This ship-owning—I can’t stand
it.”
“What! now that all has gone as you
wished—now that success has attended
the plans at which you connived—now
that your rival is removed from your
path? Philip Merritt, you are in with
us, and must stay.”
“ Must ?” said Merritt, roused to in
dignation by his partner’s language.
“Yes, must; or leave with us every
penny you possess.”
�Christmas, 1873-)
6S
“SHIP AHOY!”
J" WENTY-J" HIRD
JCabee
J^ength
HOW THE “VICTRIX” SANK.
BREEZE
saved
them —
the brisk
breeze,
coming
down in a
brief cat’spaw for a
few m oments, did
it. For as
the poor
ship shud
dered and
rolled from side to side, as if struggling
hard to keep afloat, the well-filled sails
bore her on a few yards farther from
the raft.
John Anderson, too, had answered
Basalt’s appeal, and tugged at his oar
with all his might.
But it was cruel work; for the un
shapely raft hardly answered to their
efforts, and seemed to hang back, as if
drawn by some horrible magnetic at
traction to the ship. To the men strug
gling for dear life, it was like some fear
ful nightmare, as they tugged and gazed
with starting eyeballs at their fate. A
few hours before, they could have gone
down without a struggle; but the efforts
for safety had begotten new hopes, and
death would have been hardly met now.
Drag, drag, drag—till the ash blades
bent and threatened to snap, and still
they scarcely moved away; while the
ship seemed animated with life, which
burst forth from her tortured bowels in
strange shrieks and cries. Rats by the
hundred swarmed up on to the bulwarks
and climbed about on to the shrouds;
and again and again there were sharp,
crashing reports, as other parts of the
deck blew up.
Such a few yards distant, even now;
and there was a strange creeping sensa
tion in Basalt’s hair, as if a cold skeleton
hand were stirring it. His face was
ghastly; but he did not for an instant
cease his efforts, dragging furiously at
his oar, though a shiver passed through
him that almost seemed to rob him of
all nerve when the Victrix—Victrix no
longer—sank back for an instant, throw
ing up her bows, and then gave one
slow, solemn plunge head first, and dis
appeared in a vast eddy of hissing,
foaming water.
It was an awful sight; and in spite
of themselves, Anderson and Basalt
ceased rowing as the hull disappeared,
and the masts and rigging slowly fol
lowed—the sails seeming to hang for a
moment on the waves as they filled with
air, and then split with a loud report.
But before the maintop-gallant yard
had sunk below the surface, they were
rowing hard against the dreadful cur
rent that sucked them towards where
floated a quantity of deck lumber, whirl
ing round and round before disappear
ing after the ship.
“ For dear life!” cried Basalt, huskily,
—“pull, my lad, pull!”
Words were not needed; but in spite
of every effort the raft floated slowly
towards where the water foamed and
boiled, and their fate seemed sealed.
Another drag, though, and another;
and either the rate of progress was
checked by their efforts, or the whirl
pool had less 'force. They saw it, and
dragged again and again, throwing their
last remaining strength into the efforts.
And not without avail; for a minute
after John Anderson had fallen back
exhausted upon the raft, while Basalt
half lay half sat upon the cask, with
the raft slowly rising and falling amid
the waves of the great Indian Ocean,
�----66
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
alone and helpless, a thousand miles
from land!
It was a long time before either
spoke, and then it was Basalt, who said,
as if to himself—
“That’s about the nighest touch yet.
Talk of Davy Jones’s locker!—one al
most heard the lid snap down.”
Then turning his back to Anderson,
he went down softly on his knees, and
remained so for some time, to rise up,
though, at last, muttering the only words
which reached his companion’s ears,
and they were—
“World without end, amen!”
The next minute he was bright and
cheery. Thoughts of their possible fate
did not seem to trouble him, as, in a
rough, fatherly way, he leaned over An
derson, placing spirit and biscuit to his
lips, and then proceeded to rebandage
the wound upon his leg.
“Cheer up, my lad,” he said; “it’ll
all come right. We have got a craft
under us as won’t sink; but as for that
Wictrix—”
His sentence was more forcible in its
incompleteness than ever it could have
been had he said all he thought; but
he mentally uttered no blessing on the
heads of Rutherby and Co.
“ First thing to be done is for half
the watch to go below,” he said; “and
that’s your half, cap’n. There aint
much stowage room, but get a sleep if
you can.”
John Anderson was too much ex
hausted to do more than thank the old
man with a grateful look, as his head
fell back upon a tarpaulin; and in
another minute he was sleeping heavily.
“ And that’s what I could do,” mut
tered Basalt, “ only I can’t yet. I’ll do
the next best thing, though; for it’s
been short commons lately.”
Then, in a cool, matter-of-fact way,
just as if the narrow escape from a terri
[Christmas, 1873.
ble death had not been shared by him,he
filled a tin pannikin with water, gave it
a good dash of rum, and then fished
out a couple of biscuits and a lump of
pork, which he set to, knife in hand, to
devour, sitting the while cross-legged
upon one of the gratings which formed
the quarter-deck of the raft, and think
ing sadly of Mrs. Gurnett and the snug
bar parlour at the Jolly Sailors.
The sun had risen to the meridian,
and slowly sunk to within an hour of
his setting, before John Anderson
awoke, to find that a rough awning of
sail cloth had been stretched between
him and the ardent heat. A pleasant
breeze rippled the water, and filled out
the little lug sail that Basalt had ma
naged to hoist.
For a few minutes the young man
lay thinking—wondering whether this
were the end of a horrible dream that
he had had. He felt rested and re
freshed ; the breeze, too, played plea
santly in his, hair; a soft languor
seemed to pervade his every sense; and
it was only by an effort that he pre
vented himself from lying there silently
thinking—always of home, of the perils
he had passed through, and of May.
Fie roused himself with a sigh; and
looking up, a pleasant smile irradiated
the rugged face of old Basalt, as he
shouted—
“Ship ahoy! What cheer?”
“ Better, much better,” was the reply.
“ Now let me take the watch, and you
lie down.”
“ That will I, with a will,” said Basalt.
“You’ll find the stores there, ready to
hand. Eat well, my lad ; for it ’ll give
you strength to weather the next gale.”
A minute after, while Anderson was
making a frugal meal off biscuit and
water, Basalt, heedless of all perils and
dangers, was sleeping soundly upon the
raft.
�Christmas, 1873]
“SHIP AHOY!
J-'WENTY-J^OURTH
JSaBLE
67
J_^ENGTH.
HOW THEY FARED ON THE RAFT.
AN you imag i n e for
yourselve s
the position ?
Far away
from land,
upon a few
rough spars,
lashed with
ropes to a
cask or two;
with the
whole fabric rising slowly up the side
of each wave to plunge down the other
into the deep trough of the sea, groan
ing and creaking as the loose fragments
rub and grind against each other, fray
ing the ropes that hold them together,
and threatening to fall asunder at any
moment. John Anderson sat thinking,
with his head upon his hand; while his
rough old companion in misfortune
slept heavily. One by one the stars
came out, till the whole heavens were
one blaze of splendour, reflected a thou
sandfold from the glassy surface of the
long swell. The breeze had almost
died away as darkness set in, and the
little sail flapped idly against the mast.
If the weather kept calm, they might
exist for weeks, for they had food
and water enough; but he knew well
that, strive to strengthen it as they
might, the first rough sea must knock
the raft to pieces or wash them off.
Educated by his long sea-going to
wake at certain hours, Basalt rose up
about midnight; and there was some
thing almost comical in the manner in
which he treated their frail platform,
which was half submerged at every step
on the side, even as if it were a wellfound ship, with full crew.
“Anything to report, sir?” he said.
“ No, all is just as you left it, Jerry.”
“And a good state -of things, too,”
said the old man, beginning to whistle.
“ I suppose we must drift now till the
wind rises again.”
Drift was the word—drift, hour after
hour, in the same monotonous fashion.
Drift, the next day and the next, with
the sun growing each hour more power
ful, till it seemed to scorch the very
brains within their heads; and, in spite
of their thirst, every drop of water
having to be measured out to the exact
allowance upon which they had placed
themselves, so as to hold out as long as
possible. The afternoon sun at times
seemed unbearable, in spite of the awn
ing they contrived with a small sail;
and more than once the question oc
curred to each—was it worth while to
live and endure such tortures?
Four days, a week, a fortnight
passed slowly on, during which time
there had been nothing more than the
faintest breezes, and the raft had held
together still.
For the first few days Basalt fought
hard to keep up a cheerful aspect, and
succeeded well; but the awful lone
liness told at last upon him, so that
hours and hours would pass, during
which neither spoke, but sat wrapped
in thought apparently, though really
with their energies paralyzed — every
aspiration frozen into dull apathy.
It was on the fifteenth day that, early
in the morning, while serving out the
provisions, Basalt dropped his biscuit to
exclaim, with a hysterical sob—“ Ship
ahoy!”
And then turned/with outstretched
hands, gazing at a white speck glisten
ing in the sun upon the far-off horizon.
It was a sail, sure enough; and, with
straining eyes, Anderson stood by his
side, watching, and reading, as it were,
written upon that white speck—life,
hope, love, home.
�68
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Hoist a signal,” he cried, and at the
same moment went himself to the mast,
where he cast loose the sheet that held
the little sail, hauled it to the top, and
let it fly in the soft morning breeze.
“ They’ll see us, sir—they’ll see us,”
cried Basalt, cheerfully, the whole man
changing with the hope within him.
“ Cheerily, cheerily, my lad! That means
home, sweet home; and confound all
bad shipowners! How’s the wownd,
my lad—how’s the wownd ?”
The wound was fast on the way to
heal, and had ceased to trouble Ander
son, who did not reply, so interested
was he in the distant sail.
“Isn’t she lower down, Basalt?” he said.
“ Not she,” cried the old man, gazing
through his hands. “She’ll see us, safe!”
The old man stooped down and
slapped his knees, a broad smile coming
over his face, as he said to himself—“Hurray for the old stocking, and
success to the Jolly Sailors!”
John Anderson did not speak, but
stood intently gazing at the sail, till his
experience told him that there could be
no questionaboutit—they were not seen,
and the vessel was certainly more distant
than when they had first sighted her.
Another half-hour passed, and then
it became plain to Basalt, though he
"J"WENTY-j^IFTH
[Christmas, 1873.
would not own it as yet, but stood up
on the top of one of the water-casks,
cheering and waving his hat.
At last he stopped short, and re
mained gazing after the departing ship,
which sank lower and lower, till she was
the merest speck, when he descended
slowly, and proceeded to serve out the
biscuit and water — a process inter
rupted by the sight of the ship.
“ A bit and sup, my lad,” he said to
Anderson. “Never despair! Better
luck coming. It’s a bit of a disap
pointment; but I don’t mind it a bit,
for my part. In fact, it’s good; for it
shows us as we’re in the track of ships.”
Another day, and another, and an
other; and now the water began to run
short. They had drunk as sparingly as
they could; but the intense heat had at
last begotten a thirst that would not be
denied, and they had been compelled
to drink. There were symptoms, too,
of a change in the weather; the breeze
grew stronger, and the sail forced the
raft through the water. But though
they pressed on, it was so slowly that
it could do them no good. The nearest
land was the Cape; but at their rate of
progress, with favouringbreezes,it would
take them months to reach port, and they
knew that their only hope was a sail.
CABLE
HOW MR. TUDGE WAS TEMPTED.
TUDGE,
miss.”
“Show
him in,
Samuel,”
said May.
There was a
great deal of
shoe rubbing on
the mat out
side, and then
entered Mr.
T ud ge, very
spruce, his hair
curled—he had
spent an hour at a hairdresser’s on his
way; his tail-coat, of peculiar cut, but
toned very tightly across his chest; and
a general gala aspect about him, largely
increased by his carrying an immense
bouquet in his hand.
“How are you, Mr. Tudge?” said
May, advancing, with a sad smile, to
shake hands.
“ Like a man coming into sunshine,
my darling,” said Tudge, taking her
hand and kissing it. “Ah, my dear,
once upon a time, when you were little,
it usen’t to be your hand.”
“And it need not now, dear Mr.
�Christinas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
Tudge,” said May, offering her cheek
to the old man, who kissed it fondly,
and then sat down on the couch beside
her, retaining her hand, and, after lay
ing down the bouquet carefully by his
side, patting and stroking it tenderly.
“ Bless you, my dear,” he said, with
tears in his eyes—“God bless you!
And you grown such a beautiful young
woman, too. But I always said you
would; didn’t I now, my dear—didn’t
I always say you would?”
“You always spoiled me, Mr. Tudge,”
said May, laughing.
“ Not I, ” said Tudge, stoutly. “ But
May, my dear, what feasts we used to
have! Don’t you remember the cheese
cakes, the almond-rock, and the plums ?”
“ Oh, yes,” said May, smiling sadly.
“ I remember it all, Mr. Tudge.”
“To be sure you do, my sweet; and
I always said you’d grow up a beauty.
But, you see, I’m a rum old fogey of a
fellow; but I know what’s what. See
here—there’s a posy for you!”
May took the flowers he held out
with such pride—for he had gone to get
a simple bunch of roses, and ended by
purchasing the choicest bouquet of
exotics he could find.
“ It was very kind of you, Mr. Tudge,
and they are very sweet.”
“Not so sweet as her they’re meant
for,” said Tudge, beaming all over his
plump face. “And look how I’ve ne
glected to send you anything lately, my
dear! All business, though,” he added,
gloomily—“all business!”
“ That’s what I asked you to come for,
dear Mr. Tudge. You’ve often told me
you looked upon me as a daughter.”
“To be sure — to be sure. Why,
didn’t you use to laugh and call me
old Uncle Tudge in the old days, eh?
To be sure you did; and ah! what fun
we used to have?” His face was all
smiles; and leaning over her, he softly
stroked down, on each side, her bright
glossy hair. “ But stop,” he said, se
riously—“business. Why did you send
for me?”
“To talk to you about papa and the
business, Mr. Tudge.”
69
The old man faced round, serious as
a judge, with his mouth pursed, and one
finger held up impressively.
“I never bring the business outside
the office.”
“ But it is for poor papa’s good I
want to know,” said May; “and you
are in his confidence?”
“Confidence, my darling,”said Tudge,
“ why, he’s offered me to be partner six
times—six times, think of that! Said
I’d made half the business, and deserved
to be.”
“And why were you not, Mr. Tudge?”
“ Why not, my dear? Why should I
have been? I was right where I was.
Who was to have taken my place if I
had been partner? No; so long as I
could save a few hundreds, and go on
my own way, I didn’t want to change.
But if I’d known what I know now, I
would have been.”
“Why?” said May, anxiously.
“Why? To skid the wheel going
downhill—to act as a check and stop
him. Where is he to-night?”
“ Gone to dine at Mr. Longdale’s.”
“Damn Mr. Longdale!” cried the
old man, starting up, and stamping
about the room—forgetting, too, in his
wrath, his reticence about the office.
“I beg your pardon, my child—I know
it’s very wicked; but as soon as I hear
his name or—his name,” he exclaimed,
checking himself, “I get mad about the
way the business is going to the dev—
old Harry.”
“Then, things are very wrong, Mr.
Tudge?” exclaimed May.
“ Wrong, my darling, they’re—”
Slap!
Mr. Tudge administered a smart tap
to his mouth to close it, and then took
a good sniff at May’s bouquet.
“ If you only knew how anxious I am
about poor papa,” said May, pleadingly,
“ I’m sure you’d tell me.”
“ Can’t,” said Tudge. “ No business
out of the office.”
“But I’m so anxious,” said May.
“So am I,” said Tudge.
“And I do so long to know.”
“ Can’t help it, my dear.”
\
�7°
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
______—
“ Do tell me,” said May, tearfully.
“Would if I could—if I can’t, how
can I?” said Tudge, sternly.
“Do tell—for dear papa’s sake!”
“Now, don’t tempt me, my dear,”
“Pray tell me, dear Uncle Tudge,”
said May, laying her cheek against his
shiny bald forehead.
“ I never believed about saints being
tempted before now,” said the old man,
addressing the coal-scuttle; “ but I do
believe it, and give in. What do you
want to know?”
“ About dear papa’s affairs, and why
he is so dispirited.”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” he said, tenderly,
as May nestled up to him—“I’ll tell you,
darling, for you’re his own flesh and
blood, and I don’t know that I’m doing
wrong, after all.”
