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Text
“NOTHING BUT LEAVES.”*
BY REV. E. S. ATWOOD, SALEM, MASS.
A leaf is one of tlie most beautiful and
wonderful objects in nature. It fulfils the
double mission of grace and use. Just what
the lungs are to man and animals, that the
leaves are to the trees and shrubs. Vegeta
ble equally with animal life depends upon and
progresses by processes of respiration. We
loosen and fertilize the soil about the roots of
the tree, in order to push on its growth; yet,
with all our pains, we do but a small part of
the work. The silent leaves above us, open
ing a thousand mouths on every branch, are
the great feeders of fertility. All the day
long, under the quickening chemistry of light
and heat, they eliminate and breathe in the
e Preached on board the steamship “William Penn;”
copied by Stephen Massett; publicly read by him on
board the steamship “ China ” on her first voyage from
San Francisco to Yokohama, Japan ; and then printed at
the office of the “China Mail,” Hong-Kong
�2
“NOTHING BUT ’LEAVES.”
healthy oxygen from the air, that vitalizes
the sap, and spreads beauty and strength to
every fibre and cell—and all the night they
breathe out the waste and refuse carbon.
Tender and fragile as they are, veined more
delicately than an infant’s hand, seeming to
cling so timidly to bough and twig; yet with
out them trunk and branch would wither and
stand the dreary skeletons of the life that
had perished. But over and above their pur
poses of use, what grace and goodliness they
give to nature, what marvellous varieties of
form and size and shade they exliibit! Look
at them in spring time, when they are coming
out timidly one by one; in that fresh exquis
ite green attire, quickening the throbbings
of every heart with their hints of life. Look
at them in the thick-leaved splendor of June,
when, massed and matted, they darken the
ground with their cool and grateful shadow;
or watch them hi autumn, when frost and
ripeness fire the trees, and they flame gor/ geous illuminations to swell the splendor of
/ the triumphant march of harvest; and in all
/
their shifting phases alike they rejoice the
/
eyes, and give warmth and color to the most
!
■ unimpressive nature.
�“NOTHING BUT LEAVES.”
3
Yet the leaves of a tree once called forth
the condemnation and the. curse of Christ.
Matt. 21:19. Walking with his disciples, he
saw at a distance a fig-tree. In tropical
countries, the broad and luxuriant foliage of
this tree makes it a notable object in the
landscape. Weary and faint, they hastened
towards it, and stood under its shade; be
neath its spreading branches they found shel
ter from the burning heat. Had it been dry
and leafless, he would have passed it by; but
standing there full clothed in the splendor of
Syrian summer, every bough quick with life,
the processes of growth pushing on—because
of its very appearance and seeming perfect
ness he cursed it, so that presently it withered
away.
Because he found thereonnothing but
leaves!” Men plant fr.uit trees, not for /bh'age, but for fruit. A leaf is not the last and
highest result of growth, but only an interme
diate product of the process, meant to be a
help to the perfect consummation. It was
food that Christ was seeking, and not shade.
It was high time that it should be found. The
fig appears before the leaf. That such a tree
should be barren at such a season was sure
�4
“NOTHING BUT LEAVES.”
proof that it was a failure, so far as the high
est end of its existence was concerned; and
so, though it stood out & thing of beauty,
broad branched, thick leaved, still because it
bore “nothing but leaves,” Christ condemned
it, that it might be a type and warning to
generations to come, that lack of fruit-bear
ing is a sin against God, however attractive
or promising a profession and life may be.
And yet how many systems of faith and
practice, accepted by multitudes and com
mended with unmeasured praise, after all
bear “nothing but leaves.” Every thought
ful man admits the legitimacy of this test of
fruitfulness. He has no hope that a barren
theory will win its way in the world. He
hastens to show, when he urges liis scheme
upon you, wliat it has done and what it can
do. We judge of systems as we do of seeds,
which will give us the fullest ears and the
most abundant harvests. But men often fail
to discriminate clearly between leaf and fruit.
It is contended sometimes by the advocates
of an amended gospel and a liberal creed,
that the forth-puttings of that system are its
all-sufficient verification. We are pointed to
the eloquent orators, the elegant scholars, the
�“NOTHING BUT LEAVES.’
5
graceful poets it produces. But. eloquence
and scholarship and poetry are “nothing but
leaves.” Holiness of heart is the true fruit
of a real gospel; the clusters ripened by the
grace of God hang higher than the growths
of intellect.
We are pointed to the earnest sympathy
with man fostered by this genial faith, to its
varied philanthropic schemes for the better
ment of the laboring classes, for the reclama
tion of the vicious, for the rescue of the down
trodden and oppressed; but all these things,
worthy as they are, are in comparison “noth
ing but leaves.” The ripe fruit of genuine
spiritual faith is salvation—a power that not
merely ministers to bodily necessities or con
strains to outw ard proprieties of conduct, but
a power that goes deeper and does more
thorough work—that purifies and renovates
and sanctifies the soul. All else but this is
as nothing. To mature this royal harvest the
councils of eternity were set. For this, proph
et and apostle were anointed with Chrism di
vine. For this, Jesus wept and suffered and
died. For this, the Holy Ghost, the Com
forter, came, and conies and strives. For this,
all powers of holy growth for ever struggle;
�G
“NOTHING BUT LEAVES.”
and any system, however great its triumphs
in other directions, that cannot show regen
erate souls as its fruits, let it boast as it may,
its best results are “nothing but leaves.”
It is with the single soul, however, that this
truth has the most to do; it has an eminently
practical bearing on the individual well-being.
Let every man take such care of himself that
he shall be genuinely fruitful, and it matters
little about systems. And this is the great
end of our creation. God has put you and me
into this world, not to amass fortunes, not to
win great names, not to live easily and pleas
antly, with as little trouble as possible, but
to glorify him; and “herein is my Father
glorified, that ye bear much fruit.” And yet
most men drive on, as if the great object in
life was to bear “nothing but leaves”—to en
large one’s social influence, to reach a higher
social position, to multiply possessions. For
things like these nine-tenths of human energy
is expended. We are more anxious about the
quantity than the quality of our growth; we
forget the one set purpose of our life. There
are but few v*ho so seclude themselves from
the thrill and stir of the great multitude, that
they hear with distinctness God’s message to
�“NOTHING BUT LEAVES.”
7
their souls. We live in a thronged and
busy world. We breathe its feverish air;
we catch the contagion of its enthusiasms
and hopes. We look at its prizes through
the bewildering glare of sense. We wish not
strangely, to be and do as other men, and so
we forget that, in spite of the clamor and roar
that fill the spiritual ear, a voice is sounding
all the day, “ Son—daughter, go work in my
vineyard.” The great end of life is mistaken,
the povrers and possibilities given for holy and
lasting use are employed in unworthy ways
and for inferior ends, and we come to the end
of our years, be they many or few, to find
at the last, and too late, that all our toilsome
probation has borne for us “nothing but
leaves.”
It is of the first importance, therefore, for
the wise conduct of life, that a man should
recognize his true mission as a fruit-bearer.
It is essential to economical and successful
labor that the task should be accurately de
fined. Half the -work in the world is wasted,
because men strike at hap-hazard. They
have no specific aim, only a vague and gen
eral desire to “get on.” The great apostle
gave the rule of success in any direction when
�8
NOTHING BUT LEAVES.”
lie said, “I so ran, not as uncertainly; so figlit
I, not as one who beateth the air.” Thrust a
magnet into a heap of metallic particles, and
at once they assume set and crystalline forms.
And distinctness of purpose has a magnetic
power. It brings into proper position and
play every force that can bear upon the end.
to be obtained. It utilizes latent energies,
and originates combinations of powers, and
works every thing at full pressure, and with
all the might of an unconquerable will presses
on to triumph.
Witness in proof of this the methods in
which men of the world win their victories.
Let a man make up his mind, like Girard, to
be rich, and see how that determination works
for him. Every thing else is held subordinate
to that end. Body and soul become mere
slaves to that over-mastering purpose. Hun
ger presses him, but he will not yield to appe
tite any further than is needful to get strength
to make money. Pleasure woos him, but he
turns away from all its enchantments; there
is no “money” to be made by self-gratifica
tion. Taste urges its claim, but it cannot be
heeded, for it takes instead of makes money
to satisfy it. He walks abroad, but it is not
�“NOTHING BUT LEAVES.
9
to breathe the sweet air, nor gladden the eyes
with the wonders of a world of beauty, but
only to see where some new “dollar” may be
found. Every thing he is, or has, or does
strains towards the same end; and that pas
sionate enthusiasm, laughing at obstacles,
presses on till it grasps the prize for which it
has dared and done all. There is no power
like the might of a great determination.
Nothing less than Divine can match it. When
a thousand wires are welded into one, they
forge The Damascus steel, that can divide the
gossamer or cut the iron bar asunder; and
when all the energies of a man are molten
into one force by the potent heat of purpose,
they shape a blade invincible by aught but
the flashing sword of Almightiness.
Let a man then live, first and most of all,
from the thought that his work in the world
is to bring forth fruit to the honor and glory
of God: that whatever else is left undone,
Z/u's must l)c done; that however promising a
project, it is to be rejected if it interferes with
the sovereign purpose. Let a man live so,
and spiritual success is sure. For whatever
power determination has in other departments,
it is intensified in this. By special aids God
�10
“NOTHING BUT LEAVES.”
speeds tlie purpose of righteousness to fulfil
ment. The best laid human schemes some
times miscarry by reason of perils and hinderances that no man could foresee. But along
the track we travel to do thy will, O God, there
are no hidden reefs to wreck our ships, no bil
lows to engulf them, no tempests to beat them
back. The earnest soul journeys along a safe
and sure highway, over which “ the ransomed
of the Lord come to Mount Zion with songs,
and everlasting joy upon their heads.”
If you and I, then, are so conscious of our
high vocation, and so faithful, that we make
this determination the supreme law of life,
we may reasonably expect that our labor will
ripen abundant fruit. Not necessarily marvels
of growth. It is a vice of human nature that
it cannot be satisfied unless it can do some
tconderftil thing. Every man sets out to be a
great man, but very few get much farther
than the start.
This spirit besets us from the earliest years.
The child poring over the wonderful romances
that form the mental food of his first days,
longs for the time when he shall go out to
slay giants and capture castles. The youth
looks contemptuously upon the routine of
�“NOTHING BUT LEAVES.
11
daily life as too commonplace for his abilities;
and as men get on to maturer years, do they
quite forget to build castles in the clouds,
whose splendor puts to shame the common
walls in which they live and work ? The de
sire is all well in its way, but the trouble is,
it keeps us dreaming when wTe should be
working, and too often makes us discontented
and disheartened, forgetting that God gives
to the seeds of faithful endeavor we sow such
a body as pleases him, and to every seed his
own body. So long as a man is tnie to the
task which God sets him, let him learn, in
whatsoever state he is, therewith to be con
tent. I cannot be the apostle Paul, but I
will not worry about that; my sole concern is
to ripen the best fruit I may where I am
planted. And, moreover, marvels do not
make up the bulk of life. The few prodigies
of growth which the farmer brings to the
agricultural fair, are exceptions not specimens
of his harvest. His bams and cellars are
filled with something quite different from
what is contained in the single basket. The
most of both nature and life is made up of
what we call commonalties. God never meant
that men should be all the time doing wonder
�12
“NOTHING BUT LEAVES.”
ful tilings; if they did, they would cease to Ire
wonderful. We esteem them marvellous sim
ply because they are infrequent; and if you
come to the real truth of the matter, those
relative epithets, great and small, as we use
them, amount to almost nothing. If an apple
grows till it measures a foot, we call it a prod
igy ; but it is not near so much of a prodigy
as that the smallest apple should grow at all.
The process itself, and not its extent, is the
real wonder. The evening prayer lisped by
the child is just as really, just as worthily,
just as acceptably praise as the triumphant
strain from the harp-strings of the seraphim.
Your victory over some common temptation
is just as wonderful as the rout of the rebel
lious hosts of heaven. The Christian graces
that ripen in your humble life are as great a
marvel, and glow as brightly in the sight of
God, as the twelve manner of fruits that lian"
on the tree planted by the crystal river of
Paradise. And just this kind of fruit men in
every station may bring forth every day.
But my lot in life, you say, is so humble
and my experience has so little that is note
worthy, what can I do ? Whether ye eat or
drink, says the apostle, or whatsoever ye do,
�“NOTHING BUT LEAVES.
13
do all to the glory of God. Let a man thank
God that he can glorify him in common things.
Nor let him forget that, in modest walks and
unobtrusive ways, he may chance to make
the most acceptable offering. When God
paints a flaunting lily, he dashes on the raw
est of colors; but the little violet is tinted
with heaven’s own hue. The Alpine straw
berry, no larger than a pea, is sweetest of all
thq fruits of the field. Nature compacts her
choicest flavors and colors, and seals them up
in the smallest of flasks, and the man who
pierces down to the lowest stratum of life, and
sanctifies the common word and act, evidences
thereby a richer and fuller grace than he who
stands up in the pulpit to preach, or sets him
self sword in hand at the head of the hosts
of some great reform.
As a general rule, rich and rare fruits are
ripened slowly. Some of the most eminent
forth-puttings of pious growth have been long
in maturing. Men have spent years in push
ing on silent but patient processes; and be
cause there was no speedy result adequate to
the labor, the world said, “Lo, these are bar
ren trees; they bear nothing but leaves.” Yet
just as the unsightly cactus, bequeathed from
�14
“NOTHING BUT LEAVES.”
father to son, wearing away the lifetime of*
three generations, without hint of beauty or
use, at last, when the full century is rounded,
flowers out into one full consummate blossom,
filled with the juices of a hundred years, so
at length the fruit of these earnest workers
appears. For thirty years Jesus was as a root
out of a dry ground, without form or comeli
ness, till the royal hour of his ripeness struck;
and then what age was ever so magnificently
blossomed as the brief years of his ministry?
What other era of time has borne such fruits
as Gethsemane and Calvary? It matters not
though men call our lives barren, if with faith
ful and unwearying culture we are carrying
out the plans of the groat Husbandman..
When God pleases, the harvest long ripening
will appear all the more impressive from the
unsuspected quiet out of which it has grown.
Almost every life has its crises and turningpoints of greater or less magnitude. There
are single hours and acts that, like rudders,
steer us into wide seas of triumph or misfor
tune. In their significance and influence they
stand solemn and apart from the rest of life.
But there is no other so wonderful epoch
in a man’s'history as the time when, after
�“NOTHING BUT LEAVES.”
15
years of barrenness, or at best “ nothing but
leaves,” he becomes at last genuinely fruitful.
You have read that thrilling story of the bro
ken cable stretched along the ocean’s bed for
more than a thousand miles; how “night and
day for a whole year the electrician had been
watching its tiny signal ray; how sometimes
wild, incoherent messages came from the
deep, spelt out by magnetic storms and earth
currents, till of a sudden, on a morning, the
unsteady flickering changed to coherency;
and after the long interval that had brought
nothing but the moody and delirious mutter
ings of the sea, stammering over its alphabet
in vain, the cable began to speak, and to
transmit the appointed signals, which indica
ted human purpose and method at the other
end, instead of the hurried signs, broken
speech, and inarticulate cries of the illiterate
Atlantic.”
But that is a more wonderful
hour, when over the living wires of the soul,
long speaking in stammering and incoherent
phrase, as the earth currents and the storms
of sense and sin have uttered themselves,
there comes at length the unmistakable pulse
of thought and feeling from the Infinite wis
dom, and 6rod begins to speak through that
�1G
“NOTHING BUT LEAVES.”
soul to men by tlie signals of holy words and
works. The thrill and ecstacy of that hour
Will never be lost. It will be the bright con
summate centre of life, for not two continents
but two worlds are then wedded into one.
How is it with you, my brother? Does
Christ, when he comes to you, as he comes
daily, find a fruitful life, or “nothing but
leaves ?” Give heed to the lessons of every
autumn hour, that leaves, however fair, soon
fall and perish, while the fruit is gathered into
garners. What provision are you making for
the coming time, when the summer shall be
passed and the frosts of winter fall? Let
you and me strive for lives rich in lasting
results, and whatever of help and success we
may seek for the furtherance of our cherished
plans, still let our supreme prayer be—
Something, my God, for thee,
Something for thee!
That each day’s setting sun may bring
Some penitential offering;
In thy dear name some kindness done;
To thy dear love some wanderer won—
Some trial meekly borne,
Dear Lord, for thee!
t
|
�
Dublin Core
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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
Text
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Pamphlet
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Title
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"Nothing but leaves"
Creator
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Atwood, Edward Stanley [1842-1926]
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [Hong Kong]
Collation: 16 p. ; 15 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. "Preached on board the steamship 'William Penn' copied by Stephen Massett; publicly read by him on board the steamship 'China' on her first voyage from San Francisco to Yokohama, Japan; and then printed at the office of 'China Mail', Hong Kong. [From title page]. Annotations in ink.
Publisher
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[China Mail]
Date
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[n.d.].
Identifier
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G5325
Subject
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Sermons
Nature
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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 ("Nothing but leaves"), 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
Language
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English
Conduct of life
Conway Tracts
Faith
Sermons
-
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9685ee541dcad7465bae84a34868daf6
PDF Text
Text
REALITIES.”
A CONTRIBUTION TO THE PEN AND PENCIL SOCIETY.
’%
\
* ■'
BY
P.
A.
TAYLOR,
M.P. '
*
’ ..
PUBLISHED BY THOMAS SCOTT,
MOUNT PLEASANT, RAMSGATE.
�TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
�“ R E A L IT I E S.”
------ *------Aubrey House, Notting. Hill, W.
February 5th, 1871.
Dear Mr Scott,—You are quite welcome to reprint
my little jeu, if you really think it worth la chandelle.
It was of course never intended to leave the MS. form in
which it was placed in the basket of our Pen and Pencil
Society; but an American lady who happened to be
present, liked it well enough to send the MS. to a
New York Paper, in which you saw it.
The texture is too flimsy to stand cutting about in
the endeavour to make it more presentable, so that if
you do anything with it, it will have to be just as it
stands.—Yours truly,
P. A. Taylor.
AM informed by Pen and Pencil, with a certain
harsh inexorableness of tone that something I must
produce this evening, or—incur a sentence too dreadful
to be contemplated, no less than that of ostracism
(perhaps ostracism for incapacity should be spelt asstracism).
Well, what are the words ? Realities and drifting.
Very good; then I’ll take both, for the most character
istic element that I have noted of realities is that they
are constantly drifting.
Wishing to start from an undoubted basis, I asked
a friend, before sitting down to write, what exactly he
understood by realities, and he replied, with the air of
a philosopher, “ whatever man, through the medium of
I
�4
“ Realities"'
his senses, can surely realize.” The conclusion I draw
is, that there is some inextricable connection between
realities and real lies. In which I am confirmed by
Johnson, who traces the derivation of the word reality
as from real.
Sir John Lubbock, in his “ Origin of Civilization,”
under the heading of “ Savage Tendency to Deifica
tion,” states as a fact that il The king of the Koussa
Kaffirs, having broken off a piece of a stranded anchor,
died soon afterwards, upon which all the Kaffirs looked
upon the anchor as alive, and saluted it respectfully
whenever they passed near it.” At a glance it occurred
to me, this is a reality well worthy of being brought
under the notice of Pen and Pencil. Will it not
furnish, thought I, material for their philosophers, and
mirth for their humorists, and surely an excellent sub
ject for their artists. But is it true ? Ay, that must
be my first discovery. Who shall hope to palm off
doubtful realities upon Pen and Pencil, without de
servedly drifting to disgrace ?
Without indecent boasting, I believe I may assure
this august assembly that I have probed this matter to
its very root; the whole truth is in my hands, and
shall be faithfully presented to this critical company.
I shall be excused from detailing my method of ex
amination ; time would fail us were I to make the
attempt; suffice it to say that I have brought all
possible modes under contribution, and many more,
and that not a single fact has been set down unless
previously tested by a wild flight of imagination.
Upon principle, too, I decline to say how I have
arrived at the realities of the case, lest truth should
suffer through disapproval of my process.
If I say that I have telegraphed direct, some wretched
caviller may observe that he never heard of Kaffir
wires. I may have conversed with the ghost of the
wicked king of Koussa Kaffir through the medium of
Mrs Marshall, but some joker—how I do detest the
race—might object to my plan of marshalling my facts.
I may have “ asked that solemn question ” of the leg
�“ Realities. ”
5
of my loo-table, which does not by any means “ seem
eternal,” something after the fashion of Ion. I may
have caught the little, toe of Mr Home, as he was
floating in mid-air, and so found my information, as
honest debts should be paid, on the nail. I may have
—but no more—1 respectfully decline to communicate,
to-night at least, aught but the ascertained realities.
It is true, then, that a stranded anchor was thrown on
the shore of Koussa Kaffir; that it created wide-spread
wonder and enquiry as to its whence, its wherefore, and
its whither; that the king, being of an enquiring
mind, often examined the anchor, pondered over its
shape and its materials; that one day, testing this last
with too much energy, one fluke was quite lopped off.
His majesty was pleased with the result, although it
did not seem to do much towards solving the difficult
questions connected with the strange visitor; but it
was afterwards generally reported that some of the
wisest of the Kaffirs had shaken their heads three
times, and had remarked that if anything should
happen they should doubt whether it was not for
something.
Something did happen. The king that night ate for
his supper forty-four ostrich eggs, besides two kangaroos
and a missionary. It was too much for even a Kaffir
king; he was seized with night-mare, raved of the
weight of the anchor on his chest, and died.
The effect produced upon Kaffir public opinion, and
the Kaffir press, was startling and instantaneous. The
king had broken the anchor; the king had died—had
died because he broke the anchor; that was evident,
nay was proved—proved by unerring figures, as thus :
the king was fifty-five years old; had lived, that is to
say, 20,075 days; to say, therefore, that he had not
died this day because of his daring impiety was more
than 20,000'to one against the doctrine of probabilities.
The anchor, therefore was a power—was a devil to
be feared—that is, a god to be worshipped; for in
savage countries there is a wonderful likeness between
the two. Thus was born a religion in Koussa Kaffir.
�6
a Realities.”
Divine honours or dastard fears were lavished on the
anchor a priesthood sprang up who made their account
in the Kaffir superstition. They were called anchorites.
They were partly cheats, and partly dupes; but they
made a livelihood between the two characters. They
fixed the nature and the amount of the sacrifices to be
offered, and the requirements of the anchor were in
remarkable harmony with the wants of its priests.
Natural causes, too, were happily blended with super
natural. The anchor was declared to be the great
healer of diseases. For immense sums the ministering
priests would give small filings to the diseased, and
marvellous were the cures produced by oxides and by
iron; never, in short, was there a more prosperous
faith. The morals of the people, I grieve to say, did
not improve in proportion to their faith. An anchor
that is supposed to remit sins on sacerdotal intercession
is probably not favourable to the higher morals in
Koussa Kaffir.
But a trial had to come upon the anchor-devil and
its worshippers. Under it it must collapse, or passing
through it as through the flame of persecution, come
forth stronger and brighter than ever. Which should
it be 1 It was an interesting spectacle. Let me finish
my story.
There returned to Koussa Kaffir a native who had
voyaged round the world since he had left his native
land; he had seen and had observed much • he was
well acquainted with anchors ; had seen them in all
stages and under all conditions ; he knew their use by
long experience; he had handled them. One time
his vessel had been saved by its stout anchor, another
time he had had to save the ship by slipping his cable
and leaving the anchor at the bottom; he had never
known an anchor resent the worst usage; he would
not worship this old broken one. Some thought him
mad, some wicked ; he was called infidel by those who
knew his mind, but for a long time he followed his
friends’ advice, and said nothing of his awful heresy.
But this condition of mind would hardly last for
�“ Realities. ”
7
ever. Travel had improved his intellectual force, as
well as given special knowledge about anchors and
other things ; he began to lament over and even to
despise the folly of his race ; he burned to cast off some
at least of their shackles of ignorance and superstition.
“ How shall I begin,” cried he one day, “to raise their
souls to something higher, while they worship that
stupid old rusty anchor in the sand?”
His soul began to bum with the spirit of martyrs
and reformers. “ I will expose this folly ; I will break
to pieces their anchor-devil, and when they see that all
is well as it was before, they will begin to laugh at
their own devil, and will have their minds open to a
higher faith.”
But first he would consult his friends; if possible
obtain their sanction, and act in unison with others.
He met with no encouragement. One gravely rebuked
him for his presumption and conceit, and produced a
long list of eminent Kaffirs who had bowed before the
anchor. Another found in the absurdity of the anchor
faith its best evidence of solidity. It was, he said, a
faith too improbable for a Kaffir to have invented ;
any fool, he added, could believe a probable religion,
but it needed a superior Kaffir to swallow this. Some
put their tongues in their cheeks (a vulgar habit
amongst the Koussa Kaffirs), and said : “ Silly fellow,
we know all that as well as you do, but the anchor is
a profitable anchor, and as needs must, you shall be
one amongst the priests.”
Again, others said : “We, too, have our doubts, but
as a political engine we must retain our anchor. How
should we keep down the lower orders ? How restrain
our servants from pilfering without its influence and
sanctifying power. The fact is, that in our complicated
social system all society depends upon the anchor.”
“ Between ourselves,” one added, “ if heaven had not
sent that particular anchor some of us think we must
have sent to Woolwich for another.”
But the only arguments that caused him any hesi
tation, and which did give him some pain, were from
�8
“ Realities''
certain women who implored him not to destroy their
anchor idol. “ We cannot judge,” saidffine of these,
11 between your arguments and the conclusions we •
have been brought up to reverence. The anchor may
not be a god but only a symbol, but how beautiful a
one ! Does not the anchor save the ship ? And are not *
our own lives, too, like the storm-tossed vessel? That
anchor is associated with all we have felt, suffered,
prayed for. Destroy that symbol, and you wound
and endanger the deepest element of religion in our
hearts.”
Finally, one very intelligent friend said to him with
much solemnity: “-Rash man, forbear! . Stop while
there is time in a course that may bring down ruin on
the state and on yourself, and for the doing of which
you can have, as a rational being, no temptation what
ever. I grant you, you may be right, and the rest all
wrong; but what then? We can'know nothing of
the matter, and you may be wrong, Now, anyhow,
we are on the safe side of the hedge. If the anchor be
a devil he may do you harm, and if he be only a bit of
rusty iron,* you will be none the worse .for a bow and a
grimace.”
The rash man was immovable. Doomed by the
infernal gods to pay the penalty of having lit his
Promethean torch at Woolwich dockyard, armed with
a mighty hammer, and followed by an awe-struck
crowd, he fell upon the anchor, and with one mighty
blow, struck off the other fluke. It was his last!
Inspired by religious zeal, the Koussa Kaffirs rushed
upon him, and in the sight of the outraged anchor beat
his brains out on the beach. It was observed that his
friend who liked to be “ on the safe side ” threw the
first stone, and the advocate of public morals was the
next; after that they rained too thick to tell who did
the most.
Meantime the anchor of Koussa Kaffir will be
worshipped for a thousand years, for has it not slain
the only two men who dared to question its authority!
�
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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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"Realities": a contribution to the Pen and Pencil Society
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Taylor, Peter Alfred
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Place of publication: Ramsgate
Collation: 8 p. 18 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Printed by Turnbull and Spears, Edinburgh. First published in a 'New York newspaper' p. [3]. Tentative date of publication from KVK. The full name of the Society was: Plymouth Friends' Pen and Pencil Society. A satire.
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“Religious Education.”
A LETTER TO
CARDINAL MANNING.
PART I.
BY
London :
W. STEWART & Co., 41, FARRINGDON St., E.C.
��6 JO 7/
KT555
“Religious Education.”
May it Please Your Eminence,—I have read in the
Newcastle Daily Chronicle the report of your sermon,
delivered at St. Mary’s Cathedral, Newcastle-upon-Tyne,
on Saturday, September 26th, 1885. From your interest
ing biography, venerable age, and exalted position in the
Romish Church, your utterances challenge criticism.
Whether they challenge criticism from any intrinsic con
siderations I leave your readers and mine to decide.
Recognising that you and I respectively stand at the
very antagonising poles of modern tendency and thought,
I will make an effort to come within touch of you, in order
to, as far as possible, realise your position before I assail it.
Your attitude I recognise to be a complete anachronism:
it belongs to the time when Rufus founded a castle on
the banks of the Tyne, not to the generation in which
Stephenson spanned that river with an iron bridge.
Your Eminence lays stress upon the special solicitud(e
heaven took in children, although only the children of
Jews, before the Christian dispensation, and then you
exclaim:—
How much more, then, are yours—your children that are born
again by water and the Holy Ghost, and are made children of God
in a higher sense than the children of Israel—members of Christ,
heirs of the eternal heirship of the Son of God, of the kingdom of
heaven ?
Am I to infer from the hackneyed and half-meaningless
pulpit jargon of this passage that God likes Jew children
well, but Christian children better ? I have been told
by God, on the authority of his own book, that he is
“ no respecter of personsbut you apparently know
better. Has the unchangeable God changed his mind
and given your Eminence the advantage of a private
revelation, prefaced by : “ Don’t mind my old book : I
�4
RELIGIOUS EDUCATION. ’
am a much older and wiser God than I was when I wrote
that”? My children, your Eminence, are neither Jewish
nor Christian : perhaps you would be courteous enough
to say how he regards them. If there be a God who,
on account of the faith of its parents, would even com
paratively disfavour (as you allege he does) an innocent
child, I am glad I am only an Agnostic, and cannot,
by searching, find out such a God ; for, were I a Theist,
and could find him out, I should denounce him as a
malignant fiend and curse him to his face. Thrust aside
your theological tantrums for a moment, Cardinal Man
ning, and tell me if you are not ashamed of this mean
little godling you worship, who, before'he determines to
what degree he will love an innocent baby, takes into
consideration whether its parents are Jewish or Christian.
One of the reasons you allege why God loves the
Christian baby more than the Jewish one is, that the
former is “ born again by water and the Holy Ghost.”
Pray be good enough to step down for a moment from
your ranting theological perch to the firm ground of
common sense, and tell me, in the name of all that is
explicable, what this means. “ Born again by water and
the Holy Ghost” ! You know as well as I do that this
expression is as utterly nonsensical as if your Eminence
had said : “ Born again of a paving-stone and of the
fire-shovel.” Your dupes ask you for bread, and you
give them a stone; they ask for an idea, and you give
them words. Your Church conducts much of its service
in Latin, to impose upon the ignorant and keep them
ignorant; and your priesthood take care that their English
is as unintelligible as their Latin, the threadbare and labo
riously nonsensical platitudes of pontifical jargon. The
“fools and blind ” are awed by the presentiment that some
fearfully significant and mysterious meaning underlies
your priestly babblement. “Born again by water”!
Such jargon, instead of exciting reverent piety with those
with whom you have to cope now-a-days, evokes only
the irreverent contempt which asks : Do you refer to
parturition in a punt on the river, or to an accouchement
down in a diving-bell ? And as for your exceedingly
phantasmal Holy Ghost, will you tell me anything he
ever did, except his being mixed up with an affiliation
�“ RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.
5
case under remarkably shady circumstances, appearing
once in the guise of a dove or fantail pigeon, and once
again in the shape of “ cloven tongues as of firewhile
appearing as Paysandu tongues, at 9d. a lb., would have
been more to the purpose ? Is this scurrilous blasphemy?
So be it. It is our contemptuous reply to divine thimble
rigging. Give us arguments to deal with, and wre will
deal with them ; but insult our reason with the hackneyed
and vapid platitudes of professional priestcraft, and our
sneer and our sarcasm will give you to understand what
we think of them and you.
Your Eminence assures us that, as regards children—
They have an invisible guardian—an angel ever watching over
them.
Here, your Eminence, you have effectively curbed my
irreverent levity. To talk, as you do, of an “invisible
guardian ” watching over every child is too sinister and
solemn a mockery for flippant refutation. You are
double my age, Lord Cardinal. Have you not seen
children as I have seen them ? Do you speak in igno
rance, or do you speak in truculent and terrible jest ?
Have you seen the child, partially born, have its skull
crushed in in splinters upon its brain by iron forceps,
as the solution of the desperate alternative whether the
life of the mother or that of the child should be saved?
Where was the “invisible guardian’? Have you seen
the child born mutilated and covered with ulcers, fearful
heirloom from the sins and sorrows of its progenitors ?
Where was the “ invisible guardian ” ? Have you seen
the babe, with sunken eyes and ravenous lip, and the
haggard look that babyhood should never know, tug at
the milkless nipples of a-starving mother ? Where is the
“invisible guardian?” Have you seen that haggard
baby dead and shrouded in a newspaper, as I have seen
it, and smuggled surreptitiously into the coffin of an
adult pauper, and buried with him to save expense ?
Where was the “ invisible guardian ” ? That baby was
so buried in its newspaper cerements because its mother,
who followed it to the grave, through want, would not
stoop to prostitution, even to save its life and her own.
Where was the “ invisible guardian ” ? Have you seen,
�6
RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.
as I have seen, the child born in “ holy wedlock,” but with
the prostitution of its mother resorted to in order to save
its life and hers ; and have you seen that babe, as I have
seen it, drain from its mother’s breast the syphilitic virus
till the cartilege of the baby nose and the scalp on the
baby skull rotted away, and the innocent infant was
putrescent before it reached the tomb ? Where was the
“ invisible guardian ” ? Have you seen the prepossessing
female child fed and nurtured by its own parents, to be
sold to the lecher—incipient human flesh exposed on the
shambles of lust, and knocked down to the highest
bidder? Where was the “ invisible guardian ” ?
I could go on with interrogations like these, your
Eminence, mounting step after step in the terrible climax;
for I, who write to you, am a man who have turned from
the study of Greek to study the fearful moods and tenses
of the streets ; and I have left Hebrew that I might
study the square characters of the alleys and the Massorah of the slums. The hand that holds the pen that
now writes to you has lain upon the pulse of the world,
and felt all the irregular throbbings of the heart of
Humanity.
The eye that glances upon the paper
upon which this missive is written has, for God, gazed
through the clouds of the esoteric till it has been com
pelled to look down in Agnosticism, dimmed and blinded,
outside the unopening gates of Mystery. I have seen
falsehood on the throne, and truth on the scaffold; but
I have never traced, and neither have you, the action of
the “invisible guardian.”
In pleading for the support of schools in which the
Romish faith may continue to be inculcated, your
Eminence remarks:—
And, lastly, some of you, perhaps, may remember the schools of
this parish when you make your last will and testament, and your
Lord’s name will be found among the names of your heirs.
Did your Eminence so far master your risible tendencies
as to look sufficiently solemn for your sacred calling when
you uttered these words ? Cicero opines that two augurs
could not meet without laughing in each other’s faces,
in tacit recognition of how they managed to gull the
populace. When you spoke of Catholics executing their
�RELIGIOUS EDUCATION. »
7
wills, and making Jesus Christ one of their heirs, did
you, internally, put your divine thumb to your sacred
nose and extend your holy fingers? You well know
that Jesus Christ—whether that half-mythical character
ever really existed or not—wants none of your filthy lucre.
You use his name as the shears with which to shear the
sheep, that the fleece may come to the priests. This
lending money to the Lord in celestial debentures is a
very old confidence trick and financial swindle, Cardinal
Manning. The swindle has never been a farthing in the
pocket of “ the Lord,” whatever and whoever he may
be ; but it has, for centuries, swelled the coffers of a fat,
lazy, and licentious priesthood. For how many dreary
and black ages the priest of your baleful creed has
attended at the bedside of the dying man and indemni
fied the expiring wretch against the red fire of hell in
consideration of the Church receiving the red sheen of
his gold ! Is the palpable imposition not yet played
out ? How long, O Lord, how long, will the mothers of
our race only bear and suckle fools ?
Your Eminence goes on to say :—
I would fain much rather speak upon the Sermon on the Mount,
or upon the useful history of the gospel we have read to-day, than
upon the matter on which I may say necessity compels us at this
time to think with all the energy of our hearts—I mean the state
and condition of the education of this country, the peril that is
before us, the unconsciousness of that peril; and that peril multi
plied by the fact that men are not roused up or awakened to see
what is certain and inevitable in the future. Let us, then, con
sider this. From the seventh century down to the present the
education of the people of this land was a Christian education.
The Christianity of England was perpetuated by that which made
England in the beginning. At this moment we have come to what
I may call a deviation from that sacred tradition, which, until now,
has sustained the Christianity of the people of this land. Some
men will call it a new departure. It is the language of the day ;
and it is a useful phrase for us for it is a departure—a striking off
from the tradition, the broad highway of the people, of Christian
England. And we are threatened at this time with a system of
education neither Christian nor English, but borrowed from the
vain and shallow theories of the first French Revolution—that is to
say, a State education without definite teaching, and, therefore—I
will say it boldly—Christianity. Down to fifteen years ago the
education of this land was in the hands of the parents of children
and those whom they spontaneously and voluntarily chose. For
the last fifteen years the State has claimed the children as its own,
�RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.
and the State has claimed to be the educator of the children born
within its boundaries. These two principles are the principles of
the old Greek philosophy of the Platonic Republic, revived at the
end of the last century, as I have said, by the vainglorious and
superficial minds who wrecked the noble and Christian people of
France. And these two principles are establishing themselves in
the minds of the people of this country.
I quite credit your Eminence when you allege that you
would much rather dilate upon the “ Sermon on the
Mount ” than comment upon the, to you, extremely
painful fact of the education of the children of this
generation passing out of the hands of your Church, and,
indeed, out of the hands of Christianity. The “ Sermon
on the Mount,” with its cruel mockery and fiendish
sarcasm of '‘'■Blessed be ye poor,” is, possibly, the source
from which you have drawn your terrible trope anent the
“ invisible guardian ” which stands in watch and ward
over every child. But be assured, my Lord Cardinal,
that men are “ roused up or awakened to see what is
certain and inevitable in the future.” They see as clearly
as you do that the “ inevitable ” is that your Church is
doomed ; but they anticipate its dissolution and ruin with
equanimity, where they do not contemplate it with satis
faction. You, most reverend father, and your caste, have
lived upon the base craft of the priest and ascended on
the wings of sacerdotalism to the high places of the
earth; but those who do not belong to your craft have
had to maintain you, and they begin to find out that they
have been gulled too long by your wheedling them to
endure a hell upon earth on the promise that they will
have wings and glory in the skies. They are beginning
to discover that they know as much about the wings and
glory as you do, and find that they are so extremely
problematical that they have resolved to make the best
and the happiest of Here and Now, leaving the wings and
the glory to take care of themselves. They have resolved
that their children shall be taught Reading and Writing
and Arithmetic, and, where practicable, the “ Extra
Subjects and they have freely permitted themselves to
be rated for this purpose, and have practically told you
and yours to stand aside with your Gospels and your
“ Sermon on the Mount,” and let them have a little more
bread and intelligence here, and not stultify them any
�“religious education.”
9
longer with your child-bearing Virgin, your crucified
joiner, and your other monstrous, but to you profitable,
“ teachings ” upon which your poor dupes are to depend
for their wings and their glory.
The very France upon which your Eminence lays
such great stress is drifting away with England from
the rusty and obsolete moorings of your Church.
In France the item for education has just been con
sidered in the Budget; and, when Bishop Freppel
objected to secular schools, M. Debost replied that
they were gaining in popularity, having had since
last year 65,000 more attendants, while the scholars in
the Catholic schools have in the same time decreased
by 13,000. The establishment of professorship of the
History of Religions, to be filled with men who count
the Christian religion as but one among many, was also
very naturally objected to by the Bishop, as virtually
teaching a State irreligion. But to all this it was con
sidered sufficient to reply that these posts would be
filled by men like Ernest Havet and Renan, who would
discuss texts, and not dogmas.
What does your Eminence think of men of the type
of Ernest Renan and Ernest Havet? They are not
exactly the kind of persons upon whom your Church has
pronounced panegyrics. Your Almighty God and your
infallible Church are behind you. Strike and spare not.
Scatter the charred dust of the heretics on the wings of
the wind, as you were wont. You w’ould do so without
invocation from me; but your God has become decrepit
and your Church has become imbecile. There are, alas
for you, no lightning at Sinai to vindicate, no Holy
Inquisition at Rome to avenge. We “Infidels” have
emerged from the Stygian gloom. Our eyes have caught
from the far horizon the sunrise of the world’s morning;
and, long before the sun has climbed to the zenith, we
will stand with our heel upon the neck of your God and
your Church, proclaiming that heaven is annihilated and
hell extinguished, that the Demon of the Seven Hills is
dead, and that man, at last, is free.
