{"collection":"ritual-magic","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_25619/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_25619","id":"gutenberg_25619","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25619","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - British","Category: Sociology","London (England) -- Description and travel","London (England) -- Social life and customs -- 19th century","Occultism"],"text":"Produced by Curtis Weyant and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by Case\nWestern Reserve University Preservation Department Digital\nLibrary)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  +------------------------------------------------------------+\n  | Transcriber's Note:                                        |\n  |                                                            |\n  | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in        |\n  | this text. For a complete list, please see the bottom of   |\n  | this document.                                             |\n  | Text printed using the Greek alphabet in the original book |\n  | is shown as follows: [Greek: pistis]                       |\n  +------------------------------------------------------------+\n\n\n\n\nMYSTIC LONDON:\n\nOR,\n\nPHASES OF OCCULT LIFE IN THE METROPOLIS.\n\nBY\n\nREV. CHARLES MAURICE DAVIES, D.D.\nAUTHOR OF \"ORTHODOX\" AND \"UNORTHODOX LONDON,\" ETC.\n\n\"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,\n Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.\"\n                                    _Hamlet._\n\nLONDON: TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND. 1875.\n[_All rights of Translation and Reproduction are reserved._]\n\nLONDON:\nSAVILL, EDWARDS AND CO., PRINTERS, CHANDOS STREET,\nCOVENT GARDEN.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n   CHAP.                                                    PAGE\n\n      I. LONDON ARABS                                          1\n\n     II. EAST LONDON ARABS                                    11\n\n    III. LONDON ARABS IN CANADA                               21\n\n     IV. WAIFS AND STRAYS                                     29\n\n      V. A LUNATIC BALL                                       38\n\n     VI. A BABY SHOW                                          51\n\n    VII. A NIGHT IN A BAKEHOUSE                               58\n\n   VIII. A LONDON SLAVE MARKET                                67\n\n     IX. TEA AND EXPERIENCE                                   73\n\n      X. SUNDAY LINNET-SINGING                                85\n\n     XI. A WOMAN'S RIGHTS DEBATE                              92\n\n    XII. AN OPEN-AIR TICHBORNE MEETING                       100\n\n   XIII. SUNDAY IN A PEOPLE'S GARDEN                         108\n\n    XIV. UTILIZING THE YOUNG LADIES                          116\n\n     XV. FAIRLOP FRIDAY                                      122\n\n    XVI. A CHRISTMAS DIP                                     129\n\n   XVII. BOXING-DAY ON THE STREETS                           134\n\n  XVIII. THE VIGIL OF THE DERBY                              141\n\n    XIX. THE WIFESLAYER'S \"HOME\"                             150\n\n     XX. BATHING IN THE FAR EAST                             157\n\n    XXI. AMONG THE QUAKERS                                   164\n\n   XXII. PENNY READINGS                                      172\n\n  XXIII. DARWINISM ON THE DEVIL                              179\n\n   XXIV. PECULIAR PEOPLE                                     198\n\n    XXV. INTERVIEWING AN ASTROLOGER                          204\n\n   XXVI. A BARMAID SHOW                                      212\n\n  XXVII. A PRIVATE EXECUTION                                 217\n\n XXVIII. BREAKING UP FOR THE HOLIDAYS                        224\n\n   XXIX. PSYCHOLOGICAL LADIES                                228\n\n    XXX. SECULARISM ON BUNYAN                                233\n\n   XXXI. AL FRESCO INFIDELITY                                242\n\n  XXXII. AN \"INDESCRIBABLE PHENOMENON\"                       250\n\n XXXIII. A LADY MESMERIST                                    260\n\n  XXXIV. A PSYCHOPATHIC INSTITUTION                          269\n\n   XXXV. A PHRENOLOGICAL EVENING                             277\n\n  XXXVI. A SPIRITUAL PICNIC                                  284\n\n XXXVII. A GHOSTLY CONFERENCE                                290\n\nXXXVIII. AN EVENING'S DIABLERIE                              300\n\n  XXXIX. SPIRITUAL ATHLETES                                  307\n\n     XL. \"SPOTTING\" SPIRIT MEDIUMS                           313\n\n    XLI. A SEANCE FOR SCEPTICS                               320\n\n   XLII. AN EVENING WITH THE HIGHER SPIRITS                  328\n\n  XLIII. SPIRIT FORMS                                        340\n\n   XLIV. SITTING WITH A SIBYL                                347\n\n    XLV. SPIRITUALISTS AND CONJURERS                         355\n\n   XLVI. PROS AND CONS OF SPIRITUALISM                       362\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nIt is perhaps scarcely necessary to say that I use the term Mystic, as\napplied to the larger portion of this volume, in its technical sense to\nsignify my own _initiation_ into some of the more occult phases of\nmetropolitan existence. It is only to the Spiritualistic, or concluding\nportion of my work, that the word applies in its ordinary signification.\n\nC. M. D.\n\n\n\n\nMYSTIC LONDON.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nLONDON ARABS.\n\n\nOf all the protean forms of misery that meet us in the bosom of that\n\"stony-hearted stepmother, London,\" there is none that appeals so\ndirectly to our sympathies as the spectacle of a destitute child. In the\ncase of the grown man or woman, sorrow and suffering are often traceable\nto the faults, or at best to the misfortunes of the sufferers\nthemselves; but in the case of the child they are mostly, if not always,\nvicarious. The fault, or desertion, or death of the natural protectors,\nturns loose upon the desert of our streets those nomade hordes of\nBedouins, male and female, whose presence is being made especially\npalpable just now, and whose reclamation is a perplexing, yet still a\nhopeful problem. In the case of the adult Arab, there is a life's work\nto undo, and the facing of that fact it is which makes some of our\nbravest workers drop their hands in despair. With these young Arabs, on\nthe contrary, it is only the wrong bias of a few early years to\ncorrect, leaving carte blanche for any amount of hope in youth,\nmaturity, and old age. Being desirous of forming, for my own\nedification, some notion of the amount of the evil existing, and the\nefforts made to counteract it, I planned a pilgrimage into this Arabia\nInfelix--this Petraea of the London flagstones; and purpose setting down\nhere, in brief, a few of my experiences, for the information of\nstay-at-home travellers, and still more for the sake of pointing out to\nsuch as may be disposed to aid in the work of rescuing these little\nArabs the proper channels for their beneficence. Selecting, then, the\nSeven Dials and Bethnal Green as the foci of my observation in West and\nEast London respectively, I set out for the former one bleak March\nnight, and by way of breaking ground, applied to the first\npolice-constable I met on that undesirable beat for information as to my\ncourse. After one or two failures, I met with an officer literally\n\"active and intelligent,\" who convoyed me through several of that\nnetwork of streets surrounding the Seven Dials, leaving me to my own\ndevices when he had given me the general bearings of the district it\nwould be desirable to visit.\n\nMy first raid was on the Ragged School and Soup Kitchen in Charles\nStreet, Drury Lane, an evil-looking and unfragrant locality; but the\ninstitution in question stands so close to the main thoroughfare that\nthe most fastidious may visit it with ease. Here I found some twenty\nArabs assembled for evening school. They were of all ages, from seven to\nfifteen, and their clothing was in an inverse ratio to their dirt--very\nlittle of the former, and a great deal of the latter. They moved about\nwith their bare feet in the most feline way, like the veritable Bedouin\nhimself. There they were, however, over greasy slates and grimy\ncopy-books, in process of civilization. The master informed me that his\nspecial difficulties arose from the attractions of the theatre and the\noccasional intrusion of wild Arabs, who came only to kick up a row. At\neight o'clock the boys were to be regaled with a brass band practice,\nso, finding from one of the assembled Arabs that there was a second\ninstitution of the kind in King Street, Long Acre, I passed on thereto.\nHere I was fortunate enough to find the presiding genius in the person\nof a young man engaged in business during the day, and devoting his\nextra time to the work of civilizing the barbarians of this district.\nSunday and week-day services, night schools, day schools, Bands of Hope,\ntemperance meetings, and last, not least, the soup kitchen, were the\nmeans at work here. Not a single officer is paid. The task is undertaken\n\"all for love, and nothing for reward,\" and it has thriven so far that\nmy presence interrupted a debate between the gentleman above-mentioned\nand one of his coadjutors on the subject of taking larger premises. The\nexpenses were met by the weekly offerings, and I was surprised to see by\na notice posted in the room where the Sunday services are held, that\nthe sum total for the past week was only _19s. 4d._ So there must be\nconsiderable sacrifice of something more than time to carry on this\nadmirable work. Under the guidance of the second gentleman mentioned\nabove, I proceeded to the St. George's and St. Giles's Refuge in Great\nQueen Street, where boys are admitted on their own application, the only\nqualification being destitution. Here they are housed, clothed, boarded,\nand taught such trades as they may be fitted for, and not lost sight of\nuntil they are provided with situations. A hundred and fifty-four was\nthe number of this truly miraculous draught from the great ocean of\nLondon streets, whom I saw all comfortably bedded in one spacious\ndormitory. Downstairs were the implements and products of the day's\nwork, dozens of miniature cobblers' appliances, machines for sawing and\nchopping firewood, &c., whilst, in a spacious refectory on the first\nfloor, I was informed, the resident Arabs extended on a Friday their\naccustomed hospitality to other tribes, to such an extent, that the\nparty numbered about 500. Besides the 154 who were fortunate enough to\nsecure beds, there were twenty new arrivals, who had to be quartered on\nthe floor for the night; but at all events they had a roof above them,\nand were out of the cruel east wind that made Arabia Petraea that evening\nan undesirable resting-place indeed. Lights were put out, and doors\nclosed, when I left, as this is not a night refuge; but notices are\nposted, I am informed, in the various casual wards and temporary\nrefuges, directing boys to this. There is a kindred institution for\ngirls in Broad Street. Such was my first experience of the western\nportion of Arabia Infelix.\n\nThe following Sunday I visited the Mission Hall belonging to Bloomsbury\nChapel, in Moor Street, Soho, under the management of Mr. M'Cree, and\nthe nature of the work is much the same as that pursued at King Street.\nThe eleven o'clock service was on this particular day devoted to\nchildren, who were assembled in large numbers, singing their cheerful\nhymns, and listening to a brief, practical, and taking address. These\nchildren, however, were of a class above the Arab type, being generally\nwell dressed. I passed on thence to what was then Mr. Brock's chapel,\nwhere I found my veritable Arabs, whom I had seen in bed the previous\nevening, arrayed in a decent suit of \"sober livery,\" and perched up in a\nhigh gallery to gather what they could comprehend of Mr. Brock's\ndiscourse--not very much, I should guess; for that gentleman's long\nLatinized words would certainly fire a long way over their heads, high\nas was their position. I found the whole contingent of children provided\nfor at the refuge was 400, including those on board the training ship\n_Chichester_ and the farm at Bisley, near Woking, Surrey. This is\ncertainly the most complete way of dealing with the Arabs par\nexcellence, as it contemplates the case of utter destitution and\nhomelessness. It need scarcely be said, however, that such a work must\nenlarge its boundaries very much, in order to make any appreciable\nimpression on the vast amount of such destitution. Here, nevertheless,\nis the germ, and it is already fructifying most successfully. The other\ninstitutions, dealing with larger masses of children, aim at civilizing\nthem at home, and so making each home a centre of influence.\n\nPassing back again to the King Street Mission Hall, I found assembled\nthere the band of fifty missionaries, male and female, who visit every\nSunday afternoon the kitchens of the various lodging-houses around the\nSeven Dials. Six hundred kitchens are thus visited every week. After\nroll-call, and a brief address, we sallied forth, I myself accompanying\nMr. Hatton--the young man to whom the establishment of the Mission is\ndue--and another of his missionaries. I had heard much of the St.\nGiles's Kitchens, but failed to realize any idea of the human beings\nswarming by dozens and scores in those subterranean regions. Had it not\nbeen for the fact that nearly every man was smoking, the atmosphere\nwould have been unbearable. In most of the kitchens they were beguiling\nthe ennui of Sunday afternoon with cards; but the game was invariably\nsuspended on our arrival. Some few removed their hats--for all wore\nthem--and a smaller number still joined in a verse or two of a hymn,\nand listened to a portion of Scripture and a few words of exhortation.\nOne or two seemed interested, others smiled sardonically; the majority\nkept a dogged silence. Some read their papers and refused the tracts and\npublications offered them. These, I found, were the Catholics. I was\nassured there were many men there who themselves, or whose friends, had\noccupied high positions. I was much struck with the language of one\ncrop-headed young fellow of seventeen or eighteen, who, seeing me grope\nmy way, said, \"They're not very lavish with the gas here, sir, are\nthey?\" It may appear that this \"experience\" has little bearing on the\nArab boys; but really some of the inmates of these kitchens _were_ but\nboys. Those we visited were in the purlieus of the old \"Rookery,\" and\nfor these dens, I was informed, the men paid fourpence a night! Surely a\nlittle money invested in decent dwellings for such people would be well\nand even remuneratively spent. The kitchens, my informant--who has spent\nmany years among them--added, are generally the turning point between\nhonesty and crime. The discharged soldier or mechanic out of work is\nthere herded with the professional thief or burglar, and learns his\ntrade and gets to like his life.\n\nThe succeeding evening I devoted first of all to the Girls' Refuge, 19,\nBroad Street, St. Giles's. Here were sixty-two girls of the same class\nas the boys in Great Queen Street, who remain until provided with\nplaces as domestic servants. A similar number were in the Home at\nEaling. The Institution itself is the picture of neatness and order. I\ndropped in quite unexpectedly; and any visitor who may be induced to\nfollow my example, will not fail to be struck with the happy, \"homely\"\nlook of everything, the clean, cheerful appearance of the female Arabs,\nand the courtesy and kindness of the matron. These girls are considered\nto belong to St. Giles's parish, as the boys to Bloomsbury Chapel. So\nfar the good work has been done by the Dissenters and Evangelical party\nin the Established Church. The sphere of the High Church--as I was\nreminded by the Superintendent Sergeant--is the Newport Market Refuge\nand Industrial Schools. Here, besides the male and female refuges, is a\nHome for Destitute Boys, who are housed and taught on the same plan as\nat St. Giles's. Their domicile is even more cosy than the other, and\nmight almost tempt a boy to act the part of an \"amateur Arab.\" I can\nonly say the game that was going on, previously to bed, in the large\ncovered play room, with bare feet and in shirt sleeves, was enough to\nprovoke the envy of any member of a Dr. Blimber's \"Establishment.\" The\nInstitution had just had a windfall in the shape of one of those\nagreeable _1000l._ cheques that have been flying about lately, or their\nresources would have been cramped; but the managers are wisely sensible\nthat such windfalls do not come every day, and so forbear enlarging\ntheir borders as they could wish.\n\nStrangely enough, the Roman Catholics, who usually outdo us in their\nwork among the poor, seemed a little behindhand in this special\ndepartment of settling the Arabs. They have schools largely attended in\nTudor Place, Tottenham Court Road, White Lion Street, Seven Dials, &c.,\nbut, as far as I could ascertain, nothing local in the shape of a\nRefuge. To propagate the faith may be all very well, and will be only\nthe natural impulse of a man sincere in his own belief; but we must not\nforget that these Arabs have bodies as well as souls, and that those\nbodies have been so shamefully debased and neglected as to drag the\nhigher energies down with them; and it is a great question whether it is\nnot absolutely necessary to begin on the very lowest plane first, and so\nto work towards the higher. Through the body and the mind we may at last\nreach the highest sphere of all.\n\nWithout for one moment wishing to write down the \"religious\" element, it\nis, I repeat, a grave question whether the premature introduction of\nthat element does not sometimes act as a deterrent, and frustrate the\ngood that might otherwise be done. Still there is the great fact, good\n_is_ being done. It would be idle to carp at any means when the end is\nso thoroughly good. I could not help, as I passed from squalid kitchen\nto kitchen that Sunday afternoon, feeling Lear's words ring through my\nmind:--\n\n                            O, I have ta'en\n    Too little care of this. Take physic, pomp,\n    Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,\n    That thou mayst shake the superflux to them,\n    And show the heavens more just.\n\nAnd now \"Eastward ho!\" for \"experiences\" in Bethnal Green.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nEAST LONDON ARABS.\n\n\nNotwithstanding my previous experiences among the Western tribes of\nBedouins whose locale is the Desert of the Seven Dials, I must confess\nto considerable strangeness when first I penetrated the wilderness of\nBethnal Green. Not only was it utterly terra incognita to me, but, with\ntheir manifold features in common, the want and squalor of the East have\ntraits distinct from those of the West. I had but the name of one\nBethnal Green parish and of one lady--Miss Macpherson--and with these\nslender data I proceeded to my work, the results of which I again\nchronicle seriatim.\n\nPassing from the Moorgate Street Station I made for the Eastern Counties\nTerminus at Shoreditch, and soon after passing it struck off to my right\nin the Bethnal Green Road. Here, amid a pervading atmosphere of\nbird-fanciers and vendors of live pets in general, I found a Mission\nHall, belonging to I know not what denomination, and, aided by a\nvigorous policeman, kicked--in the absence of knocker or bell--at all\nthe doors, without result. Nobody was there. I went on to the Bethnal\nGreen parish which had been named to me as the resort of nomade tribes,\nand found the incumbent absent in the country for a week or so, and the\nScripture-reader afraid, in his absence, to give much information. He\nventured, however, to show me the industrial school, where some forty\nchildren were employed in making match-boxes for Messrs. Bryant and May.\nHowever, as I was told that the incumbent in question objected very\ndecidedly to refuges and ragged schools, and thought it much better for\nthe poor to strain a point and send their little ones to school, I felt\nthat was hardly the regimen to suit my Arabian friends, who were\nevidently teeming in that locality. I was even returning home with the\nview of getting further geographical particulars of this Eastern Arabia\nPetraea, when, as a last resource, I was directed to a refuge in\nCommercial Street. I rang here, and found myself in the presence of the\nveritable Miss Macpherson herself, with whom I passed two pleasant and\ninstructive hours.\n\nAt starting, Miss Macpherson rather objected to being made the subject\nof an article--first of all, for the very comprehensible reason that\nsuch publicity would draw down upon her a host of visitors; and when I\nsuggested that visitors probably meant funds, she added a second, and\nnot quite so comprehensible an objection--that these funds themselves\nmight alloy the element of Faith in which the work had been so far\ncarried on. She had thoroughly imbibed the spirit of Mueller, whose Home\nat Bristol was professedly the outcome of Faith and Prayer alone.\nHowever, on my promise to publish only such particulars--name, locality,\n&c.--as she might approve, this lady gave me the details of her truly\nwonderful work. The building in which I found her had been erected to\nserve as large warehouses, and here 110 of the most veritable Arabs were\nhoused, fed, taught, and converted into Christians, when so convertible.\nShould they prove impressionable, Miss Macpherson then contemplates\ntheir emigration to Canada. Many had already been sent out; and her idea\nwas to extend her operations in this respect: not, be it observed, to\ncast hundreds of the scum of the East End of London upon Canada--a\nproceeding to which the Canadians would very naturally object--but to\nform a Home on that side to be fed from the Homes on this, and so to\nremove from the old scenes of vice and temptation those who had been\npreviously trained in the refuges here. She has it in contemplation to\ntake a large hotel in Canada, and convert it into an institution of this\nkind; and I fancy it was the possibility that publicity might aid this\nlarger scheme which eventually induced the good lady to let the world so\nfar know what she is doing. At all events, she gave me carte blanche to\npublish the results of my observations.\n\nIn selecting and dealing with the inmates of her refuges, Miss\nMacpherson avails herself of the science of phrenology, in which she\nbelieves, and she advances good reason for so doing. I presume my\nphrenological development must have been satisfactory, since she not\nonly laid aside her objection to publicity, but even allowed me to carry\noff with me her MS. \"casebooks,\" from which I cull one or two of several\nhundred:--\n\n\"1. T. S., aged ten (March 5, 1869).--An orphan. Mother died in St.\nGeorge's Workhouse. Father killed by coming in contact with a diseased\nsheep, being a slaughterman. A seller of boxes in the street. Slept last\nin a bed before Christmas. Slept in hay-carts, under a tarpaulin. Says\nthe prayers his mother 'teached him.'\"\n\n\"2. J. H., aged twelve (March 5).--No home but the streets. Father\nkilled by an engine-strap, being an engineer. Mother died of a broken\nheart. Went into ---- Workhouse; but ran away through ill-treatment last\nDecember. Slept in ruins near Eastern Counties Railway. _Can't remember_\nwhen he last lay in a bed.\"\n\n\"3. A. R., aged eleven (March 5).--Mother and father left him and two\nbrothers in an empty room in H---- Street. Policeman, hearing them\ncrying, broke open the door and took them to the workhouse. His two\nbrothers died. Was moved from workhouse by grandmother, and she, unable\nto support him, turned him out on the streets. Slept in railway ruins;\nlived by begging. July 24, sent to Home No. 1 as a reward for good\nconduct.\"\n\nBesides thus rescuing hundreds of homeless ones, Miss Macpherson has in\nmany instances been the means of restoring runaway children of\nrespectable parents. Here is an instance:--\n\n\"Feb. 25th.--S. W. T., aged fourteen, brought into Refuge by one of the\nnight teachers, who noticed him in a lodging-house respectably dressed.\nHad walked up to London from N----, in company with two sailors\n(disreputable men, whom the lodging-house keeper declined to take in).\nHad been reading sensational books. Wrote to address at N----. Father\ntelegraphed to keep him. Uncle came for him with fresh clothes and took\nhim home. He had begun to pawn his clothes for his night's lodging. His\nfather had been for a fortnight in communication with the police.\"\n\nThe constables in the neighbourhood all know Miss Macpherson's Refuge,\nand her readiness to take boys in at any time; so that many little\nvagrants are brought thither by them and reclaimed, instead of being\nlocked up and sent to prison, to go from bad to worse. Besides this\nreceptacle for boys, Miss Macpherson has also a Home at Hackney, where\ngirls of the same class are housed. The plan she adopts is to get a\nfriend to be responsible for one child. The cost she reckons at _6l.\n10s._ per annum for those under ten years, and _10l._ for those above.\n\nBut this excellent lady's good works are by no means catalogued yet.\nBesides the children being fed and taught in these Homes, the parents\nand children are constantly gathered for sewing classes, tea meetings,\n&c. at the Refuge. Above 400 children are thus influenced; and Miss\nMacpherson, with her coadjutors, systematically visits the wretched dens\nand lodging-houses into which no well-dressed person, unless favourably\nknown like her for her work among the children, would dare to set foot.\nI was also present when a hearty meal of excellent soup and a large lump\nof bread were given to between three and four hundred men, chiefly dock\nlabourers out of employ. It was a touching sight to notice the stolid\napathy depicted on most of the countenances, which looked unpleasantly\nlike despair. One of the men assured me that for every package that had\nto be unladen from the docks there were ten pair of hands ready to do\nthe work, where only one could be employed. Many of the men, he assured\nme, went for two, sometimes three, days without food; and with the large\nmajority of those assembled the meal they were then taking would\nrepresent the whole of their subsistence for the twenty-four-hours.\nAfter supper a hymn was sung, and a few words spoken to them by Miss\nMacpherson on the allegory of the Birds and Flowers in the Sermon on the\nMount; and so they sallied forth into the darkness of Arabia Petraea. I\nmounted to the little boys' bedroom, where the tiniest Arabs of all\nwere enjoying the luxury of a game, with bare feet, before retiring.\nMiss Macpherson dragged a mattress off one of the beds and threw it down\nin the centre for them to tumble head-over-tail; and, as she truly said,\nit was difficult to recognise in those merry shouts and happy faces any\nremains of the veriest reprobates of the London streets.\n\nLet us hear Miss Macpherson herself speak. In a published pamphlet, \"Our\nPerishing Little Ones,\" she says: \"As to the present state of the\nmission, we simply say 'Come and see.' It is impossible by words to give\nan idea of the mass of 120,000 precious souls who live on this one\nsquare mile.... My longing is to send forth, so soon as the ice breaks,\n500 of our poor street boys, waifs and strays that have been gathered\nin, to the warm-hearted Canadian farmers. In the meantime, who will help\nus to make outfits, and collect _5l._ for each little Arab, that there\nbe no hindrance to the complement being made up when the spring time is\ncome?... Ladies who are householders can aid us much in endeavours to\neducate these homeless wanderers to habits of industry by sending orders\nfor their firewood--_4s._ per hundred bundles, sent free eight miles\nfrom the City.\" And, again, in Miss Macpherson's book called \"The Little\nMatchmakers,\" she says: \"In this work of faith and labour of love among\nthe very lowest in our beloved country, let us press on, looking for\ngreat things. Preventing sin and crime is a much greater work than\ncuring it. There are still many things on my heart requiring more\npennies. As they come, we will go forward.\"\n\nMiss Macpherson's motto is, \"The Word first in all things; afterwards\nbread for this body.\" There are some of us who would be inclined to\nreverse this process--to feed the body and educate the mind--not\naltogether neglecting spiritual culture, even at the earliest stage, but\nleaving anything like definite religious schooling until the poor mind\nand body were, so to say, acclimatized. It is, of course, much easier to\nsit still and theorize and criticise than to do what these excellent\npeople have done and are doing to diminish this gigantic evil. \"By their\nfruits ye shall know them\" is a criterion based on authority that we are\nnone of us inclined to dispute. Miss Macpherson boasts--and a very\nproper subject for boasting it is--that she belongs to no _ism_. It is\nsignificant, however, that the Refuge bears, or bore, the name of the\n\"Revival\" Refuge, and the paper which contained the earliest accounts of\nits working was called the _Revivalist_, though now baptized with the\nbroader title of the _Christian_. Amid such real work it would be a pity\nto have the semblance of unreality, and I dreaded to think of the\npossibility of its existing, when little grimy hands were held out by\nboys volunteering to say a text for my behoof. By far the most\nfavourite one was \"Jesus wept;\" next came \"God is love\"--each most\nappropriate; but the sharp boy, a few years older, won approval by a\nlonger and more doctrinal quotation, whilst several of these held out\nhands again when asked whether, in the course of the day, they had felt\nthe efficacy of the text given on the previous evening, \"Set a watch, O\nLord, before my mouth; keep Thou the door of my lips.\" Such an\nexperience would be a sign of advanced spirituality in an adult. Is it\nungenerous to ask whether its manifestation in an Arab child must not be\nan anticipation of what might be the normal result of a few years'\ntraining? May not this kind of _forcing_ explain the cases I saw quoted\nin the books--of one boy who \"felt like a fish out of water, and left\nthe same day of his own accord;\" another who \"climbed out of a\nthree-floor window and escaped?\"\n\nHowever, here is the good work being done. Let us not carp at the\ndetails, but help it on, unless we can do better ourselves. One thing\nhas been preeminently forced in upon me during this brief examination of\nour London Arabs--namely, that individuals work better than communities\namongst these people. The work done by the great establishments, whether\nof England, Rome, or Protestant Dissent, is insignificant compared with\nthat carried out by persons labouring like Mr. Hutton in Seven Dials and\nMiss Macpherson in Whitechapel, untrammelled by any particular system.\nThe want, and sorrow, and suffering are individual, and need individual\ncare, just as the Master of old worked Himself, and sent His scripless\nmissionaries singly forth to labour for Him, as--on however\nincommensurate a scale--they are still labouring, East and West, amongst\nour London Arabs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nLONDON ARABS IN CANADA.\n\n\nIn the previous chapter an account was given of the Arabs inhabiting\nthat wonderful \"square mile\" in East London, which has since grown to be\nso familiar in men's mouths. The labours of Miss Macpherson towards\nreclaiming these waifs and strays in her \"Refuge and Home of Industry,\nCommercial Street, Spitalfields,\" were described at some length, and\nallusion was at the same time made to the views which that lady\nentertained with regard to the exportation of those Arabs to Canada\nafter they should have undergone a previous probationary training in the\n\"Home.\" A short time afterwards it was my pleasing duty to witness the\ndeparture of one hundred of these young boys from the St. Pancras\nStation, en route for Canada; and it now strikes me that some account of\nthe voyage out, in the shape of excerpts from the letters of the devoted\nladies who themselves accompanied our Arabs across the Atlantic, may\nprove interesting; while, at the same time, a calculation of their\nprobable success in their new life and homes may not improbably\nstimulate those who cannot give their time, to give at least their\ncountenance, and it may be, their material aid, to a scheme which\nrecommends itself to all our sympathies--the permanent reclamation of\nthe little homeless wanderers of our London streets.\n\nThe strange old rambling \"Home\" in Commercial Street, built originally\nfor warehouses, then used as a cholera hospital, and now the Arab\nRefuge, presented a strange appearance during the week before the\ndeparture of the chosen hundred. On the ground-floor were the packages\nof the young passengers; on the first floor the \"new clothes, shirts,\nand stockings, sent by kind lady friends from all parts of the kingdom,\ntrousers and waistcoats made by the widows, and the boots and pilot\njackets made by the boys themselves.\" The dormitory was the great\nstore-closet for all the boys' bags filled with things needful on board\nship; and on the top floor, we can well imagine, the last day was a\npeculiarly melancholy one. The work attendant upon the boys' last meal\nat the Refuge was over, and there, in the long narrow kitchen, stood the\ncook wiping away her tears with her apron, and the six little waiting\nmaids around them, with the novel feeling of having nothing to\ndo--there, where so much cutting, buttering, and washing-up had been the\norder of the day. When the summons came to start, the police had great\ndifficulty in clearing a way for the boys to the vans through the\nsurging mass of East London poverty. Some of the little match-box makers\nran all the three miles from Commercial Street to St. Pancras Station\nto see the very last of their boy-friends.\n\nDerby was the stopping-place on the journey to Liverpool, and the\nattention of passengers and guards was arrested by this strange company\ngathering on the platform at midnight and singing two of the favourite\nRefuge hymns. Liverpool was reached at 4 A.M., and the boys filed off in\nfours, with their canvas bags over their shoulders, to the river side,\nwhere their wondering eyes beheld the _Peruvian_, which was to bear them\nto their new homes.\n\nAt this point, Miss Macpherson's sister--who is carrying on the work of\nthe Refuge during that lady's absence--wrote as follows:--\"Could our\nChristian friends have seen the joy that beamed in the faces of those\nhundred lads from whom we have just parted--could they know the misery,\nthe awful precipice of crime and sin from which they have been\nsnatched--we are sure their hearts would be drawn out in love for those\nlittle ones. If still supported,\" she continues, \"I hope to send out\nanother party of fifty boys and fifty girls while my sister remains in\nCanada, and shall be happy to forward the name and history of a boy or\ngirl to any kind friend wishing to provide for a special case. In the\nbroad fields of that new country where the farmers are only too glad to\nadopt healthy young boys or girls into their families, hundreds of our\nperishing little ones may find a happy home.\"\n\nOn Thursday, the 12th of May, the _Peruvian_ dropped down the river;\nand, as the last batch of friends left her when she passed out into the\nChannel, these one hundred boys, with Miss Macpherson, leaned over the\nbulwarks, singing the hymn, \"Yes, we part, but not for ever.\"\n\nFrom Derry Miss Macpherson wrote under date May 13th:--\"With the\nexception of two, all are on deck now, as bright as larks; they have\ncarried up poor Jack Frost and Franks the runner. It is most touching to\nsee them wrap them up in their rugs. Michael Flinn, the Shoreditch\nshoeblack, was up all night, caring for the sick boys. Poor Mike! He and\nI have exchanged nods at the Eastern Counties Railway corner these five\nyears. It is a great joy to give him such a chance for life.\"\n\nThe voyage out was prosperous enough, though there were some contrary\nwinds, and a good deal of sea-sickness among the lads. The captain seems\nto have been quite won by the self-denying kindness of the ladies, and\nhe lightened their hands by giving occupation to the boys. Then came out\nthe result of training at the Refuge. Those who had been some time there\nshowed themselves amenable to discipline; but the late arrivals were\nmore fractious, and difficult to manage. These were the lads \"upon\nwhom,\" as Miss Macpherson says, \"the street life had left sore marks.\"\nEven when only nearing the American coast, this indomitable lady's\nspirit is planning a second expedition. \"As far as I dare make plans, I\nshould like to return, starting from Montreal July 16th, reaching the\nHome July 27th; and then return with another lot the second week in\nAugust. This second lot must be lads who are now under influence, and\nwho have been not less than six months in a refuge.\" The finale to this\nsecond letter, written from Canada, adds: \"The boys, _to a man_, behaved\nsplendidly. The agent's heart is won. All have improved by the voyage,\nand many are brown hearty-looking chaps fit for any toil.\"\n\nIn the _Montreal Herald_, of May 27th, there is an account of these boys\nafter their arrival, which says:--\"Miss Macpherson is evidently a lady\nwhose capacity for organization and command is of the very highest\norder; for boys, in most hands, are not too easily managed, but in hers\nthey were as obedient as a company of soldiers.... These boys will\nspeedily be placed in positions, where they will grow up respectable and\nrespected members of society, with access to the highest positions in\nthe country freely open to them.... We hope that Miss Macpherson will\nplace all her boys advantageously, and will bring us many more. She is a\nbenefactor to the Empire in both hemispheres.\"\n\nThe importance of this testimony can scarcely be overrated, since many\npersons hold themselves aloof from a work of this nature through a\nfeeling that it is not fair to draft our Arab population on a colony. It\nwill be seen, however, that it is not proposed to export these boys\nuntil they shall have been brought well under influence, and so have got\nrid of what Miss Macpherson so graphically terms the \"sore marks of\ntheir street life.\"\n\nApropos of this subject, it may not be irrelevant to quote a\ncommunication which has been received from Sir John Young, the\nGovernor-General of Canada, dated Ottawa, May 3rd, 1870:--\"For emigrants\nable and willing to work, Canada offers at present a very good prospect.\nThe demand for agricultural labourers in Ontario during the present year\nis estimated at from 30,000 to 40,000; and an industrious man may expect\nto make about one dollar a day throughout the year, if he is willing to\nturn his hand to clearing land, threshing, &c., during the winter. But\nit is of no use for emigrants to come here unless they make up their\nminds to take whatever employment offers itself most readily, without\nmaking difficulties because it is not that to which they have been\naccustomed, or which they prefer.\"\n\nI visited the Refuge and Home of Industry a few nights afterwards, and,\nthough Miss Macpherson was absent, found all in working order.\nSixty-three boys were then its occupants. The superintendent was\nanxiously looking forward to be able to carry out the plan of\ndespatching fifty boys and fifty girls during the ensuing summer. The\nsum required for an East End case is _5l._; for a special case, _10l._\nThe following are specimens of about sixty cases of boys whom she would\nlike to send out, knowing that in Canada they could readily obtain\nplaces:--\n\nP. E., aged seventeen.--Mother died of fever, leaving seven children;\nfather a dock labourer, but cannot get full employment.\n\nL. J., aged thirteen.--Mother dead; does not know where her father is;\nhas been getting her living by singing songs in the lodging-houses; is\nmuch improved by her stay in the Home, and will make a tidy little maid.\nThis is just one of the many who might thus be rescued from a life of\nsin and misery.\n\nReturning home through the squalid streets that night, where squatters\nwere vending old shoes and boots that seemed scarcely worth picking out\nof the kennel, and garments that appeared beneath the notice of the rag\nmerchant, I saw the little Bedouins still in full force, just as though\nno effort had been made for their reclamation and housing. As they\ncrowded the doorsteps, huddled in the gutters, or vended boxes of lights\nand solicited the honour of shining \"your boots, sir,\" I could not help\npicturing them crossing the sea, under kindly auspices, to the \"better\nland\" beyond, and anon, in the broad Canadian fields or busy Canadian\ntowns, growing into respectable farmers and citizens; and straightway\neach little grimed, wan face seemed to bear a new interest for me, and\nto look wistfully up into mine with a sort of rightful demand on my\ncharity, saying to me, and through me to my many readers, \"Come and\nhelp us!\"\n\nAfter the foregoing was written, a further letter arrived from Miss\nMacpherson. All the boys were well placed. The agent at Quebec wished to\ntake the whole hundred in a lump, but only eleven were conceded to him.\nAt Montreal, too, all would have been taken, but twenty-one only were\nleft. All found excellent situations, many as house servants at _10l._\nand _15l._ a year. Eight were in like manner left at Belleville, half\nway between Montreal and Toronto. Sixty were taken on to Toronto; and\nhere we are told \"the platform was crowded with farmers anxious to\nengage them all at once. It was difficult to get them to the office.\" A\ngentleman arrived from Hamilton, saying that sixty applications had been\nsent in for boys, directly it was known that Miss Macpherson was coming\nout. So there is no need of anticipating anything like repugnance on the\npart of the Canadians to the reception of our superfluous Arabs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nWAIFS AND STRAYS.\n\n\nAmong the various qualifications for the festivities of Christmastide\nand New Year, there is one which is, perhaps, not so generally\nrecognised as it might be. Some of us are welcomed to the bright\nfireside or the groaning table on the score of our social and\nconversational qualities. At many and many a cheery board, poverty is\nthe only stipulation that is made. I mean not now that the guests shall\noccupy the unenviable position of \"poor relations,\" but, in the\nlarge-hearted charity that so widely prevails at that festive season,\nthe need of a dinner is being generally accepted as a title to that\nstaple requirement of existence. Neither of these, however, is the\ndistinction required in order to entitle those who bear it to the\nhospitality of Mr. Edward Wright, better known under the abbreviated\ntitle of \"Ned,\" and without the prefatory \"Mr.\" That one social quality,\nwithout which a seat at Ned Wright's festive board cannot be compassed,\nis Felony. A little rakish-looking green ticket was circulated a few\ndays previously among the members of Mr. Wright's former fraternity,\nbidding them to a \"Great Supper\" in St. John's Chapel, Penrose Street\n(late West Street), Walworth, got up under the auspices of the\nSouth-East London Mission. The invitation ran as follows:--\n\n     \"This ticket is only available for a male person who has\n     been convicted at least once for felony, and is not\n     transferable. We purpose providing a good supper of bread\n     and soup, after which an address will be given. At the close\n     of the meeting a parcel of provisions will be given to each\n     man. Supper will be provided in the lower part of the\n     chapel. Boys not admitted this time.--Your friend, for\n     Christ's sake,\n\n     \"NED WRIGHT.\"\n\nWhy juvenile felons should be excluded \"this time,\" and whether the fact\nof having been convicted more than once would confer any additional\nprivileges, did not appear at first sight. So it was, however; adult\nfelonious Walworth was bidden to the supper, and to the supper it came.\nAmong the attractions held out to spectators of the proceedings was the\nannouncement that a magistrate was to take part in them--a fact that\npossibly was not made generally known among the guests, in whose regard\nit is very questionable whether the presence of the dreaded \"beak\" might\nnot have proved the reverse of a \"draw.\" However, they came, possibly in\nhappy ignorance of the potentate who was awaiting them, and than whom\nthere is one only creation of civilized life considered by the London\ncadger his more natural enemy, that is the policeman.\n\nSix o'clock was the hour appointed for the repast, and there was no need\nfor the wanderer in Walworth Road to inquire which was Penrose Street.