The Lyonese Weaver

Originally published in The Leisure Hour (Religious Tract Society) vol.1 #6 (05 Feb 1852).

Marie Joseph Jacquard, whose name has gained a well-earned celebrity, was born at Lyons, on the 7th of July, 1752. His father was a weaver of brocaded stuffs, and his mother wrought in the same establishment, as, what was technically called, reader of designs. Her business was to point out to the workman the threads which were to be used in succession for tinting the stuffs. About this period the manufacture of silk in Lyons had received great extension. Crowds of sturdy agriculturists from the fertile banks of the Rhone flocked into the city, and often died prematurely from the effects of a sedentary occupation, and the foul air of over-crowded workshops. Those who survived, usually became owners of looms; but even then their savings were often swallowed up by too bold speculations; they once more worked for others, and generally ended their days in an hospital.
        At the time of Joseph Jacquard's birth, his father's circumstances were flourishing; he had purchased a loom, and when the boy grew old enough he sent him to school, instead of condemning him to the lot which usually awaited the children of weavers—an early apprenticeship to the unhealthy labours of the workshop.
        The old teacher to whom Joseph was sent, could teach nothing but reading. That the boy soon acquired, and his father seeing him as learned as his tutor, desired him to select a trade. He chose that of a bookbinder, and in his master's house there lodged an old man, a land-surveyor's clerk, who, struck with the boy's intelligence, taught him in the evenings the first elements of mathematics.
        The young apprentice was then about thirteen years old, and his taste for mechanics was shown by a number of curious little inventions, which he was in the habit of displaying to his old friend. One evening when he had finished constructing a coach out of a few old cards, the clerk said to him: "Joseph, is there any other trade which would suit you better than that of a bookbinder?"
        "Ah!" replied the boy, "there is indeed!"
        "What is it?"
        Joseph rubbed his forehead in perplexity, and after a few moments, said:—
        "The misfortune is, that my father is not rich: if he were, I could get tools and instruments of all kinds, and if I had a forge and workmen at command, I am certain I could invent some new machinery."
        "Have you the idea of any new invention in your head?"
        "Yes," replied Jacquard. "The other day, happening to enter the cutler's shop opposite, I saw an hour occupied in passing the blade of a knife through the hands of three workman. One sharpened the edge, another polished the blade, and a third pierced holes in the handle. After considering, I thought of a piece of mechanism which would do it all in five minutes. If I could choose, I think I should like to be a cutler."
        It was late that night, when the elder Jacquard, uneasy at his son's prolonged absence, came to seek him in the clerk's apartment. He found him occupied in explaining the details of the machine to his old friend, who was listening with breathless attention, and who placed his finger on his own lips to enjoin silence on the visitor. Joseph continued his demonstration without perceiving his father's entrance, and soon the latter shared the clerk's admiration of the boy's earnest and unchildlike eloquence. It was not difficult to gain his consent to Joseph's becoming a cutler. It happened unfortunately, however, that his new master was both dull and ignorant, and mocked at the idea of any new invention. Jacquard soon grew tired of his position, and prevailed on his father to place him with a founder of printing types. He soon displayed his rich inventive powers in his new occupation; but the death of his father, who left him a legacy of two working-looms, caused him once more to change his occupation. At the age of nineteen he found himself at liberty to spend his time in inventing various improvements in the art of weaving. But, unhappily, money began to fail; all his father's prudent savings were spent, and Jacquard, who, like too many geniuses, was thoughtless and improvident, began seriously to think he had been robbed. He sold his looms to pay his debts; and then, when he had nothing left, he committed what, under the generality of circumstances, would have proved a most disastrous step, by entering on marriage with a girl as needy as himself. Notwithstanding its unpromising auspices, however, this marriage proved a happy one. The young wife was affectionate, self-denying, and so good a manager of their slender income, that Jacquard, who was constantly absorbed in his mechanical reveries, allowed himself to be fed like a child, without thinking or inquiring whence the means of support were derived. But at length a day came when no food was to be had. Jacquard during the previous week had earned nothing; all his wife's little ornaments were sold, and even the house in which they lived was now the property of another. Madame Jacquard had just been confined with her first child, and obtained from the purchaser of the house permission to remain in it for a short time, until her health should be reestablished. Stern necessity aroused Jacquard from his dreams: with great difficulty he obtained employment as a lime-burner, while his wife worked as a straw-bonnet maker. During several succeeding years we possess few authentic details of the life of Jacquard. He was at Lyons during the stormy period of the revolution, suffering from many perils and much poverty; the latter evil effectually preventing him from executing a plan for an improved loom, which had long been revolving in his brain. In the year 1800, he obtained employment from an intelligent silk-manufacturer, who kindly advanced money for his support during the time that the construction of the machine would require. In the commencement of the next year he had the happiness of exhibiting his loom at the "Exhibition of National Industry," and obtained a bronze medal for what was, after all, but a rudimental outline of what he subsequently accomplished. Shortly afterwards, while patiently labouring in his obscure garret, he was honoured by a visit from the minister Carnot, who, having seen the new loom, came thus in person to express his satisfaction to its maker. The object of the invention, and which is now amply accomplished by the perfected Jacquard loom, was to substitute machinery for a number of human workers, condemned by the very nature of their unhealthy employment to premature decline and death.
        In 1802, Jacquard went to Paris, led thither by the following circumstance. The Society of Arts in London, and also that in Paris, had offered a prize for the invention of any process by which the making of fishing-nets and quarter-netting for ships might be facilitated. During a quiet country walk one evening, Jacquard invented the theory of the desired improvement.
        "Do you know," said he, next morning, to his employer, "that I have thought of a method of making nets, without the use of a shuttle, by means of a machine, which will cost but a hundred crowns?"
        The manufacturer, who had become his friend, desired him to explain the process; and its simplicity was so great, that Jacquard spoke of it as a thing which any one might discover.
        "Well, Jacquard," said his master, "you must try for the prize."
        "Qh!" replied Joseph, "it would not be worth while for such a trifle. I have much more important inventions in my head."
        His employer, however, insisted, and advanced the necessary money; and in three weeks the machine was completed.
        In a few days Jacquard received a summons from the Prefect of Lyons. He obeyed the call, and was introduced into a private room.
        "Ah! Jacquard," said the Prefect, "I hear that you have invented an ingenious method of weaving nets without using a shuttle; and as it is my duty to make known to the government everything that may concern the promotion of national industry, I request that you will write for me a description of the process, and I will immediately forward it to Paris."
        "But, Monsieur," replied Joseph, "I never composed a written sentence in my life, and how, then, could I write what you require? But if you like to send for the machine (two men will easily bring it), I can explain its construction by word of mouth; and then you can, if you wish, write a description of it."
        "An excellent plan," said the Prefect. And in less than two hours the machine, in all its effective simplicity, was in full operation beneath the Prefect's eyes: he himself had the pleasure of weaving several rows of meshes. An accurate description was sent to Paris, and in a fortnight Jacquard received a peremptory order from the agent of the secret police to follow him to the great city. No explanation of the motive of this enforced journey was given by his guide; and he passed the first night after his arrival in the dwelling of the minister of police. Next morning this official conducted him to the Tuilleries, when they were immediately introduced into a room occupied by a gentleman seated at a table.
        "Is your name Jacquard?" said this latter.
        "Yes, Monsieur."
        "Do you know me?"
        "No, Monsieur, I don't remember"--
        "I am the Emperor—sit down."
        At these unexpected words, Jacquard stood speechless.
        "Come, my friend, be seated," said the Emperor, with a benevolent smile; and the artisan fell, rather than placed himself, on a chair. The minister of police remained standing.
        Then commenced a long and earnest conversation between the poor workman and the master of France. It was a part, and not the least successful one, of Napoleon's policy, to speak with frank and cordial familiarity to his humblest subjects. Jacquard soon felt completely at his ease; he explained his ideas of mechanical invention as freely as if he had been conversing with an equal, and even smiled and shook his head when the Emperor, in his eagerness to jump to a conclusion, hazarded some erroneous conjecture.
        The interview lasted two hours, during which but little was said of the netting machine, and a great deal as to the projected improvements in silk weaving. At its close, the Emperor took Jacquard's hand, pressed it cordially, and said:—
        "Your ideas are excellent, and must be applied. Remain at Paris, and study machinery. You shall have rooms at your disposal at the Institute of Arts and Manufactures, and will be in constant communication with men who can teach you whatever you require to learn. But remember that your genius ought to invent things far beyond its present scope. When I had you conveyed hither as a prisoner, all I knew of you was, that you had invented a machine for which England had offered a reward. I did not wish that she should profit in the smallest degree by the genius of our French workmen. Now I know you, Jacquard; you will devote your labours to the service of France, and I shall not forget you."
        Once installed at the Conservatory of Arts and Manufactures, our hero concentrated all his powers in seeking to accomplish his great aim—that of substituting mechanical agency for the labours of a multitude of workers, condemned by the nature of their occupation to physical sufferings and moral degradation.
        Amongst the machines preserved at the Conservatory, was an imperfect model designed by Vaucanson. It consisted of a cylinder perforated with holes, which allowed to pass, or impeded, according to the holes which it presented, needles causing to deviate the threads of the warp, and thus formed a pattern in the weft. The sight of this machine, unfinished as it was, and hitherto regarded as merely an object of curiosity, suggested a new idea to Jacquard. To Vaucanson's cylinder, he added a pasteboard spiral pierced with holes, through which the threads of the warp passed to the weaver; thus dispensing with the intervention of the thread-drawer. He also added an ingenious contrivance for showing the weaver the colour of the shuttle which he was to throw; thus rendering superfluous the employment of a reader of patterns.
        When Jacquard had finished his loom, the first use he made of it was to weave several ells of rich tissue as a present to the Empress Josephine. It is said that Napoleon came in person to the Conservatory, to express his lively satisfaction: it is certain, at all events, that he showed it, by employing expert workmen to construct on Jacquard's model several beautiful looms, which he presented to their inventor. Jacquard returned to Lyons, and improvements were speedily adopted there by the principal manufacturers. There speedily, however, broke out a tumult amongst the workmen. They complained that the use of machinery deprived them and their families of bread; totally forgetting that the vast impetus given thereby to their trade, must cause the employment of a double number of operatives. But mobs never listen to reason: and poor Jacquard, so far from meeting honour in his own city, was doomed to see his looms torn to pieces, "the iron sold for old iron, and the timber for fire-wood." So he said himself when speaking, at the age of eighty, before the Chamber of Commerce; and he uttered the words in a voice of the deepest emotion. Nor was this the worst: three times he narrowly escaped with his life; on one occasion being menaced with a watery grave in the Rhone, and being saved almost by a miracle. Truth and right, however, generally prevail. The increase of the silk-trade in Lyons, the opulence of its conductors, and the number of persons employed, became shortly so great, that in a very few years the people who had vowed vengeance against Jacquard, carried him in triumph through the streets, while celebrating the anniversary of his birth.
        It was not long before England, and then the whole world, adopted the Jacquard loom. We must not forget to make honourable mention of two master weavers, Depouilly and Schirmer, and the mechanist Breton. They encouraged and supported Jacquard during the sharp struggle in which he had been wellnigh overcome. "These men," said Jacquard, "have become rich through my invention, and I am glad of it. I remain poor, but I do not complain: it suffices me that I have been useful to my countrymen."
        A patent was taken out for the loom, and Jacquard was with difficulty persuaded to make use of it; neither could he ever be prevailed on to prosecute offenders. When the municipal council of Lyons proposed to him to devote his entire time and labour to the service of their town, and to bestow on it all the future improvements which his genius might devise, he hesitated not to comply, and accepted in return only a very moderate salary of his own naming. These few facts strongly attest his disinterestedness.
        At the age of seventy Jacquard retired to the village of Oullins, his father's native place. There, in 1820, he received the decoration of the Legion of Honour; and lived happy and respected until the year 1834, when he expired at the age of eighty-two. A fine statue of Jacquard has since been erected by public subscription at Oullins.