Renan and Havet! Alas ! poor Cardinal. Your lines
have not fallen in pleasant places. Simeon Styletes,
standing uselessly on the top of his pillar praying, while
�IO
RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.
worms and vermin were eating holes through his shrunken
flesh into his sapless bones, was the type of manhood
your papist cultus produced. Marie Angelique, praying
forever, except when she stood on her head before the
Lord, and pointed up to his throne with her unwashed
heels ; or when she sucked, in his holy name, rags that
had bandaged and were saturated with the pus from sores,
was the model type of womanhood your Church pro
duced when she alone was the educator, and none
durst say unto her, What doest thou ?
Your Church, when all the power was hers, my Lord
Cardinal, inculcated a coarse, but devout, blasphemy far
beneath the mental and moral status of the School
Board system which you abhor. For instance, in
several churches of France, remarks Russell, in his
“ Modern Europe,” a festival was celebrated in com
memoration of the Virgin Mary’s flight into Egypt. It
was called the “ Feast of the Ass.” A young girl, richly
dressed, with a child in her arms, was placed upon an
ass superbly caparisoned. The ass was led to the altar
in solemn procession. High mass was said with great
pomp. The ass was taught to kneel at proper places ;
a hymn, no less childish than impious, was sung in his
praise; and, when the ceremony was ended, the priest,
instead of the usual words with which he dismissed the
people, brayed three times like an ass ! and the people,
instead of the usual response, brayed three times in
return!
Your Eminence objects to the School Board and to
secular education generally : no wonder, it is so exceed
ingly different from the “ religious education ” which
held sway when all the power was yours, and when Pro
testants and “ Infidels ” were unknown. A “ religious
education ” embraced profound speculations as to
whether Adam, not having a mother, was “created”
with a navel, and as to whether Christ could have taken
any other form but that of man—as, for instance, that of
a woman, of the devil, of an ass, of a cucumber, or of
a flint stone. Then, supposing he had taken the form
of a cucumber, how could he have preached, worked
miracles, or been crucified ? Whether Christ could be
called a man while he was hanging on the cross;
�RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.
I1
whether the Pope shared both natures with Christ;
whether God the Father could in any case hate the Son ;
whether the Pope was greater than Peter, and a thousand
other niceties far more subtle than those about
“notions,” “formalities,” “quiddities,” “ ecceities,” “in
stants,” and “essences.” This “religious education,”
whose demise you lament, disposed the mind all through
Christendom to give a ready credence to miracles worked
by bottles of Christ’s blood and bottles of Mary’s milk,
“ God’s coat,” “ our lady’s smock,” part of the last supper,
a piece of the halter with which Judas hanged himself,
a bone of Mary Magdalene, at least two different heads
of Thomas-^.-Becket, Christ’s picture on a handkerchief
which he had sent to Abgarus, Christ’s foreskin, and a
finger of the Holy Ghost. In the genuineness of these and
thousands of other sacred and miracle-working relics all
Europe believed, Cardinal Manning, when your Church
had undisputed power in education; and, in the few re
maining dark dens of ignorance where your power remains
unbroken, your dupes believe in these relics still; but,
except in her dens of ignorance, Europe will tolerate your
“ religious education ” no more forever.
Ichabod ! the glory of your house has departed ;
and it would not be without sympathy that I should
listen to your wail of desolation, your voice as of one
crying in the wilderness ; but I hear in your wail the
clarion-blast which heralds that the New World is
drawn up in battle-line against the Old. I hear in
your voice in the wilderness the clash of steel in the
Armageddon in which Truth shall conquer Error, and
from which the world shall emerge, not looking for its
salvation to your poor Jew upon Calvary, but looking to
the might that slumbers in its own heart and brain for the
working out of its own sanctification and redemption.
Your Eminence states that, “from the seventeenth
century down to the present,” the education of this
country has been a “Christian education.” Yes; but it
is just because Christianity was established in England
so early as the seventh century (it was established much
earlier than that, as your Eminence will see when you
begin to read history) that it should be continued no
longer. What suited the seventh century will not suit
�12
RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.
the nineteenth. Human progress is as slow as the
proverbial “ mills of Godstill, it is progress ; and
what suited lethargic Saxons or steel-shirted Danes under
Offa or Hardraga will not suit the awakening intelligence
of England in the reign of Victoria.
Could I sympathise with a terrible calamity falling
upon the defenceless head of Abaddon, I should sym
pathise with your Eminence in your cry of tribulation
thatvthe education of the children of our time is passing
—has almost passed—out of the control of the Church.
This, to your Christian Abracadabra, simply means
perdition. It was only because the Christian priesthood
got hold of plastic childhood, and maimed the intellect
and mutilated the understanding, that you got Christianity
to be accepted by any except lunatics. Try it with adults
who never heard of it till they were adults, and from
the experiment you will be able to determine whether
or not what I say is true. I make bold to allege that
there never was a really sane human being in the world
who had reached manhood before he had heard of Chris
tianity, and then adopted it from the appeal it made to
his mental and moral acceptance. You have tried the
adult Jew and the adult Hindoo for ages, and what have
you to show for your missionary zeal and vast monetary
sacrifice? Your labourers have got no souls for their
hire. The field consecrated by their devotion, and not
infrequently watered with their blood, is sterile. The
effort is stupendous, and the result is mV.
No wonder that you cry with a bitter and despairing
cry that the children are taken from you. For centuries
you have crippled and debased them to bring them down
to the low standard of your creed and render them
the half-hewn caryatides to support the superstructure of
your wealth and power and splendour. It is in youth
the Chinese must distort the feet of their ladies into the
pedal abortions upon which Chinese ladies walk. If
they tried to do so in later life, the more consolidated
tarsal and metatarsal bones would resist, and the woman
would perish before the deformity was effected. It is
only in early youth you can bend the credence into accept
ing as fact that Jonah was three days “ in the whale’s
belly,” and that the Son of Man was three days “in
�“religious
education.”
13.
the heart of the earth;” and that, at the end of three days,
Jonah got vomited out on dryland ; and that, at the end
of three days, the Son of Man got up out of his grave
and flew to heaven. Tell this to any man out of Colney
Hatch, and see whether he will believe you. Then, is
it moral to impose to such an extent upon the innocent
credulity of a child as to impress fables upon him as
facts, and burn them so deeply into his soul with the
accursed branding-irons of your priestcraft that the
intellect of his manhood is unable to deface the scars ?
You can rely upon the judgment finding for Christianity
only when that judgment is strongly warped by early
prejudice. Without the instilling of that early prejudice
you cannot make Christians, and you never will. You
use with skill all the most powerful influences of mental
distortion : you use shuddering fear ; you use the most
exalted love. You terrify the child with the fire and
brimstone of your hell, and you decoy him with the
tenderest emotions to which the human heart ever
throbbed; for the child first lisps his prayer at his
mother’s knee, and, in after years, the words have still
memories of a mother’s kiss and the halo of a vanished
face and the echo of a voice that is no more. The first
dread of hell, the first memories of a mother’s love, are
skilfully linked on to a debased and degrading supersti
tion, and they are, alas! too often strong enough to
support that superstition through a whole life. And this
deep engraining of prejudice, in favour of monstrosities
which, but for this prejudice, wrould never, on their own
merits, have had a moment’s serious consideration, is
what you and your clerical fraternity of all denomina
tions call Education ! Education, forsooth—it is the
very antithesis of it. You know that the intellect, if left
unmutilated till it matured, -would attach at most as
much credence to the Arthurian as to the Gospel legends.
Accordingly, to make sure that the intellect shall never
see above and beyond the “ truths ” which must be
believed in the interests of priestcraft, you take the
intellect in its infancy and burn out its eyes, or at least
afflict them with myopia and a malignant squint.
And this is Education ! For shame, my Lord Cardinal 1
If your Christianity be so true and reasonable, wait till
�14
RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.
the reason is developed before you attempt to teach.
I will then make you welcome to the half-dozen idiots in
all England who will believe your fable. But, in the
name of all that is sacred in the soul of the race, desist
from mutilating the intellect and debasing the morals
of little children in the interests of your irrational and
execrable creed. They are guilty who mutilate the feet
of Chinese girls, that when they become women they
may not wantonly walk into their neighbour’s houses;
but thrice damned is the guilt of those who mutilate the
intellects of European boys and girls, that when they
become men and women they may “ walk in the way of
the Lord.”
The section of the Christian Church of which your
Eminence is an ornament has always presumed upon the
crass ignorance of its votaries, and done its best to keep
that ignorance devotedly dense. But surely you presume
too much upon the ignorance of even the dupes of the
Church of Rome when you slanderously refer to “ the
vainglorious and superficial minds who wrecked the
noble and Christian people of France.” Surely some,
even in your ignorant auditory, must have had a surmise
that the “vainglorious and superficial minds” you referred
to were the Economists and the Encyclopaedists. Your
disparaging sneer was flung at Voltaire, D’Alembert,
Diderot, Duclos, Mably Condillac, Rousseau, Turgot,
Marmontel, Helvetius, and Raynal. Was there not,
even in the dull brains of the bigots who listened to you
at Newcastle as you sneered at “ superficial minds,” some
unbidden vision of a living pigmy kicking at a phalanx
of dead colossus ?
And, as for “the noble and Christian people of France,”
where did they exist outside of the prejudiced imagina
tion of your Eminence ? As for the people of France
before the Revolution you deplore, “ Christian ” they
may have been ; but “ noble ” they were not. The world
has never seen—and may the world never see again—a
people so utterly trampled down into the abyss of want
and misery and general degradation. Every schoolboy
knows this ; but your Eminence, apparently, does not
know it—or, rather, does not want to know it. “ Every
thing was fastened on by a few hands; everywhere the
�“ RELIGIOUS EDUCATION/’
J5
smaller number was in set opposition to the plundered
many. The nobility and clergy possessed nearly twothirds of the landed property ; the other third, possessed
by the people, paid taxes to the crown, a multitude of
feudal dues to the nobility, tithes to the clergy, and was,
moreover, subjected to the devastations of noble sports
men and the depredations of their game. The taxes
upon commodities weighed upon the great mass, and,
consequently, heaviest upon the people. The mode of
levying them was vexatious; the gentry might be in
letters with impunity; the people, on the contrary, were
ill-treated and imprisoned in default of payment. It
maintained by the sweat of its brow and defended with
its blood the higher classes, while scarcely able to subsist
itself. The inhabitants of towns, industrious, enlightened
—less miserable, certainly, than the peasantry, but en
riching the country by their industry and reflecting credit
upon it by their talents—enjoyed none of the advantages
io which they were entitled. Justice, administered in
some provinces by the gentry, in the royal jurisdictions
by magistrates who had bought their offices, was slow,
often partial, always ruinous, and especially atrocious in
criminal cases. Personal liberty was violated by lettres
de cachet, the liberty of the Press by royal censors.
Lastly, the State, ill-defended abroad, betrayed by the
mistresses of Louis XV., compromised by the ministers
of Louis XVI., had just been dishonoured in the eyes
of Europe by the shameful sacrifice of Holland and
Poland.”* So much for “the noble and Christian people
of France,” and the glorious state of affairs that the
“ superficial minds ” overthrew !
It is with diffidence I remind your Eminence of what
a “ noble and Christian people” the French were before
the “superficial minds” wrecked their nobility and
Christianity. To pay the infamous gabelle, a tax on
salt of about sevenpence in the pound, and other grievous
taxes, “ I have known poor people,” says Michelet, “sell
their beds and lie upon straw ; sell their pots, kettles,
and all their necessary household goods, to content the
unmerciful collectors of the king’s taxes.” There is a
* Thiers’ “ History of the French Revolution,” vol i., p. 9.
�“religious
16
education.”
well-known official document extant which proves that
the people were oppressed to such a degree that they,
“ could not buy wheat or barley ; they had to live on
oats, to nourish themselves on grass, and even to die of
hunger.” “ The people have not money to buy bread ;”
and Foulon, the model tax-collector, retorted : '"'■Then kt
them eat grass ”—this “ noble and Christian people of
France,” whose exalted position the “ superficial minds ”
so wickedly overthrew! No doubt your Eminence
admires the corvee with the admiration you lavish upon
the vingtieme and the gabelle. By virtue of this corvee,
on certain days in each year, the officers of the Court
went through the country, seized the peasants at will,
and marched them off in droves to make or repair the
public roads. For this the peasants received no pay;
and, if they could not, during their short respites from
labour, beg enough to keep themselves alive, they might
perish of hunger. Your Comte de Charolois amused
himself by going about with his musket in his hand,
looking out for peasants thatching their cottages, that
he might fire at and shoot them for the sport of seeing
them roll off the roof to the ground. How deplorable
it is to be sure that the “ superficial minds ” should
object to such a happy condition of affairs among “ the
noble and Christian people of France !”
Every Thzirsday.
THE
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Text
“Religious Education.”
A LETTER TO
CARDINAL MANNING.
PART II.
BY
London :
W. STEWART & Co., 41, FARRINGDON St., E.C.
�.......
¿ 1i
�B3 0 7y
“Religious Education.”
And, Cardinal Manning, you will be gratified to hear
that your Church played an exceedingly prominent part
in the state of affairs the abolition of which you lament»
Great numbers of “ the noble and Christian people of
France ” were Huguenots. We will say nothing of how
your Church waded through the blood of 70,000 of these
Huguenots on a certain eve of St. Bartholomew. But
here is a record in regard to how your Christian Catholics
loved the Christian Huguenots : “ Some they stripped
naked, and, after they had offered them a thousand
indignities, they stuck them with pins from head to foot;
they cut them with pen-knives, tore them by the noses
with red-hot pincers, and dragged them about the rooms.
........... They tied fathers and husbands to the bed-posts,
and ravished their wives and daughters before their
eyes.”* No doubt, since your Eminence considers these
the amenities of a “ noble and Christian people,” you are
justified in your opposition to the un-Christian character
of School Board education. It will certainly not pro
duce the state of things you seem to admire. No set of
men brought up at a Board school will ever see any
motive to use red-hot pincers upon the flesh of those
trained at any other Board school. The teaching of
secular subjects produces no such result. To produce
adult actors in the red-hot pincers tragedy, you must train
children m the horrid dogmas and ruthless intolerance of
your Church. All the murder and martyrdom has been
over your Catechisms. I have never heard that an inch
of human flesh has been scorched, or that a drop of
human blood has been shed, over the Rule-of-Three.
Quicks “Synodicon,” vol. i., pp. 130-131.
�4
RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.
If you want all the old stabbing and scorching and
persecution and hatred to go on as they were wont, you
will, in early childhood, have to lay the substratum on
which they are based. The School Board will engender
only Philadelphia and cosmopolitanism; therefore, you
do well to attempt to arrest its hand, if you desire a con
tinuance of theological sectarianism and rancour. Get
hold of the children, if you can, my Lord Cardinal;
for it will take very early and unfair initiation to induce
them to tolerate, much less adore, your creed and
you. I repeat, Get hold of them early, if you can ; for
remember the truism Dryden renders so epigrammatically
in his “ The Hind and the Panther —
‘ ‘ By education most have been misled ;
So they believe because they so were bred.
The priest continues what the nurse began,
And thus the child imposes on the man.”
The Due de Chartres built himself a magnificent
brothel, to which from 150 to 200 fallen women were
led each night blindfolded. A gorgeous supper, com
prising the most generous and heating wines, was what
met the eyes of the wantons when the bandages were
removed therefrom. The 150 or 200 women sat down
to the feast in a state of perfect nudity, and had. the
fiery vintages poured out to them by the assembled
*
libertines.
Modesty cries to Mercy to let the curtain
drop upon this carnival of lust participated in by “ the
noble and Christian people of France,” before the
“ superficial minds ” incited the populace to wash away
the stains of Christian lechery in the blood of a godless
revolution. Madame de Pompadour founded that “ noble
and Christian ” institution, the Parc aux Cerfs, and to
this institution were decoyed pretty maidens, no matter
how young, to minister to the pampered sensualities of
the king when Pompadour herself, in the course of years,
had lost her fascinations as a courtesan. A secret police
was instituted to entice, or kidnap, these young girls for
sensual orgies in the Parc aux Cerfs. The pious
Christian king insisted that these girl-children should tell
their beads and say their prayers, anxious that he should
* Vide “ Regede Louis XVI.;” “ Soulaire,” vol. ii., pp. 103, 104,
�RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.'
5
have their bodies and that Christ should have their souls.
Christ generously responded to this solicitude. One of
the little kidnapped ministers of the king’s licentiousness,
a girl of fourteen, had contracted small-pox. From the
girl, in whom it was as yet undeveloped, the king caught
the disease. The malady was fire to tinder in the
corrupt and poisonous blood of the royal débauchée.
His body was one mass of nauseating putrescence. The
stench from the dying lecher was so intense that no one
could go near the bed upon which he festered and died.
Before the writings of the “ superficial minds ” had had
time to take effect, your God, Cardinal Manning, took
this “ noble and Christian ” king unto himself, because
that, when debauching the bodies of little girls, he was
so solicitous that Christ should have their souls !
In 1777 the surface of their “noble and Christian”
France was crawled over by 1,200,000 diseased beggars,
all hungry, all in rags, all criminal and murderous, all
suffering from hideous diseases which want and filth had
brought on, but all “ noble and Christian.” For mercy’s
sake, your Eminence, do, when you are moved by the
Lord Jesus Christ to speak, insist that he move you to
speak a little nearer the truth ! Remember you are not
speaking amid the darkness of the seventh century, to
which you refer so fondly. Remember that I, an ir
reconcilable layman, conduct a journal which shrinks
not from the duty of speaking plainly to you, Cardinal
though you be. The only arguments you ever had to
meet such objections as I raise, such criticisms as I offer,
were of the dungeon-and-fire order ; and neither of these
you can now employ against me. The storm of public
opinion has' blown the roof off your dungeon, and Freethought stands defying you with her foot placed upon
the torch that lit your martyr-fires. Do, then, keep a
little nearer the truth ; for, if you do not, I promise you
I will strike and spare not ; and although the clientele I
appeal to may not, in your opinion, be “ noble,” and is
certainly not “ Christian,” it is neither small nor power
less ; and it prefers my history to your faith, my blasphemy
to your mass, and my sarcasm to your prayers. This
clientele can, if you persist in putting forward devout
fallacies, afford to dispise your Eminence ; but your
�6
“ RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.’
Eminence cannot afford to despise it; for, unlike you,
it raises no wail that its house is falling into decay : it
faces you, young indeed, but strong and resolute ; and,
panoplied in the armour of truth and righteousness, it
means to go forward conquering and to conquer, till
“ noble” does mean noble, and till the term “ Christian”
is first execrated and then abandoned.
Let the tree of Roman Catholic education be judged
by its fruits. Those ignorant and down-trodden thralls
of “ noble and Christian France ” are a specimen of
the fruits. Do you object: “ These are the fruits of
the laic branches of the tree”? Very well, your
*
Eminence, I am willing to stand by testing the fruit on
the cleric branches of the tree—by the very Pope
on the chair of St. Peter. Pope Sergius III., the vice
gerent of God upon earth, lived in concubinage with a
woman named Marocia. Pope John X. lived in con
cubinage with Theodora, a younger sister of Marocia.
Pope John XII. converted the papal palace into a perfect
seraglio, and lost his life by the hand of a husband whose
wife he had dishonoured. Pope John XVII. pursued
the same licentious course, and also perished under the
hand of an avenging husband. Benedict IX. led such
a scandalous life that he outraged even the too tolerant
laxity of the Roman citizens, and was expelled the city.
Clement V. lived in concubinage with his own relative,
the Countess of Perigord. Paul III. was a Sodomite.
Pope Sixtus IV., the founder of the Inquisition, and who
is reported to have died of venereal disease, opened
brothels in Rome, which produced an annual income of
20,000 ducats, which went to help to support the luxurious
lechery of your most holy Christian Church. It was the
same Pope who, in reply to the petition of Cardinals
Robere, Riario, and San Lucas, requesting that Sodomy
might be permitted in Rome during the warm months of
June, July, and August, wrote on the margin of the
petition, “ Let it be so.” And as to Alexander VI., the
Borgia, what thinks your Eminence of him as a specimen
of the fruit of your Christian teaching? He lived in
concubinage with a young girl called Catalina Vanoci: by
her he had several sons and one daughter, the infamous
Lucretia. Lucretia became the concubine of her own
�RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.
7
father, the Pope of Rome and vicegerent of God, and
cohabited with her own brothers, Luigi and Caesar.
This holy father-in-God—and father and more of
Lucretia—died of poison which he had himself prepared
for three Cardinals, and which he took in mistake. We
learn from Burnet’s exposition that indulgence in un
natural lusts was so prevalent among ecclesiastics that
St. Bernard, in a sermon preached to the clergy of
“ noble and Christian France,” affirmed Sodomy to be so
common in his time that bishops Sodomised with other
bishops! What think ye of this, your Eminence? Have
I shown you sufficient specimens of the fruit of your
Roman Catholic education? If I have not, say so, and
I will show you more. Give us, who believe in secular
education, a fair chance; give our system some fifteen
centuries, as yours has had, and see whether we will not
produce better fruit. One thing is certain : we can
hardly produce worse.
Your “religious education,” my Lord Cardinal, but
for influences which were non-Christian—nay, antiChristian—would have blotted out forever all the
learning that the past centuries of the world had accu
mulated. While your Church was piously and labo
riously discussing such problems as Was Adam’s faeces
before the Fall malodorous? How many angels at a
time can stand on the point of a needle ? the learning
which dead Greece had left, the learning which mighty
Rome had bequeathed to the world as she herself
crashed and crumbled into ruin, was trodden under the
brute hoofs of your Christian Church, but taken up and
cherished as a priceless boon by the followers of the
Prophet of Islam, whom your Church despised and
hated. “ All the knowledge of mathematics, astronomy,
medicine, and philosophy, propagated in Europe from
the tenth century onward, was derived principally from
the schools and books of the Arabians in Italy and
Spain.”* “ Mere human learning,” as your Christianity
contemptuously called it, owed its salvation from extinc
tion to the persecuted and detested Saracen.
No, your Eminence; learning never did flourish
Mosheim, vol. ii., p. 194.
�RELIGIOUS EDUCATION/
under Christian auspices ; and she only dares to par
tially assert herself now because Christianity is rent and
shattered and half-dead, and where she could once bury
the Albigensian heresy under a million of bloody corpses
she is now impotent to break and silence a bitter pen
like mine. Learning was never at all in the line of the
followers of your uneducated carpenter and his illiterate
fishermen. Your creed, my Lord Cardinal, was hatched
in the nest of Ignorance, and only on the dunghill of
Ignorance can it thrive. Learning, I repeat, was never
in the Christian line; but, to cheer and encourage your
Eminence, I will tell you what was in the Christian line.
From accounts of the Council of Pavia we find that
horses and hawks and gambling and harlots and drunken
ness were very much in the Christian line, and very con
spicuously distinguished the Christian priesthood. And
as for the sanctity of woman, your Church conserved it
as such a sacred trust that the same Council remarks
of your religious houses : “ They seem to be rather
brothels than monasteries.” From accounts of the
Council of Mayence—and, remember, the accounts
of these Councils were not written by wicked Infidels,
but by devout Catholics—it is candidly remarked
that “some priests, cohabiting with their own sisters,
have had children by them.” How to make convents
into brothels, and how to have children by their own
sisters, was the kind of learning your priesthood culti
vated when they were not deep in absorbing studies as to
the exact odour of prelapsarian excrementum, whether
Adam, having had no mother, had a navel, and the
precise number of angels that could stand on the point
of a needle.
One other branch of “ religious education ” was parti
cularly in the Christian line; and, in this branch, the
Christians left the Saracens and all other pagans far
behind. This branch of a “ religious education ” in
which your Church so greatly excelled was Hatred. The
Christians could hate each other more bitterly, and per
secute each other more cruelly, than any other religionists '
on the face of the earth, and their ancient excellence in
this department of polite learning is not yet entirely lost.
It was, as you are no doubt aware, the common proverb
�“ RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.”
9
of the pagans, “ No wild beasts are so hostile to men as
are Christian sects to one another.” No one save rival
Christians ever drenched the fields of the earth with
blood over a diphthong, or ever flew at each other’s
*
throats over such hair-breadth twaddle as the difference
between Filioque and no Filioqne, till the Christian
Church was permanently rent into two sections, the
Latin and the Greek. We have seen the results of
“ religious education ” when your Church had the power.
These things were done in the green tree ; we shall take
care they are not done in the dry.
Is your Eminence aware that in 1861 (before the
institution of the School Board which you deplore), of
persons sent to prison, 8^ per cent, were under 16
years of age. In 1870 7 per cent, were under 16. In
1884 only 3 per cent., and this 3 per cent, has been found
to consist almost entirely of children who have managed
to elude attendance at school. So much for the abhorred
School Board and the diminution of criminality; but,
then, criminality and devotion to your Church go
together; and thus it is that you practically lament that
crime is on the decline. Statistics show with inexorable
clearness that, out of all proportion to their numerical
efficiency outside, the inmates of our prisons are Roman
Catholics. With Superstition and Ignorance you always
must have Crime; but, then, without Superstition and
Ignorance you cannot have Christianity, and, of course,
from a priest’s point of view, better have Crime with
Catholicism than throw over Catholicism to get rid of
Crime.
Before the Education Act of 1870, which is so detest
able to your Eminence, the so-called National Schools
were, as a judicious writer remarks, only sq in name, and
they were administered by one religious denomination,
being therefore under the control of its sectarian influence,
while also supplying instruction to a comparatively small
number of children. The remainder were to be found
in the Dame Schools, British and Ragged Schools, and
the Voluntary Schools of various denominations. But
* I refer to the dispute between the Homoousians and Homoibusians.
�TO
RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.'
what of the larger residue ? They were running about
the streets; they were ignorant and uncared for, except
at the hands of noble philanthropists, like the late Lord
Shaftesbury and his colleagues. Imbibing the instincts
of idleness and crime, without a counteracting check,
they sapped the healthy life of the growing generation.
Crime among the juvenile classes had grown to such an
extent that in 1870 no less than 9,998 children were
committed to prison for a variety of offences. Over all
educational facilities for their improvement the State
possessed no control, excepting where schools were
subject to Government inspection as the condition of
receiving grants of public money.
And, in the incontrovertible words of another writer,
“ the Board Schools have through good and evil report
sown the seeds of a new era. The children who go back
to the slums from the Board Schools are themselves
quietly accomplishing more than Acts of Parliament,
missions, and philanthropic crusades can ever hope to
do. Already the young race of mothers, the girls who
had the benefit for a year or two of the Education Act,
are tidy in their persons, clean in their homes, and decent
in their language. Let the reader who wishes to judge
for himself of the physical and moral results which educa
tion has already accomplished go to any Board School
recruited from the ‘ slum ’ districts, and note the differ
ence in the older and younger children ; or attend a
Board meeting, where the mothers come to plead
excuses for their little ones’ non-attendance, and mark
the difference between the old and young mothers,
between those who, before they took ‘mates’ or husbands,
had a year or two of school training, and those who had
given birth to children in the old days of widespread
ignorance.” But all this indisputable improvement of
the social, moral, and intellectual condition of the masses
is, of course, to your Eminence, only a cold and comfort
less fact, seeing that your theological absurdities are being
neglected, and stubborn knees are being trained that will
not genuflect to crosses and relics ; manly voices being
trained, but not to whine your litanies; and above all,
breeches pockets being plenished which will not disgorge
their contents for penance and purgatorial fees for vest-
�“ RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.”
11
merits and images and candle-sticks .and altars and
painted glAss and mummery.
My Lord Cardinal, it is a simulation and a mockery
for you to speak about education at all. As a Cardinal
of the Romish Church, your comments upon education
are about as valuable as would be those of Satan upon
holy water. It has ever been your aim and policy to
murder education; he who murders any person is the
last one in the world whose sincerity we should trust in,
should he evince a specially anxious affection for the
person he had murdered.
I am sorry that the limits of this letter preclude
my giving more than the very vaguest outline of the
learning (?) of your Christian priesthood and the attitude
they have from first to last taken up as regards education.
However the exigencies of the time may urge upon you
to enunciate your theory to-day, we well know what your
attitude has been through all the centuries of your domi
nation. You have ever maintained that the wisdom of
man (and, in the name of casuistry, what other wisdom is
there ?) is foolishness in the sight of God. The unalter
able attitude of your faith towards education, about
which you now orate, may be summed up in the wellknown retort of the infallible Pope, Felix V. A cardinal
one day ventured to reproach him for his ignorance,
whereupon, with pious bigotry, the pontiff replied : “ The
Holy Ghost is not an ass, is it? Well, it will inspire me.
That is its business.” You educated, and (because you
change not unless when you cannot possibly help it) you
would still educate Christendom on the old-fashioned
lines of the Holy Ghost. Now, this Holy Ghost may be
very well as “ the comforter ” to devout imbeciles who
feel the peristaltic movements of the abdominal viscera,
and mistake them for the action of the Holy Spirit. Rut
this Holy Ghost, “the comforter,” is no schoolmaster,
and this I say to his face ; and if he, she, or it have no
face, then I say it to its os coccyx, or whatever part of
it it is decorous to address.
Your infallible Felix V. sounded the keynote of the
devilward march of your hierarchy when, instead of to
study, he gave himself up to gluttony and volup
tuousness, and where anything like education was
�12
RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.
wanted left the matter in the hands, or feet, or
tentacula, or some such organs, of the Holy Ghost.
And this said Holy Ghost has shirked its business
deplorably. It has been as successful in standing to man
in the place of education as the other third part of a
juggle of a deity has been in redeeming the world. The
party that permits me to speak in its name, your
Eminence, has had enough of the Holy Ghost as a
schoolmaster. We mean to dismiss this ghost, and try
some mortal with a degree from an university, or a certi
ficate from a training college. Besides being a school
master, this ghost of yours has figured as a dove, or
pigeon. The world will figure better when it sees this
pigeon finally baked into a pie and its feet sticking up
through the crust. Is this offensive ? It is not our time
to apologise; it is yours. You first insult our sense and
outrage our reason with your divine twaddle and pious
balderdash, and then expect us to be deferential and
apologetic. Your absurdity and cant is as revolting to
the Agnostic as the Agnostic’s anti-Christian blasphemy
can be to you. Cease to print your inane and insane
lunacies, and, of course, we will cease to attack them.
But, in the interests of the sanity of our race, in the
interests of man’s practicable hopes and rational aspira
tions, insult us no more with the pious legerdemain and
divine conjuring tricks of your pulpits; or, with the
most savage cat-o’-nine tails that sarcasm can wield, we
will lash your rhinoceros hide, O Church, till you will be
glad to find even in the depths of hell a refuge from our
scourge.
You have heard of the lex talionis, your Eminence.
Feel it. We are not your friends. We are your enemies
to the death. We refuse in the interests of conventional
amity to forget your faith’s diabolical record of over a
thousand years. Rivers of the best blood of Europehave, O Church, been let loose by your sword. They
have flowed into a sea of vengeance over which now
gather the thunder-clouds that will burst and shatter
you. These rivers of human blood flow between us and
you ; and over them we refuse to reach you any olive
branch. The charred bones of Giordano Bruno lie
between us and you. The flame that shrivelled up his
�RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.
z3
majestic brain and heroic heart yet throws its heat upon
our “ Infidel ” cheek, and over these bones—holier than
tons of your priestly relics—we swear, by our deathless
and relentless hatred of wrong and tyranny, that with
you we will hold neither truce nor parley, that our helmet
shall never leave our head, that day or night our swordbelt shall never be ungirded till your utter destruction is
accomplished and guarantee thereby given that you, O
Rome, will curse the world no more.
“ Christian education ” indeed, your Eminence !
Unless you presumed upon the impenetrable ignorance
of your dupes, you would never dare to refer to such a
sinister sham and flagitious hypocrisy. I say it delibe
rately, judicially, and ' perfectly prepared to take up the
gauntlet of any historical student who may challenge
me : Christian education has been the curse of Europe.
From the very first, Christianity “ despised all knowledge
that was not useful to salvation.”* A great majority
of Christians were anxious “ to banish all reason and
philosophy out of the confines of the Church.”f Up to
the time when Constantine, the libertine and murderer,
took Christianity by the hand, and she found she was in
a position to argue with the sword and debate with the
heading-axe, she took no further pains to discipline
herself in what she contemptuously called mere human
learning. Formerly a section of the Christian priesthood
had taken some interest in such learning, in order to be
able to argue with the Pagan; but the Christian was able
now to argue with the Pagan in a far different fashion—
with the dungeon and the stake, and accordingly “ the
liberal arts and sciences and polite literature fell into a
declining condition.’’^ This Christian bigotry and
murderous persecution asserted itself till, in the words
of Moshiem,§ “ learning was almost extinct; only a
faint shadow of it remained.” Philosophy was persistently neglected, for, writes Moshiem, “ nearly all
supposed that religious persons could do very well without
it, or, rather, ought never to meddle with it.”
I could go on interminably, your Eminence, in demon
* “ Decline and Fall,” chap. xv.
J “Jorian,” vol. ii., p. 212.
+ “ Mosheim,” vol. i., p. 148.
§ Vol. i., p. 359.
�14
“religious education.”
strating that your Church not only utterly neglected
“worldly learning,” but that it assumed to it an attitude
of actual hostility; but I presume that even you, with
your faculty for pious romancing will not pretend there is
any way of rebutting the charge in this respect; so, turn
ing from your neglect of and hostility to “ mere human
learning,” I shall briefly revert to the “ religious educa
tion ” which you have inculcated for fifteen centuries,
and which you teach to-day. You want the education of
the children of this our England to be in your hands.
You teach that these children must be baptised, or that
they will be damned. So urgently do you contend for
this barbarous hocus-pocus of baptism that, if the mother
be likely to die while she is in a state of pregnancy, she
must be cut up alive so that the foetus may be extracted
alive and baptised to obviate its spending an eternity in
fire and brimstone. The sweetness and delicacy of this
doctrine is as conspicuous as its loving kindness of
the fiery sort that demonstrates itself in never-dying
worms and inextinguishable flames. This, your Eminence,
teaches us the incalculable importance of a few drops of
water at the right time, and the ineffective impotence of
the whole Pacific at, say, five seconds subsequent to the
right time. It also teaches us how profound are the
divine mysteries of a “ religious education.”
One beauty of belonging to your Church, your
Eminence, is exceedingly solacing and comforting, and
that is, that you and your fellow Catholics will be saved,
and that all the rest of the world will be damned; for I
find, from your “ Ordo Administrandi Sacramenti,” that
outside “ the true Catholic Faith ” “ no one can be
saved.” Of course, this is quite certain. It is also very
modest; there is not a vestige of blasphemous cheek
about it. The whole world has been “ created ” for the
purpose of being roasted for ever and ever, to afford
amusement to the handful of Catholics who will sit up
aloft in heaven looking down upon the agony wriggle of
the infernal pit. The inhabitants of the globe have
been estimated at 1,000,000,000, and the Catholics amount
to only 160,000,000. Heaven will be the dress-circle,
and Hell will be the stage ; and those on the stage,
amusing those in the dress-circle, dancing an agony break-
�‘religious education.’
15
down, and footing the fiery jig of the damned, will be out
of all proportion to the mere handful of privileged Papists,
wearing crowns, waving wings, thumbing harps, and
looking on. This doctrine is as humble as it is humane,
and gives us a divine insight into the glories of a “ re
ligious education.” It must be so gratifying to a true
Catholic to see his Protestant wife in endless torment.
She was loving and true and noble. She bore him sons
and daughters. In poverty, distress, and sickness she
stood by him with that self-denying and heroic tender
ness with which woman alone is gifted. She was the wife
of his bosom; but now, in hell, she leaps into the em
brace of devils. All this because she could accept the
Tweedledum of Consubstantiation, but not the Tweedledee of Transubstantiation. For this “ thou art com
forted” and she is “tormented.” So much for the
unspeakable happiness of “religious education.” I am
only an “ Infidel,” and only imperfectly appreciate it.
In fact, honesty impels me to make the impious admis
sion that I desire to be with my wife and children
wherever they are. I wish to be with them, whether
they be in Heaven, Hell, or Annihilation.
The “religious education” of your Eminence implies
subscription to the creed that, “ in the most holy Sacra
ments of the Eucharist, there are truly, really, and sub
stantially the body and blood, together with the soul and
divinity of our Lord Jesus Christ; and that there is made
a conversion of the whole substance of the bread into
the body and of the whole substance of the wine into
the blood.”* After you have eaten a slice of this God
who made the earth and then came down to it as a
joiner and made wheelbarrows, your “religious educa
tion ” advises those who have eaten hocus-pocussed Godand-joiner to pray as follows : “ May thy body, O Lord,
which I have received, and thy blood which I have
drank, cleave to my bowels, and grant that no stain of sin
may remain in me who have been fed with this pure and
holy sacrament.”! If I could humbly 'presume to
comment on a mystery so sacred, I should reverently
* “ Ordo Ministrandi Sacramenti.”
+ “ Missal for the Use of the Laity,” p. 30.
�16
“religious education.”
observe that, after you have eaten a world-maker and
wielder of a jack-plane, there is little wonder if he should
“ cleave ” to your “ bowels,” that you should be afflicted
with divine constipation ; but I should, with therapeutic
piety, suggest that you work off the god with Glauber salts
and the joiner with jalap. Is this blasphemous, your Emi
nence ? It is infinitely less blasphemous than your missal.
Mine is a drastic attempt to make men sane; yours is an
insidious attempt, in the interests of priestcraft, to keep
men cross-signing and genuflecting idiots.
Price Twopence.
Every Thursday.
THE
SECULAR
REVIEW:
A JOURNAL OF AGNOSTICISM.
EDITED BY SALADIN.
Order of your Newsagent, or send direct to the Publishers—W.
Stewart & Co., 41, Farringdon Street, London( E.C.
HISTORICAL PAMPHLETS.
A Reply to Cardinal Manning, by Saladin ...
The Crusades, by Saladin
The Covenanters, by Saladin
Christian Persecution, by Saladin ...
The Flagellants, by Saladin
The Iconoclasts, by Saladin
The Inquisition, Part I., by Saladin
...
The Inquisition, Part II., by Saladin
The Dancers, Shakers, and Jumpers, Part I., by Saladin
The Dancers, Shakers, and Jumpers, Part II., by Saladin
The Persecution of the Jews, Part I., by Saladin
The Persecution of the Jews, Part II., by Saladin
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NATIONAL SECULAR SOCT^ty
“Religious Education.”
A LETTER. TO
CARDINAL MANNING.
FART III.
WITH
ADDENDA.
London:
W. STEWART & Co., 41, FARRINGDON St., E.C.
��B 30?9
M5 <>7
“Religious Education.”
Have I recommended purgatives to work deity and
mechanic out of the enterics of saints? May I point
out, your Church, in its “ religious education,” proceeds
on somewhat similar lines ? I find, from a rubric in the
“ Roman Missal,”* what is to be done with Christ, pro
viding that the saint vomit him ! The blasphemy implied
in a “ poor worm of the dust ” retching away and
vomiting God is a hyperbole of sacrilege to which I
cannot aspire to reach, and I leave all the honour and
glory of it to the Roman Catholic Church. I find that,
according to the rubric (how unspeakable the advantages
of a “ religious education ” !), the vomit is to be kept in
“some sacred place” till it is “corrupted”—in other
words, till God is rotten. It is so considerate of your
Church to thus write down to the level of a sow—perhaps
the only creature besides a priest who could contemplate
without nausea first swallowing the Lord and then
vomiting him, and then looking for him in the vomit.
And your Eminence would like this emeticating of God,
prodding about for him in the vomit, finding him and
swallowing him over again, or not finding and, therefore
burning him and the vomit, and casting the ashes into
the sacristan to be taught at the expense of the rate
payers ! The ratepayers are mostly fools, and pay rates
and taxes with too little investigation into the why and
wherefore; and many of them are addicted to finding
Jesus. But they draw the line somewhere. They
have begun to draw the line at the priest who, in
order to “find Jesus,” prods about in a vomit with a
breakfast fork! Ugh! But no. This is nastiness to
be sure; but it is divine nastiness, and part and parcel of
* Published in Mechlin, 1840.
�4
RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.'
a “ religious education.” Would it be etiquette, your
Eminence, for the person prodding about with the fork,
when he has discovered the half-digested wafer in the
vomit, to exclaim, “I have found Jesus!”