\nLittle groups of shambling fellows hulked about the corner waiting for\nsome one to lead the way to the unaccustomed chapel. Group after group,\nhowever, melted away into the dingy building where Ned was ready to\nwelcome them. With him I found, not one magistrate, but two; one the\nexpected magnate from the country, the other a well-known occupant of\nthe London bench, with whom, I fancy, many of the guests could boast a\nprevious acquaintance of a character the reverse of desirable. Penrose\nStreet Chapel had been formerly occupied by the Unitarians, but was then\ntaken permanently by Ned Wright at a rental of between _60l._ and _70l._\nper annum, and formed the third of his \"centres,\" the others being under\na railway arch in the New Kent Road, and the Mission Hall, Deptford. As\nrow by row filled with squalid occupants, I could but scan from my\nvantage-ground in the gallery the various physiognomies. I am bound to\nsay the typical gaol-bird was but feebly represented. The visitors\nlooked like hard-working men--a little pinched and hungry, perhaps, and\nin many cases obviously dejected and ashamed of the qualification which\ngave them their seat. One or two, mostly of the younger, came in with a\nswagger and a rough joke; but Ned and his guests knew one another, and\nhe quickly removed the lively young gentleman to a quiet corner out of\nharm's way. A fringe of spectators, mostly female, occupied the front\nseat in the gallery when proceedings commenced, which they did with a\nhymn, composed by Ned Wright himself. The ladies' voices proved very\nuseful in this respect; but most of the men took the printed copies of\nthe hymns, which were handed round, and looked as if they could read\nthem, not a few proving they could by singing full-voiced. After the\nhymn, Wright announced that he had ordered eighty gallons of soup--some\nfacetious gentleman suggesting, \"That's about a gallon apiece\"--and he\nhoped all would get enough. Probably about 100 guests had by this time\nassembled, and each was provided with a white basin, which was filled by\nNed and his assistants, with soup from a washing jug. A paper bag\ncontaining half a quartern loaf was also given to each, and the contents\nrapidly disappeared. As the fragrant steam mounted provokingly from the\nsoup-basins up to the gallery, Mr. Wright took occasion to mention that\nat the last supper Mr. Clark, of the New Cut, furnished the soup\ngratuitously--a fact which he thought deserved to be placed on record.\n\nIn the intervals of the banquet, the host informed me that he had\nalready witnessed forty genuine \"conversions\" as the results of these\ngatherings. He had, as usual, to contend with certain obtrusive\ngentlemen who \"assumed the virtue\" of felony, \"though they had it not,\"\nand were summarily dismissed with the assurance that he \"didn't want no\ntramps.\" One mysterious young man came in and sat down on a front row,\nbut did not remain two minutes before a thought seemed to strike him,\nand he beat a hasty retreat. Whether he was possessed with the idea I\nhad to combat on a previous occasion of the same kind, that I was a\npoliceman, I cannot tell, but he never reappeared. I hope I was not the\ninnocent cause of his losing his supper. The only \"felonious\" trait I\nobserved was a furtive glance every now and then cast around, and\nespecially up to the gallery. Beyond this there really was little to\ndistinguish the gathering from a meeting of artisans a little bit \"down\non their luck,\" or out on strike, or under some cloud of that sort.\n\nAs supper progressed, the number of spectators in the gallery increased;\nand, with all due deference to Ned Wright's good intentions, it may be\nopen to question whether this presence of spectators in the gallery is\nwise. It gives a sort of spurious dash and bravado to the calling of a\nfelon to be supping in public, and have ladies looking on, just like the\n\"swells\" at a public dinner. I am sure some of the younger men felt\nthis, and swaggered through their supper accordingly. There certainly\nwas not a symptom of shame on the face of a single guest, or any\nevidences of dejection, when once the pea-soup had done its work. Some\nof the very lively gentlemen in the front row even devoted themselves to\nmaking critical remarks on the occupants of the gallery. As a rule, and\nconsidering the antecedents of the men, the assembly was an orderly one;\nand would, I think, have been more so, but for the presence of the fair\nsex in the upper regions, many of whom, it is but justice to say, were\nenjoying the small talk of certain oily-haired young missionaries, and\nquite unconscious of being the objects of admiring glances from below.\n\nSupper took exactly an hour, and then came another hymn, Ned Wright\ntelling his guests that the tune was somewhat difficult, but that the\ngallery would sing it for them first, and then they would be able to do\nit for themselves. Decidedly, Mr. Wright is getting \"aesthetic.\" This\nhymn was, in fact, monopolized by the gallery, the men listening and\nevidently occupied in digesting their supper. One would rather have\nheard something in which they could join. However, it was a lively\nmarch-tune, and they evidently liked it, and kept time to it with their\nfeet, after the custom of the gods on Boxing Night. At this point Ned\nand five others mounted the little railed platform, Bible in hand, and\nthe host read what he termed \"a portion out of the Good Old Book,\"\nchoosing appropriately Luke xv., which tells of the joy among angels\nover one sinner that repenteth, and the exquisite allegory of the\nProdigal Son, which Ned read with a good deal of genuine pathos. It\nreminded him, he said, of old times. He himself was one of the first\nprisoners at Wandsworth when \"old Brixton\" was shut up. He had \"done\"\nthree calendar months, and when he came out he saw an old grey-headed\nman, with a bundle. \"That,\" said Ned, \"was my godly old father, and the\nbundle was new clothes in place of my old rags.\"\n\nThe country magistrate then came forward, and drew an ironical contrast\nbetween the \"respectable\" people in the gallery and the \"thieves\" down\nbelow. \"God says we have all 'robbed Him.' All are equal in God's sight.\nBut some of us are pardoned thieves.\" At this point the discourse became\ntheological, and fired over the heads of the people down below. They\nlistened much as they listen to a magisterial remark from the bench; but\nit was not their own language, such as Ned speaks. It was the \"beak,\"\nnot the old \"pal.\" It was not their vernacular. It did for the\ngallery--interested the ladies and the missionaries vastly, but not the\nthieves. It was wonderful that they bore it as well as they did. The\nmagisterial dignity evidently overawed them; but they soon got used to\nit, and yawned or sat listlessly. Some leant their heads on the rail in\nfront and slept. The latest arrivals left earliest. They had come to\nsupper, not to sermon.\n\nAnother of Ned Wright's hymns was then sung--Mr. Wright's muse having\nbeen apparently prolific in the past year, no less than six hymns on the\nlist being written by himself during those twelve months. It is much to\nbe hoped that these poetical and aesthetical proclivities will not deaden\nhis practical energies. This hymn was pitched distressingly high, and\nabove the powers of all but the \"gallery\" and a very few indeed of the\nguests; but most of them put in a final \"Glory, Hallelujah,\" at the end\nof each stanza. Mr. Wright's tunes are bright and cheerful in the\nextreme, without being vulgar or offensively secular.\n\nThe host himself then spoke a few words on the moral of the Sermon on\nthe Mount: \"Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness.\" He\nclaimed many of those before him as old pals who had \"drunk out of the\nsame pot and shuffled the same pack of cards,\" and contrasted his\npresent state with theirs. Then they listened, open-mouthed and\neager-eyed, though they had been sitting two full hours. He pictured the\nlife of Christ, and His love for poor men. \"Christ died for you,\" he\nsaid, \"as well as for the 'big people.' Who is that on the cross beside\nthe Son of God?\" he asked in an eloquent apostrophe. \"It is a thief.\nCome to Christ, and say, 'I've no character. I'm branded as a felon. I'm\nhunted about the streets of London. He will accept you.'\" He drew a\nvivid picture of the number of friends he had when he rowed for Dogget's\nCoat and Badge. He met with an accident midway; \"and when I got to the\nSwan at Chelsea,\" he said, \"I had no friends left. I was a losing man.\nChrist will never treat you like that. He has never let me want in the\nnine years since I have been converted.\" After a prayer the assembly\nbroke up, only those being requested to remain who required advice. The\nprayer was characteristic, being interspersed with groans from the\ngallery; and then a paper bag, containing bread and cakes, was given to\neach, Ned observing, \"There, the devil don't give you that. He gives you\ntoke and skilly.\" Being desired to go quietly, one gentleman expressed a\nhope that there was no policeman; another adding, \"We don't want to get\nlagged.\" Ned had to reassure them on my score once more, and then nearly\nall disappeared--some ingenious guests managing to get two and three\nbags by going out and coming in again, until some one in the gallery\nmeanly peached!\n\nOnly some half-dozen out of the hundred remained, and Ned Wright\nkneeling at one of the benches prayed fervently, and entered into\nconversation with them one by one. Two or three others dropped in, and\nthere was much praying and groaning, but evidently much sincerity. And\nso with at least some new impressions for good, some cheering hopeful\nwords to take them on in the New Year, those few waifs and strays passed\nout into the darkness, to retain, let it be hoped, some at least of the\nbetter influences which were brought to bear upon them in that brighter\nepoch in their darkened lives when Ned Wright's invitation gathered them\nto the Thieves' Supper.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nA LUNATIC BALL.\n\n\nOne half of the world believes the other half to be mad; and who shall\ndecide which moiety is right, the reputed lunatics or the supposed sane,\nsince neither party can be unprejudiced in the matter? At present the\nminority believe that it is a mere matter of numbers, and that if\nintellect carried the day, and right were not overborne by might, the\nposition of parties would be exactly reversed. The dilemma forced itself\nstrongly on my consciousness for a solution when I attended the annual\nball at Hanwell Lunatic Asylum. The prevailing opinion inside the walls\nwas that the majority of madmen lay outside, and that the most\nhopelessly insane people in all the world were the officers immediately\nconcerned in the management of the establishment itself.\n\nIt was a damp, muggy January evening when I journeyed to this suburban\nretreat. It rained dismally, and the wind nearly blew the porter out of\nhis lodge as he obeyed our summons at the Dantesque portal of the\ninstitution, in passing behind which so many had literally abandoned\nhope. I tried to fancy how it would feel if one were really being\nconsigned to that receptacle by interested relatives, as we read in\nthree-volume novels; but it was no use. I was one of a merry company on\nthat occasion. The officials of Hanwell Asylum had been a little shy of\nbeing handed down to fame; so I adopted the ruse of getting into Herr\nGustav Kuester's corps of fiddlers for the occasion. However, I must in\nfairness add that the committee during the evening withdrew the taboo\nthey had formerly placed on my writing. I was free to immortalize them;\nand my fiddling was thenceforth a work of supererogation.\n\nHigh jinks commenced at the early hour of six; and long before that time\nwe had deposited our instruments in the Bazaar, as the ball-room is\nsomewhat incongruously called, and were threading the Daedalean mazes of\nthe wards. Life in the wards struck me as being very like living in a\npassage; but when that preliminary objection was got over, the long\ncorridors looked comfortable enough. They were painted in bright warm\ncolours, and a correspondingly genial temperature was secured by\nhot-water pipes running the entire length. Comfortable rooms opened out\nfrom the wards at frequent intervals, and there was every form of\namusement to beguile the otherwise irksome leisure of those temporary\nrecluses. Most of my hermits were smoking--I mean on the male side--many\nwere reading; one had a fiddle, and I scraped acquaintance immediately\nwith him; whilst another was seated at the door of his snug little\nbedroom, getting up cadenzas on the flute. He was an old\ntrombone-player in one of the household regiments, an inmate of Hanwell\nfor thirty years, and a fellow-bandsman with myself for the evening. He\nlooked, I thought, quite as sane as myself, and played magnificently;\nbut I was informed by the possibly prejudiced officials that he had his\noccasional weaknesses. A second member of Herr Kuester's band whom I\nfound in durance was a clarionet-player, formerly in the band of the\nSecond Life Guards; and this poor fellow, who was an excellent musician\ntoo, felt his position acutely. He apologized sotto voce for sitting\ndown with me in corduroys, as well as for being an \"imbecile.\" He did\nnot seem to question the justice of the verdict against him, and had not\nbecome acclimatized to the atmosphere like the old trombone-player.\n\nThat New Year's night--for January was very young--the wards, especially\non the women's side, were gaily decorated with paper flowers, and all\nlooked as cheerful and happy as though no shadow ever fell across the\nthreshold; but, alas, there were every now and then padded rooms opening\nout of the passage; and as this was not a refractory ward, I asked the\nmeaning of the arrangement, which I had fancied was an obsolete one. I\nwas told they were for epileptic patients. In virtue of his official\nposition as bandmaster, Herr Kuester had a key; and, after walking\nserenely into a passage precisely like the rest, informed me, with the\nutmost coolness, that I was in the refractory ward. I looked around for\nthe stalwart attendant, who is generally to be seen on duty, and to my\ndismay found he was quite at the other end of an exceedingly long\ncorridor. I do not know that I am particularly nervous; but I candidly\nconfess to an anxiety to get near that worthy official. We were only\nthree outsiders, and the company looked mischievous. One gentleman was\nwalking violently up and down, turning up his coat-sleeves, as though\nbent on our instant demolition. Another, an old grey-bearded man, came\nup, and fiercely demanded if I were a Freemason. I was afraid he might\nresent my saying I was not, when it happily occurred to me that the\nthird in our party, an amateur contra-bassist, was of the craft. I told\nour old friend so. He demanded the sign, was satisfied, and, in the\ntwinkling of an eye, our double-bass friend was struggling in his\nfraternal embrace. The warder, mistaking the character of the hug,\nhastened to the rescue, and I was at ease.\n\nWe then passed to the ball-room, where my musical friends were beginning\nto \"tune up,\" and waiting for their conductor. The large room was gaily\ndecorated, and filled with some three or four hundred patients, arranged\nSpurgeon-wise: the ladies on one side, and the gentlemen on the other.\nThere was a somewhat rakish air about the gathering, due to the fact of\nthe male portion not being in full dress, but arrayed in free-and-easy\ncostume of corduroys and felt boots. The frequent warders in their dark\nblue uniforms lent quite a military air to the scene; and on the ladies'\nside the costumes were more picturesque; some little latitude was given\nto feminine taste, and the result was that a large portion of the\npatients were gorgeous in pink gowns. One old lady, who claimed to be a\nscion of royalty, had a resplendent mob-cap; but the belles of the\nball-room were decidedly to be found among the female attendants, who\nwere bright, fresh-looking young women, in a neat, black uniform, with\nperky little caps, and bunches of keys hanging at their side like the\nrosary of a soeur de charite, or the chatelaines with which young ladies\nlove to adorn themselves at present. Files of patients kept streaming\ninto the already crowded room, and one gentleman, reversing the order\nassigned to him by nature, walked gravely in on the palms of his hands,\nwith his legs elevated in air. He had been a clown at a theatre, and\nstill retained some of the proclivities of the boards. A wizen-faced\nman, who seemed to have no name beyond the conventional one of \"Billy,\"\nstrutted in with huge paper collars, like the corner man in a nigger\ntroupe, and a tin decoration on his breast the size of a cheeseplate. He\nwas insensible to the charms of Terpsichore, except in the shape of an\noccasional pas seul, and laboured under the idea that his mission was to\nconduct the band, which he occasionally did, to the discomfiture of\nHerr Kuester, and the total destruction of gravity on the part of the\nexecutants, so that Billy had to be displaced. It was quite curious to\nnotice the effect of the music on some of the quieter patients. One or\ntwo, whose countenances really seemed to justify their incarceration,\nabsolutely hugged the foot of my music-stand, and would not allow me to\nhold my instrument for a moment when I was not playing on it, so anxious\nwere they to express their admiration of me as an artist. \"I used to\nplay that instrument afore I come here,\" said a patient, with a squeaky\nvoice, who for eleven years has laboured under the idea that his mother\nis coming to see him on the morrow; indeed, most of the little group\naround the platform looked upon their temporary sojourn at Hanwell as\nthe only impediment to a bright career in the musical world.\n\nProceedings commenced with the Caledonians, and it was marvellous to\nnotice the order, not to say grace and refinement with which these\npauper lunatics went through their parts in the \"mazy.\" The rosy-faced\nattendants formed partners for the men, and I saw a herculean warder\ngallantly leading along the stout old lady in the mob-cap. The larger\nnumber of the patients of course were paired with their\nfellow-prisoners, and at the top of the room the officials danced with\nsome of the swells. Yes, there were swells here, ball-room coxcombs in\nfustian and felt. One in particular was pointed out to me as an\nUniversity graduate of high family, and on my inquiring how such a man\nbecame an inmate of a pauper asylum the official said, \"You see, sir,\nwhen the mind goes the income often goes too, and the people become\nvirtually paupers.\" Insanity is a great leveller, true; but I could not\nhelp picturing that man's lucid intervals, and wondering whether his\nfriends might not do better for him. But there he is, pirouetting away\nwith the pretty female organist, the chaplain standing by and smiling\napproval, and the young doctors doing the polite to a few invited\nguests, but not disdaining, every now and then, to take a turn with a\npatient. Quadrilles and Lancers follow, but no \"round dances.\" A popular\nprejudice on the part of the majority sets down such dances as too\nexciting for the sensitive dancers. The graduate is excessively irate at\nthis, and rates the band soundly for not playing a valse. Galops are\nplayed, but not danced; a complicated movement termed a \"Circassian\ncircle\" being substituted in their place. \"Three hours of square dances\nare really too absurd,\" said the graduate to an innocent second fiddle.\n\nIn the centre of the room all was gravity and decorum, but the merriest\ndances went on in corners. An Irish quadrille was played, and an\nunmistakable Paddy regaled himself with a most beautiful jig. He got on\nby himself for a figure or two, when, remembering, no doubt, that\n\"happiness was born a twin,\" he dived into the throng, selected a\nwhite-headed old friend of some sixty years, and impressed him with the\nidea of a pas de deux. There they kept it up in a corner for the whole\nof the quadrille, twirling imaginary shillelaghs, and encouraging one\nanother with that expressive Irish interjection which it is so\nimpossible to put down on paper. For an hour all went merry as the\nproverbial marriage bell, and then there was an adjournment of the male\nportion of the company to supper. The ladies remained in the Bazaar and\ndiscussed oranges, with an occasional dance to the pianoforte, as the\nband retired for refreshment too, in one of the attendants' rooms. I\nfollowed the company to their supper room, as I had come to see, not to\neat. About four hundred sat down in a large apartment, and there were,\nbesides, sundry snug supper-parties in smaller rooms. Each guest partook\nof an excellent repast of meat and vegetables, with a sufficiency of\nbeer and pipes to follow. The chaplain said a short grace before supper,\nand a patient, who must have been a retired Methodist preacher, improved\nupon the brief benediction by a long rambling \"asking of a blessing,\" to\nwhich nobody paid any attention. Then I passed up and down the long rows\nwith a courteous official, who gave me little snatches of the history of\nsome of the patients. Here was an actor of some note in his day; there a\nbarrister; here again a clergyman; here a tradesman recently \"gone,\"\n\"all through the strikes, sir,\" he added. The shadow--that most\nmysterious shadow of all--had chequered life's sunshine in every one of\nthese cases. Being as they are they could not be in a better place. They\nhave the best advice they could get even were they--as some of them\nclaim to be--princes. If they can be cured, here is the best chance. If\nnot--well, there were the little dead-house and the quiet cemetery lying\nout in the moonlight, and waiting for them when, as poor maddened Edgar\nAllen Poe wrote, the \"fever called living,\" should be \"over at last.\"\nBut who talks of dying on this one night in all the year when even that\nold freemason in the refractory ward was forgetting, after his own\npeculiar fashion, the cruel injustice that kept him out of his twelve\nthousand a year and title? Universal merriment is the rule to-night. Six\nor seven gentlemen are on their legs at once making speeches, which are\nlistened to about as respectfully as the \"toast of the evening\" at a\npublic dinner. As many more are singing inharmoniously different songs;\nthe fun is getting fast and furious, perhaps a little too fast and\nfurious, when a readjournment to the ball-room is proposed, and readily\nacceded to, one hoary-headed old flirt remarking to me as he went by,\nthat he was going to look for his sweetheart.\n\nA long series of square dances followed, the graduate waxing more and\nmore fierce at each disappointment in his anticipated valse, and Billy\ngiving out every change in the programme like a parish clerk, which\nfunctionary he resembled in many respects. It was universally agreed\nthat this was the best party that had ever been held in the asylum, just\nas the last baby is always the finest in the family. Certainly the\nguests all enjoyed themselves. The stalwart attendants danced more than\never with a will, the rosy attendants were rosier and nattier than\nbefore, if possible. The mob-cap went whizzing about on the regal head\nof its owner down the middle of tremendous country dances, hands across,\nset to partners, and then down again as though it had never tasted the\nanxieties of a throne, or learnt by bitter experience the sorrows of\nexile. Even the academical gentleman relaxed to the fair organist,\nthough he stuck up his hair stiffer than ever, and stamped his felt\nboots again as he passed the unoffending double-bass with curses both\nloud and deep on the subject of square dances. At length came the\ninevitable \"God Save the Queen,\" which was played in one key by the\norchestra, and sung in a great many different ones by the guests. It is\nno disrespect to Her Majesty to say that the National Anthem was\nreceived with anything but satisfaction. It was the signal that the\n\"jinks\" were over, and that was quite enough to make it unpopular.\nHowever, they sang lustily and with a good courage, all except the old\nwoman in the mob-cap, who sat with a complacent smile as much as to say,\n\"This is as it should be, I appreciate the honour done to my royal\nbrothers and sisters.\"\n\nThis is the bright side of the picture; but it had its sombre tints\nalso. There were those in all the wards who stood aloof from the\nmerriment, and would have none of the jinks. Lean-visaged men walked\nmoodily up and down the passages like caged wild beasts. Their lucid\ninterval was upon them, and they fretted at the irksome restraint and\ndegrading companionship. It was a strange thought; but I fancied they\nmust have longed for their mad fit as the drunkard longs for the\nintoxicating draught, or the opium-eater for his delicious narcotic to\ndrown the idea of the present. There were those in the ball-room itself\nwho, if you approached them with the proffered pinch of snuff, drove you\nfrom them with curses. One fine, intellectual man, sat by the window all\nthe evening, writing rhapsodies of the most extraordinary character, and\nfancying himself a poet. Another wrapped round a thin piece of lath with\npaper, and superscribed it with some strange hieroglyphics, begging me\nto deliver it. All made arrangements for their speedy departure from\nHanwell, though many in that heart-sick tone which spoke of\nlong-deferred hope--hope never perhaps to be realized. Most painful\nsight of all, there was one little girl there, a child of eleven or\ntwelve years--a child in a lunatic asylum! Think of that, parents, when\nyou listen to the engaging nonsense of your little ones--think of the\nchild in Hanwell wards! Remember how narrow a line separates innocence\nfrom idiocy; so narrow a line that the words were once synonymous!\n\nThen there was the infirmary full of occupants on that merry New Year's\nnight. Yonder poor patient being wheeled in a chair to bed will not\ntrouble his attendant long. There is another being lifted on his\npallet-bed, and having a cup of cooling drink applied to his parched\nlips by the great loving hands of a warder who tends him as gently as a\nwoman. It seemed almost a cruel kindness to be trying to keep that poor\nbody and soul together.\n\nAnother hour, rapidly passed in the liberal hospitality of this great\ninstitution, and silence had fallen on its congregated thousands. It is\na small town in itself, and to a large extent self-dependent and\nself-governed. It bakes and brews, and makes its gas; and there is no\nneed of a Licensing Bill to keep its inhabitants sober and steady. The\nmethod of doing that has been discovered in nature's own law of\nkindness. Instead of being chained and treated as wild beasts, the\nlunatics are treated as unfortunate men and women, and every effort is\nmade to ameliorate, both physically and morally, their sad condition.\nHence the bright wards, the buxom attendants, the frequent jinks. Even\nthe chapel-service has been brightened up for their behoof.\n\nThis was what I saw by entering as an amateur fiddler Herr Kuester's band\nat Hanwell Asylum; and as I ran to catch the last up-train--which I did\nas the saying is by the skin of my teeth--I felt that I was a wiser,\nthough it may be a sadder man, for my evening's experiences at the\nLunatic Ball.\n\nOne question would keep recurring to my mind. It has been said that if\nyou stop your ears in a ball-room, and then look at the people--reputed\nsane--skipping about in the new valse or the last galop, you will\nimagine they must be all lunatics. I did not stop my ears that night,\nbut I opened my eyes and saw hundreds of my fellow-creatures, all with\nsome strange delusions, many with ferocious and vicious propensities,\nyet all kept in order by a few warders, a handful of girls, and all\nbehaving as decorously as in a real ball-room. And the question which\n_would_ haunt me all the way home was, which are the sane people, and\nwhich the lunatics?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nA BABY SHOW.\n\n\nThere is no doubt that at the present moment the British baby is\nassuming a position amongst us of unusual prominence and importance.\nThat he should be an institution is inevitable. That he grows upon us\nLondoners at the rate of some steady five hundred a week, the\nRegistrar-General's statistics of the excess of births over deaths prove\nbeyond question. His domestic importance and powers of revolutionizing a\nhousehold are facts of which every Paterfamilias is made, from time to\ntime, unpleasantly aware. But the British baby is doing more than this\njust at present. He is assuming a public position. Perhaps it is only\nthe faint index of the extension of women's rights to the infantile\ncondition of the sexes. Possibly our age is destined to hear of Baby\nSuffrage, Baby's Property Protection, Baby's Rights and Wrongs in\ngeneral. It is beyond question that the British baby _is_ putting itself\nforward, and demanding to be heard--as, in fact, it always had a habit\nof doing. Its name has been unpleasantly mixed up with certain\nrevelations at Brixton, Camberwell, and Greenwich. Babies have come to\nbe farmed like taxes or turnpike gates. The arable infants seem to\ngravitate towards the transpontine districts south of the Thames. It\nwill be an interesting task for our Legislature to ascertain whether\nthere is any actual law to account for the transfer, as it inevitably\nwill have to do when the delicate choice is forced upon it between\njustifiable infanticide, wholesale Hospices des Enfants Trouves, and\npossibly some kind of Japanese \"happy despatch\" for high-minded infants\nwho are superior to the slow poison administered by injudicious\n\"farmers.\" At all events, one fact is certain, and we can scarcely\nreiterate it too often--the British baby is becoming emphatic beyond\nanything we can recollect as appertaining to the infantile days of the\npresent generation. It is as though a ray of juvenile \"swellishness,\" a\nscintillation of hobbledehoyhood, were refracted upon the long clothes\nor three-quarter clothes of immaturity.\n\nFor, if it is true--as we may tax our infantile experiences to assure\nus--that \"farmed\" infants were an article unknown to husbandry in our\ngolden age, it is equally certain that the idea of the modern Baby Show\nwas one which, in that remote era, would not have been tolerated. Our\nmothers and grandmothers would as soon have thought of sacrificing an\ninnocent to Moloch as to Mammon. What meant it then--to what can it be\ndue--to precocity on the part of the British baby, or degeneracy on the\npart of the British parent--that two Baby Shows were \"on\" nearly at the\nsame moment--one at Mr. Giovannelli's at Highbury Barn, the other at Mr.\nHolland's Gardens, North Woolwich?\n\nAnxious to keep au courant with the times, even when those times are\nchronicled by the rapid career of the British baby--anxious also to blot\nout the idea of the poor emaciated infants of Brixton, Camberwell, and\nGreenwich, by bringing home to my experience the opposite pole of\ninfantile development--I paid a visit, and sixpence, at Highbury Barn\nwhen the Baby Show opened. On entering Mr. Giovannelli's spacious hall,\nconsecrated on ordinary occasions to the Terpsichorean art, I found it a\nveritable shrine of the \"Diva triformis.\" Immediately on entering I was\nsolicited to invest extra coppers in a correct card, containing the\nnames, weights, and--not colours; they were all of one colour, that of\nthe ordinary human lobster--but weights, of the various forms of\nWackford Squeers under twelve months, who were then and there assembled,\nlike a lot of little fat porkers. It was, in truth, a sight to whet the\nappetite of an \"annexed\" Fiji Islander, or any other carnivorous animal.\nMy correct card specified eighty \"entries;\" but, although the exhibition\nonly opened at two o'clock, and I was there within an hour after, I\nfound the numbers up to 100 quite full. The interesting juveniles were\narranged within rails, draped with pink calico, all arrayed in \"gorgeous\nattire,\" and most of them partaking of maternal sustenance. The\nmammas--all respectable married women of the working class--seemed to\nconsider the exhibition of their offspring by no means infra dig., and\nwere rather pleased than otherwise to show you the legs and other points\nof their adipose encumbrances. Several proposed that I should test the\nweight, which I did tremulously, and felt relieved when the infant\nHercules was restored to its natural protector. The prizes, which\namounted in the gross to between two and three hundred pounds, were to\nbe awarded in sums of _10l._ and _5l._, and sometimes in the shape of\nsilver cups, on what principle I am not quite clear; but the decision\nwas to rest with a jury of three medical men and two \"matrons.\" If\nsimple adiposity, or the approximation of the human form divine to that\nof the hippopotamus, be the standard of excellence, there could be no\ndoubt that a young gentleman named Thomas Chaloner, numbered 48 in the\ncorrect card, aged eight months, and weighing 33lbs., would be facile\nprinceps, a prognostication of mine subsequently justified by the event.\nI must confess to looking with awe, and returning every now and then to\nlook again, on this colossal child. At my last visit some one asked on\nwhat it had been fed. Shall I own that the demon of mischief prompted me\nto supplement the inquiry by adding, \"Oil cake, _or_ Thorley's Food for\nCattle?\"\n\nOn the score, I suppose, of mere peculiarity, my own attention--I\nfrankly confess I am not a connoisseur--was considerably engrossed by\n\"two little Niggers.\" No doubt the number afterwards swelled to the\northodox \"ten little Niggers.\" One was a jovial young \"cuss\" of eleven\nmonths--weighted at 29lbs., and numbered 62 on the card. He was a\nclean-limbed young fellow, with a head of hair like a furze-bush, and\nhis mother was quite untinted. I presume Paterfamilias was a fine\ncoloured gentleman. The other representative of the sons of Ham--John\nCharles Abdula, aged three months, weight 21lbs., and numbered 76--was\ntoo immature to draw upon my sympathies; since I freely acknowledge such\nspecimens are utterly devoid of interest for me until their bones are of\nsufficient consistency to enable them to sit upright and look about as a\nBritish baby should. This particular infant had not an idea above\nculinary considerations. He was a very Alderman in embryo, if there are\nsuch things as coloured Aldermen. Then there were twins--that\ninscrutable visitation of Providence--three brace of gemini. Triplets,\nin mercy to our paternal feelings, Mr. Giovannelli spared us.\n\nThere was one noteworthy point about this particular exhibition. The\nmothers, at all events, got a good four days' feed whilst their\ninfantile furniture was \"on view.\" I heard, sotto voce, encomiums on the\ndinner of the day confidingly exchanged between gushing young matrons,\nand I myself witnessed the disappearance of a decidedly comfortable tea,\nto say nothing of sundry pints of porter discussed sub rosa and free of\nexpense to such as stood in need of sustenance; and indeed a good many\nseemed to stand in need of it. Small wonder, when the mammas were so\nforcibly reminded by the highly-developed British baby that, in Byron's\nown words, \"our life is twofold.\"\n\nIt is certainly passing, not from the sublime to the ridiculous, but\nvice versa, yet it is noting another testimony to the growing importance\nof the British baby, if one mentions the growth of creches, or\nday-nurseries for working-men's children in the metropolis. Already an\ninstitution in Paris, they have been recently introduced into England,\nand must surely prove a boon to the wives of our working men. What in\nthe world does become of the infants of poor women who are forced to\nwork all day for their maintenance? Is it not a miracle if something\nalmost worse than \"farming\"--death from negligence, fire, or bad\nnursing--does not occur to them? The good ladies who have founded, and\nthemselves work, these creches are surely meeting a confessed necessity.\nI paid a visit one day to 4, Bulstrode Street, where one of these useful\ninstitutions was in full work. I found forty little toddlers, some\nplaying about a comfortable day-nursery, others sleeping in tiny cribs\nranged in a double line along a spacious, well-aired sleeping-room;\nsome, too young for this, rocked in cosy cradles; but all clean, safe,\nand happy. What needs it to say whether the good ladies who tended them\nwore the habit of St. Vincent de Paul, the poke-bonnet of the Puseyite\n\"sister,\" or the simple garb of unpretending Protestantism? The thing is\nbeing done. The most helpless of all our population--the children of the\nworking poor--are being kept from the streets, kept from harm, and\ntrained up to habits of decency, at 4, Bulstrode Street, Marylebone\nLane. Any one can go and see it for himself; and if he does--if he sees,\nas I did, the quiet, unostentatious work that is there being done for\nthe British baby, \"all for love and nothing for reward\"--I shall be very\nmuch surprised if he does not confess that it is one of the best\nantidotes imaginable to baby-farming, and a sight more decorous and\ndignified than any Baby Show that could possibly be imagined.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nA NIGHT IN A BAKEHOUSE.\n\n\nAlarmed at the prospect of \"a free breakfast table\" in a sense other\nthan the ordinary one--that is, a breakfast table which should be minus\nthe necessary accompaniment of bread, or the luxury of French rolls--I\nresolved to make myself master, so far as might be possible, of the pros\nand cons of the question at issue between bakers and masters at the\nperiod of the anticipated strike some years ago. I confess to having\ngreatly neglected the subject of strikes. I had attended a few meetings\nof the building operatives; but the subject was one in which I myself\nwas not personally interested. I am not likely to want to build a house,\nand might manage my own little repairs while the strike lasted. But I\nconfess to a leaning for the staff of life. There are sundry small\nmouths around me, too, of quite disproportionate capacities in the way\nof bread and butter, to say nothing at all of biscuits, buns, and\ntartlets. The possibility of having to provide for an impending state of\nsiege, then, was one that touched me immediately and vitally. Should I,\nbefore the dreaded event, initiate the wife of my bosom in the\nmysteries of bread baking? Should I commence forthwith a series of\npractical experiments within the limited confines of my kitchen oven? To\nprevent the otherwise inevitable heaviness and possible ropiness in my\nloaves of the future, some such previous process would certainly have to\nbe adopted. But, then, in order to calculate the probabilities of the\ncrisis, an examination of the status in quo was necessary. Having a\nhabit of going to head-quarters in such questions, I resolved to do so\non the present occasion; so I took my hat, and, as Sam Slick says, \"I\noff an' out.\"\n\nThe actual head-quarters of the men I found to be at the Pewter Platter,\nWhite Lion Street, Bishopsgate. Thither I adjourned, and, after drinking\nthe conventional glass of bitter at the bar, asked for a baker. One came\nforth from an inner chamber, looking sleepy, as bakers always look. In\nthe penetralia of the parlour which he left I saw a group of floury\ncomrades, the prominent features of the gathering being depression and\nbagatelle. By my comatose friend I was referred to the Admiral Carter,\nin Bartholomew Close, where the men's committee sat daily at four. The\nsociety in front of the bar there was much more cheerful than that of\nthe Pewter Platter, and the bakers were discussing much beer, of which\nthey hospitably invited me to partake. Still I learned little of their\nmovements, save that they were to a man resolved to abide by the now\nfamiliar platform of work from four to four, higher wages, and no Sunday\nbakings. These were the principal features of the demands, the sack\nmoney and perquisites being confessedly subsidiary. Nauseated as the\npublic was and is with strikes, there are certain classes of the\ncommunity with whom it is disposed to sympathize; and certainly one of\nthose classes is that of journeymen bakers. Bread for breakfast we must\nhave, and rolls we should like; but we should also like to have these\ncommodities with as little nightwork as possible on the part of those\nwho produce them. The \"Appeal to the Public\" put forth by the Strike\nCommittee on the evening of the day concerning which I write was,\nperhaps, a trifle sensational; but if there was any truth in it, such a\nstate of things demanded careful investigation--especially if it was a\nfact that the baker slept upon the board where the bread was made, and\nmingled his sweat and tears with the ingredients of the staff of life.\nPardonably, I hope, I wished to eat bread without baker for my\nbreakfast; but how could I probe this dreadful problem? I had it--by a\nvisit to the bakehouse of my own baker, if possible, during the hours of\nwork.\n\nSo I set out afresh after supper, and was most obligingly received by\nthe proprietor of what one may well take as a typical West-end\nshop--neither very large nor very small--what is graphically termed a\n\"snug\" concern with a good connexion, doing, as the technical phrase\ngoes, from sixteen to twenty sacks a week. The resources of this\nestablishment were at once placed at my disposal for the night. Now, the\nadvantage of conferring with this particular master was, that he was not\npig-headed on the one hand, nor unduly concessive, as he deemed some of\nhis fellow-tradesmen to be, on the other. He did not consider a\njourneyman baker's berth a bed of roses, or his remuneration likely to\nmake him a millionaire; but neither did he lose sight of the fact that\ncertain hours must be devoted to work, and a limit somewhere placed to\nwage, or the public must suffer through the employer of labour by being\nforced to pay higher prices. The staff of this particular establishment\nconsisted of four men at the following wages: A foreman at _28s._ and a\nsecond hand at _20s._ a week, both of whom were outsiders; while,\nsleeping on the premises, and, at the time of my arrival, buried in the\narms of Morpheus, were a third hand, at _16s._, and a fourth, at _12s._\nBesides these wages they had certain perquisites, such as bread, butter,\nsugar, flour, sack-money, yeast-money, &c.; and the master, moreover,\ntook his adequate share of day-work. He was seated outside his shop,\nenjoying the cool breezes, not of evening, but of midnight, when I\npresented myself before his astonished gaze. His wife and children had\nlong since retired. The foreman and second \"hand\" had not arrived; the\nthird and fourth \"hands\" were, as I said, sweetly sleeping, in a chamber\non the basement, well out of range of the bakehouse, to which, like a\ncouple of conspirators, we descended. It was not exactly the spot one\nwould have selected for a permanent residence if left free to choose. It\nwas, perhaps, as Mr. Dickens's theatrical gentleman phrased it,\npernicious snug; but the ventilation was satisfactory. There were two\novens, which certainly kept the place at a temperature higher than might\nhave been agreeable on that hot September night. Kneading troughs were\nranged round the walls, and in the centre, like an altar-tomb, was the\nfatal \"board\" where, however, I sought in vain for the traces of\nperspiration or tears. All was scrupulously clean. In common phrase, you\nmight have \"eaten your dinner\" off any portion of it.\n\nSoon after midnight the outsiders turned in, first the second hand and\nthen the foreman, and, plunging into the \"Black Hole,\" made their\ntoilettes du soir. Then active operations commenced forthwith. In one\ncompartment of the kneading-trough was the \"sponge,\" which had been\nprepared by the foreman early in the evening, and which now, having\nproperly settled, was mixed with the flour for the first batch, and left\nto \"prove.\" The process of making the dough occupied until about one\no'clock, and then followed two hours of comparative tranquillity,\nduring which the men adjourned to the retirement of certain millers'\nsacks hard by, which they rolled up cleverly into extempore beds, and\nseemed to prefer to the board. The proving takes about two hours, but\nvaries with the temperature. If the dough is left too long, a sour\nbatch, or a \"pitch in,\" is the result. It is then cut out, weighed, and\n\"handed up;\" after which it stands while the dough for the second batch\nis being made, and those fatal rolls, around which so much of this\ncontest is likely to turn, are being got forward. It must be understood\nthat I am here describing what took place in my typical bakehouse.\nProceedings will of course vary in details according to the\nneighbourhood, the season, and other circumstances. This makes, as my\ninformant suggested, the race of bakers necessarily in some degree a\nvarium atque mutabile genus, whom it is difficult to bind by rigid \"hard\nand fast\" lines. The first batch is in the oven at four, and is drawn\nabout 5.30. During the intervals there has been the preparation of fancy\nbread and the \"getting off\" of the rolls. Then the \"cottage\" batch is\nmoulded and got off, and comes out of the oven at eight. From three\no'clock up to this hour there has been active work enough for everybody,\nand I felt myself considerably in the way, adjourning ever and anon to\nthe master's snuggery above stairs to note down my experiences. As for\nthe men, they must have fancied that I was an escaped lunatic, with\nharmless eccentricities; and the fourth hand, who was young, gazed at me\nall night with a fixed and sleepy glare, as though on his guard lest I\nshould be seized with a refractory fit. At eight the close atmosphere of\nthe bakehouse was exchanged for the fresh morning breeze by three out of\nthe four hands, who went to deliver the bread. The foreman remained with\nthe master to work at \"small goods\" until about one, when he prepares\nthe ferment for the next night's baking. All concerned can get their\noperations over about one or half-past one; so that, reckoning them to\nbegin at half-past twelve, and deducting two hours of \"sweat and tears\"\nfrom one to three, when they can sleep if they will, there are some\neleven hours of active labour. After the delivery of the bread is over,\nit should be mentioned, each man has about half an hour's bakehouse work\nin the way of getting coals, cleaning biscuit tins, brushing up, &c.\nWhen this is done, all, with the exception of the foreman, who will have\nto look in and make the sponge at eight P.M., are free until the\ncommencement of their most untimely work at midnight.\n\nOn Sunday, the work in this particular bakehouse is comparatively nil.