"A Short Distance in the Country."

Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.19 #112 (Sep 1859).

Does it ever occur to the casual reader of newspaper advertisements, prospecting perhaps in the columns of the Herald in search of a cook, whereabouts may be situated that mysterious place to which many of them refer, in stating that they have "no objection to go a short distance in the country?"
        You may notice that this clause, explanatory of the intentions of Bridget and Nora, becomes more and more frequent every season. More Bridgets and more Noras wave any hesitancy they may once have felt, and coyly wait to be invited to take up their abode in rural districts. But how does it chance that they may reasonably expect such advances, and give the signal of acceptance at the outset? Who wants the services of the army of cooks, nurses, and waiters that are marshaled daily in the aforementioned advertising mediums, or sit airing their accomplishments and their finery at the matinées of the Intelligence men and women, from week to week?
        The able-bodied maid of all work, willing to milk and churn, to "rise with the lark and lie down with the lamb"—according to that ancient maxim of physical wealth which of late has fallen so completely into disuse—doubtless finds her appropriate sphere afar from the luxurious life of cities; but are the times so greatly "out of joint," that the wide kitchen, heretofore sacred to the domestic hospitality of Farmer Hickory, is now habitually invaded by the foreign crowd that inhabits the basement of brown stone mansions?
        There are country seats, to be sure, scattered through the vicinity of the metropolis—the homes of old county families, who were noted in social and political circles long before the present generation arose, and who maintained, even then, something of the state brought by their ancestors from abroad, including the several departments of domestic service. But are they numerous enough to absorb the supply now apparently in market?
        Clearly, then, there must be a new class of country residents increasing from year to year—a class of whom our friend Mr. Sparrowgrass is the representative man—inhabiting the white villas and brown Gothic cottages one whizzes past on any railway within forty miles of the metropolis, and demanding the services of this corps of domestic sappers and miners. The suburban population of our large cities is beginning to form a separate polity, and, from the very nature of things, must go on rapidly increasing, absorbing more and more of intelligence and wealth, and giving out in return new social influences. How, then, has the exodus arisen, and which way does it incline?
        Drawing an illustration from the rural scenes among which we write—and looking back upon the march of improvement in the "contiguous counties"—we are forcibly reminded of the procedure of a flock of sheep, one of whom has found egress from a well-worn nibbling ground through a gap in the stone inclosure which surrounds it, and hastens "to fresh fields and pastures new." A second mounts the uncertain block of granite, cautiously surveys the landscape with an affectation of cool and sagacious inquiry, and suddenly proceeds upon so good an example; which is speedily followed with less and less caution by the crowd in the rear.
        In other words, Mr. Jones, finding that he has become attached to the village of Highland-dale, where he has passed two summers at the boardinghouse of Mrs. Saveall, begins to look round, and wonder if it would not be quite as economical to rent a little place in the neighborhood to which he may remove his own comfortable mattress and mosquito net, and transplant his thriving nursery of olive plants, saving at once the discomforts of a flock bed and huge board bill, not to mention the uncomfortable misunderstandings between his wife and the landlady, of which he is the perpetual arbiter, growing out of the systematic oppressions which are exercised upon the juveniles and their appointed Milesian guardian.
        Mrs. Jones—"worn to a shadow," as she informs her neighbor and confidante in Mrs. Saveall's east front room, by these intestine wars, and thinking with longing of the time when she could call her chamber her own and possess her soul in patience—is driven by the desperation of the moment to consent, though in calmer hours, amidst the comforts and conveniences of her own house in Thirty-first Street, with its gas and closets, its bath-room, hot and cold water, its proximity to the Kossuth Market, and the Church of St. Christopher, with dear Doctor Mendelsshon's poetical sermons, she might have hesitated.
        Mr. Jones is a man of prompt business habits, or he never would have established the comfortable little business of Jones and Johnson, which gives him a net income of four thousand a year, with rapidly increasing prospects. He has secured a three-years' lease of the pretty little property he has discovered belonged to the widow of the former physician of Highland-dale; has put the out-buildings into excellent repair; disturbed the mossy deposits of the neglected "front yard;" trimming the old-fashioned May roses into modest proportions; uprooted the snow-balls and lilacs; ordering an invoice of the most high sounding standards to put in their places; and christening the spot thus remodeled "Rose Lawn," begins to talk to his friends Smith and Robinson of his "place in the country."
        Of course the physician's widow, though receiving a rent beyond all expectations in the early days of Highland-dale, and which is absolutely necessary to the support of her five boys, laments over the hard necessity which has rebuilt her barns, changed a tumble-down wood-shed into a model chickery, thoroughly repaired her fences, papered and repainted her house; in short, nearly redoubled its marketable value. She bewails the uprooted lilacs, and puts no faith in Spires or Rosea Weigelias; "the doctor" never believed in these new-fangled things, and "the doctor's" opinion is still, and ever will be, law, with his adoring relict. Over the expenditure which Mr. Jones has lavished upon land and habitation—for he could not be otherwise than generous should he try—the widow shakes her head. "Money that comes easy goes easy," was also one of the lamented Galen's maxims, and with every load of guano or coat of paint her prospects of a punctual payment on quarter-day grew less encouraging.
        But Mr. Jones meets his engagements to the moment, and Rose Lawn begins to attract the attention of passers-by, while the widow's soul is afflicted afresh by the comments of friends and neighbors on its improvement.
        Mr. Evergreen "never would have known it." "Oh! no, indeed, she should think not." "Such an improvement," quoth Mr. Evergreen; "all these old roots taken out of the way, and such a beautiful screen of altheas between the house and potato patch!"
        "Oh!"—and the tarleton cap of the late incumbent rises, crest-wise, at the open insult to her harassed feelings. "It was good enough for her and doctor; and had she known how things were going to go, no tenant should have entered those doors." Untruthful woman, when she knows that Jack's school bill and Ned's trowsers depend on the five hundred a year which no one else but Mr. Jones would have given her.
        Meanwhile the invader grows in public estimation. He has taken one of the most commodious and expensive pews in the parish church; he has electrified the vestry by stating privately to one of the wardens that he should consider the decaying edifice improved by a course of treatment similar to that bestowed on the doctor's homestead, and proposing to meet one-fifth of the expense. He is known to put out of countenance the copper and small silver coin in the plate every Sunday by a ringing quarter or half-dollar, with a bank-bill on every special occasion. He pays the rector the delicate little attention of a new study chair, for the bracing Windsor in which his sermons have hitherto been concocted, and supplies his parlor with bouquets from the shrubs, vines, and bulbs that have been so offensive in their introduction.
        Mrs. Jones sweeps the aisle with three flounces, and adds lustre to the east chancel pew with her bonnet from Madame Jervis, while her children are arrayed like the lilies of the field. Her mantilla is imitated by the two Miss Evergreens, who keep house for their bachelor brother, the lawyer. Mrs. Fairbairn, the mother of "seven under eleven," sends to borrow the aprons of the little girls, and Master Joe's fly jacket, for patterns. Mrs. Periwinkle, who is given to horticulture, in the absence of nursery duties, petitions for a slip of the Salvia splendens, or a root of Dielytra spectabilis; and one and all, charmed by the affability and liberality of the "new neighbors," retract their original comments on their dress, equipage, and furniture.
        Mrs. Jones begins to understand the self-gratulation wrapped up in the well-known proverb, "Better be first in a village than second in Rome;" and is thus gradually consoled for household inconveniences, the loss of Broadway, the Kossuth Market, the grocer's cart, her favorite physician, dress-maker, and her pew at St. Christopher's.
        Mrs. Johnson, the wife of her husband's partner, is invited out to pass the day, and comes fully prepared to sympathize with Mrs. Jones in her banishment. She has accompanied her in more than one omnibus ride down town, and passed up the mutual sixpences in payment. To return these attentions, she is met by the exile on the platform of the station-house, and conducted to the commodious vehicle Mr. Jones has recently driven up from the city and presented to his wife. Mrs. Johnson's countenance evinces admiring astonishment. She had no idea that "they kept a carriage." Mrs. Jones endeavors to suppress the internal satisfaction which arises from this source, and stepping in, as if it had been a part of her birth-right, issues the command for Patrick to drive home with a studied sang froid which, however, does not deceive Mrs. Johnson. The visitor is driven up the sweep, which has replaced the straight wagon road, by which the doctor's one-horse chaise found its way to the house or barn, and alights on a veranda, luxuriously supplied with lounging chairs and rustic sofas. The hall hat-rack is loaded with picturesque capalines, a burnous or so, and crowned by a broad-leaved garden hat.
        The low ceilings of the doctor's late residence are so charmingly old-fashioned, and relieved by the extreme delicacy of the wall paper, with its fresh border; a work-table is drawn up to a recently casemented window, shaded by honeysuckle and clematis outside, and muslin draperies within; new books and magazines are scattered about on chairs and tables; vases of fresh flowers ornament the narrow mantles, now reduced from their original altitude to a reasonable and reachable distance; the chairs and tables have a style amidst these surroundings which they never possessed in the prosaic and stereotyped parlors of Thirty-first Street. Out of doors the sun lights up the foliage of the fine old elms and maples, and lies athwart the new-mown lawn in golden bands. The robins sing in the cherry-trees; the soft rustle of the ancient poplars that flank the gates accords to their full-throated song; and subtle odors steal up from the chalice of rose and lily with insensible, and therefore the more welcome perfume.