“ Are things so bad, then?” said May,
alarmed at his serious aspect.
“Very, very, very bad, my darling,”
said the old man, sadly. “ But don’t you
be alarmed, my pretty. You sha’n’t
hurt. I’ve saved five thousand pounds
—nearly six—and it’s all for you now,
though I did mean it to help him.
You sha’n’t come to poverty, my darling,
while Tudge has a pound to the good.”
“ But why, why would you not let
papa have it if he wanted it ?” said May.
“ Why, my dear?—because he’s losing
himself. He’s forsaking my advice,
which never failed him, and going by
what that Longdale says.”
“ But Mr. Longdale advises him well.”
“To lose every penny he has, and to
make his name stink like carrion!” cried
Tudge, angrily. “Mr. Longdale ought
to ,be hung—I—I—I—there, I believe
I’d do it myself—I’d hang him.”
“ Oh, Mr. Tudge.”
“Well, don’t he deserve it? And as
for his partner—that Merritt—”
“Oh!”
“Just like me. I might have known
that I should do it. Serve me right,
for talking of business matters before
people, and out of office.”
“ It was nothing,” said May, recover
ing herself; “but please, Mr. Tudge,
don’t say anything about Mr. Merritt.
[Christmas, 1873.
You forget that I am engaged to be
married to him.”
“ Oh, no, no, my precious, don’t—don’t
say that. I did hope that was all off.”
“ Papa wishes it,” said May, sadly.
“ But you—you never fell in love with
him,” said Tudge, earnestly.
May shook her head sadly.
“ Then you sha’n’t marry him,” said
Tudge.
“ Papa wishes it,” said May; “ and he
tells me these reports are false about
Mr. Merritt.”
“Ah, my child,” said the old man,
“ I did hope things would have turned
out different to this. I did hope to have
lived to see you and John Anderson
man and wife, and to have kissed and
blessed your little ones before I cast
up my last accounts, and gave in my
balance-sheet to the God who made
me, and said, ‘ That’s the best I could
make of it, and I wish the returns were
better.’ But now all seems to be going
wrong; and if you marry that Merritt—
There, my pretty one, don’t,” he cried,
excitedly. “ I’ll go down on my knees
and beg you not to, if you like—don’t
marry him; be an old bachelor like me
—no, I don’t mean that, I mean an old,
old—dear, dear, the account’s muddled
—I mean be an old maid—anything
but Philip Merritt’s wife.”
“Dear Mr. Tudge,” said May, sadly,
“papa believes in Mr. Merritt. He has
promised him, and we have been long
engaged. I must marry him. And, be
sides, he assures me that there is no
truth in those reports.”
“And Mr. Longdale backs him up,”
said Tudge.
“ Yes,” said May, simply.
“God help you, my child! ” said Tudge,
fervently; and without any attempt at
concealment, he drew out a great ban
danna and wiped his eyes. “I don’t
know, though,” he added, “ that I need
much mind; for there was but one man
in the world, and he’s”—gulp—“dead.”
There was a pause of a few moments’
duration, and then May said, softly—
“Are papa’s affairs in a very bad state?”
“Horrible!” said Tudge, ruefully.
�Christmas, 1873.J
“SHIP AHOY!”
“ It’s heart-breaking, my dear. Loss
after loss. The poor May gone—your
namesake; and he so infatuated that
he’s making advances to these people,
Rutherbys. And he won’t see that the
money loss isn’t all, but his name is
being so mixed up with Rutherby’s that
he’s gone—blown on with Lloyd’s. Our
house was the finest name in the City
last year, and now—It’s very weak of me,
my child,” said the old man, wiping his
eyes; “ but it’s heart - breaking to see
one’s life’s labour spoiled by villains.”
J"wENTY-jSlXTH
7i
“And—if it is true—has Mr. Longdale
much influence with papa?”
“ My dear, it’s come to this : he’s
twined himself slowly round him like a
snake, and fascinated him; and your
poor father can’t shake him off. There,
I won’t say no more.”
May pressed him to- stay and have
some tea, but he refused; and though
she asked him other questions, the old
man would not break his word—he
would say no more, and soon after he
took his leave.
JCaBLE
J^ENGTH.
HOW MAY HALLEY PROMISED TO SAY “YES.”
DO you
really wish it,
papa?” said
May, laying
her hand on
his arm.
“Yes—yes,
my dear, I
do indeed.
Poor Philip
has been
begging very
hard, and I
promised
him that I
would do all
I could.”
“ Do you think it possible that the Victrix or the other men have been saved ?”
“ Now, my dear child, why rake that
up ? You know she was lost, and poor
Anderson with her. It’s too bad of
you,” he added, weakly—“ it is, indeed,
knowing as you do how I am mixed up
now with Rutherby’s, to go raking up
those wretched stories about the ships.”
“I was not raking up old stories,
papa,” said May. “I only wanted to feel
sure that—that the Victrix had sunk.”
“Sunk, yes,” said the old man, bit
terly; “and so did the Merry May.
It’s horrible how unlucky I’ve been of
late! But we are going to do wonders,
my dear—wonders. You shall have such
a fortune, my child. Mr. Longdale tells
me that we shall.”
“ Dear papa, do you think Mr. Long
dale is to be trusted ?”
“ Now, my dear child, how can you
be so wilful, so absurd ? What can be
more nonsensical than for you to meddle
with shipping matters—with City affairs!
It’s childish in the extreme.”
May Was silent.
“ But about this wedding. Merritt
wants it to come off at Christmas.
What do you say?”
May sat silent and dreamy.
“My dear, this wedding. What do
you say?”
Again there was a pause, and then
May laid her hands upon the old man’s
shoulders, and looked into his dim eyes,
his livid face; and shivered as she saw
the alteration made in a few months.
“ Papa, dear,” she said, “ suppose I
were to tell Mr. Merritt that I would
not marry him ?”
“What?”
“ Suppose,” repeated May, in a clear,
cold, cutting voice, “ I were to tell Mr.
Merritt that I would not marry him—
what then!”
x
“May—May!” gasped the old man,
trembling with anxiety and passion,
“you’ve been plotting with somebody.
That scoundrel Tudge has been here, I
�I2
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
know he has. I heard so, and he has
urged you to this disobedience. I—”
“No one has had any influence on
me, papa, in this,” said May, calmly.
“ I only ask you, before I give my con
sent to marry Mr. Merritt, what effect it
would have upon you if I were to refuse.”
“ I should be bankrupt.”
“ Bankrupt ?”
“Yes, ruined. I can’t help it, my
child, but I’ve gone wrong somehow;
and this will set me right. In spite of
all that has been said, I believe Merritt
and Longdale to be honourable gentle
men, and I would not believe to the con
trary unless some one came back from
the dead to tell me they were not.”
“ Do you say, papa,” said May, in a
hard, cold voice, “ that my wedding
would save you from ruin ?”
“Yes, my child. It must be you or
the other May. But one is lost, and the
other remains. May, my darling, would
you see your old father dishonoured ?”
“ No,” said May, kissing him gently
on the forehead.
“And I may tell Philip that he may
come?
“Yes,” said May, sadly; and she laid
her hand upon a bow of crajft at her
bosom.
“And it shall be at Christmas ?”
“Yes, father,” said May, in a cold,
stony way.
“Bless you, my child—bless you!”
mumbled the old man, folding her in
his arms, and kissing her tenderly.
“Stop,” said May, suddenly. “No!
I will give you my answer to-morrow.”
“ But, my child—”
“I will give you my answer to-morrow,
papa. I ask only for twenty-four hours’
grace.”
[Christmas, 1873.
The old man muttered some objec
tion, and then left for the City; while
May, as soon as he was gone, had a cab
fetched, and went to Mrs. Gurnett’s.
She stayed with her an hour, and then
went on to Mrs. Anderson, to find the
old lady sitting, very calm and stern, in
a corner of her room; and here too she
stayed an hour.
Dinner was just over at Canonbury,
and May had risen to go to the drawing
room.
“ May, my child,” said Mr. Halley,
“you will not trifle with me? I have
told Mr. Merritt that he shall have your
answer to-morrow.”
“ Mr. Merritt could have had it to
night, papa,” she said, sadly, as she bent
down and kissed his forehead.
“ And—and—”
“ And the answer would be this—I
have no one to care for now.”
“My child-—May — what are you
thinking of?”
“ Of Captain John Anderson, father—
of the brave, true man whom I have
learned to love with my whole heart—
of the dead, father. And now Mr. Philip
Merritt shall have his wish. Father, you
tell me that it is necessary for your peace
of mind that I should marry this man?”
“Yes, my darling—yes, indeed it is.
I may tell him, then? He will make
you a good, loving husband.”
May recalled the denunciation of Mrs.
Anderson, and shuddered.
“Oh, papa, papa! is there no hope?”
“For me, none,” said the old man,
sadly. “ And Merritt is to be here to
morrow. What shall I say?”
“ Say?” said May, mournfully. “ Say?
—say yes.”
�Christmas, 1873 ]
J"
“SHIP AHOY!”
WENTY-JSeVENTH
JCaBLE
73
J^ENGTH
HOW MR. TUDGE JUMPED ON HIS MASTER.
D I D
you pro
mise,my
dear?”
said Tudge, who
had come up to
Canonbury with
a private ledger
in a black bag.
“Ye s,” said
May, sadly.
“Then you
shall have your
promise back, or
1’11 know the
reason why. But
tell me this, little
one—do you care for him at all?”
May shook her head.
“That’s enough,” said Tudge. “I
see my way clearly enough now.”
“ But about papa’s affairs,” said May
—“how are they now?”
“Bad as bad,” said Tudge, bitterly;
“going to rack and ruin. Loss after
loss. Two ships gone to the bad since
the May, and the insurance nowhere ;
for since he’s been mixed up with
Rutherbys,the underwriters have fought
shy of him; and he’s so proud, that he
won’t stir an inch to meet people.”
“Yes, poor papa is proud,” said May.
“Why, my dear, if he’d only do as
other men would, he’d set to and clear
himself of these people, and start fair
again with a clean bill of lading.”
“ But, papa would not do that.”
“ Not he; he says he’s promised these
people, and he never breaks his word.
But stop a bit—let me have my innings,
and something may turn up yet.”
Tudge kissed May affectionately,
looked at her as he held her at arm’s
length; and then, catching up his black
bag, he hurried up to Mr. Halley’s room,
that gentleman having been too unwell
to rise and go to the office, and having
sent for his confidential clerk.
Tudge was shocked to see the expres
sion of anxiety and care in his old em
ployer’s face. As soon as Tudge entered
the room, Mr. Halley pointed to a chair
and table by the bedside.
“Come and sit down, Tudge. You
have brought the private ledger?”
“Yes.”
“ And made up to the last entries ?”
“ Up to last night at closing.”
“Well, and how do we stand ?”
“ Bad as we can.”
Mr. Halley uttered a sigh that was
almost a groan, as he lay back helplessly,
and gazed at his clerk in dismay.
“ Here, let me look,” he said at last;
and sitting up in bed once more, he
eagerly scanned the open page of the
little ledger held out to him by Tudge,
tried to cast up the columns, to check
the amounts, and failed, closed his eyes
for a few minutes, and then gazed once
more at the array of figures. “ And all
this change within a few months,” he
murmured, sadly.
“Yes, all in a few months,” said
Tudge, sternly.
“ Don’t jump on me, Tudge, when I’m
down,” said Mr. Halley, feebly. “Every
thing has gone wrong with me so far—
don’t you go wrong with me too.”
“Wrong sort,” said Tudge, stoutly.
“ I’m like poor Jack Anderson—I stick
to my ship to the last.”
“ Don’t talk about last, Tudge,” said
Mr. Halley, pettishly. “ We shall be all
right in a few weeks. Wait till the
Emperor has done her voyage.”
Tudge remained perfectly silent; but
with one hand in the tail pocket of his
coat, he gently rustled a piece of paper.
“Tudge—Tudge!” gasped the old
man, rising on one arm, and looking
aghast at his clerk. “ What do you
mean ? Why did you rustle that news
paper in your pocket ?”
�------------------ --------------- -
—--------------------------------------- - --------------------
74--------------------------------- ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.------------------- [Christmas,^.
Still Tudge remained silent.
“Don’t tell me that the Emperor has
gone, Tudge,” he. gasped, pitifully.
Tudge remained silent.
“ Give—give me the paper,” gasped
the old man. “Oh, it’s killing work!”
The old clerk handed him the readyfolded newspaper; and Mr. Halley,
whose hands quivered, took the sheet
and tried to read.
“Where—where is it?” he cried.
And Tudge pointed out the spot.
Then the old man had to get his glasses
from beneath the pillow, though he
had done without them over the ledger.
But no glasses would enable him to
see clearly in his present state of ex
citement; and after a minute he handed
the paper back to Tudge.
“ Read it—read it,” he said, hurriedly.
And the old clerk read, in a trem
bling voice, one of the too familiar para
graphs of loss at sea.
“1 Supposed to have foundered in the
late gales,’ ” said Mr. Halley, in quiver
ing tones, as he repeated the last words
that his clerk had read. “ The poor
Emperor! Ruin, ruin, ruin!”
“ Cheer up. Don’t be cast down,”
said Tudge, laying his hand tenderly on
his master’s.
“Oh, Tudge, I’m broken,” groaned
the old man, pitifully; “ and they’ll say
things of me—cursed things! But, so
help me God, Tudge, there wasn’t a
thing left undone in that ship. Every
thing that money could do was got for
her to make her perfect, and she was
nearly new from truck to keel.”
“ What the devil are you going on
like that for?” cried Tudge, indignantly.
“ Whoever said she wasn’t a well-found
ship?”
“ Oh, nobody, Tudge—but they will.”
“Yes, I s’pose they will,” said Tudge,
sternly. “They’ll say, safe enough, now
that you’re so linked in with Rutherby’s,
that you’re trying their games.”
“ Don’t hit me, Tudge, pray,” said
Mr. Halley, pitifully—“ don’t hit me
when I’m down.”
“ I must,” said Tudge,“ I can’t help it.
It’s all for your good, too; for you would
j
1
do it. Didn’t I advise you—beg of you
—pray of you not?”
“Yes, yes, Tudge—you did,” said Mr. ' j
Halley, humbly.
“ And you would do it,” cried Tudge.
■
“ Ah, I wish I had my ruler here.”
It was merely to bang down on the
bed, not to punish the old shipowner;
and Tudge rolled up the newspaper, and
gesticulated and struck the bed with that.
“Yes, Tudge,” sighed the old man,
with a last despairing glance for comfort
at the figures in the ledger, but finding
none—“yes, Tudge, I was very obstinate;
and now I am more cursed than Job.”
“No, you’re not,” said Tudge. “Job
had his children killed, while you are
trying to kill your one.”
“Silence, Tudge!” cried Mr. Halley,
angrily; and Tudge turned to the book.
“ I will not, though I am down, have
my domestic arrangements called into
question. Let people talk: all the
same Merritt is a fine young fellow, and
Longdale a gentleman. And now about
meeting those engagements for them.
When are they due?”
“ Eighteenth and twentieth,” said
Tudge, shortly.
“Let them be met,” said Mr. Halley.
“ But it will leave us without a hun
dred pounds to go on with.”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Halley, “let
them be met. I promised, and I’ll
keep my word.”
Tudge grumbled as he made an entry
in a memorandum-book, and then sat
back in his chair.
“ Anything more ?•” he said.
“ There’s no hope, I suppose, about
the poor Emperor, Tudge ?”
Tudge shook his head sadly.
“Good heavens! how dreadful!”
groaned the old man. “ Tudge,” he
exclaimed, “ I can’t bear to see any one
belonging to the crew. I couldn’t bear
it, in my present state.”
“You used to face it out like.a man,
Mr. Halley,” said Tudge. “Think what
people will say if you don’t.”
“ But four vessels in nine months,
Tudge—it’s fearful! It will make them
think horrible things.”
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“ You never used to have such fancies
as that, Mr. Halley,” said Tudge. “ See
what comes of mixing with Rutherby’s.”
“ But I don’t believe anything of
the kind of them,” cried Mr. Halley,
sharply. “You’re turning against me,
Tudge, in my trouble. I didn’t think
it of you. But, there—go, and let me
be ruined.”
“ There, I won’t be savage with you,”
said Tudge. “ You don’t mean what
you say.”