\nThe ovens have to be started on Sunday morning; but this the master does\nhimself, and puts in the ferment, so that there is only the sponge to\nbe made in the evening--a brief hour's job, taken on alternate Sundays\nby the foreman and the second hand. The \"undersellers,\" my informant\ntold me, made large sums by Sunday bakings, often covering their rent by\nthem, so that their abandonment would be a serious question; but there\nwas little in the way of Sabbath-breaking in my typical bakehouse. As\nthere were no Sunday bakings, Saturday was a rather harder day than\nothers, there being a general scrub-up of the premises. The work, my\ninformant thought, could be condensed by judicious co-operation, and the\n\"four to four\" rule might be adopted in some establishments, but by no\nmeans in all--as, for instance, where there was a speciality for rolls\nand fancy bread. It seems, as usual, that the difficulties thicken, not\nabout the necessaries, but about the luxuries and kickshaws of life. The\nmaster relieved my immediate fears by saying that he scarcely imagined\nmatters would come to a crisis. There was this difference between the\nbuilding and the baking trades, that all the master bakers had been\njourneymen themselves, and were thus able to sympathize with the men's\ndifficulties. They were not, he seemed to think, disposed to haggle over\na few shillings; but he added, \"This is not a question of labour against\ncapital only, but of labour against capital plus labour. I could,\" he\nsaid, \"if my men left me on the 21st, make bread enough myself to\nsupply all my customers, only they would have to fetch it for\nthemselves.\"\n\nThus my worst fears were relieved. If it only came to going out for my\nloaf, and even foregoing French rolls, I could face that like a man; so\nI paced the streets gaily in the morning air and arrived home safely\nsome time after the milk, and about the same hour as those rolls\nthemselves whose hitherto unguessed history I had so far fathomed by my\nbrief experiences in the bakehouse.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nA LONDON SLAVE MARKET.\n\n\nThere is a story called \"Travellers' Wonders\" in that volume which used\nto be the delight of our childhood, when the rising generation was more\neasily amused and not quite so wide-awake as at present. The point of\nthe narrative is, that a facetious old gentleman named Captain Compass\nbeguiles a group of juveniles--who must have been singularly gullible\neven for those early days--by describing in mysterious and\nalien-sounding terms the commonest home objects, such as coals, cheese,\nbutter, and so on. It would almost seem as though Hood must have been\nperpetrating a kindred joke upon grown-up children when he wrote the\nlines--\n\n    It's O to be a slave\n    Along with the barbarous Turk,\n    Where woman has never a soul to save,\n    If this is Christian Work!\n\nWas he aware that here, in the heart of Christian London, without going\nfarther east than Bethnal Green, there had existed from time immemorial,\nas there exists still, a genuine Slave Market? Such there is, and\nactually so named; less romantic, indeed, than that we read of in \"Don\nJuan,\" or used to see on the Adelphi boards in the drama of the\n\"Octoroon\"--but still interesting in its way to those who have a\npenchant for that grotesque side of London life where the sublime and\nthe ridiculous sometimes blend so curiously.\n\nWith only the vague address of Bethnal Green and the date of Tuesday\nmorning to guide me, I set out for Worship Street Police Court, thinking\nit possible to gain some further particulars from the police. I found\nthose functionaries civil, indeed, but disposed to observe even more\nthan official reticence about the Slave Market. They told me the\nlocality precisely enough, but were even more vague as to the hour than\nmy own impressions. In fact, the sum of what I could gain from them was,\nin slightly Hibernian language, that there was nothing to see, and I\ncould see it any time on a Tuesday morning when I chose to go down White\nStreet, Bethnal Green. Leaving the Court and inquiring my route to White\nStreet, I found that it ran off to the right some way down the Bethnal\nGreen Road from Shoreditch Station. Having turned out of the main\nthoroughfare, you proceed down one of those characteristic East End\nstreets where every small householder lives behind an elaborate bright\ngreen door with portentous knocker, going on until an arch of the Great\nEastern Railway spans the road. Arriving at this point any time between\nthe hours of eight and half-past nine on a Monday or Tuesday morning,\nyou have no need to be told that this is the East London Slave\nMarket--supposing you knew such a thing as a slave market was to be seen\nin East London at all.\n\nThere was, indeed, nothing resembling Byron's graphic description in\n\"Don Juan.\" Our English slaves were all apparently of one nation, and\nthere were no slave merchants. The hundred young ladies and gentlemen,\nof all ages from seven to seventeen, were, as they would have expressed\nit, \"on their own hook.\" Ranged under the dead brick wall of the railway\narch, there was a generally mouldy appearance about them. Instead of a\npicturesque difference of colour, there was on every visage simply a\ngreater or less degree of that peculiar neutral tint, the unmistakable\nunlovely hue of London dirt. In this respect, too, they differed from\nthe fresh country lads and lasses one sees at a hiring in the North.\nThey were simply male and female City Arabs, with that superabundant\npower of combining business and pleasure which characterizes their race.\nThe young gentlemen, in the intervals of business--and it seemed to be\nall interval and no business--devoted themselves to games at buttons.\nEach of the young ladies--I am afraid to say _how_ young--had her\ncavalier, and applied herself to very pronounced flirtation. The\nlanguage of one and all certainly fulfilled the baptismal promise of\ntheir sponsors, if the poor little waifs ever had any--for it was very\n\"vulgar tongue\" indeed; and there was lots of it. The great sensation\nof the morning was a broken window in an unoffending tradesman's shop--a\nfar from unusual occurrence, as I learnt from the sufferer. This led to\na slave hunt on the part of the single policeman who occasionally showed\nhimself to keep as quiet as might be the seething mass of humanity; and\nthe young lady or gentleman who was guilty of the damage was \"off\nmarket\" for the morning--while the suffering tradesman was assailed with\na volley of abuse, couched in strongest Saxon, for meekly protesting\nagainst the demolition of his window-pane.\n\nThe scene was most characteristic--very unlike the genteel West End\nServants' Registry, where young ladies and gentlemen's gentlemen saunter\nin to find places with high wages and the work \"put out.\" It was on\nTuesday morning, and a little late in the day, that I timed my visit;\nand I was informed that the Market was somewhat flat. Certainly, one\ncould not apply to it the technicalities of the Stock Exchange, and say\nthat little boys were \"dull,\" or girls, big or little, \"inactive;\" but\nearly on a Monday morning is, it appears, the time to see the Slave\nMarket in full swing. Strangely enough, so far as I could judge, it was\nall slaves and no buyers--or, rather, hirers. I did not see the symptom\nof a bargain being struck, though I was informed that a good many small\ntradesmen do patronize the Market, for shop-boys, nurse-girls, or\nhousehold drudges. I do not know whether my appearance was particularly\nattractive; but the number of offers I received from domestics of all\nkinds would have sufficed to stock half-a-dozen establishments. \"Want a\nboy, sir?\" \"A girl for the childer, sir?\" said the juveniles, while the\noffers of the adult ladies were more emphatic and less quotable. All, of\ncourse, was mere badinage, or, as they would have called it, \"chaff,\"\nand it was meant good-humouredly enough; though, had I been a legitimate\nhirer, I do not know that I should have been tempted to add to my\nhousehold from this source. Indeed, there were some not exactly pleasant\nreflections cast on the Slave Market by those whom I consulted as to its\nmerits. It was not unusual, I was told, for slaves who were hired on a\nMonday to turn up again on Tuesday morning, either from incompatibility\nof temper on the part of domestic and superior, or from other causes\nunexplained. Tuesday morning is, in fact, to a large extent, the mere\nresiduum either of Monday's unhired incapables, or of \"returns.\" And\nyet, as I looked around, I saw--as where does one not see?--some fair\nyoung faces; girls who might have played with one's little children all\nthe better because they were so nearly children themselves; and boys of\npreternatural quickness, up to any job, and capable of being useful--ay,\nand even ornamental--members of society, if only that dreadful Bethnal\nGreen twang could have been eradicated. The abuse of the mother tongue\non the part even of these children was simply frightful. If this were so\nin their playful moods, what--one could not help thinking--would it be\nif any dispute arose on a contested point of domestic economy: as, for\ninstance, the too rapid disappearance of the cold mutton, or sudden\nabsence of master's boots?\n\nThere was a garrulous cobbler whose stall bordered on the Market, and\nhis panacea for all the evils the Slave Market brought with it was the\nLondon School Board. \"Why don't the officers come down and collar some\no' them youngsters, sir?\" Why, indeed? At present the Slave Market is\nundoubtedly a nuisance; but there is no reason why, under proper police\nsupervision, it should not become a local convenience. The ways of East\nLondon differ in all respects from those of the West, and Servants'\nRegistries would not pay. Masters and servants are alike too poor to\nadvertise; and there seems to be no reason why the Slave Market, under a\nchanged name, and with improved regulations, may not as really supply a\nwant as the country \"hirings\" do. The Arab, at present, is not to be\ntrusted with too much liberty. Both male and female have odd Bedouin\nways of their own, requiring considerable and judicious manipulation to\nmould them to the customs of civilized society. The respectable\nresidents, tired of the existing state of things, look not unreasonably,\nas ratepayers, to the School Board to thin down the children, and the\npolice to keep the adults in order. Under such conditions, the Bethnal\nGreen Slave Market may yet become a useful institution.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nTEA AND EXPERIENCE.\n\n\nI was walking the other day in one of the pleasant western suburbs, and\nrashly sought a short cut back; when, as is generally the case, I found\nthat the longer would have been much the nearer way home. Before I knew\nit, I was involved in the labyrinths of that region, sacred to\nwasherwomen and kindred spirits, known as Kensal New Town; and my\nfurther progress was barred by the intervention of the Paddington Canal,\nwhich is spanned at rare intervals in this locality by pay-bridges, to\nthe great discomfort of the often impecunious natives. There was not\neven one of these at hand, or my halfpenny would have been paid under\nprotest; so I had to wander like a lost sprite among the network of\nsemi-genteel streets that skirt that most ungenteel thoroughfare, the\nKensal New Town Road, and forthwith I began to find the neighbourhood\npapered with placards, announcing a \"Tea and Experience Meeting\" at a\nlocal hall, under the presidency of the Free Church pastor, for the\nfollowing Monday evening. Bakers' shops bristled with the handbills, and\nthey studded the multitudinous pork butchers' windows in juxtaposition\nwith cruel-looking black puddings and over-fat loin chops. I determined\nI would go, if not to the tea, certainly to the \"Experience,\" for I like\nnovel experiences of all kinds: and this would certainly be new, whether\nedifying or not.\n\nI got at length out of the labyrinth, and on the following Monday\nventured once more within its mazes, though not exactly at six o'clock,\nwhich was the hour appointed for the preliminary experience of tea. I\nhad experienced that kind of thing once or twice before, and never found\nmyself in a position of such difficulty as on those occasions. In the\nfirst place I do not care about tea, when it is good; but loathe it when\nboiled in a washhouse copper, and poured out from a large tin can, of\nwhich it tastes unpleasantly. But, then again, the quantity as well as\nthe quality of the viands to be consumed was literally too much for me.\nI might have managed one cup of decidedly nasty tea, or what passes\nmuster for such, but not four or five, which I found to be the minimum.\nI could stomach, or secretly dispose of in my pockets, a single slice of\nleaden cake or oleaginous bread-and-butter; but I could not do this with\nmultitudinous slabs of either. I never went to more than one tea-meeting\nwhere I felt at home, and that was at the Soiree Suisse, which takes\nplace annually in London, where pretty Helvetian damsels brew the most\nfragrant coffee and hand round delicious little cakes, arrayed as they\nare in their killing national costume and chattering in a dozen\ndifferent patois. I had a notion that tea at Kensal New Town would be\nvery much less eligible, so I stopped away. Perhaps I was prejudiced.\nThe tea might have been different from what I expected. The experiences\ncertainly were.\n\nI got there about half-past seven, having allowed an interval of an hour\nand a half, which I thought would be sufficient for the most inveterate\ntea-drinker, even among the Kensal Town laundresses, should such happen\nto be present. I took the precaution, however, of bespeaking a lad of\nfifteen to accompany me, in case any of the fragments of the feast\nshould yet have to be disposed of, since I knew his powers to equal\nthose of the ostrich in stowing away eatables, especially in the lumpy\ncake line. Arrived at the hall, however, I found no symptoms of the tea\nsave a steamy sort of smell and the rattle of the retreating cups and\nsaucers. Whether \"to my spirit's gain or loss,\" I had escaped the\nbanquet and yet got in good time for the subsequent experiences.\n\nA motherly-looking woman stood at the door, and gave me a cheery\ninvitation to come in. She looked rather askance at my boy, but finding\nhim properly convoyed by my sober self, she admitted him within the\nportal. A good many young gentlemen of a similar age were evidently\nexcluded, and were regaling themselves with pagan sports outside. The\nhall was partially filled with respectable-looking mechanics, their\nwives, and families, there being more wives than mechanics, and more\nfamilies than either. Children abounded, especially babies in every\nstage of infantile development. Many were taking their maternal tea; and\nthe boys and girls were got up in the most festive attire, the boys\nparticularly shining with yellow soap. Most of the mammas wore perky\nhats, and many had follow-me-lads down the back, but all were\nexceedingly well-dressed and well-behaved, though evidently brimful of\nhilarity as well as cake and tea.\n\nAt the end of the hall was the inevitable platform, with chairs and a\nlarge cushion spread over the front rail for convenience of praying;\nsince the \"experiences\" were to be interspersed with sacred song and\nprayer. Two gentlemen--I use the term advisedly--mounted the rostrum,\none a long-bearded, middle-aged man, in a frock coat, who was the\npastor, and another an aged minister, superannuated, as I afterwards\ndiscovered, and not altogether happy in his worldly lot. He was very\nold, grey-haired, and feeble, with a worn suit of clerical black, and a\nvoluminous white tie. He sat humbly, almost despondingly, by the side of\nhis younger brother in the ministry, while the latter delivered a merry\nlittle opening address, hoping all had made a good tea; if not, there\nwas still about half a can left. Nobody wanted any more; so they had a\nhymn from the \"Sacred Songster,\" a copy of which volume I purchased in\nthe hall for twopence halfpenny. The tune was a martial one, well sung\nby a choir of men and women to the accompaniment of a harmonium, and\nbravely borne part in, you may depend upon it, by the whole assembly, I\nverily believe, except the babies, and one or two of these put in a note\nsometimes. The hymn was called, \"Oh, we are Volunteers!\" and was very\nChurch-militant indeed, beginning thus:--\n\n    Oh, we are volunteers in the army of the Lord,\n    Forming into line at our Captain's word;\n    We are under marching orders to take the battle-field,\n    And we'll ne'er give o'er the fight till the foe shall yield.\n\nThen came the chorus, repeated after every verse:--\n\n    Come and join the army, the army of the Lord,\n    Jesus is our Captain, we rally at His word:\n    Sharp will be the conflict with the powers of sin,\n    But with such a leader we are sure to win.\n\nThe poor old minister offered up a short prayer. The pastor read the 1st\nCorinthians, chapter 13, and explained briefly what charity meant there;\nadding that this gathering was very like one of the Agapae of the early\nChristians--a remark I had not expected to hear in that assembly. Then\nthere was another hymn, \"Beautiful Land of Rest,\" when it did one good\nto hear the unction with which the second syllable of the refrain was\ngiven:--\n\n    Jerusalem, Jerusalem,\n    Beautiful land of rest.\n\nAfter this the \"Experiences\" commenced in real earnest. Brothers and\nSisters were exhorted to lay aside shyness and mount the platform. Of\ncourse no one would do so at first; and the poor shaky old minister had\nto come to the rescue.\n\nHe told us, at rather too great length, the simple story of his\nlife--how he was a farmer's son, and had several brothers \"besides\nhimself.\" He had to learn verses of the Bible for his father, which used\nto go against the grain, until at last, instead of being \"a wicked boy,\"\nhe took up religion on his own account. He began to be afraid that, if\nhe died, he should go to \"a bad place,\" and therefore started saying his\nprayers. His brother George used to push him over when he was praying\nhalf-dressed in the bedroom, or occasionally vary proceedings by\nstirring him up with a sweeping brush. At last he found out a quiet\nplace under a haystack, and there retired to pray. The old man drew a\nperfect picture of the first prayer thus offered, and told us he could\nremember every little detail of the spot, and the great oak tree\nspreading its branches over it. \"Here I am,\" he said, \"a poor old\npilgrim on the bright side of seventy now, and yet I can remember it\nall. I say the 'bright' side, for I know it is a bright home I am soon\ngoing to.\" Then he told us how God took his wife from him and all his\nworldly goods, and he was quite eloquent about the comfort his religion\nwas to him now as he went to his little lonely lodging. He drew next too\ntruthful a picture of the state of things he saw around him in Kensal\nNew Town--mothers with infants in their arms crowding the tavern doors;\nand finished up with a story, of which he did not see the irrelevancy,\nabout a fine lady going to the \"theatre,\" and saying how much she had\nenjoyed the anticipation, then the play itself, and, lastly, the thought\nof it afterwards. She was overheard by a faithful pastor, who told her\nshe had omitted one detail. \"No,\" she said, \"I have told you all.\" \"You\nhave told us how you enjoyed the thoughts of the theatre, and the\nperformance, and the recollection of it afterwards; but you have not\ntold us how you will enjoy the thoughts of it on your death-bed.\" Of\ncourse the \"fine lady\" was converted on the spot, as they always are in\ntracts; and the good old fellow brought his long-winded narrative of\nexperiences to an end by-and-by, the pastor having omitted to pull his\ncoat-tails, as he promised to do if any speaker exceeded the allotted\ntime. \"The people were certainly very attentive to hear him,\" and one\nman next my boy expressed his satisfaction by letting off little groans,\nlike minute guns, at frequent intervals.\n\nThen another hymn was sung, \"The Beautiful Land on High,\" which, by the\nway, is a favourite with the spiritualists at their \"Face Seances.\" I\nhalf expected to see a ghostly-looking visage peep out of some corner\ncupboard, as I had often done with my spiritual friends--that being\nanother experience which I cultivate with considerable interest and\ncuriosity. The hymn being over, a black-bearded, but soft-voiced man, in\na velveteen coat, got upon the platform, and told us how the chief\ndelight of his life was at one time making dogs fight. When the animals\nwere not sufficiently pugnacious of themselves, his habit was to\nconstruct an apparatus, consisting of a pin at the end of a stick, and\nso urge them to the combat, until it proved fatal to one of them. It\nwas, he said, dreadful work; and he now considered it the direct\nmachination of Satan. Another favourite pursuit was interrupting the\nproceedings of open-air missionaries. One day after he had done so, he\nwent home with a companion who had taken a tract from one of the\nmissionaries. He had a quarrel with his \"missis.\" \"Not that missis\nsittin' there,\" he said, alluding to a smart lady in front, \"but my\nfirst missis.\" In order to show his sulks against his missis, he took to\nreading the tract, and it soon made him cry. Then he went to chapel and\nheard a sermon on Lot's wife being turned into a pillar of salt. He was\na little exercised by this, and saw the minister in the vestry, but soon\nfell back into bad habits again, singing canaries for _10s. 6d._ a side.\nAs he was taking his bird out one Sunday morning, the bottom of the cage\ncame out, and the canary escaped. This he looked upon as \"God's work,\"\nsince it caused him to go to chapel that morning. His conversion soon\nfollowed, and he applied to that circumstance, in a very apposite\nmanner, the Parable of the Prodigal, concluding with a stanza from the\nwell-known hymn--\n\n    God moves in a mysterious way\n    His wonders to perform.\n\nAnother moustached man followed. He was exceedingly well-dressed,\nthough he told us he was only a common labourer. He had long given up\nhis \"'art\" to God, but to little purpose until he came to this chapel.\n\"But there,\" he said, \"down in that corner under the gas-lamp, I prayed\nfor the first time. I prayed that God would take away my stony 'art and\ngive me a 'art of flesh, and renew a right sperrit within me.\" From that\ntime he led a new life. His fellow-workmen began to sneer at the change,\nand said ironically they should take to going to chapel too. \"I wish to\nGod you would,\" was his reply. He described the personal influence of\nthe pastor upon him, which strengthened the good resolutions he had\nformed, and enabled him to say, \"I will not let Thee go.\"\n\nI could not help thinking, as I listened to the simple, earnest words of\nthe speaker, that here was an element the National Church is too apt to\nignore. The Roman Catholic Church would seize hold upon that man, and\nput him in a working men's guild or confraternity. The Free Church found\nhim work to do, and gave him a chief seat in the synagogue, and an\nopportunity of airing his \"experiences\" on a platform. Surely better\neither one or the other, than sotting his life at a public-house, or\nturning tap-room orator. He ended by crying shame upon himself for\nhaving put off the change until so late in life, and added a wish that\nall the labouring classes could see, as he had been brought to see,\nwhere their chief interest as well as happiness lay.\n\nA tall man from the choir followed, and was considerably more\nself-possessed than the other two speakers. He told us at the outset\nthat he had been \"a Christian\" for fourteen years. It was generally laid\ndown as a rule, he said, that big men were good-tempered. He was not a\nsmall man; but until he gave his heart to God he was never\ngood-tempered. He had, for thirty-two years, been brought up in the\nChurch of England, but had found no conversion there. He had no wish to\nspeak against the Church, but such was the case. He wandered about a\ngood deal in those years, from Roman Catholic to Old Methodist chapels;\nbut the latter settled him. He was attending a class meeting in Kensal\nNew Town one night, and suddenly a determination came over him that he\nwould not sleep that night until he had kneeled down and prayed with his\nwife, though it would be the first time he had done so for thirty-two\nyears. When it came to bedtime his courage failed him. He could not get\ninto bed; and he did not like to tell his wife why. \"That,\" he said,\n\"was the devil worritin' me.\" His wife said, \"I know what's the matter\nwith you. You want to pray. We will see what we can do.\" His wife, he\ntold us, was \"unconverted,\" but still she \"throwed open the door\" on\nthat occasion. He never knew happiness, he said, until he came to Jesus;\nand he added, \"Oh, I do love my Jesus.\" He often talked to his\nfellow-workmen about the state of their souls, and they asked him how\nit was he was so certain of being converted (a question I fancy others\nthan they would like to have solved), and he answered them, \"I feel it.\nI was uncomfortable before; and now I am happy. I don't wonder so much\nat the old martyrs going boldly up to the stake, because I feel I could\ndo anything rather than give up my Jesus.\"\n\nHereupon the pastor, anticipating the departure of some of the\nassembly--for the clock was pointing to ten--announced a Temperance\nMeeting for the following Monday, and also said he should like the\ncongregation to get up these meetings entirely on their own account,\nwithout any \"clerical\" element at all, and to make the Tea Meeting a\n\"Free and Easy\" in the best sense of the word.\n\nI went--shall I confess it?--to the experience meeting rather inclined\nto scoff, and I stopped, if not altogether to pray, at least to think\nvery seriously of the value of the instrumentality thus brought to\nbear on such intractable material as the Kensal New Town population.\nThe more cumbrous, even if more perfect or polished, machinery of the\nEstablished Church has notoriously failed for a long time to affect\nsuch raw material; and if it is beginning to succeed it is really by\n\"taking a leaf out of the book\" of such pastors as the one whose\nTea-and-Experience Meeting I had attended. \"Palmam qui meruit ferat.\"\n\nStiggins element, I must, in all justice, say there was none. The pastor\nwas a simple but a refined and gentlemanly man; so was the poor broken\nold minister. There was no symptom of raving or rant; no vulgarity or\nbad taste. A gathering at a deanery or an episcopal palace could not\nhave been more decorous, and I doubt if the hymns would have been sung\nas heartily. There was as little clerical starch as there was of the\nopposite element. Rubbing off the angles of character was one of the\nobjects actually proposed by the pastor as the result of these\ngatherings; and I really felt as though a corner or two had gone out of\nmy constitution. If a man is disposed to be priggish, or a lady\nexclusive, in religious matters, I would recommend the one or the other\nto avail themselves of the next opportunity to attend a\nTea-and-Experience Meeting at Kensal New Town.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nSUNDAY LINNET-SINGING.\n\n\nThere is something very Arcadian and un-Cockney-like in the idea of\nlinnet-singing in Lock's Fields. Imagination pictures so readily the\ngreen pastures and the wild bird's song, and Corydon with his pipe and\nhis Phyllis, that it seems a pity to disabuse that exquisite faculty of\nour nature so far as to suggest that the linnets of which we speak are\nnot wild, but tame and caged, and the fields very much less rural than\nthose of Lincoln's Inn. This was the announcement that drew me to the\nNew Kent Road on a recent Sunday morning to hear what poor Cockney Keats\ncalled the \"tender-legged linnets:\" \"Bird-singing.--A match is made\nbetween Thomas Walker (the Bermondsey Champion) and William Hart\n(Champion of Walworth) to sing two linnets, on Sunday, for _2l._ a side;\nbirds to be on the nail precisely at two o'clock; the host to be\nreferee. _10s._ is now down; the remainder by nine this evening, at the\nJolly Butchers, Rodney Road, Lock's Fields. Also a copper kettle will be\nsung for on the same day by six pairs of linnets; first pair up at\nhalf-past six o'clock in the evening. Any person requiring the said\nroom for matches, &c., on making application to the host, will\nimmediately be answered.\"\n\nRodney Road, be it known, is anything but a romantic thoroughfare,\nleading out of the New Kent Road, a little way from the Elephant and\nCastle; and the caravanserai bearing the title of the Jolly Butchers is\nan unpretending beershop, with no outward and visible signs of especial\njoviality. On entering I met mine host, rubicund and jolly enough, who\npolitely pioneered me upstairs, when I reported myself as in quest of\nthe linnets. The scene of contest I found to be a largish room, where\nsome twenty or thirty most un-Arcadian looking gentlemen were already\nassembled, the only adjunct at all symptomatic of that pastoral district\nbeing their pipes, at which they were diligently puffing. The whole of\nthe tender-legged competitors, both for the money and the copper kettle,\nwere hanging in little square green cages over the fireplace; and the\none idea uppermost in my mind was how well the linnets must be seasoned\nto tobacco smoke if they could sing at all in the atmosphere which those\nCorydons were so carefully polluting. Corydon, besides his pipe, had\nadopted nuts and beer to solace the tedium of the quarter of an hour\nthat yet intervened before the Bermondsey bird and its Walworth\nantagonist were to be \"on the nail;\" and ever and anon fresh Corydons\nkept dropping in, until some fifty or sixty had assembled. They were all\nof one type. There was a \"birdiness\" discernible on the outer man of\neach; for birdiness, as well as horseyness, writes its mark on the\ncountenance and the attire. In the latter department there was a\nproclivity to thick pea-jackets and voluminous white comforters round\nthe neck, though the day was springlike and the room stuffy. The talk\nwas loud, but not boisterous, and garnished with fewer elegant flowers\nof speech than one would have expected. Five minutes before two the\nnon-competing birds were carefully muffled up in pocket-handkerchiefs,\nand carried in their cages out of earshot, lest their twitterings might\ninspire the competing minstrels. Bermondsey and Walworth alone occupied\nthe nails. Scarcely any bets were made. They seemed an impecunious\nassemblage, gathered for mere sport. One gentleman did, indeed, offer to\nstake \"that 'ere blowsy bob,\" as though a shilling in his possession\nwere a rarity of which his friends must be certainly aware. What was the\noccult meaning of the epithet \"Blowsy\" I could not fathom, but there\nwere no takers; and, after the windows had been opened for a few minutes\nto clear the atmosphere, they were closed again; the door locked; the\ntwo markers took their place at a table in front of the birds, with bits\nof chalk in their hands; mine host stood by as referee in case of\ndisputes; time was called; and silence reigned supreme for a quarter of\nan hour, broken only by the vocal performances of the Bermondsey and\nWalworth champions respectively. If a hapless human being did so far\nforget himself as to cough or tread incontinently upon a nutshell, he\nwas called to silence with curses not loud but deep.\n\nThe Walworth bird opened the concert with a brilliant solo by way of\noverture, which was duly reported by the musical critic in the shape of\na chalk line on the table. The length of the effusion did not matter; a\nlong aria, or a brilliant but spasmodic cadenza, each counted one, and\none only. The Bermondsey bird, heedless of the issue at stake, devoted\nthe precious moments to eating, emitting nothing beyond a dyspeptic\ntwitter which didn't count; and his proprietor stood by me evidently\nchagrined, and perspiring profusely, either from anxiety or superfluous\nattire. Nearly half the time had gone by before Bermondsey put forth its\npowers. Meanwhile, Walworth made the most of the opportunity, singing in\na manner of which I did not know linnets were capable. There were notes\nand passages in the repertoire of Walworth which were worthy of a\ncanary. The bird no doubt felt that the credit of home art was at stake,\nand sang with a vigour calculated to throw foreign feathered artistes\ninto the shade. Bermondsey evidently sang best after dinner, so he dined\nlike an alderman; yet dined, alas! not wisely, but too well, or rather\ntoo long. Then he sang, first, a defiant roulade or so, as much as to\nsay, \"Can you beat that, Walworth?\" pausing, with his head wickedly on\none side, for a reply. That reply was not wanting, for Walworth was\nflushed with success; and one could not help regretting ignorance of\nbird-language so as to gather exactly what the reply meant. Then came a\nprotracted duet between the two birds, which was the piece de resistance\nof the whole performance. The silence became irksome. I could not help\ncongratulating myself on the fact that no Corydon had brought his\nPhyllis; for Phyllis, I am sure, would not have been able to stand it.\nPhyllis, I feel certain, would have giggled. We remained mute as mice,\nsolemn as judges. The ghost of a twitter was hailed with mute signs of\napproval by the backers of each bird; but a glance at the expressive\nfeatures of the host warned the markers that nothing must be chalked\ndown that did not come up to his idea of singing. Had the destinies of\nempires hung upon his nod he could scarcely have looked more oracular.\nBut Walworth could afford to take matters easily now. For the last five\nminutes the Bermondsey bird did most of the music; still it was a\nhopeless case. Success was not on the cards. By-and-by, time was again\ncalled. Babel recommenced, and the result stood as follows:\n\n  Walworth              3 score 18\n  Bermondsey            1 score 10\n\nIt was an ignominious defeat truly; and, had one been disposed to\nmoralize, it had not been difficult to draw a moral therefrom. It was\nnot a case of \"no song, no supper;\" but of supper--or, rather,\ndinner--and no song. Bermondsey had failed in the artistic combat, not\nfrom lack of powers, as its brilliant part in the duet and its\nsubsequent soli proved, but simply from a Sybaritic love for creature\ncomforts. I ventured to suggest it might have been expedient to remove\nthe seed, but was informed that, under those circumstances, the\ncreature--its proprietor called it an uglier name--would not have sung\nat all. The remarkable part of the business to me was that they did sing\nat the proper time. They had not uttered anything beyond a twitter until\nsilence was called, and from that moment one or the other was singing\nincessantly. I suppose it was the silence. I have noticed not only caged\nbirds, but children--not to speak ungallantly of the fair sex--generally\ngive tongue most freely when one is silent, and presumably wants to keep\nso.\n\nThe contest, however, was over, the stakes paid, and Corydon sought his\npastoral pipe again--not without beer. It was a new experience, but not\na very exciting one--to me, at least. It evidently had its attractions\nfor the very large majority of attendants. In fact, Rodney Road is\ngenerally a \"birdy\" neighbourhood. Its staple products, to judge by the\nshops, seemed birds and beer. I was much pressed by mine host to stay\nfor the evening entertainment, when six birds were to sing, and the\nattendance would be more numerous. As some five hours intervened I\nexpressed regret at my inability to remain, reserving my opinion that\nfive hours in Lock's Fields might prove the reverse of attractive, and\nCorydon in greater force might not have an agreeable effect on that\nalready stuffy chamber. So I took myself off, wondering much, by the\nway, what strange association of ideas could have led any imaginative\nman to propose such an incongruous reward as a copper kettle by way of\npraemium for linnet-singing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nA WOMAN'S RIGHTS DEBATE.\n\n\nThere never was a time when, on all sorts of subjects, from Mesmerism to\nWoman's Rights, the ladies had so much to say for themselves. There is\nan ancient heresy which tells us that, on most occasions, ladies are\nprone to have the last word; but certain it is that they are making\nthemselves heard now. On the special subject of her so-called \"Rights\"\nthe abstract Woman was, I knew, prodigiously emphatic--how emphatic,\nthough, I was not quite aware, until having seen from the top of a\nCity-bound omnibus that a lady whom I will describe by the Aristophanic\nname of Praxagora would lecture at the Castle Street Co-operative\nInstitute. I went and co-operated so far as to form one of that lady's\naudience. Her subject--the \"Political Status of Women\"--was evidently\nattractive, not only to what we used in our innocence to call the weaker\nsex, but also to those who are soon to have proved to them the fallacy\nof calling themselves the stronger. A goodly assemblage had gathered in\nthe fine hall of the Co-operators to join in demolishing that ancient\nmyth as to the superiority of the male sex. My first intention was to\nhave reported verbatim or nearly so the oration of Praxagora on the\nsubject; and if I changed my scheme it was not because that lady did not\ndeserve to be reported. She said all that was to be said on the matter,\nand said it exceedingly well too; but when the lecture, which lasted\nfifty minutes, was over, I found it was to be succeeded by a debate; and\nI thought more might be gained by chronicling the collision of opinion\nthence ensuing than by simply quoting the words of any one speaker,\nhowever eloquent or exhaustive.\n\nI own with fear and trembling--for it is a delicate, dangerous\navowal--that, as a rule, I do not sympathize with the ladies who declaim\non the subject of Woman's Rights. I do not mean to say I lack sympathy\nwith the subject--I should like everybody to have their rights, and\nespecially women--but they are sometimes asserted in such a\nsledge-hammer fashion, and the ladies who give them utterance are so\nprone to run large and be shrill-voiced that their very physique proves\ntheir claim either unnecessary or undesirable. I feel certain that in\nwhatever station of domestic life those ladies may be placed, they would\nhave their full rights, if not something more; and as for Parliamentary\nrights, I tremble for the unprotected males should such viragos ever\ncompass the franchise; or, worse still, realize the ambition of the\nEcclesiazusae of Aristophanes, and sit on the benches of St. Stephen's\nclad in the nether garments of the hirsute sex. There was nothing of\nthat kind on Tuesday night. In manner and appearance our present\nPraxagora was thoroughly feminine, and, by her very quietude of manner,\nimpressed me with a consciousness of power, and determination to use it.\nHer voice was soft and silvery almost as that of Miss Faithfull herself;\nand when, at the outset of her lecture, she claimed indulgence on the\nscore of never having spoken in a public hall before, we had to press\nforward to the front benches to catch the modulated tones, and men who\ncame clumping in with heavy boots in the course of the lecture were\nseverely hushed down by stern-visaged females among the audience.\n\nDisclaiming connexion with any society, Praxagora still adopted the\nfirst person plural in speaking of the doctrines and intentions of the\ndown-trodden females. \"We\" felt so and so; \"we\" intended to do this or\nthat; and certainly her cause gained by the element of mystery thus\nintroduced, as well as by her own undoubted power of dealing with the\nsubject. When the \"we\" is seen to refer to the brazen-voiced ladies\naforesaid, and a few of the opposite sex who appear to have changed\nnatures with the gentle ones they champion, that plural pronoun is the\nreverse of imposing, but the \"we\" of Praxagora introduced an element of\nawe, if only on the omne ignotum pro magnifico principle. In the most\nforcible way she went through the stock objections against giving women\nthe franchise, and knocked them down one by one like so many ninepins.\nThat coveted boon of a vote she proved to be at the basis of all the\nregeneration of women. She claimed that woman should have her share in\nmaking the laws by which she was governed, and denied the popular\nassertion that in so doing she would quit her proper sphere. In fact, we\nall went with her up to a certain point, and most of the audience beyond\nthat point. For myself I confess I felt disheartened when, having dealt\nin the most consummate way with other aspects of the subject, she came\nto the religious phase, and begging the question that the Bible and\nreligion discountenanced woman's rights, commenced what sounded to me\nlike a furious attack on each.\n\nNow I happen to know--what perhaps those who look from another\nstandpoint do not know--that this aggressive attitude assumed so\nunnecessarily by the advocates of woman's rights is calculated to keep\nback the cause more than anything else; and matter and manner had been\nso much the reverse of hostile up to the moment she plunged\nincontinently into the religious question, that it quite took me by\nsurprise. I have known scores of people who, when they came under\nvigorous protest to hear Miss Emily Faithfull on the same fertile\nsubject, went away converted because they found no iconoclasm of this\nkind in her teaching. They came to scoff and stopped, not indeed to\npray, but to listen very attentively to a theme which has so much to be\nsaid in its favour that it is a pity to complicate its advocacy by the\nintroduction of an extraneous and most difficult question. So it was,\nhowever; with pale, earnest face, and accents more incisive than before,\nPraxagora said if Bible and religion stood in the way of Woman's Rights,\nthen Bible and religion must go. That was the gist of her remarks. I\nneed not follow her in detail, because the supplementary matter sounded\nmore bitterly still; and, had she not been reading from MS. I should\nhave thought the lecturer was carried away by her subject; but no, she\nwas reading quite calmly what were clearly enough her natural and\ndeliberate opinions. I said I was surprised at the line she took.\nPerhaps I ought scarcely to have been so, for she was flanked on one\nside by Mr. Bradlaugh, on the other by Mr. Holyoake! but I never\nremember being so struck with a contrast as when at one moment Praxagora\npictured the beauty of a well-regulated home, and the tender offices of\nwoman towards the little children, and then shot off at a tangent to\nfierce invectives against the Bible and religion, which seemed so\nutterly uncalled for that no adversary who wanted to damage the cause\ncould possibly have invented a more complete method of doing so.\n\nThe lecture over, the chairman invited discussion, and a fierce little\nworking man immediately mounted the platform and took Praxagora to task\nfor her injudicious onslaught. But, as usual, this gentleman was wildly\nirrelevant and carried away by his commendable zeal. Over and over again\nhe had to be recalled to the question, until finally he set his whole\naudience against him, and had to sit down abruptly in the middle of a\nsort of apotheosis of Moses--as far as I could hear, for his zeal outran\nhis eloquence as well as his discretion, and rendered him barely\naudible. A second speaker followed, and, though cordially sympathizing\nwith the address, and tracing woman's incapacity to her state of\nsubjugation, regretted that such a disturbing element as religion had\nbeen mixed up with a social claim. He considered that such a subject\nmust inevitably prove an apple of discord. For this he was at once\nseverely handled by Mr. Bradlaugh, who, consistently enough, defended\nthe line Praxagora adopted towards the religious question, and justified\nthe introduction of the subject from the charge of irrelevance. He also\ndeprecated the surprise which the last speaker had expressed at the\nexcellent address of Praxagora by pointing out that in America about\none-third of the press were females, a fact which he attributed to the\nplan of Mixed Education. Then a new line was opened up by a speaker--it\nwas as impossible to catch their names as to hear the stations announced\nby porters on the Underground Railway. He predicted that if women did\nget the franchise, Mr. Bradlaugh's \"Temple\" would be shut up in six\nmonths, as well as those of Messrs. Voysey and Conway and Dr. Perfitt.\nThe ladies, he said, were swayed by Conventionalism and Priestcraft, and\nuntil you educated them, you could not safely give them the franchise.\n\nA youthful Good Templar mounted the rostrum, for the purpose of patting\nPraxagora metaphorically on the back, and also ventilating his own\nopinions on the apathy of the working man in claiming his vote. Then\nsomebody got up and denied that ladies were by nature theological. Their\nvirtues were superior to those of men just as their voices were an\noctave higher. He was for having a Moral Department of the State\npresided over by ladies. Only one lady spoke; a jaunty young woman in a\nsailor's hat, who said that in religious persecutions men, not women,\nhad been the persecutors; and then Praxagora rose to reply. She first of\nall explained her position with regard to the Bible, which she denied\nhaving unnecessarily attacked. The Bible forbade a woman to speak; and,\nthat being so, the Bible must stand on one side, for \"we\" were going to\nspeak. That the highest intellects had been formed on Bible models she\ndenied by instancing Shelley. If she thought that this movement was\ngoing to destroy the womanhood of her sex she would not move a finger\nfor its furtherance. She only thought it would give a higher style of\nwomanhood. As to women requiring to be educated before they would know\nhow to use the franchise, she pointed triumphantly to the Government\nwhich men had placed in power. It was significant, she said, that the\nfirst exercise of the working men's franchise had been to place a\nConservative Government in office.\n\nI daresay I am wrong, but the impression left on my mind by the\ndiscussion was that the liberty of thought and action claimed was the\nliberty of thinking as \"_we_\" think and doing what \"_we_\" want to have\ndone--a process which has been before now mistaken for absolute freedom.