        Mrs. Johnson, not being ill-natured or churlish, is lavish of her praises. "Picturesque!" "charming!" and "delightful!" are epithets poured out in profusion as Mrs. Jones marshals her guest from point to point of her household arrangements. The store-room, which has supplied the lack of Corwin and Co., and is fast becoming the pride of Mrs. Jones's heart; the dining-room, restored from the odors and dreariness of the doctor's office, with a large window cut to the west, and a Venetian door to the lawn in front. The broad chamber, in which the juvenile members of the family find ample accommodations; the guest-room, brightened by its blue and gilt cottage furniture, are all commended in turn. And Mrs. Johnson meets her husband in raptures, when he appears with her host in the afternoon, and declares that "it makes her sick to think of her narrow little shut-up house in town."
        Mr. Johnson is appealed to, not less strongly, by the fine leg of lamb which the village butcher has supplied; the mint sauce, from the clump of that fragrant herb growing at the very door; the immense size of the Champion peas, and the early peach-blow potatoes; the rich yellow cream, which deluges the red and white Antwerps that supply the dessert, and makes his after-dinner coffee quite another affair from the beverage he is accustomed to in daily life.
        Mr. Johnson is ready to accompany his host to the great kitchen garden which supplies these dainties, to pat the well-marked Devon, reposing under the shade of the apple-tree, in an adjoining meadow-lot, though wondering "why the mischief his friend Jones continues to reiterate that her back is as straight as a table." Mr. Johnson has an eye to a graceful figure, and no objection to a momentary glimpse of a neat ankle; but he is at fault, evidently, in the points of this style of beauty, so he is not unwilling to tear himself away from Lady Gay, and follow his host to the minor loveliness concealed in the somewhat careless appearance of her neighbors, Messrs. Bacon and Squeak, whose cottage residence does not display fastidious housekeeping.
        Mr. Johnson falls into a reverie, with his boots on the top rail of the piazza, slowly puffing a mild Havana, handed him by his partner, the subject of which declares itself presently in the inquiry, if there are any more places to be had in the neighborhood.
        "The fact of the business is"—puff, puff—"my wife"—puff—"hasn't got enough to occupy her, not being blessed with your style of checks on the future"—puff, puff, puff.
        "Strikes me"—and here Mr. Johnson tapped the tip of his cigar against a convenient post of the veranda—"her health would be better in the country, and she might take to gardening, or riding horseback, or something to occupy her mind."
        But there are no more jointure-houses to be found, and Mr. Jones, who has progressed in his education from gardening to rural architecture—a very natural transition—is burning to carry out some of his own private theories, and dabble in bricks and mortar, especially if some one else pays the bills, as he rather has tightened himself in his horticultural experiments. There is a most desirable building site a little out of the village, which Mr. Jones has had his eye on for some time, and, being naturally enthusiastic, its capabilities are set forth with all the zeal of a real estate-broker acting under the spur of a heavy commission.
        Mrs. Johnson always must have her summer trip, which amounts to something in the course of the season, when the dresses indispensable for Saratoga and the Falls are taken into consideration, and the course of wine-suppers and billiards into which her husband is enticed, while she converses affably in the hop-room or on the colonnade. We will not be so harsh as to construe her polkas and moonlight promenades with strange young gentlemen as flirtations. Mr. Johnson draws out a memorandum-book from his pocket and sets down £500 opposite to "Summer Jaunt."
        "There's your carriage and horses, you see," suggests Mr. Jones, looking over his shoulder.
        Mrs. Johnson is musical, and therefore fond of the Opera; charitable, and so can not allow the balls for the benefit of the "Industrial Widows' Relief" and the "M^cDonough Foundation" to pass without the light of her countenance. Her husband adds "Opera and incidentals" to his list, and $300 to the account.
        "Keep up a green-house and grapery, my boy, on that;" and Mr. Jones bestows an affectionate slap on the knee supporting these economical calculations; understanding that there is a private little building fund to Mrs. Johnson's credit deposited with the Illinois Life and Trust Company.
        The carriage and conservatory win the day, and the lady's consent to the withdrawal of her paternal legacy. Mr. Jones is the happy negotiator for five acres of land belonging to Miss Clementina Evergreen, and "rise of property in the neighborhood" begins to replace the ordinary topics of conversation at the store and the post-office. Mrs. Jones has had her highest ambition gratified meantime by a recognition from the two or three old families within calling distance, who are ennuied in the midst of their ancestral grandeur, and though in town would not so much as cast a glance toward the circle in which our friends revolved, step down from the moss-grown pedestal of their reserve, for the sake of a new interest in their unvaried lives. Thus when the many-pinnacled and turreted mansion of the Johnsons rises on the slope of the adjoining hill—christened "The Evergreens" in compliment to its original owner—and with a passing glance at the hedges of spruce and fir, which Mr. Jones has had the satisfaction of superintending, his wife has the pleasure of chaperoning the new-comers among her recent acquaintances, who find Mrs. Johnson conversant (with the names and family histories at least) of the best watering-place people, and in the dearth of visiting places, make no further search into her pedigree.
        The Johnsons are people of many friends: they entertain charmingly, and fill their house with visitors. Fresh inquiries for building sites arise, and presently we find "eligible lots at Highland-dale" advertised among the desirable locations countenanced by Homer Morgan and Anthony J. Bleecker, Esq. More brown turrets and cream-colored cottages dot the Evergreen estate. Miss Clementina has been wooed and won, on the strength of her heiress-ship, by a second cousin of the Johnsons, and returns from her wedding trip to plan an Italian villa that shall cast them all into the shade. Mr. Jones at this can no longer restrain his genius and his desires, but closets himself with an architect, and appears daily in the cars armed with a portentous roll of "drawings," which he studies in concert with his neighbors Messrs. Robinson and Brown, who are the last additions to Highlanddale society, and consequently look upon his attainments in all branches of rural æsthetics with wonder and admiration.
        Thus it is that more and more parcels, addressed to the "package-office of the Harlem Railroad," find their way from Stewart's and Berrian's. This accounts for the influx to the cars of the gentlemanly-looking men you will recollect to have taken at first for the agents of a baggage-express on your last trip to your grandmother's residence in Westchester County. You noticed the social spirit that seemed to pervade this portion of the passengers, how they addressed each other by their Christian names, or abbreviations of their highly respectable patronymics—it was in May, if you recollect, and band-boxes were ranged with agricultural implements on the rack overhead, while baskets of petunias, verbenas, and budding plants in general brightened the cocoa-matting into a parterre of loveliness. Tired-looking women also—parcel-ladened—joined the group from time to time, and deposited themselves in the "reserved seats," held by the earliest arrivals for their benefit with a sigh of relief, before they proceeded to count the packages and parry the original witticisms, called out by their number from the little crowd around. How familiar they appeared to be with each other's occupations and engagements! how interested in the probable yield of mutual strawberry-beds, and the flourishing of standard roses! Then the gradual subsiding into domestic colloquies, so low that only a suggestive sentence reached your ear at first—on the disposal of certain funds intrusted to Madame in the morning, which had evidently proved insufficient for the demand upon them. You learned that the odd-shaped parcel contained three sauce-pans, an upright gridiron, a dust-brush, and mouse-trap, from Smith and Windles; the long one a hooped skirt, a piece of cotton sheeting, ten yards of flannel, a dozen bath towels, half a dozen cotton socks, a counterpane, and a pair of summer blankets from Stewart's. Bandbox No. 1. Shaker bonnets for the girls and Canada straw hats for Ben and Peter. No. 2. A crape dress hat. No. 3 (square and flat). A mantle from Brodie's. No. 4 (oblong and shallow). A set of embroideries from Richmond's.
        By the return catechism you found that the Indian war-hatchet, which threatened to descend on your devoted head with every jolt of the car, was a tree-scraper—the brass surgical instrument under the gentleman's arm a newly-invented shrub-syringe—the carefully-balanced basket contained two settings of black Spanish eggs—the fowl unfamiliar to you—which he had exchanged with a friend living on Staten Island for two dozen Muscovies.
        You grew interested in the family news of the day, in Doctor Parker's report on the probable result of the boil on Ben's leg, in the oddest encounter between madame and a former metropolitan acquaintance at Thompson's, in which they discovered that both of them had added three children to their respective families since their last meeting. You were glad to hear that the Smiths were seen at Mix's, buying a new carriage, and that the Browns were getting up in the world, and had taken a cottage at Newport for the summer. And finally, you discovered that the family name of your new acquaintance was Jones.
        Detachments of gentlemen—shoppers—agricultural implements and bandboxes, left the cars from time to time at the various stations. At Highland-dale the seat before you was vacated. You had been warned of the approaching separation at the last cross-road signal, by seeing Mr. Jones commence an ingenious bestowal of his recent acquisition about the persons of himself and wife, gallantly shouldering all but the round and oblong boxes, which you were pleased to hear "were light," as their size was considerable. With arms thus filled to their utmost capacity, and still supporting the arch enemy of slugs beneath one, Mr. Jones remained standing, braced to support the shock of the cessation of speed—which passed in safety, he waved bandbox No. 3, supported by a little finger thrust beneath the cord, and gave the signal for advance with characteristic terseness and brevity, "Come on!"
        In the excitement of the moment you surely have not forgotten how you took off your hat and stretched your head out of the window, forgetful of the warning regulations posted on the opposite door, to assure yourself that the party were landed safely. Incredible as it seemed—secure in long practice, and a certain dexterity thus acquired—every parcel remained poised in perfect equilibrium, and Mrs. Jones was assisted, by means of a disengaged elbow, to alight. An unostentatious family carriage, with two fine black horses, was drawn up amidst the crowd of vehicles, all neat and commodious, and flanking the driver were two fine half-grown boys disputing for the honor of holding the reins; while Patrick assisted with the tall package in matting, just issued by the freight car—labeled Henderson, Nursery-man, and suspicious of raspberry canes; that is to say, plants. A pretty child on the back seat held up a rosy mouth for kisses, rapturously given by both parents, especially the fond papa, who, depositing his parcels with beautifal unconsciousness of having performed to your unaccustomed eyes a feat worthy of Blitz and his dancing plates, took the little one on his knee and became oblivious of all besides.