“Yes, yes, I do,” cried Mr. Halley,
passionately as a child.
“ No, you don’t,” said Tudge ; “ so I
won’t hit out at you. Just as if I should
leave you when you’re like this! ”
“ No, you won’t, Tudge, will you ?”
cried the old man, pitifully.
“ But I shall make stipulations,” said
Tudge, stoutly.
“Oh,” groaned Mr. Halley.
“You shall give me full powers to
pull you through.”
“Yes, yes; only I will have all en
gagements met.”
“Well, yes, that’s right. Rutherby’s
bills shall be met—we must do that.
HOW
MR. TUDGE
Halley’s always meets its engage
ments,” said Tudge, proudly.
Mr. Halley groaned.
“ Then I’ll be off,” said Tudge, “ and
do the best I can; but, old friend, you’ll
come out of this a very poor man.”
“ Tudge,” said Mr. Halley, clinging to
his old clerk’s hand, with the tears run
ning down his cheeks, “I’m ill and weak,
and this affair is killing me. Pay every
body, and if I have a pittance I shall
be satisfied. May is provided for. Mer
ritt will take care of her, and I believe
in him. But I’ve done wrong, Tudge, in
listening to Longdale; and the slanders
that attach to him have come on me
too. I didn’t see that before.”
“ Always told you,” said Tudge.
“You’re hitting me again, now I’m
down,” said Mr. Halley, pitifully.
“ Well, I won’t say any more,” said
Tudge.
“ Don’t,” replied Mr. Halley, shaking
hands with him earnestly; “and come
up often.”
Tudge nodded shortly, gathered up
his papers, closed his bag with a snap,
and went off without a word.
SOLILOQUIZED, AND
N hour after,Mr. Tudge
was in his
private room
flourishing his
ruler as he
thought over
matters.
“Merritt
will take care
of May, will
he ? — of my
darling!” he
said to hims e 1 f. . “He
won’t—no, he
won’t! That
will work by
75
HAD TWO VISITORS.
itself, Pll swear, without a word from me.
But if it don’t, I think I can manage it.
Let me see: trumps led. Master Phil
Merritt, Jack; my darling, queen—my
partner, you know. Mr. Halley—Mer
ritt’s partner—plays the king. Last
player—name of Tudge, cunning old fox
in his way—holds the ace. Where are
we now?”
Bang went the ruler on the desk.
“ Now about money matters. Awful,
four fine vessels going like that. It
would cripple any house if the loss fell
on them as it does on us; but things
will cut up better than he expects, even
when those scoundrels have got their
bills met. Of course they’ll pay up
again! Don’t we wish we'may get it!”
Bang went the ruler again.
�---76
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“No; I won’t give him a true state of
the affairs—nor anybody else, not yet.
Not honest ? Yes, it is. He’s not fit to
attend to his affairs, and he’s deputed
them to me, and I’m working for him
and my darling. Shady? Perhaps it
is; but if you’ve got shady customers
to deal with, why you must fight ’em
with their own weapons.
“ Now, let me see; what comes next?
Well, it strikes me that Rutherby’s
comes next; and if they aint here soon,
I’ll hang myself in my braces.”
Mr. Tudge’s face became all over lines
now, as he plunged into a tangle of
accounts, and looked as if it had been
ruled in every possible direction; but he
had not been at work ten minutes be
fore a clerk announced Mr. Longdale.
“Ah, Mr. Tudge,” he said, smiling, as
he took a chair—“ hard at work as usual.
I wish we had you, Mr. Tudge, or some
one like you.”
“Ah!” said Tudge, nodding, “I wish
you had.”
“ Thought I’d drop in as I came by,
to ask about Mr. Halley. We heard a
rumour that he was poorly. Merritt
said he’d send up and ask at Canonbury;
but as I was passing I thought I’d call.”
“ Well, yes, he is out of sorts a bit,”
said Tudge; “nothing much, though.”
“ Weather?”
“Well, yes,” said Tudge, eating the
end of his quill—“ I suppose weather
has something to do with it.” *
“ Well, I won’t detain you, Mr.
Tudge,” said Mr. Longdale, smiling.
• “ Glad to hear it’s nothing serious.”
And he rose to go, shaking hands most
affectionately with the old clerk. “Oh,
by the way,” he said, “of course I
shouldn’t mention this to you if you were
not entirely in Mr. Halley’s confidence;
but there are two little matters of bills
that fall due directly. We drew on Mr.
Halley. The first batch come-to twenty
thou’, the second to ten thou’. I suppose
they will have been provided for?”
“ Halley’s always meets its payments,
Mr. Longdale, sir,” said Tudge, stiffly.
\
“ Oh, of course, of course,” said Long
dale. “And that rumour—I didn’t like
[Christmas, 1873.
to mention it before—about the Em
peror; false, of course?”
“True, Mr. Longdale, sir, as far as I
can hear, every word of it.”
“Bless my soul! How sad!” ex
claimed Longdale. “ How things do
vary, to be sure. Four vessels in nine
months! Why, Mr. Tudge, you’ll have
those cowardly slanderers attacking your
house next—same as they have ours—
about ill-found ships, and that sort of
thing.”
“Yes,” said Tudge, shortly. “No
doubt.”
“ Pray tell Mr. Halley how sorry I
am, if you see him before I do ; but I
shall call directly. By the way, Tudge,
come and dine with me some evening—
friendly, you know—-just ourselves. I’ve
a glass of a curious old wine I should
like you to taste. And, by the way,
don’t say I was little enough to say
anything about those bills. Good-bye,
Tudge, good-bye. We shall be having
you with us one of these days.”
Mr. Longdale had no sooner been
shown out than the clerks started, for
Mr. Tudge’s ruler came down upon his
table with the fiercest bang ever heard
by his subordinates.
“ My word, the old chap’s in a wax!”
said one.
“Yes,” said another, “and well he
may be.”
Meanwhile, Mr. Longdale walked
hurriedly into Cornhill, and made his
way into one of the chop-houses, where
Merritt was waiting his arrival.
“Well?” said Merritt.
_ “Game’s up there, I think,” said
Longdale. “ Baited for the old fellow
with a half-promise that we should be
glad to have his services, and he rose
at the fly.”
“ But about those bills ? ”
“ They’ll be met. The old fellow
will pay every one to the last shilling;
and when that is done, I should think—”
He stopped short, and sat tapping
the table, without a word.
“Well, why the deuce don’t you go
on? What are you thinking about?”
“ Oh, I beg your pardon!” said Long-
�53
.
Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
dale, with a fictitious start of surprise.
“ I was thinking.”
“Well, I know you were; but what
about?”
“ Miss May Halley.”
“ I’m much obliged, but perhaps you’ll
let me do all the thinking about her!”
“ I was wondering whether, under her
altered circumstances, her swain will
prove constant; and if he does not,
whether she would smile on an adorer
who does not want her money.”
Philip Merritt leaped up angrily,
scowled at his partner for a moment,
and then hurried into the street, and
made his way to where he was expected
—namely, to Mr. Tudge’s private room;
for he was this day ignoring his ordi
nary desk.
“ Mr. Merritt, sir,” said the clerk.
“ Show him in,” said Tudge; and the
next minute the old and the young
man were face to face.
“ How do, Tudge?” said Merritt,with
out offering to shake hands or remove
his hat, as he sat down upon some loose
papers at one corner of the table, where
he began to swing about one leg.
“S’pose I move those papers?” said
Tudge, gruffly.
“ Oh, not in my way in the least,”
said Merritt; “ I want—-”
“ Let me move those papers,” said
Tudge, and he dragged them from be
neath the sitter.
“Bother the papers!” exclaimed
Merritt. “ Look here, Tudge. About
this Emperor?"
Tudge made a poke with the ruler
indicative of the vessel having gone
into the waste-paper basket.
“That makes four, then, in nine
months. I say, Tudge, you’re going it!
How much shall you sack by all these
transactions ?”
“How much shall we sack?” said
Tudge, impassively, though there was
a hitching in one leg as if he wanted to
kick, and had hard work to keep down
the inclination. “ How much shall we
sack ? Well, Mr. Merritt, sir, I tell you,
you know, because you’re like Mr. Hal
ley’s son—though, of course, it’s in
77
complete confidence—we shall pay
twenty shillings in the pound, sir.”
“Yes, of course,” said Merritt, un
easily; “but after that?”
“Workus!”
“What!” said Merritt.
“Workus, sir, workus! General clear
up—eligible mansion, superior house
hold, furniture, plate, and wine—going,
going, gone!”
Bang went the ruler.
“Phew!” whistled Philip Merritt.
“ Why, I thought—
“ Thought the governor was rich ? Of
course you did, and so he was ; but
you come to have four pulls of eighty
or ninety thousand on you in nine
months, and see where you would be.”
Mr. Merritt whistled, and looked very
blank; while Tudge sat stern as a judge,
but with his eyes twinkling merrily.
“ It’s very odd, sir; but do you know
I was thinking of you just before you
came in,” said Tudge, after a pause,
during which Merritt sat scowling at the
pattern of the carpet. “ I was just think
ing that, oneway and another, things in
this world are regularly balanced.”
Here Mr. Tudge held out the office
penknife in one hand and balanced his
ruler upon its keen edge, adjusting it
till it was exact.
“Yes, sir, balanced,” said Tudge.
“Here’s Mr. Halley been laying up riches
all his life for the sake of Miss May.”
Merritt pricked up his ears and
became attentive; though Tudge did
not appear to notice it.
“Well, sir, everything’s swept away
by misfortune, except the thirty thou
sand as goes to meet your bills, and
which of course comes back again. Well,
all that loss is the evil on one side of
the balance; while on the other, just at
the time of misfortune, here’s poor Mr.
Halley has the pleasure of thinking that
his dear child’s provided for, with a rich,
dashing young spark for a husband,
who will take her and- provide for her,
and make her happy. As for what I
said about workus, that was metapho
rical, you know, for master will have that
thirty thousand; while Miss May-—”
�78
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Yes,” said Merritt, anxiously, “ Miss
May’s fortune?”
“ Miss May’s fortune, Mr. Merritt,
sir, was the Merry May-soad, the Emperor,
and they’ve gone—”
Here the ruler was taken from
the edge of the penknife and pointed
down once more at the waste-paper
basket.
“ But do you mean to tell me, Tudge,
that all—everything will be swept
away?” said Merritt, in a confidential
whisper.
“Every penny, sir,” said Tudge, in
the same tone; “but never you mind
that, sir—you’re well off. You marry
Miss May at once. She’s a treasure,
sir, that girl is, without a penny. You
take her, and provide for the old man,
too. Lord bless you, think what a fine
thing it will be in after-life to feel that
you did it! See how independent you
will be! Ah, Mr. Merritt, sir, you’ll be
a happy man.”
Philip Merritt sat in silence for an
other five minutes, tapping one of his pa
tent leather boots with his cane—brows
knit, hat pushed back over his ears.
Then he drew out his cigar case, lit a
vesuvian, puffed slowly at his cigar, and
rose to go.
“ Bye-bye, Tudge,” he said, nodding
to him condescendingly; and then he
lounged lazily through the outer offices,
smoking the while.
“Told you so,” said one of the clerks
to the other. “ The game’s up. Fancy
that fellow lighting a cigar in old Tudge’s
private room, and then smoking all
through our offices! Why, a month ago
it would have been high treason.”
“What’s he up to now?” said his
fellow-clerk. “Listen! Tudgeis going
mad!”
They did listen, and heard five or
six heavy blows, given evidently with
the ruler. For no sooner had Merritt
left Quarterdeck-court than Mr. Tudge
hopped from his seat, and began lunging
and cutting about furiously with his
ruler, every now and then striking some
piece of furniture as if it were an inimi
cal head.
[Christmas, 18-73.
“You cowardly—(lunge)—sneaking—
(bang) — hypocritical — (bang) — infa
mous — (bang) — scoundrel—(lunge) —
cold-blooded — (bang) —villain -— (bang)
mean — (lunge) — dirty — (bang) —
wretched—heartless—lump of dirt_
(bang).”
Mr. Tudge threw himself perspiring
into a chair, and panted and blew out
his cheeks, as he tucked his ruler under
his arm, and mopped his face with his
bandanna.
“ Marry my darling to you—you piece
of thin tissue paper—you plaster image
—you—you beast!” he puffed. And
then, evidently relieved, he sat back
and chuckled.
“Ha,ha!—ha,ha!—to see him! Wor
ships her, don’t he ? Worship the
golden calf, that’s what he’d have done
if he’d been born a Jew; and he’d have
boned it and melted it down first chance.
No, my pretty, you’re safe enough there.
The money’s gone, but it would take a
deal more than we’ve lost to balance
your happiness.”
Ruler on the penknife edge again,
where if refused to keep itself in equi
poise.
“You’re safe enough, my pretty.
He’ll back out of it all now, as sure as
my name’s T.udge; and I’m as hungry
as a hunter.”
Bang went the ruler on the table, and
“ting” the gong, when the clerk who
entered found Mr. Tudge, far from
being in low spirits, in high glee.
“ Here, Smith—quick. I sha’n’t go
out to-day. Run round the corner, and
tell ’em to send me a juicy steak, just
pink inside, and half a pint of the old
brown sherry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No; stop a minute, my lad. Not
half a pint to-day—I’ll have a pint.”
And he did, and smacked his old lips
over it half a dozen times as he said,
with a smile on those lips, but a dewy
look of love in his eye—
“ May, my darling, your health! ”
Then he drank, put down the glass,
drew a long breath, and added—
“And happiness!”
�“SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, 1873.]
J"WENTY-
INTH
79
j^ABEE
HOW THE SHIPWRECKED MEN MADE A FIND.
MORE
did hope
seem to
come to the
despairing
men cling
ing to that
raft, and
twice over
did the sails
that bore in
sight fade
slowly away
from their
aching eyes.
Utter list
lessness had
come upon
them; and,
reduced now
to a b e ggarly pittance of water, they Jay upon
the raft with parched lips, waiting once
more for death.
It had been a scorching day, without
a breath of air stirring; and as evening
came on the two men lay prone, with
out attempting to stir, till, as if mecha
nically, Anderson moved slowly to the
cask, and soaked up the few remaining
drops of water with a piece of canvas.
This he squeezed into the pannikin,
and held it to Basalt, who seized it
greedily—staying, though, at half, and
handing the pannikin back to Ander
son, covering his eyes the while that he
might not see him drink, lest he should
be tempted to snatch the vessel back
and drain it to the last drop. The
very sound of it gurgling down an
other’s throat was maddening, and at last
the two men gazed in each other’s blood
shot eyes, as if to ask, “ What next ?”
“ It was the last,” said Anderson,
solemnly.
“ Then we should have saved it,” was
the hoarse reply.
“To be licked up by the sun ?” said
Anderson. “ There would not have been
a drop left by another day.”
Then he took the piece of wet can
vas with which he had soaked up the
drops in the cask, and divided it in two
with his knife, handing half to Basalt
and retaining the other.
These two wet fragments they sat
and chewed till they seemed to turn hot
and dry in their parched mouths.
Suddenly Basalt raised his eyes, and
gave the signal he had given thrice be
fore—
“ Ship ahoy! ”
The evening was nearing fast, and in
a very short time darkness would fall;
but there, plainly to be seen, about three
miles to windward, was a full-rigged
ship, evidently sailing directly for them.
The two men staggered to their feet,
and as long as the light lasted frantically
made signals by waving jackets and
handkerchiefs. This was not for long,
though. Very soon the ship seemed to
fade away, for the darkness set in like
a black pall, covering sea and sky; but
no blacker than was the cloud of despair
that again came upon the two sufferers.
“ She’ll pass us in the night,” groaned
Anderson.
“ And we without a light for a signal
—not even a barrel to make a flare,”
said Basalt.
And then, with starting eyeballs, they
stood there watching in the direction
where they had last seen the ship, and
discussing in husky tones the probabili
ties of the look-out on board the vessel
having seen them.
“ If so, they’ll lie-to, or make a
signal,” said Anderson, sadly; for he
hoped nothing now—expected nothing
but death. And soon they found that
they had not been seen ; for no signal
lamp was hung out by the vessel. In
fact, they felt that she never came near
enough for them to see her sailing lights
�So
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
during the night; and at last, worn out
with watching, they sank upop the raft,
nerveless now, and stunned into the
acceptance of their fate.