\nStripped of its aggressive adjuncts, Praxagora's advocacy of her main\nsubject would be telling in the extreme from the fact of her blending\nsuch thorough womanliness of person, character, and sentiment with such\nvigorous championship of a doctrine against which I do not believe any\nprejudice exists. Drag in the religious difficulty, however, and you\nimmediately array against it a host of prejudices, whether reasonable\nones or the reverse is not now the question. I am only concerned with\nthe unwisdom of having called them into existence. I own I thought that\nChristianity had been the means of raising woman from her state of\nOriental degradation to the position she occupies in civilized\ncountries. But I was only there to listen, not to speak; and I confess I\ncame away in a divided frame of mind. I was pleased with the paper, but\nirritated to think that a lady, holding such excellent cards, should\nrisk playing a losing game.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nAN OPEN-AIR TICHBORNE MEETING.\n\n\nWhen Sydney Smith, from the depths of his barbarian ignorance, sought to\nrise to the conception of a Puseyite, he said in substance much as\nfollows:--\"I know not what these silly people want, except to revive\nevery obsolete custom which the common sense of mankind has allowed to\ngo to sleep.\" Puseyism is not to our present purpose; but Tichborne-ism\nis--for it has attained to the dignity of a veritable ism--and we may\ndefine it much after the same method, as an attempt, not, indeed, to\nrevive the claims of, but to restore to society a person, who, after a\ntrial of unexampled length, was consigned by the verdict of a jury, and\nthe consequent sentence of the Lord Chief Justice, to the possibly\nuncongenial retirement of Millbank Penitentiary. With the rights or\nwrongs of such an event I have simply nothing to do. I abandoned the\nTichborne Trial at an early stage in a condition of utter bewilderment;\nand directly an old gentleman sought to button-hole me, and argue that\nhe must be the man, or he couldn't be the man, I made off, or changed\nthe conversation as rapidly as I could.\n\nBut when the question had at length been resolved by wiser heads than\nmine, and when, too, I felt I could write calmly, with no fear of an\naction for contempt of court before my eyes, I confess that a poster\nannouncing an open-air Tichborne meeting in Mr. Warren's cricket-field,\nNotting Hill, was too fascinating for me. I had heard of such gatherings\nin provincial places and East End halls; but this invasion of the West\nwas breaking new ground. I would go; in fine I went. On the evening of\nan exceptionally hot July day, I felt there might be worse places than\nMr. Warren's breezy cricket ground alongside Notting Barn Farm; so six\no'clock, the hour when the chair was to be taken, found me at the\nspot--first of the outer world--and forestalled only by a solitary\nTichbornite. How I knew that the gentleman in question deserved that\nappellation I say not; but I felt instinctively that such was the case.\nHe had a shiny black frock-coat on, like a well-to-do artisan out for a\nholiday, and a roll of paper protruding from his pocket I rightly\ninferred to be a Tichborne petition for signature. As soon as we got on\nthe ground, and I was enjoying the sensation of the crisp well rolled\nturf beneath my feet, a man hove in sight with a table, and this\nattracted a few observers. A gentleman in a light coat, too, who was\nserenely gazing over the hedge at the Kensington Park Cricket Club in\nthe next ground, was, they informed me, Mr. Guildford Onslow. The\npresiding genius of the place, however, was Mrs. Warren, who, arrayed\nin a gown of emerald green--as though she were attending a Fenian\nmeeting--bustled about in a state of intense excitement until the\ngreengrocer's cart, which was to serve as a rostrum, had arrived. When\nthis occurred, the table and half a dozen Windsor chairs were hoisted\ninto it; another table was arranged below the van, with the Tichborne\nPetition outspread upon it; and I fancied that arrangements were\ncomplete.\n\nNot so, however. The gentleman in the shiny coat and emerald green Mrs.\nWarren between them tin-tacked up a long scroll or \"legend\" along the\nrim of the van, consisting of the text from Psalm xxxv. 11:--\"False\nwitnesses did rise up against me. They laid to my charge things that I\nknew not.\" The association of ideas was grotesque, I know, but really as\nMrs. Warren and the shiny artisan were nailing this strip to the\ngreengrocer's van, they put me very much in mind of a curate and a lady\nfriend \"doing decorations\" at Christmas or Eastertide. Nor was this all.\nWhen the \"strange device\" was duly tin-tacked, some workmen brought four\nlong pieces of quartering, and a second strip of white calico with\nletters stuck on it was nailed to these; and when the stalwart fellows\nhoisted it in air and tied the two centre pieces of wood to the wheels\nof the greengrocer's cart, I found that it consisted of the Ninth\nCommandment. The self-sacrificing carpenters were to hold--and did\nhold--the outside poles banner-wise during the entire evening; and, with\none slight exception, this banner with the strange device, No. 2, formed\nan appropriate, if not altogether ornamental background for the\ngreengrocer's van. Knots of people had gathered during these\nproceedings; and I was confused to find that I was being generally\npointed out as Mr. Onslow, that gentleman having retired to the privacy\nof Mr. Warren's neighbouring abode. Later on I was taken for a\ndetective, because, in my innocence, I withdrew ever and anon from the\ncrowd, and, sitting on a verdurous bank, jotted down a note in my\npocket-book; but this got me into such bad odour by-and-by that I felt\nit better to desist, and trust to memory. Some of the smaller boys also\naverred that I was Sir Roger himself, but their youthful opinions were\ntoo palpably erroneous to carry weight.\n\nIn due course the van was occupied by Mr. Onslow, the Rev. Mr.\nBuckingham (about whom I felt, of course, very curious), my shining\nartisan, and a few others. A thin-faced gentleman, whose name I could\nnot catch, was voted to the chair, and announced to us that he should go\non talking awhile in order that Messrs. Onslow and Buckingham might\n\"refresh,\" as they had each come from the country. This they did coram\npublico in the cart, while the chairman kept us amused. The wind, too,\nwas blowing pretty freshly, and was especially hard on the Ninth\nCommandment, which gave considerable trouble to the holders of the\nprops. It was directly in the teeth of the speaker, too--an arrangement\nwhich Mrs. Warren, in her zeal, had overlooked; and it was decided by\ncommon consent to \"reverse the meeting\"--that is, to turn the chairs of\nthe speakers round, so that the Ninth Commandment was nowhere, and\nlooked like an Egyptian hieroglyph, as the reversed letters showed dimly\nthrough the calico. The chairman eventually read to the meeting, which\nwas now a tolerably full one, the form of petition which was to serve as\nthe single resolution of the evening. I was struck with this gentleman's\ndeparture from conventional legal phraseology on this occasion. Instead\nof naming the cause celebre \"The Queen _versus_ Castro\" (it being\nwritten, as Sam Weller says, with a \"wee\") he termed it \"The Queen _via_\nCastro!\" The petition was as follows:--\n\n\"That in the trial at Bar in the Court of Queen's Bench, on an\nindictment of the Queen v. Castro, alias Arthur Orton, alias Sir Roger\nCharles Doughty Tichborne, Bart., for perjury, the jury, on the 28th day\nof February, 1874, brought in a verdict of guilty against him, declaring\nhim to be Arthur Orton, and he was sentenced to fourteen years' penal\nservitude, which he is now undergoing.\n\n\"That your petitioners have reason to know and believe and are\nsatisfied, both from the evidence produced at the trial and furnished\nsince, and from their own personal knowledge that he is not Arthur\nOrton.\n\n\"That though 280 witnesses were examined at the said trial in his\nbehalf, a very large number more, as your petitioners have been informed\nand believe, were also ready to be examined, but that funds were not\navailable for the purpose, the defendant having been entirely dependent\non the voluntary subscriptions of the public for his defence.\n\n\"That your petitioners submit that such a large number as 280 witnesses,\nmost of whom gave positive evidence that the defendant was not Arthur\nOrton, and whose testimony in two instances only was questioned in a\ncourt of law--as against about 200 witnesses for the prosecution, whose\nevidence was chiefly of a negative character--was of itself enough to\nraise a doubt in the defendant's favour, of which doubt he ought to have\nhad the benefit, in accordance both with the law and the custom of the\ncountry.\n\n\"That, under the circumstances, your petitioners submit that he had not\na fair trial, and they pray your honourable House to take the matter\ninto your serious consideration, with a view to memorialize her Majesty\nto grant a free pardon.\"\n\nThe Rev. Mr. Buckingham, a cheery gentleman who bore a remarkable\nresemblance to the celebrated Mr. Pickwick, rose to move the resolution;\nand I could not help noticing that, not content with the ordinary white\ntie of clerical life, he had \"continued the idea downwards\" in a white\nwaistcoat, which rather altered the state of things. He spoke well and\nforcibly I should think for an hour, confining his remarks to the\nsubject of \"Sir Roger\" not being Arthur Orton. He (Mr. Buckingham)\nbelonged to some waterside mission at Wapping, and had known Arthur\nOrton familiarly from earliest boyhood. His two grievances were that his\nnegative evidence had not been taken, and that he was now being\ncontinually waited on by \"Jesuits,\" who temptingly held out cheques for\n_1000l._ to him if he would only make affidavit that the man in Millbank\nwas Arthur Orton.\n\nMr. Onslow, who seconded the resolution, however, made the speech of the\nevening, and was so enthusiastically received that he had to recommence\nseveral times after glowing perorations. The burden of Mr. Onslow's\nprophecy was the unfairness of the trial; and his \"bogies\" were\ndetectives, just as Mr. Buckingham's were Jesuits. The Jean Luie affair\nwas the most infernal \"plant\" in the whole case; and he read records of\nconflicting evidence which really were enough to make one pack up one's\ntraps and resolve on instant emigration. He was, however, certainly\nright on one point. He said that such meetings were safety-valves which\nprevented revolution. No doubt this was a safety-valve. It amused the\nspeakers, and Mrs. Warren and the glazed artisan; and it could do nobody\nany possible harm. Whether it was likely to do the man of Millbank any\ngood was quite another matter, and one which, of course, it was quite\nbeside my purpose to discuss. There was a deal of--to me--very\ninteresting speaking; for I gained new light about the case, and stood\nuntil my legs fairly ached listening to Messrs. Buckingham and Onslow.\n\nWhen the editor of the _Tichborne Gazette_ claimed an innings it was\nanother matter; and--perhaps with lack of esprit de corps--I decamped. I\nonly saw this gentleman gesticulating as I left the field; but the rate\nat which he was getting up the steam promised a speech that would last\ntill nightfall.\n\nAs I went off the ground I was struck with the clever way in which a\nLondon costermonger will turn anything and everything to account. One of\nthem was going about with a truck of cherries, crying out, \"Sir Roger\nTichborne cherries. Penny a lot!\"\n\nThere was no symptom of overt opposition, though opponents were blandly\ninvited to mount the waggon and state their views; but there was a good\ndeal of quiet chaff on the outskirts of the crowd, which is the portion\nI always select on such occasions for my observation. On the whole,\nhowever, the assembly was pretty unanimous; and though it never assumed\nthe dimensions of a \"monster meeting,\" the fact that even so many people\ncould be got together for such a purpose seemed to me sufficiently a\nsign of the times to deserve annotation in passing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nSUNDAY IN A PEOPLE'S GARDEN.\n\n\nI have often thought that an interesting series of articles might be\nwritten on the subject of \"London out of Church,\" dealing with the\nmanners and customs of those people who patronize no sort of religious\nestablishment on the Sunday. I have seen pretty well all the typical\nphases of religious London and London irreligious; but these would\nrather be characterized as non-religious than as irreligious folks. They\ndo not belong to any of the varied forms of faith; in fact faith is from\ntheir life a thing apart. It is in this negative way that they are\ninteresting. Sunday is with them only a regularly recurring Bank\nHoliday. It would be interesting to know what they do with it. A special\ndifficulty, however, exists for me in any such inquiry, resulting from\nthe fact that, in my capacity of clerical casual, I am pretty generally\nengaged on the Sunday; and when I am not, my Day of Rest is too valuable\nto be devoted to any of the manifold forms of metropolitan\nSabbath-breaking. I have a great idea that parsons ought to be\nfrequently preached at; and so I generally go to some church or chapel\nwhen out of harness myself; and if \"hearing sermons\" constitute the\nproper carrying out of the things promised and vowed on my behalf at\nbaptism I must have undergone as complete a course of Christian\ndiscipline as any man in Christendom, for I have been preached at by\neverybody from Roman Catholics down to Walworth Jumpers and Plumstead\nPeculiars!\n\nBut impressed with anxiety to know about the doings of the\nnon-Church-goers, I have for a long time cast sheep's eyes at the Sunday\nLeague, and more than once definitely promised to join one of their\nSunday outings; but I am strongly of Tom Hood's opinion that--\n\n    The man who's fond precociously of stirring\n    Must be a _spoon_.\n\nThe Sunday League commence their excursions at untimely hours; and it is\na cardinal point in my creed that Sunday ought to be a Day of Rest, at\nall events in the matter of breakfast in bed. I missed the excursion to\nShakspeare's House in this way, and the paper on the Bard of Avon, full\nof the genius loci, must have been as edifying as a sermon. So, too, on\na recent Sunday, when the Sunday League on their way to Southend got\nmixed up with the Volunteer Artillery going to Shoebury, I was again\nfound wanting. But still the old penchant remained, and Sunday was my\nlast free one for a long time. How could I utilize it? I had it; I would\ngo to the People's Garden at Willesden. I had heard that certain very\nmild forms of Sabbath breaking prevailed there. I would go and see for\nmyself.\n\nI had been at the People's Garden twice before; once on the occasion of\na spiritualistic picnic, and once, more recently, at a workmen's flower\nshow; and felt considerable interest in the place, especially as the\nPeople had been polite enough to send me a season ticket, so that I was\none of the People myself.\n\nThis People's Garden was not exactly a Paradise yet, though it is in a\nfair way of becoming one. It is a spot of some fifty acres reclaimed\nfrom the scrubbiest part of Wormwood Scrubbs, and made the focus of a\nclub of working men, of whom I am very proud indeed to be one. Indeed, I\ndo not see why throughout the remainder of this article I should not use\nthe first person plural. I will. Well, then, we secured this spot, and\nwe have got in the first place one of the finest--I believe the\nfinest--dancing platforms in England, for we as a community are\nTerpsichorean, though I, as an individual, am not. I felt it necessary\nto give up dancing when my weight turned the balance at fourteen stone\nodd. Then we can give our friends refreshments from a bottle of\nchampagne down to tea and cresses. We have all sorts of clubs, dramatic\nand otherwise, and rather plume ourselves on having put up our\nproscenium ourselves, that is with our own hands and hammers and nails.\nThere is the great advantage of being a Working Man or one of the\nPeople. If you had been with me that Sunday you would have seen a glow\nof conscious pride suffusing my countenance as I read the bills of our\nlast amateur performance, consisting of the \"Waterman\" and \"Ici on parle\nFrancais,\" played on the boards which I, in my corporate capacity, had\nplaned, and sawn, and nailed. My route last Sunday lay across the crisp\nsward of the Scrubbs; and it was quite a pleasure to be able to walk\nthere without danger of falling pierced by the bullet of some erratic\nvolunteer; for there are three butts on Wormwood Scrubbs, which I\nexamined with minuteness on Sunday, and was exercised to see by marks on\nthe brickwork how very wide of the target a volunteer's shot can go. I\nwonder there is not a wholesale slaughter of cattle in the neighbouring\nfields. The garden lies on the other side of the Great Western Railway,\nacross which I had to trespass in order to get to it. But the man in\ncharge regarded me with indulgence, for was I not a working man and a\n\"mate?\" The portion of the garden abutting on the rail is still\nunreclaimed prairie. The working men have begun at the top of the hill,\nand are working downwards.\n\nThere is a good-sized refreshment-room at the entrance, with all the\nparaphernalia of secretary's office, &c.; and this large room, which is\nexceedingly useful in wet weather, opens right on to the\ndancing-platform, in the centre of which is a pretty kiosk for the band.\nWe have no gas; but tasty paraffin lamps at frequent intervals give\nsufficient light, and, at all events, do not smell _worse_ than modern\nmetropolitan gas. There is a large tent standing en permanence during\nthe summer for flower shows, and terrace after terrace of croquet lawns,\nall of which it will, I fear, shock some Sabbatarian persons to learn\nwere occupied on that Sunday afternoon, and the balls kept clicking like\nthe week-day shots of the erratic riflemen on the Scrubbs. I had a young\nlady with me who was considerably severe on the way in which we workmen\nmale and female, handled our mallets. There was, I confess, something to\nbe desired in the way of position; and one group of German artisans in\nthe corner lawn made more noise than was necessary, howling and uttering\nall sorts of guttural interjections, as though they were playing polo at\nleast, or taking part in a bull-fight, instead of in croquet--beloved of\ncurates.\n\nAnd then the flowers. We are making the desert blossom like the rose. It\nis really marvellous to see what has been done in so short a time. We\nmight have been a society of market gardeners. We don't get so many\nflowers along the walk of life, we working men; so that we want to see a\nbit of green sward and a flower or two on Sundays. There is a capital\ngymnasium, and our observation of the young men who disport themselves\nthere would lead an uninitiated observer to form the opinion that the\nnormal condition of humanity was upside down. The way one youthful\nworkman hung by his legs on the trapeze was positively Darwinian to\nbehold. Swings attracted the attention of the ladies; and I regret to\nsay that the particular young lady I escorted--who was of the mature age\nof twelve--passed most of the afternoon in a state of oscillation, and\nwas continually adjuring me to push her.\n\nAn interesting addition to the gardens--our gardens--since I was last\nthere, consisted of a cage of meditative monkeys, four in number, who\nwere stationed so near the gymnasium as inevitably to suggest the\nDarwinian parallel. They had their gymnasium too, and swung gaily on\ntheir tree-trunks at such times as they were not engaged in eating or\nentomological researches. I could not help thinking what a deprivation\nit was to the gymnasts that, in course of evolution, we have lost our\ntails. They would have been so convenient on the horizontal bar, where\nthat persevering young workman was still engaged in the pursuit of\napoplexy by hanging head downwards. Soon after we got there an excellent\nband commenced playing, not in the kiosk, lest we should be beguiled\ninto dancing. The first piece was a slow movement, which could scarcely\nhave been objected to by any Sabbatarian, unless he was so\nuncompromising as to think all trumpets wrong. The second was the\nglorious march from \"Athalie;\" and then--my blood runs cold as I write\nit--a sort of pot pourri, in the midst of which came the \"Dutchman's\nLittle Wee Dog,\" considerably disguised in the way of accompaniment and\nvariation, I own, but the \"Little Wee Dog\" beyond a doubt. Then I\nunderstood why the band was not in the kiosk; for, fourteen stone though\nI be, I felt all my toes twiddling inside my boots at that time as\nwickedly as though it had been Monday morning. There were fourteen or\nfifteen loud brass instruments, with a side and bass drum and cymbals.\nAll these were playing the \"Little Wee Dog\" to their brazen hearts'\ncontent, and only one gentleman on a feeble piccolo-flute trying to\nchoke their impiety by tootling out a variation, just as the stringed\ninstruments in the glorious \"Reformation Symphony\" of Mendelssohn try in\nvain to drown with their sensuous Roman airs the massive chords of the\nold Lutheran chorale--\"Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott.\" I really could\nnot bear it any longer, and was rising to go when they stopped; and as\nthe gentleman who played the circular bass got outside his portentous\ninstrument, I found he had a little wee dog of his own who retired into\nthe bell of the big trumpet when his master laid it on the grass.\nPerhaps it was in honour of this minute animal the air was selected.\nHowever, I could not lend myself to such proceedings; so I bribed my\nyouthful charge with a twopenny bottle of frothless ginger beer to come\nout of her swing and return to the regions of orthodoxy. The Teutonic\ngentlemen were still hooting and yelling as we crossed the corner of\ntheir croquet lawn, until I expected to see them attack one another\nwith the mallets and use the balls for missile warfare; but it was only\ntheir peculiar way of enjoying themselves.\n\nMy little friend described the action of our working men in the croquet\nlawn as \"spooning,\" and also drew my attention to the fact that two\nlovers were doing the same on a seat, in the approved fashion prevalent\namong us workmen, with the manly arm around the taper waist coram\npublico. This arrangement is quite a necessity with us. We should often\nlike to forego it, especially when little boys make rude remarks about\nus in the street; but it is expected of us, and we submit.\n\nThe sun was beginning to sink grandly over that magnificent panorama of\ncountry visible from Old Oak Common as we passed down the hill and again\nviolated the bye-laws of the Great Western Railway Company. The spires\nof the West End churches were bathed in the soft glow of departing day;\nand in the distance the Crystal Palace glittered like a fairy bower. We\ngot back after making a little detour on account of some gentlemen who\nwere bathing in a very Paradisiacal way indeed--we actually got back in\ntime to go to church like good Christians; and I do not think either of\nus felt much the worse for the hours we had spent in the People's\nGarden--save and except the wicked Little Wee Dog!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nUTILIZING THE YOUNG LADIES.\n\n\nTime was when it was accepted as an axiom that young ladies had no\nobject in life but to be ornamental--no mission but matrimony. The\n\"accomplishments\" were the sum total of a genteel education, though\ncharged as \"extras\" on the half-yearly accounts; and all the finished\ncreature had to do, after once \"coming out,\" was to sit down and\nlanguidly wait for an eligible suitor.\n\nTimes changed. And, in England, when we make a change, we always rush\nviolently into an opposite extreme. Woman had a mission, and no mistake.\nNow it was the franchise and Bloomer costume, just as aforetime it was\nthe pianoforte and general fascination. Blue spectacles rose in the\nmarket. We had lady doctors and female lawyers. The only marvel is that\nthere was no agitation for feminine curates.\n\nThen came reaction again. It was discovered that woman could be educated\nwithout becoming a bluestocking, and practical without wearing bloomers\nor going in for the suffrage. Still holding to the wholesome principle\nthat \"woman is not undeveloped man, but diverse,\" the real friends of\nthe gentler sex discovered a hundred and one ways in which it could\nemploy itself usefully and remuneratively. It was no longer feared lest,\nas Sydney Smith puts it, if a woman learnt algebra she would \"desert her\ninfant for a quadratic equation;\" and the University of Cambridge soon\nfell in with the scheme for the Higher Education of Women; while Miss\nFaithfull, and several others, organized methods for employing\npractically the talents which education could only develope in a general\nway. It was to one of these methods--not Miss Faithfull's--my attention\nwas drawn a short time since by a letter in the daily papers. The\nVictoria Press and International Bureau are faits accomplis, and it is\nwell that efforts should be made for utilizing in other ways that\ninteresting surplus in our female population. Mrs. Fernando, of Warwick\nGardens, Kensington, has set herself to the solution of the problem, and\nthe shape her method takes is a Technical Industrial School for Women.\n\nThe object and aim of the institution is to examine, plan, and organize\nsuch branches of industrial avocation as are applicable to females, and\nopen up new avocations of useful industry compatible with the\nintellectual and mechanical capabilities of the sex, not forgetting\ntheir delicacy, and the untutored position of females for practical\napplication in all industrial labour: to give the same facilities to\nfemales as are enjoyed by males, in collective classes for special\ntraining or special preparation for passing examinations open to women,\nthereby to enable them to earn their livelihood with better success than\nis attainable by mere school education only: to give special training to\nfemales to qualify them to enter special industrial avocations with such\ncompetency as will enable them to be successful in obtaining employment:\nto apprentice females, or to employ them directly into trades where such\nemployers will receive them beyond the limits of the industrial school\nand where females can be constantly employed, such as in composing,\nembossing, illuminating, black-bordering, ticket-writing,\ncircular-addressing, flower-making, flower-cultivating, &c.\n\nBeing a determined sceptic in the matter of prospectuses, I determined\nto go and see for myself the working of this scheme, which looked so\nwell on paper. The Institution occupies a large house exactly opposite\nDr. Punshon's chapel: and there is no chance of one's missing it, for it\nis placarded with announcements like a hoarding at election time. I\nfound Mrs. Fernando an exceedingly practical lady, doing all the work of\nthe institution herself, with the exception of a few special subjects\nsuch as botany, &c., which are conducted by her husband. There are no\n\"assistants,\" therefore, or deputed interests, the bane of so many\nhigh-priced schools.\n\nThese classes are held in the evening from seven to nine o'clock, and\nare intended for ladies above the age of fifteen years, who may be\nengaged through the day in various occupations, and for such as suffer\nfrom neglected education, and who wish conveniently and economically to\nimprove themselves, without being necessitated to mix with their juniors\nin day-schools. These classes prepare ladies to meet the qualifications\nnecessary to enter clerkships and other official departments; to bring\nthem also to a standard to meet the qualifications for post offices and\ntelegraph departments; and also to pass certain examinations open to\nthem. The charge is only _2s._ per week--_8s._ per month--_1l. 4s._ per\nquarter. The first course embraces spelling, reading, writing,\narithmetic, history, geography, and grammar. The second course consists\nof advanced arithmetic, book-keeping and commercial instruction, so as\nto qualify women to take posts of responsibility with marked success.\nThe third course consists of French, for practical usefulness. The\nfourth course embraces simple or technical training in such departments\nas are available within the limits of the class-room--to qualify women\nto enter industrial avocations with competency, and to make them\nsuccessful in obtaining employment. This department will be extended to\ngreater usefulness as conveniences arise, by apprenticing the girls or\nemploying them directly in trades beyond the limits of the class-room,\nwhere employers will receive them, or where women could be consistently\nengaged--as, for instance, in the work of compositors, ticket-writers,\nembossers, &c. &c.\n\nThe two classes with which I was brought into contact were the\nbook-keeping and embossing. In the former, more than a dozen young\nladies were being initiated in the mysteries of single and double entry,\nand they posted up their books in a way that made me feel very much\nashamed of myself, when I thought how incapable I should be of doing\nanything half so useful. Many girls go from this department to be\nbook-keepers at large hotels, places of business, &c.\n\nI then went to the embossing room, where six presses were being worked\nby as many young ladies, one in an adjoining room being reserved for\nMrs. Fernando, who not only tells her pupils what to do, but shows them\nhow to do it. The gilding and colouring of the stamps was most\nelaborate; two monograms of the Queen's name and that of the Empress\nEugenie being perfect marvels of artistic and intricate workmanship.\nEvery process, from mixing the colours up to burnishing the gold, was\ngone through in detail by this practical lady and her intelligent pupils\nfor my special edification, and I passed out a much wiser and certainly\nnot a sadder man than I entered this veritable hive of human bees.\n\nNo expense was spared in the education of these girls, low as are the\nterms they pay. I saw quite a ruinous heap of spoilt envelopes and\nfashionable sheets of thick cream-laid; for they have to make their\nexperiments on the best material, and the slightest alteration in the\nposition of a pin where the stamping process has to be several times\nrepeated spoils the whole result. Mrs. Fernando has also introduced\nenvelope and circular addressing by women, as a department of female\nindustrial work in the Technical Industrial School for Women, where a\nnumber of females are employed between the hours of ten and four\no'clock, receiving satisfactory remuneration. She provides the females\nemployed in this department evening classes free of charge, to improve\nthemselves in general education.\n\nI am an intense admirer of the female sex in general, and young ladies\nin particular, but really when I came away, leaving my pretty\nbook-keepers and embossers to resume their normal work, and saw the\nnumbers of young ladies sitting listlessly over misnamed \"work\" at the\nwindow, or walking languidly nowhither in the streets, I thought that,\nwithout losing any of their attractions, nay, adding a new claim to the\nmany existing ones on our regard, they might with great advantage take a\nturn at Mrs. Fernando's sixpenny lessons in technical education.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nFAIRLOP FRIDAY.\n\n\nAmongst those customs \"more honoured in the breach than the observance\"\nwhich are rapidly being stamped out by the advancing steps of\ncivilization, are the institutions which we can yet remember as so\npopular in the days of our childhood, called pleasure fairs. Like that\nsocial dodo in a higher section of society, the \"three-bottle man,\" with\nthe stupid Bacchanalian usages of which he was the embodiment, these\nfairs are slowly but surely disappearing as education spreads among the\nmasses of the people. In the country a fair is a simple and a necessary\nthing enough. At certain seasons of the year, according to the staple\ncommodities for the sale of which the assemblage was originally\ninstituted, our bucolic friends gather at early morning with the\nproducts of their farms; a good deal of noisy buying, selling, and\nbarter takes place. Later in the day the ladies invest their profits in\na little mild finery, or in simple pleasures; and, later still, when the\npublic-houses have done their work, comes a greater or lesser amount of\nriot, rude debauchery, and vice; and then, voila tout--the fair is over\nfor a year. One can easily imagine the result of the transition when,\nfrom the quiet country, the fair removes to the city or suburb. In such\nplaces every utilitarian element is wanting, and the gilt ginger-bread\nand gewgaws are only a speciously innocent attraction towards the\ndrinking and dancing booth where the mischief is done. Well-wishers to\nsociety are unromantic enough not to regret the decidedly waning glories\nof these gatherings, from the great Bartholomew Fair itself down to that\nwhich, on the Friday of which I write, converted many miles of\nthoroughfare at the East End of London, as well as one of the prettiest\nforest scenes still surrounding the metropolis, into a vast al fresco\ntavern, where the \"worship of Bacchus\" was as freely indulged as in any\nheathen temple of ancient times.\n\nFairlop Fair--which has not yet died out, though beginning to show\nsatisfactory signs of decay--commenced its existence, innocently enough,\nabout a century ago. At that time Mr. Day, a shipbuilder, wishing to\nhave a day's outing in the forest with his friends and employes, fitted\nup a vessel on wheels, fully rigged, in which he conveyed his picnic\nparty to Hainault Forest, on the outskirts of which, some distance from\nIlford, stood the famous Fairlop Oak. The holiday became an annual\ncustom, and gradually changed its character from the simple gathering of\na master and his men into regular saturnalia; during which, each year,\nfrom the first Friday in July, over the ensuing Saturday and Sunday,\nriot and debauchery reigned supreme in the glades of the forest and the\neastern districts of London. The example set by Mr. Day was followed by\nother ship, boat, and barge builders, but of late years, more\nparticularly by the mast and block makers, riggers, shipwrights, and\nshipyard labourers; and more recently still by the licensed victuallers.\nFinding the custom good for trade, the publicans formed a society for\nbuilding or hiring these boats on wheels, which, covered with flags, and\nprovided each with a band of music and filled with revellers, annually\nmake their progress into Hainault Forest. They go no longer, alas! to\nFairlop Oak--for that is numbered with the things of the past--but now\nto Barking side, where, at the Maypole Inn, the festivities of Fairlop\nFair are still kept up.\n\nThese ship and boat cars attract immense multitudes along the Mile End,\nBow, and Whitechapel Roads, down as far as Aldgate; the crowd assemble\nin the morning to see the holiday people start on their expedition. The\nmost remarkable sight, however, is at night, when the \"boats\" return\nlighted with coloured lanterns, red and green fires, &c.; and at every\npublic-house along the road similar fires are burnt, and brass bands\nstationed to strike up as the cars pass, and stop at certain favoured\nestablishments \"for the good of the house.\" Anxious to witness the\nfading glories of Fairlop Friday myself, before the advancing tide of\ncivilization shall have done their inevitable work upon them, I sallied\nforth to the East End, and walking along one of the finest approaches to\nLondon, from Aldgate, by Whitechapel, to Bow and Stratford Churches,\nsucceeded in realizing more completely than ever before two facts:\nfirst, how gigantic is the population of the East End of London; and,\nsecondly, how little is required to amuse and attract it. There were\nonly two of the \"boats\" sent to the Forest that year. Their return could\ngratify the sight of these people but for a single instant; yet there,\nfrom early dusk almost to succeeding daylight, those working men,\nliterally \"in their thousands\"--and not in the Trafalgar Square\ndiminutive of that expression--gathered to gratify themselves with the\nsight of the pageant. In comparison, the \"Boeuf Gras,\" which annually\nsends the gamins of Paris insane, is really a tasteful and refined\nexhibition. Yet there they were, women, men, and children--infants in\narms, too, to a notable extent--swarming along that vast thoroughfare,\nboozing outside the public-houses, investing their pence in\n\"scratch-backs\" and paper noses, feathers and decorations, as do their\nbetters on the course at Epsom, under the feeble excuse of \"waiting for\nthe boats.\" The first arrived en retour at Stratford Church about ten\no'clock; and certainly the appearance of the lumbering affair as it\nmoved along, with its rigging brought out by means of coloured fires,\nlanterns, and lamps, was odd enough. As soon as it passed me at\nStratford, I jumped outside one of the Bow and Stratford omnibuses, and\nso had an opportunity of following, or rather joining in, the procession\nas far as Whitechapel, where the \"boat\" turned off into Commercial Road.\nFor the whole of that space the footway was filled with one seething\nmass of humanity, and the publicans were driving a rattling trade\noutside and inside their establishments. As the glare of the coloured\nfires lighted up the pale faces of the crowd with a ghastly hue, and I\nheard the silly and too often obscene remarks bandied between the\nbystanders and the returning revellers, I could not help agitating the\nquestion, whether it would not be possible to devise some innocent\nrecreation, with a certain amount of refinement in it, to take the place\nof these--to say the best--foolish revelries. In point of fact, they are\nworse than foolish. Not only was it evident that the whole affair from\nbeginning to end, as far as adults were concerned, was an apotheosis of\ndrink; but amongst another section of the populace, the boys and girls,\nor what used to be boys and girls--for, as the Parisians say, \"Il n'y a\nplus de garcons\"--one must have been blind indeed not to see the\nmischief that was being done on those East End pavements; done more\nthoroughly perhaps, certainly on a vastly larger scale, than in the\npurlieus of the forest. It is an uninviting subject to dwell upon; but\none could understand all about baby farms, and Lock Hospitals, and\nContagious Diseases Acts, out there that July night, in the crowded\nstreets of East London.\n\nIt would be unfair to dilate upon these evils, and not to mention an\norganization which, for the last ten years, has been seeking to remedy\nthe mischief. Some hundreds of working men of a more serious stamp,\naided by a few gentlemen and ministers of various denominations, form\nthemselves into small bands of street preachers, and sallying forth in a\nbody, hold services and preach sermons at the most populous points of\nthe Fairlop route. Being curious to see the effect of their bold\nlabours--for it requires immense \"pluck\" to face a Whitechapel mob--I\njoined one of these detachments, where the Rev. Newman Hall was the\npreacher. Before starting, this gentleman gave it as the result of his\nlong experience with the British workman that there is no use in waiting\nfor him to come to church. If the church is to do anything with him, it\nmust go out and meet him in the streets and fields, as it originally\ndid. Mr. Hall gave some amusing illustrations of his experience at\nHastings, where, for several weeks, he had been preaching on the beach\nto large congregations. He was idling there, he said, for health's sake,\nand one evening, seeing a number of men loafing about, he proposed to\none of them that he should give them an address. This gentleman declined\nthe address, but added, characteristically enough, \"If ye'll gie me\nsome beer I'll drink it.\" Two others, being asked if they would listen,\n\"didn't know as they would.\" Under these unpromising auspices Mr. Hall\nbegan, and, attracting a crowd, was \"moved on\" by a policeman. A\ngentleman who recognised him proposed an adjournment to the beach, and\nthere a sermon was preached, and has been repeated by Mr. Hall on\nseveral occasions, with a congregation of thousands. He has a peculiar\nknack of speaking in a tongue \"understanded of the people,\" and his\naddress to the Fairlop crowd on that Friday night \"told\" considerably.\nAt its conclusion he quietly put on his hat, dropped into the crowd, and\nwent his way; but the tone of criticism amongst his hearers was very\nfavourable, and I quite agree with the critics that it's a pity we\nhaven't \"more parsons like that.\" It is not, however, simply by\nreligious zeal such a want as that to which I allude is to be supplied,\nbut by the substitution of some sensible recreation for the low\nattractions of the beershop and gin-palace. It is a problem worthy of\nour deepest thinkers: \"What shall we offer our huge populations in\nexchange for the silly pageant even now being enacted in the outskirts\nof the metropolis--which may well be taken to embody the pastime of the\nlower orders--Fairlop Fair?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nA CHRISTMAS DIP.\n\n\nThere are few more exhilarating things, on a breezy spring morning, than\na spurt across that wonderful rus in urbe--Kensington Gardens and Hyde\nPark--for a prospective dip in the Serpentine, where, at specified hours\nevery morning and evening, water-loving London is privileged to disport\nitself in its congenial element. So congenial is it, in fact, that some\nenthusiastic individuals do not limit themselves to warm summer\nmornings, or the cooler ones of springtide and autumn, but bathe all the\nyear round--even, it is said, when a way for their manoeuvres has to be\ncut through the ice. Skirting the north bank of the Serpentine at\nmorning or evening in the summer, the opposite shore appears absolutely\npink with nude humanity, the younger portion dancing and gambolling very\nmuch after the manner of Robinson Crusoe's cannibals. The bathers\noccasionally look a great deal better out of their integuments than in\nthem. Not from this class, however, do your all-the-year-round bathers\ncome. The Arab is an exotic--a child of the Sun, loving not to disport\nhimself in water the temperature of which shocks his tentative\nknuckles, as he dips them in the unaccustomed element. His wardrobe,\nagain, is too much after the fashion of that pertaining to Canning's\nneedy knife-grinder to make an al fresco toilette other than\nembarrassing. From the all-the-year-round bathers, as a nucleus, there\nhas grown up, within the last few years, the Serpentine Swimming Club;\nand on Christmas-day in the morning they have an annual match open to\nall comers--though, it need scarcely be said, patronized only by those\nwhom, for brevity's sake, we may term all-rounders.\n\nNow, I had often heard of this Christmas-day match, and as often, on\nChristmas-eve, made up my mind to go; but the evening's resolution faded\naway, as such resolutions have only too often been known to do, before\nthe morning's light. This year, however--principally, I believe, because\nI had been up very late the previous night--I struggled out of bed\nbefore dawn, and steered for the Serpentine. A crescent moon was\nshining, and stars studded the clear spaces between ominous patches of\ncloud. A raw, moist wind was blowing, and on the muddy streets were\nevident traces of a recent shower. I had no notion that the gates of\nKensington Gardens were open so early; and the sensation was novel as I\nthreaded the devious paths in morning dawn, and saw the gas still alight\nalong the Bayswater Road. A solitary thrush was whistling his Christmas\ncarol as I struggled over the inundated sward; presently the sun threw a\nfew red streaks along the East, over the Abbey Tower; but, until I had\npassed the Serpentine Bridge, not a single human being met my gaze.\nThere, however, I found some fifty men, mostly with a \"sporting\" look\nabout them. The ubiquitous boy was there, playing at some uncomfortable\ngame in the puddles round the seats. The inevitable dog stood pensively\nby the diving board; and when, by-and-by straggling all-rounders came\nand took their morning header, the quadruped rushed after them to the\nvery edge of the water, as though he had been a distinguished member of\nthe Humane Society. He shirked the element itself, however, as\nreligiously as though he had been one of London's great unwashed. In the\npause which preceded the race, I learned, from the Honorary Secretary of\nthe Serpentine Swimming Club, particulars of its history and of the race\nitself. For six years it had been merely a club race; but last year it\nwas thrown open. Strangely enough the race had never been won twice by\none man, though the competitors had been pretty much the same every\nyear. I also conversed with one of the intending competitors, who showed\nme on his breast with pardonable pride, five medals of the Royal Humane\nSociety, awarded for saving life in cases of danger from drowning. The\nwearer was a Professor of Natation, and told me that, among his pupils,\nhe had an old lady sixty-seven years of age, who had just commenced, and\nwas able to swim some twenty yards already. The brave old lady's\nexample may do good; though it is to be hoped that she may not, at her\ntime of life, be compelled to exert her art for her own protection.