Then, your Eminence, the fine, cheerful doctrine of
Purgatory enters into the curriculum of a “ religious edu
cation.” In purgatory there is a nice, clear fire (ignis
)
*
for cooking souls. This nice, clear fire is exceedingly
useful; it enables you to rifle the pockets of a man’s
relations after he himself has been laid in his grave.
The fires in purgatory are just the sufficient heat for the
dead to enable you to extract half-crowns from the
pockets of the living.
Old Brown dies, his body is
buried, and you get certain fees over that; and his soul
canters off to purgatory. Young Brown would not mind
a cent about his dad being in purgatory, if you would
make the place at all comfortable for him ; but you
manage to make old Brown hot enough to make young
Brown pay to get him out. All this is very clever, and
very religious. St. Christina, who had been in purgatory,
and managed to come back to the earth again (possibly
for her umbrella), told your great and learned Cardinal
Bellarmine that “ the torments that I there witnessed
are so dreadful that to attempt to describe them would
be utterly in vain.” The place was found to be filled
with “ those who had repented indeed of their sins,
but had not paid the punishment due for them.’T After
this, from St. Christina to Bellarmine, who would be so
unfilial as to leave his father, or even his mother-in-law,
in purgatory ? Out they must come. The devout one
must “raise the wind ” to put out the fire. What man
who has the soul of a man would not pawn his braces;
what woman who has the heart of a woman would not
sell her garters, to get her dear dead out of such a hot
and damnable hole as the purgatory of Bellarmine? It
is set apart, it seems, for those who have repented of
their sins, but have not paid for them. Those who
have neither repented of their sins nor paid for them go
straight to hell; but that matters little : the temperature
* See Catechism on the fifth article of the Creed of Pope Pius IV,
t “ De Genitu Columbse,” bk. ii., ch. ix.
�RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.
5
is only a trifle higher, and a good, round, sound specimen
of a sinner can soon get accustomed to that. The great
thing is the pay. Pay, and it hardly matters a cinder
whether you repent or not. Yours is a grand and noble
Church, Cardinal Manning. It has the knack of getting
all possible moneys out of a man when he is alive, and,
through its purgatory, it can pursue the dead through
the very bottom of the grave, as it were, and shake him,
red-hot, flaming, and shrieking, in the eyes of the friends
he has left, that they may sell their very shirts to relieve
him of his agony. The one paid for leaps out from the
flames into the midst of heaven’s wings and harps, and
the gold and silver ring and rattle into the coffers of the
priest.
The Agnostic, alas, has no such facilities for turning
an honest penny. He does not know God sufficiently
to be able to induce him to enter into the swim with
him to help him to swindle and juggle. It is no use
any one trying to swindle on any exalted and profitable
scale, unless he has got God on his side, and does his
juggling in God’s name. All history and all experience
teach us that lesson with pious emphasis. I have not
God on my side, so all that I get is a little pittance for
my honest toil. I have no way of extracting cash for
the love of harps that have never been strung, and for
the fear of fires that have never been kindled. I am at
this disadvantage for not having acted up to the precepts
of a “religious education.”
Still, O Cardinal, if God be God—if he be noble and
generous and humane—you may stride up to him with
all the wealth and grandeur your Church has acquired,
and I will walk up into his presence with only this year’s
volume of the Secular Review under my arm. And, if
he say, “ Depart from me, ye cursed 1” it will be to you,
O Cardinal, and not to me. He will say, “ Give me a
shake of your hand, Saladin. You searched earnestly
and honestly for me, and could not find me ; but you
see I am here. You often studied and read all day, and
then burned the oil till long after midnight. Without
fee or reward, amid contumely and in obscurity, you
worked out your very life to teach others what you con
ceived to be right and true. To be mistaken, Saladin, is
�6
“religious
education.”
a small thing in the eyes of a God ; but to be honest is a
great thing. Read me some passages from ‘At Random
they are flashes from the immortal soul of a man
struggling in the dark ;• and passages written in the red
blood of an earnest human life are worthy the attention of
a God.”
I am, My Lord Cardinal,
Your Eminence’s
Obedient Servant,
Saladin.
�ADDENDA.
THE CHRISTIAN HEAVEN.
Bishop Croke of Cashell recently mounted the highest
stilts of sacred oratory, and dashed along thus, with his
head in New Jerusalem and his feet in Kildare :—
When we read in the fifteenth chapter of the Gospel according
to St. Luke that “there is more joy in heaven upon one sinner
that doeth penance than upon ninety-nine just who need not
penance,” we may very naturally be expected to say each one
within himself—Sin, then, must sadden God exceedingly, and cast
a gloom, so to speak, over the face of His angels ; because penance
that wipes sin away gives great gladness to God, fills with joy the
whole court of heaven, makes the loveliest seraph there smile yet
more sweetly, and Heaven itself become more heavenly still. Only
just think of it, brethren. There is the great God of the universe
sitting serenely, as we are used to picture him, on his throne of
state on high. Millions and hundreds of millions of angels
brighter far than the sun and infinitely more beautiful than the
moon stand ever-joyous sentinels around him. The ample domain
of,heaven itself, extending far and wide—yea, full many a mile
further than created eye can carry—encompasses him on every side.
It is lit up with lamps that know no dimness, and peopled with
happy spirits that are not destined to die. This earth is but an
atom in their sight. Wars, conflagrations, earthquakes, plague and
famine, and pestilence sweep over and decimate its inhabitants, and
Heaven heeds not the ruin that is tints made. Yet, strange to say,
one man, a poor weak worm of the earth, living on it, born of it,
and destined to return to it again in death, trangresses a law that
had been given to him by God for his guidance—thereby commit
ting sin—and behold the heart of the Most High is saddened, a
cloud comes across the countenance of his angels, and heaven itself
seems to be heaven no more. But, see, that same man repents;
that sinner is converted ; that rebel hand raised in pride against
the Almighty is uplifted no more, and, as the herald of God’s mercies
to man proclaims the glad tidings aloud, the music of heaven’s
choir becomes sweeter still; the light of heaven’s lamps becomes
brighter still ; the face of heaven’s angels becomes more smiling
still, for there is more joy in heaven upon one sinner that does
penance than upon ninety-nine just who need not penance.
�8
ADDENDA,
You see into that passage in Luke the Archbishop
has got his papist “penance” inserted where the
Protestant version has “repentance.” With the Pro
testant, “penance” is an heretical abomination. But
you observe the “word of God” is so explicit and simple
that it means either, or both, or neither. This vague
ambiguity is a distinguishing feature of divine writing.
If a man were to lose his reason, he could write tolerably
like God; and a man who has lost his reason, or who,
as is usually the case, had never any to lose, understands
best what God has been graciously pleased to write.
“ Sin,” according to Croke, and of course he knows
all about it, must “sadden God exceedingly.” A “sad”
deity, God-in-the-dumps, sitting on the white throne,
with all the beasts roaring “ Holy, holy, holy 1” and
glaring at him with the eyes they have in their tails and
their elbows, convinces me that Augustus Harris will
never produce a really effective pantomime at Drury
Lane till he has had the advantage of spending a week
in heaven. Would the great Croke, who seems to know
heaven and its denizens so intimately, inform me whether
the hebdomadal issue of this journal can “sadden God
exceedingly ” ? I know of no god, and I prefer to know
of none till I find one magnanimous and mighty enough
not to get “sad” at the writings of a weak mortal like
Saladin, or be pleased with the ranting but pious blarney
of a little sermon-spinner like Croke.
God used to be unchangeable. But that was in the
good old days, before Ireland and Croke were invented.
Now he gets “sad” whenever anybody sins; but grins
from ear to ear, and kicks up his holy heels with delight,
whenever anybody does penance. Pretty sudden and
fiequent transitions these for an unchangeable God.
But the authority is very high—the authority of his
friend, Croke of Cashel.
u
am „really sorry f°r
P00r dear angels with the
gloom on their faces. I once had a notion of becom
ing an angel myself by imitating, say, David, the man
“according to God’s own heart.” But now I give up
the project. There would always be somebody sinning,
and so my face would always be clouded with “gloom,”
except when somebody did penance—the only thing, by
�THE CHRISTIAN HEAVEN.
9
the-bye, that seems to throw a gleam of light into heaven.
This “ gloom ” would never do for me; I like a good
laugh now and again; and I can laugh, too, a loud hurri
cane of a laugh that shakes the rafters. So I will relin
quish my design of becoming an angel by imitating
David, and thereby some Uriah and some Joab will
escape murder and some Bathsheba dishonour.
Lord, how Croke does hit off heaven with only a few
spasms of his voice—the best voice going at wild rant
and mad tapsalteerie. Perhaps “ the loveliest seraphs
there would smile yet more sweetly” if I could get
beside them to tell them tales of heroic W allace instead
of stories about timid Jesus. By my halidome, I should
like to strut up the golden street—although I should
much rather stand up to the hurdies in Scottish heather
—and fling the strains of my mountain harp into the
ears of the belles of heaven. If they have blood in their
veins, I should send it tingling to the tips of their toes
and their wings. I should make the lyre of Caledonia
weep and moan and thunder and dirl till the harps that
hung on the willows by the streams of Babel would be
broken up and cast away.
Dr. Croke’s heaven, which is intended to be so attrac
tive to good Catholics and Land-Leaguers, does not
tempt me. I do not feel at all attracted to a great
ogre of a God, sitting on “ his throne of state on high,”
while “ millions and hundreds of millions of angels,
brighter far than the sun, and infinitely more beautiful
than the moon,” stand around him as “ sentinels.”
“ Sentinels,” indeed ! Surely these millions of angels
might be better employed. Millions of these celestial
monsters with wings, but whose tails are never men
tioned, stand “sentinel,” like the big horsemen at White
hall. Before I can be got to be really enamoured of
heaven, I should like to know how its flying monsters
get along without tails. A tail is to a bird what a rudder
is to a ship. I should like to be assured, before I consent
to go to heaven, that an angel can steer its course
accurately without a tail. I do not wish to go there and
incur the risk of some great, flying idiot coming dashing
up against me and knocking the teeth out of my head,
with a “Beg your pardon, Sir—pure accident; had
�IO
ADDENDA.
intended to fly to that there rafter 1” Besides, if these
angels are “ brighter far than the sun/’ I could not look
upon their splendour; so I should shortly be blind as
well as toothless.
In spite of the tremendous effulgence of Dr. Croke’s
angels, I observe that heaven is “lit up with lamps.”
Seeing that, in brilliance, every angel must be equal to
at least fifty sperm candles, I fail to see the use of the
lamps ; and I fear, as a canny Scot, I should demur
at the holy extravagance and the divine waste of paraffin.
At all events, fitting heaven up with lamps does not, as
far as I am concerned, add to its charms. There you
sit, pen in hand, all silent as death ■ and you in obstetric
t roes with one of your biggest thoughts, when crack
goes the glass chimney of the said lamp, and, in your
state of concentrated intensity, nearly startles your life
out. Besides, lamps are constantly getting upset, and,
if I were to upset one upon Sarah’s skirts or Rahab’s
polonaise, the effects might disconcert all heaven.
Besides, in trimming the wick, I usually burn my fingers,
and when I burn my fingers I usually swear ; and a good,
rattling malediction might tempt some outraged seraph
to throw me over heaven’s battlements into' the other
place, hurling the lamp after me.
But, O Bishop of Cashel, can all these millions
of angels find nothing better to do than to “stand
sentinel ” ? It may be all glory and brilliance with
;
but there are lanes and alleys with us where it is all
misery and gloom. The sties of Seven Dials are filled
with guilt and misery; over the fever slums of White
chapel falls the Shadow of Death.
Where are the
hundreds of millions of angels? From the dens of
Want and Stench and Disease rises the cry of Humanity;
but that cry reaches not the ears of the angels. Un
moved, they stand sentinel round their ogre God. Not
one angel breaks away from the phalanx to help the
gallant soul beaten down in life’s struggle, to drive away
want and shame from the home of the widow, to give
shelter to the destitute and bread to the fatherless.
The father which art in heaven ” cannot spare one
angel out of his hundreds of millions to visit his children
in mercy, and allay the gnawings of hunger and the pain
�THE CHRISTIAN HEAVEN.
11
of the heart that aches in misery. The music of every
harp, the sheen of every wing, is wanted “ for his own
glory.” No angel can be spared to stand between the
maiden and the deceiver. No angel can be sent for a
moment to kiss the desperately-parted lips and smooth
down the wildly-dishevelled hair of her, the lost and
ruined, as she mounts the parapet of the bridge to leap
from the street and Shame into the river and Death.
No angel comes down with the lightning in his hand to
strike the rich man dead as, by dint of his gold, from
the pale arms of Famine he forces the embraces of
Love.
A hundred thousand men, in uniform, are struggling
in yonder valley. A chorus goes to hell of the yells
of madness, the groans of anguish, and the screams of
agony. The gulf of smoke is torn by torrents and bursts
of fire, and shaken by louder than the thunders of
God. Weary with slaughter, his feet entangled in his
brother’s entrails, the powder-blackened madman falls.
He clutches at the red grass and the heaps of reeking
butchery, and gurgles and gasps and drowns in his
brother’s blood. And the horror and the agony are not
all here. Circling away into the busy towns, the quiet
villages, the corn fields, and the apple orchards of other
lands, extends the tide of misery and woe. Far away
from the field of carnage, hunger overtakes the orphan
child. The aged mother has lost her son, and the
young girl her lover. Over hundreds of leagues of the
world rises the voice of mourning and lamentation and
woe. Damn the heartless god that required all his idle
angels when his children down here went mad 1 Out of
the vast multitude, could he spare not a single one to
stand between these two hosts, and stay that hurricane
of lead; not one to stop these levelled bayonets and
that crunch of steel—that grinding of the bloody wheels
of the mills of Death ?
Is this God—this omnipotent fiend who could make
us, his poor children on earth here, holy and happy, and
will not ? Then let me, his son, flee from such a father
to the uttermost rim of the universe. Is this heaven,
where immortals stand as a retinue of sentinels, unmoved
by the tears of man’s misery and the cries of human
�12
ADDENDA.
pain ? Is this heaven—the happiest sphere we are to
enter when the gate of the grave closes behind us ? Then
proclaim it from the housetops that there is no heaven,
that all that is is a universal hell, and that man is the
plaything of an inscrutable fiend.
When will gushing gospel-mongers learn that, in spite
of its “loveliest seraphs” smiling as sweetly as they can
be made to do in Bishop Croke’s pious rhetoric, heaven
is not good enough for nineteenth-century men and
women. It did ■well enough as a more or less delirious
day-dream for centuries that are no more, for those who
have Jain in the grave so long that it would require
chemical analysis to distinguish the marrow of thefemorbone from the rust of the coffin-nail.
Shades of the dead, whose essence, in a sublime
panontism, has gone to feed the tissues of the universe,
we mean no disrespect to you when we reject your heaven.
It is upon the mountain,formed by the bonesofa departed
world, we stand, in order to see further than that departed
world ever saw. It is not the cerebration inside our indivi
dual skull, but the fact of our standing upon a more than
Tamerlane pyramid of skulls, that throws our vision
further down the vista of Mystery. The former coral
zoophytes laid their deposits on the sea-bed and under the
wave; on their deposits we place ours, thanks to them,
not in the dark like theirs, but up in the light, where the
sun shines, where the clouds roll and unroll, where the
wind blows and the billows thunder and s ing. We are
no longer away down among heavens and hells, the rocks
and algae of the ocean’s floor, but up in the light, where
the sea-birds scream, where the blue smoke from our
hearth melts away calmly over the deep green of the
trees, where the waters are wooed by olive boughs and
kissed by riparian myrtles, and flowers fling the glory of
their fragrance over the lake of the atoll.
Away with your heaven and other submarine night
mares of the world before sunrise. All hail a new
heaven and a new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness !
Emerged at length from the deep, we are religious, but
our religion has burst asunder the fetters of your
theology; we are pious, but we visit your temples with
fire and desolation ; we are worshipful, but we urge on the
car of Progress over the shattered fragments of your gods.
�CHIVALRY.
13
CHIVALRY.
They knelt ’fore the altar’s gilded rail,
The beautiful and the brave,
In the dim old abbey down in the vale,
O’er high-born dust in the grave.
And martyr holy and tortured saint
Were limned on the glorious pane,
And the sunbeams threw on the carvings quaint
A golden and crimson stain.
And the organ peal shook the dead in their grave,
And the incense smoke died away
Down the dim-lit chancel and solemn nave
Where the dead in their marble lay.
The orange wreath in the morning’s breath,
And the warrior’s nodding plume,
In the hoary cloister smiled at Death
And the warp and the weft of Doom.
And the noblest blood in the land was there—
The chivalrous sword and mail;
And the naked breasts of the Norman fair
Throbbed around that altar’s rail.
And the father leant on his battle brand,
And the mother dropped a tear,
And De Wilton’s Edith laid her hand
In the gauntlet of De Vere.
And the bridal ring and the muttered words,
And the gems and the plumes of pride,
And the whispers low, and the clank of swords,
And De Wilton’s girl was a bride.
*
*
*
*
Heir to wide lands, she bore him a son
On a sweet and a silent day :
Where the breach was won, and lost, and won,
De Wilton was far away.
�14
addenda.
And he wore her glove by his mangled plume
And her kiss on his lip still lay,
1
nd his blade flashed dread as the bolt of Doom
From the morn till the noon of day.
Wherever raved wildest the storm of blades,
And the red rain bloodiest fell
Wherever thickest the troops of shades
Were hurled to the realms of Hell
°e Vere’s blue flag with his Edith’s hair
Waved in the reeling van,
And rose and fell, ’mid groan and yell,
In the chaos of horse and man.
It sank at last in the hurricane
That raged round the knights of De Vere
And the world span round his reeling brain ’
Laid bare by a foeman’s spear.
Hearts rained out blood, helms glinted fire
Mid the death groan and hurraa •
An^ kn,ghthood’s pride toiled, tugged, and died
Wheie the spangled banner lay.
For Edith s hair on that broidered soy
Lay trampled in dust and gore;
And Rudolph had sworn to bear it with joy
bo her bower or return no more.
He sprang with a shout from the reeling sod
A gash on his helmless brow,
Raised his red hand aloft to God,
And hissed his dauntless vow :
“Ye saints,” quoth he, “this soy’s my shroud,
Or I bear it to Edith again !”■_
_
BUA.^ld
tbe burst of the thunder-cloud,
Or the dash of the roaring main,
The foe swept on ten thousand strong
O’er Rudolph’s wounded ten;
&
quakes, the mountain shakes
Neath the tramp of armed men.
And vassal thralls with husky cheer
Rush o’er the banner fair,
�CHIVALRY.
15
The blazoned scutcheon of De Vere
And Edith’s golden hair.
Firm faced the host the glorious ten
For Edith, God, and Home—
Swung the angry sea of ten thousand men—
Dashed the battle’s bloody foam.
*
*
*
*
His horse lay on the carnage ground,
Upon that flag of woe ;
His mangled vassals lay around,
And Rudolph lay below,
’Mid battered helm and shivered lance,
And corslet, helm, and glave;
And all the wrecks of War’s wild dance
When waltzing to the grave.
*
*
*
*
Sighed o’er the field the young morn’s breath :
The foemen found him there,
His pale lips pressed in ghastly death
To Edith’s crimsoned hair.
They laid him down by the side of her bed,
The monks who his body bore;
His eyes had the glare of the eyes of the dead,
His armour was dyed in gore.
A friar essayed the ladye to cheer
Jn the mournful tidings of ill;
But the faithful heart of the bride of De Vere
Ever, forever was still.
Though the babe still lay on the high, white breast
That milk to its dear lips gave,—Years laid him again on that bosom to rest,
When he fell in the ranks of the brave. ’
*
*
*
*
She followed her lord to the halls of God
Ere that sorrowful day was done;
For her lord had died on the trampled sod :
To a corpse she had borne her son.
�i6
ADDENDA.
Now the sire and the dame and their gallant boy
All rest ’neath the marble there,
And over them waves the banner of soy,
With Edith’s blood-stained hair.
And swords have clashed to the valiant tale,
And the voice of the minstrel sung,
How fair were the maids, how deadly the blades,
When the heart of the world was young !
price Twopence.
Every Thursday.
THE
SECULAR
REVIEW:
A JOURNAL OF AGNOSTICISM.
EDITED BY SALADIN.
Order of your Newsagent, or send direct to the Publishers—W.
Stewart & Co., 41, Farringdon Street, London. E.C.
HISTORICAL PAMPHLETS.
A Reply to Cardinal Manning, by Saladin ...
...
The Crusades, by Saladin
...
...
...
The Covenanters, by Saladin
...
...
...
Christian Persecution, by Saladin ...
...
...
The Flagellants, by Saladin
...
...
...
The Iconoclasts, by Saladin
...
...
...
The Inquisition, Part I., by Saladin
...
...
The Inquisition, Part II., by Saladin
...
...
The Dancers, Shakers, and Jumpers, Part I., by Saladin
The Dancers, Shakers, and Jumpers, Part II., bySaladin
The Persecution of the Jews, Part I., by Saladin
...
The Persecution of the Jews, Part II., by Saladin
...
01
o 1
o x
o x
o x
o x
0 I
o 1
o 1
o 1
01
01
London : W. Stewart & Co., 41, Farringdon Street, E.C.
�
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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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Title
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"Religious education" : a letter to Cardinal Manning
Creator
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Ross, William Stewart [1844-1906]
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: 3 v. ; 18 cm.
Notes: Ross's reply to a sermon preached by Cardinal Manning on 26 September, 1885. Includes bibliographical references. "by Saladin" [title page]. Saladin is the pseudonym of William Stewart Ross. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
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W. Stewart & Co.
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[n.d.]
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N595
N596
N597
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Education
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 ("Religious education" : a letter to Cardinal Manning), 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
Henry Edward Manning
NSS
Religious Education
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/52c4a5862415ef0c82b0b3ec4be54e5b.pdf?Expires=1712793600&Signature=rivt-ShBMBbzS39My0dQywxf9WmYmcdUc387d9EVUyfroQTTrx9Vks%7Eff5aLINT4ZL3iCxmPH8kAmN7uuJyww9sAki2bb8G6bm5pNUJ-%7EKp%7Es7i5K1jyoDnerTtTnXOnq4PbOD1BRYSEwT5LiwDAF-5OHjDPCGxtRi6atGSjTJF2LxGe1YaJQ6A3bdYim4SOFYNGMpd2sI%7ECIDggMLa0UoDOvuZ2BFQkYqjz-o8K6%7EloXOn%7E3FmlbzMF2g4hgt7c-XOzji9hnyt-ekzu1riW%7EhMCCvq5uybbmH8vy%7EdWMbLPlC5rm390og933M0cv1OmZFIdvInv1np1yZZ81JKOFw__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
00d16d7bc0183decfbc111ea06a93901
PDF Text
Text
�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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Fiction in English
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A PAMPHLET
BEARING UPON
THE FORM OF THE EARTH.
p. JL
JR-Iches,
‘ pp„p., p.-p.jA.p.
MEMBER OF THE “LONDON MATHEMATICAL SOCIETY/’ LATE CANTAB.
weSBI
GEO. J. STEVENSON, 54, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1871.
PRICE ONE SHILLING.
����INTRODUCTION.
It- is not to be supposed that, in the following brief consider
ations of certain facts (which cannot fail to be patent even to
those unacquainted with the Newtonian philosophy with refer
ence to the form of the earth), I am endeavouring to show that
the earth’s surface is a plane ; nor is it my intention to attack
any portion of the science of astronomy as it at present exists ;
but my main object is, to endeavour to interest the thoughtful
reader chiefly in the matter of the/onn of the earth, which is
generally supposed to be that of a globe. To prove that the
form of the earth is not globular, and to show that it is a
plane, is therefore not my intention. Still there will be perhaps
some who, after reading this pamphlet, may have their belief in
the popular notion of the earth’s form somewhat shaken ; and
some also, whose knowledge and calibre can permit them, may
be led hastily to the conclusion that the earth is a plane.
After investigating certain experiments, which tend much to
support the theory of those who believe that the earth is a plane
and fixed, I shall (supposing the earth to be a plane and fixed)
enter, in as intelligible a manner as possible to the non-mathematician, into some simple methods which might be adopted to
arrive at the distance from us of the sun and stars, also to cal
culate the motion (?) of the sun, and enter into the causes of
sunrise and sunset; accounting also for day and night, and
the seasons as they occur.
To avoid any argumentative deductions, and to state dis
tinctly and briefly what is intended to be of interest to the
thoughtful reader, is my intention.
A 2
��“ Stattjttb ©Mt Mpan
HERE exists a popular belief that the form of the earth is that
of a globe or sphere. This being the case, we rightly conclude
that the surface of the earth must of necessity be convex. By
earth we understand water and land ; consequently, the surface
of the water is not a plane, and convexity must exist with it as
with the other portion of the surface of the earth, namely, the
land.
One of the most common illustrations brought forward to
prove the convexity of the earth’s surface is that of observing a
ship at sea, hastening towards the horizon. It is known that,
at a certain distance from the observer, the hull of the ship will
vanish from his sight; and as the distance increases between the
ship and the observer, the masts, too, will gradually disappear,
and ultimately vanish. This gradual disappearance of, first, the
hull, and then the masts of the ship, would seem to strengthen the
belief that the surface of the water must be convex.
Before investigating an illustration of this character, as to the
distance which must intervene between the ship and the observer
before it disappears under certain circumstances, also the appa
rent mode of its disappearance, it would be well to inquire briefly
into the measurement of the convexity of any distance of arc of
the earth’s surface. In the “ Encyclopaedia Britannica,” article
li Levelling,” we find the following : “ If a line which crosses
the plumb-line at right angles be continued for any consider
able length, it will rise above the earth’s surface; and this
rising will be as the square of the distance to which the said
right line is produced; that is to say, it is raised eight inches
very nearly above the earth’s surface at one mile’s distance ; four
times as much, or thirty-two inches, at the distance of two miles;
nine times as much, or seventy-two inches, at the distance of
T
t
Waters.’’
�6
“stretched out upon the waters.”
three miles. This is owing to the globular figure of the earth,
and this rising is the difference between the true and apparent
levels; the curve of the earth being the true level, and the tan-l
gent to it the apparent level.
So soon does the difference
between the true and apparent levels become perceptible, that it
is necessary to make an allowance for it if the distance betwixt
the two stations exceeds two chains.
“ Let BD be a small portion of the
earth’s circumference, whose centre
of curvature is A, and consequently
all the parts of this arc will be on a
level. But a tangent BC meeting
the vertical line AD in the point C
will be the apparent level at the
point B; and therefore DC is the
difference between the apparent and the true level at the
point B.
“ The distance CD must be deducted from the observed height
to have the true difference of level; or, the differences between
the distances of two points from the surface of the earth, or from
the centre of curvature A. But we shall afterwards see how the
correction may be avoided altogether in certain cases. To find
an expression for CD we have Euclid, third book, thirty-sixth
proposition, which proves that BC2=CD (2D x CAD); but
since in all cases of levelling CD is exceedingly small compared
with 2AD, we may safely neglect CD2, and then BC2 = 2AD
BC2
x CD, or
Hence the depression of the true level is
equal to the square of the distance divided by twice the radius
of the curvature of the earth.
“For example, taking a distance of four miles, the square of
4=16, and putting down twice the radius of the earth’s curva
ture as in round figures, about 8,000 miles, we make the de
pression on four miles =
yards =
of a mile =
feet, or rather better than 101 feet.
Or, if we
take the mean radius of the earth as the mean radius of its cur
vature, and consequently 2AD = 7912 miles, then 5280 feet
�“ STRETCHED OUT UPON THE WATERS.”
7
being one mile, we shall have CD the depression in inches=
"~° 79122XBC!2=8008 B°2 inches’
The preceding remarks suppose the visual ray CB to be a
straight line; whereas, on the unequal densities of the air at
different distances from the earth, the rays of light are incurvated
by refraction. The effect of this is to lessen the difference be
tween the true and the apparent levels, but in such an extremely
variable and uncertain manner, that if any constant or fixed
allowance is made for it in formulas or tables, it will often lead to
a greater error than what it was intended to obviate. For
though the refraction may at a mean compensate for about a
seventh of the curvature of the earth, it sometimes exceeds a
fifth, and at other times does not amount to a fifteenth. We
have, therefore, made no allowance for refraction in the fore
gone formulae.”
It is thus seen, that the degree of convexity per mile will be
eight inches multiplied by the square of the distance. This
must apply to the surface of the water equally with that of the
land; ■ but it must be remembered that with water at sea there is
a constantly changing attitude ; so it is possible that an objection
might fairly be made to this method of measurement of a distance
of arc of the surface of the water. It might happen that if this
mode of measurement were applied to a certain extent of stand
ing water on the land, it might somewhat fail, inasmuch as the
surface of the water might actually be a plane owing to the
nature of the land on which it was. However, in the fen country
of England there is a kind of canal known as the “ Old Bedford,”
in length some twenty miles, on which an experiment was made
in the following manner :—A distance of six miles was selected,
and from a point A a boat, with a flag standing three feet above
t the water, was directed to sail to the end of the distance (six
miles), which we will call B. An observer with a telescope fixed
at eight inches from the surface of the water, sighted this boat,
and pronounced the whole of it to be clearly visible throughout the
entire distance.
From this fact a conclusion was at once arrived at that the
arc of convexity of the surface of the water was nil; or, in other
words, the surface of the water was a plane.
�8
STRETCHED OUT UPON THE WATERS.”1
Now, according to what was said as to the degree of convexity
of any arc being equal to eight inches multiplied by the square
of the distance,—in this case, at the distance of three miles from
the observer the boat would be floating on a surface of water
exactly six feet higher than the line of sight from A to B, which
was said to exist; and, consequently, as the boat approached
the distance of six miles, when once past the distance of three
miles, it would seem only reasonable to suppose that it would
gradually have ceased to be wholly in view; or, in fact, to have
been in view at all at the end of the distance.
This experiment may be found mentioned in a book entitled
“ Zetetic Astronomy,” published by Messrs. Simpkin, Marshall,
& Co., London, where it is illustrated by appropriate diagrams.
To the same work I am indebted for some information concern
ing an observation made from the Isle of Man across the Irish
Sea. The distance between Douglas Bay (Isle of Man) and the
Great Orm’s Head in North Wales is fully sixty miles. At an
altitude of not more than one hundred feet in Douglas Bay, the
Great Orm s Head can be seen distinctly in clear weather.
Now, taking into consideration the convexity of the earth’s sur
face (the distance of arc between these two places being sixty
miles), according to the calculation which has already been ex
plained, the centre of this arc would be 1944 feet higher than
the coast line at each end : thus it seems natural to suppose that
if the Great Orm’s Head is to be seen from Douglas Bay, it
would be necessary to be at an altitude of 1,944 feet at the
latter place. How, it might be asked, is this fact—namely, the
possibility of seeing a something at one end of an arc of sixty
miles from the other—to be accounted for, if the mode of
measurement of the earth’s convexity be correct ? for, with an
altitude of only one hundred feet at the end of the arc (sixty
miles) from which the observation is made, a something is seen
at the other end of it. Many like observations to this have been
made in different places, and similar results have been obtained,
which would appear to support the theory of those who maintain
that the surface of the earth is a plane.
We will now pass on to the consideration of the well-known
illustration in support of the rotundity of the earth ; namely,
observing a ship sailing directly towards the horizon. As has
�“ STRETCHED OUT UPON THE WATERS.”
9
been stated, at a certain distance from the observer the hull of
the ship will gradually disappear from his view ; and when
that is quite out of sight, it will be observed that the masts will
also disappear in a similar way. Now, it will readily be per
ceived that this mode of disappearance would happen in the
event of the surface on which the ship is sailing being an arc—
in fact, in no other way could the ship disappear; but by a short
consideration of the case, we may be led to question, whether or
not this same mode of disappearance of the ship might occur if
the surface on which the ship is sailing be a pla/ne.
The following fact has been noted, viz.: That a ship lost to
view under the circumstances just mentioned, has been seen,
after its disappearance, by the observer using a powerful tele
scope. The whole of the ship has thus been brought back to
sight. Might one argue from this that the ship was lost to sight
because it was so far advanced along the convex arc that the
surface of the water came between the ship and the sight of the
observer ? Those who maintain that this experiment is a proof
of the rotundity of the earth would tell us so. If it is, what is
to be said to the ship’s being brought to view again by means of
the telescope ?
Optics tells us that any object travelling from us (as the ship
in the above instance) would disappear in a similar way, in the
case of the surface between us and the object being a plane. If
an observer standing at the end of a long street, observe the
rows of gas lamps on either side, and their apparent diminution of
size as the distance increases, he will see that those nearly lost to
view in the extreme distance will present to him nothing but
their tops, the lower portions being quite lost to view. If a
train be watched closely as it travels from an observer, the
wheels and lower part of the carriages will disappear before the
top of the train will do so. Briefly, then, the following fact may
be stated, viz. : that the lower part of any object travelling away
towards the observer’s horizon, will disappear first, and the top
part will be last in view. This holds good on water as on land ;
and as so, must of necessity hold in the case of a ship at sea
hastening towards the horizon, which does disappear in the exact
manner described.
A question thus suggests itself, viz.: Is the mode of disappearA 3
�10
“ STRETCHED OUT UPON THE WATERS.”
ance of the ship at the horizon any proof of the rotundity of the
earth ?
Mr. Glaisher, whose name is so well known in connection
with balloon ascents for purposes of scientific discovery, has
affirmed that even at the greatest distance from the earth which
he has gone, he has always found that “ the horizon appeared on
a level with the car; ” and in the London Journal of July, 1857,
the following interesting reference to balloon ascents may be
found : “ The chief peculiarity of the view from a balloon, at a
considerable elevation, was the altitude of the horizon, which
remained practically on a level with the elevation of two miles,
causing the surface of the earth to appear concave instead of
convex, and to recede during the rapid ascent, whilst the horizon
and the balloon seemed to be stationary.”
This curious fact of the concave appearance of the surface of
the earth, as seen from a balloon at an altitude of two miles, is
worthy of note, and appears to be difficult of solution when con
sidered by one acquainted with optics. How is it that a sphere
or globe of large dimensions when viewed in space at a distance
of two miles or less, loses its natural form and assumes that of
a convex surface to the eye of the observer ? It seems natural
to suppose that the earth being of the form of a globe, its surface
as viewed from a balloon would appear just the opposite (viz. :
convex') from what has been affirmed unanimously by all aero
nauts. Philosophy tells us that the surface of the earth (land
and water) is the opposite to a plane, viz. : that it is convex;
still it can be seen that it is possible to bring forwards argu
ments in favour of the earth’s surface being a plane, and also
that those arguments generally supposed to support the theory
of the earth’s rotundity are really no arguments in its favour,
but decidedly against it. It is not my intention to consider any
more of the experiments that have been made than I have, but
will simply leave my brief and somewhat rough explanatory state
ments of the same to the consideration of the reader.
In the face of modern philosophy, it would be a bold thing
for one to say that the theory of Newton’s disciples is a mistake,
and to affirm that there is enough proof to show that the surface
of the earth is a plane, and that there is no proof whatever of
its being a globe. If one were bold enough to advance such a
�“ STRETCHED OUT UPON THE WATERS.”
11
theory, men would smile, and the chances are that the man who
did advance the same, would be ridiculed, as he might possibly
deserve. Only those who have studied astronomy, can tell into
what a vast sea of hazy doubt one is often plunged ; and results
so bewildering are arrived at, that one is almost led to doubt
any known theory whatever.
On page 392, volume ii. of Extracts from the works of Rev.
John Wesley, may be found the following:—11 The more I con
sider them, the more I doubt of all systems of astronomy. I
doubt whether we can with certainty know either the distance
or magnitude of any star in the firmament; else why do astro
nomers so immensely differ, even with regard to the distance
of the sun from the earth ? some affirming it to be only three,
and others ninety millions of miles.”
This extract is of some interest, in that Wesley was well up
in the astronomy of his day ; and methinks he but re-echoes the
sentiments of many even of the present day.
The word “ speculation ” might fairly be applied to many por
tions of the Newtonian philosophy.
To use plain language it may be said that, after all, the earth
may not be a globe. Philosophers may be wrong. Astronomers
may be only right in their general theory up to a point. The
earth which is “ stretched out upon the waters,” “ founded on
the seas, and established on the floods,” and (( standing in the
water and out of the water,” may, after all, be a plane ! Let us
suppose it to be a plane, as the experiments which we have con
sidered certainly tend to show. Let us suppose it to be literally
“ stretched out upon the waters,” and in so doing, by the con
sideration of certain facts with reference to the position of dif
ferent countries, both hot and cold, as discovered by us, we may
be led to see, and that very clearly, that the supposition of the
non-convexity of the earth’s surface is by no means antagonistic
to those parts of our established geography which decide the
position of certain countries with respect to each other. The
land then which is known to us, we will regard as a quantity of
matter “ stretched out upon the waters,” the surface of both
being a plane, or in other words, the whole collection of land
and water known to us on the supposed convex surface of the
world to be reduced to a plane. This being done, what will be-
�12
“stretched out upon the waters.”
come of the north and south poles ? The north pole might still
be regarded to be in the same position as it is now, but what
becomes Of the south pole ? In this vast plane we naturally are
at a loss to decide upon its limit I How far away from our
known land do the waters surrounding it stretch in all direc
tions ? This is beyond our power to decide, or even guess at, if
this vast plane which we have been supposing does really exist.
Who can tell of the boundless extent of the “ world without
end;” or who dare say that there is any limit to the waters,
which, maybe, extend into infinite space ? In the consideration
of this vast plane, the surrounding waters of the earth must be,
what is called by philosophers, the south pole, which has been
regarded to be in a similar position to the north pole, at
the other extreme of the supposed globe. The space within
the arctic circle has been explored to a certain extent by navi
gators, but the space within the antarctic circle at the south pole,
has never been. The most experienced navigators have always
failed to make any progress of importance at the south pole, and
all reckoning and calculation have been baffled. The barriers of
ice at the south have prevented navigators from penetrating far,
and even as far as they have gone, they have been much puzzled
by a total disarrangement of their calculations. In the account
of one of his voyages Sir James Clark Ross observes :—“ We
found ourselves every day from twelve to sixteen miles by ob
servation in advance of our reckoning,” and again, “ by oui’
observations we found ourselves fifty-eight miles to the eastward
of our reckoning in two days.”
Up to the present time, no navigator that has been heard of
has succeeded in sailing round the world within or upon the
antarctic circle; and if the antarctic circle was similarly placed in
the south to the corresponding arctic circle in the north, where
were the difficulty in sailing round it ? At the north, navigators
have found none of the disarrangement of their calculations, that
has always perplexed them at the south. For this there must
be a reason ; and if what we have defined to be the antarctic
circle be really a very large circle, or glacial boundary, at a
certain distance from the region of our known land in the vast
plane, the truth of the reports of navigators who have attempted
to sail round the world at the south, may easily be imagined.
�“ STRETCHED OUT UPON THE WATERS.”
13
And it may be remarked here, that with respect to the fact
noticed by aeronauts, that the surface of the earth, from a balloon,
appears to be concave, and that the horizon appears to be always
on a level with the car of the balloon, is quite agreeable to the
notion that the water in the south (viz.: the horizon to the ob
server in a balloon) is higher than that in the north. It is well
known that the atmospheric pressure in the south is much less
than it is in the north, and consequently the water in the
southern region must be higher than elsewhere. A quotation
bearing upon this point may be made from Captain Ross’s voy
ages :—11 Our barometrical experiments appear to prove that a
gradual diminution of atmospheric pressure occurs as we proceed
southwards from the tropic of Capricorn.” Further on he says :
—“ It has hitherto been considered that the mean pressure of the
atmosphere at the level of the sea was nearly the same in all
parts of the world, as no material difference occurs between the
equator and the highest northern latitudes.” And again he
observes :—“ The causes of the atmospheric pressure being so
very much less in the southern than in the northern hemispheres
remains to be determined.”
It may be found upon consideration that the argument in
favour of the rotundity of the earth, with respect to navigators
sailing in the direction due east or due west, returning in the
opposite direction, will also apply, and equally well too, in the
case of the supposition that the earth’s surface is a plane. This
can be easily understood^ and does not require any explanation or
illustration. Since, therefore, this argument does apply in the case
of the earth being a plane, does it follow that the argument, apply
ing in the case of its being a globe, proves that it is a globe ?