How that night passed neither could
have afterwards told, save that it was
like one long nightmare of hideous
dreams. Morning came, though, at last;
and, in a dull, despairing way, Aliderson rose to see if the ship were still
visible.
His cry of joy roused Basalt, who
was on his knees by his side directly
after, gazing at the ship, still in sight.
She had passed them, indeed, during the
night; but only to drift about a mile to
leeward, where she lay, with her sails
hanging motionless from the yards.
Not a soul was to be seen on deck to
whom they could signal. There was
no wind, fortunately, for it would have
wafted the ship away. So, weak as
they were, they put out two oars, and
rowed with all their might for the vessel.
Enfeebled by privation, though,
they could hardly move the cumber
some raft, and it was fully two hours
HIRTIETH
HOW
JEREMIAH
[Cliristmas, 1873.
before they were close alongside of the
great ship, and shouting for help—-to get,
however, no response; and they soon
awakened to the fact that the vessel was
deserted.
“Ship ahoy!” shouted Basalt,’again
and again; but it brought no answer,
even when they forced the raft against
the vessel, and looked aloft, along her
side, and then at each other—for the
same thought had struck them both.
New life seemed to have come to
John Anderson; for he forced the raft,
now aft, right under her stern.
But they came not there to look at
rudder or cabin window, but to set aside
a doubt that their thoughts might not
be true.
They were true, though, inexplicable
as it seemed to them; and the next
minute they had both climbed to the
deck, and were looking round for the
boats—all missing but one. For the
name they had read from the raft,
painted upon the vessel’s stern, was one
known to them both so well, and that
name was the Merry May.
JCable
BASALT
DON’T care.
You may say
what you
like, my lad;
but I sha’n’t
believe you
none the
more for it.
I says this,
and what I
says I sticks
to, as the fel
low said : it
ainttrue. It’s
all a sorter
solid dream,
come of ly
ing out there
in the sun so
FOUND
HIS
FATE.
long, till your brain’s got turned. JYzzcan
see it, of course, just the same as I do.”
“See it?” cried Anderson, excitedly.
“ Yes.”
“Toe be sure you can. Same raft,
same food, same water, same sufferings,
same fright brings same dreams; and
here we are both a-dreaming as we’re
aboard our old ship, the May."
“And so we are,” said Anderson,
smiling.
“We aint, I tell you,” cried the old
man, testily; “it’s all a dream, and we
shall wake again directly, to find it’s all
a fog. Perhaps we sha’n’t wake at all
any more-—’cause why? Maybe, though
we don’t know it, we’re dead ; and this
here’s our fate, being seafaring men, to
find a phantom ship like our old one
that we was so fond on; and our to be
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
81
—to be, you know—is to go on for ever
“Yes, I think we should,” said Ander
and ever, amen, so be it, sailing over son, gazing thoughtfully round.
the wide seas of eternity, like Flying
“ I have it,” said the old man, bright
Dutchmen. That’s it, safe! I aint a ening up. “ Didn’t you never hear about
bit surprised ; and all I’ve got to say, the ancients being rowed across a river by
my lad, is—take your fate like a true an old chap in a boat when they died ?”
British sailor, and sail away. Might
“What, Charon and the Styx?”
have been a deal worse, you know.”
“ Styx ? that warn’t the name of the
“ Come and have a look below, Jerry,” craft; but, anyhow, let that be. Their
said Anderson, quietly; “perhaps we world was little, and they were land
may find some tea.”
lubbers; so it was a boat and a river
“ Tea!” said the old fellow, “what do for them. We’re sailors, and accus
we want with tea now, in this here t’other tomed to big things; so it’s a ship with
world? You see it’s all just as I’ve us, and the ocean.”
wondered about often when I was alive.
“Well,” said Anderson, “dead or
It didn’t seem nat’ral to me, that if ever, alive, let’s overhaul the craft.”
when I died, I should get up aloft, I
“ Overhaul it is,” said Basalt; “ and
should set to singing, you know, or make dead it is. Don’t be a-clinging so to
anything of an angel, not having the the world, my lad, now you’ve gone
stuff in me for that sort o’ thing. You out of it. What’s the good of holding
see, this looks a deal more like what I out ? There, if you will keep doubting
should expect. It’s all right, my lad ; as we’re dead, hit me a buster here.”
here we are passed into the t’other life
As he held forward his chest, Ander
quietly, and going to navigate the great son struck him a sharp, back-handed
ocean. There’s one thing as puzzles me.” blow which made him stagger.
“What’s that, Jerry?” said Anderson.
“Now, then, are you dead ?” he said,
“Why, it’s this here, my lad. Seeing laughing at the old man’s perplexed
as we’re dead and condemned—no, I face.
won’t say that, but set—set to sail this
“ Dead as dead lights,” was the reply.
here ship as aforesaid, I want to know
“ But, you felt that ?”
what good it’s going to do? Frighten
“Oh, yes,” growled the old fellow;
ing people, and so on?”
“I felt it; but, after all, that don’t
“ What good ? ” inquired Anderson, prove nothing. Sensations and all
smiling.
them sorto’ things is just the same here
“Don’t you be irrev’rent, my lad,” as they was there, and why not? Any
said Basalt, solemnly, helping himself how, we’ll overhaul the craft.”
to a bit more pig-tail. “ I aint a reli
Going first round the deck, they
gious man—I mean I warn't a religious found that the ship had evidently been
man when I was alive;—but this here in a gale; for she was a bit knocked
aint nothing to laugh at. I want to about, though there was no material
know what good it’s going to be. You damage.
see it can’t be a punishment, or else we
“And she’s as tight as tight, I’ll
should have been left to go about on swear,” said Basalt. “ See how high she
that raft, instead of being set on this floats.”
here fine ship; and by the same token,
The boats, as they had seen before,
it can’t be a pleasure—”
were all gone but one; and that, on
.“Why?” said Anderson, humouring examination, proved to have been stove
his conceit, for the old man had stopped. in. Then, after a glance aloft, they
“ Why, my lad ? ’Cause so. If we walked slowly to the captain’s cabin
go on sailing this ship short-handed for so familiar to Andeison.
ever and ever, amen, so be it, without
Here there were manifestations of
fetching port, it stands to reason that haste—papers, bottles, and tins tossed
we must get a bit tired of it some day.” about; but no sign of life. The cot
�82
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
was empty, and it was the same in all
the other cabins—traces of a hasty
desertion, nothing more.
“ Don’t look much like death,” said
Anderson, drily.
“ Don’t look much like life,” growled
Basalt, “ does it ? Why, there aint so
much as a tom-cat aboard.”
They walked forward, and descended
to the quarters of the crew, and found
matters there precisely the same. The
men had evidently snatched up a few
things, and hurried away to the boats,
urged by some panic.
“ It’s a mystery,” said Anderson,
when they stood once more on the deck.
“Yes, my lad—death is a solemn
mystery,” said Basalt.
“A deep mystery,” said Anderson
again, thoughtfully. “ Look here, Jerry;
what’s your opinion ?”
“What about?” said the old fellow.
“ Death ? ”
“ No, life. What made them desert
the ship ?”
“ It warn’t never deserted.”
“Jerry, your brain’s turned. Come,
old fellow, it’s plain enough—the ship
was forsaken, you can see that.”
The old man shook his head.
“ Look here, my lad,” he said, laying
his hand affectionately on Anderson’s
shoulder, “ why can’t you take it like a
man? This here looks and feels like a
derelick, and is to us like the old May;
but, bless you, it aint no ship at all, no
more than we’re living corpusses. If a
real craft was to come along, she’d go
right through us, and never do us no
harm.”
“Very well, old fellow,” said Ander
son, smiling; “then let’s go below, and
seem to eat, and have what I’ve longed
for—a good wash in soft water.”
When they came once more on
deck, refreshed and revived to a won
derful extent, Anderson was smoking
a cigar, and Basalt hewing a chump off
a fresh cake of tobacco.
“ I should like to fathom it if I
could,” Anderson said, looking round
in search of something to indicate the
cause for the ship’s desertion. “ I can’t
[Christinas, 1873.
make it out at all, why so good a ship,
in such capital trim, was forsaken.”
“She wasn’t forsaken,” growled Jerry;
but he did not speak in quite such tones
of conviction—perhaps the glass of grog
below had placed body as well as spirit
in him.
“ Well, what we have to do is to make
the nearest port if we can, and get men
and take her home. Jerry, old fellow,
if ever two poor wretches had cause to
thank God, we are those men.”
Jerry nodded shortly, and seemed ob
stinate enough to be alive.
“There’s a little wind coming,” said
Anderson, after another look round.
“We’re a small crew, Jerry, but we
must make the best of it,” he continued,
smiling. “ Let’s try and make the Cape;
what do you say ?”
The old man nodded shortly, and
felt his legs slowly all down; after which
he began to peel a bit of ragged skin,
the remains of a sun-blister, from his
nose, but in doing so he continued the
decorticating process with the sound
skin, and made his nose smart and
bleed to such an extent that he stamped
his foot upon the deck, and rapped out
a fine, full-bodied, salt-water oath.
Anderson burst out laughing.
“ I don’t care, ” growled the old fel
low, who divined the cause of the other’s
mirth. “ I said before, and I stick to it,
were both dead, and this here’s a phan
tom ship. Because I feel a bit o’ pain
when I bark my nose, does that prove
otherwise? Notit. Feeling is the same
in the world or out of it.”
“Never mind,” said Anderson. “Do
you think we can set the fore-topsail?”
“To be sure we can ; but lash the
wheel first.”
They went together to the wheel—
Anderson to the spokes, and Basalt
ready with a piece of rope.
At the first touch the spokes flew
round, and the mystery of the ship’s
desertion was explained—the rudder
had been swept away by the waves,
leaving the vessel helpless for the time.
“Punishment it is!” cried Basalt,
triumphantly.
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“What?” exclaimed Anderson, star
tled at his companion’s earnestness.
“ Punishment!” roared the old fellow,
slapping his thigh. “ What we’ve got
to do is this—go on sailing a ship with
out a helm for ever and ever, amen, so
be it.”
“ Perhaps, ” said Anderson. “ But first
of all, we’ll set to and contrive a rudder
to help us into port.”
“Should we?” said Basalt, rather
discomfited.
“Yes,” said Anderson, smartly; for
rest, refreshment, and the knowledge
that he had a good ship beneath his
feet had wrought wonders in an incre
dibly short time.
“What, and go in for salvage?” said
Basalt, manifesting a disposition to come
back to life.
“ Yes, ” said Anderson, brightening up
as he thought what form he should like
his salvage to take.
“I wonder how Betsy is,” said Basalt
to himself.
“Jerry, my boy, bear-a hand,” said
Anderson, with flashing eyes ; “ we are
83
only two Zzw men; but we have the
spirit of fifty such curs as deserted the
dear old May. Let’s ask God’s help
on our undertaking, and sail the dear
old vessel safely home with her cargo,
which I’ll vow is a valuable one.
Let’s do it, my lad, and show these ras
cally shipowners that British sailors
are made of too good stuff to be
drowned like rats in their cursed rotten
hulks. Bear a hand there with the axe,
and cast loose those spare spars—-if
you’ve life enough left in you,”he added,
looking him through and through.
The old fellow’s face" assumed a
comical expression of hesitation ; and
then, hauling at his waistband, and
giving a kick out behind, he slapped
his thigh, sent a jet of tobacco juice
over the side, and shouted—
“Ship ahoy, there! Jolly Sailors,
ahoy! Bear a hand there, you lub
bers, and- we’ll make port before you
know where you are. The Flying
Dutchman s come back from his cruise,
and Jeremiah Basalt’s alive and kick
ing.
ENGTH.
“MERRY
T was not the
easiest task in
the world to
undertake
this naviga
ting of a rud
derless vessel,
deserted by
her full crew,
to a haven of
safety; and
more than
once John
Anderson felt
disposed to
give up in de
spair. But the
spirit in him
forbade that,
M A Y.”
and, well seconded by Basalt, he worked
on.
“ Lord love you ! There’s some plea
sure in working now,” said the old man,
who had thoroughly set aside his ideas
of the future time. “ Pl ere we have
stout timbers, and the rigging of a wellfound ship. Cape!—sail to the Cape?
Why, I’d undertake to navigate her
right round the world.”
“Without a rudder?” said Ander
son, quietly.
The old man’s answer was to hail a
shower of blows down upon the spar
with the hatchet he held, making the
chips fly in all directions.
For this was the first task to achieve,
if they hoped to reach port— the
scheming of something in the shape of
steering apparatus before the wind rose,
�84
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
otherwise they would be at its mercy,
rolling in the trough of the sea.
It was a strange machine they con
trived, by lashing short pieces of spar
together, and then bolting stays on to
the sides to keep them in their places;
and, as Basalt said, the waves would
have to handle it very gently if it was
to help them to port. And when it
was made, there was still another diffi
culty—that of getting it over the side.
But they accomplished this, and floated
it astern, while the sea was as calm as
a mill-pond.
Yet again another difficulty—to get it
shipped after a fashion, and rigged with
ropes that would enable them to steer.
“ It took a deal of trying,” Basalt
said; but they meant to do it, and do it
they did; so that, clumsy as the con
struction was, it roughly answered the
purpose.
“ Only think of the salvage,” said
Basalt, “ let alone the saving of one’s
precious life! I’ve been down below,
and had a look — tea, my lad, and
cochineal, and silk. Only get her home,
and we’re made men for good.”
“ It would be ruin to Mr. Halley to
lose such a ship,” said Anderson.
“ I don’t know about that,” was the
next remark. “ What with insuring and
underwriting, it strikes me as owners
don’t want their cargoes run.”
“ Don’t speak in that way of Mr.
Halley,” said Anderson, sternly. “He,
at least, is an honourable man.”
“ So you said of Rutherby and Co.,”
said Basalt, gruffly. “ It strikes me that
they’re all tarred with the same brush.”
Anderson did not answer, but went
aloft to hoist a staysail, with the effect
of making the fine ship yield softly to
the breeze, and begin to forge slowly
through the water.
For awhile all went well with them.
They had provisions in plenty, and fine
weather; so calm, indeed, that they were
able to rest in turn, and thoroughly re
coup their exhausted strength.
Anderson’s wound was pretty well
healed, and every day saw them a little
nearer to port.
[Christmas, 1873.
But neither Anderson nor Basalt felt
unmixed satisfaction; for their thoughts
kept recurring to the missing crew and
their probable fate.
“Can’t say much for their chance,”
said Basalt, shaking his head. “ I won’t
say serve them right; but I do say as
they ought to have stuck to their ship.”
“ When she was sinking ?” said An
derson, quietly.
“Well, no, I won’t say that,” said the
old man. “But we aint no time for
talking. Here’s a breeze springing
up, and no hands to shorten sail. I
thought things was too bright to last.”
Basalt was right; a stiff breeze was
coming up, and a glance in the wind’s
eye appeared to threaten something
worse. Lulled to something like a
sense of security by the soft gales that
had wafted them along, they had, by
degrees, shaken out sail after sail, till
they now had more upon the ship than
it seemed likely they could get in be
fore the wind was too much for them.
There was no time for consideration.
John Anderson’s orders were short and
sharp. The wheel was lashed, the
sheets of the topsails cast loose, and
the canvas left to flap and fly, while the
two men set to work to try and get in
the foresail.
The wind, though, increased rapidly ;
and before many minutes had elapsed,
Basalt aloft on one side of the yard
looked along at Anderson on the other.
“Yes,” said Anderson’s eyes, in an
swer to the interrogation; and Basalt
hurried along the stirrup to his side,
when, heaving with all their might, the
two men strove to gather in the stiff,
flapping folds of the great sail. Now
they mastered it a little, and made some
way; but the next minute, puff! the
canvas bellied out like a balloon, and
was dragged from their hands.
“Try again,” said Basalt; and they
tried again and again, but always with
the same result. Two men could not
perform the work of seven or eight; and
as they grew weaker with their exer
tions, so did the sail become more mas
terful; flapping, snapping, and beating
��■mmbméimmmi
86
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
about in the wind, till it threatened to
tear them from the yard.
“ Never say die! ” shouted Basalt,
cheerily; and then, “ heave, my lad.
Now then, with a will.”
The great sail flew up, curled over,
and enveloped Basalt; and, as breath
lessly, Anderson clung to the yard for
his life, his companion was snatched
from his side; then, as the vessel heeled
over, thrown into the sea to leeward,
with the ship dashing fast through the
water.