        You drew in your head with a sigh of relief as the train was put in motion, involuntarily remarking to the stranger on your left that "it was wonderful!" and were evidently taken for an inexperienced traveler remarking on the powers of the locomotive.
        There was a social gathering at the Evergreens that night—you were not there, of course, but seated in the low, broad family room of the comfortable farm-house, where your paternal relative first saw the light, listening to stories of the time when the Boston stage passed in the rear of Grandfather Hickory's orchard every day, and your respective ancestors visited the metropolis once in four or five years by sloop. "Times have changed since then!" ejaculated your good grandmother with a nod and sigh. Reflecting on Highland-dale and its vicinity, where the inhabitants ride fifty miles a day for dinner and a bed, you agree with her.
        But the parlors at the Evergreens presented a brilliant scene, though you were not there to add the lustre of your countenance. Finely proportioned, elegantly finished rooms in themselves—with carved furniture, good pictures, and wrought window draperies—they were decorated with the choicest exotics, and enshrined among them stood a simple vase filled with delicate wild flowers, and attracting far more attention than their aristocratic neighbors.
        More than one group gathered 'round, passing a valuable microscope from hand to hand, or comparing them with the exquisite plates in the large folio volumes on the sofa-tables. There was a grave discussion carried on in an unknown tongue—unknown to the city guests in whose honor the little company had assembled; and who endeavored to look interested, and at home, at the mention of stipules, coty ledons, axillary buds—and charmed to hear that "the lilac was distinguished by the thyrsus or compact panicle of pyramidal shape, arising from the axis of inflorescence!"
        The Joneses were there of course—Mrs. Jones freshened by bath and toilet, braced by a cup of strong coffee, and a well-fitting French corset—as well dressed and stylish as if still residing in Thirty-first Street, inasmuch as she continued to shop at the accustomed dépôts of feminine artillery, and did not think it necessary to neglect her personal appearance because she had lost sight of the steeple of St. Christopher. No, on the contrary, Mrs. Jones followed the good example of her own shrubberies, and flowered in the freshness of a spring array, in harmony with good taste and her ten years of maternity. As Mr. Jones had justly remarked, a bud was a very good thing in its way, but one could never gather the exact value of a choice rose until it expanded into full bloom.
        Mr. Jones was the life of the company as usual, though attended by a certain impalpable redolence of whale-oil soap—a species of perfume not in favor at Phalon's, but in these days the basis of fragrance, as certain still less agreeable oils are used in the manufacture of bouquet de Caroline, or even millefleurs. His ardor of interest in his new acquisition would not suffer him to pass a night without a trial of its powers, hence this result; and Mrs. Jones, though sustaining her part respectably in an animated conversation with the strangers, listened with one ear toward her husband, and an inward foreboding, as she hears a neighbor detailing to him a process for manufacturing an antidote for the depredations of squash and melon bugs, based upon a half barrel of ancient mariners, known as "tautogs," to three gallons of rain-water, and allowed to stand in the sun until thoroughly distilled!
        She is ready to burn the last number of the "Country Gentleman," in which this delectable compound is highly recommended, when she thinks of the bespattered piazzas, and plate-glass windows she has left for Nora's attention, and the general diffusion of this new odor, from the kitchen where it was concocted, to the dressing-room in which Mr. Jones had made a hasty change of garments.
        Mr. White was not in his usual spirits, having discovered that four rows of the early peas, which he had taken especial pride in having higher than his neighbors by three-quarters of an inch, had been eaten close to the ground by a flock of pet geese, who had been suffered to stray about the lawn, and from thence had found their way to the vegetable garden. Young Broadstreet listens attentively to the conversation between Mr. White and Mr. Green, the well-known horticulturist, who is consoling his friend by relating a little accident that had just occurred to his large and elegant flower-garden, from the gambols of a favorite heifer, who had mistaken the inclosure for a clover field. Mr. Broadstreet is perfectly at home on the question of "our imports and exports," listens with his prominent eyes projected to their full extent, as the conversation turns upon the market value of small fruits, and is seized with a desire to sell out his interest in the silk business and invest in whole acres of Wilson's seedlings and New Marseilles blackberries; though he wavers, as grapes are advanced, and the famous cold grapery of Colonel Baker in the neighborhood is alluded to. He thinks the culture of Muscatel and Black Hamburg may be more to his taste, "more elevating in fact," as he remarks privately to Mr. Green as he solicits his opinion of the operation.
        A friend has advised him to settle at New Marseilles, on account of superior social advantages; another has proposed the opposite extreme, the wonderfully thriving town of Busters, situated directly on the river. But some of the present company, entirely unprejudiced of course, remark with much spirit, that there is too much snobbishness on the North River side, and inevitable chills connected with the bathing privileges and gay society of New Marseilles. Highland-dale is, of course, the happy medium.
        "Are you sure it is quite healthy?" inquires young Mrs. Broadstreet, anxiously; for being the inexperienced mother of a baby three months old, she is naturally anxious on the subject of "building up constitutions."
        "You must take Mrs. Jones and her family as proofs," replies Mrs. Johnson, gayly, conscious that the least degree of intermittent is hanging about her this spring. But then, as every one knows, there is more or less of it every where, within forty miles of the city, and bad enough there of late in the new and fashionable locations—a calamity from which our country friends seem to derive great consolation.
        Later in the evening, Mrs. Jones, who has taken a great interest in Mrs. Broadstreet, and thinks she would like to have her for a neighbor, tells her, in a low and tremulous voice—they have been talking of the younger lady's little one—of the loss of her little girl, two years before, and how kind all their friends were during her long and wearisome illness.
        "I am not always as gay as you see me now," says Mrs. Jones, with tears starting unconsciously; "but for the sake of others, and for Mr. Jones especially, who is naturally social, I try not to give way to sadness. I know my little Mary has a far more blessed lot than her sister, who is left to the cares and weariness of life; but it is very hard to miss her. Every one was so kind; Mrs. Johnson was with me night and day. Mrs. White sat up with us several times, though her house was full of company; and when Mr. Jones was taken seriously ill afterward, Mr. White nursed him like a brother. I wish you could have seen my little Mary's funeral. It was so different from the cold, gloomy ceremony I went through with in town when my first baby died, years ago. Every one sent such beautiful flowers—all white—the house was filled with them, looking as pure and lovely as she did; such clusters of white buds, and the loveliest wreath of lily of the valley; the dear little creature looked like an angel ready for heaven, as she was; and all our friends sat around us; the parlors and piazzas were full; they really felt it too, for she had been a great pet in the neighborhood. They sang such a sweet hymn, and our rector, who is more like a father to us than a cold, wrapped-up clergyman, made such a beautiful address. I never understood before why we are told that 'their angels do always behold the face of Our Father in heaven;' but living here, one is made to realize the special Providence over birds and flowers and little children!"
        Both ladies are very quiet when they emerge from the bay-window, in which they have been conversing, and Mrs. Broadstreet feels that she should like to come to Highland-dale, if only to live near Mrs. Jones.
        For our friend has changed greatly in the last five years—from a trifling, anxious, unsatisfied life, she has emerged into a broader sphere of thought and feeling. She has had time for the real culture which found no place in the boarding-school education of her girlhood; for reading that is not light literature; for deep and quiet thought, not only on what she has read, but the past experiences of herself and others.
        She has discovered, above all, that the poetical, emotional reverence with which the dim aisles and beautiful music of St. Christopher's inspired her, is not the true spiritual life that is to sustain her through the trials that come to the most fortunate lot, and be her passport through the pearly gates that have hidden her children from her. The ever-brightening pathway has been found—thanks to the personal friendship and guidance of the village pastor, who knows the hearts he ministers to, and how to reach the hidden depths of each! He does not hold himself aloof from the homes and pursuits of his people; nay, rather going before, he unfolds to them the deeper significance of Nature's secrets, the infinite wisdom and bounty of the Creator, and leads them from the dews and sunshine, which unfold some favorite and cherished blossom, to the development of character in its noble beauty, and from its fading and renewal, the immortal blossoming of a re-created nature.
        Thus the phase of social life which we have drawn, not with careless though with light and rapid touch, has its own peculiar significance. Induced by the extravagant and crowded life of cities, it carries with it the culture and refinement there gained to be retained and heightened by constant intercourse with the centres of taste and intelligence, and combined with the purity and freshness of rural pursuits and surroundings. True hospitality—a virtue "that hath lain by till it is almost rusty"—from the ceremonious dinners and receptions of modern days, warm, social interests that recognize "my friend in my neighbor," and go with us on our way, welcoming our little ones into life, standing beside us with heartfelt congratulations at our bridals, and a sincere and sorrowful sympathy when we lay away our treasures from our sight, are some of the outgrowths of a rapidly increasing suburban population.
        From this source, also, we may look in the future for the best intellectual, moral, and physical developments, apart from the false and effete refinement of the metropolis, and the dull sufficient-unto-the-day spirit of purely rural districts. Wealth will be brought to bear, with research and science, in all the problems of the agricultural age upon which we are entering, and which is destined to fulfill the promise that "the waste places shall be glad, and the desert blossom as the rose." Nor only so: the purity of the family and the state are here to be preserved; and those who are reared under such genial influences shall go forth into the world strong and vigorous in body and mind, to further the great interests of social and political life; true aristocrats in culture and attainment; truly democratic in the acknowledgment of a common brotherhood, and the higher law of the All-Father—truths taught by the Great Classic, whose authority is disputed and ignored in the whirl of business and pleasure.