It has been noted by navigators, that there is a certain gain
and loss of time in the matter of sailing east and west. This
fact has been cited as a proof of the rotundity of the earth. It
may be observed, however, that this gain and loss of time will
also appear in the case of the earth’s surface being a plane. It
is wrong and unfair, therefore, to affirm that this effect can only
be produced in the case of the earth being a globe. There is a
well known story told by many in support of the theory of the
convexity of the earth’s surface, that two brothers, who were
twins, when they arrived at a certain age started in opposite
�14
Q
“ STRETCHED OUT UPON THE WATERS.”
directions with a view of circumnavigating the earth. They did
so, and upon their again meeting it was found that one was older
than the other by one day ! If this story be a fact, it is still no
less a fact that the same thing might happen in the case of the
earth being a plane. Hence it is hardly right to cite this story
as a proof of the earth’s rotundity.
One great argument in sdpport of the rotundity of the earth,
with respect to the north star is often quoted. It may be in
teresting briefly to notice this, and endeavour to see if the
argument be a strong one or not. The north polar star (Polaris)
is supposed to hang, so to speak, immediately over the north
— pole. Navigators have observed that this star appears gradually
to approach the horizon as they proceed towards the equator,
receding from the north, and because this star vanishes upon
their arriving at the equator, it is argued that the earth’s surface
must be convex.
It is a known fact in optics that, as the space between the observer
and the thing observed increases, the thing observed becomes
smaller, and its height diminishes. This may always be noticed
at any time, by observing a tall tree, or church spire, &c., the
distance between the object and the observer to vary. If any
tall object be sighted on a plane, it will be observed that, as the
observer recedes from it, its height will gradually diminish ; and
at a sufficiently great distance, the angle of sight, now very
small, will ultimately vanish altogether. By the same rule,
therefore, the apparent height of Polaris will diminish, and at a
certain distance, it will be lost to sight by this simple truism in
optics. It may be seen, therefore, that, though Polaris vanishes
in the case of the surface over which the observer is receding,
being convex, still it would also vanish in the case of that same
surface being a plane. But we now arrive at a very interesting
point with reference to the observation of the North Star. If
the north star be placed where we have supposed it to be, and
the surface of the earth be of the exact convex form that we
have supposed it to be, then it would be an impossible thing for
this star to be seen from any place south of the equator; for the
line of sight from any point south of the equator, must of neces
sity go off at a tangent to the sphere, and, in that case, must
fail to reach the north star. This seems evident, and must be
�“ STRETCHED OUT UPON THE WATERS.”
15
acknowledged to be so. It is curious, therefore, to note the
several accounts that have come to us at different times, of
this north star having been seen from the south side of the equa
tor. How it is possible, seems difficult to say, if the sphericity
of the earth exists, as the Copernican and Newtonian philosophy
tells us that it does. This star has, however, been seen as far
south as the tropic of Capricorn. I am given to understand
that, in the li Naval and Military Intelligence” of the Times,
of 13th May, 1862, it is stated that Captain Wilkins distinctly
saw the southern cross and the polar star at midnight, in 23*53
lat., and 35*46 long. It would seem, therefore, that this fact
with reference to the polar star being visible below the equator,
at such a distance, might form a strong argument against the
rotundity of the earth.
Some time since, it was a common practice amongst surveyors
and men employed in laying out canals and railways, to allow
eight inches for every mile for the consideration of the con
vexity of the surface of the earth. It was supposed that, if this
were not done, the water in the canal would not remain sta
tionary. It has, however, since been discovered, that things are
more satisfactory when this allowance of eight inches to the mile
is not permitted to enter into the calculations at all; in fact, in
those cases where an allowance is made, every thing turns out
most unsatisfactory. The allowing then for convexity, or what
was called by engineers “ forward levelling,” has given way to
the method of “ back-and-fore ” sight, or “ double sight,” where
no allowance whatever is made for convexity. Those who argue
in favour of the earth’s surface being a plane, point proudly to
the fact that all the most practical scientific men of the day totally
disregard the sphericity of the earth’s surface, and regard it, for
all practical purposes, as if it were a plane.
What has been thus far said with reference to the form of the
earth, is intended to be of interest to the reader ; and it is not
to be supposed that the theory of the earth being a fixed plane
has been supported in opposition to the generally received idea
of the sphericity of the earth, and of its orbital and axial motion.
Some of the leading arguments in favour of the Newtonian theory
have been briefly touched upon, and in such a manner that it
might be said the soundness of the same is brought in question;
�16
“stretched
out upon the waters.”
still, if the way in which I have treated the same be in accor
dance with the truth, it will not be necessary for any one to be
offended. The reader who is not versed in astronomy, and un
acquainted with the method adopted for the calculation of
various astronomical phenomena, will readily point to the splen
did exactness with which astronomers foretell a coming eclipse,
and hold that up to those who would advance the theory of
the earth’s surface being a plane. It might, at first, seem fair
and just for him to do so ; but when it is known that these as
tronomical calculations, exact as they are, are not dependent
upon any theory whatever, and would hold even in the event of
all known theories being disregarded, he will be led to see that
the theory of the earth’s surface being a plane, does not seriously
affect astronomy in the main. Those acquainted with astronomy,
know full well that the necessary data for managing calculations
are tabulated, and used without necessary reference to any
known theory. And again, at the will of the calculator, any
theory might be adopted, and equally true results will follow.
From years of practical observation, certain tables of the moon’s
relative positions have been made, and may, if it please the
astronomer, be used in connection with any theory whatever.
It is a known fact that Ptolemy, who lived in the second century
of the Christian era, did not fail, notwithstanding the considered
defects of his system—to calculate with exactness all the eclipses
that happened during the period of the coming 600 years.
In his Lectures on Natural Philosophy, Professor Partington
observes :—“ The most ancient observations of which we are in
possession, that are sufficiently accurate to be employed in
astronomical calculations, are those made at Babylon, about 719
years before the Christian era, of three eclipses of the moon.
Ptolemy, who has transmitted them to us, employed them for
determining the period of the moon’s mean motion ; and, there
fore, had probably none more ancient on which he could depend.
The Chaldeans, however, must have made a long series of obser
vations before they could discover their ( saros,’ or lunar period
of 6,585 days, or about 18 years ; at which time, as they had
learnt, the place of the moon, her node and apogee, return nearly
to the same situation with respect to the earth and the sun, and,
of course, a series of nearly similar eclipses occur.”
�STRETCHED OUT UPON THE WATERS.
17
In Somerville’s “ Physical Sciences,” it is said:—11 No parti
cular theory is required to calculate eclipses ; and the calculations
may be made with equal accuracy independent of every theory."
And, again, Sir Richard Phillips, in his li Million of Facts,”
says :—“ The precision of astronomy arises, not from theories,
but from prolonged observations, and the regularity of the
motions, or the ascertained uniformity of their irregularities.
Ephemerides of the planets’ places, of eclipses, &c., have been
published for above 300 years, and were nearly as precise as at
present.”
According, therefore, to my intention, as stated at the com
mencement of this pamphlet, we will suppose the earth to be a
plane, and free from any orbital or axial motion. The earth then
being fixed, we must suppose the sun to move, and we shall be
led to see that, with these suppositions,—namely, the surface of
the earth being a plane, and fixed, and the sun to move, in such
a manner as will be described, the change of seasons, sun
rise and sunset, the positions of some countries necessitating a
higher temperature than that of others, can all be accounted for,
and perfect harmony may exist between our suppositions and
those facts with which we are acquainted.
It may be stated here, that experiments tending to show that
the earth is fixed and free from all motion, have been brought
under my notice, which were of a somewhat interesting char
acter ; but I refrain from bringing them before the reader, for
the reason that too much space would be occupied by consider
ing the same.
The motion of the earth with its accompanying atmosphere, is
not perceptible to us ; but the sun appears to us to move. We
are now about to suppose this apparent motion of the sun to
exist in reality, and in doing so, to regard the locus of its motion
as a circle, at a certain distance from the plane of the earth’s
surface, concentric with the north pole. It is at once acknow
ledged that, if the apparent (?) motion of the sun be noticed from
any northern latitude, and for any period before and after the
time of its passing the meridian (or southing), it will appear that,
in its motion, it describes the arc of a circle. Now, any object
moving in an arc, cannot possibly return to the centre of that arc
without.having completed a circle. It would seem, then, that the
�18
“stretched
out upon the waters.’*
sun does this daily, and that visibly. To support this, we might
call to mind the observations of the arctic navigator, Captain
Parry, who, with several others with him, upon ascending high
land at the north pole, saw the sun describing a circle upon the
northern horizon, and that more than once. Regarding the
earth’s surface as a vast plane, this phenomenon can be readily
conceivable, and also that the circular path of the sun’s daily
motion be over some countries of this plane. In performing its
journey, the sun may travel at just such a rate as to afford light
to those countries within its reach, for the period of time called
by us day, regarding the extent of land and water thus receiving
light to be such as to admit of this idea. It is well known that
those parts of the earth’s surface in the vicinity of the north pole,
have no light from the sun for some months in the year. This
is by no means a difficulty to be accounted for in the theory
which we are supposing, for the diameter of the sun’s path is
constantly changing,—diminishing, as it does, from December
21st to June 15th, and enlarging from June to December.
There is no doubt of this fact, for it is proved by the northern
and southern declination ; or, in other words, that the sun’s path
is nearest the north pole in summer, and in the winter it is
farthest away from it. In the following table by Mr. Glaisher,
the difference of altitude caused by the difference in position, as
noted at different times of the year, may be seen.
SUN’S ALTITUDE AT THE TIME OF SOUTHING, OR BEING ON
THE MERIDIAN :—
Sun’s Altitude.
Date.
June
,,
July
»
Aug.
n
Sept.
»
Oct.
Nov.
Dec.
15,
30,
15,
31,
15,
31,
15,
30,
31,
30,
21,
31,
62°
61F
59F
56|°
52F
47°
38F
35i°
24°
17°
12°
15°
Time of Southing.
M.
0
3
5
6
0
0
4
10
16
10
0
3
s.
4
18
38
4
11
5
58
6
14
58
27
29
before noon.
after noon.
n
before noon.
»
»
»
after noon.
�^STRETCHED OUT UPON THE WATERS.”
Sun’s Altitude.
Date.
Januar y 1,
15,
31,
n
Feb. 15,
29,
99
March
IK
■LtO
21,
99
April 15,
30,
99
May 15,
31,
99
fOn the Equator!
1
at 6 a.m.
J
15i°
17°
21°
25°
30|°
(36°
138^°
42|°
48°
53°
57°
60°
19
Time of Southing.
M.
3
9
13
14
12
9
0
4
0
2
3
2
s.
36 after noon.
33
99
41
99
28
99
43
99
2
99
0
9\
10 before noon.
8
99
58
99
54
99
37
99
Briefly then, it may be ob,served, that the six months’ darkness at the north pole is at once accounted for by noting the
change in the length of the diameter of the circular line of
motion of the sun’s course. The sun travelling over the plane
surface of the earth at once, too, decides the question of why
some countries should be warmer than others. Those immedi
ately under the influence of the sun’s rays must naturally be
warmer than those more remote.
We have supposed, then, the sun to travel in a circular course
parallel to the earth’s surface, and perform the whole circle of its
journey once in twenty-four hours. Thus, then, in twenty-four
hours, every part of the earth experiences day, night, sunrise,
and sunset. At whatever place on the earth’s surface an ob
server may be, it will appear to him that the sun seems to rise
in the east (with respect to his position), and set in the west.
According, though, to one supposed theory, however, the sun is
always at the same distance from the earth’s surface, and the
apparent arc which it makes from our sunrise and sunset is only
natural, even if the earth be a plane. Optics tells us so. Let us
compare the sun to a balloon sailing away from us. As the dis
tance between us and the balloon increases, although its altitude
may not increase, it will appear to us gradually to approach the
horizon. So it is with our view of the sun : when at sunrise it
first appears to our view, it would seem to be rising from the
horizon. By the same rule in optics, at the close of our day,
when the sun is travelling away in the distance, sunset will
�20
“stretched out upon the waters.”
come to us, as the sun appears again to dip beyond the horizon;
so, as sunset is coining on with us, sunrise is coming on to others.
This is plain and consistent and worthy of consideration. Again
let it be repeated that all that has been briefly stated with res
pect to sunrise and sunset, is strictly in accordance with acknow
ledged laws in optics, supposing the earth’s surface to be a plane.
It is at once seen, therefore, that the seasons, as they occur, fol
low naturally and at once from the sun’s relative position to the
north pole.
It has, doubtless, often been observed that the size of the sun
at the times of sunrise and sunset appears to be much larger than
at other times. This, however, is merely an apparent change
in the size of the sun, as will be shown. It is well known that
any object viewed through a dense atmosphere appears much
larger in size than when viewed otherwise. This applies, per
haps, particularly true in the case of a light; for instance, a gas
light viewed in a fog, when the atmosphere is dense and filled
with aqueous particles, appears to be nearly double its usual size.
The atmosphere nearer the earth is more dense than that which
is more remote ; and in consequence of our viewing the sun at
sunrise and sunset through the atmosphere directly between us
and our horizon (viz.: a far more dense atmosphere than that
immediately above us), it appears to us to be of a different size.
Sir Richard Phillips proves by actual measurement that this dif
ference in the size of the sun as it appears to us is only an optical
impression ; for he says : “ If the angle of the sun or moon be
taken either with a tube dr micrometer when they appear so large
to the eye in the horizon, the measure is identical when they
are in the meridian, and appear to the eye and mind but half the
size. The apparent distance of the horizon is three or four
times greater than the zenith. Hence the mental mistake of
horizontal size, for the angular dimensions are equal; the first
5° is, apparently to the eye, equal to 10°, or 15° at 50° or 60° of
elevation; and the first 15° fill a space to the eye equal to a
third of the quadrant This is evidently owing to the 4 habit of
sightfor, with an accurate instrument the measure of 5° near
the horizon is equal to 5° in the zenith.”
In regarding the surface of the earth to be a plane, the method
of calculating the exact distance of the sun from us is very simple,
�“stretched
out upon the waters.”
21
in consequence of this arc (?) of the distance between the two
points from which the observation is made being nil. In ob
serving the angles of altitude of the sun at the same moment
from two places, some fifty miles apart, by means of plane trigo
nometry, the perpendicular distance of the sun from the earth’s
plane is at once calculated, and found to be less than 4,000
miles. The officers engaged in the ordnance survey some time
since gave the following observation to us. Altitude of sun at
London 55° 13'; altitude taken at the same time on the grounds
of a school at Ackworth, in Yorkshire, 539 2'; the distance be
tween the two places in a direct line, as measured by triangula
tion, is 151 statute miles. From these elements the distance
of the sun may be readily computed. It will be found to be less
than 4,000 miles. This is a startling statement, and may possibly
be of interest to the reader.
The method for calculating the sun’s distance from the earth,
which has been briefly touched upon, would of course apply
equally in computing the distance of the stars, &c., from us.
The distances of these heavenly bodies being reduced so greatly
will certainly affect the magnitude of the same.
Upon this
point, though, it will not be our object to dwell.
Enough has been said to engage the attention of the thought
ful reader upon the subject of the form of the earth; and it may
be interesting to add an extract upon “ perspective on the sea,”
taken from a small book entitled “ Zetetic Astronomy,” pub
lished by Messrs. Simpkin, Marshall, & Co., London; which
extract, though not stated in the exact words of the account
given there, is still in the main the same. The law of perspective,
as often taught, is fallacious and contrary to every thing seen
in nature. If any object be held up in the air, and gradually
carried away from an observer who maintains his position, it is
true that all its parts will converge to one and the same point;
but if the same object be placed upon the ground and similarly
moved away from a fixed observer, the same predicate is false.
In the first case the centre of the object is the datum to which
every point of the exterior converges; but in the second case the
ground becomes the datum in and towards which every part
of the object converges in succession, beginning with the lowest,
or that nearest to it.
�22
“stretched out upon the waters.”
Instances :—A man with light trowsers and black boots,
walking along a level path, will appear at a certain distance as
though the boots had been removed, and the trowsers brought in
contact with the ground.
A young girl, with short garments terminating ten or twelve
inches above the feet, will, in walking forward, appear to sink
towards the earth, the space between which and the bottom of
the clothes will appear gradually to diminish ; and in the distance
of half a mile her legs, which were at first seen for ten or twelve
inches, will be invisible—the bottom of the garment will seem
to touch the ground.
A small dog running along will appear gradually to shorten
by the legs; which, in less than half a mile, will be invisible,
and the body appear to glide upon the earth.
Horses and cattle moving away from a given point will seem
to have lost their hoofs, and to be walking upon the outer bones
of the limbs.
Again, it may be noticed that carriages receding in a similar
way to the above, will seem to lose that portion of the rim of
the wheels which touches the earth ; the axles will appear to get
lower; and, at the distance of a few miles, the body will appear
to drag along in contact with the ground. This fact is very re
markable in the case of a railway-carriage, when moving away,
from the straight and level portion of line several miles in length.
These instances, which are but a few of what might be quoted,
will be sufficient to prove, beyond the power of doubt or the ne
cessity for controversy, that, upon a plane or horizontal surface,
the lowest part of bodies receding, from a given point of obser
vation, will disappear before the higher. Now, this is exactly
the case when a ship at sea is observed: when outward bound,
the lowest part—the hull—disappearing before the higher parts
— the sails and masthead. Abstractly, when the lowest part
of a receding object thus disappears by entering the “ vanishing
point,” it could be seen again to any and every extent by a tele
scope, if the power of the same were sufficient. This is, to
a great extent, practicable upon smooth horizontal surfaces, as,
for instance, upon frozen lakes, and also upon long straight
lines of railway. But the power of restoring such objects is
greatly modified and diminished where the surface is undulating
�B STRETCHED OUT UPON THE WATERS.0
23
or otherwise movable, as in the large and level plains of
America and the vast prairies; and particularly so upon the
ocean, where the surface is always more or less in an undulating
condition. In Holland and other level countries, persons have
been seen in winter skating upon the ice, at distances varying
from ten to twenty miles. On some of the straight and “ level ”
lines of railway which cross the prairies in America, the trains
have been seen for more than twenty miles : but upon the sea
the conditions are altered, and the hull of a receding vessel
can only be visible to the naked eye for a few miles, and this will
depend very greatly—the altitude of the observer being the
same—upon the state of the water. When the surface is
calm, the hull may be seen much farther than when it is rough
and stormy; but, under ordinary circumstances, when, to the
naked eye, the hull has just become invisible, or is doubtfully
visible, it may be seen again distinctly by means of a powerful
telescope. Although abstractly or mathematically there should
be no limit to this power of restoring, by means of a telescope,
a lost object upon a smooth horizontal surface, upon the sea
this limit is soon observed ; the water being variable in its
degree of agitation, the limit of sight over its surface is equally
variable, as shown by the following experiments : In the month
of May, 1864, on several occasions when the water was unusually
calm, from the landing stairs of the Victoria Pier, Portsmouth,
and from an elevation of 2ft. 8in. above the water, the greater
part of the hull of the Star Light Ship was, through a telescope,
distinctly visible ; but on other experiments being made, when
the water was less calm, no portion of it could be seen from the
same elevation, notwithstanding that the most powerful telescope
was used. At other times, half the hull, and sometimes only
the upper part of the bulwarks, was visible. If the hull had
been invisible from the rotundity of the earth, the following cal
culation will show that it should at all times have been 24ft.
below the horizon : “ The distance of the light-ship from the
pier is eight statute miles. The elevation of the observer being
thirty-two inches above the water, would require two miles to
be deducted as the distance of the supposed convex horizon ; for
the square of two, multiplied by eight inches (the fall in the first
mile of the earth’s curvature), equals thirty-two inches. This,
�24
“ STRETCHED OUT UPON THE WATERS.”
deducted from the eight miles, will leave six miles as the distance
from the horizon to the light-ship. Hence, 62 X 8in.=288in.
or 24ft. The top of the bulwarks, it was said, rose about ten
feet above the water line; hence, deducting ten from twentyfour feet, under all circumstances, even had the water been per
fectly smooth and stationary, the top of the hull should have been
fourteen feet below the summit of the arc of water, or* beneath
the line of sight I This one fact is entirely fatal to the doctrine
of the earth’s rotundity.”
The above experiment I have given to the reader in the exact
words in which it was stated. There is great room for interest
in following the reasoning of the same.
It is known also, that the two High Whitby Lights are 240ft.
above high water, and are visible for some twenty-three
nautical miles at sea. The proper calculation would appear to be
102ft. below the horizon I
Many like instances might be cited, which would present
equally great difficulties in explaining upon the theory of the
sphericity of the earth’s surface.
Reader I my few lines are written, and it is to be hoped that
they will afford some amount of interest to those wishful to
distinguish between the two theories as to the form of the earth.
That I shall not be accused of assisting to propagate the theory of
the non-sphericity of the earth, I humbly trust; and that one
who sees and is unable to explain away several portions of this
pamphlet, militating, to a certain extent, against the Copernican
and Newtonian philosophy, would be unwishful to see those
points clearly met, and in such a manner as would add to the
honour of modern astronomy and science generally, I would not
suppose. Let those who say that astronomy, such as it is, is
antagonistic to Scripture, be shown that they are wrong in what
they say; or if they are not wrong, let them know, and prove
that they are right.
“ He stretcheth out the north over the empty place, and
hangeth the earth upon nothing ” (or, layeth it upon the waters,
according to a Chaldee version). Job xxvi. 7.
Nelson <£■ Co., Printers, Oxford Arms Passage, St. Paul's, London,
���
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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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"Stretched out upon the waters": a pamphlet bearing upon the form of the earth
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Riches, E.H.
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 24 p. : ill. (diag.) ; 21 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Inscription on front cover: 'Veritas triumphant, Professor Middleton'. Inscription on title page: To M. Conway Esq. Printed by Nelson & Co., London. Printed in The Earth: a Monthly Magazine of Sense & Science, no. 49-50, published 1904?
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Geo. J. Stevenson
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1871
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Science
Conway Tracts
Flat Earth Theory
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Text
FBEETIIOUGIIT PUBLISHING CCO/TMATN EDITION.
BY
COL. R. G. INGERSOLL.
Reprinted verbatim from the authorised American Edition.
LONDON.
FREETHOUGHT PUBLISHING COMPANY,
G3, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1883
PRICE ONE PENNY.
�LONDON :
HINTED BY ANNIE BESANT AND CHARLES BRADLAUGII,
63, FLEET,-'STREET, E.C.
�B'X'IS?
1^*4- O \
“Take a Road of Your Own;”
OR,
INDIVIDUALITY AND MENTAL FREEDOM.
His Soul was like a Star and dwelt apart.”
On every hand are the enemies of individuality and mental freedom.
Custom meets us at the cradle and leaves us only at the tomb. Our
first questions are answered by ignorance, and our last by supersti
tion. We are pushed and dragged by countless hands along the
beaten track, and our entire training can be summed up in the word
—suppression. Our desire to have a thing or to do a thing is con
sidered as conclusive evidence that we ought not to have it, and
ought not to do it. At every turn we run against cherubim and a
flaming sword guarding some entrance to the Eden of our desire.
We are allowed to investigate all subjects in which we feel no
particular interest, and to express the opinions of the majority with
the utmost freedom. We are taught that liberty of speech should
never be carried to the extent of contradicting the dead witnesses of
:& popular superstition. Society offers continual rewards for selfbetrayal, and they are nearly all earned and claimed, and some are
paid.
We have all read accounts of Christian gentlemen remarking,
when about to be hanged, how much better it would have been for
them if they had only followed a mother’s advice. But after all,
how fortunate it is for the world that the maternal advice has not
always been followed. How fortunate it is for us all that it is some
what unnatural for a human being to^ obey. Universal obedience
is universal stagnation; disobedience is one of the conditions of
progress. Select -any age of the world and tell me what would have
been the effect of implicit obedience. Suppose the Church had had
absolute control of the human mind at any time, would not the
words liberty and progress have been blotted from human speech ?
In defiance of advice, the world has advanced.
Suppose the astronomers had controlled the science of astronomy;
suppose the doctors had controlled the science of medicine ; suppose
kings had been left to fix the forms of government; suppose our
fathers had taken the advice of Paul, who said, “ be subject to the
powers that be, because they are ordained of Godsuppose the
■Church could control the world to-day ; we would go back to chaos
and old night. Philosophy would be branded as infamous ; Science
would again press its pale and thoughtful face against the prison
bars, and round the limbs of liberty would climb the bigot’s flame.
It is a blessed thing that in every age some one has had indivi
duality enough and courage enough to stand by his own convictions
—some one who had the grandeur to say his say. I believe it was
Magellan who said : “ The Church says the earth is flat; but I have
■seen its shadow on the moon, and I have more confidence even in
�4
a shadow than the Church.” On the prow of his ship were dis
obedience, defiance, scorn, and success.
The trouble with most people is, they bow to what is called au
thority ; they have a certain reverence for the old because it is old.
They think a man is better for being dead, especially if he has been
dead a long time. They think the fathers of their nation were the
greatest and best of all mankind. All these things they implicitly
believe because it is popular and patriotic, and because they were
told so when they were very small, and remember distinctly of hear
ing mother read it out of a book. It is hard to over-estimate the
influence of early training in the direction of superstition. You
first teach children that a certain book is true—that it was written
by God himself—that to question its truth is a sin, that to deny it is
a crime, and that should they die without believing that book they
will be forever damned without benefit of clergy. The consequence
is, that long before they read that book, they believe it to be true.
When they do read it their minds are wholly unfitted to investigate
its claims. They accept it as a matter of course.
In this way the reason is overcome, the sweet instincts of humanity
are blotted from the heart, and while reading its infamous pages
even justice throws aside her scales, shrieking for revenge, and
charity, with bloody hands, applauds a deed of murder. In this
way we are taught that the revenge of man is the justice wGod
that mercy is not the same everywhere. In this way the ideas of our
race have been subverted. In this way we have made tyrants,
bigots, and inquisitors. In this way the brain of man has become akind of palimpsest upon which, and over the writings of nature,
superstition has scrawled her countless lies. One great trouble is
that most teachers are dishonest. They teach as certainties those
things concerning which they entertain doubts. They do not say,
“ we think this is so,” but “ we know this is so.” They do not appeal
to the reason of the pupil, but they command his faith. They keep
all doubts to themselves ; they do not explain, they assert. All this
way you may make Christians, but you cannot make men ■ you can
not make women. You can make followers, but no leaders; dis
ciples, but no Christs. You may promise power, honor, and happi
ness to all those who will blindly follow, but you cannot keep your
promise.
A monarch said to a hermit, “ Come with me and I will give you
Jiower.”
“ I have all the power that I know how to use,” replied the hermit.
“ Come,” said the king, “ I will give you wealth.”
“ I have no wants that money can supply,” said the hermit.
“I will give you honor,” said the monarch.
“ Ah, honor cannot be given, it must be earned,” was the hermit’s
answer.
“ Come,” said the king, making a last appeal, “ and I will give
you happiness.”
“No,” said the man of solitude, “ there is no happiness without
liberty, and he who follows cannot be free.”
�5
“You shall have liberty too,” said the king.
“Then I will stay where I am,” said the old man.
And all the king’s courtiers thought the hermit a fool.
Now and then somebody examines, and in spite of all keeps hi3
manhood, and has the courage to follow where his reason leads.
Then the pious get together and repeat wise saws, and exchange
knowing nods and most prophetic winks. The stupidly wise sit owl
like on the dead limbs of the tree of knowledge, and solemnly hoot.
Wealth sneers, and fashion laughs, and respectability passes by on
the other side, and scorn points with all her skinny fingers, and all
the snakes of superstition writhe and hiss, and slander lends her
tongue, and infamy her brand, and perjury her oath, and the law its
power, and bigotry tortures, and the Church kills.
The Church hates a thinker precisely for the same reason a robber
dislikes a sheriff, or a thief despises the prosecuting witness. Tyranny
likes courtiers, flatterers, followers, fawners, and superstition wants
believers, disciples, zealots, hypocrites, and subscribers. The Church
demands worship—the very thing that man should give to no being,
human or divine. To worship another is to degrade yourself.
Worship is awe and dread and vague fear and blind hope. It is the
spirit of worship that elevates the one and degrades the many ; that
builds palaces for robbers, erects monuments to crime, and forges
manacles even for its own hands. The worshipper always regrets that
he is not the worshipped. We should all remember that the intellect
has no knees, and that whatever the attitude of the body may be,
the brave soul is always found erect. Whoever worships, abdicates.
Whoever believes at the command of power, tramples his own indivi
duality beneath his feet, and voluntarily robs himself of all that
renders man superior to the brute.
The despotism of faith is justified upon the ground that Christian
countries are the grandest and most prosperous of the world. At
one time the same thing could have been truly said in India, in
Egypt, in Greece, in Rome, and in every other country that has, in
the history of the world, swept to empire. This argument proves
too much not only, but the assumption upon which it is based is
utterly false. Numberless circumstances and countless conditions
have produced the prosperity of the Christian world. The truth is,
we have advanced in spite of religious zeal, ignorance, and opposi
tion. The Church has won no victories for the rights of man.
Luther labored to reform the Church—Voltaire, to reform men.
Over every fortress of tyranny has waved, and still waves, the banner
of the Church. Wherever brave blood has been shed, the sword of
the Church has been wet. On every chain has been the sign of the
cross. The altar and throne have leaned against and supported
each other.
All that is good in our civilization is the result of commerce,
climate, soil, geographical position, industry, invention, discovery,
art, and science. The Church has been the enemy of progress, for
the reason that it has endeavored to prevent man thinking for him
self. To prevent thought is to prevent all advancement except in
•the direction of faith.
�6
Who can imagine the infinite impudence of a Church assuming
to think for the human race ? Who can imagine the infinite impu
dence of a Church that pretends to be the mouthpiece of God, and
in his name threatens to inflict eternal punishment upon those who
honestly reject its claims and scorn its pretensions ? By what right
does a man, or an organization of men, or a god, claim to hold a
brain in bondage ? When a fact can be demonstrated, force is un
necessary ; when it cannot be demonstrated, an appeal to force is
infamous. In the presence of the unknown all have an equal right
to think.
Over the vast plain called life we are all travellers, and not one
traveller is perfectly certain that he is going in the right direction.
True it is that no other plain is so well supplied with guide-boards.
At every turn and crossing you will find them, and upon each one
is written the exact direction and distance. One great trouble is,
however, that these boards are all different, and the result is that
most travellers are confused in proportion to the number they read.
Thousands of people are around each of these signs, and each one
is doing his best to convince the traveller that his particular board is
the only one upon which the least reliance can be placed, and that
if his road is taken the reward for so doing will be infinite and
eternal, while all the other roads are said to lead to hell, and all the
makers of the other guide-boards are declared to be heretics, hypo
crites and liars. “Well,” says a traveller, “you maybe right in
what you say, but allow me at least to read some of the other direc
tions and examine a little into their claims. I wish to rely a little
upon my own judgment in a matter of so great importance.” “ No,
sir,” shouts the zealot, “that is the very thing you are not allowed
to do. You must go my way without investigation, or you are as
good as damned already.” “ Well,” says the traveller, “ if that is so,
I believe I had better go your way.” And so most of them go along,
taking the word of those who know as little as themselves. Now
and then comes one who, in spite of all threats, calmly examines theclaims of all, and as calmly rejects them all. These travellers take
roads of their own, and are denounced by all the others, as infidels
and atheists.
Around all of these guide-boards, as far as the eye can reach, the
ground is covered with mountains of human bones, crumbling and
bleaching in the rain and sun. They are the bones of murdered
men and women—fathers, mothers and babes.
In my judgment, every human being should take a road of his
own. Every mind should be true to itself—should think, investi
gate and conclude for itself. This is a duty alike incumbent upon
pauper and prince. Every soul should repel dictation and tyranny,
no matter from what source they come—from earth or heaven, from
men or gods. Besides, every traveller upon this vast plain should
give to every other traveller his best idea as to the road that should
be taken. Each is entitled to the honest opinion of all. And there
is but one way to get an honest opinion upon any subject whatever.
The person giving the opinion must be free from fear. The mer-
�chant must not fear to lose his custom, the doctor his practice, nor
the preacher his pulpit. There can be no advance without liberty.
Suppression of honest inquiry is retrogression, and must end in
intellectual night. The tendency of orthodox religion to-day is
toward mental slavery and barbarism. Not one of the orthodox
ministers dare preach what he thinks if he knows a majority of his
congregation think otherwise. He knows that every member of his
church stands guard over his brain with a creed, like a club, in his
hand. He knows that he is not expected to search after the truth,
but that he is employed to defend the creed. Every pulpit is a
pillory, in which stands a hired culprit, defending the justice of his
own imprisonment.
Is it desirable that all should be exactly alike in their religious
convictions ? Is any such thing possible ? Do we not know that
there are not two persons alike in the whole world ? No two trees,
no two leaves, no two anythings that are alike ? Infinite diversity
is the law. Religion tries to force all minds into one mould. Know
ing that all cannot believe, the Church endeavors to make all say
they believe. She longs for the unity of hypocrisy, and detests the
splendid diversity of individuality and freedom.
Nearly all people stand in great horror of annihilation, and yet to
give up your individuality is to annihilate yourself. Mental slavery
is mental death, and every man who has given up his intellectual
freedom is the living coffin of his dead soul. In this sense, every
church is a cemetery and every creed an epitaph.
We should all remember that to be like other people is to be un
like ourselves, and that nothing can be more detestable in character
than servile imitation. The great trouble with imitation is, that we
are apt to ape those who are in reality far below us. After all, the
poorest bargain that a human being can make, is to give his indivi
duality for what is called respectability.
There is no saying more degrading than this : “It is better to be
the tail of a lion than the head of a dog.” It is a responsibility to
think and act for yourself. Most people hate responsibility; there
fore they join something and become the tail of some lion. They
say: “ My party can act for me—my church can do my thinking. It
is enough for me to pay taxes and obey the lion to which I belong,
without troubling myself about the right, the wrong, or the why ©r
the wherefore of anything whatever.” These people are respectable.
They hate reformers, and dislike exceedingly to have their minds
disturbed. They regard convictions as very disagreeable things to
have. They love forms, and enjoy, beyond everything else, telling
what a splendid tail their lion has, and what a troublesome dog their
neighbor is. Besides this natural inclination to avoid personal re
sponsibility, is and always has been, the fact, that every religionist
has warned men against the presumption and wickedness of thinking
for themselves. The reason has been denounced by all Christendom
as the only unsafe guide. The Church has left nothing undone to
prevent man following the logic of his brain. The plainest facts
have been covered with the mantle of mystery. The grossest
�w
the dwelling-place of slaves and serfs ? simply for the purpose of
raising orthodox Christians ? That he did a few miracles to astonish
them ■ and that all the evils of life are simply his punishments, and
that he is finally going to turn heaven into a kind of religious
museum filled with Baptist barnacles, petrified Presbyterians and
Methodist mummies ? I. want no heaven for which I must give my
reason, and no happiness in exchange for my liberty, and no im
mortality that demands the surrender of my individuality. Better
rot in the windowless tomb, to which there is no door but the red
mouth of the pallid worm, than wear the jewelled collar even of a
god.
Religion does not, and cannot, contemplate man as free. She
accepts only the homage of the prostrate, and scorns the offeringsof those who stand erect. She cannot tolerate the liberty of thought.
The wide and sunny fields belong not to her domain. The star-lit
heights of genius and individuality are above and beyond her appreci
ation and power. Her subjects cringe at her feet, covered with the
dust of obedience. They are not athletes standing posed by rich
life and brave endeavor like antique statues, but shrivelled de
formities, studying with furtive glance the cruel face of power.
No religionist seems capable of comprehending this plain truth.
There is this difference between thought and action : for our actions
we are responsible to ourselves and to those injuriously affected;
for thoughts, there can, in the nature of things, be no responsibility
to gods or men, here or hereafter. And yet the Protestant has vied
with the Catholic in denouncing freedom of thought; and while I
was taught to hate Catholicism with every drop of my blood, it is
only justice to say, that in all essential particulars it is precisely the
same as every other refigion. Luther denounced mental liberty with
all the coarse and brutal vigor of his nature ; Calvin despised, from
the very bottom of his petrified heart, anything that even looked
like religious toleration, and solemnly declared that to advocate it
was to crucify Christ afresh. All the founders of all the orthodox
churches have advocated the same infamous tenet. The truth is,
that what is called religion is necessarily inconsistent with free
thought.
A believer is a bird in a cage, a free-thinker is an eagle parting
the clouds with tireless wing.
At present, owing to the inroads that have been made by liberals
and infidels, most of the churches pretend to be in favor of religious
liberty. Of these churches, we will ask this question : How can a
man, who conscientiously believes in religious liberty, worship a God
who does not? They say to us: “We will not imprison you on
account of your belief, but our God will.” “We will not burn you.
because you throw away the sacred scriptures, but their author will.”
“We think it an infamous crime to persecute our brethren for
opinion’s sake,—but the God, whom we ignorantly worship, will on
that account, damn his own children forever.”
Why is it that these Christians 'not only detest the infidels, but
cordially despise each other ? Why do they refuse to worship in the
�11
temples of each other? Why do they care so little for the damna
tion of men, and so much for the baptism of children ? Why will
they adorn their churches with the money of thieves and flatter vice
for the sake of subscriptions? Why will they attempt to bribe
Science to certify to the writings of God ? Why do they torture
the words of the great into an acknowledgment of the truth of
Christianity? Why do they stand with hat in hand before presidents,,
kings, emperors, and scientists, begging, like Lazarus, for a few
crumbs of religious comfort ? Why are they so delighted to find
an allusion to Providence in the message of Lincoln? Why are
they so afraid that some one will find out that Paley wrote an essay
in favor of the Epicurean philosophy, and that Sir Isaac Newton
was once an infidel ? Why are they so anxious to show that Voltaire
recanted : that Paine died palsied with fear; that the Emperor Julian
cried out “ Galilean, thou hast conquered
Gibbon died a
Catholic; that Agassiz had a little confidence m Moses; that the
old Napoleon was once complimentary enough to say that he thought
Christ greater than himself or Caesar; that Washington was caught
on his knees at Valley Forge ; that blunt old Ethan Allen told ns
child to believe the religion of her mother; that Franklin said,
“Don’t unchain the tiger,” and that Volney got frightened m a
storm at sea?
Is it because the foundation of their temple is crumbling, because
the walls are cracked, the pillars leaning, the great dome swaying toits fall, and because Science has written over the high altar its mene,
mene, tekel, upharsin—the old words, destined to be the epitaph of
all religions ?
Every assertion of individual independence has been a step towards
infidelity. Luther started toward Humboldt—Wesley toward John
Stuart Mill. To really reform the Church is to destroy it. Every
new religion has a little less superstition than the old, so that the
religion of Science is but a question of time.
I will not say the Church has been an unmitigated evil in all
respects. Its history is infamous and glorious. It has delighted in
the production of extremes. It has furnished murderers for its own
martyrs. It has sometimes fed the body, but has always starved the
soul. It has been a charitable highwayman—a profligate beggar—
a generous pirate. It has produced some angels and a multitude of
devils. It has built more prisons than asylums. It made a hundred
orphans while it cared for one. In one hand it had carried the
alms-dish and in the other a sword. It has founded schools and
endowed universities for the purpose of destroying true learning.
It filled the world with hypocrites and zealots, and upon the cross
of its own Christ it crucified the individuality of man. It has sought
to destroy the independence of the soul and put the world upon its
knees. This is its crime. The commission of this crime was
necessary to its existence. In order to compel obedience it declared
that it had the truth, and all the truth ; that God had made it the
keeper of his secrets; his agent and his vicegerent. It declared that
all other religions were false and infamous. It rendered all com-
�12
promise impossible and all thought superfluous. Thought was its
enemy, obedience was its friend. Investigation was fraught with
danger; therefore investigation was suppressed. The holy of
holies was behind the curtain. All this was upon the principle that
forgers hate to have the signature examined by an expert, and that
imposture detests curiosity.
“He that hath ears to hear, let him hear,” has always been the
favorite text of the Church.
In short, Christianity has always opposed every forward movement
of the human race. Across the highway of progress it has always
been building breastworks of bibles, tracts, commentaries, prayer
books,. creeds, dogmas and platforms, and at every advance the
Christians have gathered together behind these heaps of rubbish and
shot the poisoned arrows of malice at the soldiers of freedom.