For a few horrified moments, Ander
son clung there, aghast and desponding;
but the sight of Basalt’s face turned ap
pealingly up, as it rapidly glided astern,
roused him to make an effort.
In an instant more he had seized one
of the sheets, swung himself clear, and
slid to the deck. In another instant, he
was running to the poop, opening his
clasp-knife as he did so, and with two
cuts he had set free the life-buoy, which
he held aloft in both hands for a moment
or two, that Basalt might see what he
was about, and then he hurled it astern
with all his might.
He groaned as he did so; for the vessel
was flying ahead with the sail she still
had on, and it seemed to him that he
was to be robbed of the companionship
of his faithful old friend.
It was no time, though, for groaning;
and running to the wheel, he cast loose
the lashings, put the helm hard up, and
then looked anxiously for the result.
Bad as were his appliances, though,
[Christmas, 18.73.
the ship slowly answered to the call
made upon her, rounding to and making
head in the opposite direction to that in
which she had been going.
It was a forlorn hope; and on this
tack, for want of proper sail trim
ming, the ship sailed horribly, labouring
against the seas that seemed to resent
her approach.
Lashing the helm once more, Ander
son now ran to the side to see if he
could make out Basalt; and for an in
stant he sighted him, as he rose far away
upon a wave, but only to disappear the
next moment.
Anderson ran back to the wheel, un
lashed it, and tried to send the ship’s
head in the direction of the drowning
man.
For a minute he was successful, and
the ship seemed to make a leap in the
required course—the waves foaming
by her as she leaped to meet them. It
was but a minute, though, and then
Anderson knew that he had been over
tasking his work; for suddenly, just as
he felt most hopeful, and knew that he
was nearing Basalt, the wheel suddenly
gave way, sending him heavily upon
the deck; the ship heeled over gra
dually, settled into the trough of the
sea, and, as Anderson slowly gathered
himself up, half stunned by his fall, a
great hill of water seemed to rise slowly,
to make a bound, and deluge the deck
fore and aft.
The temporary rudder had given
way.
�Christmas, 1873.
“SHIP AHOY!”
J" HIRTY-pECOND
pABLE
pENGTH.
HOW JOHN ANDERSON SWAM FOR TWO LIVES.
A N D E RSON knew
that a sailor
must never
despair;
even though
stood by
ling him, and
ag that his
had come,
life was one
struggle with
grim shade;
and had he been
of a cowardly, weak nature, he might,
again and again, have given way to
despair. But certainly, now, matters
seemed at their blackest. Basalt was
drowning; the ship was rudderless, and
lay helpless and rolling, with the waves
breaking over her.
What could he do ?
The answer came at once: he must
risk all, and lower down the boat, if he
could, trusting to Providence for the
chance of regaining the ship.
Fortunately they had patched up the
hole stove in her, and she now hung at
the davits ready for use.
Jumping into her, and holding the
falls in his hands, he lowered away till
she kissed the wave that rose to meet
her. Another instant, and as she lifted
he had cast off one fall, and almost by
a miracle the other unhooked itself.
To seize an oar was the work of
another moment; and, pushing off, he
had it directly over the stern, and was
sculling away in the direction in which
he hoped Basalt to be.
He knew that the old man was a
good swimmer, and there was just a
chance that he might have reached the
life-buoy. It was a thread-like chance
to cling to, though; and as he rose
upon each wave, and looked around, his
heart sank lower minute by minute;
for he was receding fast from the ship’
the sea was getting higher, and not a
glimpse of the swimmer could be seen.
He altered his course, sculling with
all his might-—his standing position
giving him a chance of seeing in all
directions, as the frail boat rose to the
crests of the waves.
Again he changed his course, sculling
almost at random; for the minutes sped
on, and not a sign of the drowning man
could be seen. Then, suddenly, Ander
son uttered a cry of joy, loosed his hold
of the oar, darted forward, and, as the
boat slid down the side of a hill of
green water, he leaned over and caught
the life-buoy.
He sank back, mute and despairing;
for he had drawn the light cork ring
into the boat, and it had no despairing,
dying clutch upon it.
But what was that?—faint almost as
a whisper.
A weak, gurgling, appealing cry,
borne on the wind to reach his ears—
“ My God!”
The dying, appealing cry of a drown
ing wretch to his Maker; and, as it
passed away, Anderson was again at
the stern of the boat, sculling away with
all his might in the direction from which
the sound had seemed to come.
Water—water!—great, green waves,
with silvery, foaming crests; but no
Basalt, no agonized face, no outstretched
hands. Good heavens! had he been so
near to him, and yet not been able to
save ?
In his agony, John Anderson so plied,
his oar that the stout ash blade bent
again, while with starting eyes he gazed
here, there; and then, uttering a cry
of joy, gave a leap that sent the boat
rocking back through the water as he
parted the waves, disappeared for a few
moments, and then reappeared, swim
ming boldly and bravely towards that
which had caught his eye for an instant
---------------------------------------------------
»
r
�■HHBSH99B
88
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
amid the foam of a breaking wave—
one crook-fingered hand making its last
despairing catch at life.
It was a bold dash, and one that
needed nerve and strength; for as he
swam on, with the salt spray at his lips,
it was with the waves seeking to buffet
him back, and bear him helplessly away
to his death. No help at hand—nothing
to depend on but his own stout arms,
and his trust in God.
And what had he set himself to do,
there in mid-ocean, with miles of water
below him ? To save the drowning
man, to bear him to the boat, to get
him on board, and then once more to
reach the ship!
For an instant, as the thought of all
this flashed through John Anderson’s
brain, a cold feeling of despair, like the
hand of Death clutching him, seemed
to pass through his veins, unnerving
him, and making him for the instant
helpless. His limbs felt numbed, and
a wave broke in his face so that the
briny water gurgled, strangling in his
nostrils. But with a cry that was al
most a shriek, he uttered the words—
“May, dear May!”
And on the instant his strength came
back as the strength of a lion. He rose
in the water, shaking the salt spray from
his eyes and hair, and struck out again
bravely; rose again on the summit of a
wave, and then bending over, he turned,
and, as he descended, plunged down
head first beneath the coming wave,
driving through it, to make the next
moment a superhuman effort, and clutch,
when it was almost too late, the rough
hair of Jeremiah Basalt.
There was no danger, no risk of being
grappled by the drowning man; for as
Anderson clutched the hair, he drew
towards him a stiff, apparently inani
mate body, which yielded to his motions
as he turned and struck out for the
boat.
Twice came the cold chill upon An
derson again as he swam on, like two
whispers from the unseen world. First,
it was as if to tell him that he had come
too late; and next, that he would never
[Christmas, 1873.
regain the boat. It was cruel work then,
for the thoughts seemed to paralyze him;
but, fighting against them, he swam on,
sighting the boat as he rose on the
waves, losing it as he descended into
the hollows.
Slow — slow — slow !—a heavy, long
drag, with the boat always, as he rose,
seeming to be the same distance off.
And now it seemed to the swimmer that
he was being encased in a suit of lead,
which was making his limbs cold and
heavy, so that he swam as he had never
swum before—with a slow, heavy, and
weary stroke, which did not raise his
chin above the water. That inert mass
too, that he had turned over, and was
dragging by one hand—how it kept him
back!
For one brief instant he felt that he
could not reach the boat, and drag Ba
salt there as well; and the temptation
came upon him strongly to leave him.
It was but to open that one left hand.
The body would sink; and it was but a
dead body, something seemed to whis
per him. But John Anderson’s life had
been one of struggles against tempta
tions; and this was but one more of a
long list to conquer. He set his teeth,
and drove the cowardly thought behind
him, as, giving another glance in the
direction of the boat, he threw himself
upon his back, and striking out fiercely
with his feet, he changed hands, and,
holding Basalt’s hair with his right, he
brought the half-numbed left into play,
and with it forced the water behind
him.
It was no simple floating in calm
water, but a dire struggle for life; and,
in spite of his brave efforts, Anderson
felt that he was nearly spent. The
water was bubbling about his nostrils,
singing in his ears, and foaming over his
eyes as he struck out; and that boat,
like a phantom, seemed to elude him,
for he could not reach its side.
“All over! May! Mother!” Was
he to die like this ? The boat!—where
was it? “Thank God!”
It was time, for he had not another
stroke in his enfeebled arms, when one
�Christmas, 1873.]
89
“SHIP AHOY!”
hand struck her side, and with a de
spairing effort he got one arm over—
hooking himself on to the gunwale, as
it were—and hung there panting, when,
to his intense delight, Basalt made a
feeble effort to clutch the side as An
derson held his head above water.
The feeble hand glided over the side;
but after waiting for a few moments,
Anderson made an effort to raise him,
and the old man also got an arm over
and hung there, with his head back and
eyes dull and filmy, insensible appa
rently, but clinging instinctively for life
to the tilted boat.
The rest and sense of security brought
strength back in great strides to John
Anderson ; and after a while he made
an effort, and hoisted himself over the
stern into the boat. Then, after another
five minutes’ rest, he placed his arms
under those of Basalt, and dragged him
in, to lie helpless at the bottom of the
J"HIRTY- J HIRD
boat, with his head upon one of the
thwarts.
Then, weak and panting still, with
his breath coming slowly and hoarsely
from his chest, he picked up the oar,
and put it over the stern, to turn the
boat’s head; and a cold chill fell upon
him as he saw how distant they were
from the ship.
“ We shall never reach her,” he
groaned aloud.
“ Three cheers for the Merry May!"
said a faint voice, and Anderson started
with joy.
“ Thank Heaven, Basalt, you are
saved!”
The old man’s eyes rolled slowly to
wards him, and seemed to fix his for a
1 moment, but in a dull, sleepy fashion,
which seemed to indicate that he did
not realize his position. Then he closed
' his eyes, heaved a heavy sigh, and said,
softly—“ Never say die!”
pABLE
JLeNGTH.
HOW MR. TUDGE TOLD AN UNPLEASANT TALE.
T was
a busy
time
for Mr.
Tudge.
He was
always
b a c kw ard s
and
for
wards
at Cano nbury;
for Mr.
H alley
kept seriously ill, and leaned on him
more and more for help, while May
nursed her father night and day.
The dates came, and Rutherby’s first
bills were met.
“ Thank goodness,” sighed Mr. Hal
ley that evening, when Tudge pointed
out the entry. “ Mr. Longdale has been
very kind in his inquiries about my
health.”
“And Mr. Merritt?” said Tudge.
“ Most attentive—here every day, ”
said Mr. Halley.
Tudge looked anxious; but only mut
tered to himself, “ Wait a bit,” and went
on with his statements of payments.
Time went on, and Rutherby’s other
bills came due, and were met.
“Thank goodness!” said Mr. Halley,
“that’s done, Tudge.”
“Yes,” said Tudge, “that’s done.”
And he wanted to ask a question, but
he forbore.
The next day he was up again at
Canonbury, and May was in the room,
looking very pale, but perfectly calm.
“Ah, Tudge!” said Mr. Halley; “the
doctor says I’m better to-day, and I
feel that I am.”
“Thank God forthat!” said Tudge,
�---§O
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
fervently; and May’s soft, white hand
glided into his.
“ Hasn’t Longdale sent to-day either,
May?’’ said the invalid, pettishly.
“Not yet, papa,” said May, quietly;
and she glanced wonderingly at Tudge,
who, hidden behind the curtain, was
looking radiant. .
“ Ah ! he sent yesterday morning, but
he always sent in the evening too. What
had Philip to say last night ? ”
“ He did not come last night, papa,”
said May, quietly.
“Not come last night? Well, this
morning, then?”
“ Perhaps he is out of town, papa,”
said May, rising to leave the room.
“Ah, perhaps so,” said Mr. Plalley;
and then he lay back muttering to him
self. After this he sat up, and the ac
counts were gone into.
The next day Tudge had better news,
but he was very sparing of it. Mr.
Halley was to be a few hundreds to the
good, instead of to the bad; but Mr.
Halley was very much out of temper:
Longdale had not sent to ask after his
health, and Philip Merritt had not been
near the house for some days.
“ And I can get no explanation from
May, Tudge,” said Mr. Halley. “Pm
so anxious about it, for her sake.”
“Ah, let it rest now till you get
stronger,” said Tudge, quietly. “ Lovers’
tiff, perhaps.”
“ Ah, perhaps so,” said Mr. Halley;
“but she must be careful. I’ll tell
her so; for it’s important now that
she should not trifle with so good a
match.”
A month glided by, and Mr. Halley
was able to leave his bed, and had made
up his mind to seek out and have an
explanation with Merritt; for he could
learn nothing from May—only that she
had parted from him kindly upon the
last evening of his visit.
“ But she don’t seem to mind it a bit,
Tudge—not a bit,” said Mr. Halley ;
“ in fact, poor girl, I half think she would
like to give the matter up.”
“ Do you, really?” said Tudge, look
ing up innocently.
[Christmas, 1873-
“Yes, for she looks so well and happy
now.”
“So she does,” said Tudge, wiping
his glasses, and looking comically at his
employer.
“Well, Tudge, I think that will do
for to-day,” said Mr. Halley, at last.
Then, with a sigh—“ I think we must
now begin to think of a sale, and to
take a smaller house.”
“Time enough for that in a month,”
said Tudge. “ I wouldn’t hurry about
that till affairs are square at the office;
we must have time, and you need not
worry yourself till I tell you.”
“Tudge,” said Mr. Halley, as that
gentleman rose to go, and he spoke
with tears in his eyes—“ you’ve been
like a brother to me.”
“ Nonsense,” said Tudge, shaking
the proffered hand very, very warmly.
“ Nothing 1*0 what I mean to be, James
Halley. Men were meant to be
brothers, and to help one another—
God made us on purpose; only the
devil’s always coaxing us to fall out.
There, there, there—you often offered
to take me in as partner. Now I’ll
come, and we’ll start fair and clean
again in a small way; that we will,
and all shall go well.”
“ God bless you, Tudge—God bless
you!” said Mr. Halley, in a broken
voice; and he clung still to the other’s
hand. “ One doesn’t know one’s best
friends till tribulation comes.”
“Then hooray for tribulation!” said
Tudge, with the tears trickling down
his nose—leastwise, a little of it. And
now, my dear friend—partner, eh?”
“Ah, Tudge, Tudge, I should be
taking a mean advantage of you,” saidMr. Halley. “I am a beggar, and I
shall never be a business man again.”
“ Partners it is,” said Tudge. “ You
trust me for taking care of myself, and
driving a bargain. I’m all right—got
the best of you. But I bring in six
thousand, mind, all but ten pounds, and
that I’ll make up afterwards.”
Mr. Halley did not sp Lk, but sat
down, and covered his eyes with one
hand.
�Christmas, i<873-]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“Now, my dear old friend and part
ner, I think you have every trust and
confidence in me and my words—
brains, if you like?”
“Yes, yes, Tudge; and if I had lis
tened to you sooner—”
“ There, there — never mind that.
But, look here; yo.u must be prepared
for what you will call a disappointment,
but which is for some one a blessing in
disguise.”
“What do you mean, Tudge ?” said
Mr. Halley, wearily.
J" HIRTY-p'oURTH
91
“You wanted to know why you
have heard nothing of certain people
lately.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Halley, anx
iously.
“ Shall I tell you why ?”
Mr. Halley knew what was coming,
and his eyes alone said “Yes.”
“You remember the last time they
sent or called ?”
“ Yes.”
“ It was the day that the last bill
was met.”
ABLE
J-/ENGTH.
HOW MR. TUDGE TALKED TO THE PARTNERS.
SEE
Philip
Mer
ritt,
my
d ear,”
said Mr. Hal
ley, as soon
as his doctor
had given him
leave to go out,
“and demand
an explanation.
I—I’m afraid
it’s as Tudge
says; but, after
all, it’s only the same old story that
we’ve had ever since the world began.
But for your sake, my dear, I’ll see
him, and try to bring him to his
senses.”
“ Papa dear,” said May, clinging to
his arm, and looking up in his face,
“ I could never marry a man who could
treat us like this.”
“ But, my darling, think of your posi
tion—see what you are giving up. You
know we shall have to leave this house
—soon, too, now. I shall be almost a
beggar, my darling.”
“ Well, papa, and do you think I wish
to be well off while you are poor ? I’m
afraid'you don’t love me so very much,
after all,” she said, archly.
“ And why?” he said, patting her soft
cheek.