The Modern Nebuchadnezzar

by A.H.A. Hamilton.

Originally published in Longman's Magazine (Longman, Green, & Co.) vol.3 #14 (Dec 1883).

Some years ago, while travelling in a remote part of Italy, I made the acquaintance of a singular character. He was a middle-aged Englishman, who had almost become an Italian, and who might have attracted little attention, had it not been for the horse on whose back he travelled—a most beautiful Arab, which he treated with an affectionate gentleness which I have never seen equalled in Europe. In fact, the confidential friendship between the man and his horse was similar to that which we sometimes observe in the case of a favourite dog.
        It happened that we were both detained for a couple of days at a wayside inn on account of a bridge having been broken down by the sudden swelling of a mountain torrent, and thus we became more intimate than might have been expected at first, especially as the usual English reserve had been intensified in the case of my companion by long habits of loneliness.
        When we were at last enabled to resume our respective journeys, he invited me to spend a few days with him at his home, a beautiful little nook on the coast of the Adriatic. There he had now been established for some years, employing himself in the cultivation of a few acres of ground and in the study of a few books, and avoiding all society except that of an Italian gardener and his wife, of the beautiful horse which I have already mentioned, and of a scarcely less intelligent dog.
        There are some persons who have a gift of unconsciously inspiring confidence in others, and who therefore find themselves obliged to receive confessions, and accept trusts, often of a somewhat embarrassing nature. And thus it happened that my new friend, who had not for some years spoken to any countryman of his own, poured into my ears, before I left his remote cottage, a story so strange that I can hardly expect my readers to credit it, as I scarcely know whether to believe it myself. All I can say is that it was told to me in a manner perfectly free from wildness or exaggeration, and that I could trace no symptom of delusion or hallucination in the conduct of the solitary.
        Further, he entrusted to my care a manuscript in which he had recorded the principal points of his story, and left it to my discretion to publish it if I thought fit. For himself, he was persuaded that every tie that had bound him to England had been so effectually severed, that his identification was impossible. He was of opinion, too, that the publication might be desirable, as experiences similar to his own have been the lot of many human beings, though very few have survived them, and scarcely any have been able or willing to record them. I think, therefore, that it will be best to allow him to tell his story almost in his own words.

        I was the only son of a gentleman of moderate fortune, and, though I had one sister, I was always spoilt, especially by my mother. From my earliest years I was fond of animals, in the sense of killing or using them for my amusement, beginning by tormenting flies and teasing cats. I was sent to a good private school, where I learned something, and acquired a certain taste for Latin and English poetry, which never entirely deserted me, and which has revived more strongly than ever during the loneliness of my later years. Thence I went to a public school, where I forgot a good deal of what I knew, and acquired considerable knowledge of a different kind. I was bullied while I was a small boy, and became a most decided bully myself as soon as I grew into a big boy. My taste for cruelty became rapidly developed, not only at the expense of my schoolfellows, but also at that of birds, cats, rats, frogs, or any other unfortunate creatures that came into my power. In the holidays the same taste found a more legitimate expression in hunting, shooting, and fishing.
        Soon after I had attained the age of eighteen, and when I was just about to leave school, I had the misfortune to lose my father. From that time I broke loose from all control. He had always been too indulgent to me, but I had a certain respect for him, and, had he lived, I should no doubt have complied with his wish that I should go to the university and perhaps have entered a profession. But now I was my own master. My mother was in feeble health, and too broken in spirit to direct my course, or to refuse me anything that I wanted. My other guardian tried for some time to save me from myself, but the insolence with which I met his proposals soon convinced him that it was useless for him to interfere. So I had my own way, surrounded myself with horses and dogs, hunted, shot, attended races, began to bet, and was proud to make acquaintance with some sporting characters. I soon became known as a hard rider, and astonished even my new friends by the savage way in which I rode a beautiful little chestnut mare to death in a steeple-chase. I did not think much of it at the time, but the sad look in her expressive eyes came back to me long afterwards, and haunts me even now. Just as I attained twenty-one my mother died, and I came into a fortune of about 80,000l. From that time my pace grew faster and faster. It is astonishing how easy it is to go downhill. I took to gambling in other ways besides racing, got into worse and worse company, tried to cheat others, got cheated myself, and before I was twenty-five was utterly ruined, and narrowly escaped a criminal prosecution.
        So far my story is a commonplace one enough. I often think now how precisely Horace's description of a young Roman,