\n\nNames were now called, and fourteen competitors presented themselves--a\nmotley group, clad for the most part in trousers, horse-rug, and\nwide-awake, or, more simply still, in Ulster frieze coat only. The group\nof spectators had by this time grown to some hundreds, nearly all\ndirectly interested in the noble art; and the dips became fast and\nfrequent. Two flags were placed in the water at the distance of 100\nyards from the diving board; on this slender platform fourteen shivering\nspecimens of humanity ranged themselves, and at the word of the starter\nplunged into the water with that downward plunge so incomprehensible to\nthe uninitiated. A short, sharp struggle followed, the competitors\nswimming with the sidelong movement and obstreperous puffing which\nlikens the swimmer so closely to the traditional grampus. Eventually one\nof the group is seen heading the others, and breasting the water with\ncalm and equable stroke in the old-fashioned style. He reaches the flag\na full yard before his nearest antagonist. Numbers two and three,\nfollowing, are about half a yard apart. The others come in pretty much\nin a group. All were picked men, and there were no laggards. The names\nof the winners were as follows:--1. Ainsworth; 2. Quartermain; 3. H.\nCoulter. The time occupied in the race was 1 min. 24 sec. Immediately\nafter the race there was a rapid re-assumption of rugs and Ulsters,\nthough some of the more hardy walked about in the garb of Nature, making\neverybody shiver who looked at them. Finally, the prizes, consisting of\nthree handsome medals, were distributed by Mr. H. Bedford, who stood on\na park seat and addressed a few genial words to each of the successful\ncandidates; then, with a cheer, and frequent wishes for a Merry\nChristmas, the assembly resolved itself into its component parts.\n\nI had taken my accustomed cold tub before coming out, yet each of these\nfourteen devoted men appeared to me as a hero. They were not Herculean\nindividuals: several of them were mere youths. Some of the all-rounders\nwere grey-headed men, but there was about them all a freshness and\nruddiness which showed that their somewhat severe regimen agreed with\nthem. Fresh from such a Spartan exhibition, everything seemed very late\nand Sybaritic in my domestic establishment, and I could not help\nrevolving in my mind the question, what would one of these hardy\nall-the-year-rounders think of me if he knew I was ever guilty of such a\nmalpractice as breakfast in bed? It is a novel method; but there are\nmany worse ways of inaugurating the Great Holiday than by taking--what\nit had been a novel sensation for me even to witness--a Christmas Dip in\nthe Serpentine.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nBOXING-DAY ON THE STREETS.\n\n\nBoxing-day in the London streets, and especially a wet Boxing-day, can\nscarcely fail to afford us some tableaux vivants illustrative of English\nmetropolitan life. In a metaphorical and technical sense, Boxing-day is\nalways more or less \"wet\"--generally more, and not less; but this year\nthe expression is used climatically, and in its first intention.\nChristmas-eve of the year about which I write was bright and springlike;\nChristmas-day dismal, dark, and un-Christmas-like; but Boxing-day that\nyear was essentially muggy, sloppy, drizzly, and nasty. A day to avoid\nthe London streets if you want to take a romantic Rosa-Matilda view of\nLondon life; but the very day of all others, if you wish to see real\nLondon as it is. Boxing-day will inevitably be \"wetter\" in every sense\nthan usual this year, internally and externally. So let us commence our\nseries of living pictures at ten o'clock in the morning. Suppose we\nbegin with something that shall bear reference to the past festival--the\neve and the day of the Great Birth, recollect. See, here is Grotto\nPassage, Marylebone, and at its extremity Paradise Street--the names\nsound promising, but alas for the reality! We are going to turn for a\nmoment into the Marylebone Police Court, where Mr. D'Eyncourt is\ndispensing summary justice to the accumulations of the last two days.\nThese are the people who have been spending Christmas-eve,\nChristmas-day, and some portion of Boxing-day already in the\npolice-cells. Let us take one as a typical case. Let that poor little\neight-year-old Arab step down from the dock and go off with his mother,\nwho, we hope, will take the magistrate's excellent advice, and keep the\nchild from begging--that is why he has spent Christmas in the\ncells--lest he be sent to a school for eight years, and she have to pay\nfor him--God help her! she does not look as though she could afford very\nhigh terms. A bruised and bleeding woman, not young or good-looking,\nenters the box with her head bound up. Her lord and master confronts her\nin the dock. It is the \"old, old story.\" A drop of drink yesterday--the\nday of the Great Nativity, never forget--series of \"drops of drink\" all\nday long; and, at five o'clock, just when gentility was beginning to\nthink of dinner, the kitchen poker was used with frightful effect. A\ntriangular cut over the right eye, and another in the dangerous\nneighbourhood of the left ear, administered with that symbol of domestic\nbliss, the kitchen poker, sends the wife doubled up into a corner, with\nan infant of two years old in her arms. The head of the family goes out\nfor a walk after his exertions. The woman lies there bleeding until the\nneighbours hear her \"mourning,\" as she terms it--the result being that\nthe lord and master's \"constitutional\" is cut short by a policeman, and\nthe happy pair are this morning separated for six months, at the\nexpiration of which period Paterfamilias is to find surety for another\nsix months' good behaviour. Such, starred round with endless episodes of\n\"drunk and disorderly,\" \"foul language,\" and so on, is our first tableau\nthis Boxing-day. It is not a pleasant one. Let us pass on.\n\nAlong Oxford Street, despite the Bank Holidays Act, many shops are open,\nchiefly those devoted to the sale of articles eatable, drinkable, and\navoidable; these last being in the shape of chemists' shops, and shops\nfor Christmas presents--to be shunned by miserly old bachelors. Let us\nturn into the British Museum and see sensible, decorous Boxing-day\nthere. At the corner of Museum Street there is a lively itinerant\nmusician, evidently French, who plays the fiddle until his bow tumbles\nall to pieces, but he goes on playing with the stick as though nothing\nhad happened. When his instrument has come entirely to grief he turns to\na clarionet, which he carries under his arm, and plays \"Mourir pour la\nPatrie\" with extraordinary vocal effect and irreverent gestures.\nPunch-and-Judy is largely attended at the other end; Punch is\nkitchen-pokering his wife, too, like the gentleman we have just left;\nbut we pass in with the crowds to the Museum itself. Halting a moment\nin the reading-room, to jot down there a few notes, one is struck with\nthe scanty show of students. _They_ are spending Boxing-day somewhere\nelse. Passing through the little knot of people who are permitted by\nspecial order to come as far as the door of the reading-room, and who\nevidently regard the readers as some curious sort of animal exhibited\nfor their special delectation--perhaps the book-\"worm\" of which they\nhave heard so much--we go up the stairs, now thronged with crowds in\nunwonted broadcloth and fragrant with the odour of the inevitable\norange. Next to the drinking fountain, which is decidedly the chief\nattraction, comes the gorilla, and then the extinct animals. One stout\nold lady, contemplating the megatherium and mastodon, inquires in what\nparts \"them creeturs\" are to be found, and seems considerably damped by\nbeing informed that Nature has been \"out\" of such articles for several\naeons. The mummies, with the bones of their toes sticking out, also come\nin for a large share of admiration. There is a good deal of rough\nflirtation going on; but, on the whole, the pleasure is rather of a\nplacid order, though still contrasting favourably with the settled gloom\nvisible on the faces of the attendants in the various galleries. How\nwell we can understand such gloom! How utterly hateful must that giant\nelk and overgrown extinct armadillo be to a man condemned to spend a\nlifetime in their close contemplation!\n\nBut let us pass on to the artistic Boxing-day keepers at the National\nGallery. The walk will take us through the Seven Dials, and can scarcely\nfail to be suggestive. It is now one o'clock, the traditional hour of\ndinner; and in Broad Street, St. Giles's, I see, for the first time\nto-day, the human barometer evidently standing at \"much wet.\" A\ngentleman in a grey coat and red comforter, who bears palpable signs of\nhaving been more than once on his back, has just reached that perplexing\npoint of inebriety when he can walk quickly or run, but cannot stand\nstill or walk steadily. He is pursued by small children, mostly girls,\nafter whom, every now and then, he runs hopelessly, to their intense\ngratification. The poultry and bird shops in the Seven Dials are objects\nof some attraction, though they savour too much of \"business\" to be in\nvery great force. The National Gallery is crowded with unaccustomed art\nstudents. There is about the visitors a quiet air of doing their duty,\nand being determined to go through with it at any price. One\nbrazen-faced quean speculates audibly--in fact, very audibly--as to\nwhich \"picter\" she should choose if she had her \"pick,\" and decent\nmatrons pass the particularly High Art of the old masters with\nhalf-averted gaze, as though they were not quite sure of doing right in\ncountenancing such exhibitions. Hogarth's evergreen \"Marriage a la\nMode\" is a great centre of attraction, and the youngsters never tire of\nlistening, as \"with weeping and with laughter still is the story told\"\nover and over again by their elders. Gainsborough's likeness of Mrs.\nSiddons is also a great favourite; but perhaps the picture that attracts\nmost attention is Van Eyck's \"John Arnolfini, of Lucca, and his Wife.\"\nThe gentleman wears a portentous hat, which tickled the fancy of the\nBoxing-day people immensely. There were great speculations too among\nthem as to whether the curious Tuscan pictures at the top of the stairs\nwere \"needlework\" or not. Still, who shall say that these visitors were\nnot the better for their visit, surrounded as they were by forms of\nbeauty on every side, even if they did not examine them with the eyes of\nconnoisseurs?\n\nBoxing-day on the river: The silent street is almost deserted. There is\nno rush for the Express boat to-day. It is literally the\nstreets--muddier and sloppier than the Thames itself--that are the\nattraction. Some little boys are making the trip from Westminster to\nLondon Bridge as a treat; and it is an intense joke with them to pretend\nto be dreadfully seasick. Boxing-day in the City is synonymous with\nstagnation. It is a howling wilderness, with nobody to howl. On the\nMetropolitan Railway I verily believe travellers were tripping it like\nthe little boys on board the penny boat. And so theatre time draws on,\nand the interest of Boxing-day grows to a climax. Soon after five\no'clock groups furtively collect outside the playhouses, half-ashamed of\nbeing so early, but gathering courage from numbers to form the\ndisorderly queue, so unlike that of a Parisian theatre. Boxing-night in\nthe theatres others will describe. It is too much to expect of one whose\nmission has been the whole day long on the streets.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nTHE VIGIL OF THE DERBY.\n\n\nIn those days--happily now gone by--when public strangulation was the\nmode in Merry England, there was always an evident fascination\nappertaining to the spot where, on the morrow, some guilty wretch was to\nexpiate his crimes on the gallows. Long before the erection of that\nelegant apparatus commenced, and generally on a Sunday evening, when\ndecent citizens had newly come from houses of God, where they had heard\nthe message of life, crowds began to collect on that central spot in the\nheart of the great City dedicated to sudden and violent death. The\ncoming event seemed to cast its shadow before; and throughout the night\nthe roisterer or belated traveller made a detour to visit the human\nshambles. I confess to having felt the attraction. I could not then\nbring myself to be present at the strangulation proper; so, as the\nnearest approach to a \"sensation,\" sometimes visited Newgate on the eve\nof the victim elect's last morrow. In the same way, being unfortunate\nenough to be London-bound on the day of our great annual holiday, and\nhaving heard graphic accounts of the Downs on the eve of the Derby, I\ndetermined that year, as I could not go to the race by day, to visit the\nracecourse by night. Let me own the soft impeachment: I am not a racing\nman--not in any degree \"horsey.\" When I do go to the Derby it is to see\nthe bipeds rather than the quadrupeds; to empty the hamper from Fortnum\nand Mason's, rather than to study the \"names, weights, and colours of\nthe riders\" on the \"c'rect card.\" If you prefer to have the sentiment in\nLatin--and there is no doubt Latin does go much farther than English--I\nam not one of those \"quos pulverem Olympicum collegisse juvat,\" except\nin so far that \"homo sum; nihil humanum alienum a me puto.\" It was to\nsee humanity under a new aspect, I took the last train to Epsom on the\neve of the Derby.\n\nIn order to combine business with pleasure, and economy with both, I\ntook a third-class ticket at Victoria, and was fortunate enough to find\na compartment already partially occupied by a nigger troupe. In this,\nwhich under ordinary circumstances I should have avoided, I took my\nseat, and was regaled all the way down with choice morceaux from the\nrepertoire of my musical friends. The \"talking man\" of the party, too,\nenlivened the proceedings by anxiously inquiring of the porters at the\ndifferent stations what they would take in the way of refreshment, and\nissuing unlimited orders to imaginary waiters on their behoof. It was a\nstrange sensation, being whirled away from home and bed down to a wild\nheath towards midnight; and as we neared our destination, the air began\nto \"bite shrewdly,\" and the sky to look uncommonly like rain--a\ncontretemps which would have been fatal to my proposed experience. We\nhad to change carriages at Sutton, and here a sociable Aunt-Sally-man,\nstruggling under the implements of his craft, sought to beguile me from\nmy African friends by offers of a shake-down in his tent, with which he\nproposed to walk across from Ewell and erect, instead of journeying on\nto Epsom. My Ethiopian friends jumped at the proposal, and forthwith\nfraternized with Aunt Sally. I determined to follow out my previous\nplans; so having drunk to our next merry meeting, we parted, ostensibly\nuntil to-morrow, but, I fear, for ever.\n\nI had been led to expect \"high jinks\" at Epsom--a sort of Carnival in\nthe quiet town. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. The\ntown, so far as outward semblance went, was almost as quiet as ever. A\nfew sporting men thronged the bar of the principal hotel, and stragglers\nhung about the low beer-shops; but there was nothing at all to indicate\nthe imminence of the great event. So I fell back on my usual expedient\nof applying to the executive, and found not only an active and\nintelligent but exceedingly civil sergeant of police, to whom I told my\nerrand. He was pleased with the novelty of the idea, and as he happened\nto be then going the round of the town previously to visiting the\ncourse, I cast in my lot with him for the night. We first visited what\nhe termed the \"German Opera,\" on Epsom Common. This is an encampment of\norgan-grinders, hurdy-gurdy-players, German bands, &c., who pitch their\ntents here instead of going to the Downs. It was, however, rather late\nwhen we reached the spot where these artists were bivouacking, and they\nhad retired for the night, so we could not form much idea of them beyond\ntheir numbers, which seemed considerable, and their odour, which was\nunfragrant. Thence we passed down a short alley to a railway arch, which\nwas aglow with many fires, and rang with the sounds of many voices.\nBidding me make no observation, whatever might be said, and requesting\nme to try and look like an officer in plain clothes, my cicerone led me\ninto the strange arcade, which I certainly could not have entered\nwithout his protection. Hundreds of men, women, and boys were gathered\nin groups round coke fires, some partaking of coffee, others singing,\nthe majority sleeping. After satisfying himself that the fires were\nlegitimate ones, and not composed of broken fences, my guide left this\nteeming hive unmolested. We then steered for the course, not by the high\nroad, but skirting it along the fields. The policeman, like myself,\ncarried a stout stick, which really seemed to be endowed with creative\npowers that night. Wherever he poked that staff--and he did poke it\neverywhere--a human being growled, or snored, or cursed. Every bush\nalong the hedgerow bore its occupant--often its group of four or five,\nsometimes a party of a dozen or a score. One shed filled with carts\nyielded at least a hundred, though the sergeant informed me it must have\nbeen already cleared several times that evening, as he had a file of men\nalong the road, besides a cordon inside the Park palings, which border a\ngreat portion of it. It is with these palings the tramps chiefly do\nmischief, pulling them down to make fires along their route. Wherever my\nguide found these, he trampled the fires remorselessly out, and kicked\nthe burning embers over the sleepers in a manner that must have been\nuncomfortable. The men submitted in comparative silence; but the\nladies--where there happened to be any--exerted the privilege of their\nsex, and treated us to some choice specimens of the vernacular. In one\ncase, a female cried out that he was kicking the fire over the\n\"childer;\" and, sure enough, we found half-a-dozen little ones huddled\nup asleep. The policeman remonstrated with her for bringing them to such\na place; but she informed us it was to \"make their living.\" In what way,\nshe did not add. To us, it seemed very much like reversing the process,\nand causing their death. Fancy young children camping out on the road to\nthe Downs at midnight! Boys of thirteen and fourteen abounded, sleeping\nin large groups along the hedgerows, and sometimes out in the open\nfields, where the dew lay thick.\n\nAt length, after many windings, we reached the Downs. The white booths,\nfollowing the direction of the course in their sinuous lines, looked\nlike stately white marble streets and crescents in the dim, uncertain\nlight of that hour which, between May 31 and June 1, is neither day nor\nnight. Under the stands and around the booths, tabernacling beneath\ncostermongers' barrows, and even lying out openly sub dio, were still\nthe hundreds of human beings. In one small drinking booth was a sight\nthe policeman said he had never seen equalled in his twenty years'\nexperience. A long, narrow table ran down the centre, with benches on\neach side. The table itself was occupied with recumbent figures; on the\nbenches the sleepers sat, bending forward over it, and under the benches\nsleepers sprawled upon the grass. The whole of the front of the booth\nwas open, and exposed to the biting wind; but there they snored as\ncalmly as though on eider-down. We climbed the steps of the stand above\nthe ring, and waited for the day, which slowly broke to the song of the\nlark and nightingale over that strange scene. With the first suspicion\nof dawn the sleepers awoke and got up; what for I cannot imagine. It was\nbarely two o'clock, and how they were going to kill the next twelve\nhours I could not guess. Rise they did however, and an itinerant vendor\nof coffee, who was literally up with the lark, straightway began to\ndrive a roaring trade. I saw no stronger drink than this consumed; nor\ndid I witness a single case of drunkenness during the whole night. But\nthis was before the Derby! At this juncture we were all surprised by the\napparition of a hansom-lamp toiling up the hill. Two adventurous\ngentlemen from Liverpool, it appeared, had arrived at the Euston\nStation, and insisted upon being driven at once to an hotel on Epsom\nDowns. The Jehu, secure of a fabulous fare, drove them accordingly; and,\nof course, had to drive them back again to Epsom--the hotels on the\nDowns quietly but firmly declining to be knocked up at that untimely\nhour even by gentlemen from Liverpool. As the sun showed his first\nup-slanting rays above the horizon, with the morning star hanging\nimpertinently near, the two gipsy encampments began to exhibit signs of\nlife. The Zingari encamp exclusively by themselves, and some picturesque\nspecimens of the male sex, looking remarkably like the lively photograph\nof the Greek brigands, showed themselves on the outskirts. The ladies\nreserved themselves for later in the day. My guide cautioned me not to\nattempt to enter the encampment, as the men are dangerous, and their\nposition on the Downs a privileged one. It was only when the tramps were\ntrespassing, or evidently bent on mischief, that they were disturbed. On\nthe Downs they were monarchs of all they surveyed.\n\nWhen the sun was fairly up, and the morning mists rolled away from those\nglorious Downs, I felt my mission accomplished. I had seen the sun rise\non Epsom course. As it was many hours before a train would return, and\nI still felt fresh, I resolved to give the coup de grace to my night's\nadventure by walking home--at least, walking to the radius of workmen's\ntrains. The vanguard of the Derby procession now began to show strongly\nin the shape of the great unwashed climbing the ridge of the hill by the\npaddock; and I felt I should see some characteristic sights along the\nroad. Bidding good-bye, therefore, to my guide at Epsom, I set out on\nfoot along the now-populous road, mine being the only face turned\nLondon-wards. Carts laden with trestles and boards for stands now began\nto be in force. By-and-by the well-known paper bouquets and outrageous\nhead-gear showed themselves as forming the cargo of costermongers'\ncarts. The travellers were all chatty, many of them chaffy. Frequent\nwere the inquiries I had to answer as to the hour and the distance to\nthe course. Occasionally a facetious gentleman anxiously inquired\nwhether it was all over, as I was returning? I believe the majority\nlooked upon me as a harmless lunatic, since I was travelling away from\nEpsom on the Derby morning, and pitied me accordingly. An Irishman aptly\nillustrated the genial character of Hibernian chaff as compared with\nEnglish. \"Good day to your honner!\" he said. \"It does me good to see\nyour honner's happy face again;\" though, of course, he had never seen it\nbefore. As I passed on with a brief salutation, he took the trouble to\nrun after me, and slapping me on the shoulder, added, in a beautiful\nbrogue: \"Wait a minnit; I don't want to ax you for anything, but only to\ntell you how glad I am to see yer honner's happy face agin. Good\nmornin'!\"\n\nSo through Ewell, Cheam, and Morden, up to Tooting; the throng\nincreasing at every mile. At Balham, finding no train for an hour, I\nfooted it again. I found preparations for endless Aunt Sally already\nbeing made on Clapham Common. Soon after six, I jumped into a train on\nthe London, Chatham, and Dover, and came home \"with the milk;\" having\nnot only had a healthy night's exercise--for the weather had all along\nbeen splendid--but having added to my experiences of London life one new\n\"wrinkle\" at least: I had seen the life of St. Giles's kitchen and\nBethnal Green lodging-house a la campagne. What I had already seen under\nthe garish candlelight of the Seven Dials and Commercial Road I saw\ngilded into picturesqueness by that glorious and never-to-be-forgotten\nsunrise on Epsom Downs which ushered in the Derby Day.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\nTHE WIFESLAYER'S \"HOME.\"\n\n\nThere is something very weird and strange in that exceptional avocation\nwhich takes one to-day to a Lord Mayor's feast or a croquet tournament,\nto-morrow to a Ritualistic service, next day to the home of a homicide.\nI am free to confess that each has its special attractions for me. I am\nvery much disposed to \"magnify my office\" in this respect, not from any\nfoolish idea that I am \"seeing life,\" as it is termed, but still from a\nfeeling that the proper study of mankind _is_ man in all his varied\naspects.\n\nIt need not always be a morbid feeling that takes one to the scene of a\nmurder or other horrible event, though, as we well know, the majority of\nthose who visit such localities do go out of mere idle curiosity. It may\nbe worth while, however, for some who look a little below the surface of\nthings, to gauge, as it were, the genius loci, and see whether, in the\ninfluences surrounding the spot and its inhabitants there be anything to\nafford a clue as to the causes of the crime.\n\nIn summing up the evidence concerning a certain tragedy at Greenwich,\nwhere a man killed his wife by throwing a knife, the coroner \"referred\nto the horrible abode--a coal cellar--in which the family, nine in\nnumber, had resided, which was unfit for human habitation, and ought to\nhave been condemned by the parish authorities.\" Having seen and\ndescribed in these pages something of how the poor are housed in the\ncellars of St. Giles's and Bethnal Green, and traced the probable\ninfluences of herding together the criminal and innocent in the low\nlodging-houses, it occurred to me to visit the scene of this awful\noccurrence, and see how far the account given before the coroner's jury\nwas correct.\n\nWith this view I took the train to Greenwich, and, consulting the first\npoliceman I met, was by him directed to Roan Street as the scene of the\ntragedy. Roan Street I found to be a somewhat squalid by-street, running\nout of Skelton Street, close--it seemed significantly close--to the old\nparish church. One could not help thinking of the familiar proverb, \"The\nnearer the church, the farther from God.\" The actual locality is called\nMunyard's Row, being some dozen moderate-sized houses in Roan Street,\nlet out in lodgings, the particular house in question being again, with\na horrible grotesqueness, next door but one to a beer-shop called the\n\"Hit or Miss!\" I expected to find Roan Street the observed of all\nobservers, but the nine days' wonder was over since what Dickens called\nthe \"ink-widge.\" Indeed, a homicide has ceased to be a nine days'\nwonder now. This only happened on Saturday; and when I was there, on the\nfollowing Wednesday, Roan Street had settled down into its wonted\nrepose. A woman with a child was standing on the door-step, and, on my\ninquiring if I could see the kitchen, referred me to Mrs. Bristow at the\nchandler's shop, who farms the rent of these populous tenements; for\nMunyard's Row is peopled \"from garret to basement,\" and a good way\nunderground too.\n\nMrs. Bristow, a civil, full-flavoured Irishwoman, readily consented to\nact cicerone, and we went through the passage into the back garden,\nwhere all the poor household furniture of the homicide's late \"home\" was\nstacked. It did not occupy a large space, consisting only of the\nbedstead on which the poor woman sat when the fatal deed was done, two\nrickety tables, and two chairs. These were all the movables of a family\nof nine. The mattress was left inside--too horrible a sight, after what\nhad taken place, to be exposed to the light of day.\n\nWe passed--Honora Bristow and myself--with a \"gossip\" or two, who had\ncome to see what I was after, into the back kitchen, for the wifeslayer\nhad two rooms en suite, though the family elected to occupy only one.\nThe floor of this apartment was either mother earth, or, if flagged, so\ngrimed with filth as to be a very fair resemblance of the soil. Here\nstood only that terrible memento, the drenched mattress. In the front\nkitchen--which, let me state, would have been palatial in comparison\nwith the Seven Dials or Spitalfields, had it been only clean--there was\nvery little light, for the window, which was well down below the surface\nof the pavement, had not a whole pane in it, and the broken ones had\nbeen stuffed up with old rags which were very protuberant indeed. That\nwindow alone would show that the menage had not been a judicious one.\n\n\"He was a quiet man,\" said Honora, \"and gave trouble to no one. He and\nhis wife never had a word.\" The gossips all believed that the story of\nthe throwing the knife was true, notwithstanding the medical evidence\nwent against it. The boy of twelve, who provoked the father to throw the\nknife, was evidently the incubus of the wretched home. \"Almost before\nthe breath was out of his mother, that boy was searching about the bed\nto see if he could find any ha'pence,\" said Honora. That boy was\nevidently not satisfactory. His evidence was refused by the Coroner,\nbecause he could not read or write. But then what had been the child's\nsurroundings? They have been described above. The man himself had a\npatriarchal family of seven, from a girl of seventeen down to a baby of\ntwo, and all, as we have seen, slept in one room, though there were two,\nand though a bucket of whitewash would have made the pair habitable,\nbesides giving the lad some useful employment.\n\nThe father was of no particular occupation, picking up odd jobs, and\nleaning largely to the shrimp trade. He stood high in Honora Bristow's\nregards as having regularly paid his _1s. 9d._ a week for five years,\nor, at least, being some _5s._ behind now; a sum which will probably be\ncovered by the chattels in the back garden. The poor home was silent\nthen. The mother lay calmly in the dead-house, after the post-mortem\nexamination, \"terrible cut and hacked about,\" said the one gossip who\nhad ventured to go and see her quondam friend. The father was in\nMaidstone Gaol. The little children were being taken care of by the\ngrandmother until such time as the mother should have been buried, when\nthey would gravitate to the workhouse.\n\nIn the meantime the boy, aet. twelve, the cause of all the mischief,\ndisports himself in Munyard's Row as though nothing had happened.\nPerhaps he is the most difficult part of the problem; but the whole\nquestion of the home is a puzzling one. The boy is evidently the product\nof the home. It very much concerns the community that such produce\nshould become extinct; and therefore the sooner some improvements can be\nintroduced into such homes the better. In the first place, there is\ndecidedly too little light. Sunshine, under any circumstances, would\nhave been impossible there. The advisability of human beings burrowing\nunderground may be questioned, whether in cellars or genteel underground\nkitchens.\n\nThen again, one bedroom--nay, one bedstead--for father, mother, and\nseven children ranging from seventeen to two is decidedly deficient.\nThis sounds almost too horrible to be true; but I was careful to\nascertain that the eldest girl, though in domestic service in Greenwich,\nslept at the \"home.\" More horrible still is the fact disclosed, that\nthey had a second room, yet had not the decency to use it. \"De mortuis\nnil nisi bonum.\" They lived according to their light; but they had very\nlittle light, literally or figuratively. Surely we want to teach our\npoor the simple rules of hygiene. One of the gossips, a clean, healthy\nlittle woman, with a fine baby at her breast, referred with pride to her\npoor kitchen, identical in all respects, save dirt, with the home.\n\nThen, again, there was one thing that struck me forcibly, and that was\nthe sort of qualified reprobation with which these good gossips--really\ndecent people in their way--spoke of the habit of throwing knives.\nHonora had once thrown one at her daughter of eighteen, but never meant\nto do so again. And all this under the bells of the old parish church of\nGreenwich in the year of grace 1870!\n\nClearly, however, the first question is what to do with the boy, aet.\ntwelve. Comporting himself as he did in the face of the awful tragedy he\nhad caused, this young gentleman must clearly not be lost sight of, or\nit will be the worse for himself and those with whom he is brought into\ncontact. Nay, in a few years, he will become a centre of influence, and\nradiate around him another such \"home,\" worse, perhaps, than the first.\n\nLet our Social Science so far break through the programme it may have\nlaid down as to touch on this very appropriate subject of squalid homes,\nand its next sitting may be a very useful one indeed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nBATHING IN THE FAR EAST.\n\n\nVisions of Oriental splendour and magnificence float across the\nimagination at the mere mention of the storied East. Soaring above all\nthe routine of ordinary existence and the commonplaces of history, that\ncreative faculty within us pictures Pactolus with its golden sands; or\nrecalls from the legendary records of childhood the pomp of Aladdin's\nPrincess going to her luxurious bath; or brings back to mind the almost\nprosaic minuteness with which the Greek poet describes the bath of\nUlysses when he returned from his wanderings. In the East the bath has\never been an institution--not merely a luxury, but a necessity; and it\nis a proof of the eclectic tendencies of our generation that we have\ndomesticated here in the West that great institution, the Hammam, or\nTurkish bath, which the Romans were wise enough to adopt, after their\nEastern experience, more than two thousand years ago. Of none of these\nOriental splendours, however, has the present narrative to tell. I ask\nthose interested in social questions to take a very early Sunday\nexpedition to the East End of London, and catch a glimpse of those whom,\nafter what I have to relate, it would be libel to call the \"Great\nUnwashed.\" We will look at East London engaged in the interesting\nprocess of performing its ablutions.\n\nVery enjoyable is a Saturday afternoon stroll in Victoria Park. Those\ngentlemen of London who sit at home at ease are apt to think of the East\nEnd as a collection of slums, with about as much breathing space for its\ncongregated thousands as that supplied to the mites in a superannuated\nCheshire cheese. Let us pass through Bethnal Green Road, and, leaving\nbehind the new Museum, go under a magic portal into the stately acres\nwhich bear the name of our Sovereign. On our right is the Hospital for\nDiseases of the Chest, of which the foundation-stone was laid by the\nPrince Consort, and the new wing of which our Orientals hope one day to\nsee opened by her Majesty in person. Most convincing test of all is the\nsituation of this Consumptive Hospital--showing the salubrity of the\nEastern breezes. Inside the imposing gate the visitor will find\nextensive cricket-grounds interspersed with broad pastures, whose flocks\nare the reverse of Arcadian in hue. Cricket-balls whiz about us like\nshells at Inkermann; and the suggestive \"Thank you\" of the scouts forces\nthe passer-by into unwonted activity as he shies the ball to the bowler.\nThen there are roundabouts uncountable, and gymnasia abundant. There are\nbosquets for the love-makers, and glassy pools, studded with islands\ninnumerable, over which many a Lady of the Lake steers her shallop,\nwhile Oriental sailor-boys canoe wildly along. There are flower-beds\nwhich need not blush to be compared with Kew or the Crystal Palace. But\nit is not with such that we are now concerned. On one of those same\nlakes over which, on Saturday evening, sailors in embryo float their\nmimic craft--and one young gentleman, slightly in advance of the rest,\ndirects a very miniature steamship--we see boards suggesting that daily,\nfrom four to eight A.M., the Orientals may immerse themselves in the\nlimpid and most tempting waters. The depth, they are paternally\ninformed, increases towards the centre, buoys marking where it is six\nfeet; so that our Eastern friends have no excuse for suicide by\ndrowning.\n\nEast London birds are early birds, and to catch them at their bath you\nmust be literally up with the lark. Towards six o'clock is the most\nfashionable hour for our metropolitan Pactolus; and, as it is some miles\ndistant from what can, by any stretch of courtesy, be called the West\nEnd, and as there are no workmen's trains on a Sunday morning, a long\nwalk or cab drive is inevitable for all who would witness the disporting\nof our amphibious Orientals. Rising thus betimes on a recent \"Sunday\nmorning before the bells did ring,\" I sped me to the bathing pond,\njudiciously screened off by shrubs from the main path. It was between\nthe appointed hours that I arrived; and, long before I saw anything, the\nringing laughter of the young East reached me through the shrubs.\nThreading the path which led to the lake, I found the water literally\nalive with men, boys, and hobbledehoys, revelling in the water like\nyoung hippopotami on the Nile. Boys were largely in the ascendant--boys\nfrom ten to fifteen years of age swam like young Leanders, and sunned\nthemselves on the bank, in the absence of towels, as the preparative to\ndressing, or smoked their pipes in a state of nature. It is only just to\nsay that while I remained, I heard little if any language that could be\ncalled \"foul.\" Very free and easy, of course, were the remarks, and\nlargely illustrative of the vulgar tongue; not without a share of light\nchaff directed against myself, whose presence by the lake-side puzzled\nmy young friends. I received numerous invitations to \"peel\" and have a\ndip; and one young urchin assured me in the most patronizing way\npossible that he \"wouldn't laugh at me\" if I could not get on. The\nlanguage may not have been quite so refined as that which I heard a few\ndays before from the young gentlemen with tall hats and blue ties at\nLord's; but I do say advisedly that it would more than bear comparison\nwith that of the bathers in the Serpentine, where my ears have often\nbeen assailed with something far worse than anything I heard in East\nLondon. In the matter of clothes, too, the apparel of our young friends\nwas indeed Eastern in its simplicity; yet they left it unprotected on\nthe bank with a confidence that did honour to our common humanity in\ngeneral, and to the regulations of Victoria Park in particular. Swimming\nin some sort was almost universal among the bathers, showing that their\nvisit to the water was not an isolated event in their existence, but a\nconstant as it is a wholesome habit. The Oriental population were for\nthe most part apparently well fed; and one saw there lithe and active\nframes, either careering gracefully along in the old style of swimming,\nor adopting the new and scientific method which causes the human form\ndivine to approach very nearly to the resemblance of a rather excited\ngrampus.\n\nBut inexorable Time warns the youthful bathers that they must sacrifice\nto the Graces; and some amusing incidents occur during the process.\nGenerally speaking, though the amount of attire is not excessive,\nconsiderable effort in the way of pinning and hitching is required to\nget things in their proper places. A young gentleman was reduced to\ninexpressible grief, and held up to the scorn of his fellow-bathers, by\nthe fact that, in the course of his al fresco toilette, one of his feet\nwent through his inexpressibles in an honourable quarter, instead of\nproceeding by the proper route; the error interested his friends\nvastly--for they are as critical as the most fastidious could be of any\nsingularity in attire, and they held the unfortunate juvenile in his\nembarrassing position for a long time, to his intense despair, until he\nwas rescued from his ignoble position by some grown-up friend. Then,\nthe young East is prone to the pleasures of tobacco. It was, I presume,\nbefore breakfast with most of the bathers, and smoking under those\nconditions is a trial even to the experienced. Some, pale from their\nlong immersion--for theirs was no transient dip--grew paler still after\nthey had discussed the pipe or cigar demanded of them by rigorous\ncustom. Fashion reigns supreme among the gamins of the East as well as\namong the ladies of the West. Off they went, however, cleaner and\nfresher than before--tacitly endorsing by their matutinal amusement the\nmotto that has come down from the philosopher of old, and even now\nreigns supreme from Bermondsey to Belgravia, that \"water is a most\nexcellent thing.\"\n\nThe day may arrive perhaps when, having embanked the Thames, we shall\nfollow suit to the Seine and the Rhine, by tenanting it with cheap baths\nfor the many. Until we do so, the stale joke of the \"Great Unwashed\"\nrecoils upon ourselves, and is no less symptomatic of defective sanitary\narrangements than the possibility of a drought in Bermondsey. But we are\nforgetting our bathers. They have gone, leaving the place to\nsolitude--some, I hope, home to breakfast, others out among the\nflower-walks or on the greensward. It is a gloomy, overcast, muggy,\nunseasonable July morning; and the civil attendant by the lake-side\ntells me that the gathering has not been so large as usual. The young\nOrientals--as is the custom of their race--love sunshine. They get\nlittle enough of it, Heaven knows. The next bright Sunday morning, any\none who happens to be awake between the hours mentioned, and who would\nlike to add to his experiences of metropolitan existence, may do a worse\nthing, and see many a less pleasant sight, than if he hailed a hansom\nand drove by the principal entrance of Victoria Park to our Eastern\nBath.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\nAMONG THE QUAKERS.\n\n\nThere is no more engaging or solemn subject of contemplation than the\ndecay of a religious belief. Right or wrong, by that faith men have\nlived and died, perhaps for centuries; and one cannot see it pass out\nfrom the consciousness of humanity without something more than a cursory\nthought as to the reasons of its decadence. Being led by exceptional\ncauses to take a more than common interest in those forms of belief\nwhich lie beyond the pale of the Church of England, I was attracted by a\nnotice in the public journals that on the following morning the Society\nof Friends would assemble from all parts of England and open a\nConference to inquire into the causes which had brought about the\nimpending decay of their body. So, then, the fact of such decay stood\nconfessed. In most cases the very last persons to realize the unwelcome\ntruth are those who hold the doctrines that are becoming effete.\nQuakerism must, I felt, be in a very bad condition indeed when its own\ndisciples called together a conference to account for its passing away.\nNeither men nor communities, as a rule, act crowner's 'quest on their\nown decease. That faith, it was clear, must be almost past praying for\nwhich, disbelieving, as our modern Quietism does, the efficacy of\nassemblies, and trusting all to the inward illumination of individuals,\nshould yet summon a sort of Quaker Oecumenical Council. I thought I\nshould like to probe this personal light myself, and by inquiring of one\nor two of the members of the body, learn what they thought of the\nmatter. I was half inclined to array myself in drab, and _tutoyer_ the\nfirst of the body I chanced to encounter in my walks abroad. But then it\noccurred to me how very seldom one did meet a Quaker nowadays except in\nthe \"month of Maying.\" I actually had to cast about for some time before\nI could select from a tolerably wide and heterogeneous circle of\nacquaintance two names of individuals belonging to the Society of\nFriends; though I could readily remember half a dozen of every other\nculte, from Ultramontanes down to Jumpers. These two, at all events, I\nwould \"interview,\" and so forestall the Conference with a little select\nsynod of my own.\n\nIt was possible, of course, to find a ludicrous side to the question;\nbut, as I said, I approached it seriously. Sydney Smith, with his\nincorrigible habit of joking, questioned the existence of Quaker\nbabies--a position which, if proven, would, of course, at once account\nfor the diminution of adult members of the sect. It was true I had never\nseen a Quaker infant; but I did not therefore question their existence,\nany more than I believed postboys and certain humble quadrupeds to be\nimmortal because I had never seen a dead specimen of either. The\nquestion I acknowledged at once to be a social and religious, not a\nphysiological one. Why is Quakerism, which has lived over two hundred\nyears, from the days of George Fox, and stood as much persecution as any\nsystem of similar age, beginning to succumb to the influences of peace\nand prosperity? Is it the old story of Capua and Cannae over again?\nPerhaps it is not quite correct to say that it is now beginning to\ndecline; nor, as a fact, is this Conference the first inquiry which the\nbody itself has made into its own incipient decay. It is even said that\nsymptoms of such an issue showed themselves as early as the beginning of\nthe eighteenth century; and prize essays have been from time to time\nwritten as to the causes, before the Society so far fell in with the\ncustoms of the times as to call a council for the present very difficult\nand delicate inquiry. The first prize essay by William Rountree\nattributes the falling off to the fact that the early Friends, having\nmagnified a previously slighted truth--that of the Indwelling Word--fell\ninto the natural error of giving it an undue place, so depriving their\nrepresentations of Christian doctrine of the symmetry they would\notherwise have possessed, and influencing their own practices in such a\nway as to contract the basis on which Christian fellowship rests. A\nsecond prize essay, called \"The Peculium,\" takes a still more practical\nview, and points out in the most unflattering way that the Friends, by\neliminating from their system all attention to the arts, music, poetry,\nthe drama, &c., left nothing for the exercise of their faculties save\neating, drinking, and making money. \"The growth of Quakerism,\" says Mr.\nT. Hancock, the author of this outspoken essay, \"lies in its\nenthusiastic tendency. The submission of Quakers to the commercial\ntendency is signing away the life of their own schism. Pure enthusiasm\nand the pursuit of money (which _is_ an enthusiasm) can never coexist,\nnever co-operate; but,\" he adds, \"the greatest loss of power reserved\nfor Quakerism is the reassumption by the Catholic Church of those\nCatholic truths which Quakerism was separated to witness and to\nvindicate.