“ Because you are in such a hurry to
get me away from you—married, and
belonging to somebody else.”
“ Now, my darling—”
“ Hear me first, papa dear,” whispered
May; and she coloured up, and her
eyes flashed as she spoke. “ Mr. Philip
Merritt persevered here till he gained
my consent; then he heard of our mis
fortunes, and left me as coolly as if
I had been a cast-off glove. Do you
think, papa, I could ever listen to him
again? No; treat him with the con
tempt he deserves, and let us be thank
ful that we have found out- his true
character before it was too late.”
“ It was for your sake, my darling,”
said the old man, querulously.
“ I know, dear,” she said, fondly and
sadly; “ but let matters be as they are.
I would rather stay by your side.”
“He deserves an action to be brought
against him,” said the old man; “and
I don’t like giving it up, my dear; but
he’ll repent it yet—he’ll repent it yet.
Why, here he is!—that’s his voice in the
hall. I knew he’d come again.”
“ Let me go, papa,” exclaimed May,
turning pallid.
But it was too late; the door was
�92
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
thrown open, and Philip Merritt, eager
and bright-eyed, hurried into the room.
“My dear Mr. Halley, so glad to see
you up again. Haven’t you wondered
where I was? Ah, May, my love, I’ve
been half mad at being detained. Why,
what’s this?”
He had possessed himself of Mr.
Halley’s hand, and shaken it most cor
dially, taking the old gentleman quite
by surprise; then, turning to May with
outstretched arms, he had made as
though to embrace her, but stopped
half-way, as she encountered him with
a look that would have chilled a braver
man than he.
“ Will you allow me to pass, sir, if
you please?” she said, coldly, all her
outraged womanhood flashing from her
eyes.
She was white almost to her lips ;
but her eyes never flinched for an instant
as she swept by him, and passed from
the room.
“Whatever does all this mean, Mr.
Halley?” exclaimed Merritt, pitifully.
“ Surely I am not to be punished for
what I cannot help? Where’s Long
dale? He promised to meet me here
this morning, and help me explain.
Been to Liverpool, and only came back
last night.”
“ Then it must have been your
ghost I saw in Quarterdeck-street yes
terday morning,” said Mr. Tudge, who
had entered unperceived. “ I thought
you wouldn’t be long before you turned
up now, Mr. Merritt.”
“ If you’ll allow me to tell you so,
Mr. Tudge” said Merritt, pronouncing
the word with an aspect of extreme
disgust, “ you are a most impertinent
fellow.”
“ Then, Mr. Philip Merritt, I won't
allow you to tell me so, nor any other
man, sir, without my pulling his nose,
sir,” and the little man swelled up, and
came ominously near the elaborately
got-up swell.
“ Do you allow such insolence as this
from a clerk, Mr. Halley ?” said Mer
ritt, scornfully.
“ No, sir, he don’t,” said Tudge; “but
[Christmas, 1873.
he allows his old friend and partner,
Mr. Samuel Tudge—Halley, Edwards,
Tudge, and Company—to speak up for
him, when he is-just recovering from his
illness, and an impertinent jackanapes
has forced his way into the house on
the strength of some news he has
heard.”
“ My dear Tudge, pray,” exclaimed
Mr. Halley—“pray be calm.”
“I won’t,” said Tudge—“I can’t
afford to be. This fellow raises my
bile. Do you know why he’s here to
day ? No, of course you don’t. Ah,
Mr. Longdale, you here too. Delighted
to see you again, I’m sure. Mr. Halley
is better, sir—much better, sir,” ex
claimed Tudge to the sleek partner of
the Rutherby firm who now came
smiling into the room.
“Glad of it, I’m sure,” said Mr.
Longdale, glancing from one to the
other, smiling but uneasy.
“ Where the deuce is my ruler ? ”
muttered Tudge, picking up a piece of
music from May’s stand, and rolling it
up. “Ah, that’s better,” he said, giving
the roll a flourish, and then bringing it
down bang upon the table.
“Is he mad?” said Merritt, in an
audible undertone to Longdale, who
raised his eyebrows and shrugged his
shoulders.
“ Not a bit of it,” said Tudge, with
another flourish of his make-shift ruler.
“ Sane as you are, wide awake as either
of you. So you’ve come to congratu
late Mr. Halley—-us, I ought to say—
about this morning’s news ?”
“ News, my good sir?—I don’t know
what you mean.”
“ He’s drunk,” said Merritt, savagely.
“Am I?” said Tudge. “Well, it
would be excusable if I was, when a
hundred thousand pounds turns up into
one’s firm unexpectedly.”
“Good heavens, Tudge!” exclaimed
Mr. Halley, trembling with agitation,
“what does it mean ?”
“What does it mean ?” cried Tudge,
exultingly. “ Of course they did not
know, either of ’em: been to Liver
pool- -in London; never read shipping
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
news, nc. ' saw the telegrams posted
this morning at Lloyd’s and through
the City. Come here innocent as two
doves. Bless you, Mr. Halley, they
didn’t know, bless you, that the Merry
May was telegraphed up as having
passed the Lizard this morning, and is
on her way up the Channel.”
“ Thank—”
The poor old man said no more. He
was weak yet with his long illness, and
he tottered into a chair, and fainted
away.
“Too much for him,” said Tudge, run
ning to his side. “ Here, you, ring that
bell,” he cried to Longdale.
“Mr. Tudge, I’m sure I congratulate
you,” said Longdale, smiling, with one
hand on the bell.
Samuel was in the room in a very
short space of time, just as Merritt was
about to offer assistance.
“Stand back, sir,” said Tudge, with
dignity, “ you are not wanted here;
your game’s up as far as this house is
concerned. Hold his head up, my dear,
and order some wine,” he added, aside
to May, who ran affrighted into the
room, alarmed by the loud ringing of
the bell. - “ That’s it; we’ll give him
some wine directly we’ve got rid of
these two scoundrels.”
“ Sir,” snarled Longdale, showing his
teeth like a cat.
“May, as your father is prostrate,”
exclaimed Merritt, furiously, “do you
allow this man to insult us like that?”
“ How dare you, sir,” cried Tudge,
bouncing at him—“how dare you insult
that lady by calling her by her Chris
tian name ? Samuel, show these fellows
out, and never admit them again, on
any pretence. And look here, you two,
93
recollect this: you don’t owe Mr. James
Halley thirty thousand pounds, but you
owe it to us—to me and Mr. Halley,
and by Jove we’ll have it paid!”
“This is insufferable—the fellow is
mad or drunk,” said Longdale.
“ Both—a beast! ” cried Merritt.
Mr. Tudge faced them, at the other
end of the room, in a moment.
“If it wasn’t for the lady, I’d— There,
I won’t quarrel with you. Samuel, show
these men out.”
Samuel evidently enjoyed it, and felt
a most profound respect for the man who
was his master’s confidant and manager;
and without doubt he would have as
sisted the visitors’ steps, had they not
made a dignified show of going. And
Canonbury knew them no more.
“ Is this true, Tudge ?” said Mr. Hal
ley, who was sitting up, with his head
supported on May’s breast.
“True as telegrams,” said Tudge;
“ but I don’t think there’s a doubt about
it. Mind you; it’s a case of salvage—
derelict picked up, and so on; but it will
set you upon your legs again, James
Halley, and we’ll dissolve partnership
to-morrow.”
“No,” exclaimed Mr. Halley, “never
as long as I live.”
“ Nonsense—absurd !” said Tudge ;
“ you’re all right again, and I’ll go back
to my old style, and good luck to us !
But I think I ought to stop in till those
fellows have paid up—confound ’em!
But you won’t believe in them again,
eh?”
Mr. Tudge read his answer in the eyes
of both; and promising more news as
soon as he could get it, he hurried back
to the City.
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
|
MES
SAGES that
evening and
all the next
day were
c onfirmatory
of the good
news; and
the bright
ness c a me
back to Mr.
Halley’s eyes
as he felt
how he could
hold up his
head once more in the City. On the
following morning, May was pouring
out the coffee, when there was the noise
of wheels, the shuffling of feet, then the
door flew open, and Mr. Tudge danced
in, waving his hat frantically. He ran
at May and hugged her, shook hands
with Mr. Halley, and then stood in the
middle of the room, and putting his
hands to his mouth, he shouted out, in
stentorian tones—“ Ship ahoy!”
“In dock?” exclaimed Mr. Halley,
almost as excited.
“ In dock, and her captain’s in the
hall—captain and mate that picked her
up, floating in mid ocean, and brought
her home.”
“Not Simmons?”
“Simmons!” cried Tudge, in a tone
of disgust. “There was only one
man who could have done it, and his
name’s—”
“Anderson!” cried May, half hysteri
cally, as she started forward.
Her voice did it; for as she uttered
his name, John Anderson — brown,
flushed and excited, rugged and worn,
with his long beard rusty with exposure
—half rushed into the room, and clasped
May’s hands in his; till, trembling, with
her face burning, she shrank away, to
[Christmas, 1873«
give place to her father, who took
Anderson’s hand eagerly, and spoke in
broken accents—
“ It’s coals of fire on my head, John
Anderson ; but I’m humbled now—the
old pride’s gone, and you’ve rewarded
me with good for my evil. To think,
though, that you should save my
ship; and we had mourned you for
dead!”
“ Mourned, sir ? ” said Anderson,
huskily, and his eyes rested upon the
crape bow which May still wore at her
breast.
It was but for a moment, though; for
the colour mounted to the girl’s temples
as she snatched it off, and threw it upon
the floor.
“May I take this, sir?” said Ander
son, stooping and picking up the bow,
while May turned away panting.
“Take it—take what you will, An
derson,” cried Mr. Halley; “only tell
me first that you’ve forgiven me my
insults.”
“Another word, sir, and you drive
me away,” said Anderson. “ I did say
that I’d never darken your door again ;
but man proposes—”
“And God disposes,” said a gruff
voice, which drew attention to Basalt,
with whom Mr. Halley and May shook
hands most heartily.
“ It’s all right, sir—don’t say anything
about it; only that you didn’t oughter
have separated the May from the on’y
cap’n as could sail her.”
“ I do say it, my man, most heartily,”
said Mr. Halley; and he shook hands
once more.
“ And not to come to me first, John! ”
said a piping old voice, as Mrs. Anderson
entered directly after, and was clasped
in the strong man’s arms.
“ I wouldn’t let him till he’d done
his business,” cried Tudge; “but, you
wicked old woman, didn’t I send a cab
for you to come here, where he’s only
I
�»
Christmas, >§73.]
X
1I
“SHIP AHOY!”
95
been five n,.,mtes ? And for you, too, about half a crew, and slowly sailed the
Mrs. Gurnett ?”
vessel home.
“ For which thankye, I says,” said old
“ Which not another man in England
Basalt, smiling down upon the comely could have done,” cried Tudge, as he
face streaming with tears. “ Didn’t waved an extemporized ruler round his
I tell you, my lass, as it would be head, and brought it down bang upon
all right ? Sweet little cherub up the table.
aloft, eh? And here we are, safe back
“ But what’s the good of a cap’n with
again.”
out a well-found craft?” cried Basalt.
“ And what ought to be done to the
Did Desdemona listen with such glow scoundrels who would send men help
ing cheek to the battle tales of the lessly to drown?” cried Tudge.
Moor as did May Halley that day,
“They need no punishment,” said
when in plain, unvarnished Saxon J ohn Mr. Halley; “for sooner or later it
Anderson told to all of their perils by returns upon themselves.”
sea, speaking often, with solemn voice,
There was silence then, and John
of how they had been preserved time Anderson spoke with all eyes fixed
after time from what seemed imminent upon him, as upon one who had returned
death ? Surely not. But it was a hard from the dead.
task; for Jeremiah Basalt would keep
“ Mr. Halley has spoken rightly,” he
interrupting with choice bits of his own said. “No punishment that man could
that Anderson would have left out; and invent could equal those conscience
these bits were always of some piece of cries that must at times be felt by the
seamanship or daring, while the trium most hardened of those who have to
phant bit of all was that when Basalt answer for the lives of men. I tell you
sprang up and waved his arm about this,” he said, and his eyes flashed as
like a semaphore, and told of how he looked round—“ I who have stood
Anderson had saved his life.
again and again face to face with death
“ Saved my life—not as it was mine, —I tell you that at the most awful of
but belonging to Mrs. Gurnett here,” he those moments, when I was standing
said; “for which, my dear, you ought to ready to meet Him who sent me upon
give him thanks.”
this earth, I swear to you, by His holy
Basalt nodded approvingly, as he saw name, that I would not have changed
Mrs. Gurnett go tearfully up to Ander places with one of those men at home
son, and kiss the hands he held out to at ease who have to answer for the life
her; and then he started up, and John of the father, the lover, and the son who
Anderson started too, as May Halley have sailed in their rotten hulks. Punish
stood by Basalt’s side, and thanked him, ment! My God! they have the cry of
for her father’s sake, she said, for what the bereaved maiden, the widow’s moan,
he had done.
and the bitter wailings of the starving
It was an uneventful narrative, that child of him whose bones lie fathoms
latter part, which told of how, nearly by low in the great deep. They need no
a miracle, John Anderson got his boat punishment—they make their own.”
back, with its almost lifeless burden, to
And a sweet voice said, below its
the Merry May; and then of how they breath, heard by its utterer alone—
reached the Mauritius, refitted, engaged
“Amen!”
I
r
b) *
r
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
J^HIRTY-pIXTH
£aBLE
[Christmas, 1873.
J_TENGTH.
THE LAST KNOTS, AND HOW JEREMIAH BASALT CRIED “SHIP AHOY!|
COLD day for a wedding— j
Christmas? That is a matter
of opinion. But, there, what
need is there to tell? Of course
it followed—they followed; for John
Anderson and Basalt were married
upon the same day, and Tudge gave
away the widow, grudgingly, he said;
for if it hadn’t been for Basalt----Then, too, he half threatened to hang
himself in his braces.
But only half; for he made the punch
a month later at Canonbury, and helped
to drink it, sipping slowly while Mrs.
Anderson related to him John Ander
son’s adventures from the age of six
weeks, including his battle with the
croup, fight with the measles, and dire
encounter with the thrush.
“But after all,” she said, “fine man
as John was, he would never be equal
to his father.”
The Basalts wanted to get out of com
ing to that dinner, but Mr. Halley would
not hear of it, for he said that Jeremiah
was one of his best friends; and Basalt
blushed, really and rosily, as did his wife,
who sat and worshipped him with all
her might.
It was a bright and manly speech
that Mr. Halley made, and so was the
response of John Anderson as he rose
from beside his blushing wife.
It was a happy party that night, even
though it was what Philip Merritt called
“disgustingly low;” but then, the pre
vious day, he had taken a receipt from
Mr. Tudge for a heavy sum of money
borrowed fourteen months before, and
which he had been compelled to refund.
But low or not, there was happiness
within those walls, and mirth and bright
ness, till John Anderson, captain, gave
a toast, drunk by all standing and in
silence—a toast that we will drink with
all our hearts—“ God bless the men this night at sea! ”
And then came the parting.
Mr. Basalt was only merry when he
shouted along the hall to his captain, as
he stood with his wife upon his arm—
“What cheer there with the Merry
May?"
And again, as he was ensconced
within the cab, and Samuel had closed
the door, grinning with all his might,
Basalt thrust out his head, and with
lusty lungs roared out, as the cab was
moving off—“Ship
aiioy!”
�APPENDIX.
r
N case you should think that the state of things indicated in this story is
at all overdrawn, the following two or three cases, well established by
J competent witnesses, are added for your information.
J
The following is from the finding of the Court of Inquiry, held in Aberd! deen, in October, 1873, into the loss of the Benachie (steamer), which foundered,
d as the Court says, in “ comparatively calm weather, in August last.” . . .
1
“ The evidence of the manager of the firm which built the vessel is to the effect that
I
d| had she been intended for the carriage of iron ore (the article which she was only employed
£ to bring home), she should have been especially strengthened for that purpose; and the capJ tain of the vessel represented to one of the superintendents employed by the owners, after
il the ship had made a few voyages, that if she were .to be continued in the iron ore trade,
ia| she would require to be strengthened................... After an anxious and careful review of the
whole evidence, we can arrive at no other“ conclusion than that the ship had been, generally
(9 on her homeward voyages, overladen. The cargoes of iron ore were much in excess of the
¡'' cargoes which she took out, and being stowed as they were, must have brought great strain
on every part of the ship. The result of our investigation is to leave no doubt upon our
minds that the cause of the vessel foundering was .... the excessive weight of cargo
which the ship had to carry...................