                'Gaudet equis canibusque, et aprici gramine campi,
                Cereus in vitium flecti, monitoribus asper,'

and the rest of it, suits a young Englishman of the present day.
        I soon exhausted the patience and the pity of my father's friends, and from my own companions I had nothing to hope. It became necessary to do something to keep myself from starving. The only thing I could flatter myself I knew anything about was the management of horses. So I did what I had often heard of a gentleman doing. I obtained employment as a cabdriver.
        At the same time I took to drinking. I had already, in the days of my luxury, acquired the habit of swallowing more than was good for me. But I now took to it not for pleasure, but to stupefy myself. And partly from that cause, and partly from my losses and vexations, my temper become more openly savage than it had ever been before, and I vented all my brutality on my wretched horse. And then I got pulled up and fined for cruelty. And then no decent cab-master would trust me with a horse and cab, and I had to get employment from a man who was, if possible, a greater blackguard than I had myself become. And so I got more and more degraded, and into worse and worse company, and my temper became more and more brutal, and I was always getting drunk, and fighting, and being taken up by the police. So it was no great fall when I made acquaintance with a gang of thieves, and was persuaded to join them in a burglary. I had to wait outside with a horse and trap while they went in for the plate. And, as it turned out, they half murdered an old gentleman, and I got caught, and was tried before a judge, and, being 'well known to the police,' I was sentenced to seven years' penal servitude.
        After a short stay in gaol I was sent with others to the convict prison on Dartmoor. I can't describe the misery with which this part of my existence struck me, though I have suffered worse things since. The cold gloomy granite building, with its inscription 'Parcere subjectis ' (it had better have been 'Lasciate ogni speranza'), the constant wet, the hard work, to which I had never been accustomed, and which blistered my hands and made all my bones ache, the absence of every kind of comfort, the society of the most foul-minded and foul-tongued reprobates, the absolute privation of all news from the outer world, all these things must strike hard on any one, but struck with tenfold effect on one who had not long before been accustomed to the soft life of a gentleman. I had been used to every species of indulgence, and even in my cabdriving period I had found comfort in my gin and my pipe. Now everything of this kind was prohibited, and though the rule might sometimes be evaded by those convicts who were able to bribe a warder, any such infraction of regulation was most severely punished.
        I was mad with rage and fury, and resolved to try to escape, even though I might be hanged for it.
        One dark winter's day a party of us was working on the moor as usual. A thick bank of fog came sweeping up, and the warder, who well knew the danger of it, ordered us to fall in at once, in order to march back to the prison. I watched my opportunity when he was looking another way, and, swinging my spade round, felled him by a tremendous blow on the back of his head, and then ran for my life.
        Not far from the place where we had been working there was a bank built up of earth and turf, after the manner of Devonshire, and for this I made. Just as I was scrambling up it I heard the crack of a rifle, and a bullet grazed my leg, and dropped with a thud into the bank. I got safely over, tumbled into a deep dry ditch on the other side, and doubled along it as fast as my legs could carry me. I was dimly conscious of two warders clearing the bank and plunging straight on into the fog beyond, which grew thicker every moment. Of them I saw no more. I fled on at my best pace until I was utterly exhausted, and dropped down in a hollow sheltered by a scanty growth of heather. Hungry, thirsty, wet, faint, and miserable, I yet felt a satisfaction in the hope that I had regained my liberty, and I fell asleep more soundly than I had ever slept on a prison bed.
        J actually slept till sunrise. When I opened my eyes, a fresh breeze was blowing away the fog of the night before, and the moor was looking beautiful, as it can look on one of those few fine days that visit the English Siberia. I stretched: my stiff limbs, and tried to rub my eyes. Strange to say, I found that my hand could not reach my head. However, I found no difficulty in stretching my head down to meet my hand. But my hand felt strangely hard and rough. It had, in fact, become a horse's hoof.
        I started up. I was broad awake now. I found myself standing on four legs. I stretched out my neck, turned my head round, and took a general survey of my legs and my body. There could be no doubt about it. They were the legs and body of a horse.
        Though I retained a clear recollection of what I had been, I must somehow have acquired the mind of a horse as well as that of a man. I did not feel so much astonished as might be expected. The first idea that occurred to me was to find out what my face was like. I fancied that the old stories of Centaurs might perhaps be true, and that I might possibly have become half man and half horse.
        Not far off there was a small pool of water. I trotted over to it, and looked at my reflection. The notion of the Centaur vanished. I found myself in all respects a horse. I was a bright chestnut horse, young and strong, broad-chested, clean-limbed, with brilliant eyes and flowing mane. I took a deep draught of water, and felt fresh and well.
        Strange to say, my first sensations were by no means unpleasant. In the first place, I had regained my liberty. Then I had accustomed myself to look for pleasure in the animal senses, not in the intellect, and that kind of pleasure was by no means wanting. I felt conscious of extraordinary strength and swiftness. My powers of sight and hearing were developed to an extent unknown to human beings. I had no fingers, but my fore feet merely felt like clenched fists, and to that I was accustomed. My hind feet felt more comfortable than when encased in the prison boots.
        I flung up my head and tail, and bounded over the moor in a stretching gallop.
        A man on horseback is twice a man. He feels, if his horse be worth anything, far stronger, swifter, nobler, than before. I believe this is recognised throughout the world, and in all languages the eques, or cavalier, is the higher type of gentleman. At any rate, I felt this very strongly when I found myself not figuratively, but actually, identified with my horse. Never have I enjoyed a gallop on a horse's back as I enjoyed my first gallop on my own four legs.
        The keen air of the moor soon made me feel hungry, and I set to work to crop the herbage. And here I found a new pleasure. My sense of taste and smell had become exquisitely delicate. I do not know whether this delicacy is possible to mankind, as I cannot remember the time when my taste was uncorrupted by meat, and alcohol, and tobacco.
        But on Dartmoor the supply of grass and herbs fit for a horse is rather scanty, and it was the occupation of the whole day to satisfy my appetite.
        Towards evening the weather again became cold and foggy, and the next day was very wet and miserable. As a gregarious animal, I began to feel the want of society, and I wandered about the moor in search of companions.
        At last I discovered, under the lee of some large boulders of granite, a gipsy encampment, and two or three horses straying about near it. I approached them cautiously, and was received in a friendly way. We rubbed our noses together, and I was even allowed to pick at an armful of hay that had been provided for them.
        Soon, however, I found myself an object of attention on the part of the gipsies. With the usual treachery which man employs in his dealings with what he is pleased to call the lower animals, one of them approached me with a measure of oats and the softest words he could muster, while another followed close behind him with a halter. The dry food looked very tempting after the wet and scanty herbage of the moor, and I was almost inclined to sell my liberty for a feed of oats. However, I was not quite so foolish, and, with a snort and a toss of the head, I turned round, flung up my heels, and was soon out of their reach. But the craving for company still kept me in the neighbourhood of the encampment, and I could hear the gipsies express their admiration of me as a 'proper beauty,' mingled with less polite language.
        It was not long before they determined on another course of action. They caught two of their own horses, saddled, bridled, and mounted them, and started to circumvent me, taking care to approach me from opposite sides. I laughed inwardly at such an attempt, feeling conscious of strength and swiftness that would not be matched by any horse with the weight of a rider on his back. So I easily shot away from them, and then stopped and looked round, letting them approach me, and then starting off again, and in fact amusing myself by luring them on towards the middle of the moor.
        However, they were more cunning than I. Gradually we reached a part of the moor where the ground was even rougher than the rest and more encumbered with boulders. Seeing a smooth piece of bright green turf, I naturally made for it. It gave way beneath my feet, and I found myself plunged deep into a Dartmoor bog.
        Notwithstanding his great size and strength, a horse is essentially a timid animal. His organisation is as delicate as that of a young lady. Anyone can understand this who observes the extreme sensitiveness of his ear and eye. Though I still retained the memory of my human condition, I was now to all intents and purposes a horse. I was surprised at my own nervousness and want of presence of mind.
        While I was struggling in the bog, the gipsies rapidly passed a halter over my head, and then fetched some ropes and planks, by means of which, aided by my own struggles, I was at last brought to terra firma. I was so exhausted and so dirty, that I was only too glad to submit to be groomed and cleaned, which operations took place amid many expressions of admiration on the part of the gipsies.
        I was now tied up, and had a bucket of water and a good feed of oats. My spirits revived, and I resolved to make an attempt to regain my liberty at the first opportunity.
        In the afternoon my masters proceeded to try their new horse. A saddle was placed on my back, a bit was forced into my mouth, and a young gipsy jumped into the pigskin. I reared, plunged, kicked, buck-jumped, and did all I could to unseat him. He was a good rider, though a brutal one, and I snffered severely from his whip and spurs, as well as from the horrible bit in my mouth. Half-mad with rage and pain, I at last reared higher than ever, overbalanced myself, and fell back on my rider. He was a good deal hurt, but did not let go the bridle, and the other gipsies came up and secured me.
        I now heard them call me a vicious brute, and decide to break me in regularly. So now I had indeed a period of 'penal servitude,' such as was never contemplated by the judge who sentenced me. They 'lunged' me, put a dumb jockey on me, tied up one of my feet and kept me standing on three legs, brought me on my knees, and adopted all the devices by which men convince horses of their inferiority.
        Meanwhile, I had full time to reflect on my position, and to make up my mind to accept the inevitable. I saw that it was impossible for a horse to live in a wild state in any part of England. I saw also that I was far too valuable an animal for the gipsies to keep for their own purposes. So I concluded that the best thing I could do was to behave quietly, and get sold to a gentleman, when I might probably be kindly treated; though I must resign all hopes of liberty.
        Things turned out as I expected. As soon as I was at all presentable, the gipsies were most anxious to sell me, knowing that they would probably be suspected of having stolen me. So one of them took me to a fair, and sold me at a price which was no doubt important to them, but which seemed to me extremely small.
        I was bought by a clergyman, and one by no means young, which surprised me considerably. He was a tall, active, wiry man, with the keenest of eyes and the pleasantest of voices, and, as I soon found, he was a born sportsman and a perfect rider. If it were ever possible to feel a pleasure in carrying a fellow creature on one's back, it would be in being ridden by such a one as my new master.
        He took me up to Exmoor, and rode me with the staghounds. My nature had now become so identified with my outward shape, that I almost enjoyed hunting in this novel form. My memory of hunting from the human point of view stood me in good stead, and my master and I soon became distinguished beyond all other men and horses in that celebrated hunt.
        This distinction, however, was fatal to my comfort. My master was a poor man, and, tempted by a very high price, he sold me at the end of the season to a rich sportsman of enormous weight.