\"\n\nI confess myself, however, so far Quaker too that I care little for the\nwritten testimony of friends or foes. I have, in all my religious\nwanderings and inquiries, adopted the method of oral examination; so I\nfound myself on a recent November morning speeding off by rail to the\noutskirts of London to visit an ancient Quaker lady whom I knew very\nslenderly, but who I had heard was sometimes moved by the spirit to\nenlighten a little suburban congregation, and was, therefore, I felt the\nvery person to enlighten me too, should she be thereunto moved. She was\na venerable, silver-haired old lady, clad in the traditional dress of\nher sect, and looking very much like a living representation of\nElizabeth Fry. She received me very cordially; though I felt as if I\nwere a fussy innovation of the nineteenth century breaking in upon the\nsacred, old-fashioned quiet of her neat parlour. She \"thee'd and thou'd\"\nme to my heart's content: and--to summarize the conversation I held with\nher--it was to the disuse of the old phraseology and the discarding of\nthe peculiar dress that she attributed most of the falling off which she\nwas much too shrewd a woman of the world to shut her eyes to. These\nwere, of course, only the outward and visible signs of a corresponding\nchange within; but this was why the Friends fell off, and gravitated, as\nshe confessed they were doing, to steeple-houses, water-dipping, and\nbread-and-wine-worship. She seemed to me like a quiet old Prophetess\nAnna chanting a \"Nunc Dimittis\" of her own on the passing away of her\nfaith. She would be glad to depart before the glory had quite died out.\nShe said she did not hope much from the Conference, and, to my\namazement, rather gloried in the old irreverent title given by the\nIndependents to her forefathers from their \"quaking and trembling\" when\nthey heard the Word of God, though she preferred still more the older\ntitle of \"Children of the Light.\" She was, in fact, a rigid old\nConservative follower of George Fox, from the top of her close-bordered\ncap to the skirts of her grey silk gown. I am afraid my countenance\nexpressed incredulity as to her rationale of the decay; for, as I rose\nto go, she said, \"Thou dost not agree, friend, with what I have said to\nthee--nay, never shake thy head; it would be wonderful if thou didst,\nwhen our own people don't. Stay; I'll give thee a note to my son in\nLondon, though he will gainsay much of what I have told thee.\" She gave\nme the letter, which was just what I wanted, for I felt I had gained\nlittle beyond a pleasant experience of old-world life from my morning's\njaunt. I partook of her kindly hospitality, was shown over her\nparticularly cosy house, gardens, and hothouses, and meditated, on my\nreturn journey, upon many particulars I learnt for the first time as to\nthe early history of Fox; realizing what a consensus there was between\nthe experiences of all illuminati. I smiled once and again over the\nquaint title of one of Fox's books which my venerable friend had quoted\nto me--viz., \"A Battle-door for Teachers and Professors to learn Plural\nand Singular. _You_ to _Many_, and _Thou_ to _One_; Singular, One,\n_Thou_; Plural, Many, _You_.\" While so meditating, my cab deposited me\nat the door of a decidedly \"downy\" house, at the West End, where my\nprospective friend was practising in I will not mention which of the\nlearned professions. Both the suburban cottage of the mother and the\nLondon menage of the son assured me that they had thriven on Quakerism;\nand it was only then I recollected that a poor Quaker was as rare a\npersonage as an infantile member of the Society.\n\nThe young man--who neither in dress, discourse, nor manner differed\nfrom an ordinary English gentleman--smiled as he read his mother's\nlines, and, with a decorous apology for disturbing the impressions which\nher discourse might have left upon me, took precisely the view which had\nbeen latent in my own mind as to the cause of the Society's decay.\nThoroughly at one with them still on the doctrine of the illuminating\npower of the Spirit in the individual conscience, he treated the archaic\ndress, the obsolete phraseology, the obstinate opposition to many\ninnocent customs of the age, simply as anachronisms. He pointed with\npride to the fact that our greatest living orator was a member of the\nSociety; and claimed for the underlying principle of Quakerism--namely,\nthe superiority of a conscience void of offence over written scripture\nor formal ceremony--the character of being in essence the _broadest_\ncreed of Christendom. Injudicious retention of customs which had grown\nmeaningless had, he felt sure, brought down upon the body that most\nfatal of all influences--contempt. \"You see it in your own Church,\" he\nsaid. \"There is a school which, by reviving obsolete doctrines and\npractices, will end in getting the Church of England disestablished as\nit is already disintegrated. You see it even in the oldest religion of\nall--Judaism. You see, I mean, a school growing into prominence and\npower which discards all the accumulations of ages, and by going back to\nreal antiquity, at once brings the system more into unison with the\ncentury, and prevents that contempt attaching to it which will accrue\nwherever a system sets its face violently against the tone of current\nsociety.\" He thought the Conference quite unnecessary. \"There needs no\nghost come from the dead to tell us that, Horatio,\" he said, cheerily.\n\"They will find out that Quakerism is not a proselytizing religion,\" he\nadded; \"which, of course, we knew before. They will point to the\nfashionable attire, the gold rings, and lofty chignons of our younger\nsisters as direct defiance of primitive custom. I am unorthodox\nenough\"--and he smiled as he used that word--\"to think that the attire\nis more becoming to my younger sisters, just as the Society's dress is\nto my dear mother.\" That young man, and the youthful sisters he told me\nof, stood as embodied answers to the question I had proposed to myself.\nThey were outward and visible evidences of the doctrine of Quaker\n\"development.\" The idea is not dead. The spirit is living still. It is\nthe spirit that underlies all real religion--namely, the personal\nrelation of the human soul to God as the source of illumination. That\nyoung man was as good a Quaker at heart as George Fox or William Penn\nthemselves; and the \"apology\" he offered for his transformed faith was a\nbetter one than Barclay's own. I am wondering whether the Conference\nwill come to anything like so sensible a conclusion as to why Quakerism\nis declining.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\nPENNY READINGS.\n\n\nWho has ever penetrated beneath the surface of clerical society--meaning\nthereby the sphere of divinities (mostly female) that doth hedge a\ncurate of a parish--without being sensible of the eligibility of Penny\nReadings for a place in Mystic London? When the Silly Season is at its\nvery bathos; when the monster gooseberries have gone to seed and the\nshowers of frogs ceased to fall; after the matrimonial efforts of\nMargate or Scarborough, and before the more decided business of the\nChristmas Decorations, then there is deep mystery in the penetralia of\nevery parish. The great scheme of Penny Readings is being concocted, and\nall the available talent of the district--all such as is \"orthodox\" and\n\"correct\"--is laid under contribution.\n\nIt is true to a proverb that we English people have a knack of doing the\nbest possible things in the worst possible way; and that not\nunfrequently when we do once begin doing them we do them to death. It\ntakes some time to convince us that the particular thing is worth doing\nat all; but, once persuaded, we go in for it with all our British might\nand main. The beard-and-moustache movement was a case in point. Some\nyears ago a moustache was looked upon by serious English people as\ndecidedly reckless and dissipated. A beard was fit only for a bandit.\nNowadays, the mildest youth in the Young Men's Christian Association may\nwear a moustache without being denounced as \"carnal,\" and paterfamilias\nrevels in the beard of a sapeur, no misopogon daring to say him nay. To\nno \"movement,\" however, does the adage \"Vires acquirit eundo\" apply more\nthoroughly than to that connected with \"Penny Readings.\" Originally\ncropping up timidly in rustic and suburban parishes, it has of late\ntaken gigantic strides, and made every parish where it does _not_ exist,\nrural or metropolitan, very exceptional indeed. There was a sound\nprinciple lying at the bottom of the movement, in so far as it was\ndesigned to bring about a fusion of classes; though, perhaps, it\ninvolved too much of an assumption that the \"working man\" had to be\nlectured to, or read to, by his brother in purple and fine linen. Still\nthe theory was so far sound. Broad cloth was to impart to fustian the\nadvantages it possessed in the way of reading, singing, fiddling, or\nwhat not; and that not gratuitously, which would have offended the\nworking man's dignity, but for the modest sum of one penny, which,\nwhilst Lazarus was not too poor to afford, Dives condescended to accept,\nand apply to charitable purposes.\n\nSuch being, in brief, the theory of the Penny Reading movement, it may\nbe interesting to see how it is carried out in practice. Now, in order\nto ascertain this, I availed myself of several opportunities afforded by\nthe commencement of the Penny Reading season, which may be said to\nsynchronize very nearly with the advent of London fogs, and attended the\nopening of the series in several widely different localities. In\ndescribing my experiences it would perhaps be invidious to specify the\nexact locality where they were gathered. I prefer to collate those\nexperiences which range from Campden Hill to Camden Town inclusive. Amid\nmany distinguishing traits there are common elements traceable in all,\nwhich may enable us to form some estimate of the working of the scheme,\nand possibly to offer a few words of advice to those interested therein.\n\nIn most cases the Penny Readings are organized by the parochial clergy.\nWe will be orthodox, and consider them so to be on the present occasion.\nIn that case, the series would probably be opened by the incumbent in\nperson. Some ecclesiastical ladies, young and middle-aged, who, rightly\nor wrongly, believe their mission is music, and to whom the curate is\nvery probably an attraction, aid his efforts. Serious young men read,\nand others of a more mundane turn of mind sing doleful \"comic\" songs,\nculled from the more presentable of the music-hall repertoire. In many\ncases skilled amateurs or professionals lend their valuable assistance;\nand it is not too much to say that many a programme is presented to the\naudience--ay, and faithfully carried out too--which would do credit to a\nhigh-priced concert-room. But, then, who make up the audience? Gradually\nthe \"penny\" people have been retiring into the background, as slowly but\nas surely as the old-fashioned pits at our theatres are coyly\nwithdrawing under the boxes to make way for the stalls. The Penny\nReadings have been found to \"draw\" a higher class of audience than those\nfor whom they were originally intended. The curate himself, if\nunmarried, secures the whole spinsterhood of the parish. His rendering\nof the lines, \"On the receipt of my mother's picture out of Norfolk,\" is\nuniversally acknowledged to be \"delightful;\" and so, in course of time,\nthe Penny Readings have been found to supply a good parochial income;\nand the incumbent, applying the proceeds to some local charity,\nnaturally wishes to augment that income as much as possible. The\nconsequence is that the penny people are as completely nowhere at the\nPenny Readings as they are in the free seats at their parish church. The\nwhole of the body of the room is \"stalled off,\" so to say, for sixpenny\npeople, and the penny folk are stowed away anywhere. Then, again, in\nseveral programmes I have been at the pains to analyse, it is palpable\nthat, whilst the bulk of the extracts fire over the heads of the poor\npeople, one or two are inserted which are as studiously aimed at them as\nthe parson's remarks in last Sunday's sermon against public-house\nloafing. Still \"naming no names,\" I attended some readings where one of\nthe clergy read a long extract from Bailey's \"Festus,\" whilst he was\nsucceeded by a vulgar fellow, evidently put in for \"the gods,\" who\ndelivered himself of a parody on Ingoldsby, full of the coarsest\nslang--nay, worse than that, abounding in immoralities which, I hope,\nmade the parochial clergy sit on thorns, and place the reader on their\n\"Index Expurgatorius\" from henceforth.\n\nExcellent in its original design, the movement is obviously degenerating\ninto something widely different. First, I would say, Let your Penny\nReadings be really Penny Readings, and not the egregious _lucus a non_\nthey now are. If there is any distinction, the penny people should have\nthe stalls, and then, _if there were room_, the \"swells\" (I must use an\noffensive term) could come in for sixpence, and stand at the back. But\nthere should be no difference at all. Dives and Lazarus should sit\ntogether, or Dives stop away if he were afraid his fine linen may get\nsoiled. Lazarus, at all events, must not be lost sight of, or treated to\nsecond best. The experiment of thus mingling them has been tried, I\nknow, and succeeds admirably. Dives and Lazarus _do_ hobnob; and though\nthe former occasionally tenders a silver coin for his entree, he does\nnot feel that he is thereby entitled to a better seat. The committee\ngets the benefit of his liberality; and when the accounts are audited in\nthe spring, Lazarus is immensely pleased at the figure his pence make.\nThen, again, as to the quality of the entertainment. Let us remember\nLazarus comes there to be elevated. That was the theory we set out\nwith--that we, by our reading, or our singing, or fiddling, or\ntootle-tooing on the cornet, could civilize our friend in fustian. Do\nnot let us fall into the mistake, then, of descending to his standard.\nWe want to level him up to ours. Give him the music we play in our own\ndrawing-rooms; read the choice bits of fiction or poetry to his wife and\ndaughters which we should select for our own. Amuse his poor little\nchildren with the same innocent nonsense with which we treat our young\npeople. Above all, don't bore him. I do not say, never be serious,\nbecause it is a great mistake to think Lazarus can only guffaw. Read\n\"The Death of Little Nell\" or of Paul Dombey, and look at Mrs. Lazarus's\neyes. Read Tom Hood's \"Song of the Shirt,\" and see whether the poor\nseamstress out in the draughty penny seats at the back appreciates it or\nnot. I did hear of one parish at the West End--the very same, by the\nway, I just now commended for sticking to the \"penny\" system--where\nHood's \"Nelly Gray,\" proposed to be read by the son of one of our best\nknown actors, was tabooed as \"unedifying.\" Lazarus does not come to be\n\"edified,\" but to be amused. If he can be at the same time instructed,\nso much the better; but the bitter pill must be highly gilded, or he\nwill pocket his penny and spend it in muddy beer at the public-house.\nIf the Penny Reading can prevent this--and we see no reason why it\nshould not--it will have had a mission indeed. Finally, I feel sure that\nthere is in this movement, and lying only a very little way from the\nsurface, a wholesome lesson for Dives too; and that is, how little\ndifference there is, after all, between himself and Lazarus. I have been\nsurprised to see how some of the more recherche \"bits\" of our genuine\nhumorists have told upon the penny people, and won applause which the\nstalest burlesque pun or the nastiest music-hall inanity would have\nfailed to elicit. Lazarus must be represented on the platform then, as\nwell as comfortably located in the audience. He must be asked to read,\nor sing, or fiddle, or do whatever he can. If not, he will feel he is\nbeing read at, or sung to, or fiddled for, and will go off to the Magpie\nand Stump, instead of bringing missus and the little ones to the\n\"pa'son's readings.\" Let the Penny Reading teach us the truth--and how\ntrue it is--that we are all \"working men.\" What matters it whether we\nwork with head or with hand--with brain or muscle?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\nDARWINISM ON THE DEVIL.\n\n\nIt has been said--perhaps more satirically than seriously--that theology\ncould not get on without its devil. Certain it is that wherever there\nhas been a vivid realization of the Spirit of Light, there, as if by way\nof antithesis, there has been an equally clear recognition of the Power\nof Darkness. Ormuzd--under whatever name recognised--generally supposes\nhis opponent Ahriman; and there have even been times, as in the\nprevalence of the Manichean heresy, when the Evil Spirit has been\naffected in preference to the good--probably only another way of saying\nthat morals have been held subordinate to intellect. But I am growing at\nonce prosy and digressive.\n\nThe announcement that the \"Liberal Social Union\" would devote one of\ntheir sweetly heretical evenings at the Beethoven Rooms, Harley Street,\nto an examination of the Darwinian development of the Evil Spirit, was\none not to be scorned by an inquirer into the more eccentric and erratic\nphases of theology. Literary engagements stood in the way--for the\nsocial heretics gather on a Friday--but come what might, I would hear\nthem discuss diabolism. Leaving my printer's devil to indulge in\ntypographical errors according to his own sweet will (and I must confess\nhe _did_ wander), I presented myself, as I thought in good time, at the\nportals of the Harley Street room, where his Satanic Majesty was to be\nheretically anatomized. But, alas! I had not calculated aright the power\nof that particular potentate to \"draw.\" No sooner had I arrived at the\ncloak-room than the very hats and umbrellas warned me of the number of\nhis votaries. Evening Dress was \"optional;\" and I frankly confess, at\nwhatever risk of his displeasure, that I had not deemed Mephistopheles\nworthy of a swallow-tailed coat. I came in the garb of ordinary life;\nand at once felt uncomfortable when, mounting the stairs, I was received\nby a portly gentleman and an affable lady in violent tenue de soir. The\nroom was full to the very doors; and as soon as I squeezed into earshot\nof the lecturer (who had already commenced his discourse) I was greeted\nby a heterodox acquaintance in elaborate dress-coat and rose-pink\ngloves. Experience in such matters had already told me--and thereupon I\nproved it by renewed personal agony--that an Englishman never feels so\nuncomfortable as when dressed differently from his compeers at any kind\nof social gathering. Mrs. T---- asks you to dinner, and you go clad in\nthe correct costume in deference to the prandial meal, but find all the\nrest in morning dress. Mrs. G----, on the contrary, sends you a\nrollicking note to feed with a few friends--no party; and you go\nstraight from office to find a dozen heavily-got-up people sniggering at\nyour frock coat and black tie. However, as I said, on this occasion the\nlecturer, Dr. Zerffi, was in the thick of what proved to be a very\nattractive lecture; so I was not the observed of all observers for more\nthan two or three minutes, and was able to give him my whole attention\nas soon as I had recovered from my confusion. Dr. Zerffi said:--\n\nDr. Darwin's theory of evolution and selection has changed our modern\nmode of studying the inorganic and organic phenomena of nature, and\ninvestigating the realities of truth. His theory is not altogether new,\nhaving been first proclaimed by Leibnitz, and followed up with regard to\nhistory by Giovanni Battista Vico. Oken and Goethe amplified it towards\nthe end of the last, and at the beginning of the present century.\nDarwin, however, has systematized the theory of evolution, and now the\nbranches of human knowledge can only be advantageously pursued if we\ntrace in all phenomena, whether material or spiritual, a beginning and a\ngradual development. One fact has prominently been established, that\nthere is order in the eternal change, that this order is engendered by\nlaw, and that law and order are the criterions of an all-wise ruling\nSpirit pervading the Universe. To this positive spirit of law a spirit\nof negation, an element of rebellion and mischief, of mockery and\nselfishness, commonly called the Devil, has been opposed from the\nbeginning.\n\nIt appeared, till very lately, as though God had created the world only\nfor the purpose of amusing the Devil, and giving him an abundance of\nwork, all directed to destroying the happiness of God's finest\ncreation--man. Treating the Devil from a Darwinian point of view, we may\nassert that he developed himself from the protoplasm of ignorance, and\nin the gloomy fog of fear and superstition grew by degrees into a\nformidable monster, being changed by the overheated imaginations of\ndogmatists into a reptile, an owl, a raven, a dog, a wolf, a lion, a\ncentaur, a being half monkey, half man, till, finally, he became a\npolite and refined human being.\n\nMan once having attained a certain state of consciousness, saw sickness,\nevil, and death around him, and as it was usual to assign to every\neffect some tangible cause, man developed the abstract notion of evil\ninto a concrete form, which changed with the varying impressions of\nclimate, food, and the state of intellectual progress. To the white man\nthe Devil was black, and to the black man white. Originally, then, the\nDevil was merely a personification of the apparently destructive forces\nof nature. Fire was his element. The Indians had their Rakshas and\nUragas, the Egyptians their Typhon, and the Persians their Devas. The\nIsraelites may claim the honour of having brought the theory of evil\ninto a coarse and sensual form, and the Christians took up this\nconception, and developed it with the help of the Gnostics, Plato, and\nthe Fathers dogmatically into an entity.\n\nI shall not enter on a minute inquiry into the origin of this formidable\nantagonist of common sense and real piety; I intend to take up the three\nprincipal phases of the Devil's development, at a period when he already\nappears to us as a good Christian Devil, and always bearing in mind Mr.\nDarwin's theory of evolution, I shall endeavour to trace spiritually the\nchanges in the conceptions of evil from the Devil of Luther to that of\nMilton, and at last to that of Goethe.\n\nThe old Jewish Rabbis and theological doctors were undoubtedly the first\nto trace, genealogically, the pedigree of the Christian Devil in its\nsince general form. If we take the trouble to compare chap. i. v. 27 of\nGenesis with chap. ii. v. 21, we will find that two distinct creations\nof man are given. The one is different from the other. In the first\ninstance we have the clear, indisputable statement, \"So God created man\nin his own image:\" and to give greater force to this statement the text\ngoes on, \"in the image of God created he him; male and female created he\nthem.\" Both man and woman were then created. Nothing could be plainer.\nBut as though no creation of man had taken place at all, we find, chap.\nii. v. 7: \"And the Lord formed man of the dust of the ground, and\nbreathed into his nostrils the breath of life.\" This was evidently a\nsecond man, differently created from the first, who is stated to have\nbeen made \"in the image of God himself.\" This second creature was\nentrusted with the nomination and classification of all created things;\nthat is, with the formation of language, and the laying down of the\nfirst principles of botany and zoology. After he had performed this\narduous task it happened that \"for Adam there was not found an help meet\nfor him\" (verse 20), and chap. ii. v. 21 tells us, \"The Lord God caused\na deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept; and He took one of his\nribs and closed up the flesh instead thereof;\" and verse 22, \"And of the\nrib which the Lord God had taken from man made He a woman, and brought\nher unto man.\" Adam then joyfully exclaims (verse 23), \"This _is_ now\nbone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh.\" This cannot but lead to the\nconclusion that this woman was an altogether different creature from the\nfirst. The contradiction was most ingeniously explained by the learned\nJewish Rabbis, who considered the first woman the organic germ from\nwhich the special Hebrew-Christian devils were evolved. The Rabbis\ndiscovered that the name of the first woman was \"Lilith\"[1] (the\nnightly); they knew positively--and who can disprove their\nassertion?--that she was the most perfect beauty, more beautiful than\nEve; she had long waving hair, bright eyes, red lips and cheeks, and a\ncharmingly finished form and complexion; but having been created at the\nsame moment as the first man, and like him, in the image of God, she\nrefused to become man's wife; she objected to being subordinate to the\nmale part of creation--she was, in fact, the first strong-minded woman,\nclaiming the same rights as man, though a woman in body and form. Under\nthese circumstances the existence of the human race was deemed to be an\nimpossibility, and therefore the Lord had to make good his error, and He\ncreated Eve as the completing part of man. The first woman left her\nco-equally created male, and was changed into an enormous, most\nbeautiful, and seducing \"She Devil,\" and her very thoughts brought forth\ndaily a legion of devils--incarnations of pride, vanity, conceit, and\nunnaturalness. Happily these devils were so constituted that they\ndevoured one another. But in their rage they could take possession of\nothers, and more especially entered little children--boys under three\ndays old, girls under twenty days--and devoured them. This myth, by\nmeans of evolution and the law of action and re-action, engendered the\nfurther legend about the existence of three special angels who acted as\npowerful antidotes to these devils, and whose names, \"Senoi, Sansenoi,\nand Sanmangeloph,\" if written on a piece of parchment suspended round\nthe neck of children afforded certain protection against them.\n\nThe origin of the Devil may thus be traced to the first vain contempt\nfor the eternal laws of nature. The woman, refusing to be a woman,\nengenders devils; the man, trying to be a God, loses paradise and his\ninnocence, for the element of the supernatural intruded upon him and\nabstracted his thoughts from this earth. These were the half idealistic\nand half realistic elements from which the three greatest spiritual\nincarnations of the Evil Spirit sprung up. Luther took the Evil Spirit\nas a bodily entity, with big horns, fiery eyes, a reddish, protruding\ntongue, a long tail, and the hoof of a horse. In this latter attribute\nwe trace at once the Kentaur element of ancient times. Through nearly\none thousand three hundred years from Tertullian and Thaumaturgus down\nto Luther, every one was accustomed to look upon life as one great\nbattle with tens of thousands of devils, assaulting, harassing,\nannoying, and seducing humanity. All fought, quarrelled, talked, and\nwrestled with the Devil. He was more spoken of in the pulpits of the\nChristian Churches, written about in theological and scientific books,\nthan God or Christ. All misfortunes were attributed to him. Thunder and\nlightning, hailstorms and the rinderpest, the hooping cough and\nepileptic fits were all the Devil's work. A man who suffered from\nmadness was said to be possessed by a legion of Evil Spirits. The Devil\nsettled himself in the gentle dimples of a pretty girl with the same\nease and comfort as in the wrinkles of an old woman. Everything that\nwas inexplicable was evil. Throughout the Middle Ages the masses and the\nmajority of their learned theological teachers believed the Greek and\nLatin classics were inspired by Evil Spirits; that sculptures or\npaintings, if beautiful, were of evil; that all cleverness in\nMathematics, Chemistry, or Medicine proved the presence of the\ncorrupting Evil Spirit working in man. Any bridge over a chasm or a\nrapid river was the work of the Devil; even the most beautiful Gothic\ncathedrals, like those of Cologne and St. Stephen at Vienna were\nconstructed by architects who served their apprenticeship in the\ninfernal regions. The Devil sat grinning on the inkstands of poets and\nlearned men, dictating to the poor deluded mortals, as the price for\ntheir souls, charming love-songs or deep theological and philosophical\nessays. It was extremely dangerous during this period of man's\nhistorical evolution to be better or wiser than the ignorant masses.\nLearning, talent, a superior power of reasoning, love for truth, a\nspirit of inquiry, the capacity of making money by clever trading, an\nartistic turn of mind, success in life, even in the Church, were only so\nmany proofs that the soul had been sold to some dwarfish or giant\nmessenger from Lucifer, who could appear in a thousand different forms.\nMan was, since his assumed Fall, the exclusive property of the coarse\nand vulgar conception of the Evil Spirit. Luther was full of these\nideas, he was brought up in this belief, and though he unconsciously\nfelt that the Devil ought to be expelled from our creed, he did not dare\nto attempt the reform of humanity by annihilating the mischief-maker: he\ncould not rob man of his dearest spiritual possession; had he thought of\nconsigning the Devil to the antediluvian period of our moral and social\nformation, he never could have succeeded in his reform. The Devil, in\nfact, was his strongest helpmate; he could describe the ritual of the\nRomish Church as the work of the Evil Spirit, produced to delude\nmankind. The Devil had his Romish prayers, his processions, his worship\nof relics, his remission of sins, his confessional, his infernal synods;\nhe was to Luther an active, rough, and material incarnation of the\nroaring lion of the Scriptures in the shape of the Romish Church,\nwalking about visibly, tangibly, bodily amongst men, devouring all who\nbelieved in the Pope, and who disbelieved in this stupid phantom of a\ndogmatically blinded imagination.\n\nThe Evolution-theory may be clearly traced in the two next conceptions:\nMilton's Satan and Goethe's Mephistopheles. They differ as strongly as\nthe periods and the poems in which they appear. Milton's Satan loses the\nvulgar flesh and bone, horn and hoof nature--he is an epic character;\nwhilst Goethe's Devil is an active dramatic entity of modern times.\nMilton's representative of evil is a very powerful conception--it is\nevil in abstracto; whilst Mephistopheles is evil in concreto--the\nintelligible, tangible Devil, evolved by the power of selection from an\nantediluvian monster, and transformed through a civilizing process of at\nleast six thousand years into its present form. Milton's Satan is a\ndebased intellect who in his boundless ambition is still a supernatural\nbeing. Mephistopheles is the incarnation of our complicated modern\nsocial evils, full of petty tricks and learned quotations; he piously\nturns up his eyes, he lies, doubts, calumniates, seduces, philosophizes,\nsneers, but all in a polite and highly educated way; he is a scholar, a\ndivine, a politician, a diplomatist. Satan is capable of wild\nenthusiasm, he sometimes remembers his bright sinless past; \"from the\nlowest deep,\" he yearns, \"once more to lift himself up, in spite of\nfate, nearer to his ancient seat;\"--he hopes to re-enter heaven, \"to\npurge off his gloom;\" some remnant of heavenly innocence still clings to\nhim, for, though _fallen_, he is still an _angel_! Mephistopheles in his\nreal nature is without any higher aspirations, he argues with a\nsarcastic smile on his lips, he is ironical with sophisticated\nsharpness. Satan has unconsciously gigantic ideas, he is ready to\nwrestle with God for the dominion of heaven. Mephistopheles is perfectly\nconscious of his littleness as opposed to our better intellectual\nnature, and does evil for evil's sake. Satan is sublime through the\ngrandeur of his primitive elements, pride and ambition. Mephistopheles\nis only grave in his pettiness; he does not refuse an orgie with\ndrunken students, indulges in jokes with monkeys, works miracles in the\nwitch's kitchen, delights in the witch's \"one-time-one;\" distributes\nlittle tracts \"to stir up the witch's heart with special fire.\" Satan\nhas nothing vulgar in him: he is capable of melancholy feelings, he can\nbe pathetic and eloquent. Mephistopheles laughs at the stupidity of the\nworld, and at his own. Satan believes in God and in himself, whilst\nMephistopheles is the \"Spirit that denies;\" he believes neither in God\nnor in heaven nor in hell; he does not believe in his own entity--he is\nno supernatural, fantastic being, but man incarnate: he is the evil part\nof a good whole, which loses its entity when once seen and recognised in\nits real nature; for Mephistopheles in reality is our own ignorant,\nbesotted, animal nature, cultivated and developed at the expense of our\nintellectual part.\n\nLuther's devil is the outgrowth of humanity in long-clothes. Man,\nignorant of the forces of the Cosmos, blinded by theological dialectics\nand metaphysical subtleties, incapable of understanding the real essence\nof our moral and intellectual nature, philosophically untrained to\nobserve that evil is but a sequence of the disturbed balance between our\ndouble nature--spirit and matter--attributed all mischief in the\nintellectual as well as in our social spheres to an absolute powerful\nbeing who continually tormented him.\n\nMilton's Satan is the poetical conception of man developed from an\ninfant in long-clothes into a boisterous but dreamy youth, ascribing to\nevery incomprehensible effect an arbitrary, poetical cause. Goethe's\nMephistopheles, lastly is the truthful conception of evil as it really\nexists in a thousand forms, evolved from our own misunderstood and\nartificially and dogmatically distorted nature.\n\nGoethe in destroying the Devil as such, consigned him to the primeval\nmyths and legends of ignorance and fear, and has shown us the real\nnature of the evil.\n\nWhat then is the Devil?\n\nThe Devil took, as I said in the beginning, his origin in our blinded\nsenses, in an undue preponderance of that which is material in us over\nthat which is intellectual. The moment we look the Evil Spirit in the\nface, he vanishes as an _absolute_ being and becomes--\n\n                A portion of that power\n    Which wills the bad and works the good at every hour.\n\nAfter having been exposed during several periods of generations to new\nconditions, thus rendering a great amount of variation possible, the\nDevil has developed from a monster into a monkey, and from a monkey into\na man endowed with the nature of a monkey and the propensities of a\nmonster. In the State and in the Church, in Arts and Sciences, the Devil\nis the principle of injustice, hypocrisy, ugliness, and ignorance.\nGoethe has annihilated the ideal poetical grandeur of Milton's Satan; he\nhas stripped Luther's Devil of his vulgar realism; Goethe has driven\nSatan from an imaginary hell, where he preferred to rule instead of\nworshipping and serving in heaven, and with the sponge of common sense\nhe wiped the horned monster, drawn by the imagination of dogmatists,\nfrom the black board of ignorance. In banishing the Evil Spirit into the\ndominion of myths, Goethe showed him in his real nature. Darwin\ndisplaced man from the exalted pedestal of a special creation, and\nendeavoured to trace him as the development of cosmical elements. Darwin\nenabled us to look upon man as the completing link in the great chain of\nthe gradual evolution of the life-giving forces of the Universe, and he\nrendered thus our position more comprehensible and natural. Goethe, in\nproving that the Evil Spirit of ancient and Hebrew-Christian times was a\nmere phantom of an ill-regulated fantasy, taught us to look for the real\norigin of evil. What was a metaphysical incomprehensibility became an\nintelligible reality. The Demon can be seen in \"Faust\" as in a mirror,\nand in glancing into it we behold our Darwinian progenitor, the animal,\nface to face. Before the times of Goethe, with very few exceptions, the\nEvil Spirit was an entity with whom any one might become familiar--in\nfact, the \"spiritus familiaris\" of old. The Devil spoke, roared,\nwhispered, could sign contracts. We were able to yield our soul to him;\nand he could bodily enter our body. The Devil was a corporeal entity.\nThe rack, water, and fire were used to expel him from sorcerers and\nwitches, and to send him into all sorts of unclean animals. Goethe, in\nunmasking this phantom, introduced him not as something _without_, but\nas an element _within_ us. The service rendered to humanity in showing\nus the true nature of evil is as grand as the service rendered by Mr.\nDarwin in assigning to man his place _in_ nature, and not _above_\nnature. It is curious that those who have most of the incorrigible and\nimmovable animal nature in them should protest with the greatest\nvehemence and clamour against this theory. They think by asserting their\nsuperiority, based on a special creation, to become at once special and\nsuperior beings, and prefer this position to trying, through a\nprogressive development in science and knowledge, in virtue and honesty,\nto prove the existence of the higher faculties with which man has been\nendowed through his gradual development from the lowest phases of living\ncreatures to the highest. In assuming the Devil to be something absolute\nand positive, and not something relative and negative, man hoped to be\nbetter able to grapple with him. Mephistopheles is nothing personal; he\ncan, like the Creator himself, be only traced in his works. The Devil\nlurks beneath the venerable broadcloth of an intolerant and ignorant\npriest; he uses the seducing smiles of a wicked beauty; he stirs the\nblood of the covetous and grasping; he strides through the gilded halls\nof ambitious emperors and ministers, who go with \"light hearts\" to kill\nthousands of human beings with newly-invented infernal machines; he\nworks havoc in the brains of the vain. The Devil shuffles the cards for\nthe gambler, and destroys our peace whether he makes us win or lose on\nthe turf; he sits joyfully grinning on the tops of bottles and tankards\nfilled with alcoholic drinks; he entices us on Sundays to shut our\nmuseums and open our gin-palaces; to neglect the education of the\nmasses; and then prompts us to accuse them with hypocritical\nrespectability of drunkenness and stupidity. It is the Devil who turns\nus into friends of lapdogs and makes us enemies of the homeless. The\nDevil is the greatest master in dogmatism; he creates sects who, in the\nname of love and humility, foster hatred and pride; the Devil encloses\nmen in a magic circle on the barren heath of useless speculation; drives\nthem round and round like blinded horses in a mill, starting from one\npoint, and after miles and miles of travel and fatigue, leading us to\nthe point, sadder but not wiser, from which we set out. The Devil makes\nus quarrel whether we ought to have schools with or without bigoted\nreligious teachings; he burns incense to stupefy our senses, lights\ncandles to obscure our sight, amuses the masses with buffooneries to\nprevent them from thinking, draws us away from common-sense morality,\nand leads us, under the pretext of a mystic and symbolic religion, to\nthe confessional, the very hothouse of mischief. Satan in all his\nshapes and forms as he rules the world has been described by Goethe as\nEgotism. Selfishness is his element and real nature. Selfishness not yet\nrealizing the divine, because so entirely _humane_ command--\"Do unto\nothers as you wish that they should do unto you.\" Selfishness is the\nonly essence of evil. Selfishness has divided men into different\nnations, and fosters in them pride, envy, jealousy, and hatred. Mr.\nDarwin has shown that one animal preys on the other, that the weaker\nspecies has to yield to the stronger. Goethe again has shown us how the\nEvil Spirit drags us through life's wild scenes and its flat\nunmeaningness, to seek mere sensual pleasures and to neglect altogether\nour higher and better nature, which is the outgrowth of our more\ncomplicated, more highly developed organization. Were we only to\nrecognise this, our real nature, we should leave less to chance and\nprejudices; were we to study man from a physiological, psychological,\nand honestly historical point of view, we should soon eliminate\nselfishness from among us, and be able to appreciate what is really the\nessence of evil. The more nearly we approach Darwin's primitive man, the\nape, the nearer do we draw to the Mephistopheles who shows us his exact\nnature with impudent sincerity in Goethe's \"Faust.\"\n\nThat which changes our Psyche, that is our intellectual faculty with its\nairy wings of imagination, its yearnings for truth, into an ugly,\nsubmissive, crawling worm, is heartless selfishness. Not without reason\nis poor guileless Margaret horrified at Mephistopheles. She shudders,\nhides herself on the bosom of Faust, like a dove under the wings of an\neagle, and complains that the Evil Spirit--\n\n    ... Always wears such mocking grin,\n    Half cold, half grim,\n    One sees that nought has interest for him;\n    'Tis writ on his brow, and can't be mistaken,\n    No soul in him can love awaken.\n\nWhen all goes wrong, when religious, social, and political animosities and\nhatred disturb the peace; when unintelligible controversies on the\ninherited sin, the origin of evil, justification, and transubstantiation,\n\"grace and free will,\" the creative and the created, mystic incantations,\nreal and unreal presences, the like but not equal, the affirmative and the\nnegative natures of God and man confuse the finite brains of infinite\ntalkers and repeaters of the same things; when they quarrel about the\nwickedness of the hen who dared to lay an egg on the Sabbath; when the\nglaring torch of warfare is kindled by the fire of petty animosities, then\nthe Evil Spirit of egotism celebrates its most glorious festivals.\n\nWhat can banish this monster, this second and worse part of our nature?\nTo look upon it from a Darwinian point of view. Goethe saves his fallen\nFaust through useful \"occupation,\" through honest hard work for the\nbenefit of mankind. The more we make ourselves acquainted with evil, the\nlast remnant of our animal nature, in a rational and not mystic\ndogmatical sense, the less we exalt ourselves as exceptional creatures\nabove nature, the easier it must be for us to dry up the source of\nsuperstition and ignorance which serves to nourish this social monster.\n\nLet our relations to each other be based on \"mutual love,\" for God is\nlove, and selfishness as the antagonist of love, and the Devil as the\nantagonist of God, will both vanish.\n\nLet us strive to vanquish our unnatural social organization by a\nnatural, social, but at the same time, liberal union of all into one\ncommon brotherhood, and the roaring lion will be silenced for ever.\n\nLet us purify society of all its social, or rather unsocial, iniquities\nand falsehoods, of all ingratitude and envy, in striving for an honest\nregeneration of ourselves, and through ourselves of humanity at large,\nconvincing one another that man has developed by degrees into earth's\nfairest creature, destined for good and happiness, and not for evil and\nwretchedness, and there will be an end of the _Devil_ and all his\n_devilries_.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] The word is found in Isaiah xxxiv. 14. Translated in the Vulgate as\n\"Lamia;\" in Luther's translation as \"Kobold;\" in the English version as\n\"screech-owl;\" and in others as \"an ugly night-bird.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\nPECULIAR PEOPLE.\n\n\nIn this title, be it distinctly understood, no reference is intended to\nthose anti-AEsculapian persons who, from time to time, sacrifice to\nMoloch among the Essex marshes. It is not necessary to journey even as\nfar as Plumstead in search of peculiarity, since the most manifold and\never-varying types of it lie at one's very doors. And here, at the\noutset, without quite endorsing the maxim that genius is always\neccentric, let it be confessed that a slight deviation from the beaten\ntrack is generally apt to be interesting. When we see the photograph of\nsome distinguished artist, musician, or poet, and find the features very\nlike those of the pork butcher in the next street, or the footman over\nthe way, we are conscious of a feeling of disappointment almost\namounting to a personal grievance. Mr. Carlyle and Algernon Swinburne\nsatisfy us. They look as we feel graphic writers and erotic poets ought\nto look. Not so the literary females who affect the compartment labelled\n\"For ladies only,\" in the reading room of the British Museum or on the\nMetropolitan Railway. They are mostly like one's maiden aunts, and\nsavour far less of the authoress than some of the charming girls who\nstudiously avoid their exclusive locale, and evidently use their reading\nticket only to cover with an appearance of propriety a most unmistakable\nflirtation. This they carry on sotto voce with ardent admirers of the\nmale sex, who, though regular frequenters of the reading room, are no\nmore literary than themselves. One might pick out a good many peculiar\npeople from that learned retreat--that poor scholar's club room; but let\nus rather avoid any such byways of life, and select our peculiars from\nthe broad highway. Hunting there, Diogenes-wise, with one's modest\nlantern, in search--not of honest--but eccentric individuals.\n\nAnd first of all, having duly attended to the ladies at the outset, let\nthere be \"Place for the Clergy.