“ Some of the witnesses declared that they observed the boiler moving, although they differed
as to the amount of the movement. Others observed the forecastle head twisting, and the
} master stated that there was more vibration in the Benachie than in any other steamer in
I which he had sailed. The carpenter told us that he and a former chief officer often spoke
of the straining of the vessel, attributing it to the heavy cargo, and deposed that it was
matter of common conversation among the crew...................
“ The firemen, on rough nights, were frightened to go from the engine-room to their berths in
the forecastle, and preferred to stay in the engine-room during the time they were entitled to be
in bed; while the owners’ superintendent admits that he on several occasions heard the crew,
after the return of the vessel to this country, talking to each other about the straining of the
ship, in a manner which seemed to him intended to attract his attention...................
“ It is proper to say that .... to sail with so low a freeboard as 2 ft. 9 in. was unques
tionably hazardous. The owners have been at pains to prove that such a freeboard, is common in
the trade. That is probably quite true; but it only makes it the more imperative upon us to give
no uncertain sound on the subject, but to declare emphatically that .... to sail a vessel
�2
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
which we desire, with the perfect concurrence of the assessors, to express our unqualified con
demnation. The sum of the whole matter is this—the Benachie was run to death by carrying too I
heavy cargoes at too high a rate of speed.”
The Court consisted of the Sheriff, Comrie Thomson, Esq., and Colonel '
Cadenhead, assisted by two nautical assessors.
The crew would all have been lost had not one of H.M. ships oi war picked
them up.
Another Court of Inquiry into the loss oi a steamer, held at Newcastle, con
clude their finding by saying, “ That they could not dismiss this painful case i
without respectfully urging upon the Government the necessity of instituting ,
some inspection to prevent a system of overloading, which had become so notorious j
in vessels leaving the Tyne;" and
Mr. Stephenson, the Secretary to Lloyd’s, read before the Royal Commis
sioners the following letter from the mate of a ship to his sweetheart (see
Minutes of Evidence, p. 249):—
(Copy.)
“ Dear Lizzie—We sail to-night, and I wish she was going without me; for I don’t like
the look of her, she is so deep in the water. But I won’t .show the white feather to any one. I
she can carry a captain, she can carry a mate too. But it’s a great pity that the Board of Trade
doesn’t appoint some universal load water-mark, and surveyors to see that ships are not sent to
sea to become coffins for their crews. But don’t torment yourself about me. I dare say I shall
get through it as well as anybody else. Hoping that you may continue well—I remain, yours
fondly,
“ Tom.”
The ship went to the bottom with all hands. “ That,” said the witness, “ was
an instance of a vessel going to sea with competent persons on board, who knew
she was going to the bottom. He had received many letters of this kind.”
So far as to overloading. Cases might be added indefinitely; indeed, in at
least two cases known to the writer (one a young man of twenty, and one the
second mate of a ship), both men went home and put on old suits of clothing,
that the sister in one case, and the wife in the other, might have the better
clothing to sell in case they were lost, which they knew to be inevitable unless
they had calm weather all the way. In both cases, the ships and all the men
were lost.
UNSEAWORTHINESS.
Many good people find it hard to believe that men can be found so wicked
as knowingly to send a ship to sea in an unseaworthy state. They not only do
so, but, if the men show any reluctance to be drowned for their profit, they try
and too often succeed in sending them to gaof for their reluctance.
In September last, five seamen were brought before the magistrates at Dover
for refusing to go to sea. By desire of the bench, a surveyor was directed to
examine the vessel (let us be thankful for that now, it was not always so); and
his report stated that there was a great insufficiency of ropes, spare sails, and the
necessary gear, and the vessel was unseaworthy.
In the same month (September, 1873), four men were brought before the Hull
magistrates on a similar charge. A survey was ordered, and Mr. Snowden, sur
veyor, reported “that there was sufficient to justify the prisoners in not proceed
ing in the vessel. The deck wants caulking, and certain timbers are rotten; and it
is quite possible that the masts might roll out of her, and make her at the mercy
�APPENDIX.
3
of the sea. Water also came through the deck on to the men in the forecastle.”
Asked, if he were a sailor would he go to sea in her, he answered, “ I would
not do so.”
In the same month it was attempted to send six seamen to gaol for refusing
to go to sea in a ship of which (a survey having been ordered) two surveyors
reported:—“We find as follows :—Bobstay slack, jib and flying jibstay decayed, hawse pipes both dan
gerously started, jib and flying jibguys look bad, part of cutwater started; fid of maintopmast
rotten, and topmast sagged two or three inches, and slung with chains from lower masthead;
lower deck beams rotten, many lodging knees also rotten, breast hooks rent and rotten, ceiling
rotten in several places, riders started and bolts loose and apparently broken; cathead beam very
rotten, and breast beams rotten. Certainly, in her present state, we consider that she is unfit to
proceed to sea.”
In the evidence given before the Royal Commissioners (see Minutes of
Evidence, p. 207), a Liverpool shipowner, called William James Fernie, says, in
reply to questions, that he gave ¿3,500 for a ship registered at 2,800 tons. The
same witness, in answer to a question as to what a good ship would cost per
ton, answered, “¿13 or ¿14;” and he was also asked by another Commis
sioner—
* “ Do you think you have a right to expect to obtain a perfectly sound vessel
at ¿1 per ton ?”
As to the sort of ship she really was, another Commissioner, as it happened,
was able to tell his fellow-Commissioners that he himself had surveyed her, and
had reported to the Salvage Association as follows—inter alia:—
“ She was trussed with transverse bars of iron, screwed up amidships, like an
old barn or church, before she started on this last voyage. That is to say, that
the whole of the fastenings at the beam ends and knees were so rotten, that there
was no junction on the sides of the ship, and this , mode of fastening was intro
duced, and the only way of fastening the ship together was to introduce these
enormous amounts of iron.” (Inventive genius of the British shipbuilder!)
(Report of Royal Commissioners, p. 3.) This, bear in mind, is the evidence of
one of the Commissioners themselves. This man also admitted that he had lost
nineteen ships in the last ten years only (he has been a shipowner twenty-five
years), with the following ascertained loss of life:—
In the General Simpson
...
Eight lives lost.
Dawn of Hope
...
Twenty-eight.
Royal Victoria
...
Fourteen.
Royal Albert ...
...
All hands, number not known.
Great Northern
...
Sixteen lives lost.
Windsor Castle
...
Twenty.
Golden Fleece ...
...
One.
Royal Adelaide
...
Seven.
Florine...
...
...
All hands lost.
Malvern
...
...
Not stated.
Denmark
...
...
Not stated.
Henry Fernie ...
...
Not stated.
Dunkcld
...
...
Not stated.
(See Minutes of Evidence, p. 207./
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
4
This witness stated that in 1866 he formed the Meichants’ Trading
Company, to which his ships were transferred, and of which he is the managing
director; and he admitted that nine thousand nine hundred and ninety shares
out of the ten thousand) were held by his brother-in-lav/, in trust for his wife
and family, and the other ten shares were held by himself and his dependents.
(See idl)
The Board of Trade have issued their Annual Report for 1872, arid say in it
that “ forty ships have foundered from unseaworthiness in that year.”
Extract of a letter from David Maclver, Esq., one of the managing partners
in the firm which owns the Cunard steamers at Liverpool, published in the Liver
pool Mercury:—
“ Wanlass How, Ambleside, Oct. 20, 1873.
“ Dear Sir—
-5?#
“ Far more vessels are lost than ought to be, and many oi these have been new, or nearly new
steamers. I do not say Liverpool steamers; but I do say that their loss is as easily accounted for
as the loss of a few 56 lb. weights- would be it you put them into an old basket, or sent them afloat
in a tin pan of inferior material or workmanship.—Yours very sincerely,
“David MacIver.”
Extract from a letter, written by Mr. R. Knight, Secretary of the Iron Ship
builders’ (operatives) Society, and published in the Liverpool Daily Courier,
Oct., 1873:—
*#$*#*#»
“The facts of the case are as follows—viz., the screw steamer Brighton, built in 1872, by
Blumer and Co., of Sunderland, for the Commercial Steamship Company, London, registered
number 68,364, went only one voyage to Gibraltar, and when she returned to this port the owners
or agents were compelled to put her in the Herculaneum Dock about February last for repairs,
and she remained there nearly seven weeks. The keel rivets were all loose, and had to be taken
out, and others put in; also a large number in the stem and stern. I went and examined the
vessel, and saw that she was very badly built; any one could pass a mechanic’s rule between the
frames and the shell plates in many places, also between the strips, as the work was never
properly closed. As the men put in the new rivets and closed the work, the old rivets projected
about 3-i6ths of an inch; and had the men continued to close the work as it should have been
done when the vessel was built, they would have been compelled to rivet hex- all over. The fore
man and inspectors seeing this, requested the men to use light hammers, about 2 lbs. (the usual
hammers for that kind of work are about 5 lbs.), so as to nobble the end of the rivet in the hole,
and not close the plates to the frames. This was'done, and she was made watertight; but she
would not keep so very long, as the straining of the vessel would very soon loosen the rivets,
through the work not being closed; and where the plates met, the joints were so open that they
had caulked her with oakum.”
• Are men sent to gaol for refusing to go to sea in such ships ? Let the
following tables reply.
Particulars of seamen committed to gaol for refusing to go to sea in vessels
alleged by them to be unseaworthy, so far as has been ascertained
England ...
Wales
Scotland ...
Ireland ...
<44
...
...
...
...
...
55
281
90
41
79
479
491
294
107
23
1872.
187L
1870.
...
...
...
..............
..............
..............
420
I5Ö
45
43
658
�APPENDIX.
5
ENGLAND.
Men Committed.
Prison.
County.
Chester
..............
Cornwall ..............
Devonshire
Dorsetshire
Durham
..............
Essex
..............
Gloucester
Kent.........................
99
99
99
Lancashire
99
Lincolnshire
Middlesex..............
99
••*
•••
Monmouthshire ...
Norfolk
..............
N orthumberland ...
99
...
Southampton '
Suffolk
..............
Yorkshire..............
J?
99
•••
• ••
99
z
County Prison
Bodmin
Exeter
..............
Plymouth ...
Dorchester
Durham
Springfield..............
Bristol
Maidstone..............
Canterbury...
Dover
Sandwich ...
Preston
Liverpool ...
Lindsey - ...
Coldbath Fields ...
Holloway ...
Usk..........................
Great Yarmouth ...
Morpeth
Newcastle ...
Winchester
Southampton
Ipswich
...
... •
Northallerton
Wakefield ...
Kingston-upon-Hull
Scarborough
1870.
1871.
1872.
Total.
8
32
17
5
2
5
24
4
3
6
—
32
13
88
26
48
6
56
2
—
—
9
7
7
7
■—
26
—
82
—
—
i
I
40
—
52
—
—
5
22
2
i
i
24
—
4
8
—
—
—
294
5
i
9
59
51
71
i
175
9
15
33
21
15
17
7
4
45
2
68
5
hi
2
202
13
7
11
13
7
'
7
6
5
5
—
—
18
4
i
6
6
281
5
14
5
i
—
16
2
16
II
2
'
40
2
38
4
5
23
3
10
11
420
995
ABSTRACT.
Men Committed in 1870
..............
294
„
1071
...........................................................
281
„
1872
...........................................................
420
Total
43
13
7
6
995
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
6
WALES.
County.
Men Committed.
Town.
..............
Total.
3
2
—.
20
77
26
—
51
32
2
13
5
i
80
90
• 7
I
208
150
347
U
n
i
27
24
co
Pembroke
1872.
4
—
—
Beaumaris ...
Carmarthen
Carnarvon ...
Cardiff
Swansea
Haverfordwest
1871.
107
Anglesey ...
Carmarthen
Carnarvon ..............
Glamorgan
1870.
26
ABSTRACT.
Men Committed in 1870
„
»
...
1871
1872
107
................................................
90
................................................
150
Total
347
-
SCOTLAND.
Cases Tried.
County.
Aberdeen
Ayr
Town.
...
..............
Aberdeen ...
Fraserburgh
Ardrossan ...
Troon
Alloa
Leith
Granton
Dundee
Glasgow
Greenock ...
StornoWay ...
Lerwick
I
I
—
1871.
1872.
i
—
i
i
—
1870.
Men Committed.
Number
of Men
Committed.
i
i
—
2
i
1870.
3
2
I
i
—
16
I
n
Forfar
Lanark
Renfrew
Ross.............
Shetland
...
i
i
4
—
i
7
—
—
—
—
5
2
i
i
20
20
7
—
—
5
4
3
—
9
Clackmannan
Edinburgh ...
16
16
109
I
—
—
—
—
5
—
i
3
6
i
25
8
1871.
i
—
i
i
■—■
6
—
—
6
10
16
1872. Total.
i
i
—
3
2
8
16
3
3
6
4
i
4
20
20
109
7
—
—
23
!
7
10
2
8
41
45
I
i
25
8
ABSTRACT.
...
1870
9
„
...
1871
16
„
...
1872
16
Number of Cases
Total
41
Men Committed
•
5J
23
41
45
Total
IC9
�APPENDIX.
7
IRELAND.
Men Committed.
1872.
Total.
'
1870.
00
Town.
County.
Antrim
..............
Cork.........................
Donegal ..............
Louth
..............
Sligo.........................
Waterford..............
Belfast
Cork
. Lifford
Dundalk
Sligo
...
Waterford 1.............
II
21
17
4
2
—
55
29
Il8
5
70
—
—
—
13
27
—
. —
—
17
4
2
4
3
7
79
43
177
ABSTRACT.
Number of Men Committed
1870
55
1871
79
1872
43
Total
52
177
A statement sent to me by certain seamen, showing the treatment of sailors
charged with refusing to go to sea.
Sometimes (very rarely) they escape, and this is how they fare:—
I
(Copy.)
“To Samuel Plimsoll, Esq., M.P.
“Hull, ist October, 1873.
“ SIR—We, the undersigned, beg to hand you the following statement, being an account 01
the treatment which we (together with a seaman named John Williams) have experienced on
‘ our refusal to go to sea in an unseaworthy ship.
“On the nth day of September, 1873, we shipped on board the brig Expert, belonging to
Mr. Stephen Heaton Lennard, of Hull, which was bound in ballast for Norway, to fetch a
cargo of ice.
“ On proceeding on board with our clothes the same evening, we saw that the ship was unsea
worthy, and refused to sail in her. On the following morning (12th September) we were given
into the custody of the Board of Trade constable (by Mr, Lennard, the owner), and taken by
him before the magistrates, sitting at the police court of this borough, and charged with refusing
to proceed to sea.
“We were asked by the magistrates why we refused to do so, and we told them that the
vessel was unseaworthy, and requested that a survey might be held on the vessel by the proper
authorities.
[The power to demand a survey was only confirmed last year, and few
seamen know of it. They also have to pay all expenses if it is shown that they
are mistaken.—S. P.J
In answer to this request we were told that we should have to deposit the sum of two
guinea? for the survey. This sum we could not at the time deposit; but we stated that we would
be all jointly answerable for the amount, if, on survey, she was found to be in a fit state to go to sea.
“We were, however, then remanded to the gaol of this borough, not being able to find bail,
and were taken there in the prison van.
One of us (namely, Mundy) being in a very delicate state of health, suffering from a severe
�8
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
cold and affection of the chest, for which he had remained on shore for about five months; and he
had with him some medicine, and also an extra flannel on his chest as a protection.
“ On arriving at the gaol, we were marched in single file by a warder to the remand part ot
the prison, when we were at once placed in separate, small, dark cells, and ordered to strip off
the whole of our clothes for a bath.
“ We did so, and waited for upwards of twenty minutes «in these cold cells without a particle
of clothing upon us, expecting every minute to be called out for a bath.
“ Mundy was shaking with cold, owing to his bad health and the removal of his warm cloth
ing, and we were all more or less affected by the cold by taking off all our flannel garments
which we, as mariners, usually wear. After waiting for about twenty minutes we were removed
from these cells, but not taken to a bath as previously ordered, but were marched a distance of
about forty yards entirely naked, through a cold, stone passage, to the clothing room, where i
prison raiment was given to us, consisting only of a rough cotton shirt, a rough singlet, with a
pair of stockings; and with only this clothing on we were marched back again through the;
passage, along which we had previously gone naked, and were then placed in separate cells, and
ordered to bed.