        I was summered confortably enough, but in the hot days of early autumn I was again taken out with the staghounds. I was young and strong in those days, and had carried my former master without difficulty, but I was quite unequal to the burden of such a mountain of flesh as now placed itself on my back. I did what I could, for by this time I was fully persuaded of the wisdom of the policy of submission. But it was of no use, and I was soon laid up with a strained back, from which I never quite recovered. A stupid veterinary surgeon was sent for, who pulled me about, and first thought it was my shoulder that was affected, then one of my hind legs, then my knee, and then my foot. So he tried one thing after another, and lanced me, and bandaged me, and blistered me, and almost vivisected me, while I was driven almost wild with pain and fury, and the inexpressible suffering of being unable to explain to him how utterly he had mistaken my case, and how worse than useless were all the tortures he was inflicting on me.
        At last, in spite of his treatment, and merely in consequence of the rest which was permitted me, I got well enough to be considered sound. My master fortunately had sense enough to perceive that I was not up to his weight, as indeed no horse really was. So I was again sold, and this time to a young cavalry officer who had come down to hunt with the staghounds.
        I was taken to his stables, and presently his young wife came to see the new horse. To my utter amazement I recognised my own sister, whom I had not seen for some years, during which she had been living with the guardian with whom I had chosen to quarrel. I had cared little for her in those days, as indeed I had cared for nothing but my own selfish pleasures. But now the case was completely altered. I felt all the gentleness, the longing for sympathy, which are natural to most horses. And my sister was one of those rare beings who have a peculiar insight into the nature of animals, who sympathise with all their feelings, and seem able to read their thoughts. She stroked my nose with her little soft hand, which appeared to exercise over me a kind of mesmeric influence. I returned her greeting as best I could with my velvety upper lip and my poor dumb tongue. She got me some bread and carrots, and I was soon installed as her prime favourite. Her husband was a good-natured sort of fellow, fond of horses and dogs in the ordinary way, and one who would not willingly ill-treat an animal, except in the way of sport. But he had not the peculiar gift possessed by my sister, and was inclined to laugh when she descanted on the human expression that she discovered in my eyes. She was probably ignorant of the speculations of Pythagoras and Empedocles, perhaps even of the story of Circe. Her imagination had lighted upon a doctrine which I believe to be true, that it is not uncommon for the soul of a man to be imprisoned in an animal, as a measure of punishment, or of purgatory.
        In a material point of view I was now happy enough. I was kindly treated by everybody, and was daily petted and fed with dainties by my sister, My sole duty was to carry her when she rode, a duty which her light weight and light hand made a pleasure. My human memory told me exactly what I ought to do, and I became known as the most perfect lady's horse ever seen.
        Mentally, however, I suffered much. That sad beseeching look which my sister noticed in my eyes was the only way I had of expressing what I felt. I was filled with a constant longing to tell her my story, and to reveal to her who I really was. The impossibility of doing this was a bitter pain to me. I believe, as I said before, that many persons have been placed in a position similar to mine, but the power of speech has been allowed to them only in a very few instances. Some of these are recorded in the early history of Rome, but the case of Balaam's ass is perhaps the best authenticated.
        Evil days were now approaching. I noticed that my sister now rode seldom and more seldom. She was evidently becoming ill. I was tried in harness, and, I need not say, behaved my best. Then I was driven by her in a light carriage. But soon even this exertion became too much for her, and she faded away rapidly. She used to be wheeled out to the stables to feed and caress me, but at last the day came when she said farewell, with many tears on both sides. I heard her make her husband promise never to part with me, and I saw her no more. But I soon heard that all was over, and I followed her remains to the grave.
        Her husband was broken-hearted, and I believe looked forward with satisfaction to the prospect of flinging his life away in the war that was now commencing. He kept his promise not to part with me, but to him I was only a horse, nor indeed was there any reason for peculiar care of me at a time when the blood of thousands of better men than I had ever been was poured out like water. He made me his charger, and I accepted my fate as inevitable.
        The delicate organisation of a horse makes the noise and smoke of battle, and even of mimic battle, inexpressibly hateful to him. My first field-day was very painful, but that was a trifle compared with what followed. The regiment was ordered to the Crimea, and I was placed with many other horses on board a troop-ship.
        The life of a domesticated horse is only tolerable when he has a loose box in which he can turn. To be tied up in an ordinary stall, especially when it is a sloping one, is little better than prolonged torture. But even that lot is enviable, compared with the indescribable sufferings endured on board a troop-ship. However, most of us survived them, and in course of time we landed in the Crimea. There our sufferings were almost as bad in a different way—hard work, cold, wet, and hunger.
        At last there came a time when we, among the scanty squadrons of the Light Brigade, were drawn up at the end of a long valley, both sides of which were held by masses of the enemy's troops. The word was passed along in a whisper that we were going to charge the Russian army at the other end of the valley. There were mutterings and curses on the idiotic folly of him who ordered it; but the time was short. I heard my brother-in-law say, 'It is hard on the poor young fellows who would like to live!' And then he patted my neck, and I felt that we, at any rate, were agreed, and that death could not come too soon to both of us. And then the charge rang out loud, and we all dashed into a storm of shot and shell. Men and horses immediately began to fall to right and left of us, and my rider and I were racing with the leader, when we were both struck, and rolled over together. I struggled to my feet when the others had passed, and looked at what had been my sister's husband. There was only his body; his head had been carried off by a shot. Only a few minutes seemed to pass, and the broken wave of returning horsemen came back upon us. Notwithstanding my longing for death, the gregarious instinct prevailed, and with them I limped back again into the British lines. No one offered to catch me. There was more serious work to be done that day than to notice a wounded horse. I knew where a sort of hospital for sick horses had been established, and thither I managed to drag myself. I heard a discussion whether I should be shot at once, and heartily hoped that the question would be decided in the affirmative. But my wound was not a vital one, and the strangeness of the circumstance induced the veterinary surgeon to keep me alive. In after days hundreds of our men came to see the horse that went of his own accord to the hospital and reported himself wounded.
        So it happened that I was saved to endure all the miseries of that horrible winter, when we used to be kept toiling with heavy burdens of shot and shell through miles of snow and mud; when we lay at night in the snow, and had often nothing but snow to eat. I saw hundreds of horses fall and die round me, and envied their fate. But my seven years of penal servitude had not yet expired, and I could not die.
        The story of my wonderful instinct, as they called it, obtained for me some little consideration in that time of cruelty. And so it happened that I lived all through the war, and into the quiet time that succeeded it, and was one of the few horses that were brought back to England.
        There was welcome enough for the Crimean heroes, but no thought for the horses who had borne the worst part of the work and the suffering, and without whom the victory could never have been achieved. In the confusion that followed the battle of Balaklava I had become mixed with the ordinary troopers, and was no longer recognised as an officer's charger. When we were inspected on our return to England, I, with many others, was pronounced unfit for service, and not worth bringing home. Among a number of cast horses I was sent to be sold by auction, and was bought for a very small price by a cab proprietor, in whom, to my indignation and horror, I recognised my former employer.
        'Do as you would be done by' is a maxim inculcated upon children. I now experienced its converse. I was done by as I did. Many cabmen are good fellows enough, but my master was not one of them. Even the sufferings of the Crimea were scarcely as bad as the cruelty of London. I was stabled in a stall that was no better than a dung-heap, dark, and suffocating with the most fœtid odours. When I was taken out, the light almost blinded me. From morning to night my lot was hard work, little food, and constant flogging. I soon wasted away, and felt, with a bitter kind of satisfaction, that this could not last long. I became covered with raw places, to which the friction of the harness and the constant application of the whip added indescribable torture. I was now taken out only at night, in order to escape the observation of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty. I heard my owner say that I was not worth my keep, and I knew that it was intended simply to work me to death.
        One night my driver took up a fare near Marlborough House. When we reached our destination, I happened to look round, and recognised my former master, the clergyman. His quick eye also recognised me, and I heard him say, 'Why, that horse once belonged to me! He looks down on his luck, poor fellow! Be kind to him, cabby, and here's sixpence extra for you.' My driver grinned, and proceeded to the next public-house. At last the end came. One night I was toiling along as usual, when a complete faintness came over me, and I fell 'all of a heap.' My driver tried to rouse me by a most unmerciful flogging, but I felt little of it. My seven years of penal servitude were at last over. I closed my eyes, and knew no more.
        When I next regained consciousness, I found myself lying on the grass in the Green Park. The sun was rising on a brilliant May morning, and the world of London was awaking to work and pleasure.
        I stretched myself, rubbed my eyes, and felt myself all over. I was again a man, strong and well, and not very old. I was dressed in a stable suit such as is worn by grooms. After a little consideration it appeared to me that the only thing I was fit for was the company of horses. I proceeded to a livery stable in Duke Street, which I had known in former times, and applied for employment.
        The master looked me over sharply, and then said, 'The old story, I suppose—no character. Well, you look as if you knew something about horses. Do you think you could do anything with this one?'
        He then opened the half-door of a loose box, and a savage black horse darted his head out, glared wildly round, and snapped at us. I caught his head between my hands, breathed into his nostrils, and whispered into his ear, The vicious animal, as he was called, because he had endeavoured to struggle against ill-treatment, whinnied with pleasure, and began to 'nuzzle' me with his nose and prehensile upper lip.
        'Well, that's a rum go,' said the master. 'I have heard of that dodge, but never saw it before. I'll give you fifteen shillings a week, young man, and if you're worth more you shall have more.'
        I was hungry, and by no means in a position to bargain, so I accepted his offer, and entered on my duties as stableman. But they did not continue long. My chief pleasure, indeed my only one, was to read the newspapers, and renew my acquaintance with the world from which I had been so long secluded. And so it happened that I noticed an advertisement in which I was desired, if still living, to apply to the old solicitors of my family in order to hear 'something to my advantage.'
        I lost no time in waiting upon Mr. X. My former appearance had been so far restored that he found little difficulty in recognising me, and he knew enough of what had happened seven years before to induce him to abstain from asking inconvenient questions.
        It appeared that an old aunt of mine had died, leaving a will made many years before, by which she gave me all her property. And so I became the owner of some hundreds a year. You may imagine that I settled my business and got out of England as soon as possible. I found a remote nook of Italy in which I established myself. I had lost all taste for human society. My sadness is incurable, but I find in the cultivation of my ground, and in the company of my horse, my dog, and my books, the means of passing my time without finding life a burden too heavy for me to bear.