And even the liberal Christian of to-day has his holy of holies,
and in the niche of the temple of his heart has his idol. He still
clings to a part of the old superstition, and all the pleasant memories
of the old belief linger in the horizon of his thoughts like a sunset.
We associate the memory of those we love with the religion of our
childhood. It seems almost a sacrilege to rudely destroy the idols
that our fathers worshipped, and turn their sacred and beautiful
truths into the fables of barbarism. Some throw away the Old
Testament and cling to the New, while others give up everything
except the idea that there is a personal God, and that in some won
derful way we are the objects of his care.
Even this, in my opinion, as Science, the great iconoclast, marches
onward, will have to be abandoned with the rest. The great ghost
will surely share the fate of the little ones. They fled at the first
appearance of the dawn, and the other will vanish with the perfect
day. Until then the'independence of man is little more than a dream.
Overshadowed by an immense personality, in the presence of the
irresponsible and the infinite, the individuality of man is lost, and he
falls prostrate in the very dust of fear. Beneath the frown of the
absolute, man stands a wretched, trembling slave—beneath his smile
he is at best only a fortunate serf. Governed by a being whose
arbitrary will is law, chained to the chariot of power, his destiny
rests in the pleasure of the unknown. Under these circumstances,
what wretched object can he have in lengthening out his aimless
life?
And yet, in most minds, there is a vague fear of the gods—a
shrinking from the malice of the skies. Our fathers were slaves,
and nearly all their children are mental serfs. The enfranchisement
of the soul is a slow and painful process. Superstition, the mother
of those hideous twins, Fear and Faith, from her throne of skulls
still rules the world, and will until the mind of women ceases to be
the property of priests.
When women reason, and babes sit in the lap of philosophy, the
victory of reason over the shadowy host of darkness will be com
plete.
In the minds of many, long after the intellect has thrown aside as
�13
utterly fabulous the legends of the Church, there still remains a
lingering suspicion, born of the mental habits contracted in child
hood, that after all there may be a grain of truth in these mountains
of theological mist, and that possibly the superstitious side is the
side of safety.
A gentleman, walking along the ruins of Athens, came upon a
fallen statue of Jupiter; making an exceedingly low bow he said:
“O Jupiter! I salute thee.” He then added: “Should you ever
sit upon the throne of heaven again, do not, I pray you, forget that
I treated you politely when you were prostrate.”
We have all been taught by the Church that nothing is so well
calculated to excite the ire of the Deity as to express a doubt as to
his existence, and that to deny it is an unpardonable sin. Numerous
well-attested instances are referred to of atheists being struck dead
for denying the existence of God. According to these religious
people, God is infinitely above us in every respect, infinitely merci
ful, and yet he cannot bear to hear a poor finite man honestly
question his existence. Knowing, as he does, that his children are
groping in darkness and struggling with doubt and fear ; knowing
that he could enlighten them if he would, he still holds the expression
of a sincere doubt as to his existence, the most infamous of crimes.
According to orthodox logic, God having furnished us with imperfect
minds, has a right to demand a perfect result.
Suppose Mr. Smith should overhear a couple of small bugs holding
a discussion as to the existence of Mr. Smith, and suppose one should
have the temerity to declare, upon the honor of a bug, that he had
examined the whole question to the best of his ability, including the
argument based upon design, and had come to the conclusion that
no man by the name of Smith had ever lived. Think then of Mr.
Smith flying into an ecstacy of rage, crushing the atheist bug be
neath his iron heel, while he exclaimed: “I will teach you, blas
phemous wretch, that Smith is a diabolical fact!” What then can we
think of a God who would open the artillery of heaven upon one of
his own children for simply expressing his honest thought ? And
what man who really thinks can help repeating the words of Ennius:
“If there are gods they certainly pay no attention to the affairs of
man.”
Think of the millions of men and women who have been destroyed
simply for loving and worshipping this God. Is it possible that this
God, having infinite power, saw his loving and heroic children lan
guishing in the darkness of dungeons; heard the clank of their
chains when they lifted their hands to him in the agony of prayer ;
saw them stretched on the bigot’s rack, where death alone had pity ;
saw the serpents of flame crawl hissing round their shrinking forms
—saw all this for sixteen hundred years, and sat as silent as a stone ?
From such a God, why should map expect assistance? Why
should he waste his days in fruitless prayer ? Why should he fall
upon his knees and implore a phantom—a phantom that is deaf, and
dumb, and blind ?
Although we live in what is called a free government—and politi-
�14
cally we are free—there is but little religious liberty in America.
Society demands either that you belong to some church, or that you
suppress your opinions. It is contended by many that ours is a
Christian government, founded upon the bible, and that all who look
upon that book as false or foolish are destroying the foundation of
our country. The truth is, our government is not founded upon the
rights of gods, but upon the rights of men. Our Constitution was
framed, not to declare and uphold the deity of Christ, but the
sacredness of humanity. Ours is the first government made by the
people and for the people. It is the only nation with which the
gods have had nothing to do. And yet there are some judges dis
honest and cowardly enough to solemnly decide that this is a
Christian country, and that our free institutions are based upon the
infamous laws of Jehovah. Such judges are the Jeffries of the
Church. They believe that decisions, made by hirelings at the
bidding of kings, are binding upon man forever. They regard old
law as far superior to modern justice. They are what might be
called orthodox judges. They spend their days in finding out, not
what ought to be, but what has been. With their backs to the sun
rise they worship the night. There is only one future event with
which they concern themselves, and that is their re-election. No
honest court ever did, or ever will, decide that our Constitution is
•Christian. The bible teaches that the powers that be are ordained
of God. The bible teaches that God is the source of all authority,
.and that all kings have obtained their power from him. Every
tyrant has claimed to be the agent of the Most High. The Inqui
sition was founded, not in the name of man, but in the name of
God. All the governments of Europe recognize the greatness of
God, and the littleness of the people. In all ages,, hypocrites,
called priests, have put crowns upon the heads of thieves, called
kings.
The Declaration of Independence announces the sublime truth,
that all power comes from the people. This was a denial, and the
first denial of a nation, of the infamous dogma that God confers the
right upon one man to govern others. It was the first grand asser
tion of the dignity of the human race. It declared the .governed
to be the source of power, and in fact denied the authority of any
;and all gods. Through the. ages of slavery—through the weary
centuries of the lash and chain, God was acknowledged ruler of the
world. To enthrone man was to dethrone Him.
To Paine, Jefferson, and Franklin are we indebted, more than, to
.all others, for a human government, and for a Constitution in which
no God is recognized as superior to the legally expressed will of the
people.
They knew that to put God in the Constitution was to put man
• out. They knew that the recognition of a deity would be seized
upon by fanatics and zealots as a pretext for destroying the liberty
•of thought. They knew the terrible history of the Church too well
to place in her keeping, or in the keeping of her God, the sacred
u ’ xlits of ma®. They intended that all should have the right to worship,
�15
■or not to worship; that our laws should make no distinction on
account of creed. They intended to found and frame a government
for man, and for man alone. They wished to preserve the individ
uality and liberty of all; to prevent the few from governing the
many, and the many from persecuting and destroying the few.
Notwithstanding all this, the spirit of persecution still lingers in
our laws. In many of the States, only those who believe in the
existence of some kind of God, are under the protection of the
law.
The supreme court of Illinois decided, in the year of grace 1856,
that an unbeliever in the existence of an intelligent First Cause
•could not be allowed to testify in any court. His wife and children
might have been murdered before his very face, and yet in the
absence of other witnesses, the murderer could not have even been
indicted. The atheist was a legal outcast. To him, Justice was not
only blind, but deaf. He was liable, like other men, to support the
government, and was forced to contribute his share towards paying
the salaries of the very judges who decided that under no circum
stances could his voice be heard in any court. This was the law of
Illinois, and so remained until the adoption of the new Constitution.
By such infamous means has the Church endeavored to chain the
human mind, and protect the majesty of her God. The fact is, we
have no national religion, and no national God; but every citizen is
allowed to have a religion and a God of his own, or to reject all
religions and deny the existence of all gods. The Church, however,
never has, and never will understand and appreciate the genius of
government.
Last year, in a convention of Protestant bigots, held in the city
of New York for the purpose of creating public opinion in favor of
a religious amendment to the federal constitution, a reverend doctor
of divinity, speaking of atheists, said r'“ What are the rights of the
atheist ? I would tolerate him as I would tolerate a poor lunatic.
I would tolerate him as I would tolerate a conspirator. He may
live and go free, hold his lands and enjoy his home—he may even
vote; but for any higher or more advanced citizenship, he is, as I
hold, utterly disqualified.” These are the sentiments of the Church
to-day.
Give the Church a place in the Constitution, let her touch once
more the sword of power, and the priceless fruit of all the ages will
turn to ashes on the lips of men.
In religious ideas and conceptions there has been for ages a slow
and steady development. At the bottom of the ladder (speaking of
modern times) is Catholicism, and at the top is Science. The inter
mediate rounds of this ladder are occupied by the various sects,
whose name is legion.
But whatever may be the truth upon any subject has nothing to
do with our right to investigate that subject, and express any opinion
we may form. And that I ask, is the same right I freely accord to
all others.
�16
A few years ago a Methodist clergyman took it upon himself to
give me a piece of friendly advice. “ Although you may disbelieve
the bible,” said he, “ you ought not to say so. That, you shouldkeep to yourself.”
“ Do you believe the bible,” said I.
He replied, “ Most assuredly.”
To which I retorted : “Your answer conveys no information to
me. You may be following your own advice. You told me to sup
press my opinions. Of course a man who will advise others to dis
simulate will not always be particular about telling the truth
himself.”
There can be nothing more utterly subversive of all that is really
valuable than the suppression of honest thought. No man, worthy
of the form he bears, will at the command of Church or State
solemnly repeat a creed his reason scorns.
It is the duty of each and every one to maintain his individuality.
“ 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.” It is a
magnificent thing to be the sole proprietor of yourself. It is a
terrible thing to wake up at night and say: “ There is nobody in this
bed.” It is humiliating to know that your ideas are all borrowed;
that you are indebted to your memory for your principles; that
your religion is simply one of your habits, and that you would have
convictions if they were only contagious. It is mortifying to feel
that you belong to a mental mob and cry “ crucify him,” because the
the others do; that you reap what the great and brave have sown,
and that you can benefit the world only by leaving it.
Surely every human being ought to attain to the dignity of the
unit. Surely it is worth something to be one, and to feel that the census
of the universe would be incomplete without counting you. Surely
there is grandeur in knowing that in the realm of thought, at least,
you are without a chain; that you have the right to explore all
heights and all depths; that there are no walls nor fences, nor pro
hibited places,' nor sacred corners in all the vast expanse of thought;
that your intellect owes no allegiance to any being, human or
divine; that you hold all in fee and upon no condition and by no
tenure whatever ; that in the world of mind you are relieved from
all personal dictation, and from the ignorant tyranny of majorities.
Surely it is worth something to feel that there are no priests, no
popes, no parties, no governments, no kings, no gods, to whom, your
intellect can be compelled to pay a reluctant homage. Surely it is a
joy to know that all the cruel ingenuity of bigotry can devise no
prison, no dungeon, no cell in which for one instant to confine a
thought • that ideas cannot be dislocated by racks, nor crushed in
iron boots, nor burned with fire. Surely it is sublime to think that
the brain is a castle, and that -within its curious bastions and wind
ing halls the soul, in spite of all worlds and all beings, is the
supreme sovereign of itself.
�
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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 Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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"Take a road of your own", or : individuality and mental freedom
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Ingersoll, Robert Green [1833-1899]
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 16 p. ; 19 cm.
Notes: Reprinted verbatim from the authorised American edition. No. 40d in Stein checklist. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
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Freethought Publishing Company
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1883
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N401
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Individualism
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English
Individualism
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NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY
“THE DYER’S HAND:”
A DISCOURSE
PRECEDED BY
THE WAY TO GOD:
A MEDITATION,
DELIVERED AT
SOUTH PLACE CHAPEL,
SUNDAY, 5TH MAY, 1872,
AND REPEATED BY ESPECIAL DESIRE
SUNDAY, 1 8th MAY, 1873.
BY
ALEXANDER J. ELLIS,
B.A.. F.R.S., F.S.A., F.C.P.S., F.C.P.,
Vice-President formerly President) of the Philological Society, &
c
*.
CHIEFLY AS ARRANGED FOR THE SECOND
DELIVERY WITH THE READINGS
THEN USED.
Price 2d,
�ORDER OF THE SERVICE
HYMN 12—Words by Dyer..
“ Greatest of beings, source of life !”
READINGS—
I. “ Love,” from Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, in
modem language, as follows, p. 3.
II. “Design,” from Paley’s Natural Theology, as follows,
p. 4.
HYMN 5— Words by Wreford.
“ God of the Ocean, Earth and Sky !”
MEDITATION, “The Way to God,” as follows, p. 9.
ANTHEM 74—From the fourth Gospel.
“ God is a Spirit.”
DISCOURSE, “The Dyer’s Hand,” as follows, p. 13.
HYMN 91—Words by Mrs. Barbauld.
“ As once upon Athenian ground.”
DISMISSAL, as follows, p. 44-
�READINGS.
I.—LOVE.
In listening to an extremely familiar passage rom the first
letter of Paul the Apostle to his Corinthian congregation, which
I shall purposely put into extremely unfamiliar words, in order
to divert your minds from the mere sound to the sense conveyed,
it is as well to recall the context Much confusion, as was
natural, prevailed in all the early Christian congregations as soon
as the founder’s back was turned, and the necessity of correcting
it gave rise to those letters which are the earliest and most
authentic records of the Christian movement that we possess.
Among other troubles in Corinth, every man seems to have
thought himself as good a teacher as any other, save of course the
founder Paul, who therefore strove in his first letter to convince
them of their mistake and induce them to work as parts of a
commonwealth of which there was only one real head, Jesus
himself, in whose ideal image Paul always sank his own per
sonality.
For this purpose, he first applied the well-known
analogy of the body and its members, and then went on to the
Allowing purport (i. Cor. xii., 27, to xiii., 13) :—
“You form collectively Christ’s body upon earth, and each of you
Individually is one of its members. Some of us by God’s disposition
are apostles, others preachers, teachers, sign-workers, healers,
Birectors, speakers in various tongues. Are all apostles, or all
preachers, or all teachers, or all sign-workers, or all healers ?
Can all speak in various tongues, or can all interpret what is
spoken in unknown tongues ? It is certainly the duty of each
individual to do his best to be fitted for the best offices, but I will
shew you a far superior method.
“If I were to speak all human and divine languages, and had
not love, my words would be worthless tinkling. If I had the
highest powers of preaching, if I understood all mysteries, had
�4
gained all knowledge, or had mountain-moving faith, but had not
lave, I should be a mere nothing. I might bestow all my gorJMI
feed the hungry, or deliver my body to the torturer, yet withoB
love, I should have done nothing. Love is long-suffering and
kind. Love knows neither envy nor jealousy, makes no display nor
boasting, behaves decently, insists not on rights, checks anger,,
suspects not evil, has no sympathy with injustice but much with
truth; hides, believes, hopes, endures everything.
“ Love is never wanting. Preachings shall fail, languages shall
cease, knowledge shall die out; (our knowledge is partial and
cur preaching power is partial, and their partial character will not
cease till perfection appears. When I was a child, I spake, I
thought, I reasoned as a child, but when I became a man I put
aside my childish ways. In the same way our vision now is an
enigmatical reflection, but hereafter we shall see face to face.
That is to say, my knowledge is now partial, but hereafter I shall
know as I am known). The power that we now possess, then,
will pass away, but whatever else fails, three things abide, belied
hope, love. And the greatest of these is love}'
IL—DESIGN.
Brief extracts from the three first chapters of Dr. William
Paley’s “ Natural Theology,” (originally published in 1802)
for the purpose of shewing the nature of his argument. fcM
large quantity of intermediate matter has been omitted for
brevity, but nothing is added.
“ In crossing a heath, suppose I pitched my foot against a
sione, and were asked how the stone came to be there : I mighf
possibly answer, that, for anything I knew to the contrary, it had
lain there for ever ; nor would it perhaps be very easy to shew
the absurdity of this answer. But suppose I had found a ivatek
upon the ground, and it should be inquired how the watch hap
�5
pened to be in that place : I should hardly think of the answer
I had before given—that, for anything I knew, the watch might
have been always there. Yet why should not this answer serve
for the watch as well as for the stone ? Why is it not as admis
sible in the second case as in the first ? For this reason, and for
Ho other, namely, that, when we come to inspect the watch, we
perceive (what we could not discover in the stone) that its
several parts are framed and put together for a purpose ; for ex
ample, that they are so formed and adjusted as to produce
motion, and that motion so regulated as to point out the hour of
the day ; that if the different parts had been differently shaped
from what they are, of a different size to what they are, or placed
in any other order than that in which they are placed, either no
Riotion at all would have been carried on in the machine, or
none which would have answered the use that is now served by
it. This mechanism being observed, (it requires indeed an ex
amination of the instrument, and perhaps some previous know
ledge of the subject to perceive and understand it; but being
once, as we have said, observed and understood,) the inference,
We think, is inevitable, that the watch must have had a maker:
Hiat there must have existed, at some time, and at some place
or other, an artificer or artificers who formed it for the purpose
>hich we find it actually to answer ; who comprehended its con
struction, and designedits use.
Nor would it, I apprehend, weaken the conclusion, that we
had never seen a watch made ; that we had never known an
artist capable of making one ; that we were altogether incapable
of executing such a piece of workmanship ourselves, or of under
standing in what manner it was performed; all this being no
Riore than what is true of some exquisite remains of ancient art,
of some lost arts, and, to the generality of mankind, of the more
£tjrious productions of modern manufacture.
Neither, secondly, would it invalidate our conclusion, that the.
�6
watch sometimes went wrong, or that it seldom went exactly
right. The purpose of the machinery, the design, and the
designer, might be evident, and in the case supposed would
be evident, in whatever way we accounted for the irregu
larity of the movement, or whether we could account for
it or not. It is not necessary that a machine be perfect, in
•order to shew with what design it was made : still less necessary,
where the only question is, whether it was made with any design
at all.
Neither, lastly, would our observer be driven out of his con
clusion, or from his confidence in its truth, by being told that he
knew nothing at all about the matter. He knows enough for
his argument: he knows the utility of the end : he knows the
subserviency and adaptation of the means to the end. These
points being known, his ignorance of other points, his doubts
concerning other points, affect not the certainty of his reasoning.
The consciousness of knowing little need not beget a distrust of
that which he does know.
Suppose, in the next place, that the person who found the
watch should, after some time, discover that, in addition to all
the properties which he had hitherto observed in it, it possessed
the unexpected property of producing in the course of its move
ment, another watch like itself (the thing is conceivable); that it
contained within it a mechanism, a system of parts, a mould for
instance, or a complex adjustment of lathes, files, and other tools
evidently and separately calculated for this purpose.
The conclusion which the first examination of the watch, of
its works, construction, and movements, suggested was, that it
must have had, for the cause and author of that construction an
artificer, whojjunderstood its mechanism and designed its use.
This conclusion is invincible. A second examination presents us
with a new discovery. The watch is found, in the course of its
movement, to produce another watch, similar to itself; and riot
�7
only so, but we perceive in it a system or organisation, separately
calculated for that purpose. What effect would this discovery
have, or ought it to have, upon our former inference ? What,
but to increase, beyond measure, our admiration of the skill
which had been employed in the formation of such a machine!
Or shall it, instead of this, all at once turn us round to an oppo
site conclusion—namely, that no art or skill whatever has been
concerned in the business, although all other evidences of art and
skill remain as they were, and this last and supreme piece of art
be now added to the rest ? Can this be maintained without
absurdity ?
Yet this is atheism.
This is atheism ; for every indication of contrivance, every
manifestation of design which existed in the watch exists in the
works of nature; with the difference on the side of nature of
being greater and more, and that in a degree which exceeds all
computation. I mean that the contrivances of nature surpass the
contrivances of art in the complexity, subtlety, and curiosity of
the mechanism ; and still more, if possible, do they go beyond
them in number and variety; yet, in a multitude of cases, are not
less evidently mechanical, not less evidently contrivances, not less
evidently accommodated to their end, or suited to their office,
than are the most perfect productions of human ingenuity.
��THE WAY TO GOD.
A MEDITATION.
“ Little children !” said the dying Elder, “ Little
children ! Love one another.” “ If a man say, I love
God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar; for he that
loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he
love God whom he hath not seen ? And this com
mandment have we from him, That he who loveth
God love his brother also.” (i John iv., 20, 21.)
The way to God is through the heart of man!
Not by metaphysical subtleties, where man turneth
his eye inwards to see outwards, can he hope to reach
God.
Not by theological subtleties, where man vainly
strives to fix in words what his mind has failed to
grasp, can he hope to reach God.
Not by creeds and anathemas, where the empty
words of theology are crystallised into a charm or a
curse, can man hope to reach God.
Not by fasting and penance, where man would fain
purchase future bliss by present pain, and mount to
heaven by trampling down earth, can he hope to reach
God.
�IO
Not by fervent prayer, where man vainly beseeches
God to modify eternal laws for temporary ends, can
he hope to reach God.
Not by deep and persistent scientific research, where
the head is awake but the heart sleeps, can man hope
to reach God.
The way to God is through the heart of man!
By mixing with his fellow-men; by learning the
wants of all; by working within his limited circle
towards the general well-being; by identifying him
self with his race ; by feeling that he is above all, and
through all, a man, manly, and is only as a man capable
of effecting aught; by gathering into a focus those
scattered beams of human sympathy which we know
as love; by giving practical direction to vague aspira
tions for improvement; by living for himself but as a
part of others, and for others as for himself; by reach
ing the heart of his fellow-men; thus only can man
hope to reach God.
If man look beyond the present life and indulge in
dreams of a future eternity of well-being, let him not
think of saving his own soul without his brother’s, let
him not expect to enter heaven by a password, let him
not contemplate for a moment the revellers at the
lightsome feast within, and the teeth-gnashers in the
darksome pit without. The heart of man rejects the
contrast, and through the heart of man alone can man
reach God.
�II
Let not man seek to know the counsels of God.
Man is of the earth, earthy ; it is at once his badge
-and his star. What future may be in reserve for our
race none can forecast. If those who have searched
most widely are to be followed most readily, we have
been evolved from very humble beginnings, and may
have a much nobler hereafter. But the future depends
on the present as the present on the past. No nobler
hereafter is possible, if the present fail in its part.
That part is to develop present man ; not to despise
him as worthless, and fix all thought on the super
human. Here is our work, and through it our future.
The heart of man, is man’s noblest organ on earth.
Through the heart of man alone, can he hope to reach
God.
“ Little children !” said the dying Elder, “ Love one
another!”
��“THE DYER’S HAND.”
Walking through a street in Kensington some time
ago, I saw a man without his coat, and with his shirt
sleeves tucked up to the elbows, talking quietly with
another man, now putting one hand in his pocket,
now stroking his chin with the other, evidently in
utter unconsciousness or forgetfulness that his exposed
hands and arms were different from other men’s. But
to me at a distance there was something frightful in
seeing such ordinary living motions performed by
hands and arms which had that green tinge we learn
to associate with putridity. That shiny green arm,
those dead-like fingers that moved with such un
natural life, were a shock to all my sense of the fitness
of things. As I came near, the mystery cleared itself
up in the most prosaic fashion—as all mysteries are
apt to do. I passed before a dye-house, and had
been watching the dyer.
Instantly there came full on my mind that (hundred
and eleventh) sonnet of Shakspere, of which a few
�14
words are so familiar, though the context is little
known. Shakspere laments and excuses his “ public
manners ” as due to the “ public means ” by which
Fortune had provided for his life, and exclaims :—
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And almost, thence, my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand.
That dyer’s hand, tinged with the most ghastly and
inhuman hue, generated by the dye-vat in which it
had worked, and yet moving all unconsciously as if
nothing ailed it, was by a single stroke of Shakspere’s
pen raised into being the most significant symbol of
men’s thoughts and feelings, “ subdued to what they
work in,” the inherited environment, the geographical
environment, the social environment, which colour
them so completely that they live in total uncon
sciousness of their own peculiarity, though they are
acutely conscious of the different tinge imparted by
a neighbouring dye-vat.
Oh, how few are there among us—are there indeed
any among us ?—I don’t mean among tne handful of
people here assembled, but among the whole circle of
humanity,—who can say, as Shakspere said, that their
nature is only “ almost ” subdued ! How many of us
can from our own hearts, from our own knowledge
that we are dyed and must be cleansed, echo the
fervent wish of the poet, and exclaim : —
�i5
Pity me then and wish I were renewed ,
Whilst like a willing patient, I will drink
Potions of eisel ’gainst my strong infection ;
*
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance, to correct correction !
No! dyed through and through, green-blooded to
the heart’s core, and not merely on the surface of
our skin; we persist in thinking green-blood to be
the only blood, and are shocked at the unnatural
redness of another’s. We may laugh at that lady in
the story who was struck with the remarkable fact
that wherever she went, whatever society she entered,
whatever subject she discussed, no one was in the
right but herself; yet the only difference between her
and most of us is, that she ventured to say so; we
are silent, but only think the more steadfastly with the
Mahometan carpenter, who replied to Francis New* Also spelled esile and eysell, meaning vinegar, a common dis
infectant. Old French aisil, aissil, aizil, arzil, esil. The form
aisil has even crept into Anglo-Saxon, which, however, has the
older form, eced. All are supposed to come from the Latin
aceium (vinegar). Shakspere puts “ drinking eisel ” among
practical impossibilities. See Hamlet, Act 5, scene 1, speech
106,
Shew me what thou’It do !
Woo’t weep? woo’t fight? woo’tfast? woo’t tear thyself ?
Woo’t drink up eisel ? eat a crocodile ?
I’ll do’t.
�i6
man’s attempts at conversion: “ God has given you
to know much, but not the true faith.”*
The dye which tinges qur every thought and feel
ing is most general and most “fast,” hardest to be
discharged by argument, or to assume a different hue,
when it is rooted in the language which we speak,
and has thus become ingrained in thought. We learn
then inevitably to think under its influence. The
whole inheritance of preceding human thought comes
to us tinged with the same dye. The very threads by
which we would weave the tissue of our own medita
tions, instead of being susceptible of every hue, so
* The story thus reduced to an allusion, is worth giving at
length : “ While we were at Aleppo I one day got into religious
discourse with a Mohammedan carpenter, which left on me a
lasting impression. Among other matters I was peculiarly
desirous of disabusing him of the current notion of his people
that our Gospels are spurious narratives of late date. I found
great difficulty of expression, but the man listened to me with
much attention, and I was encouraged to exert myself. He
waited patiently till I had done, and then spoke to the following
effect :—‘I will tell you, sir, how the case stands. God has
given to you English a great many good gifts. You make fine
ships and sharp penknives, and good cloth and cottons; and you
have rich nobles and brave soldiers ; and you write and print
many learned books : (dictionaries and grammars :) all this is of
God. But there is one thing which God has withheld from you
■and has revealed to us, and that is the knowledge of the true
religion, by which one may be saved.’ When he thus ignored
my argument (which was probably quite unintelligible to him),
�17
that the pattern may shine bright and pure, beautiful
and true, as we conceived it was conceived, are so
dulled by their previous dye, that the result, true as
it may look to our jaundiced eye, is false to every one
whose vision is truer. The few, the very few, who,
conscious of the radical unfitness of their material for
the effect they would produce, seek to mould it by
limiting the signification of current words, or inventing
new to embody their new thoughts, preach too often
to the winds, or worse,—not understood at all, or
misunderstood,—so that the thinker soon finds rea
son to wonder, not that man knows so little, but that
he knows anything, not that a man so often miscon
ceives another’s thoughts, but that he ever approaches
to a conception of what they really are. I am using
no hyperbole, I am stating a sober conclusion which
and delivered his simple protest, I was silenced, and at the
same time amused. But the more I thought it over the more in
struction I saw in the case. His position towards me was exactly
that of a humble Christian towards an unbelieving philosopher;
nay, that of the early Apostles or Jewish prophets towards the
proud, cultivated, worldly-wise, and powerful heathen. This
not only showed the vanity of any argument to him, except one
purely addressed to his moral and spiritual faculties; but it also
indicated to me that ignorance has its spiritual self-sufficiency as
well as erudition ; and that if there is a Pride of Reason, so there
is a Pride of Unreason.”—Phases of Faith ; or Passages from
the History of My Creed. By Francis William Newman.
Sixth edition, i860, /. 32.
�i8
years of thought and observation have forced upon
me, and which, having often previously stated I find
as I live, only more reason to adopt,—when I say
that probably no man does understand any other man.
The vision of our mind’s eye is too deeply affected,
the dye upon our mind’s hand is too ingrained, our
language is clothed with too patched a harlequin suit,
for us clearly to express or clearly to seize what is
expressed. Only those who have aimed at precision,
and have hopelessly failed, or have laboured con
scientiously but vainly to enter into the thoughts of
one who himself has aimed at precision, can fully
comprehend how utterly our nature is subdued to
what it works in, like the dyer’s hand !
Our first observations, as children, are directed to
objects of sensation. It is only by storing up our
hazy memories of individual impressions that we, in
course of time, very clumsily and defectively group
together the immediate results of sensation into aggre
gates, which seem to us the same as those indicated
by the words we hear from others. Subsequent know
ledge, which in its full force is the lot of but a few
special observers, teaches us that every one of those
individual sensations is altogether vague and wanting
in precision; and that we cannot thoroughly depend
even upon regaining the same sensations in ourselves,
—nay, I may almost say, that we can only thoroughly
depend upon never regaining them. All natural
�i9
philosophers know,—I am saying nothing new, I am
merely repeating the very alphabet of science,—that
sensations do not repeat themselves, that when they
are registered by the most cunning devices of man,
each registration differs from its fellow, and that
we can deal only with averages and not with in
dividuals. There are some of the fixed stars, whose
position it is so important for science to de
termine, that they have been observed by hosts
of the most competent men through many years.
Yet we know that it would be more surprising
for any two determinations to agree than for all to
differ, and that what we conventionally assign as their
real place is only an average drawn by most refined
methods of calculation from an examination of dis
crepant data, and though assumed to be true for the
present, is acknowledged to be liable to subsequent
correction. By means of these positions thus assigned,
an observer learns to determine his own personal
liability to error, and knows that that liability itself
*
fluctuates with the state of his health; nay, with the
length of time since he was roused from sleep, or
since his last meal; and he then contrives to allow
for such errors in subsequent observations. Yet
merely seeing a point of light, like a fixed star, dis
appear behind an opaque bar, such as a telescopic
cobweb, is an observation of extreme simplicity com* Known as his “personal equation.
�20
pared with those by- which we obtain the most ordinary
notions of external objects in common life. And if
each observer is known to differ from others, and
even from himself in a matter of such extreme sim-,
plicity, what trust can we have that our individual
sensations are comparable with our neighbours, and
still more that our groupings of those sensations accu
rately, or even approximately, correspond to those of our
neighbours, in the extremely complex determination of
the commonest objects which form our environment?
But these are only starting points. The greater
part of our thoughts and reasonings are occupied with
matters which cannot be made the subject of direct
observation. It is only in its rudest condition, there
fore, that our language consists of mere names of
groups of sensations, such as man, tree, house, land,
water, give, take, black, white, light, heavy, and so
forth. To give some sort of vent to our bursting
thoughts, to convey them however vaguely and inde
terminately, we are forced to resort to those half-felt,
imperfect, often wholly inadequate, misleading analo
gies, which we call metaphors. A term used in our
own individual sense, according to our own individual
experience for some object or act appreciable by direct
sensation, is transferred to another merely meditational
object or act, some inward feeling, which we know to
have no real connection with the first, but which
we vaguely connect with it, as we vaguely see human
�21
features in a bright coal fire. And then we boldly
use that term when speaking to others without any
security either that their sensations derived from the
external objects were originally the same as ours, or
that their inward connection of those sensations with
the thought and feeling which we desire to excite in
them, may, will, or can have any resemblance to our
own. And thus the maze of language goes on to
confusion worse confounded, the dye in our vats be
comes more and more muddy, and the hand that stirs
them more and more hopelessly bemessed.
When the Elohist or Jehovist spake of God’s eye,
God’s hand, God’s outstretched arm, God’s image, he
had in his mind, no doubt, a real tangible, living eye,
hand, arm, and image. The God of the Jehovist
really walked in the garden of Eden in the cool of the
day, and Adam and Eve could really hear his voice,
and attempt to hide—to hide !—from him among the
trees (Gen. iii. 8). When the God of the Elohist
created man in his own image (Gen. i. 27), the Elohist
himself, as has been truly said, created God in the
image of man, and so thoroughly in that image, that
the God of his creation was, like a man, weary with his
own work of creation, and had to rest on the seventh
day from all the work which he had made (Gen. ii. 2).
To us, now and here, and to the more intelligent
preachers throughout Christendom, such words are
mere transparent metaphors, by which we vainly
�22
endeavour—how vainly but few consider—to prefigure
the unfigurable. But they are all dangerous. They
are so thoroughly human that they unconsciously
sway the mind to accept God as a mere exaggerated
man. The pygmy that can barely descry the giant’s
toes seeks to dogmatise on the giant’s whole structure.
The dyer’s hand finds its own colour in what the
dyer wantonly dares to term a hand. The finite
raises its own mental scale to gauge the Infinite !
The Infinite 1 How easy to say ; how hard to
conceive ! On this day, in thousands of pulpits
throughout our own land, and in other thousands of
Christian congregations, men will be standing up and
telling of God’s infinitude, arguing from his infinite
power, his infinite wrath, his infinite mercy in allow
ing his infinite wrath to be infinitely appeased by the
infinite sacrifice of himself in a finite form at the
hands of Roman soldiers instigated by Jewish priests
and a Jewish rabble, before his own infinite self, and
running over the other changes of infinity which fall
so glibly from their tongue, but which have abso
lutely no root in their intellect. Nay, of that they
are proud. They can know all about the powers, the
acts, the results of infinity. They can tell you what
infinity, so far forth as being infinity, can, will, and
must do, without having even the shadow of a con
ception to put behind the word. The mathematician
and the natural philosopher have to deal constantly
�23
with the ever-increasing and the ever-diminishing, and
many of our preachers (very far from all) have had to
bend their minds when- young to such considerations.
But with most of them it has been mere cram, stuff to
be blurted out in an examination, and then forgotten.
Yet here, and here only, have we the least hope of
arriving at any practical conceptions of a matter which
all religious teachers are apt to treat with easy, selfcomplacent confidence. The course of my own
studies during many years, from opening manhood to
the present day, has often brought me face to face
with this problem of infinity, so well known to all
real mathematicians, in the simplest of all relations,
number and space. I have been compelled to give
it long, continuous, and reiterated consideration; to
ponder over it for weeks and months at a time; to
read and study what the best heads had written of it;
to endeavour by every means in my power to catch
some clue to its real nature; to render my thoughts
precise by writing and re-writing ; to see how, at
least, the effects of infinity might be safely inferred,
or its laws partly divined; to comprehend, if it be
possible, the infinite in the finite, the description of
an endlessly increasing path with an endlessly in
creasing velocity in a strictly limited time; to see in
my mind’s eye the relations of various orders of the
infinitely great and the infinitely small; in short, to
bridge the great gulf between the discontinuous and
�24
the continuous. I need scarcely tell you that I have
not done what I have found no other man has done,
but I have had a deep conviction of the limits of
human power forced upon myself. The matters with
which I dealt were not those highly complex, illdefined, worse comprehended conceptions which form
the staple of theology. They were the very simplest
conceptions which the human mind can form with any
approach to precision. And the result ? Did I seem
to come nearer to the goal ? Nay, was I not rather
like the voyager who day after day sees the same hard
circle of horizon limiting his vision, till he misdoubts
the very motion of his ship ? Or like the mountaineer
who briskly begins his route to top the crest before
him, and, that reached, finds only another and steeper
there he had not previously divined, and, topping
that, another and another, till poor “Excelsior ” falls ex
hausted by the way? And this, where the road has been
marked out with so much skill by minds far above my
own, minds which are the very guiding stars of all
human thought.
*
What, then, of matters where all
is guess, where no road is known, where the trackless
ocean spreads without a compass, where the traveller
is involved in the deepest gorges without power to
see or to divine how to scale their precipitous cliffs ?
When shall we learn the lesson of the Titans, and
• Such as Newton and Leibnitz.
�25
know the fate of those who would scale heaven by
piling the Pelion of presumption on the Ossa of
ignorance ?
*
But while we all, at least I hope all whom I address,
acutely feel the purely metaphorical application of
terms implying human form, or any part of the human
form, to the inapproachable object of all human
thought, yet we, are apt, even the wisest and best of
all mankind are apt, to be led astray by human lan
guage,—the inheritance derived from men who held
to a literally humanesque personality of the Deity,—
when the terms do not imply bodily form, but the
best and least corporeal functions of humanity,—
thought, will, love. We may be, I believe we are,
speaking the highest and noblest thing which man
can say of God, when we declare that God is Love;
but let us never forget that such language is purely
anthropomorphic in its origin, and must be held
purely metaphorical in its application. If we seek to
drive it home, to make God Love as we alone know
love, we do not raise man to God, but degrade God
* The Titans are here, as usual, confounded with the Giants
who were said to have scaled heaven. “Thrice,” says Virgil,
Georgies, book I., vv. 281-3, “thrice they endeavoured to pile
Mount Ossa on to Pelion, and roll the woody Olympus on to
Ossa ; thrice father Jove with his lightning threw down the
mountains they had reared.” See also Ovid’s Metamorphoses,
book 1., vv. 152-5.
�26
to man. What is the love we know, the love which
alone we can have in mind when we apply the term,
as the outcome of all the best we can conceive, to the
Inconceivable itself? Turn to that glowing descrip
tion of love by the noble Paul, that passage to which
every heart instinctively reverts which has once
beaten at its sound, and see how thoroughly human,
how utterly un-Godlike, it is in its every part. Reject
the negatives, which constitute the main portion of
the description, as the painter cannot suggest light
but by the accumulation of shade, and see with what
reality we can say that God, like love, suffereth long
and is kind, rejoiceth in or with the truth, beareth all,
believeth all, hopeth all, endureth all (i Cor. xiii. 4,
6, 7.) Aman, dependent man, may do this. But how
can we even magnify long-suffering, kindliness, delight
at the discovery of truth, endurance, belief, hope,
into any conception of God which is not purely
human ? Let us know that it is only our own help
lessness which leads us to say that God is Love ! and
that these words are but the faintest possible glimmer
of that far-off light which we hope we may forefeel,
but certainly can never actually perceive. Let us
beware of pushing home an analogy which has already
led to the revolting conception of a devil, of a power
antagonistic to the Unassailable, to account for what
our human conception of love cannot contain. Mark
how limited is that conception I Strong between one
�27
man and another, love weakens as the circle widens.
In the family and clan it often mixes up with feelings
of merely personal dignity. Towards the nation, even
when strongest and purest, its character is wholly and
completely changed. And when extended to the whole
of mankind, it dwindles down to a very faint glow
indeed. Often mixed with this love is the strongest
antipathy, the haughtiest contempt, the most trans
parent selfishness. Look at the international re
lations which have convulsed Europe and America,
even within the memory of the youngest adult here
present! But extend your heart to the lower ani
mals, to the living but insentient vegetable, to the
inorganic kingdom, and, by slow degrees, love dwindles
to nonentity. Then think what part the whole of
this earth, with all that it contains, plays in that great
hniverse of bodies which the telescope reveals, com
pared to many of which our whole solar system is as
nothing, nay, perhaps, our whole stellar system but
insignificant. But all these are God’s; all these may,
Ike the earth, swarm with a life, an intelligence, a
love, unlike the earth’s indeed, but, if any twilight
motion we can form of God be even remotely correct,
as much bound up with God as our own puny selves.
And then, straining our minds to grasp this mighty
conception, let us again ask ourselves what resem
blance can that Love which we call God, have to
|hat human conception which alone fills our minds
�28
when we utter the word Love on earth ? It is not to
disparage, but to appreciate, not to lower, but to
elevate, not to put aside God as a loveless, emotion
less stone of an Epicurean deity, but to widen our
minds and hearts to some vague panting hope that
the Ineffable may warm us into some power of feeling
what we can neither conceive nor utter, that I ven
ture to call your attention to the utter inadequacy
of man’s noblest formula : God is Love !