“ A short time afterwards we were supplied with a tin containing skilly, and a piece of black
bread, which we refused to eat.
“ What few provisions we. had taken in with us we were refused permission to eat, they being
all taken away from us, as well as the medicine and breast flannel belonging to Mundy. We
remained in these cold cells until the following morning, when we were again offered the same
kind of skilly and black bread for breakfast as had been supplied to us the previous night, and
which we again refused to eat. We were then ordered to the bath-room, and were taken along
the cold stone passage in the cotton shirt, singlet, and stockings, and placed into a warm bath;
and after having a bath, we were taken back naked through this stone passage to be measured,
and when this was done we were taken to the cells where we had been confined for the night, and
our own clothes were then given to us, which we put on.
“ About ten o’clock the same morning we were removed in the prison van to the cells of the
police court, and in the afternoon we were taken before the magistrates (Messrs. Jameson, Foun
tain, and Palmer), who, upon hearing the evidence of Mr. Snowden, senior surveyor to the Board
of Trade (who proved that the ship was unseaworthy), we were discharged, and the following
remarks were at the same time made by Mr. Palmer—namely, ‘ That he considered that the
Board of Trade surveyor had given his evidence in a clear, straightforward manner, and was the
right man in the right place, and that he should never dream of punishing us. That we had
exercised a sound judgment in not going to sea in this vessel, and advised us in future to look at
vessels before signing articles to go to sea in them, especially if they were to have ice in them.
“ We were, however, discharged without any recompense for our false imprisonment, and the
indignities we suffered during our incarceration, and through which Mundy considers his life was
endangered.
“We therefore wish you to lav this matter before the proper authorities, so that we may obtain
iustice and reparation, and that the seamen of England may not be treated in the gaols of this
country in the way we have described (before being convicted of an offence), for simply refusingto risk their lives in rotten ships.-— We are, Sir, yours obediently,
“ (Signed)
(Signed)
(Signed)
William Mundy.
William Rivis (his X mark).
Gabriel (his X mark) Guslaf.
“ P.S.—Mundy.is still under medical care, and is now much worse from the imprisonment.
“ Signed in the presence of Geo. Barker, Clerk to Messrs. Oliver and Botterell, Solicitors
Sunderland.”
letter from the governor of one of her majesty’s prisons.
“ Sir—I beg to enclose you an account of a representative case just given me by the writer
it, who, with another of his shipmates, is a prisoner here. They are both, to all appearances,
honest sailors and most respectable young men. It thus appears that there is no alternative for
the unsuspicious seaman who, in good faith, enters on board a spongy-bottomed vessel, between
drowning and imprisonment. Their late ship has gone to sea with their clothes and certificate^
�APPENDIX.
9
anOE® young man is writing in the greatest grief to his parents, dreading the shock upon them
when they hear that he is in prison. Sandwich Island kidnapping is not more iniquitous than
a case such as this.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
I may’add, in confidence, that one oi the committing magistrates is a merchant, and that the
merchants are much interested in supporting shipowners against their seamen; for if they do not
do so, and if they allow shipowners to think that their crews are not well looked after by the
im authorities, it is feared that shipowners will not allow their vessels to touch at ----- , and
'!J0 consequently business will decline.
********
If.
“They (the seamen) state that they were engaged at Liverpool, upon the assertion that the
ship was going on 1 a nice little voyage to----- only,’ and that it was only on their arrival at
|----- that they were informed that the old, leaky vessel was to go round the Horn to Callao.
ah 'Also, that when they were had up before the magistrates, they pointed out that they had taken
Pio ‘ advance,’ which showed clearly that, when they shipped, it was their own bond fide intention
to go to sea in the ship, according to their engagement, if she had been seaworthy.
*
******
*
“The two prisoners have, of course, neither seen nor spoken to one another since they have
been here. I have examined them separately, and there is not the shadow of a doubt about the
■4. absolute truth of their story—only, as the ship has sailed, there seems no probability of proving
it. Seamen are the worst men possible to make out a good case for themselves when had up in
court. They look upon themselves as doomed at once—that ‘ it’s no use saying anything.’ The
prosecutor makes an audacious harangue, the seamen chew their quids with energy, and look as
though they would like to chew him. Sentence is pronounced by a magistrate whom they know
ip knows no more about ships than they do of the mysteries of marine insurance. They feel that
they have been infamously hocussed, but that ‘it’s all a muddle,’ and that it’s better to go to
prison than to be drowned, and so they are hustled out of the dock. Other dupes, half-drunk,
perhaps, are shipped in their place; the manager or agent remains until the ship is out of sight,
and returns to his owners to expatiate on his success. We have a splendid specimen of a
9< seaman here now, who has been wrecked three times in the last few months, with the loss of
everything on each occasion. I could not help thinking ot them and of you yesterday, when in
'f the morning’s Psalms we read, 1 Let the sorrowful sighing of the prisoner come before Thee
and thought that you were the instrument of the Lord, raised up to do His work, to show that
theie is a God tnat judgeth the eaith, chat in this God-governed world there is no such thing as
1 permanently-successful villainy either for Napoleons or Gradgrinds; and I pray that those who
have been grinding the face of the poor with such impunity hitherto, may find that ‘ the day of
the Lord ’ is not merely 1 at hand,’ which they have disbelieved, but that it has come upon them
and upon their evil houses.
********
£I discharged yesterday, two prisoners on expiry of sentence, whose case was somewhat simi
lar to the present one —joining a ship out in a roadstead upon glowing representations—on get
ting out to her finding her to be a rotten corfin, and on demand to be put on shore again, sent to
prison on a summary conviction. They served out their imprisonment with the patience or
oxen ;> and until the law is framed to protect them as it does children and minors, they will, with
the simplicity of children, fall again into the first trap that is laid for them.”
THE WRECK REGISTER AND CHART FOR
1872,
“Of the 439 total losses from causes other than collisions, on and near the coasts of the
United Kingdom, in 1872, 56 arose from defects in the ship or in her equipments, and of these 56
no less than 40 appear to have foundered from unseaworthiness.”
LETTER FROM THE FRENCH CONSUL AT IRISH PORT.
“Dear Sir—-Every humane person must wish you success in the courageous campaign you
have begun against an infernal set of scoundrels; and I think every one, whatever is his nationality
8 oound to give all assistance in his power. You will be glad to hear from me that so far you
have been successful, that some of the notorious shipowners are trying to put their rotten ships
�IO
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
under foreign flags, keeping the ownership of them at the same time, and being in hope, by so B
doing, of evading whatever law Parliament might enact. Yesterday, one of those notorious ship- U
owners applied to me to authorise a French subject to purchase one of his ships, and to request p
me to give a provisional French nationality to this ship. Knowing the party by reputation, and if
the character of his ships, I was doubly on my guard; and, after inquiry, was satisfied that this |!f
was not a bonci fide transaction, and was made to evade the British law, and, I strongly suspect, ffi
to avoid an examination by the surveyor of the Board of Trade. I formally refused to grant the I.'
request made to me in this instance, and have officially informed my Government of my reasons
for giving such refusal. I must say I am rather afraid of your law of libel: this is my reason for 1?
putting ‘ private’ on the top of this letter, and giving no name for the present. However, if you J
thought the name might keep your case, if it is asked from me by the Commissioners, I shall give |
it willingly. I have not yet had time to read your book, but I saw a number of extracts from it i
and, after having seen them, all I say is, God help you in your good work.”
|
LETTER FROM THE SOLICITOR TO THE BOARD OF TRADE.
“Custom House, February 24th, 1873.
j
|
“My DEAR Sir—You have made a move in the cause of humanity for which you deserve 1
immortal credit. I have not seen your book; but I read a review of it in the Times with the -I
deepest interest. When you, some years ago, referred to me as having, on the occasion of a i
Board of Trade inquiry, described the conduct of a shipowner as ‘homicidal,’ you were well |
iustified in doing so. I might have used the more felonious term, because cases have occurred
where delinquents have been executed for murder who deserved the gallows less than the moneyed
barbarians who have sent overladen ships to sea. I send you enclosed an illustration of the
justice of my statement. But, to judge accurately of the disgraceful case, you should read the
evidence on the inquiry. It was proved that the decks were so laden with bales ot cotton that j
the crew had to stand and walk on the top of them so as to manage the ship; and Mr. Pearson, |
a shipowner, examined for the defence, swore that the higher the bales were piled the more it |
conduced to the safety of the ship, as, if the ship went down, the crew and passengers would I
have a better chance of escaping.
“ I am, my dear Sir, &c.,
■
“James O’Dowd.”
*
LETTER FROM A LONDON MERCHANT.
“ Great Tower-street, London, February 26, 1873.
'
“ Dear Sir—I have read, with very great interest, of your efforts to better the position of the 1
mercantile marine ; and believing that every little information is of use to you, I have taken the j
liberty of addressing you. I was brought up at a seaport town, and was twelve years in a ship- a
building and repairing yard; six years of the time I acted as outside superintendent, so that I had •
abundant opportunity of noticing the sort of ‘ coffins ’ in which sailors are often sent to sea. Bel- I
fast being a depot for the north of Ireland, there are two important trades carried on—viz., coal I
and wood. The coal trade—at least, three years ago (when I left)—was principally carried on by I
small merchants. They employed schooners, brigantines, and brigs to carry coal from the Scotch '
and English ports. Very few of these vessels were classed, and the majority were equipped in the |
most miserable way. One merchant whom I could name lost two or three vessels every year, ana '
generally all hands with the vessels. He has often been known to send his vessels to sea without 1
proper ground-gear, in order that the captain would have to beat a passage, and not take an inter- "
mediate port. I have seen dozens of such vessels that could not be properly caulked, the planks
being so rotten that pieces of wood had to be driven in the seams; and if a piece of plank was
taken out, no timber or frames could be found to fasten it to, a plate of iron having to be laid
on the ceiling, or inside skin, for this purpose. Then, again, the running gear, as a rule
was perfectly rotten—rotten masts, spars, and sails—and miserable cabins and forecastles. 1
These vessels would make a passage across the Channel in the middle of winter, with perhaps
18 inches of side above water. The timber ships are employed running to North America 5 1
many of these vessels have no character or class, and their hulls are just as bad as the coal
schooners. I have been told that all over the seaports of Ireland such vessels are employed. The
timber ships have generally to bring home heavy deck-loads, and you are well aware of the
�APPENDIX.
ir
number of such vessels that are lost annually. Belfast being a very handy place for wind-bound
and distressed vessels, I had many chances of seeing vessels which had put into the port leaky
carrying all sorts of cargoes—salt, pig-iron, rails, &c. These cargoes are very severe on old
ships. Often the crew have mutinied, or, more properly speaking, refused to proceed in the ships?
having regard for their own safety ; very often they were imprisoned for doing so. I may adcl
that I have no interest, at least pecuniary, in this matter now, as I am in quite a different trade ;
but I know that you are right, although you may encounter a great deal of opposition. I am sure
my old master, Mr. ——-, of Belfast, who is still a ship-builder and repairer, would give you
every information he could in a private way. I have written this letter on the impulse of the
moment.”
SCHEDULE OF SHIPS
POSTED AT LLOYD’S ' TO JUNE 30TH THIS YEAR AS
missing! ! NEVER HEARD OF MORE!
WRECKS AND CASUALTIES.)
Jan.
5
17
Year.
1872
1873
...
...
Feb.
15
18
(EXCLUDING ALL OTHER FATAL
Mar.
G
27
...
Apr.
6
23
May
9
24
June
5
19
Though desirous to avoid all comments in compiling this Appendix, I think
it right to say here, that this terrible increase of loss was foreseen by me—and
by me alone. One correspondent at Liverpool, in February last, expressed great
fear that unless the Government helped me promptly with a temporary measure,
that whilst the prospect of overhauling would cause a great deal of repairing of
ships and care in loading amongst many, in some it would create so great anxiety in
certain quarters to get rid of ships anyhow—which would not bear examination—■
that a large temporary increase of losses was greatly to be feared. This was why I
was so anxious—almost frantically anxious—to get a temporary measure passed.
My firm conviction is, that had the Government helped me, instead of doing
their utmost to thwart my efforts, many, many hundreds of brave men now at the
bottom of the sea would have been alive at this moment.
The total number of lives lost in 92 of these ships—where the number of the
crews is known—is 1,328. Supposing the remaining 36 to have carried a similar
number of men, then the total is 1,747 in six months!—although this year has
been unusually free from stormy weather, and the year 1872 was an “unusually
disastrous year!” What will the whole year give? and what will other weeks
add to this number? These are missing ships only. May God forgive us for our
murderous neglect of our fellow-men at sea!
I deeply regret that the time available to me to write this Appendix is too
limited to enable me to take proper pains with it. I only heard by accident
of the intention to dedicate the Christmas number of Once a Week to this
subject; and instantly asked for permission to write this Appendix, to enable me
to do which, the publication was suspended. Editors of newspapers are earnestly
entreated to copy this Appendix or such parts of it as they may deem suitable to
their columns.
GRAIN-LADEN SHIPS MISSING TO SEPTEMBER 3OTH IN EACH OF THE
FOLLOWING YEARS:—
1872
...
26
.....................................
1873
...
50
t
/
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
12
COAL-LADEN SHIPS MISSING TO SEPTEMBER 30TH IN EACH OF THE
FOLLOWING YEARS:—
1872
...
ii
...................................................
1873
•••
4°
TIMBER-LADEN SHIPS MISSING TO SEPTEMBER 30TII IN EACH OF THE
1872
...
6
FOLLOWING YEARS:—
...................................................
1873
...
17
FRAGMENTS OF EVIDENCE GIVEN BEFORE THE ROYAL COMMISSIONERS.
Mr. M. Wawn, examined by the Chairman: “You are a surveyor under the Board of
Trade?”—“ Yes.”
“ Have you known many ships broken up on account of their age; because we have been told
that in the case of colliers they are hardly ever broken up, but that they go on till they sink ?”—
“ I cannot say that I know of any cases where they have been broken up.”
“What becomes of these old vessels—do they go on till they are lost?”—“I suppose Sa
(Minutes of Evidence, p. 123.)
Mr. S. Robins, examined by the Chairman (Minutes of Evidence, p. 117): “Are you a
licensed shipping agent under the Board oi Trade?”—“ I have been so up to the present year.
For between eleven years and twelve years I was a licensed agent under the Board of Trade.”
“ Can you state to whom the Satellite belonged?”—“ I cannot say. She belonged to a Liver
pool firm.”
“Was she laden with coal?”—“Yes.”
*
“What was her destination?”—“ I believe it was Rio.”
“ Did you consider that ship not seaworthy?”—“.I did.”
Then, in the first instance, when you got a part of the crew for her, did you consider her to
be a safe and seaworthy vessel? (Minutes of Evidence, p. 118.)—“Noj I considered her a
very old vessel, and I had heard reports concerning her from shipmasters, and I considered in
some respects that she was a bad class of vessel, and not fit for the voyage upon which she was
%oing. ... I considered her an old trap.”
“ Did the sailors object?”—“ I had a great deal of trouble in getting them aboard.”
When you considered the vessel to be a bad vessel, did you still endeavour to get them on
board?”—“Yes; it was more than I dared do to attempt to back a man out.” '
“ You considered that the sailors, having engaged themselves to go, were obliged to?”—“ Yes,
01 else refuse on the pier to go in her; and if they refused, there were police officers to take them
in charged . .
“What happened to this ship?”—“She was lost!”
“ I thought that you engaged for her?” “ A part of them on the first occasion. I had not
then seen the vessel; and, after engaging the men, it was my duty to see them again aboard at
the time of sailing, and that was when I first saw the vessel.”
If these facts do not stir the hearts of my fellow-countrymen, no words of
mine will; but, in that case, England will have become false to all her history,
and all faith in her destiny will have died out of my heart.
I leave it to God.,
SAMUEL PLIMSOLL.
�
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Victorian Blogging
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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"Ship ahoy!": a yarn in thirty-six cable lengths being the Christmas annual of Once a Week
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Waddy, Frederick [1848-1901]
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 95, 12 p. : ill. (including frontispiece) ; 24 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
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[Bradbury and Evans]
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1873
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G5452
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Macay, Wallis [1852-1907] (ill)
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