The Old Women

by Arthur Symons.

Originally published in The Savoy (Leonard Smithers) vol.1 #5 (Sep 1896).

                They pass upon their old, tremulous feet,
                Creeping with little satchels down the street,
                And they remember, many years ago,
                Passing that way in silks. They wander, slow
                And solitary, through the city ways,
                And they alone remember those old days
                Men have forgotten. In their shaking heads
                A dancer of old carnivals yet treads
                The measure of past waltzes, and they see
                The candles lit again, the patchouli
                Sweeten the air, and the warm cloud of musk
                Enchant the passing of the passionate dusk.
                Then you will see a light begin to creep
                Under the earthen eyelids, dimmed with sleep,
                And a new tremor, happy and uncouth,
                Jerking about the corners of the mouth.
                Then the old head drops down again, and shakes,
                Muttering.
                                  Sometimes, when the swift gaslight wakes
                The dreams and fever of the sleepless town,
                A shaking huddled thing in a black gown
                Will steal at midnight, carrying with her
                Violet little bags of lavender,
                Into the tap-room full of noisy light;
                Or, at the crowded earlier hour of night,
                Sidle, with matches, up to some who stand
                About a stage-door, and, with furtive hand,
                Appealing: "I too was a dancer, when
                Your fathers would have been young gentlemen!"
                And sometimes, out of some lean ancient throat,
                A broken voice, with here and there a note
                Of unspoilt crystal, suddenly will arise
                Into the night, while a cracked fiddle cries
                Pantingly after; and you know she sings
                The passing of light, famous, passing things.
                And sometimes, in the hours past midnight, reels
                Out of an alley upon staggering heels,
                Or into the dark keeping of the stones
                About a doorway, a vague thing of bones
                And draggled hair.
                                                And all these have been loved,
                And not one ruinous body has not moved
                The heart of man's desire, nor has not seemed
                Immortal in the eyes of one who dreamed
                The dream that men call love. This is the end
                Of much fair flesh; it is for this you tend
                Your delicate bodies many careful years,
                To be this thing of laughter and of tears,
                To be this living judgment of the dead,
                An old grey woman with a shaking head.

A Midnight Scene in Switzerland

by Septimius.

Originally published in Hood's Magazine (Henry Hurst) vol.7 #1 (Jan 1847).

                How clearly beautiful is this still night!

                The summer softness of the fragrant air
                Sheds o'er the soul a gentle, grateful, peace,
                That calms each wilder impulse in the breast,
                And fills us with a hush'd serenity,
                A quiet, pensive, contemplative, mood.
                These mountains high, and everlasting snows,
                Attune our being to perceive, and love,
                The beautiful informing the sublime!

                How sweet, amid this mould'ring castle's ruins,
                To watch, down yon precipitous ravine,
                The flashing torrent charge the bristling crags,
                Foaming and leaping, till it hew its course
                Right onward; when its wrath, by conquest, sooth'd,
                With stately sweep, it winds thro' yonder vale.

                'Tis bliss to dwell upon the buoyant scene,
                While the crisp, silver-raining, moon sheds forth
                Her glist'ning rays o'er all the snowy mountains,
                Whose crystal ridges perforate the skies.
                See, in th' expanded mirror of the lake,
                How its clear breast receives and images
                Their pearly splendors! How th' intense blue sky;
                And the flame-breathing stars;—that, far away,
                From distances immeasurable, pour
                Their watchful light upon the darkling earth--
                And she, the full-orb'd firmamental queen;
                Ride phantom'd, in the glass'd abysmal depths!

                How play the moonbeams o'er these castled walls,
                And thro' the bare interior, strewn, in parts,
                With broken masonry, and rafter'd beams,
                And marble fragments, round which, springing green,
                The blooming verdure decks the rugged floor,
                In wild luxuriance, gently smoothing down
                The sad decay that Time hath wrought throughout.

                Now, let us turn, and gaze our fill, once more,
                Upon yon solemn mountains, skyward thron'd,
                In all their awful majesty, as if
                With their vast peaks, they sought to scale the heavens,
                And, from their cloud-veil'd summits, aye look'd down
                Upon the green-clad earth, beneath them spread,
                Its bulwarks, and its causeways to the spheres!
                For ages have they stood, as now they stand,
                Its rear'd and might outposts—still, they serve
                As stern mementos for all generations,
                Reminding each of what hath been before,
                In times elaps'd, and what will be in future.

                Lo! as the snowy landscape is lit up,
                In radiancy, o'er all its wide extent,
                Rapt with its strange sublimity, we cry
                Thus to the mountain-tops, that seem to listen:—
                "Here stood our fathers but a short time since,
                A time, compar'd with ages ye have known,
                That seems as nothing, and, yet, they are gone;
                They've pass'd away for ever; and we, too,
                Gaze on ye for a moment, and, then, pass,
                But to make way for others, who, hereafter,
                Ay, when we've lain for centuries in our graves,
                Will come and muse on ye, as we do, now,
                Lifting their eyes, in wonder and in awe,
                Where your huge landmarks, from creation's birth,
                Alone have kept their majesty unchang'd."

                Gaze cautiously adown yon dismal gorge,
                Abrupt and craggy; its stupendous depths
                Dizzying the sight that's fain to pierce below,
                To utter darkness, save where, half way, sports
                Yon glancing rivulet, to leap, at will,
                The sheer abyss!. Behold the gorge's sides
                Clad in the sombre grandeur of the pines,
                Whose gloomy masses, in the moonlight bath'd,
                Enchant with contrast—darkness set in light!

                But hark! beneath us, from the valley's slopes,
                Comes on the ear the pleasant, shrilly, sound,
                As thro' the ripen'd grass, the mowers ply
                Their whistling scythes throughout the stilly hours,
                A balmy freshness breathes its fragrance round,
                As, thickly shaken from the falling grass,
                And intermingl'd flowers, the dew-drops roll,
                Soft'ning the soil, with rich and fruitful moisture.

                Still move the ranks in order: still they ply,
                Unweariedly, their oft-rewhetted scythes,
                Cheer'd with the beauty of the brilliant scene,
                And freshen'd, as, upon their heated brows,
                The fanning breeze plays fitfully the while;
                Or as descending dews steal gently down
                And brace their toiling frames—Thus, heart-elate,
                The whole cool, silent, summer, moonlit, Night,
                Amid yon odour-wafting, flower-strewn, meads,
                They urge their pleasant task, until the dawn
                Gleam in the east, extinguishing the stars,
                As it comes shining up the arch of Heaven.

October, 1846.