But the dyer’s hand is still more apparent in
the moulding of another conception, which it was
my principal object to bring before your notice,
and which will occupy the rest of the time for
which I can venture to claim your attention.
Every lip is ready to speak of God’s “ design; ” of
God’s will, purpose, intention, final cause, motive;
of the reasons which induce him to make things as
they are; of the plan of the universe and the changes
or amendments (f£ new dispensations ” is the favourite
term) which he has introduced into it; of his scheme
of redemption (which, by-the-bye, seems to be con
ceived as occasionally thwartable); of his contrivances
to produce certain effects; of his elaborate system of
rewards and punishments to keep the world in order
(which, however, altogether fails because he has not
succeeded in keeping the Devil in order); of his
mechanical knowledge in availing himself of the pro
perties of bones and tissues in organisation; and so
�29
on, and so on, from the philosopher to the clown,
from Darwin, whom the necessities of language oblige
to speak of the purpose, intention, use of certain
organs, to the poet’s “ pampered goose,” who finds man
created to feed him. Now, before we proceed to
consider this preposterous nonsense, which would not
be worth a moment’s thought if it had not such a
profoundly distorting effect on our mental vision when
directed to the greatest of all subjects, let us inquire
what is the human meaning of the principal word
throughout this Babel, which I have placed first in
order, because it is the key to all the rest. What is
the human meaning of “ design ” ? Clearly, it is only
by knowing human design that we can infer creative
design, and a little consideration will shew that there
cannot be even a remote analogy between the two.
To design was originally to mark out, to trace out, as
the boundary of a city was traced out by a plough,
put it very early acquired in Rome, where the word
is indigenous, that metaphorical meaning in which it
is generally employed. A man designs a machine—
Paley’s watch, for example—what has he done ? He
has himself, or through his predecessors, discovered
“the laws of geometry, the properties of circles, the
Power exerted by a metal spring in uncoiling, the
difference of that power according to the thickness
and length of the spring, and the kind of metal com
posing it, especially the tempering of the metal, and
�3°
the isochronous vibrations of thin and highly tempered
springs, with various other properties of toothed
wheels and levers, which I need not stay to describe.
Now observe, he has discovered all this, he has invented
nothing as yet. What he wants to do is to make a
rod, the hand of his watch, move round in a circle
at a rate bearing an exact relation to the rate at which the
earth revolves on its axis, which revolution he has also
discovered, not invented. Seizing, then, on the fact of
the isochronous vibration of a hair-spring when
properly weighted and properly jogged, he puts these
parts together so that these properties (which he did
not make, nor invent, but only discovered), acting
according to the laws of geometry and mechanics
(which again he did not make, nor invent, but only
discovered), may really produce the required result.
Observe, too, that his knowledge of the laws of this
action is imperfect; there are certain properties of ex
pansion and contraction with heat, which he has not
become sufficiently familiar with, or known how to bring
into destructive opposition; there are certain difficulties
in cutting geometrical figures truly in metal which he
cannot entirely overcome; so that his watch is at best
a very imperfect affair requiring daily correction by
observations—themselves more or less imperfect—on
the presumably invariable motion of the earth. This
is human design. All man's part is to find the
materials, the laws of their action, and the laws by
�3i
which they can be connected; nothing else whatever.
He puts them together, and we say that that grand
abstraction, “nature,” does the rest. Now, if we
apply this to God, we see that some other god must
have made the materials, and their laws, and the laws
of their connection, and that he merely puts them
together ! What a degrading conception ! The great
God, the expression of utter boundlessness, a
mechanical drudge, a piecer of other gods’ goods!
Shame on man that he ever inculcated such a doctrine I
Shame on those natural theologians who would found
our very reason for believing in the existence of God
on such transparent fallacies, which can be knocked
down like nine-pins by the first bowl of a cunning
atheist!
But the conception recurs again and again. Even
natural philosophers, as distinct from natural
theologers, become occasionally involved in its
meshes. Professor Tyndall, in the second of his
series of lectures on Heat and Light, which he de
livered at the Royal Institution in 1872, brought
forward a notable instance, widely accepted, and
hesitatingly admitted by even the founder of that In
stitution, Count Rumford, for the purpose of shewing
pjiow utterly fallacious and presumptuous it is, like
Phaethon to guide the horses of the Sun. Water, as
every one who has learned anything about its prois aware, is liquid at ordinary temperatures, and
�32
as it is cooled down to about 40 deg. Fahrenheit,
regularly and gradually contracts like the column of
mercury in the thermometer. But then a change ensues.
Increase the cold towards freezing and the mercury
continues to contract, but the water expands, till at
freezing it becomes solid ice, occupying much more
space than the water whence it was generated, as most
householders have learned from broken water-pipes.
Hence, as the water cools to 40 deg., it sinks to the
bottom of any pond, lake or river, because it is
heavier, but after 40 deg., and up to and after its be
coming ice, it is lighter and floats on the top, pre
senting a pad against the cold, and hence keeping
the water liquid below, and preventing the whole mass
from becoming one solid lump, destroying all possi
bility of life within it. The importance of this pro
perty to the inhabitants of temperate and arctic
regions is manifest. Without it these climes could not
be inhabited by man or any other animal, as now con
stituted. No other liquid was known to possess the
same properties. What so natural, then, as to say that
God in his providence designed this solitary exception
from the universal law of contractility by cold, for the
benefit and preservation of man ? And men have said
so one after another. The fact is so striking, the re
lation to man, in regions where ice can form, so cleail
that the boldest denier of God’s providence—gene
rally somebody extremely ignorant—would be shaken
�33
when its bearing was made clear. But in the first
place, the fact clearly could not affect those parts of the
world where ice never forms, and in the second place,
at a time when the present arctic and temperate
regions bore tropical vegetation, this law also did not
affect them, though as yet man was not to be found on
the face of the earth j and, lastly, this is not a solitary
exception. When bismuth is sufficiently heated it be
comes fluid, and as heat is withdrawn that fluid also
first contracts and then expands, although no relations
between this phenomenon and the life of man can
be traced. The whole argument was, therefore, one
from ignorance to ignorance, and its present value is
to shew how dangerous, nay, how illogical, how
thoughtless it is, from an isolated circumstance, which
could only have local value, to infer a general propo
sition of a totally different character about a totally
unknown relation. The preacher who is reported to
have found a special providence in the fact (which he
deemed universal) that great rivers flowed by great
cities, did not more burlesque the ways of God to
man than he who founded an argument for God’s
special care of our race on that other remarkable and
more real property of water.
The proof of design is now generally sought for in
organisation, and not in the inanimate world. Paley
“ pitched his foot ” unconcernedly against the ££ stone ”
he found on the heath; for anything he knew, as he
�34
says, it might have lain there for ever. When he was
writing this, at the beginning of the nineteenth cerH
tury, geology was practically an unknown science, or
he might have found a history in the stone which
would have led him to the conception of epochs of
creation preparing the way for man, gravel collected
here to be subsequently dug up, coal gathered there
storing up the sun’s heat for man’s benefit hereafter,
perhaps the very mammoths would have been found
made to yield ivory or bone manure for future genera
tions. Again he was no chemist, or he might have
dwelled much on the chemical constitution of his stone,
and its remarkable adaptation for man’s future habita
tions. He was no natural philosopher, or he might
have dwelled on its specific gravity, and the wonder
ful contrivance by which, though water is lighter and
more mobile than rock, the dry land could appear for
man’s existence. In short, he was only a not very
learned theologian, who, recommended by his bishop
to turn his thoughts to the argument from design,
crammed up his subjects, and, more or less correctly-J
never with the grasp of real knowledge—wove them
into a treatise, with the valuable assistance, as we
have lately learned, of a French book on the same
*
subject.
He was a good plain writer, and, his half
* This last piece of information has been added since this
discourse was delivered. The information was given in the Academy
or Athenceum at the end of 1875 or beginning of 1876, butunfor*
�35
faawledge enabling him to skim over all difficulties, he
has produced a seductive book, which has done an
immense amount of harm in deteriorating our concep
tions of God, and in leading Englishmen to notions
thoroughly anthropomorphic in content, though avoid
ing anthropomorphism in appearance. But the pro
blem of design in older times, when organisation was
less understood, was treated with especial reference to
the subordination of the inorganic to the use of man.
The Elohist, ignorant that rain was formed in clouds
but slightly distant from our earth, placed the
“ extension,” (as the Hebrew word means which we
translate “firmament”) called “heaven,” to divide
the seas from the rain ; and put the sun above us in
this same firmament to rule the day, and the moon to
rule the night (when it was visible), and that wondrous
multitude of other suns, among which our own is
only a third or fourth rate body, he brought in paren
thetically, as “the stars also,” their chief “use ” being,
course, “ for signs and for seasons, for days and for
years,” that is, for man to reckon seed time and harvest
by. The continual addition that God saw that it was
“ good,” naturally implies that it was effected for a
tunately I neglected to make a note at the time, and have been
unable to recover the reference. It was stated, however, that
the resemblance between the French work and Paley’s was
very close, and that even the incident of the ‘ ‘ watch ” is due to
the French original. August, 1876.
�3<S
certain purpose or design beneficial to man (Gen.
chap, i.) All this has gradually gone out. Coperni
can astronomy dissipated the reference of all celestial
bodies to man.
Geology and natural philosophy
ousted design from inanimate objects. But organisa
tion remained, and remains a stronghold.
Who can regard the human eye, the lens, the retina,
the chamber through which the beams pass, the
diaphragm of the iris, the varying aperture of the
pupil, without, in these photographic days especially,
being forcibly reminded of the object glass, the
sensitised plate, the camera, the movable diaphragm ?
And as all these latter are known to be the works of
design, based upon laws of light as regards its refrac
tion through glass, and its chemical action, what is
more natural for the mind just receiving the idea, than
to jump to the conclusion, that, as man adapted the
camera, so God adapted the eye to the laws of light ?
True ; but for the laws of light the eye would not see.
We might almost feel inclined to say that light was
invented for the eye. But the Elohist having placed
light at the earliest epoch (before the sun and the
stars, indeed, whence comes all the light, even the
so-called artificial light that we know}, no theologer
would hit upon this conception, which is not a bit
more extravagant than that the sun was made to rule
the day, which, therefore, must have existed before
the sun. But here, as in the moral government of
�37
the world (which religion had to supplement by a
devil), we run great danger, if we press the argument
home, of imagining the Unerring to be as great a
bungler as poor, designing, fractionally informed man.
If the eye was “designed” for sight, why should so many
exquisite “ contrivances ” exist for defeating that
object? Why should this man be born blind, why
should an Egyptian sun make that man sightless, why
should the focal power of the lens be often—generally,
I may say—so ill adapted to the position of the
retina, that no distinct image can be formed till man’s
knowledge of the laws of optics has taught him the
effect of lenses of glass, and how to grind them ? The
man is yet alive who first found what form of lens
should Ibe given to remedy a not uncommon, but
hitherto unsuspected defect existing in his own eye,
and now generally known to oculists. If the Jews
could ask, in order to explain a certain man’s blind
ness, “ Who did sin, this man or his parents, that he
was born blind ? ” are we right in parodying the
answer, and replying, “ Neither has the AstronomerRoyal sinned, nor his parents; but he was born with
astigmatic vision, that the works of God should be made
*
* A point of light is seen in correct vision as a single point,
but in astigmatic vision not, stigma, a point), it is seen as a
line of very perceptible length. If any one looks at himself in the
hollow or projection of a bright silver table-spoon he sees the
effect of astigmatism, which prolongs or shortens objects, as his
�3§
manifest in him?” (John ix., 2, 3.) Do not such
phrases grate on every soul attuned to God-like har
mony ? And what shall we say of the colour-blind for
whom no cure has been devised, but who as railway
porters on land, or as the look-out at sea, may
imperil or destroy hundreds of lives in a moment
by confusing green with red? The man most capable
*
own face, according to the position in which the spoon is held.
The Astronomer-Royal, Sir George Biddell Airy, when a pro
fessor at Cambridge, used to relate to his class (of which I was a
member) how he detected the nature of the error in his own
eyes, and calculated the proper shape of the lenses (cylindrical
and not spherical) for his spectacles to correct the defect, and
how he found it impossible for years to get any optician who
would undertake to grind them. Now the malformation is well
known and studied, and several oculists (as Liebreich, Bowman,
&c.) are prepared to measure the error, often very complicated,
and order the construction of proper lenses. It is also found that
many eyes, with correct vision when young, became astigmatic
with age. Dr. Liebreich considers this to have been the cause
of the extraordinary vertical lengthening in the drawing of objects
introduced into Turner’s latest pictures.
* See ‘ ‘ Researches on Colour-blindness, with a supplement on
the danger attending the Present System of Railway and Marine
Coloured Signals,” by the late Prof. George Wilson, of Edin
burgh, 1855. “ The great majority of the colour-blind distin
guish two of the primary colours, yellow and blue, but they err
with the third red, which they confound with green, with brown,
with grey, with drab, and occasionally with other colours; and
not. unfrequently red is invisible to them, or appears black”
�39
of passing an opinion on any point of physiological,
optics, the great physiologist, physicist, and mathe
matician, Helmholtz, who had devoted many years
of study to this special subject, and written a classical
work upon it, says, of the human eye, as Professor
Clifford has told us (Macmillan!s Magazine, October,
1872, p. 507, col. 2) : “If an optician sent me that
as an instrument, I should send it back to him with
grave reproaches for the carelessness of his work, and
demand the return of my money.” * Is there, indeed,
a single organ in the human body ordinarily so perfect
that it needs no help from man ? On what do our
physicians and surgeons live ? Was disease part of
God’s design for the doctor’s benefit, or was it a
punishment for the patient’s sin ? And how can we
avoid that last old Judaic notion if we see design in
everything ? Aye, but to give up design is to throw
p. 129. It is now not usual to consider blue a primary colour
a colour-blind friend of my own could not distinguish red from
dark blue ; I have known others who could not distinguish red
from green. “There is every reason to believe that the number
of males in this country who are subject in some degree to thisaffection of vision, is not less than one in twenty, and that the
number markedly colour-blind, that is, given to mistake red
for green, brown for green, purple for blue, and occasionally
red for black, is not less than one in fifty,” p. 130.
* This sentence was added for the second delivery, 18th May,.
‘873-
�4°
everything into the power of chance. Who is this
grim goddess Chance that can assume the reins of the
world because one man differs from another in
opinion ? When the Pope and Cardinals condemned
Galileo for affirming the world’s motion, they were, as
it has been happily said, at that instant whirling round
with it. Our views of the world and its constitution
cannot alter the macrocosm without, but may materially
affect the microcosm within. Let us face this Chance,
and ask again, who art thou ? And in ultimate resort
all the best philosophy of the day replies : Chance is
the sum of all those laws which we have still to
■learn. To say that the world is what it is, bating the
laws we know, through the laws we know not, is surely
nothing terrible, is the merest truism of modern science.
But by all means avoid a name which conjures up a
foul Python that it would need another Phoebus to
destroy.
What, then, can we mean by God’s design, or rather
by that which we humanly call design ? Again, all
the best philosophy has its answer ready: we mean
solely the conditions of existence, that without
which—or that which changed—things would not be
what they are.
*
Stated baldly thus, it seems a most
* It will be at once objected that there is nothing even
approaching to the conception of human design in such a
■statement. Quite true. If we attempted to introduce anything
-approaching to human design, we should have to suppose that
�4i
barren proposition. Most laws of primary importance
have that appearance till their consequences are traced.
As long as we conceive that God meant every particular
state to be what it is, it remains a sin to touch it. We
have even now among us a “ peculiar people,” as they
call themselves, who decline to summon a physician
in case of illness. I have not heard that they insisted
on eating grains of wild wheat instead of bread artfully
prepared with unholy leaven from the bruised com.
Directly we look upon things as being what they are,
owing to certain conditions of existence, we inquire
are these modifiable ? and if so, with what result ?
We experiment, we modify. As the peculiar people—
an “unconditioned” Creator fell into a profound study resulting
in his devising not merely materials, but their laws, all fitting
into some vast and complicated machine, embracing the whole
universe, and having some distinct object which, as w’ell as all
the incidents accompanying its action, (the “evil” as well as
the “good,”) was conceived and intended beforehand, and
which he preferred to effect in this way instead of by a single
hat. Not venturing to claim that intimate acquaintance w'ith
God’s mind, which most preachers practically assert themselves
to possess, I cannot put forward such an hypothesis. It does
not appear to be a particularly edifying conception, and on closer
inspection I find it totally incomprehensible. But “conditions of
existence ” imply no hypothesis. They are a mere statement of
what we find, without superadding any imaginary cause, and
may be, or rather must be, accepted, whatever cause may be
Assigned to them.
�42
and others by no means peculiar, I am sorry to say—
might declare, we dare to correct God’s handiwork.
Think of the sheer blasphemy of such a notion ! Think
how deep that dye must be which could thus obliterate
-every trace of all that is true and beautiful and good I
During an expedition to study the effects of a total
•eclipse of the sun a few years ago, as the astronomers
were preparing to make those observations which tend
•so greatly to establish oneness amidst the diversity of
the universe, some ignorant natives lighted a fire to
frighten off the dragon that was consuming the sun,
and the whole observations would have been nullified
by the smoke had not some English officer seen and
bravely stamped it out. And we here, here in England,
*
here in London, here in the largest city of the world,
speaking a language more widely spoken than any in
the world, need a brave officer like him to stamp out
the fumes which would thwart the only means we have
of even vaguely forefeeling that Being whom no epithet
■Can describe, but which an ignorant crowd believes to
be succumbing to the serpent knowledge.
The dye of humanity is on our hand. Wash it
as we may, either in the Abana and Pharpar of stately
theology that arrogates to itself universal
priort
* So far as I can recollect, this refers to the total eclipse of
the sun on the 12th December, 1871, and the incident mentioned
is illustrated by a drawing in the Illustrated London News of
the time. August, 1876.
�43
knowledge, or in the Jordan of lowly science
(2 Kings, v. 10, 12), that lays down as its first principle,
ignorance of all not yet discovered—wash it as we may,
we cannot wash it clean—but we can know that it A
dyed, and we can lift it up with a clear conscience,
that while panting after God as the hart for the water
brooks (Ps. xlii. 1), we have never knowingly let a
single drop of the dye fall on our shapeless conception
of the Inconceivable. Let us take a lesson from the
Greek myth of Semele. As we can only converse with
the Deity through human conceptions, let us be
content that they are human, and not entreat a
presence which no man can see and live. And, in
*
order that our nature may not be more than “ almost”
subdued to what it works in, let us wear in our “ heart
of heart,”f never to be forgotten, cherished as a
constant warning, as a safeguard against presumption,
as the token of self-knowledge, Shakspeare’s badge of
the Dyer’s Hand 1
* Semele “ was beloved by Zeus (Jupiter), and Here (Juno),
stimulated by jealousy, appeared to her in the form of her aged
nurse Beroe, and induced her to pray Zeus to visit her in the
same splendour and majesty with which he appeared to Here.
Zeus, who had promised that he would grant her every request,
did as she desired. He appeared to her as the god of thunder,
and Semele was consumed by the fire of lightning.” (W.
Smith’s Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and
Mythology.)
f {Hamlet, act 3, scene 2, speech 14.)
�44
DISMISSAL.
May we each ponder in private, and shew forth in
public, that the way to God is through the heart of
man I
�
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Text
IN MIND AS IN MATTER
AND ITS
BEARING UPON CHRISTIAN DOGMA AND MORAL
RESPONSIBILITY.”
PART II.
THE TRUE MEANING OF RESPONSIBILITY.
BY
CHARLES
BRAY,
AUTHOR OF “A MANUAL OF ANTHROPOLOGY, OR SCIENCE OILMAN,” “MODERN
PROTESTANTISM,” “ILLUSION AND DELUSION,” &C.
PUBLISHED BY THOMAS SCOTT,
NO. 11, THE TERRACE, FARQUHAR ROAD,
UPPER NORWOOD, LONDON, S.E.
Price Sixpence.
�J
�THE
REIGN OF LAW IN MIND AS IN MATTER
Part
IL
THE TRUE MEANING OF RESPONSIBILITY.
‘ ‘ In the eternal sequence we take the consequence.” —H. G. A.
UT it is said, if men are not free, if they must act
in accordance with the laws of their being, if no
act could therefore have been otherwise than it was,
what becomes of virtue, what of morality ?
If a man could not have done otherwise, where was
the virtue ?
This doctrine of necessity or certainty, it is alleged,
is “ fatal to every germ of morality.”
For what, if it is true, becomes of Responsibility?
You cannot, it is said, properly or consistently use
either praise or blame, reward or punishment, if a man
is not free. The opposite, as I shall show, is really
the case.
Let me answer these questions as shortly as I have
put them. Virtue is not that which is free, but that
which is for the good of mankind, for the greatest hap
piness of all God’s creatures. Our goodness or virtue,
it is said, if necessary or dependent upon our nature, is
no goodness at all; but the goodness of God, which
also is dependent upon his nature, and could not be
otherwise, is the highest goodness of all. Man is good,
because he might, it is supposed, be otherwise; God is
B
�4
The Reign of Law
good, because he could not be otherwise. “ The good
ness of the nature of the Supreme, we are told, is neces
sary goodness, yet it is voluntary,” that is, in accordance
with the will, but which will is governed by the nature.
Still I do not suppose that if a man’s nature and
training were such that he could not do a mean thing,
he would be thought the worse of on that account.
Morality concerns the relation of man to his fellows,
—it comprises the laws and regulations by which men
can live together most happily, and the more they can
be made binding upon all, and not free, the better for all.
Responsibility only means that we must always
take the natural and necessary consequences of our
actions, whether such actions are free or not.
Responsibility, or accountability, in the ordinary
acceptance of the term, means—and this is the meaning
usually thought to be essential to virtue and morality—
that it will be just to make people suffer as much as they
have made others suffer; it means retribution, retalia
tion, and revenge. Some one has done wrong, some one
must make atonement—that is, suffer for it; it does
not much matter who it is, so that some one suffers,
and particularly since it is supposed that the wrath of
God has been appeased by an arbitrary substitute of the
innocent for the guilty. This kind of responsibility
or retribution is not only unjust, but useless.
External things or objects are moved by what we
call Force; the mind is moved by motive, which is
mental force; but equally in each case the strongest
force prevails. “ It may be, or it may not be,” in any
supposed two or more courses—not because this action
is free or contingent, but according as one or other force
or motive shall become the strongest and prevail. The
strongest force always does prevail, and any uncertainty
we may feel is only consequent on our want of know
ledge. In'Physics we know the force must always be
made proportionate to the end we wish to_attain; in
�in Mind as in Matter.
5
Mind this is overlooked, or left to what is called the
Will; hut it is equally true. This fact is overlooked
both by the Fatalists and by those who believe in the
freedom of the will. The first hold that things come
to pass in spite of our efforts; the latter, that they are
not necessarily dependent upon them. The will is
governed by motive, and as the strongest always neces
sarily prevails, what we have to do is to increase the
strength of the motive or moving power in the direction
we wish to attain. The Eev. Daniel Moore speaks of
“ his consciousness as prompting him to put forth an
act of spontaneous volition, and thus proving the moral
agent free.” “The force of instinct,” he says, “is
stronger than the conclusion of logic.” Certainly it
must be so in this case, or logic would say an act lost
its spontaneity just in proportion as it was prompted or
influenced. Praise and blame, reward and punishment,
are the ordinary means taken to strengthen motives.
If the will were free—that is, capable of acting against
motives, or if it acted spontaneously—these meaijs
would be useless and unavailing.
It is not till an action is passed that our power over
it ceases ; then God himself could not prevent it. We
may always say we can; never that we could. The
motive may have been good or bad, but whichever it
was, the strongest must have prevailed, and the action
could not thus have been different to what it was.
Eesponsibility can have relation to the future only—
the past is past. Punishment for an act that could not
have been otherwise would be unjust, and as the act is
past it would be useless.
Punishment, therefore, that has reference to the
future, and that has for its object the good of the
sufferer, or of the community of which he is a member,
alone can be just and useful.
As every act was necessary, and could not have been
otherwise, there is no such thing as sin, as an offence
against God—only vice and error.
�6
The Reign of Law
All vice and error must be to the detriment of the
person erring, and punishment that prevents it in
future must be for his good.
To pray, therefore, to be delivered from such pm-iishment—that is, for the forgiveness of sin—is praying
for that which would injure us rather than benefit.
Let us take an illustration. A schoolboy may have
been told that “we should not leave till to-morrow
what we can do to-day,” so he eats all his plumcake
before he goes to bed. He takes the natural conse
quences, and is ill the next day, and the master is very
angry; but the boy says very truly, “Please, sir, I
could not help it.” “ I know you could not, my dear
boy,” says the master, “ but when you have had a black
draft and a little birch added to your present intestinal
malaise, it will enable you to help it for the future,
and will teach you also that there is no rule without
an exception.”
Responsibility means that we must take the natural
and necessary consequences of our actions—of the
“ eternal sequence we take the consequence,” and which
natural consequence may be added to by others to any
extent, with the object of producing in the future one
line of conduct rather than another; but it does not
mean that a person may be justly made to suffer for
any action that is past.
Responsibility or accountability also includes that if
a person has done another an injury, he owes him all
the compensation in his power.
Dr Irons says :—“ To incur the consequences of our
actions, and feel that it ought to &e so—to be subject to
a high law, and feel it to be right, this is moral
responsibility” (“Analysis of Human Responsibility,”
p. 25). I accept this definition entirely, but in a dif
ferent sense to that accorded to it by Dr Irons. We
accept the consequences of our actions, and feel that
“ we ought to do so,” and therefore “ that it is right,”
because it is by its consequences that a reasonable man
�in Mind as in Matter.
7
guides his conduct; they govern his motives, and the
motives govern the will. But this is on the supposi
tion that the consequences of our actions will be always
the same in like circumstances—that the causes, under
like conditions, will always produce the same effects,
which could not be the case if the will were free, and
obeyed no law. It is this feeling, this intuitive
perception of consequences, that people call feeling
accountable —“the great and awful fact of human
responsibility.” This feeling is transmitted, or becomes
hereditary, and then it is called Conscience, and gives
the sense of “ ought.”
Dr Irons also says:—“ It is a fact of our nature that
wrong-doing, such as stirs our own disapproval, is
haunted by the belief of retribution.” No doubt of it.
In the early ages this retribution or revenge was the
■only law, and the fear of it was often the only thing
that kept people from doing wrong, and this fear has
been transmitted, and now haunts us; but that is no
reason why revenge, or retributive justice, as it is
called, is right. A sense of duty and responsibility—
that is, of what is due to our own sense of right, and
-of the consequences to ourselves and others—still
influences, and ought to influence, our conduct; but it
■cannot be otherwise than that the strongest motive
must prevail, and when the action it dictates is past,
it could not have been otherwise. It may have been
very well for a young world, when man had to fight
his way up from the lower animals, to entertain the
■delusion that things might have been otherwise, but
we require now an entire reconstruction of the accepted
modes of thought, which shall not only accept the inevi
table in the past, but conscience must cease to blame us
or others for what must have happened exactly as it
did happen.
The great question, as we are told, is, whether the
universe is governed and arranged on rational or nonrational principles ? and this question is asked by those
�8
The Reign of Law
to whom free will is a necessary article in their creed.
Certainly, if the mind or will obeys no law, then theuniverse must be governed on non-rational principles,
for reason is based upon certainty, as opposed to con
tingency, in the order of nature. Science alone gives
prevision, necessary to the guidance and regulation of
action.
If prayer had the efficacy which is ordinarily
assigned to it, it would make this “ order of nature ”
impossible, there would be a constant breach in the
chain of cause and effect, and prevision and the exer
cise of reason, which is based upon unbroken law and
certainty, could not exist. “ Requests for a particular
adjustment of the weather,” says the Rev. W. Knight,
“ are irrelevant, unless the petitioner believes that the
prayer he offers may co-operate to the production of
the effect.” The same must be said of all prayers;
they are efficacious only so far as they tend to answer
themselves, and they themselves produce the effect
desired. But wherever prayer is sincere, and not
gabbled over by rote in our public service, this is
generally the case. We are governed or moved by
motive, and sincere prayer is the greatest possible
strengthener of motive. Prayer thus acts through
motive upon man, and through man upon matter and
the universe. But in proportion as we recognise the
Reign of Law, and we become conscious that there is
a natural way by which all we desire may be brought
about, prayer will no longer take the form of asking
for what we can and ought to do for ourselves, but of
simple aspiration and devotion to that unity of which
we all form a part.
We feel that we ought to take the consequences of
our actions, and that it is right we should do so,
because we have no other rule to discriminate between
right and wrong. It is not in actions themselves, or
in the motives that dictate them—being all equally
necessary—that the right or wrong consists, but in.
�in Mind as in Matter.
9
their consequences to ourselves or others. If, as a rule,
the actions are attended with pain, they are wrong; if
with pleasure, they are right. This is God’s simple
and intelligible revelation to all the world alike. The
floral Governor carries on his moral government, not
by calling people to account ages after, when the record
of every idle word would be rather long and prosy even
in eternity, but by immediate intervention—by the
direct punishment or reward or pain or pleasure attend
ing their actions.
Jeremy Bentham says:—“No man ever had, can, or
could have, a motive different to the pursuit of pleasure
or the avoidance of pain.” This has not been generally
accepted, because it has not been understood. It has
been supposed to refer only to physical or bodily pains,
and not mental. We must discriminate also between
pleasure and what are usually called pleasures. The
stern delight of fortitude would hardly be called a “plea
sure;” still delight is a highly pleasurable sensation.
Men have certain impulses to action to attain certain
ends. When these ends are legitimately attained,
.pleasure attends the action; when the ends are not
attained, then there is pain. It is these ends that are
pursued, not pleasure or pain, but pleasure or pain
attending for our guidance and compulsion. The
.aggregate of these pleasures we call happiness—of the
pains, which are the exception, misery.
These impulses, which we call propensities and senti
ments, have various objects, and are more simple and
•calculable than is generally supposed. They are self
protecting, self-regarding, social, moral, and aesthetic.
They are all connected with the brain, and the im
pulses to action are ordinarily strong in proportion to
the size of the parts of the brain with which they are
connected, the dynamical effect being dependent upon
statical conditions in mind as in matter. The impulse to
action is pleasurable, becoming painful if not gratified.
Appetite is slightly pleasurable, hunger is painful, and
�io
The Reign of Law
the pleasure of eating is in proportion to the appetite
or hunger. All the other feelings have their appetites,
hunger, and gratification, with the pleasures and pains
attending them. The object of the intellect, the action
of which is very little pleasurable in itself, is the guid
ance of these feelings towards their proper ends, and
involves the element of choice in the selection of means.
Locke says, “The will is the last dictate of the under
standing,” but it is not the dictate of the understanding
itself, but of the impulses it may set in motion. It is
the feelings, not the intellect, that ordinarily govern
the will. Bentham’s “ pursuit of pleasure or avoidance
of pain” means the pleasures or pains attending the
action of all our mental faculties. If the propensities
predominate in a character, then the pleasures are only
of an animal nature ; if the moral feelings predominate,
then our pleasures are as intimately connected with the
interests of others as -with our own ; and these feelings
may be so trained and strengthened as to give the in
terests of others a preference over our own (i.e., we may
have more pleasure in promoting the interests of others
than our own). It is these moral feelings that make the
principal distinction between men and other animals,
subordinating individual interests to that of the com
munity. They enable men to combine and co-operate;
upon which their principal strength depends. They
probably do not so much differ in kind from those of
other animals as in degree. They are dependent upon
parts of the brain, which in animals are either absent
or merely rudimentary. The pains of conscience are
often stronger than any mere physical pains, and the
pain attending the breach of his word and the outrage
to all his highest feeling must have been greater to
Regulus than the fear of any physical pain, or other
consequences to which he could be subjected by his
enemies. Of course a man without these higher feel
ings would have sneaked away—there was no free-will
in the matter. But we do not admire Regulus the less,.
�in Mind as in Matter.
11
though few of us perhaps would be able to follow his
example. The habitual exercise of the highest, or un
selfish feelings as they are called, regardless of imme
diate consequences, produces the highest happiness,
although it may sometimes lead, as in Regulus’s case,
to the barrel of spikes; and this is only to be attained,
not by free-will, but by careful training and exercise.
It is exercise that increases structure, and the strength
of the feeling, and its habitual or intuitive action, de
pends upon its size. We love that which is loveable,
and hate that which is hateful; and if we are to love
our neighbour he must make himself loveable, or love
falls to the colder level of duty. The poor toad, not
withstanding the jewel in its head, aesthetically is not
beantiful, and it has few friends or admirers, and few
find out its virtues, and the blame that belongs to
others is laid upon its poor ugly back. We never in
quire if the toad made itself, or if it was its own free
will to be ugly. It is precisely the same with every
thing else—that which gives us pleasure we love, and
that which gives us pain we hate, with small reference
to whether this pain or pleasure was voluntarily given
to us or not. It is the same with all consequences ; as
they are required for the guidance of our actions, they
follow just the same, whether our actions are voluntary
or not. Whether we burn ourselves by accident or
voluntarily, the pain is just the same—the object of
the pain being to keep us out of the fire. This is true
responsibility or accountability which governs the will,
which is not free—no freedom fortunately being allowed
to interfere with God’s purposes in creation.
We are told that “no cogent reason has yet been
advanced why men should not follow their, own wicked
impulses, as well as others follow their virtuous ones.”
The best of all reasons I think has been assigned—
viz., that painful consequences attend the vicious im
pulses, and pleasure the virtuous ones; so that unless
a man prefers pain to pleasure, he has the strongest of
�12
The Reign of Law
all possible motives for good conduct. We indefinitely
increase the pains as additional motives, and where no
punishment is deterrent, as in some exceptional cases,
restraint, or even capital punishment, is justly re
sorted to.
The writer in the Edinburgh, to whom we have be
fore alluded, says : “ If these anti-christian and atheistic
sentiments should gain the wide acceptance which Dr
Strauss and his school anticipate for them, what is to
prevent a reign of universal chaos ? What is to stave
off the utter shipwreck of human society ? What hope
can survive for man when every redeeming ideal is de
stroyed; when blind destiny is enthroned in the seat
of God; and when the universe is come to be regarded
by all mankind as a dead machine, whose social law is,
that
‘ He may get who has the power,
And he may keep who can. ”
That universal anarchy will then begin, and that the
unchained passions of a human animal, devoid of the
usual animal instincts of restraint, will plunge both
himself and the social fabric he has for ages been
erecting into ruin, no one in his senses can reasonably
doubt. And such is the consummation for which
writers like these are diligently working. Such is the
chaos into which a merely destructive criticism, and a
‘ positive ’ science which, in the domain of religion, is
purely negative, and is therefore falsely so called, are
hurrying the deluded votaries of a godless secularism.”
This “ godless secularism,” as if there were any part of
the creation from which God could be excluded, would
appear to point clearly to the authorship of this article,
as none but a person whose “ calling ” was supposed to
be in danger could write like this, except it were the
American newspapers on the eve of a presidential elec
tion. The New York Herald has also its pious as well
as its political side. In commenting lately upon the
death of a rather notorious character, it says : “He
�in Mind as in Matter.
J3
•calmly fell asleep without a struggle, when, no doubt,
angels accompanied his soul to the peaceful shores of
eternity, there to dwell with his Maker for ever.” The
Edinburgh used to be considered an organ of advanced
liberalism, but think of being able to find a writer in
the present day who evidently knows something of
science, who believes that social order and progress de
pend upon a creed, and such a creed !
li It is the business of morality or moral science,”
says Herbert Spencer, “to deduce, from the laws of life
and the conditions of existence, what kinds of actions
necessarily tend to produce happiness, and what kinds
to produce unhappiness; and having done this, its de
ductions are to be recognised as laws of conduct.”
Morality relates, notwithstanding the high-flown lan
guage usually used with respect to it, simply to the
laws and regulations by which men may live together
in the most happy manner possible—the laws, in fact,
■of their wellbeing—and as it is the “law” of their
nature to seek their happiness or wellbeing, the interests
of morality are fortunately sufficiently assured. Of
-course this will be called a “ godless secularism,” and it
is said that these natural motives will be very much
.strengthened if we add to them the rewards and punish
ments of another world; but the highest morality is
independent of such low personal motives, and people
-do what is right because it is right—that is, because it
promotes the best interests of the community at large—
-of others besides themselves. As to the laws of “ an
eternal and immutable morality,” the laws of morality
have always varied according to the varying interests of
mankind, and with advancing civilisation; as the family
has extended to the clan, the clan to the country, the
country to the world. What has been right in one age
-and country has been wrong in another, as the interests
of the community were different at one time and place
to what they were in another. It is rather singular
that we should hear most of eternal and immutable
�14
The Reign of Law
morality from those whose whole theological system isbased upon vicarious atonement, upon the sacrifice of
the just for the unjust.
Coleridge says : “ It is not the motive makes the
man, but the man the motive.” This is ordinarily ad
duced to prove that as man makes the motive, and the
motive governs the will, the man must be free, and his
will also; but it is just the reverse. Objectively, a
man is judged by his motive; subjectively, it is man—
that is, the man’s nature that dictates the motive. If
he is of a benevolent disposition, this furnishes the
motive to kindly action; if he is conscientious, the
motive to act justly. The appeal of outward circum
stances will be answered according to the nature of the
man, and whatever you may want to get out of him, if
it is not in him, you cannot get it out of him. A man
does not always act in accordance with his conscience, or
sense of right and wrong; he acts according to his
nature, and the strongest feeling predominates, whetherthat be conscience, fear of punishment, or self-indul
gence at the expense of others. A man with the natureof a pig will act like a pig, whatever may be his know
ledge of his duties to others. To say that he has the
ability to act otherwise, is to say that a pig might be
an angel if he pleased, or at least act in accordance with
those higher human attributes which he does not possess.
As to an appeal to his free-will, there is no free-will in
the case, any more than a blind man is free to separatedifferent colours. All the preaching in the world would
not turn him into the higher man, any more than it
would the pig itself. He might be taught to talk
piously, but he would not be less a pig underneath.
Very little can be done towards a change of nature in
one generation. I am quite aware of the effect of what
has been called “ conversion,” but it does little more
than keep people outwardly correct in their conduct,
and give selfishness another direction; that is, turn
worldliness into other-worldliness. A man, however,.
�in Mind as in Matter.
15
is not the less responsible—i.e., is not the less liable to
take the consequences of his actions, whatever his nature
may be; the consequences, if painful, being intended
to improve that nature, and push him forward to a
higher grade. The conviction that different circum
stances act upon different individuals according to their
nature--which nature depends upon race, organisation,
civilisation, and education—is gradually extending, and
it must continue to extend, till all admit that no action
could have been otherwise than it was under the cir
cumstances. If you want to alter the action, you must
alter the man or alter the circumstances, and cease to
trust anything to free-will.
In the early days of our missionary societies, a savage
presented himself for baptism. Among other things
he was asked how many wives he had. He said five.
He was told that Christianity only admitted of one
wife, and that he could not be received into the Church.
The next year, when the missionary was on the station,
he presented himself again as a candidate, with only
one wife. He was asked what had become of the other
four. He said he had eaten them. This is among the
conditions to which wedlock is liable in some other
countries. The way in which the marriage ceremony
is initiated among the bushmen of Australia is equally
simple and humane, not to say loving, and it is less
costly than with us. The man, having selected his
lady-love, knocks her down with a club, and drags her
to his camp.
Sir Samuel Baker has lately told us of the interesting
customs of the people whom he has lately sought to
emancipate and bring within the borders of civilisation
in Africa. The king, who attacked his stronghold in
his absence, and whom he afterwards defeated, had just
celebrated his accession to the throne by burying all
his relations alive. If the young child of a chief dies,
the nurse is buried with it—sometimes alive, sometimes
she has her throat cut—that she may look after it in
�16
The Reign of Law
the next world. Sir Samuel found the natives verymuch opposed to slavery, and solicitous to aid him in
putting it down. They objected to it because the
traders took their wives, daughters, children, and fol
lowers without compensation. One of the strongest
objectors offered to Sir Samuel to sell his son for a
spade ■, this he thought the right thing.
These little differences of thought and custom be
tween these interesting people and ourselves will
scarcely, I think, be laid altogether to free-will. The
people and circumstances surely had something to do
with it.