\" There is my dear friend the Rev. Gray\nKidds, the best fellow breathing, but, from a Diogenes point of view,\ndecidedly eccentric. Gray Kidds is one of those individuals whose\npeculiarity it is never to have been a boy. Kidds at fifteen had\nwhiskers as voluminous as he now has at six-and-twenty, and as he\ngambolled heavily amongst his more puerile schoolfellows, visitors to\nthe playground used to ask the assistant masters who that man was\nplaying with the boys. They evidently had an uneasy notion that a\nprivate lunatic asylum formed a branch of the educational establishment,\nand that Gray Kidds was a harmless patient allowed to join the boys in\ntheir sports. Gray Kidds was and is literally harmless. He grew up\nthrough school and college, innocently avoiding all those evils which\nproved the ruin of many who were deemed far wiser than himself. He\nwarbled feebly on the flute, and was adored as a curate, not only for\nhis tootle-tooings, but for his diligent presence at mothers' meetings,\nand conscientious labours among the poor. A preacher Kidds never\npretended to be; but he had the singular merit of brevity, and crowded\nmore harmless heresies into ten minutes' pulpit oratory than Colenso or\nVoysey could have done in double the time. The young ladies made a dead\nset at him, of course, for Kidds was in every respect eligible; and he\nlet them stroke him like a big pet lamb, but there matters ended. Kidds\nnever committed himself. He is now the incumbent of a pretty church in\nthe suburbs, built for him by his aunt, and, strange to say, the church\nfills. Whether it is that his brevity is attractive, or his transparent\ngoodness compensates for his other peculiarities, certainly he has a\ncongregation; and if you polled that congregation, the one point on\nwhich all would agree, in addition to his eligibility or innocence,\nwould be that the Rev. Gray Kidds was \"so funny.\"\n\nAnd now, for our second type of peculiarity, let us beat back for one\nmoment to the fair sex again. Mrs. Ghoul is the reverse of spirituelle;\nbut she is something more--she is spiritualistic. She devoutly believes\nthat the spirits of deceased ancestors come at her bidding, and tilt the\ntable, move furniture insanely about, or write idiotic messages\nautomatically. She is perfectly serious. She does \"devoutly\" believe\nthis. It is her creed. It is a comfort to her. It is extremely difficult\nto reconcile such a source of comfort with any respect for one's\ndeparted relatives, but that is Mrs. Ghoul's peculiarity and\nqualification for a niche amongst our originals.\n\nMiss Deedy, on the other hand, is ecclesiastical to the backbone. Miss\nDeedy ruins her already feeble health with early mattins (she insists on\nthe double t) and frequent fasts. Beyond an innocuous flirtation with\nthe curate at decorations, or a choral meeting, Miss Deedy has as few\nsins as most of us to answer for; but, from her frequent penances, she\nmight be a monster of iniquity. She is known to confess, and is\nsuspected of wearing sackcloth. Balls and theatres she eschews as\n\"worldly,\" and yet she is only just out of her teens. She would like to\nbe a nun, she says, if the habits were prettier, and they allowed long\ncurls down the back, and Gainsboroughs above the brow. As it is, Miss\nDeedy occupies a somewhat abnormal position, dangling, like Mahomet's\ncoffin, between the Church and the world. That, again, is Miss Deedy's\npeculiarity.\n\nMiss Wiggles is a \"sensitive.\" That is a new vocation struck out by the\nprolific ingenuity of the female mind. Commonplace doctors would simply\ncall her \"hysterical;\" but she calls herself magnetic. She is stout and\ninclined to a large appetite, particularly affecting roast pork with\nplenty of seasoning; but she passes readily into \"the superior\ncondition\" under the manipulations of a male operator. She makes\nnothing, save notoriety, by her clairvoyance and other peculiarities;\nbut she _is_ very peculiar, though the type of a larger class than is\nperhaps imagined in this highly sensational age of ours.\n\nPeculiar boys, too--what lots of them there are! What is called\naffectation in a girl prevails to quite as large an extent in the shape\nof endless peculiarities among boys. A certain Dick (his name is\nAdolphus, but he is universally, and for no assignable reason, known as\nDick) rejoices in endorsing Darwinism by looking and acting like a human\ngorilla. Dick is no fool, but assumes that virtue though he has it not.\nTo see him mumbling his food at meals, or making mops and mows at the\nwall, you would think him qualified for Earlswood; but if it comes to\npolishing off a lesson briskly or being mulct of his pudding or\npocket-money, Master Dick accomplishes the polishing process with a\nrapidity that gives the lie to his Darwinian assumption.\n\nWell, they are a source of infinite fun, these eccentrics--the comets of\nour social system. They have, no doubt, an object in their\neccentricity, a method in their madness, which we prosaic planetary\nfolks cannot fathom. At all events, they amuse us and don't harm\nthemselves. They are uniformly happy and contented with themselves. Of\nthem assuredly is true, and without the limitation he appends, Horace's\naffirmation, _Dulce est desipere_, which Mr. Theodore Martin translates,\n\"'Tis pleasing at times to be slightly insane.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\nINTERVIEWING AN ASTROLOGER.\n\n\nFor several years--in fact ever since my first acquaintance with these\n\"occult\" matters whereinto I am now such a veteran investigator--my\ngreat wish has been to become practically acquainted with some Professor\nof Astral Science. One friend, indeed, I had who had devoted a long\nlifetime to this and kindred subjects, and of whom I shall have to speak\nanon; but he had never utilized his knowledge so as to become the guide,\nphilosopher, and friend of amorous housemaids on the subject of their\nmatrimonial alliances, or set himself to discover petty larcenies for a\nfee of half-a-crown. He assured me, however, that the practice of\nastrology was as rife as ever in London at this moment, and that\nbusinesses in that line were bought and sold for sterling coin of the\nrealm, just as though they had been \"corner\" publics, or \"snug concerns\"\nin the cheesemongery line. All this whetted my appetite for inquiry, and\nseeing one Professor Wilson advertise persistently in the _Medium_ to\nthe effect that \"the celebrated Astrologer may be consulted on the\nevents of life\" from two to nine P.M., I wrote to Professor Wilson\nasking for an interview; but the celebrated astrologer did not favour\nme with a reply.\n\nFoiled in my first attempt I waited patiently for about a year, and then\nbroke ground again--I will not say whether with Professor Wilson, or\nsome other practitioner of astral science. I will call my Archimago\nProfessor Smith, of Newington Causeway, principally for the reason that\nthis is neither the real name nor the correct address. I have no wish to\nadvertise any wizard gratuitously; nor would it be fair to him, since,\nas will be seen from the sequel, his reception of me was such as to make\nit probable that he would have an inconvenient number of applicants on\nthe conditions observed at my visit.\n\nAvailing myself, then, of the services of my friend above-mentioned, I\narranged that we should together pay a visit to Professor Smith, of\nNewington Causeway, quite \"permiscuous,\" as Mrs. Gamp would say. My\ncompanion would go with his own horoscope already constructed, as he\nhappened to know the exact hour and minute of his birth--particulars as\nto which I only possessed the vaguest information, which is all I fancy\nmost of us have; though there was one circumstance connected with my own\nnatal day which went a long way towards \"fixing\" it.\n\nIt was on a Monday evening that I visited this modern Delphic oracle;\nand, strangely enough, as is often the case, other events seemed to lead\nup to this one. The very lesson on Sunday evening was full of\nastrology. It was, I may mention, the story of the handwriting on the\nwall and the triumph of Daniel over the magicians. Then I took up my\nChaucer on Monday morning; and instead of the \"Canterbury Tales,\" opened\nit at the \"Treatise on the Astrolabe,\" which I had never read before,\nbut devoured then as greedily as no doubt did \"Little Lowis,\" to whom it\nis addressed. All this tended to put me in a proper frame of mind for my\nvisit to Newington; so, after an early tea, we took my friend's figure\nof his nativity with us, and went.\n\nProfessor Smith, we found, lived in a cosy house in the main road, the\nparlours whereof he devoted to the purposes of a medical magnetist,\nwhich was his calling, as inscribed upon the wire blinds of the ground\nfloor front. We were ushered at once into the professor's presence by a\nwoman who, I presume, was his wife--a quiet respectable body with\nnothing uncanny about her. The front parlour was comfortably furnished\nand scrupulously clean, and the celebrated Professor himself, a pleasant\nelderly gentleman, was sitting over a manuscript which he read by the\nlight of a Queen's reading lamp. There was not, on the one hand, any\ncharlatan assumption in his get-up, nor, on the other, was there that\nsqualor and neglect of the decencies of life which I have heard\nsometimes attaches to the practitioners in occult science. Clad in a\nlight over-coat, with spectacles on nose, and bending over his MS.,\nProfessor Smith might have been a dissenting parson en deshabille\n\"getting off\" his Sunday discourse, or a village schoolmaster correcting\nthe \"themes\" of his pupils. He was neither; he was a nineteenth century\nastrologer, calculating the probabilities of success for a commercial\nscheme, the draft prospectus of which was the document over which he\npored. As he rose to receive us I was almost disappointed to find that\nhe held no wand, wore no robe, and had no volume of mystic lore by his\nside. The very cat that emerged from underneath his table, and rubbed\nitself against my legs was not of the orthodox sable hue, but simple\ntabby and white.\n\nMy friend opened the proceedings by producing the figure of his\nnativity, and saying he had come to ask a question in horary astrology\nrelative to a certain scheme about which he was anxious, such anxiety\nconstituting what he termed a \"birth of the mind.\" Of course this was\nDutch to me, and I watched to see whether the Professor would be taken\noff his guard by finding he was in presence of one thoroughly posted up\nin astral science. Not in the least; he greeted him as a brother chip,\nand straightway the two fell to discussing the figure. The Professor\nworked a new one, which he found to differ in some slight particulars\nfrom the one my friend had brought. Each, however, had worked it by\nlogarithms, and there was much talk of \"trines\" and \"squares\" and\n\"houses,\" which I could not understand; but eventually the coveted\nadvice was given by the Professor and accepted by my friend as devoutly\nas though it had been a response of the Delphic oracle itself. The\nbusiness would succeed, but not without trouble, and possibly litigation\non my friend's part. He was to make a call on a certain day and \"push\nthe matter\" a month afterwards; all of which he booked in a\nbusiness-like manner. This took a long time, for the Professor was\nperpetually making pencil signs on the figure he had constructed, and\nthe two also discussed Zadkiel, Raphael, and other astrologers they had\nmutually known. Continual reference had to be made to the \"Nautical\nAlmanack;\" but by-and-by my friend's innings was over and mine\ncommenced. I have said that I did not know the exact hour and minute of\nmy birth, and when, with appropriate hesitation, I named the 1st of\nApril as the eventful day, the Professor looked at me for a moment with\na roguish twinkle of the eye as though to ascertain that I was not\npoking fun at him. I assured him, however, that such was the\ninauspicious era of my nativity, and moreover that I was born so closely\non the confines of March 31--I do not feel it necessary to specify the\nyear--as to make it almost dubious whether I could claim the honours of\nApril-Fooldom. This seemed enough for him--though he warned me that the\nabsence of the exact time might lead to some vagueness in his\ncommunications--and he proceeded forthwith to erect my figure; which,\nby the way, looked to me very much like making a \"figure\" in Euclid;\nand I peered anxiously to see whether mine bore any resemblance to the\nPons Asinorum!\n\nI feared I had led my philosopher astray altogether when the first item\nof information he gave me was that, at about the age of twenty-one, I\nhad met with some accident to my arm, a circumstance which I could not\nrecall to memory. Several years later I broke my leg, but I did not tell\nhim that. Going further back, he informed me that about the age of\nfourteen, if I happened to be apprenticed, or in any way placed under\nauthority, I kicked violently over the traces, which was quite true,\ninasmuch as I ran away from school twice at that precise age, so that my\nastrologer scored one. At twenty-eight I married (true), and at\nthirty-two things were particularly prosperous with me--a fact which I\nwas also constrained to acknowledge correct. Then came a dreadful\nmistake. If ever I had anything to do with building or minerals, I\nshould be very successful. I never had to do with building save once in\nmy life, and then Mr. Briggs's loose tile was nothing to the\ndifficulties in which I became involved. Minerals I had never dabbled in\nbeyond the necessary consumption of coals for domestic purposes. I had\nan uncle who interested himself in my welfare some years ago--this was\ncorrect--and something was going to happen to my father's sister at\nMidsummer, 1876. This, of course, I cannot check; but I trust, for the\nsake of my venerable relation, it may be nothing prejudicial. I was also\nto suffer from a slight cold about the period of my birthday in that\nsame year, and was especially to beware of damp feet. My eldest brother,\nif I had one, he said, had probably died, which was again correct; and\nif my wife caught cold she suffered in her throat, which piece of\ninformation, if not very startling, I am also constrained to confess is\nquite true. Then followed a most delicate piece of information which I\nblush as I commit to paper. I wished to marry when I was twenty-one, but\ncircumstances prevented. Then it was that memories of a certain\ngolden-haired first love came back through the vista of memory. I was\nthen a Fellow of my College, impecunious except as regarded my\nacademical stipend, so the young lady took advice and paired off with a\nwell-to-do cousin. Sic transit gloria mundi! We are each of us stout,\nunromantic family people now; but the reminiscence made me feel quite\nromantic for the moment in that ground floor front in Newington\nCauseway; and I was inclined to say, \"A Daniel come to judgment!\" but I\nchecked myself and remarked, sotto voce, in the vernacular, \"Right\nagain, Mr. Smith!\"\n\nBefore passing on to analyse me personally he remarked that my wife's\nsister and myself were not on the best of terms. I owned that words had\npassed between us; and then he told me that in my cerebral development\nthere was a satisfactory fusion of caution and combativeness. I was not\neasily knocked over, or, if so, had energy to get up again. This energy\nwas to tell in the future. This, I believe, is a very usual feature of\nhoroscopic revelation. Next year was to be particularly prosperous. I\nshould travel a good deal--had travelled somewhat this year, and was\njust now going to take a short journey; but I should travel a great deal\nmore next year. I own to asking myself whether this could bear any\nreference to the Pontigny Pilgrimage in which I shared this year, and\nthe possible pilgrimage to Rome next summer, and also a projected\njourney to Scotland by the Limited Mail next Tuesday evening! On the\nwhole, my astrologer had scored a good many points.\n\nThe most marvellous revelation of all yet remains to be made, however.\nWhen we rose to go we each of us endeavoured to force a fee on Professor\nSmith, but nothing would induce him to receive a farthing! I had got all\nmy revelations, my \"golden\" memories of the past, my bright promises of\nthe future free, gratis, for nothing! It will be evident, then, why I do\nnot give this good wizard's address lest I inundate him with gratuitous\napplicants, and why I therefore veil his personality under the\nmisleading title of Professor Smith of Newington Causeway.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\nA BARMAID SHOW.\n\n\nThe present age, denounced by some ungenial censors as the age of shams,\nmay be described by more kindly critics as emphatically an age of\n\"shows.\" Advancing from the time-honoured shows of Flora and Pomona--if\nnot always improving on the type--and so on from the cattle show,\nsuggestive of impending Christmas fare, we have had horse shows, dog\nshows, and bird shows. To these the genius of Barnum added baby shows;\nand, if we are not misinformed, a foreign firm, whose names have become\nhousehold words amongst us, originated, though not exactly in its\npresent form, the last kind of show which has been acclimatized in\nEngland--an exhibition of barmaids. We had two baby shows in one\nyear--one at Highbury Barn by Mr. Giovannelli, the other at North\nWoolwich Gardens by Mr. Holland; and it is to the talent of this latter\ngentleman in the way of adaptation that we owe the exhibition of young\nladies \"practising at the bar.\" From babies to barmaids is indeed a\nleap, reversing the ordinary process of going from the sublime to the\nridiculous, for while to all but appreciative mammas those infantile\nspecimens of humanity savour largely of the ridiculous, there can be no\nquestion that the present generation of _dames de comptoir_ is a very\nsublime article indeed. I do not say this in derision, nor am I among\nthose who decry the improvements introduced during the last few years,\nboth into refreshment bars themselves, and notably into the class of\nladies who preside over them. The discriminating visitor will decidedly\nprefer to receive his sandwich and glass of bitter at the hands of a\npretty barmaid rather than from an oleaginous pot-man in his\nshirt-sleeves; and the sherry-cobbler acquires a racier flavour from the\narch looks of the Hebe who dispenses it. If silly young men do dawdle at\nthe bar for the sake of the sirens inside, and occasionally, as we have\nknown to be the case, take unto themselves these same sirens \"for better\nor for worse,\" we can only cite the opinion of well-informed\nauthorities, that very possibly the young gentlemen in question might\nhave gone farther and fared worse, and that it is not always the young\nlady who has, in such a case, the best of the bargain.\n\nSo, then, the \"Grand Barmaid Contest\" opened; and in spite of the very\nunmistakable appearance put in by Jupiter Fluvius, a numerous assemblage\ngathered in the North Woolwich Gardens to inaugurate a festival which,\nwhatever else we may think of it, is at all events sui generis. Prizes\nto the value of _300l._ were to be presented to the successful\ncandidates, varying from a purse of twenty sovereigns and a gold watch\nand chain, down to \"a purse of two sovereigns,\" with \"various other\nprizes, consisting of jewellery, &c.\"\n\nAmong the conditions it was required, that every young lady should be\nover sixteen years of age; that she should be dressed in _plain_ but\n_good_ articles of attire, \"in which a happy blending of colours without\nprominent display is most suitable;\" and it was moreover stipulated that\neach \"young lady\" should \"ingratiate herself with the public in the most\naffable manner at her command, without undue forwardness or frivolity,\nbut still retaining a strict attention to business.\" No young lady was\npermitted to take part in the contest unless she had been in the\nrefreshment business for twelve months, and could produce good\ntestimonials of character.\n\nUpwards of 700 applications were made, out of which Mr. Holland selected\nfifty. Whence the large number of rejections \"deponeth sayeth not.\" Of\nthese twenty-eight actually put in an appearance at three P.M. on the\nopening day and four were expected to join in a day or two. Every\nvisitor is provided with a voting ticket, which he hands to the lady of\nhis admiration, and which counts towards the prize. Each young lady also\nreceives 5 per cent. on what she sells at her bar. The places are\nawarded by lot; and, by a freak of fortune, the two most attractive\ndemoiselles happened to come together. These were Numbers One and\nFourteen. The former young lady--who desires to be known by her number\nonly, true genius being ever modest--was certain to stand Number One in\npopular esteem; and, if chignons are taken into account, she ought\nliterally to \"head\" the list by a very long way. The room was tastefully\ndecorated by Messrs. Defries, and an excellent band enlivened the\nproceedings. As evening drew on the meeting grew more hilarious, but\nthere was not the slightest impropriety of any kind, the faintest\napproach thereto leading to immediate expulsion.\n\nMany persons may be disposed to ask, in respect of such exhibitions, Cui\nbono? But at all events there was nothing which the veriest Cato could\ndenounce as demoralizing. The \"young ladies\" were all most modestly\nattired in \"sober livery;\" and certainly--though comparisons are\nodious--not so pressing in their attentions as we have seen some other\nyoung ladies at Dramatic Fetes, or even some devouees at charitable\nbazaars. If we may judge from the large numbers that visited North\nWoolwich, \"in spite of wind and weather,\" Mr. Holland was likely to reap\nan abundant harvest from this latest \"idea,\" excogitated from his\nfertile brain. As the babies have had their \"show,\" and the stronger sex\nis not likely to be equal to the task of being exhibited just yet, there\nseems only one section of society open to the speculations of a skilful\nentrepreneur. Why does not some one, in a more serious line than Mr.\nHolland, try what Sydney Smith calls the \"third sex,\" and open an\nexhibition of curates, with a genuine competition for prizes? There\ncould be no possible doubt as to the success of such a display, and the\ninstruction to be derived from it would be equally beyond question. In\nthe meantime we have advanced one step towards such a consummation. The\nadult human being has taken the place of the baby; and people evidently\nlike it. Where will the rage for exhibitions stop? Who can say to the\nadvancing tide of shows, \"Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther?\" Other\nclasses of society will probably have their turn, and may think\nthemselves fortunate if they show up as well as Mr. Holland's \"young\nladies.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\nA PRIVATE EXECUTION.\n\n\nI was quietly fiddling away one evening in the Civil Service band at\nKing's College, as was my custom while my leisure was larger than at\npresent, when the gorgeous porter of the college entered with a huge\nbillet which he placed on my music-stand with a face of awe. It was\naddressed to me, and in the corner of it was written \"Order for\nExecution.\" The official waited to see how I bore it, and seemed rather\nsurprised that I went on with my fiddling, and smilingly said, \"All\nright.\" I knew it was an order from the authorities of Horsemonger Lane\nGaol admitting me to the private execution of Margaret Waters, the\nnotorious baby-farmer.\n\nIf anything is calculated to promote the views of those who advocate the\nabolition of capital punishment, it is the fact of a woman meeting her\ndeath at the hands of the common hangman. There is something abhorrent,\nespecially to the mind of the stronger sex, in the idea of a female\nsuffering the extreme penalty of the law. On the other hand, the crime\nfor which Margaret Waters suffered--which is too much a cause celebre to\nneed recapitulation--is exactly the one that would exile her from the\nsympathy of her own sex. Whilst therefore her case left the broad\nquestion much in the same position as before, we are not surprised to\nfind that strenuous efforts had been made to obtain a commutation of the\nsentence. Mr. Gilpin, Mr. Samuel Morley, and Mr. Baines had been\nconspicuous for their efforts in the cause of mercy. All, however, had\nbeen to no purpose. Margaret Waters was privately executed within the\nwalls of Horsemonger Lane Gaol at nine o'clock.\n\nIt was a thankless errand that called one from one's bed whilst the moon\nwas still struggling with the feeble dawn of an October morning, and\nthrough streets already white with the incipient frost of approaching\nwinter, to see a fellow-creature--and that a woman--thus hurried out of\nexistence. On arriving at the gloomy prison-house I saw a fringe of\nroughs lounging about, anxious to catch a glimpse, if only of the black\nflag that should apprize them of the tragedy they were no longer\nprivileged to witness. Even these, however, did not muster in strong\nforce until the hour of execution drew near. On knocking at the outer\nwicket, the orders of admission were severely scrutinized, and none\nallowed to pass except those borne by the representatives of the press,\nor persons in some way officially connected with the impending \"event.\"\nThere was an air of grim \"business\" about all present, which showed\nplainly that none were there from choice, nor any who would not feel\nrelief when the fearful spectacle was over. After assembling, first of\nall, in the porter's lodge, we were conducted by the governor, Mr.\nKeene, to the back of the prison, through courtyards and kitchen\ngardens; and in a corner of one of the former we came upon the ghastly\ninstrument of death itself. Here half-a-dozen warders only were\nscattered about, and Mr. Calcraft was arranging his paraphernalia with\nthe air of a connoisseur. I remember--so strangely does one's mind take\nin unimportant details at such a crisis--being greatly struck with the\nfine leeks which were growing in that particular corner of the prison\ngarden where the grim apparatus stood, and we--some five-and-twenty at\nmost, and all in the way of \"business\"--stood, too, waiting for the\nevent!\n\nThen ensued a quarter of an hour's pause, in that cold morning air, when\nsuddenly boomed out the prison bell, that told us the last few minutes\nof the convict's life had come. The pinioning took place within the\nbuilding; and on the stroke of nine, the gloomy procession emerged, the\nprisoner walking between the chaplain and Calcraft, with a firm step,\nand even mounting the steep stair to the gallows without needing\nassistance. She was attired in a plaid dress with silk mantle, her head\nbare, and hair neatly arranged.\n\nAs this was my first experience in private hanging, I do not mind\nconfessing that I misdoubted my powers of endurance. I put a small\nbrandy-flask in my pocket, and stood close by a corner around which I\ncould retire if the sight nauseated me; but such is the strange\nfascination attaching to exhibitions even of this horrible kind, that I\npushed forward with the rest, and when the governor beckoned me on to a\n\"good place,\" I found myself standing in the front rank with the rest of\nmy confreres, and could not help picturing what that row of upturned,\nunsympathizing, pitiless faces must have looked like to the culprit as\ncontrasted with the more sympathetic crowds that used to be present at a\npublic execution.\n\nOne of the daily papers in chronicling this event went so far as to\npoint a moral on the brutalizing effect of such exhibitions from my\nmomentary hesitation and subsequent struggle forward into the front\nrank. The convict's perfect sang froid had a good deal to do with my own\ncalmness, I expect.\n\nWhen the executioner had placed the rope round her neck, and the cap on\nher head ready to be drawn over the face, she uttered a long and fervent\nprayer, expressed with great volubility and propriety of diction, every\nword of which could be distinctly heard by us as we circled the\nscaffold. She could not have rounded her periods more gracefully or\narticulated them more perfectly, if she had rehearsed her part\nbeforehand! Though most of the spectators were more or less inured to\nscenes of horror, several were visibly affected, one kneeling on the\nbare ground, and another leaning, overcome with emotion, against the\nprison wall. At last she said to the chaplain, \"Mr. Jessopp, do you\nthink I am saved?\" A whispered reply from the clergyman conveyed his\nanswer to that momentous question. All left the scaffold except the\nconvict. The bolt was withdrawn, and, almost without a struggle,\nMargaret Waters ceased to exist. Nothing could exceed the calmness and\npropriety of her demeanour, and this, the chaplain informed us, had been\nthe case throughout since her condemnation. She had been visited on one\noccasion by a Baptist minister, to whose persuasion she belonged; but he\nhad, at her own request, forborne to repeat his visit. The prisoner said\nhe was evidently unused to cases like hers, and his ministrations rather\ndistracted than comforted her. The chaplain of the gaol had been\nunremitting in his attentions, and seemingly with happy effect. Though\nshe constantly persisted in saying she was not a murderess in intent,\nshe was yet brought to see her past conduct in its true light; and on\nthe previous Saturday received the Holy Communion in her cell with one\nof her brothers. Two of them visited her, and expressed the strongest\nfeelings of attachment. In fact, the unhappy woman seemed to have been\ndeeply attached to and beloved by all the members of her family. She\nhad, since her condemnation, eaten scarcely anything, having been kept\nalive principally by stimulants. Although this, of course, induced great\nbodily weakness, she did not from the first exhibit any physical fear of\ndeath. On the night before her execution--that peaceful moonlit\nnight--when so many thoughts must have turned to this unhappy woman, she\nslept little, and rose early. The chaplain had arranged to be with her\nat eight, but she sent for him an hour earlier, and he continued with\nher until the end. On Monday night she penned a long statement addressed\nto Mr. Jessopp. This was written with a firm hand on four sides of a\nfoolscap sheet, expressed with great perspicuity, and signed with the\nconvict's name. Whilst still repudiating the idea of being a murderess\nin intent, she pleaded guilty to great deceit, and to having obtained\nmoney under false pretences. If she had not given proper food, that, she\ncontended, was an error of judgment. It was hard, she thought, that she\nshould be held accountable for the child who died in the workhouse. She\ndwelt much upon the difficulties brought upon her by her dread of the\nmoney-lender--that fungus growth of our so-called civilization, who has\nbrought so many criminals to the gallows, besides ruining families every\nday in each year of grace! That she had administered laudanum she\ndenied. The evidence as to the dirty condition of the children she\nasserted to be false. She wished to avoid all bitterness; but those who\nhad so deposed had sworn falsely. \"I feel sure their consciences will\ncondemn them to-night,\" she wrote, \"for having caused the death of a\nfellow-creature.\" In the face of the evidence, she felt the jury could\nnot find any other verdict, or the judge pass any other sentence than\nhad been done. The case had been got up, she argued, to expose a system\nwhich was wrong. Parents wished to get rid of their ill-gotten\noffspring. Their one thought was to hide their own shame. \"They,\" she\nconcluded, \"are the real sinners. If it were not for their sin, _we_\nshould not be sought after.\"\n\nThere must surely be some whose consciences these words will prick.\nHowever this woman deserved the bitter penalty she has now paid, there\nis indeed a tremendous truth in her assertion that she, and such as she,\nare but the supply which answers their demand.\n\nAnd so we filed away as the autumnal sun shone down upon that gloomy\nspectacle, leaving her to the \"crowner's 'quest,\" and the dishonoured\ngrave in the prison precincts. Up to the previous night strong hopes of\na commutation of the sentence were entertained. Her brothers had\nmemorialized the Home Secretary, and were only on the previous day\ninformed that the law must take its course. Let us hope that this stern\nexample will put a stop, not only to \"baby-farming,\" which, as the dead\nwoman truly said, is but a consequence of previous crime--but also to\nthose \"pleasant vices\" which are its antecedents and encouragements.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\nBREAKING UP FOR THE HOLIDAYS.\n\n\nUnromantic as it sounds to say it, I know of few things more disgusting\nthan to revisit one's old school after some twenty or thirty years. Let\nthat dubious decade still remain as to the number of years that have\nelapsed since I left school. In fact, it matters to nobody when I left\nit; I revisited it lately. I went to see the boys break up, as I once\nbroke up, and I felt disgusted--not with the school, or the breaking up,\nbut with myself. I felt disgracefully old. In fact, I went home, and\nbegan a poem with these words:--\n\n    My years, I feel, are getting on:\n      Yet, ere the trembling balance kicks, I\n    Will imitate the dying swan,\n      And sing an ode threnodic--vixi.\n\nI never got any farther than that. By the way, I shall have to mention\neventually that the school was King's College, in the Strand. I am not\ngoing to unbosom beyond this, or to add anything in the way of an\nautobiography; but the locale would have to come out anon, and there is\nno possible reason for concealment.\n\nWell, I went to see them break up for the holidays, and only got over my\nantediluvian feelings by seeing one of the masters still on the staff\nwho was there when I was a boy. It was a comfort to think what a\nMethuselah he must be; and yet, if he will excuse the personality, he\nlooked as rosy and smooth-faced as when he used to stand me outside his\ndoor with my coat-sleeves turned inside out. It was a way he had. Well,\nthe presence of that particular master made me feel an Adonis forthwith.\n\nI will not go into the prizes. There were lots of them, and they were\nvery nice, and the boys looked very happy, and their mammas legitimately\nproud. What I want to speak of is the school speeches or recitations, as\nthey are termed. King's College School speeches are, to my thinking, a\nmodel of what such things ought to be.\n\nSome schools--I name no names--go in for mere scholastic recitations\nwhich nobody understands, and the boys hate. Others burst out in\nfull-blown theatricals. King's College acts on the motto, Medio\ntutissimus ibis. It keeps the old scholastic recitations, but gilds the\npill by adding the accessory of costume. I can quote Latin as well as\nDr. Pangloss, and certain lines were running in my mind all the time I\nwas in King's College Hall. They were\n\n  Pueris olim dant crustula blandi\n  Doctores, elementa velint ut discere prima.\n\nFirst we had a bit of German in the shape of an extract from Kotzebue's\n\"Die Schlaue Wittwe,\" or \"Temperaments.\" I wish I had my programme, I\nwould compliment by name the lad who played the charming young Frau.\nSuffice it to say the whole thing went off sparkling like a firework. It\nwas short, and made you wish for more--a great virtue in speeches and\nsermons. The dancing-master was perfect. Then came a bit of Colman's\n\"Heir at Law.\" Dr. Pangloss--again I regret the absence of the\nprogramme--was a creation, and--notwithstanding the proximity of King's\nCollege to the Strand Theatre--the youth wisely abstained from copying\neven so excellent a model as Mr. Clarke. Of course, the bits of Latinity\ncame out with a genuine scholastic ring. Then a bit of a Greek play, at\nwhich--mirabile dictu!--everybody laughed, and with which everybody was\npleased. And why? Because the adjuncts of costume and properties added\nto the correct enunciation of the text, prevented even those, who knew\nlittle Latin and less Greek, from being one moment in the dark as to\nwhat was going on. The passage was one from the \"Birds\" of Aristophanes;\nand the fact of a treaty being concluded between the Olympians and\nterrestrials, led to the introduction of some interpolations as to the\nWashington Treaty, which, when interpreted by the production of the\nAmerican flag and English Union Jack, brought down thunders of applause.\nThe final chorus was sung to \"Yankee Doodle,\" and accompanied by a\nfiddle. The acting and accessories were perfect; and what poor Robson\nused to term the \"horgan\" of Triballos, was wonderful. That youth would\nbe a nice young man for a small tea party. It is to be hoped that, like\nBottom the weaver, he can modulate his voice, and roar as gently as any\nsucking-dove.\n\nMost wonderful, however, of all the marvels--that met me at my old\nschool--was a scene from the \"Critic,\" played by the most Lilliputian\nboys. Puff--played by Powell (I don't forget that name)--was simply\nmarvellous. And yet Powell, if he will forgive me for saying so, was the\nmerest whipper-snapper. Sir Christopher Hatton could scarcely have\nemerged from the nursery; and yet the idea of utter stolidity never\nfound a better exponent than that same homoeopathic boy.\n\nLast of all came the conventional scene from Moliere's \"L'Avare.\" Maitre\nJacques was good; Harpagon more than good. I came away well satisfied,\nonly regretting I had not brought my eldest boy to see it. My eldest\nboy! Egad, and I was just such as he is now, when I used to creep like a\nsnail unwillingly to those scholastic shades. The spirit of Pangloss\ncame upon me again as I thought of all I had seen that day,--there was\nnothing like it in my day. King's College keeps pace with the times.\n\"Tempora mutantur!\" I mentally exclaimed; and added, not without a\npleasant scepticism, as I gazed once more on the pippin-faced master, \"I\nwonder whether--nos mutamur in illis?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\nPSYCHOLOGICAL LADIES.\n\n\nThere is no doubt that the \"Woman's Rights\" question is going ahead with\ngigantic strides, not only in social and political, but also in\nintellectual matters. Boys and girls--or rather we ought to say young\nladies and young gentlemen--are grouped together on the class list of\nthe Oxford Local Examination, irrespective of sex. A glance at the daily\npapers will show us that women are being lectured to on all subjects\ndown from physical sciences, through English literature and art, to the\nconstruction of the clavecin. We had fancied, however, that what are\ntechnically termed \"the Humanities,\" or, in University diction,\n\"Science\"--meaning thereby ethics and logic--were still our own. Now, we\nare undeceived. We are reminded that woman can say, without a solecism,\n\"Homo sum,\" and may therefore claim to embrace even the humanities among\nher subjects of study. Henceforth the realm of woman is not merely what\nmay be called \"pianofortecultural,\" as was once the case. It has soared\neven above art, literature, and science itself into what might at first\nsight appear the uncongenial spheres of dialectics and metaphysics.\n\nProfessor G. Croom Robertson recently commenced a course of thirty\nlectures to ladies on Psychology and Logic, at the Hall, 15, Lower\nSeymour Street, Portman Square. Urged, it may be, rather by a desire to\nsee whether ladies would be attracted by such a subject, and, if so,\nwhat psychological ladies were like, than by any direct interest in the\nmatters themselves, I applied to the hon. secretary, inquiring whether\nthe inferior sex were admissible; and was answered by a ticket admitting\none's single male self and a party of ladies a discretion. The very\nentrance to the hall--nay, the populous street itself--removed my doubts\nas to whether ladies would be attracted by the subjects; and on entering\nI discovered that the audience consisted of several hundred ladies, and\ntwo unfortunate--or shall it not rather be said privileged?--members of\nthe male sex. The ladies were of all ages, evidently matrons as well as\nspinsters, with really nothing at all approaching a \"blue stocking\"\nelement; but all evidently bent on business. All were taking vigorous\nnotes, and seemed to follow the Professor's somewhat difficult Scotch\ndiction at least as well as our two selves, who appeared to represent\nnot only the male sex in general, but the London press in particular.\n\nProfessor Robertson commenced by a brief and well-timed reference to the\naccomplished Hypatia, familiar to ladies from Kingsley's novel--in the\ndays when ladies used to read novels--and also the Royal ladies whom\nDescartes and Leibnitz found apter disciples than the savants. It was,\nhowever, he remarked, an impertinence to suppose that any apology was\nneeded for introducing such subjects before ladies. He plunged therefore\nat once in medias res, and made his first lecture not a mere isolated or\nintroductory one, but the actual commencement of his series. Unreasoned\nfacts, he said, formed but a mere fraction of our knowledge--even the\nsimplest processes resolving themselves into a chain of inference. Truth\nis the result of logical reasoning; and not only truth, but truth _for\nall_. The sciences deal with special aspects of truth. These sciences\nmay be arranged in the order--1. Mathematics; 2. Physics; 3. Chemistry;\n4. Biology--each gradually narrowing its sphere; the one enclosed, so to\nsay, in the other, and each presupposing those above it. Logic was\npresupposed in all. Each might be expressed by a word ending in \"logy,\"\ntherefore logic might be termed the \"science of sciences.\" The sciences\nwere special applications of logic. Scientific men speak lightly of\nlogic, and say truth can be discovered without it. This is true, but\ntrivial. We may as well object to physiology because we can digest\nwithout a knowledge of it; or to arithmetic, because it is possible to\nreckon without it. Scientific progress has been great; but its course\nmight have been strewn with fewer wrecks had its professors been more\ngenerally logicians. But then logic presupposes something else. We have\nto investigate the origin and growth of knowledge--the laws under which\nknowledge comes to be. Under one aspect this science--psychology--should\nbe placed highest up in the scale; but under another it would rank later\nin point of development than even biology itself, because it is not\nevery being that thinks. This twofold aspect is accounted for by the\npeculiarity of its subject-matter--viz., mind.\n\nThe sciences are comparatively modern. Mathematics but some 3000 or 4000\nyears old; physics, three centuries; chemistry, a thing of the last,\nbiology only of the present century. But men philosophized before the\nsciences. The ancient Greeks had but one science--mathematics. Now men\nknow a little of many sciences; but what we want is men to connect--to\nknit together--the sciences; to have their knowledge all of a piece. The\nknowledge of the ancient Greek directed his actions, and entered far\nmore into his daily life than ours does. This, he observed, was\nphilosophy. This is what we want now; and this is what is to be got from\npsychology. There is not a single thing between heaven and earth that\ndoes not admit of a mental expression; or, in other words, possess a\nsubjective aspect, and therefore come under psychology.\n\nThis, in briefest outline, is a sketch of the \"strong meat\" offered to\nthe psychological ladies. A single branch of psychology--that, namely,\nof the intellect, excluding that of feeling and action--is to occupy ten\nlectures, the above being number one. The other twenty will be devoted\nto logic.\n\nThe next lecture was devoted to an examination of the brain and nervous\nsystem, and their office in mental processes. Alas, however, how\ndifferent was now the audience! Only some thirty ladies--scarcely more\nthan one-tenth of those who were present at the opening lecture--have\npermanently entered for the course. It is no disrespect to the ladies to\nhazard the conjecture whether the subject be not a little out of range\nfor the present. We are moving ahead rapidly, and many foolish ideas as\nto the intellectual differences of the sexes are becoming obsolete. We\nhave literary and artistic ladies by thousands. Scientific ladies, in\nthe ordinary acceptation of the term, are coming well to the front.\nPossibly we may have to \"wait a little longer\" before we get, on\nanything like a large scale, psychological or even logical ladies.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\nSECULARISM ON BUNYAN.\n\n\nIt is very marvellous to observe the number of strange and unexpected\ncombinations that are continually occurring in that moral kaleidoscope\nwe call society. I do not suppose that I am exceptional in coming across\nthese; nor do I use any particular industry in seeking them out. They\ncome to me; all I do is to keep my eyes open, and note the impressions\nthey make on me. I was humbly pursuing my way one Tuesday evening\ntowards the abode of a phrenologist with the honest intention of\ndiscovering my craniological condition, when, in passing down Castle\nStreet, Oxford Market, I was made aware that Mr. G. J. Holyoake was\nthere and then to deliver himself on the \"Literary Genius of Bunyan.\"\nThis was one of the incongruous combinations I spoke of; and forthwith I\npassed into the Co-operative Hall, resolving to defer my visit to the\nphrenologist. There are some facts of which it is better to remain\ncontentedly ignorant; and I have no doubt my own mental condition\nbelongs to that category.\n\nI found the Co-operative Hall a handsome and commodious building; and a\nvery fair audience had gathered to listen to Mr. Holyoake, who is an\nelderly thin-voiced man, and his delivery was much impeded on the\noccasion in question by the circumstance of his having a bad cold and\ncough. After a brief extempore allusion to the fact of the Duke of\nBedford having erected a statue to Bunyan, which he regarded as a sort\nof compensation for his Grace ceasing to subscribe to the races, Mr.\nHolyoake proceeded to read his treatise, which he had written on several\nslips of paper--apparently backs of circulars--and laid one by one on a\nchair as he finished them.