But even this seems matter of opinion. Thus the
Bev. J. A. Picton, agreeing with me, says, “ Is the
will as free to give its casting vote for generosity and
righteousness in a Troppman, or a Nero, or a savage, as
in a civilized St. Francis, or a Washington ?” But why
not, if the will rules the motives, and not the motives
the will ? On the contrary, the Spectator thinks that
we can, by a heave of the will, without motive, and
undetermined by the past, alter our whole life. It
says, “ Certainly we should have said that if there is
one experience more than another by which the “ I ” is
known, and known as something not to be explained
by “ a series of states of feeling,” it is the sense of
creative power connected with the feeling of effort, the
consciousness that you can by a heave of the will alter
your whole life, and that that heave of the will, or
refusal to exert it, is not the mere resultant of the
motives present to you, but is undetermined by the past
—is free.”—(Feb. 21, 1874, p. 234.) It certainly
must have required a very considerable “ heave of the
will ” to have enabled the Spectator to arrive at such a
state of consciousness, and it must have been quite
“undetermined by the past” experience, or present
reason 1 I have no such consciousness of truly creative
power, that is, of something made out of nothing.
�in Mind as in Matter.
17
Quite as great differences as between these savages
and ourselves exist in the very midst of our civilisation.
There are a class of people amongst us whose animal
propensities so decidedly predominate, that, turned
loose upon society, they cannot help but prey upon it.
There are others whose animal and human faculties
are so nicely balanced that their conduct depends entirely
upon education and circumstances.
Others are so far a law unto themselves that if they
fall it must be inadvertently, or from strong temptation.
All these may plead “Not guilty” to our ordinary
notion of responsibility. Each may say truly, whatever
he had done, “I could not help it.” What, then,
vrould be our conduct towards them1? Why, exactly
that, and no more, which would enable them to pre
vent it for the future. The first we should confine for
life, or if it was a very dangerous animal, perhaps put
it out of the way altogether (capital punishment). But
if society will breed such animals, it ought to take the
responsibility, and be obliged at least to go to the
expense of keeping them for life. To the second we
should apply just that discipline that would incline the
balance of motive and action in favour of society for
the future. The third would require only to be put
into the path of right to go straight for the future.
“ Turn to the right, and keep straight forward,” are the
only directions required to be given to them.
The only effort that I know of to induce our
legislators to apply science in this direction, in the
discrimination of character and the classification of
criminals, was made by Sir George S. Mackenzie, in
February 1836. He petitioned the Right Hon. Lord
Glenelg, the then Secretary for the Colonies, that a
classification might be made of criminals in accordance
with the above threefold division. This was accom
panied by certificates from a long list of eminent men
that the Science of Mind we possessed was quite adequate
to the purpose. Sir George says, “ that a discovery of'
�18
The Reign of Law
the true mental constitution of man has been made,
and that it furnishes us with an all-powerful means to
improve our race. . . . That man is a tabula rasa, on
which we may stamp what talent and character we
please, has long been demonstrated, by thousands of
facts of daily occurrence, to be a mere delusion. Dif
ferences in talent, intelligence, and moral character, are
now ascertained to be the effects of differences in
cerebral organisation. . . . These differences are, as the
certificates which accompany this show, sufficient to
indicate externally general dispositions, as they are
proportioned among one another. Hence, we have the
means of estimating, with something like precision, the
actual natural characters of convicts (as of all human
beings), so that we may at once determine the means
best adapted for their reformation, or discover their
incapacity for improvement, and their being propdr
subjects of continued restraint, in order to prevent
their further injuring society.” Sir George says, with
reference to cerebral physiology, that “ attacks are still
made on the science of phrenology; but it is a science
which its enemies have never, in a single instance, been
found to have studied. Gross misrepresentations of
fact, as well as wild, unfounded assertion, have been
brought to bear against it again and again, and have
been again and again exposed.” This kind of injustice
I firmly believe to be quite as applicable, if not more
so, to the present time as it was then. The testi
mony then given by the anatomists, surgeons, eminent
physiologists, and others, was generally to the effect
■that “the natural dispositions are indicated by the
form and size of the brain to such an extent as to
render it quite possible, during life, to distinguish men
•of desperate and dangerous tendencies from those of
good disposition;” and that “it is quite possible to
determine the dispositions of men by an inspection of
their heads with so much precision as to render a
knowledge of phrenology of the utmost importance to
�in Mind as in Matter.
*9
persons whose duties involve the care and management
■of criminals?’ And, allow me to add, it will be found
of equal importance to all persons who have the care
and management of any one, whether schoolmasters,
doctors, or parsons. For want of this knowledge of
cerebral physiology, James Mill was very nearly killing
his son, John S. Mill, or making him an idiot for life,
by overworking a brain whose activity already amounted
-almost to disease. The brain gave way, however, when
he was above twenty years old, and he had one of
those fits of mental depression which are well known to
-attend its overwork. It is a singular fact that neither
he nor any of the reviewers of his autobiography seem
to be aware that it was not Marmontel’s “ Memoires ”
•or Wordsworth’s “Poems” to which he was indebted
for recovery, but to his wanderings in the Pyrenean
mountains, the love of natural beauty, and the rest of
brain. It has been J. S. Mill’s ignorance of cerebral physi
ology, and his diversion of the public mind from the
subject by his “Logic” and “Examination of Sir
William Hamilton,” that has mainly helped to bring
back P>erkeley and the reign of Metaphysics, and to put
off the true science of Mind, based on physiology,
half a century.
The discrimination of character is not so great a
mystery as some people suppose. Statistics show that
people act very much alike under the same circum■stances. People fall in love, and marry according to the
price of bread, and even the number of people who put
their letters into the post without an address are the same
in a given area; knowledge is constantly narrowing
the space between general rules and particular cases.
Of course Sir George Mackenzie’s advice could not
be taken; public opinion was not prepared for it;
neither is it at present, as is evidenced by the return
to torture (flogging) during the last few years, and the
whole spirit of the public press. Take an illustration
from one of our first-class Journals. The Pall. Mall
-Gazette of January 9, 1874, says :—
�20
The Reign of Law
“Imprisonment is not only fast losing its terrors, but,,
owing to the kindness of magistrates and judges, it is becom
ing a real boon to the dishonest and violent, to whom it is
doled out, like funds from the poor-box, according to their
necessities. The other day ‘ a novel and suggestive applica
tion,’ it is stated, was made to the Recorder in Dublin by a
female prisoner, aged twenty-nine years, who had been forty
eight times convicted of indictable offences, and pleaded
guilty to a charge of stealing 7s. 6d. from the pockets of a
drunken man in the streets. The Recorder was proceeding to
sentence the prisoner to twelve months’ imprisonment, when
she earnestly implored him to make the sentence one of five
years’ penal servitude, alleging as a reason for desiring the
change that she might then have a chance of earning an honest
livelihood, whereas if she only got twelve months’ imprison
ment she could do nothing but return to the streets. The
Recorder, ‘ believing her to be sincere in her desire to lead
an honest life, complied with her wish. ’ This was very kind
to the prisoner, but rather hard on those who will have to
support her for five years instead of for one, because she
requires the lengthened period for her own convenience. It
is of course most desirable that prisoners, when they leave
gaol, should ‘earn an honest livelihood;’ but imprisonment
is intended as a punishment, and not as a boon.”
That is, punishment is retributive, and not reformatory.
But I wonder society does not discover that this rough
and ready method of dealing with criminals does not
pay, and that forty-eight convictions in a person only
twenty-nine years old is a very expensive way of taking
its revenge. No, I suppose it would never do to.
admit that a man’s conduct was the result of his mental
constitution and the circumstances in which he was
placed—that there was no freedom in the matter,
except the freedom to act in accordance with the dic
tates. of the will. It would be most dangerous doctrine
to allow that no man could have acted differently to
what he did act—that the strongest motive, whatever
it was, must of necessity have prevailed; and that
all we had to do, therefore, was to alter the constitu
tion and circumstances, and prevent such motives,
whether of conscience—that is, sense of right—or of
fear, that would enable him to do differently for the
�in Mind as in Matter.
21
-future. No, the vengeance of the law must continue
still to be visited upon our Bill Sykeses, and Fagins,
and Artful Dodgers, although it is well known to others
besides M. Quetelet that “ society prepares crime, and
the guilty are only the instruments by which it is
■executed?’ We must still continue to dole out so
■much suffering for so much sin, without reference to
■cause and effect, either past or future; for is not a man
responsible for his actions—that is, may we not justly
■retaliate and make another suffer as much as he has
•entailed upon us ? To the popular mind vengeance
seems a divine institution; and it is impossible ‘ to love
•our enemies and to do good to those who despitefully
use us and persecute us,’ as long as this vulgar notion
of moral desert prevails. It is only Science—the
Science of Mind—that can put an end to this; and
that there is a Science of Mind is at present not even
recognized by the President of the Social Science Asso
ciation. When we have a Science of Man we may
have a Science of Society, and we shall then advance as
rapidly towards its improvement as we have done in
Physics since Bacon’s time. Induction is equally
-applicable to mind and matter, any supposed difference
is consequent upon our ignorance. Bree-will and spon
taneity will disappear as our knowledge extends, and
all will be brought within “the reign of law.” When
we have a Science of Mind we shall cease to take the
absorbing interest we now do in kitchen-middens and
the dust heaps and bones of the past, and shall take to
the study of cerebral physiology, upon which the laws
■of mind depend. Our attention will not be given, as
now, exclusively to short-horns and south-downs, or to
horses and dogs, but to improving the race of men. If
we wish to induce any special line of conduct which
we call moral—that is, more to the interest of society
at large than another—we must collect and direct the
force of mind that will produce it. This can only be
done and become habitual by growing the organization
�' 22
The Reign of Law
upon which it depends. Preaching and dogma go only
a very little way towards it; and education, upon which
so much reliance is now placed, will not do much more.
Education has a refining influence, and so far as it
may tend to direct the propensities, and call the higher
feelings into activity, it is of value. Its influence is
very much overrated; for, as we have said, it is the
feelings and not the intellect that govern the will, and
reading, writing, and arithmetic have little direct in
fluence upon them. It is on this account that many
well-disposed people are so anxious to add religion to
the instruction in our common schools. By religion
here little more is meant than, “ Be good, my boy, or
Bogie ’ll have you,” and surely it is not worth drag
ging religion into all the dirt, and familiarity which
breeds contempt, of our common schools for this, to the
injury of all that deserves to be called religion in after
life. It would be much better to teach the natural
consequences—the real responsibility that attends all
the children’s actions—how, if they lie, no one will
believe them; if they steal, no one will trust them,
&c., attended with short and sharp immediate punish
ment. Future rewards and punishments have a very
remote bearing upon immediate conduct, and I doubt
the policy of turning the Almighty into a sort of head
policeman, with his eye always upon them, ready to
strike if they do wrong. This may beget fear, but never
love, and children soon find out that as far as the imme
diate consequences to themselves are concerned it is not
true, and this damages their faith in their real liability.
But the Science of Mind will introduce a truer
knowledge of what really constitutes Education, which
means the developing and perfecting of all our facul
ties, social, moral, religious, and aesthetic,* as well as
the intellect. This only will make a complete man,
this only will make him find his happiness and there* See “Education of the Feelings,” 4th edition.
■& Co.
Longmans
�in Mind as in Matter.
23
fore his interest in virtue, and enable him to do his
duty here, without either hope of heaven or fear of
hell. The study of the nature of each mental faculty,
and-its direction towards its legitimate objects, is what
is required by Education. Of how much may be done
by education is seen in the cultivation of musical
talent.
Social evolution follows the law of organic modi
fication. It is the exercise of the feelings we wish to
predominate that alone will strengthen them and in
crease the size of the organs with which they are con
nected. The commercial age in which we live-—its
machinery and facility of intercourse—is making all men
better off, and binding all together by a common tie of
interest. When a man is well off and happy he desires
to make others so, exercising his benevolence. When
he is in daily close intercourse with his fellows it shows
him the necessity for honesty and integrity, and this
exercises his conscientiousness or sense of justice. Men
are thus obliged to live for others as well as for them
selves ; they everywhere find it their interest to help
one another, and as combination and co-operation thus
increase, so do civilization and the growth of those
mental habits which enable men to live most happily
together.
We thus progress surely, but slowly, not in con
sequence of, but in spite of, our conflicting creeds, and
when at last we arrive at the conviction that nothing
could have happened otherwise than it did; that the
present and the future only are in our power—-when
we have determined to “let the dead past bury its
dead ”—we shall have made a great advance towards
the more easy practice of justice and benevolence. Of
course, the usual cry about gross matter and materialism
and iron fate may be expected, but all that is highest
which man has ever reasonably looked forward to may
be more immediately expected when science and cer
tainty are welcomed in the place of chance and spon
�24
The Reign of Law
taneity. We are approaching daily in practice, if not
in theory, in this direction. At present our religious
creeds stand directly across our path. But utility, if
not philosopy, is teaching our law-makers that they
cannot mend the past, and this gradual application of
the Science of Mind to legislation will ultimately ex
tend to the people for whose benefit the laws are made,
until all will feel that nothing must be left to accident
in the moral world any more than in the physical.
The effect upon the individual of the reconstruction
of his ethical code upon a scientific basis is most
favourable to the growth of all the higher feelings
upon which conduct and happiness depend. The sup
position that things ought to have been otherwise, and
might have been otherwise, is the source of half the
worry in the world, and revenge, remorse, and retri
butive punishment cause half its misery. Revenge is
not only wicked, but absurd; as applied to the past, it
is like a child beating a table. When we have done
wrong, the experienced consequences are generally suf
ficient for our future guidance, and “ repentance whereby
we forsake sin” is admirable, but remorse for that
which could not have been otherwise is both absurd
and useless. An Irish priest told his congregation that
it was a most providential thing that death had been
placed at the end of life, instead of at the beginning,
as it gave more time for repentance. With this we
can scarcely agree. Our verdict, as it must be now,
would be rather that of the Irish jury, “ Not guilty,
but would advise the accused not to do it again.” But
is this verdict of not guilty just ? Certainly it is, as
regards the past; it could not have been otherwise.
But surely it will be said this is dangerous doctrine.
Is no one to be blamed for anything he has done?
Blame is both unjust and useless as applied to the>
past ; it is only so far as it may influence the future
that it can be of any use. This praise and blame is a
rough-and-ready way of influencing future action, which
�in Mind as in Matter.
25
has a very uncertain effect upon conduct. We assume
that people might have done differently, and, after
scolding or punishing, we leave them to do so, but
there is no certainty that they will. Would it not be
better to inquire into the causes that induced them to
act as they did, and alter them, otherwise they are
certain to do the same again. Society’s conduct with
respect to offences at present is very much like Bartie
Massey’s ideal of woman as cook, -— “ the porridge
would be awk’ard now and then; if it’s wrong, it’s
summat in the meal, or it’s summat in the milk, or it’s
summat in the water.” Is it not time that we, as well
■as our cooks, began to measure the proportion between
the meal and the milk ? As to dangerous doctrine, we
must not forget that “ philosophical certainty ” implies
that everything that will influence conduct in the pre sent or the future is still open to us, only in one case
we trust to science and law, in the other to chance and
free will. In proportion as we extend our dominion
over the darkness of ignorance, and are able to conquer
fresh fields of knowledge, as the domain of law becomes
every year wider and wider, and we gain enlarged
views of the eternal sequence and universal order, all
contingency and spontaneity must vanish. What we
call chance or free-will is nothing more than the action
of hitherto undiscovered causes. As to the past, that
we feel is inevitable, and more, it could not have been
otherwise—the causes then in operation must have pro
duced the effects they did—and when we know a thing
is inevitable we can “grin” and bear it; it is the
mental worry, not the mere physical pain that is hard
to bear. As the proverb says, “ It is of no use crying
over spilt milk.” Few know the peace of mind and
internal quiet which the habitual practice of this mental
attitude secures, but all may know it as science ad
vances, and it is this state of mind which it is the true
function of philosophy to enable us to attain.
There is infinite peace also in the conviction that we
�26
The Reign of Law.
are in higher hands than our own ; that the interests of
morality and virtue are ultimately assured, being based
upon law; that we may forget ourselves in the glory of
the whole of which we are so infinitely small a part;
and that we may thus rest satisfied that something
much better is being secured than the freedom of the
will, and with which that Will will not be allowed to
interfere.
TURNBULL AND SPEARS. PRINTERS. EDINBURGH.
�
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"The reign of law in mind as in matter, and its bearing upon Christian dogma and moral responsibility." Part II. The true meaning of responsibility
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Bray, Charles [1811-1884]
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THE
REIGN OF LAW
IN MIND AS IN MATTER,
AND ITS
BEARING UPON CHRISTIAN DOGMA AND MORAL
RESPONSIBILITY.
FART I.
BY
CHARLES
BRAY,
AUTHOR OF “A MANUAL OF ANTHROPOLOGY, OR SCIENCE OF MAN,” “ MODERN
PROTESTANTISM,” “ILLUSION AND DELUSION,”„&C.
PUBLISHED BY THOMAS SCOTT,
NO. 11, THE TERRACE, FARQUHAR ROAD,
UPPER NORWOOD, LONDON, S.E.
Price Sixpence.
��THE
REIGN OF LAW IN MIND AS IN MATTER,
AND ITS
■
BEARING UPON CHRISTIAN DOGMA.
“At first laying down, as a fact fundamental,
That nothing with God can be accidental.”
Longfellow.
ECKY’S admirable histories of Rationalism and
European Morals, show most clearly that there is
a law of orderly and progressive transformation to which
our speculative opinions are subject, the causes of
which are to be sought in the general intellectual con
dition of society. Every great change, therefore, in
the popular creed is always preceded by a great
change in the intellectual condition of the people,
and speculative opinions which are embraced by
any large body of men, are accepted, not on account
of the arguments upon which they rest, but on
account of a predisposition to receive them. Opinion
pervades society as water does a sponge, or like yeast
cells growing in a fermented mass. Reasoning, which,
in one age, would make no impression whatever, in the
next is received with enthusiastic applause. This is
owing to the fact, that, as a general rule,—not entirely,
however, without exception,—it is our feelings and
not the intellect that rule us; it is the feelings that
connect us with the prevailing state of public opinion
with which we are en rapport that shape our conduct,
and not our theoretical convictions. It is this that makes
L
�4
The Reign of Law
missionary efforts so fruitless, and proselytising almost
impossible in old and partially civilized countries
which have already a religion of their own. Mr Becky
shows us that the history of the abolition of torture,
the history of punishments, the history of the treatment
of the conquered in war, the history of slavery, all pre
sent us with examples of practices which in one age
were accepted as perfectly right and natural, and
which in another age were repudiated as palpably and
atrociously inhuman. In each case, the change was
effected much less by any intellectual process than by
a certain quickening of the emotions, and consequently
of the moral judgments.
Galileo was condemned because the Scripture says,
that “ the sun runneth about from one end of the earth
to the other,” and that “ the foundations of the earth
are so firmly fixed, that they cannot be moved.”
Science might show that the earth did move notwith
standing, but then many refused to look through Gali
leo’s telescope, and those who did were disposed to
compromise the matter like the young student who,
when asked by the examiners whether the earth moved
round the sun, or the sun round the earth, said, with
a spirit of “ reconciliation ” worthy of the present age,
“ Sometimes one, and sometimes the other.” Even the
great Lord Bacon was sceptical on this question of the
earth’s motion, although not quite in the same direc
tion ; he said, “ It is the absurdity of these opinions
that has driven men to the'diurnal motion of the earth,
which I am convinced is most false.” It took a cen
tury and a-half to reconcile mankind to the Copernican
Astronomy, and there are many now who refuse to
believe that the earth is round, the fact being con
trary to Scripture : for how in such case could people
at the antipodes see the Son of God descending in his
glory ? If there are some who thus suspect their geo
graphy to be unorthodox, there are others equally at
fault in their natural history. Being religiously
�in Mind as in Matter.
5
"brought up, and therefore in early possession of a
Noah’s Ark, they know perfectly well the truth of the
story about it■ but as they get older, they do not see
very well how all the animals could be got into it, and
in this discrepancy between Science and Scripture, df
■course, the former has to give way. They are not pre
pared to accept St Augustine’s road out of the difficulty,
that the assembling the animals in the ark must have
been for the sake of prefiguring the gathering of all
nations into the Church, and not in order to secure the
replenishing of the world with life.
But if it took so long to introduce the Copernican
system, it took much longer to get rid of witchcraft, or
the firm conviction which all had, that the Devil,
through ugly old women and others, interfered per
sonally in our affairs. The horrors attending this be
lief it is impossible to describe or even to conceive.
The way in which the truth of the accusation was
tested, had the logic that peculiarly distinguishes theo
logical controversy ; the witch was put into water, and
if she was drowned, she was innocent, if not, she was
guilty, and burned alive. Chief Baron Sir Matthew
Hale’s reasoning seems almost equally conclusive.
Charging the jury in the trial for witchcraft of Amy
Duny and Rose Callender in 1664, he says, “That
there are such creatures as witches, I make no doubt
at all ; for, first, the Scriptures have affirmed as much ;
and secondly, the wisdom of all nations, particularly of
our own, hath provided laws against them.” Among
•others, an Anglican clergyman, named Lower, who was
now verging on eighty, and who for fifty years had
been an irreproachable minister of his church, fell
under suspicion. He was thrown into the water, con
demned and hung, and we are told that, “ Baxter re
lates the whole story with evident pleasure.” Lecky,
Rationalism, Vol. i. p. 117. “As late as 1773, the
divines of the Associated Presbytery passed a resolu
tion declaring their belief in witchcraft, and deploring
�6
The Reign of Law
the scepticism that was general,” Lecky, Vol. i. p. 147..
John Wesley also was a firm believer in witchcraft, and
for some time we know inhabited a haunted house. He
said that the giving up of witchcraft was in effect
giving up the bible. But, notwithstanding the strenu
ous opposition of the clergy everywhere, the belief in
witchcraft died a natural death. It was not argument
that killed it, but it could not breathe the spirit of the
age, and it was then very naturally discovered that the
word translated witch in Leviticus may be translated
“ poisoner.” Both the translation and explanation of
the Bible have always admitted of great adaptation and
reconciliation.
The belief in the devil’s agents and imps having
gone out in the light of the age, the belief in the devil
himself is fast following ; he is getting very faint; in
fact, he is not admitted at all into polite society. The
belief in the existence of a personal embodiment of the
principle of evil may be said no longer to exist among
educated people, but at one titne it was a most vivid
reality. To Luther he was a constant presence, and the
black stain is still shown in the castle of Wartburg,
where he threw his inkstand at him. He gradually,
however, got more accustomed to him, and he tells us
how, in the monastery of Wittemberg, hearing a noise
in the night, he perceived that it was only the Devil,
and accordingly he went to sleep again.
We now ask, Is public opinion prepared to accept the
doctrine that the Reign of Law is universal in Mind as
in Matter ? That there is no exception to the Reign of
Law ? That there is no such thing as chance or spon
taneity, or a free-will, or a free anything, but that there
is a sufficient cause for everything ? I fear this ques
tion must be answered in the negative. Natural
Science has gradually substituted the conception of har
monious and unchanging law, for the conception of a
universe governed by perpetual miracle, or capricious
will, or chance in the world of matter; but that law, or
�in Mind as in Matter.
7
necessity, or certainty, equally pervades tlie world of
mind, is at present confined to philosophers, and to
those only who have made the Science of Mind their
study. Still it is a great truth which must ultimately
prevail, and when it does, it will bring as great and
beneficial a change in our system of ethics, as the Coper
nican system has in our Astronomy.
By reference to the first volume of Grote’s Greece,
we find that Socrates treated Physics and Astronomy
as departments reserved by the gods for their own
actions, and not subject to ascertainable laws, and that
human research was even impious. “ In China at the
present day,” says Eitel, “ the Chinese sages see a golden
chain of spiritual life running through every form of
existence, and binding together as in one living body
everything that subsists in heaven above, or in earth
below. But this truth is with them a mere hypothesis,
not a generalization from observed facts. Experimental
philosophy is unknown in China. They invented no
instruments to aid them in the observation of the
heavenly bodies, they never took to hunting beetles
and stuffing birds, they shrank from the idea of dissect
ing animal bodies, nor did they chemically analyse in
organic substances, but with very little actual know
ledge of nature they evolved a whole system of natural
science from their own inner consciousness, and ex
panded it according to the dogmatic formulae of ancient
tradition.” This is precisely the condition of our
clerical sages at the present time in the department,
not of physics, but of mental science. Things may or
may not happen, not according to any known or calcul
able law or order, but according to the free will of the
actor, which is supposed to obey no law. And this
free will is the key-stone of both their morality and
religion.
Mr Herbert Spencer truly says, “ There can be no
complete acceptance of sociology as a science, so long
as the belief in a social order not conforming to natural
�8
The Reign of Law
law, survives. Hence, as already said, considerations
touching the study of sociology, not very influential
even over the few who recognise a social science, can
have scarcely any effects on the great mass to whom a
social science is an incredibility.”
“I do not mean,” he says, “that this prevailing imper
viousness to scientific conceptions of social phenomena
is to be regretted. . . . The desirable thing is, that a
growth of ideas and feelings tending to produce modi
fication, shall be joined with a continuance of ideas
and feelings tending to preserve stability . . . That in
our day, one in Mr Gladstone’s position should think
as he does, seems to me very desirable. That we
should have for our working-king one in whom a
purely scientific conception of things had become
dominant, and who was thus out of harmony with our
present social state, would probably be detrimental,
and might be disastrous.” * Mr Gladstone has, how
ever, since explained (Contemporary, December 1873),
that he was misunderstood; that he does not either
affirm or deny either evolution or unchangeable law,
but that what he wished to imply was, that, be they
either true or false, certain persons have made an un
warrantable use of them. That a law-maker should
not be much in advance of his age may be true enough,
but that the “ prevailing imperviousness ” to the great
truth, that law and order equally prevail in mind as in
matter, is, I think, much to be regretted. The induc
tive philosophy applied to mind will work as great a
revolution as its application to physics has done since
Bacon’s time.
I shall first consider, then, what this great truth is,
and then its application both as to what it would de
stroy, and what it would build up. The great truth
is, that there is no such thing as freedom of will.
Men formerly believed that the sun went round the
earth : they saw and felt that it did. The supposed
freedom of will is equally an illusion and delusion.
* The Study of Sociology, p. 365.
�in Mind as in Matter.
9
J. S. Mill tells us that ££ The conviction that pheno
mena have invariable laws, and follow with regularity
certain antecedent phenomena, was only acquired gra
dually, and extended itself as knowledge advanced,
from one order of phenomena to another, beginning
with those whose laws were most accessible to observa
tion. This progress has not yet attained its ultimate
point; there being still one class of phenomena
(human volitions) the subjection of which to invariable
laws is not yet recognised. ... At length we are fully
warranted in considering that law, as applied to all
phenomena within the range of human observation,
stands on an equal footing in respect to evidence with
the axioms of geometry itself.” Such, I believe, is the
conviction of all the great leaders in science—certainly
in mental science—of the present day. I need quote
only a few. Let us first go back a generation. Jona
than Edwards, in his work on the freedom of the will,
has always been considered as unanswerable, but
having proved the certainty of all events by reason, he
accepts free-will from Scripture. Now, that any
thing can be certain but at the same time contingent
is a contradiction. He says, “ Nothing comes to pass
without a cause. What is self-existent must be from
eternity, and must be unchangeable; but as to all
things that begin to be, they are not self-existent, and
therefore must have some foundation for their exist
ence without themselves.” ££ In no mind,” says
Spinoza, ££ is there an absolute or free volition ; but it
is determined to choose this or that by a cause,
which likewise has been fixed by another, and this
again by a third, and so on for ever.” He also says,
££ Human liberty, of which all boast, consists solely in
this, that man is conscious of his will, and unconscious
of the causes by which it is determined.” That is, he
is often unconscious of the motives that govern the
will, and still more so of the causes that govern his
motives—the same action that always accompanies and
B
�]o
The Reign of Law
precedes every feeling and volition always goes on un
consciously, and the conscious volitions tell him nothing
of it.
Consciousness thus deludes us into the conviction
that our volitions originate in ourselves, we being un
conscious of the train of physical forces in which they
originate; hy ourselves meaning the aggregate of our
mental powers, and if there is no impediment to their
action that is what we call “ freedom.” Locke used to
say, “ That we should not ask whether the will is free,
hut whether we are free to follow its dictates,” for this
is really all that men mean hy their boasted freedom.
A free action, as to an accomplished result, can only
mean that the agent was not externally forced to do it.
This is probably all that Lord Houghton means by
freedom, hut he confounds this freedom of action with
freedom of will. He says, as president of his section
on Social Economy (1862), “I think we shall see that
there enters into this question an element which is
almost contradictory of strict scientific principle. That
element is human liberty, the free-will of mankind.
Without that free-will no man can have individual
power of action, no man can call himself a man,” &c.
It is this confounding the freedom from physical con
straint which enables us to act in accordance with the
will, with the freedom of the will itself, which dictates
the action, that produces the confusion on the subject.
When it is said freedom of will is a fact, that we feel
we are free to do as we please, &c., all that is meant is
this freedom from the constraint that would oblige us
to do, or leave undone, one thing rather another, and
not that the mind, or will, or what we please to do, is
free or independent of causation.
Professor Mansel, however, believed differently; he
says (Prolegomena Logica, p. 152), “ In every act of
volition I am fully conscious that I can at this moment
act in either of two ways, and that, all the antecedent
phenomena being precisely the same, I may determine
�in Mind as in Matter.
11
one way to-day and another to-morrow.” That is, the
same causes (all the antecedent phenomena) may pro
duce one effect to-day and another to-morrow, and all
who believe in the freedom of the will are obliged
logically to accept this conclusion. Choice, or to “ act
in either of two ways,” implies a preference or motive
for choosing one rather than the other ; if, as is almost
impossible, the mind is equally balanced, then somephysical cause, not within the field of consciousness,
dictates the choice. That the action has no cause is
impossible. This power of choice that we feel we pos
sess is simply that, when freed from physical constraint,
we can do as we please, but what we please to do de
pends upon our nature, which, in both mind and body,
is governed by its own laws.
It is upon this freedom from external constraint by
which we can do as we please, i.e., act in accordance
with our will, that the intuition, which with the many
is stronger than reason, is founded. Kant says, “ No
beginning which occurs of itself is possible,” and yet he
believed in the freedom of the will, thinking that the
intuition, based upon a delusive experience, was more
reliable than the reason.
Dr Laycock (Mind and Brain) says, “ There is, in
fact, no more a spontaneous act of will than there is
spontaneous generation. Strictly, such an act is a
creation, and belongs only to creative power.” There
are those who think that the creative power of God is,
or may be, exercised without cause or motive, and that
He has bestowed upon man, in a minor degree, the
same power, and that this is man’s distinguishing cha
racteristic from the brutes; but if so, this dignified
attribute is only that of a madman, who alone is sup
posed to act without cause or motive.
Lewes, in his new work, “ Problems of Life and
Mind,” p. 128, also gives his testimony in favour of ne
cessity ; thus, he says, “ The moralist will be found pas
sionately arguing that the conduct of men, which is
�12
The Reign of Law
simply the expression of their impulses and habits, can
be at once altered by giving them new ideas of right
conduct. The psychologist, accustomed to consider the
mind as something apart from the organism, individual
and collective, is peculiarly liable to this error of over
looking the fact that all mental manifestations are
simply the resultants of the conditions external and in
ternal.”
Professor Huxley’s utterances are a little more ob
scure. He is represented by C. B. Upton, B.A., as
“ rejecting almost contemptuously the freedom of the
will,” and he himself says (On the Physical Basis of
Life), “ Matter and law have devoured spirit and spon
taneity. And as sure as every future grows out of
every past and present, so will the physiology of the
future gradually extend the realm of matter and law
until it is co-extensive with knowledge, with feeling,
and with action.” But he elsewhere says (Fortnightly
Review), “ philosophers gird themselves for battle
upon the last and greatest of all speculative problems.
Does human nature possess any free volition or truly
anthropomorphic element, or is it only the cunningest
of all nature’s clocks ? Some, among whom I count
myself, think that the battle will for ever remain a
drawn one, and that, for all practical purposes, this
result is as good as anthropomorphism winning the
day.” Would not “ sometimes one and sometimes the
other,” do quite as well as a drawn battle ? The Doc
tor evidently agrees with Kant, that “ no beginning
that occurs of itself is possible he appears to be also
of opinion :—
“ That what’s unpossible can’t be,
And never, never conies to pass.”
Colman’s “ Broad Grins.”
that is, very seldom, comes to pass !
There is nothing perhaps more remarkable in the
whole history of thought, than the intellectual shuffling
of all our great thinkers, to avoid meeting this fact of
�in Mind as in Matter.
*3
“ certainty ” face to face. I hope, however, to be able
to show that for all practical purposes it is most impor
tant that “ the realm of law should be co-extensive
with knowledge, with feeling, and with action.” But
the comparative recent discovery of the persistence of
force or the conservation of energy, furnishes the
modern practical proof that law is present everywhere;
as Herbert Spencer concisely puts it, “Force can
neither come into existence nor cease to exist. Each
manifestation of force can be interpreted only as the
effect of some antecedent force ; no matter whether it
be an inorganic action, or animal movement, a thought,
or a feeling. Either this must be conceded, or else it
must be asserted that our successive states of consci
ousness are self-created.” Which, of course, they must
be if the will is free : to determine is to use force,
which can “ be interpreted only as the effect of some
antecedent force.” Mr Spencer also says, “ If such co
existences and sequences as those of biology and socio
logy, are not yet reduced to .law, the presumption is,
not that they are irreducible to law, but that their laws
elude our present means of analysis for as Buckle
shows, “ the actions of man have the same uniformity
of connection which physical events have ; and the
law or laws of these uniformities can be inductively
ascertained in the same way as the laws of the material
world.”
The causational theory of the Will has hitherto been
called Philosophical Necessity, but just exception has
been taken to this, as we know of no necessity, we
know only of certainty. Mr J. S. Mill says, “ A voli
tion is a moral effect, which follows the corresponding
moral causes as certainly and invariably as physical
effects follow their physical causes. Whether it must
do so, I acknowledge myself to be entirely ignorant, be
the phenomenon moral or physical; and I condemn,
accordingly, the word necessity as applied to either
case. All I know is, that it always does." For myself,
�14
The Reign of Law
I regard all power or cause as will-power, and every
cause and effect as at one time consciously and volun
tarily established to serve a set purpose ; this mental
relation has passed in the ages into what we call
physical laws, that is, the unconscious or automatic
mental state, but the connection is not necessary, and
might be dissolved when the purpose was no longer
served. We have some curious illustrations, however,
of the habit being continued where the purpose is no
longer served; where organs that were useful lower down
in the scale are passed on to higher grades when they
are no longer of any use,—Nature, for instance, having
got into the habit of making teeth, makes them some
times—as in the guinea pig, who sheds them before it
is born—when they are not wanted. These apparent
exceptions to design are made the most of for atheist
ical purposes.
This view of things at present, I suppose, may be
said to be exclusively my own, but I do not see why
we may not fairly infer that what takes place at present
in man on a small scale, has previously been the law
of mind in Nature. If an action serves its purpose we
repeat it, and the action becomes habitual, then struc
tural, and is transmitted and becomes what we call
instinct, and what is instinct in men and animals
becomes invariable law in nature. We know of no
mind in the universe unconnected with body, and
therefore not liable to follow the same law. As Pope
well expresses it:—
“ All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose body nature is, and God the soul.”
That the order of nature was originally voluntary
to serve a purpose, and that its uniformity and invari
ability is consequent upon its being the nature of all
mind connected with structure to become automatic, I
think we may regard as highly probable. The prin
cipal purpose that this invariability now serves is that
�in Mind as in Matter.
*5
it enables men and animals to regulate their actions
and to adapt their conduct to the fact that what has
been will be. Of course, if the will, or anything, were
free, this invariability would not exist, and men could
not look forward or reason at all.
This certainty is very different to the iron-bound
necessity of the mere physicist and positivist, and
leaves room for special intervention if such should be
required j and as animal instincts adapt themselves to
new conditions, so according, at least, to our present
knowledge, there appears to be many a gap in evolu
tion, and many a space in Natural Selection and the
'Origin of Species to be filled up, that do so require it.
The missing link, after all, may be found in the direct
will-power of conscious intelligence, which has been
called' special providence. There is a whole field of
mesmerism, of clairvoyance, and of animal instinct at
present altogether inexplicable on what is known of
the natural laws of mind. It is said God cannot inter
fere with his own laws, but as their permanence—the
present connection between cause and effect—depends
entirely upon its utility, I do not regard this as a rule
without exception.
But this great truth of the philosophical certainty of
human volitions is at present a mere abstraction,
existing only in the brains of mental philosophers,
thought to be impractical and even dangerous by those
who acknowledge its truth; but is it for ever thus to
lie buried, and is it altogether at present incapable of
a practical application ? Popular prejudice and clamour
may be expected for some time to be against it, but is
it not a truth that even now ought to form the basis of
our legislation? There are two writers and lecturers
who have lately taken up this subject on the orthodox
religious side: the Rev. Daniel Moore on the part of
the Christian Evidence Committee of the Society for
Promoting Christian Knowledge, and the Rev. Dr Irons.
The first, one of the clearest writers and reasoners on
�16
The Reign of Law
■ the orthodox side, and the other, as it seems to me,,
with the especial gift of “ darkening counsel by words
without knowledge.” The Rev. D. Moore says, “■ Take
the theory of philosophical necessity. As an abstract
truth we accept it. As a fact of life-experience we
ignore it altogether.” {The Credibility of Mysteries,
p. 14.) Again he says, “ The will, of course, is deter
mined by motives, and so far the will is not free. But,
then, what governs the motives ? Why, the life, the
habits, the cherished states of mind and feeling, all
that enters into the liberty and spontaneity of the
personal man.” Of course, those things were as much
determined by motives as the present, so that it only
throws the difficulty, if there be one, a few stages back,
and there is evidently no more freedom or spontaneity
in one case than the other. He says, “ With the free
dom of the will, therefore, we have nothing to do.
We have only to do with the liberty of acting accord
ing to the determination of the will, — a liberty
which, as Hume observes, is universally allowed to
belong to every one who is not a prisoner and in chains.”
{Man's Accountableness for his Religious Belief, p. 15.)
It is evident that in theory there is no difference
between Mr Moore and ourselves,—freedom from ex
ternal constraint is all he contends for, and this is all
that people generally mean by freedom of will—the
freedom, for instance, to walk which way they choose
when their legs are not tied.
Dr Irons says {Analysis of Human Responsibility,
p. 11, in a paper read before the Victoria Institute) :
“ The position supposed in the Duke of Argyll’s
thoughtful and popular book, The. Reign of Law,—
viz., ‘ that all human actions are calculable beforehand^
may indicate a point now reached in England by the
prevailing ethics; and it may well arouse our attention,
though it would be wrong to conclude at once that the
calculable may not be contingent, a priori, as the doc
trine of chances may show.
�in Mind as in Matter.
*7
“ That this doctrine of the ‘ Reign of Law ’ is by no
means peculiar to a Scottish philosophy, will be felt
indeed by all who mark the ethical assumptions of our
best-known literature. The writings of Mr Buckle,
Mr Lewes, Mr Tyndall, Mr Mill, and others, are per
vaded by a kind of fatalistic tone, which society inclines
to accept as ‘ scientific,’ though an open denial of
responsibility is of course rarely ventured upon.
What is absolutely needed now is that men should he
compelled to say carefully and distinctly that which
they have been assuming vaguely, so that the prin
ciples may be known and judged.”
I quite agree with Dr Irons; it is quite time that
men did speak out, and I intend to do so, “ carefully
and distinctly,” and, I trust, truthfully and intelligibly.
Sir Wm. Hamilton is of opinion that the study of
philosophy, or mental science, operates to establish that
assurance of human liberty, which is necessary to a
rational belief in the dogmas of the church. Free-will
was a truth to him, mainly, if not solely, because it is
a necessary foundation for theology, i.e., for orthodox
theology.
The Rev. Baden Powell is obliged to admit (Chris
tianity without Judaism, p. 257) that 11 nothing in
geology bears the smallest resemblance to any part of
the Mosaic cosmogony, torture the interpretation to
whatever extent we may,” and we may say, with equal
truth, that “ The Reign of Law,” or the causational or
scientific view of human nature, is equally irreconcil
able with the Pauline cosmogony of the New Testa
ment, that is, with the popular or orthodox religion.
For although it brings us nearer to God, making it a
reality “ that in Him we live and move and have our
being,” yet it completely cuts up by the root the com
monly-received religious creed. Science and Religion
are here altogether irreconcileable.
Let us translate the scientific truth into more popular
language, and say exactly what it means, and then w&
�18
The Reign of Law
shall see better how to apply it. It means that no act
under the circumstances—the then present conditions
—could possibly have been other than it was. That
the same causes must always again produce the same
results, and that, consequently, if you wish to alter the
effect, you must alter the cause.
God, therefore, in placing our first parents in the
garden of Eden, must have known perfectly well what
would happen; and if He had wished things to have
happened differently, He must have altered the condi
tions. Either the “ forbidden fruit ” would not have
been forbidden, or He would have made Eve stronger,
or He would have kept out the serpent. Knowing
perfectly well what must happen, elaborately to prepare
a beautiful paradise, from which our parents were
immediately to get themselves turned out, was a mere
“ mockery, delusion, and a snare.” What could Eve
know of the consequences, which were death, never
having known death ? “ In the day that thou eatest
thereof thou shalt surely die,”—this was the threat,
but it was never kept. If it had been, we should have
had either another mother, or no race of men, a thing
comparatively of little consequence. But the conse
quences to Eve were to be, not death to herself on that
day, but death and damnation to all her posterity. I
should not think it worth while to mention this libel
upon our Creator, if this alleged fact of the Eall of
Man, now looked upon by intelligent people as a mere
allegory,* were not made the foundation of a libel
against our Creator still more atrocious. But it is
* “ Immediately after the return of the Jews from captivity we
find them re-editing their literature, and prefacing their own book
•of early traditions (Genesis) with the myths of the Persian cosmo
gony. . . The first chapter of Genesis, which relates the story
of Eve’s temptation and of Adam’s fall, is a plain and unmistakeable reproduction of one of the myths or legends of this ancient
(Pagan) faith. It is a copy of a tradition, or rather of a poetic
allegory, that belonged to the earlier world. But on this narrative
all the doctrinal systems of our modern churches depend,— it is the
•common foundation upon which they have all been built. The
�in Mind as in Matter.
*9
said Eve was free, and might have done otherwise. If
the will was free, what she would do was uncertain,
■contingent, dependent upon chance, upon her sponta
neous action, and not upon any rule or law : any speci
fied action might be, or might not be, and therefore
God himself could not tell what she would do : for how
nan that be foreseen which is uncertain and may not
-come to pass ? Dr Irons, however, thinks that it would
he wrong to conclude at once that the calculable may
not be contingent. I should also say, and I think
with more reason, that it would be wrong to conclude
at once that God would have left the beginning of a
new world and such awful contingencies to mere chance
.as to how a woman would act whose will was governed
by no motive and no law. This awful gift of free-will,
if it were possible to bestow it, which I deny, as every
thing or agent must act in accordance with its nature,
—the power to use this attribute to damn herself and
all her posterity no wise and benevolent being could
possibly bestow upon another.
This supposed fact of the Eall of Man is not only
opposed to reason and common sense, and all the
higher feelings of our nature, but it is equally opposed
to all history and experience. Geology, ethnology,
anthropology, all show man to have been very gradu
ally rising from the savage to a civilized state. Pro
gress, not retrogression, has been the law. It is true
people and states die like individuals, but it is only
fall of man is the only basis on which the doctrine of the atonement
can rest. If there was no fall, the atonement is a manifest super
fluity, and it could not then have been the mission of Jesus of Na
zareth to have made one. Our knowledge of the ‘ Tree and Serpent
worship’ of the ancient heathen world proves that the Jewish nar
rative of Adam and Eve, and the forbidden fruit, is but an old
heathen fancy—a fable, and not a fact—and, being so, there is but
one opinion at which reasonable men can arrive with regard to the
doctrine of the atonement which rests so exclusively upon it, and
which, apart from it, has no possible basis.” (Tree and Serpent
Worship, by J. W. Lake.)
�20
*
The Reign of Law
that, as with individuals, new and increased life and
vigour may spring up elsewhere.
If, then, there has been no fall of man; if, also, man
could in no case have acted otherwise than he did act,
the elaborate theological system, based upon the oppo
site suppositions, must fall to the ground.
Nothing has taken place contrary to the will of Om
nipotence, and it would be a contradiction even to
suppose that it could ever have done so; for if it were
really His will nothing could prevent it.
Neither is God expected to know that which may not
take place,—that is, is contingent or free,—that is,
may happen or may not happen.
Neither have we to reconcile God as Supreme Euler,
or as governing all things, with man’s freedom: also
God does not require to be reconciled to a world which
He himself has created.
God’s justice does not require to be satisfied by the
sacrifice of an innocent person for a guilty one, nor that
one “ who knew no sin should be made sin for us, that
we might be made the righteousness of God in Him,”
—if any one knows what this means, or how it is
possible.
God is not wroth with that which He has ordained,
and which could not have been otherwise ; neither are
His anger and vengeance to be feared, for they would
be unjust.
Atonement is not required, and vicarious atonement
is unjust. Neither are we required to believe that an
infinitely benevolent God is the creator of hell.
Those things, which are palpable contradictions to all
who dare to use their reason, are, in the Christian
scheme, only mysteries to be cleared up in another
world. This will be evident if we proceed to examine
what the orthodox creed requires us to believe about
them.
Justification by faith is the fundamental doctrine of
the Church; belief in the atonement—that Christ’s
�in Mind as in Matter.
21
-death was necessary as a satisfaction of God’s offended
justice. But let me, as far as possible, use the words
of the creeds themselves, lest I be accused of miscon
ception and misrepresentation. The Athanasian Creed,
which the English Church has recently resolved to
retain, as truly and clearly expressing the meaning of
Scripture, says, among other things—
“ Whosoever will be saved, before all things it is
necessary that he hold the Catholic faith.
“ Which faith, except every one do keep whole and
undefiled, without doubt he shall perish everlastingly.
“ The Son is of the Father alone; not made nor
created, but begotten (and therefore, I suppose, began
to be, and yet)
“ The whole three persons are co-eternal together,
and co-equal. He therefore that will be saved must
thus think of the Trinity, . . . who suffered for our
salvation, descended into hell, rose again the third day
from the dead.
“ He ascended into heaven, He sitteth on the right
hand of the Father, God Almighty; from whence He
shall come to judge the quick and the dead (His dis
ciples saw Him taken up, bodily into heaven; and a
cloud received Him out of their sight, and afterwards
St Stephen, looking up steadfastly into heaven, saw
the glory of God, and Jesus standing on the right hand
of God).
“ At whose coming all men shall rise again with
their bodies, and shall give account of their own work.
(The hour is coming, Jesus said, when they that are
in their graves shall hear the voice of the Son of man,
and they that hear shall live).
“ And they that have done good shall go into life
■everlasting; and they that have done evil into ever
lasting fire.
“ This is the Catholic faith : which, except a man
believe faithfully, he cannot be saved.
“ Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the
Holy Ghost.
�'ll
The Reign of Law
“ As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall
be, world without end. Amen.”
Perhaps no single error has produced more misery
in the world than the supposition that a man is “free”
to believe what he pleases. It is this that lighted the
fires of the Inquisition ■ and yet a man can only believe
what appears to him to be true j he could not believe
black to be white, even although he was to be damned
for not doing so ; and it is the same of all minor
degrees of belief. We can only believe what is credible,
and love what is loveable. It is true a man may play
the hypocrite, and profess to believe what it is made to
appear to be his own interest to believe ; he may de
ceive himself; he may hide the truth by refusing to
examine, and to this extent only is belief in his
own power. And yet salvation depends upon faith,
and in the early days of the Church “ in every prison
the crucifix and the rack stood side by side,” and good
men in their “ sweet reasonableness ” burnt their fel
low-men alive by a slow fire, to give them more time
to believe what appeared to them to be incredible, and
to repent that they had not done so. “That the
Church of Rome,” Lecky tells us, “ has shed more inno
centblood than any other institution that has everexisted
among mankind, will be questioned by no Protestant
who has a competent knowledge of history. . . . The
victims who died for heresy were not, like those who
died for witchcraft, solitary and doting old women, but
were usually men in the midst of active life, and often
in the first flush of active enthusiasm, and those who
loved them best were firmly convinced that their
agonies upon earth were but the prelude of eternal
agonies hereafter.”
“ What,” said St Augustine, “ is more deadly to the
soul than the liberty of error,” that is, the liberty
which we must all take, whether we will or no, of be
lieving what appears to us to be true. The error was
in the system and not in the persecutions which were
�in Mind as in Matter.
^3
only its logical and humane result, for what was the
burning here to an eternal burning. Consequently,
when Protestants got the upper hand, they did just the
same things ; Catholics are tortured and hung, and as
Lecky shows us, “ the Presbyterians, through a long suc
cession of reigns, were imprisoned, branded, mutilated,
scourged, and exposed in the pillory/’
These efforts to make men profess a religion they
could not believe, were of course attended with the
fruits that might have been expected. The fathers laid
down the distinct proposition, that pious frauds were
justifiable and even laudable, till the sense of truth
and the love of truth were completely obliterated, so
far at least as their influence extended. God was re
presented as He is now in the Athanasian Creed, as
inflicting eternal punishment for religious error; as
“ confining his affection to a small section of his crea
tures, and inflicting upon all others the most horrible and
eternal suffering j ” the fathers felt with St Augustine
that “ the end of religion is to become like the object
of worship,” and, as Lecky shows, “ the sense of divine
goodness being thus destroyed, the whole fabric of
natural religion crumbled in the dust.”
But it is not he that believeth, but he only that helieveth and is baptized that shall be saved, consequently
the belief of the Church is, that infants that have not
been baptized cannot be saved, but “ be punished, as
St Pulgentius says, by the eternal torture of undying
fire; for, although they have committed no sin by
their own will, they have, nevertheless drawn unto
them the condemnation of original sin, by their carnal
conception and nativity.” As some other equally
pious saint expressed it, “ he doubted not there ■were
infants not a span long crawling about the floor of hell.”
The Gorham controversy with the late Bishop of Exeter
must remind us that Baptismal Regeneration, or the
necessity for infant baptism, is still the doctrine of the
Church of England. St Thomas Aquinas suggested
the possibility of the infant being saved who died
�.24
The Reign of Law
within the womb. “ God,” he said, “ may have ways
of saving it for ought we know,” a heresy, for which,
doubtless, in his time, he would have been burned if
he had not been a saint. In the English Church,
Chillingworth and Jeremy Taylor have also thought it
possible infants might be saved. The opposite, how
ever, has generally been deemed a mere truism, con
sequent on original sin and transmitted guilt.
Tertullian was of opinion that the Almighty can
never pardon an actor, who, in defiance of the evan
gelical assertion, endeavours, by high-heeled boots, to
add a cubit to his stature (De Spectaculis, cap. 23). But
as the late Professor Mansel and other eminent theolo
gians believe in “ complete fore-knowledge co-existing
with human freedom,” or, in other words, that God has
some means of foreseeing that which is contingent, or
may happen, or may not happen, let us hope that he
may find some way even of saving poor actors.
The Scotch Calvinists, following Jonathan Edwards,
are more logical than the Anglicans. They are quite
aware that what has been foreknown must come to
pass, with as much certainty as if it had already hap
pened. They, therefore, see clearly, that as God is
Almighty, and has created all things with a full know
ledge of all that would take place, that what is fore
known must have been also foreordained.
The Westminster Confession of Eaith, upon which
the Scotch creed is based, tells us here :—
“ By the decree of God, for the manifestation of his
glory, some men and angels are predestinated unto
everlasting life, and others foreordained to everlasting
death.
“ These angels and men, thus predestinated and
foreordained, are particularly and unchangeably de
signed ; and their number is so certain and definite,
that it cannot be either increased or diminished.
“ Neither are any other redeemed by Christ, effectu
ally called, justified, adopted, sanctified, and saved, but
the elect only.
�in Mind as in Matter.
25
“ The rest of mankind, God was pleased, according
to the unsearchable counsel of his own will, whereby
he extendeth or withholdeth mercy as he pleaseth, for
the glory of his sovereign power over his creatures, to
pass by, and to ordain them to dishonour and wrath
for their sin, to the praise of his glorious justice.”
“ To the praise of his glorious justice,” is not meant
ironically, as may be seen from the sermon of Jonathan
Edwards “ On the justice of God in the damnation of
sinners,” and from the diary of Mr Carey, which tells
us of the “pleasure ” and “ sweetness ” he had expe
rienced in reading that sermon. We are told some
must be saved, others cannot, still it is their own fault.
There we have free-will and necessity, and as all things
seem to have been fixed beforehand, it does not seem
to matter much, if, as Huxley says, it should always be
a drawn battle between them !
We must not suppose that this belief has become
obsolete as some would have us believe. The Rev.
Fergus Ferguson, of Dalkeith, in May 1871, was
brought to book by the U. P. Church, when, among
others, the following proposition was submitted to
him :—
“ That notwithstanding the inability of the will
through sin, as taught in our Confession, unbelievers
are fully answerable for their rejection of the offer of
salvation which the gospel makes to them.”
Or, as I lately heard it put in a good evangelical
-discourse in an English Church, “We are all dead in
trespasses and sins, with literally no more power to
help ourselves than a dead man, yet, if we would but
get up and go to Christ, he would save us.”
Mr Ferguson intimated his unqualified assent to the
proposition submitted to him, and Dr Cairns “ offered
thanks to God for the harmonious and happy result.”
Thus, here also as in the Garden of Eden, we have
another “ mockery, delusion, and a snare.”
We are called upon to believe, that God, “for the
�26
The Reign of Law
manifestation of His glory,” and “ for the glory of His
sovereign power over His creatures,” and “ to the praise
of His glorious justice,” doomed the great majority of
mankind from eternity to damnation, and then sent
His Son into the world to mock them with the false
promise of redemption He had previously decreed for
them should never be. Here we have the logical
outcome of the “ drawn battle ” between free-will and
necessity, or rather of accepting both doctrines, but is
there any one who really believes it, whatever they
may profess ? If any one tells me that I must believe
it, and “ without apology,” that I shall be damned if
I don’t, all I can say is, I’ll be damned if I do.
Surely, as Lord Bacon says, “It were*better to have
no opinion of G-od at all, than such an opinion as is
unworthy of Him.”
And yet this is the religion which a large party think
it necessary to have taught at the public expense in
our public schools. For instance in the New Board
Schools in Scotland, supported by a public rate, on
December 8th, 1873, a motion by Dr Buchanan, that
instruction in the Bible and Catechism should be given,
was carried by nine votes to six. The Catechism is
the Shorter Catechism, and contains all the above
soothing and salutary doctrine.
Neither are we much behind this in England. The
chairman of the London School Board, Mr Charles
Heed, M.P., speaking recently at the annual soiree of
the Leeds Young Men’s Christian Association, says he
does not see “ how it is possible to separate entirely
the secular and religious.” “ How, for instance, he
says, could I teach my child geology without referring
to Him who, having made all things, pronounced them
good ? How could I teach my child astronomy without
referring to Him of whom the Psalmist says, £ When
I consider Thy Heavens, the work of Thy hands, and
the moon and the stars which Thou hast created?’ I
cannot understand why it should be necessary, even if
�in Mind as in Matter.
it were possible, that these things which are so closely
and inseparably united should be disunited by any act
of man in the instruction of those who are under his
care.”
But surely Mr Reed would not teach geology and
astronomy from the old Jewish Traditions. He must
know that “ nothing in geology bears the smallest
resemblance to any part of the Mosaic Cosmogony,
and the astronomy which makes our little world the
centre of the universe, is worse than the geology.
“ Pronounced them good,”—good for what 1 If Adam
was to be immediately turned out of paradise, the
earth was to be cursed for his sake, and he and his
posterity damned from all eternity to all eternity, I can
not see the good of this, neither could the children, I
should think.
“ A salvation ordained before the foundation of the
world ” means, also, according to the popular creed, a
damnation equally ordained, and that, too, for the great
majority, and yet Diderot is accused of blasphemy for
saying, “ il n’y a point de bon pere qui voulut resembler
a notre Pere celeste.” And this creed that makes evil
absolute, and God the ordainer of it, is to be taught in
the common schools and at the public expense. No
doubt all is good, if men will but see things rightly.
The largest amount of enjoyment possible for all God’s
creatures is provided ; the greatest happiness of the
greatest number is secured. To the Necessitarian good
and evil are purely subjective, the mere record of our
own pleasures and pains—the pains the stimulant to,
and the guardian of, the pleasures.
I recollect, when a young man, being very much
impressed by John Foster’s Essay “ On some of the
Causes by which Evangelical Religion has been
rendered unacceptable to persons of cultivated taste.”
Polite literature was proclaimed to be hostile to that
religion, and Pope’s Essay on Man, which I had
for years carried about with me in my pocket, was
�28
The Reign of Law
peculiarly anti-Christian. I am not now surprised at
the distaste, as it is, and as it was by Foster stated to
be, opposed to the natural man, that is, to all the
higher instincts of our nature. A man must indeed
be born again to accept it. Vicarious suffering is
opposed to the moral sense, and every gentleman would
at once object to allow another to suffer for his sins,
and we cannot be surprised, therefore, at the exclama
tion and commentary of the old Scotchwoman, who,
bedridden, and living on the borders of a large parish,
had never before been visited by a parson, and had the
mysteries of redemption explained to her. When she
was told how Christ was crucified, not for any fault of
his, but to save sinners, that is, the few who were of the
elect, she replied, “ Eh, Sir ! but it is so far off, and so
long sin’ that we’ll e’en hope it is not true.” *
The Edinburgh Review, October 1873, accuses Dr
Strauss of “ ignorant blasphemy or hypocritical sarcasm”
for professing to understand these things literally, and
says that he had better go to school once more and
learn “what that really is which he blasphemes,
and what those precious truths really are which lie
enshrined in ‘ Oriental Metaphor,’ and mediaeval
•dogma.” . . . “What,” the writer asks, “has
been discovered, that should really justify any honest
* If the reader wishes to see the opposite view to this well put,
let him read the article in the January Contemporary .Review,
“ Motives to Righteousness from an Evangelical Point of View,”
by the Rev. F. R. Wynne. Of course, the elect regard the dam
nation, from which they are exempt, very differently, but how
any one can be so joyous and grateful over his own salvation, when
only one, much more the great majority, were left to an eternity
of misery, I cannot understand, and therefore cannot appreciate.
It appears to me to be the very essence of selfishness. The Evan
gelical creed is only possible by our completely ignoring the fact
that God is the author and disposer of all things—the evil (as it is
called) as well as the good. If it is to be regarded as a fight
between God and the Devil, in which the devil, in spite of all
God’s efforts, gets by far the best of it, then it is just possible to
understand the thankfulness and the enthusiasm of the reverend
gentleman that “a crown of glory” has been reserved for him
through his Saviour’s merits. Still we might wonder why it should
�in Mind as in Matter.
man in breaking -with the church as it is presented
in England ? ” I think we might ask him that ques
tion, and also whether the English Church admits, as
he affirms, that its “precious truths lie enshrined,
in Oriental Metaphor and mediaeval dogma,” or
whether it is yet willing to throw over the Old Testa
ment altogether, which he recommends. “We are
not Jews,” he says, “and there is no reason in the
world why we should be weighted with this burden of
understanding, and defending at all risks, the Jewish.
Scriptures.” Certainly there is increasing difficulty in
“ reconciling” the Old Testament either with science or
the modern conscience, but what becomes of the fall of
man and the whole scheme of redemption if we give it
up ? He also says, “ Is it right, is it truthful, is it any
longer possible in the face of all that is now known
upon the subject, to pretend that legendary matter has
not intruded itself into the New Testament, as well as
into the Old.” I should think not, but will the church
admit as much ? Dr Strauss is accused of having been
“so long absent from his place in church that he is
unaware of the great change which has come over the
minds of our ‘ pious folk ’ during the last twenty years.”
The Doctor is evidently unacquainted with the new
truth dug out of “ Oriental Metaphor and mediaeval"
dogma,” but, no doubt, great progress has been made
be laid up for him in particular, as he admits it was from no merit,
on his part. Mr Wynne says, “ What can bring hope for time and
eternity to the saddened heart, what can touch it with the sense
of God’s loving-kindness, like the simple faith that God forgives
all sin the moment the sinner takes refuge in Jesus Christ ? ” But
what of those who are left out and who do not take refuge ? And
how are we to reconcile God’s loving-kindness with his omnipotence
if any are left out ? Surely the fact that all punishment is for our
good, to warn us from evil and to effect our reformation, and that
forgiveness, therefore, would be an injury, and to show this direct
connection between sin and suffering, would be far higher and
more salutary doctrine. I do not doubt, however, all that is said
of the effect of Evangelical teaching among the lower class of'
minds, for I have often witnessed it, but it is not “the pure and
noble feeling that is fanned into a flame,” but the selfish fear of
punishment or hope of reward—the fires of hell or the crown of ’
glory. ”
t
�jo
The Reign of Law
in reconciling the spirit of the age to theological
doctrines. “ They may not,” as the writer in the
Edinburgh says, “ hitherto have been quite rightly
explained, they may not yet have been wholly divested
of their graceful drapery of fancy.”
Principal Tulloch, in an article in this month’s
Contemporary Review (January 3, 1874), entitled
“ Dogmatic Extremes,” seems to De little less angry
with Mr James Mill than the Edinburgh is with
Strauss. He complains of a “passionate and conten
tious dogmatism on the side of unbelief,” that literary
and philosophic unbelievers do not do justice to
Christian dogmas. They state them “ in their harshest
and most vulgar form,” instead of looking at them from
the spiritually appreciative point of view. J. S. Mill,
for instance, reports his father as speaking with great
moral indignation of “ a being who would make a hell,
who would create the human race with the in fallible
fore-knowledge, and, therefore, with the intention, that
the great majority of them were to be consigned to
horrible and everlasting torment.” “ Surely we are
■entitled,” he says, “ in the case of such men as James
Mill, to look for some wider thoughtfulness and power of
discrimination than such a passage implies.” Principal
Tulloch tells us that “ all creeds and confessions, from
the apostles downwards, are nothing else than men’s
thoughts about the Christian religion. . . . Tn so
far, as it is supposed possible or right to bind men’s
faith in the present age absolutely to the form of
Christian thought of the seventeenth century, or the
fourth century—in so far such a church is opposing
itself to an inevitable law of human life and history. .
. . . Creed subscription, in so far as it interferes
with this freedom, is a wrong at once to the people and
the clergy. . . . The question which is really
interesting and pressing is not how to get outside of
the church, but how to enlarge and make room inside
it for varieties of Christian intelligence and culture.
. . . To call in (with our scientific dogmatists) the
•
�in Mind as in Matter.
31
"Coarser conceptions of popular religion, those forms of
thought as to heaven or hell, or any other aspect of the
spiritual world, to which the religious mind naturally
falls, from sheer inability in most cases to preserve any
ideal of thought—to call in such coarser types of the
religious imagination as the normal dogmas of Chris
tianity, entering into its very life and substance, is as
poor and unworthy a device of controversy as was ever
attempted. Popular Christianity is no product of
religious thought. It is a mere accretion of religious
tradition. And “ the whole function of thought is to
purify and idealize inherited traditions here as in
every other region of knowledge.”
Consequently, any allusion to “ the naughty place ”
and its occupants is never made now in the week
days; it is thought coarse and vulgar, and only a
“ purified and idealized ” version of it is hinted at
on Sundays, while devils “with darkness, fire, and
chains” are only kept to frighten children within
our common schools, and without which religious
instruction, it is thought, it would never do to trust
them with secular knowledge.
The fact is, the tendency of a large party in the
church is to judge al] doctrines by their intuitive
sense of right, and when Bible doctrines do not accord,
they re-translate them to make them fit. Still admitting
to the full the usefulness of the church and the pre
sent necessity for its continued existence, the question
will recur to every honest man, as it has done to Dr
Strauss and to others, Are we Christians ? The
ethics of the New Testament we must reject as not
based on science, as we have already done the physics
of the Old, and the question is, Is it true, as a critic
affirms, that the religion which calls itself revealed,
contains, in the way of what is good, nothing which is
not the incoherent and ill-digested residue of the
wisdom of the ancients ? Still it is affirmed, and very
generally believed, that the difference between the
Caucasian and the inferior races of men is entirely
�32
The Reign of Law.
owing to Christianity, as also is the whole difference
between civilization and barbarism. Our progress, it
is said, is not owing to science and induction, but to
the Christian religion.
The tendency of the age, of the Broad Church party
especially, is not now to insist on dogma, but to fall
back on the morality of the New Testament. But the
Rev. J. M. Capes says that even “ The Sermon on the
Mount altogether must be interpreted by what people
popularly call common sense, or else it becomes imprac
ticable or even mischievous, and what is common sense
but the application of the test of general utility ?
{Contemporary, December 1873).
Barrington {On the Statutes, p. 461) proves the
superiority of Englishmen, because, as he says, more
men were hanged in England in one year than in
Erance in seven, and writers on the “Evidences” show
that the discrepancies and contradictions in the gospels
prove their inspiration a.nd genuineness, and Butler isof opinion that even the doubting about religion
implies that it may be true; but if the creed of either
the Catholic or Protestant Churches is really to be
found in Scripture, then we must agree with Matthew
Arnold “that the more we convince ourselves of the
liability of the New Testament writers to mistake, the
more we really bring out the greatness and worth of
the New Testament. . . . That Jesus himself may, at
the same time have had quite other notions as to what
he was doing and intending .... That he was far
above the heads of his reporters, still farther above the
head of our popular theology, which has added its own
misunderstanding of the reporters to the reporters’ mis
understanding of Jesus.” {Literature and Dogma, pp.
149, 150, 160).
With these admissions, which are becoming more
common every day, much may yet be made of the
Bible by way of popular instruction, and which may
help to carry us on to the general acceptance of the
Reign of Law in Mind as in Matter.
�
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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 Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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"The reign of law" in mind as in matter, and its bearing upon Christian dogma and moral responsibility. Part I
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Bray, Charles [1811-1884]
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: 32 p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: Includes bibliographical references. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway and part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
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Thomas Scott
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1874
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CT161
N108
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Christianity
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<img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /><br /><span>This work ("The reign of law" in mind as in matter, and its bearing upon Christian dogma and moral responsibility. Part I), 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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Conway Tracts
Dogma
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88
“ The Two (Treat Problems
[Mar4
still a need for the service of this denomination as a member of
the Christian body, with a distinct work of its own, we rejoice in
a name, which however confusing it may be if we consult only a
dictionary for its meaning, has clearly enough defined itself in the
intellectual and social and religious struggles of the last half cen
tury, and has gathered about itself memories and associations of
which we have such reason to be glad.
We will only add that this journal will have no official authority
of any kind, and that it is entirely independent of any organiza
tion — and we repeat that we shall rejoice in feeling that we are
working in co-operation with all, who, under whatever name, are
helping to advance the cause of Truth and to promote the interests
of Christian faith.
~
Charles Lowe.
fi
»
“THE
TWO
■
■
■■
•
J•GREAT PROBLEMS OF
CHRISTIANITY.”
UNITARIAN
A short article, with the above heading, appeared in the last
number of the Religious Magazine, and read so much like a
wail from a sad heart that we have been prompted to write a rep]yIn the opening paragraph the writer says, “We believe that
Unitarian Christianity is a universal gospel; that it is for the
masses as well as for the cultured few, capable of stirring men
to greater action, and giving them a more ample religious growth
than previous forms of Christian truth. But, before it can become
the supreme gospel of the race, two problems must be solved.”
Before considering those two problems, I would like to say a word
on this opening paragraph.
That “ Unitarian Christianity is a universal gospel, intended for
the masses as well as for the cultured few,” I devoutly believe ;
understanding by Unitarian Christianity, simply the Christianity
of Christ. That is, so far forth as Christianity can be put into
words, into propositions, into philosophical statements. But are
we not in some danger of forgetting, that the vital part of Chris-
�1874.]
of Unitarian Christianity39
rcianity is not susceptible of statement in words ? It is a spirit of
life. We can make statements concerning this spirit of life ; we
may hold a philosophy about it, and that philosophy may be sus
ceptible of logical explication, but the vital thing which Christian
ity, the Spirit of Life, is, cannot be formulated. Now, our Uni
tarian Philosophy and statements about this vital life-giving spirit,
seem to me to be true, and I believe will prevail so far and so fast
as men shall be able to appreciate logical and philosophical state
ments about anything. But the masses are not now able to ap
preciate. So that acceptance of our statements about Christian
ity may not, for a long time to come, be very general. But (and
here is our salvation as religious teachers) the masses, however
lacking in ability to appreciate our philosophy, have no difficulty
in appreciating the thing about which we philosophize and make
statements. The spirit of divine life, when manifested in us, it
requires little or no philosophical acumen to see and appreciate.
Our present thought concerning the Bal thing which Christian
ity is, and our present statements of our thought, may both be
modified, it would be strange if they were not; but the thing itself
is ever the same, and is not in the Sgclugive keeping of any sect,
or party, or school of thinkers.
But to advance to the next, the thwd belief stated by the writer
in the opening paragraph, namely, -— that Unitarian Christianity
is “ capable of stirring men to greater action, and giving them a
more ample and religious growth than previous forms of Chris
tianity.” I do not believe the first part of this statement, that
Unitarian Christianity is capable of stirring men to greater action
than previous, or many prevailing forms of Christianity, unless we
are to define action to be somlRing quite different from what it
is usually understood to be in this relation. This is almost too
evident to require illustration; yet, at the risk of being prolix and
commonplace, for the sake of simplicity let me offer an example of
“ action,” produced by other forms of belief and teaching, and
which Unitarianism is not competent to produce. Take an audi
ence of evangelical (unconverted) believers, if the expression
may be allowed, under the manipulation of any well-known power
ful revivalist preacher. He evidently believes that all before him
are in danger of eternal burning, and by his earnestness (for in-
/
�40
“ The Two (Treat Problems
[Mar*
deed how can he help being earnest) he moves the multitude ; he
impresses them with a feeling, which soon amounts to a conviction,
that they are in danger, imminent danger; and soon, action, emo
tional, passionate action is apparent. A shout or a sob in one
direction is followed by a sob or a shout in another, until soon
there is shouting and sobbing all round; and speedily the “ anxious
seats” are crowded with those eager to flee from the danger of the
wrath to come. This is action. And so long as these continue
to believe themselves in such danger, the action in one form or an
other will continue. And so long as others are believed to be in.
such danger action will not cease, efforts will be made to save
others. Is Unitarian Christianity capable of stirring men to any
such action ? I believe not. Nor is Christianity, under any name,
capable of it. It is not Christianity that has done it in the case
of the revivalist’s audience. The revivalist, and thousands of others,
may believe it is, but I do not believe it. It is no more Christian
ity in this instance than it was Christianity in the instances of the
Inquisition and the Massacre of St. Bartholmew. I grant that the
form of action was very different; and it may be said one party
was moved by a love of souls and the other was not; yes, but all
claim to be seeking the glory of God, the establishment of the
true religion, the kingdom of heaven. Now, because Unitarianism
cannot stir men up to what is called intense action, shall we enter-'
tain any doubt of its truth, or its worth, or the wisdom of laboring
for its wider prevalence ? Not until it can be shown that action
can take no other form, or that it cannot exist without being very
demonstrative. The value of action is not to be determined by
any such tests. When you put an acorn into the ground, and
alongside of it the seed of a sunflower, both may grow, but the
manifestation of life in the case of each is different. You can al
most see and hear the growth of the sunflower, and in less than a
year it flames out in garish colors to be seen of all men. But the
acorn has no such action. It is hardly noticeable the first year,
and a century is not sufficient to perfect it, while the sunflower,
meanwhile, has had a wide following in kind. Let not the oak
look in contempt at the sunflower, nor the sunflower despise the
oak.
The higher the type of life you propose for man, the slower will
�1874.]
of Unitarian Christianity.”
41
be his growth toward it, and the longer it will take him to reach
it. While if you are satisfied to tell men that they are in danger
of eternal hell if they do not flee from it, it will not take some very
Bong to start, and they will give themselves no rest or peace until
believed to be beyond danger. But the spiritual quality of the
lives which such a system is competent to produce cannot be of a
very high order. I would not be understood as holding that there
are not multitudes of good, saintly, Christian men and women, who
honestly believe in these doctrines and these methods; of course
there are; but .they are so, in spite of their doctrines, and not
because of them. The writer of the article which I am consider
ing would not pretend that these doctrines are any part of Chris
tianity, and he must know, doubtless does know, that as Christlike
men and women as he ever met are men and women of whose
belief the doctrine of eternal damnation forms no part. But I do
not forget that the question is not one simply of personal charac
ter, but of the value of different systems or views of truth ; and I
recur to the question.
I have dwelt thus at length on the opening paragraph of the
article, because I felt that in it lurked the point of the subsequent
inquiries.
The writer proceeds to say, “ Before Unitarian Christianity can
become the supreme gospel of the race two problems must be
solved.” The first of these problems he regard^ as the finding of
“some motive power to outward action equal to the Orthodox doc
trine of eternal punishment.” I should state it differently, and
say, — Before Unitarianism can become the prevailing form of
Christianity, it must manifest some motive power of inward life
superior to that found in connection with all other forms of Chris
tianity. Considered in its most vital relations, it is not a question
of doctrines, or philosophies of doctrines, half so much as many
seem to think. It is a matter of spirit and life. And it is not a
question of more or less noisy demonstration of life, but of sweet
ness and purity.
Unitarianism and Unitarians need the same motive to outward
action that was in Christ. What was that? Was it not Bove —
Love to God and love to man. His love for God kept him at one
with God. His love for man prompted him to give himself to the
�42
“ The Two Great Problems
Mar.]
work of bringing man also at one with God. It was not so much
the sentiment of fear in Christ, concerning man’s threatened
doom, that was the motive to action in him. It was love for that
which is essential manhood in all men, that which has divine pos
sibilities. He did not overlook man’s danger, he never spoke
lightly of sin, but the moving motive in him never seemed so
much fear of the consequences of sin, or hatred of sin itself, as
love for that which man is capable of becoming. To make Uni
tarianism the prevailing gospel we must not be content to say that
it is the best; nor content philosophically to demonstrate its supe
riority in doctrine over all other forms of Christianity. The merest
novice can state, with beautiful simplicity and truth, the mere law
of the gospel, — to love God above all things and thy neighbor as
thyself. Everybody knows that to practically carry this out is
to live a Christian; and we may as well now, as ever, give over all
idea of finding any superior statement of Christianity, and con
fine ourselves to the more important work of keeping alive in our
own hearts the Spirit which prompts
love, and the generation
and keeping alive of that spirit in other hearts, where it may not
be, or where it exists only in possibility, like the oak in the acorn.
In the presence of the spirit of the living Christ, looking out in
tenderness through human eyes; falling on the ear in sweet ca
dences from human tongue; manifesting itself in self-sacrificing
deeds among men ; in presence of the spirit of. life thus set forth,
of what moment is the doctrine of eternal punishment, or any
other doctrine which is not accompanied with this spirit ? And if
this be present, we can well spare the doctrine. And the influence
and the effect of this spirit, although it might not indeed stir men
to shout, and howl, or sob, would it not do what it did of old, draw
all men to it in more or less loving sympathy, and awaken in them
a kindred spirit ?
The second problem, which in the mind of the writer of the
article under consideration must be solved before Unitarianism is
to prevail, “ is, to find a form of truth that shall make God as
near and helpful to the soul as the Orthodox doctrine of the deity
of Jesus.”
A word on this. The human soul will never outgrow its need of
a feeling of nearness to God, nor outgrow its need of help from
�1874.]
of Unitarian Christianity43
him. It is sweet to feel him near, but does it drive him off, or
does it necessarily rob the soul of all consciousness of his near
ness, to believe concerning him as Jesus believed, namely, — that
he is the ever present spirit of love, power, tenderness and sym
pathy ? It is true, as the writer says, that, “ not much is ac
complished when it is proved that Jesus is not God.” But is it
true that, “ When we do this, he ceases to be a central fact, a
leader, a Saviour ? ” Did the sun cease to be a central fact when
it was proved that he did not move round the earth ? Does Plato
cease to be a leader in philosophy, when it is proved he is not
somebody else, and never wrote the Iliad ? And does Jesus
really cease to be all these, “ a central fact, a leader, a Saviour,”
when it is proved he is not God ? He must cease to be such a
central fact as Orthodoxy conceives him to be, of course, but he
remains just as important a fact nevertheless. And of course he
must cease to be such a leader as Orthodoxy conceives him, but he
may remain just as helpful in his leadership still. And as such a
Saviour as Orthodoxy believes man to be in need of, of course he
must cease to be when the reality of eternal hell is disposed of. But
he may be 'all the Saviour that man really needs still. The writer
seems to overlook the fact that Unitarianism does something more
than prove that Jesus is not God. , It affirms that God was in
Christ, and in him for a blessed purpose, a loving purpose, to bring
man into sympathy and fellowship of life with himself. Christ is
to Unitarian thought a u central factf inasmuch as the divine
life, the life of God, becomes a helpful fact in him, and inasmuch as
the fact of Christianity has its visible root in him, although invisibly
it is in God. He is a leader, not alone by virtue of what he has
taught, but more especially by what he was and is in the spiritual
quality of his life. He was not a leader in literature, science or
art, but he was in the divine art of godly living, in the art of set
ting forth the divinely human life.
And we affirm him Saviour, by virtue of his being the divinely
appointed instrument for the generation and keeping alive in us
of the only thing that can save, the spirit of self-sacrificing love.
Unitarianism, as I hold it, does not oblige me to legislate God
out of Jesus, when it teaches me that Jesus was not God. Jesus,
aside from the Spirit of God, which was livingly in him, of course,*
�44
“ The Two Great*Problems.”
s
Mar.]
is no Saviour. It is God in Christ that wo find to be so precious
and so helpful a Saviour.
But here again I am reminded that no mere statement of this can
accomplish much. It is the Saviour presented in our own lives*
that will be the most effective doctrine. To have its fullest and
best effect, the doctrine must be lived, not simply preached.
Dr Sears is quoted as saying “ that Christianity was a new in
flux of divine power,” and the question is asked, “ Is Unitarianism
a new influx of Divine power, or is it only a philosophy made
momentarily popular by a few fervid orators ? ”
In reply I would say, No, Unitarianism is not a new influx of
Divine power, it is a natural evolution of the influx which was new
in Christ. It is new, of course, in the sense that the spirit is living,
and ever new, as well as old. As I understand Unitarianism, it is
not “ only a philosophy,” but Christianity, minus the theology of
the middle ages, and plus the, common sense of the nineteenth cen
tury. It will become, the form of religion of the masses, just as
far and as fast as the masses learn to va’lue spirituality of life and
righteousness of character, above any merely personal reward,
either in the form of worldly profit, or other-worldly immunity
from threatened doom. But its progress is slow, and the average
preacher of it who sighs for a large following must be willing to be
disappointed. The less religion is mixed up with worldly elements
the longer it will take to make it popular. There is great satisfac
tion in the reflection that the divinest preacher of all did not have,
in his own day, a reliable dozen of followers. There were, who
heard him gladly, but they did not very closely, or publicly identify
themselves with him. And there were not three out of the twelve
who did not mix up his religion with a good many worldly policies.
We have no cause for discouragement. It may not be the ani
mus of our movement to build up a great ecclesiasticism, but it
can do better; it can continue to make clear the superiority of
spiritual religion over the religion of form, of dogma or of tradition
alism ; and who doesnot know that one such living religionist is not
worth, in his influence for good, ten thousand terror-stricken ad
herents of some fear-awakeniftg dogmatism.. Let us continue to
“ hold fast the profession of our faith without wavering.”
J. B. Green.
�
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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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"The two great problems of Unitarian Christianity"
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Green, J.B.
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Place of publication: [Boston]
Collation: 38-44 p. ; 25 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. A reply to an article of the same title appearing in the Religious Magazine. For content of complete issue see: https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=wu.89069654465;view=1up;seq=7 (accessed 11/2017). From the Unitarian Review and Religious Magazine. Vol. 1 (March 1874).
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[Unitarian Review and Religious Magazine]
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[1874]
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G5433
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<p class="western"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /><br />This work ("The two great problems of Unitarian Christianity"), identified by <span style="color:#0000ff;"><span lang="zxx"><u>Humanist Library and Archives</u></span></span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</p>
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Text
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English
Subject
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Unitarianism
Conway Tracts
Unitarianism