\n\nThe world, he said, is a big place; but people are always forgetting\nwhat a variety of humanity it contains. Two hundred years ago, the\nauthorities of Bedford made it very unpleasant for one John Bunyan,\nbecause they thought they knew everything, and could not imagine that a\ncommon street workman might know more. The trade of a tinker seems an\nunpromising preparation for a literary career. A tinker in Bedford\nto-day would not find himself much flattered by the attentions paid him,\nespecially if he happened to be an old gaol-bird as well. So much the\nmore creditable to Bunyan the ascendancy he gained. If he mended pots as\nwell as he made sentences he was the best tinker that ever travelled.\n\nBunyan had no worldly notions. His doctrine was that men were not saved\nby any good they might do--a doctrine that would ruin the morals of any\ncommercial establishment in a month! He declared himself the \"chief of\nsinners;\" but judged by his townsmen he was a stout-hearted,\nstout-minded, scrupulous man.\n\nHe was not a pleasant man to know. He had an unrelenting sincerity which\noften turned into severity. Yet he had much tenderness. He had a soul\nlike a Red Indian's--all tomahawk and truth, until the literary passion\ncame and added humour to it. He demands in his vigorous doggerel:--\n\n    May I not write in such a style as this,\n    In such a method, too, and yet not miss\n    My end, thy good? Why may it not be done?\n    Dark clouds bring waters, when the bright bring none.\n\nLike all men of original genius, this stout-minded pot-mender had\nunbounded confidence in himself. He was under no delusion as to his own\npowers. No man knew better what he was about. He could take the measure\nof all the justices about him, and he knew it. Every shallow-headed\ngentleman in Bedfordshire towns and villages was made to wince under his\npicturesque and satiric tongue. To clergymen, bishops, lawyers, and\njudges he gave names which all his neighbours knew. Mr. Pitiless, Mr.\nHardheart, Mr. Forget-good, Mr. No-truth, Mr. Haughty--thus he named the\ndisagreeable dignitaries of the town of Mansoul.\n\nAt first he was regarded by his \"pastors and masters\" as a mere wilful,\nnoisy, praying sectary. Very soon they discovered that he was a\nfighting preacher. As tinker or Christian he always had his sleeves\nturned up. When he had to try his own cause he put in the jury-box Mr.\nTrue-Heart, Mr. Upright, Mr. Hate-Bad, Mr. See-Truth, and other amiable\npersons. His witnesses were Mr. Know-All, Mr. Tell-True, Mr. Hate-Lies,\nMr. Vouch-Truth, Mr. Did-See. His Town Clerk was Mr. Do-Right, the\nRecorder was Mr. Conscience, the gaoler was Mr. True-Man, Lord\nUnderstanding was on the bench, and the Judge bears the dainty name of\nthe \"Golden-headed Prince.\"\n\nBunyan's adversaries are always a bad set. They live in Villain's Lane,\nin Blackmouth Street, or Blasphemer's Row, or Drunkard's Alley, or\nRascal's Corner. They are the sons of one Beastly, whose mother bore\nthem in Flesh Square: they live at the house of one Shameless, at the\nsign of the Reprobate, next door to the Descent into the Pit, whose\nretainers are Mr. Flatter, Mr. Impiety, Mr. False-Peace, Mr.\nCovetousness, who are housed by one Mr. Simple, in Folly's Yard.\n\nBunyan had a perfect wealth of sectarian scurrility at his command. His\nepithets are at times unquotable and ferocious. When, however, his\nfriends are at the bar, the witnesses against them comprise the choicest\nscoundrels of all time--Mr. Envy, Mr. Pick-thank, and others, whose\nfriends are Lord Carnal-Delight, Lord Luxurious, Lord Lechery, Sir\nHaving Greedy, and similar villanous people of quality. The Judge's\nname is now Lord Hate-Good. The Jury consist of Mr. No-Good, Mr. Malice,\nMr. Love-Lust, Mr. Live-Loose, Mr. Heady, Mr. Hate-Light, Mr. Enmity,\nMr. Liar, Mr. Cruelty, and Mr. Implacable, with Mr. Blindman for\nForeman.\n\nNever was such an infamous gang impanelled. Rancour and rage and\nvindictiveness, and every passion awakened in the breasts of the strong\nby local insolence and legal injustice, is supplied by Bunyan with\nepithets of immense retaliative force. He is the greatest name-maker\namong authors. He was a spiritual Comanche. He prayed like a savage. He\nsaid himself, when describing the art of the religious rhetorician--an\nart of which he was the greatest master of his time:--\n\n    You see the ways the fisherman doth take\n    To catch the fish; what engines doth he make!\n    Behold! how he engageth all his wits,\n    Also his snares, lines, angles, hooks, and nets;\n    Yet fish there be that neither hook nor line,\n    Nor snare, nor net, nor engine can make thine;\n    They must be grop'd for, and be tickled too,\n    Or they will not be catch'd, whate'er you do.\n\nBunyan never tickled the sinner. It was not his way. He carried a prong.\nHe pricked the erring. He published a pamphlet to suggest what ought to\nbe done to holy pedestrians, whose difficulties lay rearward. He put\ndetonating balls under their feet which exploded as they stepped and\nalarmed them along. He lined the celestial road with horrors. If they\nturned their heads they saw a fiend worse than Lot's wife who was merely\nchanged into a pillar of sweet all-preserving salt. Bunyan's unfortunate\nconverts who looked back fell into a pit filled with fire, where they\nhowled and burnt for evermore.\n\nAh! with what pleasure must the great Bedfordshire artist have\ncontemplated his masterly pages as day by day he added to them the\nportrait of some new scoundrel, or painted with dexterous and loving\nhand the wholesome outlines of some honest man, or devised some new\nphrase which like a new note or new colour would delight singer or\npainter for generations yet to come. He must have strode proudly along\nhis cell as he put his praise and his scorn into imperishable similes.\n\nBut Bunyan had never been great had he been merely disagreeable. He had\ninfinite wit in him. It was his carnal genius that saved him. He wrote\nsixty books, and two of them--the \"Siege of the Town of Mansoul\" and the\n\"Pilgrim's Progress\"--exceed all ever written for creative swiftness of\nimagination, racy English speech, sentences of literary art, cunningness\nin dialogue, satire, ridicule, and surpassing knowledge of the\npicturesque ways of the obscure minds of common men. In his pages men\nrise out of the ground--they always come up on an open space so that\nthey can be seen. They talk naturally, so that you know them at once;\nand they act without delay, so that you never forget them. They\nsurprise you, delight you, they interest you, they instruct you, and\ndisappear. They never linger, they never weary you. Incidents new and\nstrange arise at every step in his story. The scene changes like the men\nand their adventures. Now it is field or morass, plain or bypath, bog or\nvolcano, castle or cottage, sandy scorching desert or cold river; the\nsmoke of the bottomless pit or bright, verdant, delectable mountains and\nenchanted lands where there are no bishops, no gaols, and no tinkers;\nwhere aboundeth grapes, calico, brides, eternal conversation, and\ntrumpets. The great magician's genius forsakes him when he comes to the\nunknown regions, and he knoweth no more than the rest of us. But while\nhis foot is on the earth he steps like a king among writers. His\nChristian is no fool. He is cunning of fence, suspicious, sagacious,\nwitty, satirical, abounding in invective, and broad, bold, delicious\ninsolence. Bye-Ends is a subtle, evasive knave drawn with infinite\nskill.\n\nHad Bunyan merely preached the Gospel he had no more been remembered\nthan thousands of his day who are gratefully forgotten--had he prayed to\nthis time he had won no statue; but his literary genius lives when the\npreacher is very dead.\n\nHe saw with such vividness that the very passions and wayward moods of\nmen stood apart and distinct in his sight, and he gave names to them and\nendowed them with their natural speech. He created new men out of\ncharacteristics of mind, and sent them into the world in shapes so\ndefined and palpable that men know them for evermore. It was the way of\nhis age for writers to give names to their adversaries. Bunyan imitated\nthis in his life of Mr. Badman. Others did this, but Bunyan did it\nbetter than any man. His invention was marvellous, and he had besides\nthe faculty of the dramatist.\n\nIf any man wrote the adventures of a Co-operator, he would have to tell\nof his meeting with Mr. Obstinate, who will not listen to him, and wants\nto pull him back. We all get the company of Mr. Pliable, who is\npersuaded without being convinced, who at the first splash into\ndifficulty crawls out and turns back with a cowardly adroitness. We have\nall encountered the stupidity of Mr. Ignorance, which nothing can\nenlighten. We know Mr. Turnaway, who comes from the town of Apostacy,\nwhose face we cannot perfectly see. Others merely gave names, he drew\ncharacters, he made the qualities of his men speak; you knew them by\ntheir minds better than by their dress. That is why succeeding ages have\nread the \"Pilgrim's Progress,\" because the same people who met that\nextraordinary traveller are always turning up in the way of every man\nwho has a separate and a high purpose, and is bent upon carrying it out.\nManners change, but humanity has still its old ways. It is because\nBunyan painted these that his writing lasts like a picture by one of the\nold masters who painted for all time.\n\nSuch is an outline of the paper, which was interesting from its\nassociations, and only spoilt by the cough. We had had Bunyan in pretty\nwell every shape possible during the last few weeks. Certainly one of\nthe most original is this which presents the man of unbounded faith in\nthe light of utter scepticism.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\n\nAL FRESCO INFIDELITY.\n\n\nIn a series of papers like the present it is necessary, every now and\nthen, to pause and apologize, either for the nature of the work in\ngeneral, or for certain particulars in its execution calculated to shock\ngood people whose feelings one would wish to respect. Having so long been\nengaged in the study of infidelity in London, I may, perhaps, be\npermitted to speak with something like authority in the matter; and I\nhave no hesitation in saying that I believe the policy of shirking the\nsubject is the most fatal and foolish one that could be adopted. Not only\ndoes such a course inspire people, especially young people, with the idea\nthat there is something very fascinating in infidelity--something which,\nif allowed to meet their gaze, would be sure to attract and convince\nthem--than which nothing is farther from the truth--not only so, however,\nbut many of the statements and most of the arguments which sound\nplausibly enough on the glib tongue of a popular speaker read very\ndifferently indeed, when put down in cold-blooded letter-press, and\npublished in the pages of a book. I protest strongly against making a\nmystery of London infidelity. It has spread and is spreading, I know,\nand it is well the public should know; but I believe there would be no\nsuch antidote to it as for people to be fully made aware how and where it\nis spreading. That is the role I have all along proposed to myself: not\nto declaim against any man or any system, not to depreciate or disguise\nthe truth, but simply to describe. I cannot imagine a more legitimate\nmethod of doing my work.\n\nI suppose no one will regard it in any way as an indulgence or a luxury\non the part of a clergyman, who be it remembered, is, during a portion\nof the Sunday, engaged in ministering to Christian people, that he\nshould devote another portion of that day to hearing Christ vilified,\nand having his own creed torn to pieces. I myself feel that my own\nbelief is not shaken, but in a tenfold degree confirmed by all I have\nheard and seen and written of infidelity; and therefore I cannot concede\nthe principle that to convey my experiences to others is in any way\ndangerous. Take away the halo of mystery that surrounds this subject,\nand it would possess very slender attractions indeed.\n\nIt was, for instance, on what has always appeared to me among the most\naffecting epochs of our Christian year, the Fifth Sunday after\nEaster--Christ's last Sunday upon earth--that, by one of those violent\nantitheses, I went to Gibraltar Walk, Bethnal Green Road, to hear Mr.\nRamsey there demolish the very system which, for many years, it has\nbeen my mission to preach. I did not find, and I hope my congregation\ndid not find, that I faltered in my message that evening. I even venture\nto think that Mr. Ramsey's statements, which I shall repeat as\nfaithfully as possible, will scarcely seem as convincing here as they\ndid when he poured them forth so fluently to the costermongers and\nnavvies of the Bethnal Green Road; and if this be true of Mr. Ramsey it\nis certainly so of the smaller men; for he is a master in his craft, and\ncertainly a creditable antagonist for a Christian to meet with the mild\ndefensive weapons we have elected to use.\n\nWhen the weather proves fine, as it ought to have done in May, 1874,\ninfidelity adjourns from its generally slummy halls to the street\ncorners, and to fields which are often the reverse of green; thus\nadopting, let me remark in passing, one of the oldest instrumentalities\nof Christianity itself, one, too, in which we shall do well to follow\nits example. Fas est ab hoste doceri--I cannot repeat too often.\nScorning the attractions of the railway arches in the St. Pancras Road,\nwhere I hope soon to be a listener, I sped via the Metropolitan Railway\nand tram to Shoreditch Church, not far from which, past the Columbia\nMarket and palatial Model Lodging Houses, is the unpicturesque corner\ncalled Gibraltar Walk, debouching from the main road, with a triangular\nscrap of very scrubby ground, flanked by a low wall, which young\nBethnal Green is rapidly erasing from the face of the earth. When I got\nhere, I found an unclerical-looking gentleman in a blue great-coat and\nsandy moustache erecting his rostrum in the shape of a small deal stool,\nfrom whence I could see he was preparing to pour forth the floods of his\nrhetoric by diligent study of some exceedingly greasy notes which he\nheld in his hand and perused at what I feel sure must have been the\nwindiest street corner procurable outside the cave of AEolus. I fell back\ninto the small but very far from select crowd which had already begun to\ngather, and an old man, who was unmistakably a cobbler, having\nascertained that I had come to hear the lecture, told me he had\n\"listened to a good many of 'em, but did not feel much for'arder.\"\nUndismayed by this intelligence I still elected to tarry, despite the\ncruel nor'-easter that was whistling round the corner of the Bethnal\nGreen Road. In a few minutes I perceived a slight excitement in the\nsmall gathering due to the fact that the Christians had put in an\nappearance, so that there would be some opposition. Mr. Harrington, a\nyoung man whom I had heard once speak fluently enough on the theistic\nside at an infidel meeting, was unpacking his rostrum, which was a\npatent folding one, made of deal, like that of his adversary, but neatly\nfolded along with a large Bible, inside a green baize case. Both\ngentlemen commenced proceedings at the same time; and as they had\npitched their stools very close to one another, the result was very\nmuch like that of two grinding organs in the same street. Of the two,\nMr. Harrington's voice was louder than Mr. Ramsey's. The latter\ngentleman had a sore throat, and had to be kept lubricated by means of a\njug of water, which a brother heretic held ready at his elbow. Mr.\nHarrington was in prime condition, but his congregation was smaller than\nours; for I kept at first--I was going to say religiously, I suppose I\nought to say _ir_-religiously--to the infidels.\n\nMr. Ramsey, who had a rooted aversion to the letter \"h,\" except where a\nsmooth breathing is usual, began by saying that Christianity differed\nfrom other religions in the fact of its having an eternal 'Ell. The\nMahometans had their beautiful ladies; the North American Indian looked\nfor his 'Appy 'Unting Grounds; but 'Ell was a speciality of the\nChristian system. On the other side was the fact that you continually\nhad salvation inundated upon you. Tracts were put into your hand,\nasking--\"What must I do to be saved?\" We had to pay for this salvation\nabout _11,000,000l._ a year to the Church of England, and something like\nan equal amount to the Dissenters. In fact every tub-thumper went about\npreaching and ruining servant girls, and for this we paid over twenty\nmillions a year--more than the interest on the whole National Debt.\nAfter this elegant exordium, Mr. Ramsey said he proposed to divide his\nremarks under four heads. 1. Is Salvation necessary? 2. What are we to\nbe saved from? 3. What for? 4. How?\n\n1. According to the Christian theory, God, after an eternity of \"doin'\nnothin',\" created the world. He made Adam sin by making sin for him to\ncommit; and then damned him for doing what He knew he would do. He\npredestined you--the audience--to be damned because of Adam's sin; but\nafter a time God \"got sick and tired of damning people,\" and sent His\nSon to redeem mankind.\n\nThis flower of rhetoric tickled Bethnal Green immensely; but Mr.\nHarrington was equal to the occasion, and thundered out his orthodoxy so\nsuccessfully that Mr. Ramsey took a longer drink than usual, and\ncomplained that he was not having \"a free platform\"--it was so he\ndignified the rickety stool on which he was perched. He then meandered\ninto a long dissection of Genesis i., appearing to feel particularly\naggrieved by the fact of the moon being said to \"rule the night,\" though\nI could not see how this was relevant to the Christian scheme of\nsalvation; and a superb policeman, who had listened for a moment to Mr.\nRamsey's astronomical lucubrations, evidently shared my feelings and\npassed on superciliously. I devoutly wished my duty had permitted me to\ndo the same.\n\nThe speaker then went into a long dissertation on the primal sin; the\ngist of which was that though the woman had never been warned not to eat\nof the Forbidden Fruit, she had to bear the brunt of the punishment.\nThen--though one is almost ashamed to chronicle such a triviality--he\nwaxed very wroth because the serpent was spoken of as being cursed above\nall \"cattle.\" Who ever heard of snakes being called cattle? He was\ncondemned to go on his belly. How did he go before? Did he go on his\nback or \"'op\" along on the tip of his tail? These pleasantries drew all\nMr. Harrington's audience away except a few little dirty boys on the\nwall. Mr. Ramsey clearly knew his audience, and \"acted to the gallery.\"\n\n2. But what were we to be saved from? Eternal 'Ell-fire. This 'Ell-fire\nwas favourite sauce for sermons, and served to keep people awake. Where\nwas 'Ell? It was said to be a bottomless pit; if so, he should be all\nright, because he could get out at the other end! Then, again, 'Ell was\nsaid to be a very 'ot place. When the missionaries told the Greenlanders\nthat, everybody wanted to go to 'Ell; so they had to change their tune\nand say it was very cold. Mr. Ramsey omitted to mention his authority\nfor this statement.\n\nInto his pleasantries on the monotony of life in 'Eaven, I do not feel\ninclined to follow this gentleman. The Atonement, he went on to remark,\nif necessary at all, came 4000 years too late. It should have been--so\nwe were to believe on his ipse dixit--contemporaneous with the Fall.\nThis atonement we were to avail ourselves of by means of faith. Idiots\ncould not have faith, but were allowed to be saved. Consequently, argued\nMr. Ramsey, in conclusion, the best thing for all of us would have been\nto have been born idiots, and, consistently enough, Christianity tried\nto turn us all into idiots.\n\nSuch were some of the statements. I refrain from quoting the most\noffensive, which were deliberately put forward at this al fresco\ninfidels' meeting; and with what result? Though a vast population kept\nmoving to and fro along that great highway there were never, I am sure,\nmore than a hundred people gathered at the shrine of Mr. Ramsey. They\nlaughed at his profanities, yes; but directly he dropped these, and grew\nargumentative, they talked, and had to be vigorously reduced to order.\nGallio-like they cared for none of these things, and I am quite sure a\ngood staff of working clergy, men like Mr. Body or Mr. Steele of St.\nThomas's, who could talk to the people, would annihilate Mr. Ramsey's\nprestige. As for Mr. Harrington, he meant well, and had splendid\nlung-power, but his theology was too sectarian to suit a mixed body of\nlisteners embracing all shades of thought and no-thought.\n\nSupposing Mr. Ramsey to have put forth all his power that morning--and I\nhave no reason to doubt that he did so--I deliberately say that I should\nnot hesitate to take my own boy down to hear him, because I feel that\neven his immature mind would be able to realize how little there was to\nbe said against Christianity, if that were all.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\n\nAN \"INDESCRIBABLE PHENOMENON.\"\n\n\nWhen the bulk of the London Press elects to gush over anything or\nanybody, there are at all events, prima facie grounds for believing that\nthere is something to justify such a consensus. When, moreover, the\nobject of such gush is a young lady claiming to be a spirit-medium, the\nunanimity is so unusual as certainly to make the matter worth the most\ncareful inquiry, for hitherto the London Press has either denounced\nspiritualism altogether, or gushed singly over individual mediums,\npresumably according to the several proclivities of the correspondents.\nOf Miss Annie Eva Fay, however--is not the very name fairy-like and\nfascinating?--I read in one usually sober-minded journal that \"there is\nsomething not of this earth about the young lady's powers.\" Another\naverred that she was \"a spirit medium of remarkable and extraordinary\npower.\" Others, more cautious, described the \"mystery\" as \"bewildering,\"\nthe \"entertainment\" as \"extraordinary and incomprehensible,\" while yet\nanother seemed to me to afford an index to the cause of this gush by\nsaying that \"Miss Fay is a pretty young lady of about twenty, with a\ndelicate spirituelle face, and a profusion of light hair, frizzled on\nthe forehead.\"\n\nI made a point of attending Miss Annie Eva Fay's opening performance at\nthe Hanover Square Rooms, and found all true enough as to the pretty\nface and the frizzled hair. Of the \"indescribable\" nature of the\n\"phenomenon\" (for by that title is Miss Fay announced, a la Vincent\nCrummles) there may be two opinions, according as we regard the young\nlady as a kind of Delphic Priestess and Cumaean Sibyl rolled into one, or\nsimply a clever conjuror--conjuress, if there be such a word.\n\nLet me, then, with that delightful inconsistency so often brought to\nbear on the so-called or self-styled \"supernatural,\" first describe the\n\"indescribable,\" and then, in the language of the unspiritual Dr. Lynn,\ntell how it is all done; for, of course, I found it all out, like a\ngreat many others of the enlightened and select audience which gathered\nat Miss Annie Eva Fay's first drawing-room reception in the Queen's\nConcert Rooms.\n\nArriving at the door half an hour too early, as I had misread the time\nof commencement, I found at the portal Mr. Burns, of the Progressive\nLibrary, and a gentleman with a diamond brooch in his shirt-front, whom\nI guessed at once, from that adornment, to be the proprietor of the\nindescribable phenomenon, and I was, in fact, immediately introduced to\nhim as Colonel Fay.\n\nPassing in due course within the cavernous room which might have suited\nwell a Cumaean Sibyl on a small scale, I found the platform occupied by a\ntiny cabinet, unlike that of the Davenports in that it was open in\nfront, with a green curtain, which I could see was destined to be let\ndown during the performance of the phenomenal manifestations. There was\na camp-stool inside the cabinet; a number of cane-bottomed chairs on the\nplatform, and also the various properties of a spirit seance, familiar\nto me from long experience, guitar, fiddle, handbells, tambourine, &c.\nOne adjunct alone was new; and that was a green stable bucket, destined,\nI could not doubt, to figure in what my Rimmel-scented programme\npromised as the climax of Part I.--the \"Great Pail Sensation.\" Presently\nColonel Fay, in a brief speech, nasal but fluent, introduced the\nsubject, and asked two gentlemen to act as a Committee of Inspection.\nTwo stepped forward immediately--indeed too immediately, as the result\nproved; one a \"citizen of this city,\" as Colonel Fay had requested; but\nthe other a Hindoo young gentleman, who, I believe, lost the confidence\nof the audience at once from his foreign face and Oriental garb.\nHowever, they were first to the front, and so were elected, and\nproceeded at once to \"examine\" the cabinet in that obviously helpless\nand imperfect way common to novices who work with the gaze of an\naudience upon them. Then, from a side door, stage left, enter the\nIndescribable Phenomenon. A pretty young lady, yes, and with light\nfrizzled hair to any extent. There was perhaps \"a spirit look within her\neyes;\" but then I have often found this to be the case with young ladies\nof twenty. Her dress of light silk was beyond reproach. I had seen\nFlorence Cook and Miss Showers lately; and,--well, I thought those two,\nwith the assistance of Miss Annie Eva Fay, would have made a very pretty\nmodel for a statuette of the Three Graces.\n\nMiss Fay, after being described by the Colonel vaguely enough as \"of the\nUnited States,\" was bound on both wrists with strips of calico; the\nknots were sewn by the European gentleman--as distinguished from the\nAsiatic youth. He was not quite au fait at the needle, but got through\nit in time. Miss Fay was then placed on the camp-stool, her wrists\nfastened behind her, and her neck also secured to a ring screwed into\nthe back of the cabinet. A rope was tied round her ankles, and passed\nright to the front of the stage, where the Hindoo youth was located and\nbidden hold it taut, which he did conscientiously, his attitude being\nwhat Colman describes \"like some fat gentleman who bobbed for eels.\"\n\nFirst of all, another strip of calico was placed loosely round Miss\nFay's neck; the curtain descended. Hey, presto! it was up again, sooner\nthan it takes to write, and this strip was knotted doubly and trebly\nround her neck. A tambourine hoop was put in her lap, and this, in like\nmanner, was found encircling her neck, as far as the effervescent hair\nwould allow it.\n\nThe audience at this point grew a little fidgety; and though they did\nnot say anything against the Oriental young gentleman, the 'cute\nAmerican colonel understood it, adding two others from the audience to\nthe committee on the stage, and leaving the young gentleman to \"bob\"\ndown below as if to keep him out of mischief.\n\nThe other \"manifestations\" were really only different in detail from the\nfirst. The guitar was placed on the lap, the curtain fell and it played;\nso did the fiddle--out of tune, as usual--and also a little glass\nharmonicon with actually a soupcon of melody. A mouth-organ\ntootle-tooed, and what Colonel Fay described as a \"shingle nail\" was\ndriven with a hammer into a piece of wood. A third of a tumbler of water\nlaid on the lap of the Indescribable Phenomenon was drunk, and the great\nPail Sensation consisted in the bucket being put on her lap and then\ndiscovered slung by the handle around her neck. The last \"manifestation\"\nis the one to which I would draw attention; for it was by this I\ndiscovered how it was all done. A knife was put on Miss Fay's lap; the\ncurtain lowered, the knife pitched on to the platform, and behold the\nIndescribable Phenomenon stepped from the cabinet with the ligature that\nhad bound her wrists and neck severed.\n\nNow, all through this portion of the entertainment the audience,\ninstead of sitting quiet, amused themselves with proposing idiotic\ntests, or suggesting audibly how it was all done. One man behind me\npertinaciously clung to the theory of a concealed boy, and trotted him\nto the front after every phase of the exhibition. He must have been\ninfinitesimally small; but that did not matter. It was \"that boy again\"\nafter every trick. One manifestation consisted in putting a piece of\npaper and pair of scissors on Miss Fay's lap, and having several \"tender\nlittle infants\" cut out, as the Colonel phrased it.\n\nHereupon sprang up a 'cute individual in the room, and produced a sheet\nof paper he had marked. Would Miss Fay cut out a tender little infant\nfrom that? Miss Fay consented, and of course did it, the 'cute\nindividual retiring into private life for the rest of the evening.\nAnother wanted Miss Fay's mouth to be bound with a handkerchief, and\nthere was no objection raised, until the common-sense and humanity of\nthe audience protested against such a needless cruelty on a broiling\nnight and in that Cumaean cave. An excited gentleman in front of me, too,\nwhose mission I fancy was simply to protest against the spiritual\ncharacter of the phenomena (which was never asserted) would interrupt us\nall from time to time by declaring his intense satisfaction with it all.\nIt was a splendid trick. We tried to convince him that his individual\nsatisfaction was irrelevant to us, but it was, as Wordsworth says,\n\"Throwing words away.\" It was a beautiful trick; and he was satisfied,\nquite satisfied.\n\nThe Dark Seance, which formed the second part of the performance, was a\ndreadful mistake. It was not only unsatisfactory in result, but--and no\ndoubt this was the reason--it was so mismanaged as to threaten more than\nonce to eventuate in a riot. Twelve or fourteen persons were to form a\ncommittee representing the audience, and to sit in a circle, with the\nIndescribable Phenomenon in their centre, while we remained below in\nEgyptian darkness and received their report. Of course we all felt that\nwe--if not on the committee--might just as well be sitting at home or in\nthe next parish as in the cave of Cumae. The method of electing the\ncommittee was briefly stated by Colonel Fay to be \"first come first\nserved,\" and the consequence was a rush of some fifty excited people on\nto the platform, with earnest requests on the part of the proprietary to\nbe \"still.\" There was no more stillness for the rest of the evening. The\nfifty were pruned down to about fifteen of the most pertinacious, who\nwould not move at any price; in fact, the others only descended on being\npromised that the dark sitting should be divided into two, and another\ncommittee appointed. The Indescribable Phenomenon took her seat on the\ncamp-stool in the centre, where she was to remain clapping her hands, to\nshow she was not producing the manifestations. The gas was put out and\ndarkness prevailed--darkness, but not silence. The disappointed and\nrejected committee men--and women--first began to grumble in the freedom\nwhich the darkness secured. The committee was a packed one. They were\nSpiritualists. This was vigorously denied by somebody, who said he saw a\nPress man in the circle, and therefore (such was his logic) he could not\nbe a Spiritualist. All this time the Indescribable Phenomenon was\nclapping her hands, and now some of the more restless of the audience\nclapped theirs in concert. The guitar and fiddle began to thump and\ntwang, and the bells to ring, and then again the more refractory\nlunatics amongst us began to beat accompaniment on our hats. The whole\naffair was worthy of Bedlam or Hanwell, or, let us add, an Indescribable\nPhenomenon.\n\nThe committee was changed with another rush, and those who were finally\nexiled from the hope of sitting took it out in the subsequent darkness\nby advising us to \"beware of our pockets.\" When Colonel Fay asked for\nquietude he was rudely requested \"not to talk through his nose.\" It was\nnot to be wondered at that the seance was very brief, and the meeting\nadjourned.\n\nNow to describe the indescribable. If it be a spiritual manifestation,\nof course there is an end of the matter; but if a mere conjuring trick,\nI would call attention to the following facts. The fastening of Miss\nFay's neck to the back of the cabinet at first is utterly gratuitous. It\noffers no additional difficulty to any manifestations, and appears only\nintended to prevent the scrutineers seeing behind her. A very simple\nexercise of sleight of hand would enable the gallant Colonel to cut the\none ligature that binds the two wrists, when, for instance, he goes into\nthe cabinet with scissors to trim off the ends of the piece of calico in\nthe opening trick. The hands being once free all else is easy. The hands\nare _never once seen_ during the performance. The committee can feel\nthem, and feel the knots at the wrists; but they cannot discover whether\nthe ligature connecting the wrists is entire.\n\nThe last trick, be it recollected, consists in the ligature being cut\nand Miss Fay's coming free to the front. If my theory is incorrect--and\nno doubt it _is_ ruinously wrong--will she consent to _omit the last\ntrick_ and come to the front with wrists bound as she entered the\ncabinet? Of course, if I had suggested it, she would have done it as\neasily as she cut out the tender infants for the 'cute gentleman behind\nme; so, to adopt the language of Miss Fay's fellow-citizen, I \"bit in my\nbreath and swallered it down.\" I adopted the course Mr. Maskelyne told\nme he did with the Davenports, sat with my eyes open and my mouth shut.\nIt is marvellous to see how excited we phlegmatic islanders grow when\neither spirits are brought to the front, or we think we have found out a\nconjuring trick. I am not going to follow the example of my gushing\nbrethren, but I can safely say that if anybody has an afternoon or\nevening to spare, he may do worse than go to the Crystal Palace or the\nHanover Square Rooms, to see a very pretty and indescribable phenomenon,\nand to return as I did, a wiser, though perhaps a sadder man, in the\nproud consciousness of having \"found out how it is all done.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII.\n\nA LADY MESMERIST.\n\n\nWhen a man's whole existence has resolved itself into hunting up strange\npeople and poking his nose into queer nooks and corners, he has a sorry\ntime of it in London during August; for, as a rule, all the funny folks\nhave gone out of town, and the queer nooks and corners are howling\nwildernesses. There is always, of course, a sort of borderland, if he\ncan only find it out, some peculiar people who never go out of town,\nsome strange localities which are still haunted by them; only he has to\nfind them out--people and places--for it is so universally allowed\nnow-a-days that all genteel people must be out of London in August, and\nall respectable places must be covered up in old newspapers, that it is\ndifficult to get them to own the soft impeachment.\n\nHowever, there is one queer place that is never shut up, the Progressive\nLibrary in Southampton Row; and Mr. Burns and the Spiritualists, as a\nrule, do not shut up shop even in August. Their Summerland lies\nelsewhere than Margate or the Moors; and a valse with a pirouetting\ntable or a little gentle levitation or elongation delights them more\nthan all the revels of the countryside. I was getting a little blase, I\nown, on the subject of Spiritualism after my protracted experiences\nduring the Conference, and I do not think I should have turned my steps\nin the direction of the Progressive Institution that week had not the\nfollowing announcement caught my eye as I scanned the ghostly pages of\nthe _Medium and Daybreak_:--\n\n     \"A MESMERIC SEANCE.\n\n     \"We have been authorized to announce that Miss Chandos,\n     whose advertisement appears in another part of this paper,\n     will give a mesmeric seance at the Spiritual Institution,\n     15, Southampton Row, on Wednesday evening, August 19th, at\n     eight o'clock. Admission will be free by ticket, which may\n     be obtained at the Institution. The object which Miss\n     Chandos has in view is to interest a few truth-seekers who\n     could aid her in promoting a knowledge of psychological\n     phenomena. As a crowded meeting is not desired, an early\n     application should be made for tickets.\"\n\nI do not know that I said \"Eureka!\" Indeed I have considerable historic\ndoubts as to whether anybody ever did, but I felt it. I was a\ntruth-seeker forthwith. I resolved to sit at the feet of Miss Chandos,\nand, should her mesmeric efforts prove satisfactory, \"aid her in\npromoting a knowledge of psychological phenomena.\" I did not go through\nthe prescribed process of getting a ticket beforehand, because I\nthought in my innocence that everybody would be out of town, or that the\nHall of the Progressive Institute would certainly accommodate those who\nremained. Never was a more fatal mistake. The psychological folks were\nall in London, and the capacities of the Progressive Library are not\npalatial. Miss Chandos had a crowded meeting whether she desired it or\nnot. Genius will not be concealed; and Miss Chandos was learning that\nlesson in a very satisfactory way. It was a sultry evening when a small\nboy opened the back door of the little first floor apartment in\nSouthampton Row, and squeezed me in like the thirteenth in an omnibus,\nand I found myself walking on people's toes, and sitting down on their\nhats in the most reckless manner. At length, however, I struggled to a\nvacant corner, and deposited myself perspiring and expectant.\n\nMr. Burns was \"orating\" on the revival mesmerism was destined to make,\nand telling us how, like the Plumstead Peculiars, we should be able to\ndo without doctors as soon as the healing powers of animal magnetism\nwere properly recognised and diffused. I did not listen very carefully,\nI fear, for I was nervously looking about for Miss Chandos. Nervously, I\nsay, because lady mediums and mesmerizers are so apt to run to eighteen\nstone, or be old and frumpish, that I had terrible fears lest I should\nbe scared when I met Miss Chandos in the flesh. I was very agreeably\nsurprised, however, for when Mr. Burns resumed--not his chair but his\ntable, since he sat on that article of furniture, a very pretty young\nlady indeed, of not more than eighteen or twenty years of age, took his\nplace, and, in a few well-chosen words, said this was her first\nappearance as a public mesmerist, and claimed indulgence should any\nfailure in the phenomena result. She also drew attention to the fact\nthat the apartment was \"pernicious snug\" (she put it, of course, in more\nscientific language), and straightway proceeded to business.\n\nWhen Miss Chandos invited patients to put themselves in her hands I\nthought the room had risen en masse. Everybody wanted to be mesmerized.\nI had no chance in my retired position; but she soon got a front row of\nlikely people, and I sat down once more disappointed and exuding.\n\nShe was a tall active young lady was Miss Chandos, and had a mystic crop\nof long black curls, which waved about like the locks of a sibyl when\nshe made a lunge at an innocent looking young man who sat No. 1--and\nwhom, with the other patients, I shall designate thus numerically. He\nseemed to like it immensely, and smiled a fatuous smile as those taper\nfingers lighted on his head, while the other hand rested on the frontal\nportion of his face, as though Miss Chandos were going to pull his nose.\nHe was off in a moment, and sat facing the audience in his magnetic\ntrance, looking like a figure at a waxwork show. Miss Chandos then\npassed on to a gentleman, No. 2, who never succumbed during the entire\nevening, though she made several onslaughts upon him. Consequently I\ndismiss No. 2 as incorrigible forthwith. No. 3 was a lady who only gave\nway after a lengthened attack, and did not seem to appreciate the effect\nof Miss Chandos' lustrous eyes so much as No. 1 did. He gave signs of\n\"coming to,\" but Miss Chandos kept looking round at him and No. 2, while\nshe was attending to No. 3, and directly she did this No. 1 closed his\neyes, and slept the sleep of innocence again.\n\nHaving reduced No. 3 to a comatose condition Miss Chandos reverted to\nNo. 1, and by attractive passes got him on his legs and made him follow\nher up and down the limited space at her disposal. She looked then like\na pretty Vivien manipulating a youthful Merlin; and I was not at all\nsurprised at the effect of her \"woven paces and her waving hands.\" She\nasked him his name, and he told her. It was W----. \"No,\" she said, \"it's\nJones. Mary Jones. What's your name?\" But the youth was not quite so far\ngone as to rebaptize himself with a female cognomen just yet. He stuck\nto his W., and Miss Chandos put him into his waxwork position again, and\ngot No. 3 on her legs at last, but did nothing more with her than make\nher walk up and down. Presently No. 3 woke up, and was put to air at the\nwindow.\n\nNo. 4 was now selected, in the person of a big burly man; and I could\nnot help thinking, as she manipulated him, what a capital pose it would\nhave been for Hercules and Omphale. He seemed to like it exceedingly,\nand I thought was dropping comfortably off when he whispered something\nto his operator (I have no notion what the feminine of that word is),\nwho fixed her brilliant eyes on somebody near me--I feared it was\nactually on me--and said, \"Somebody at the back of the room is\nexercising control. I shall be glad if they will refrain.\" I was quite\ninnocent of exercising conscious control, and did not quite know what\nthe phrase meant. I certainly had once or twice thought it must be much\npleasanter to be operated upon by so pretty a young lady than by some\nbull-necked male mesmerist or aged spinster above-mentioned, but I could\nscarcely believe that such a mild sentiment could affect that colossal\nman. However, I recollected the delicacy of these psychological\nrelations, and sat down conscience-stricken and warmer than ever.\n\nMiss Chandos selected No. 5 in the person of a young man with a nascent\nmoustache, who had successfully struggled into the front row at the\noutset. He promised well at first; but, like other young men with\nincipient moustaches, disappointed us afterwards. Then came No. 6 upon\nthe scene.\n\nNo. 6 was a lady who came late, and at once pushed to the front with the\nair of a person who was not doing so for the first time. She went off in\na moment--far too suddenly, in fact, and then did everything she was\ntold in a very obedient way. Being told that she was in a beautiful\ngarden, she stooped down on the floral carpet and proceeded to gather\nmaterials for a bouquet. I confess I did not care about No. 6, and was\nproceeding to read Professor Tyndall's Belfast Address, which I had in\nmy pocket, when Miss Chandos looked up No. 1 again.\n\nReduced to a proper frame of mind, either by Miss Chandos' continued\nattentions or the contagion of No. 6's docility, the youth was now all\nsubmission. He walked up and down any number of times like a tame animal\nat the Zoological Gardens, and now quite agreed that his name was Mary\nJones. He sang \"Tom Bowling\" at command, and No. 6, not to be outdone,\nwarbled a ditty called, I think, \"The Slave Girl's Love,\" the refrain of\nwhich, according to her version, was, \"I cannot love, because I _ham_ a\nslave.\" She broke down in the middle of this aspiring ditty, and then\npersonated a Jew old clo' man, a woman selling \"ornaments for your\nfirestoves,\" and various other characters, all of which she overacted\nconsiderably. I may be wrong, of course, but I fancied the fair\nlecturess was as dissatisfied with No. 6 as I was. The audience was an\nindulgent one, and thought it splendid. Mr. Burns sat on the table and\nyawned. I relapsed into Tyndall, and wondered what he would have said\nabout it all; or, at least, I did not wonder, for I knew he would have\nconsigned us all to the nearest lunatic asylum as exceptions to the rule\nthat the European has so many more cubic inches of cerebral development\nthan the Papuan.\n\nWhen it was drawing near ten, Miss Chandos brought the proceedings to a\nclose by animating--like Pygmalion--her waxwork statues. She apologized\nonce more, in a few well-chosen sentences, for what she was pleased to\ncall her \"failure,\" but the audience would not hear of the term, and\napplauded to the echo, only there was no room for an echo in the\nProgressive Institute. The young man, No. 1, who I found was a spirit\nmedium, wound up by an address from his Indian guide on the subject of\n\"control.\"\n\nI confess I failed to gather from the perambulating youth and maidens\nNo. 1 and 3, or the impersonations of No. 6, any signs of the revival\nalluded to by Mr. Burns at the outset; and there was not the remotest\nconnexion with the healing art. In fact, nobody seemed suffering from\nanything except heat.\n\nMiss Chandos said to me, however, in a sensible conversation with which\nshe favoured me in private, that all she had attempted to show was but\nthe lowest manifestation of a power which had far higher ends in view.\nShe doubted almost whether it was not something like sacrilege to use\nsuch a power for playing tricks and gratifying curiosity.\n\nShe was thoroughly in earnest; and laboured both physically during the\nevening and logically in her after-discourse, with an energy which some\npersons would have said was worthy of a better cause.\n\nIt was nearly eleven when I left the miniature hall of the Progressive\nInstitute, and as I passed along the streets, digesting what I had seen\nand heard during the evening, I took myself to task severely--as it is\nalways well to do, if only to prevent somebody else doing it for me--and\nasked whether, if the lecturess had not been a lecturess but a\nlecturer--if being a lecturess she weighed eighteen stone, or was old\nand wizen, or dropped her h's--whether I should have stayed three mortal\nhours in that stuffy room, and I frankly own I came to the conclusion I\nshould _not_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV.\n\nA PSYCHOPATHIC INSTITUTION.\n\n\nReading my _Figaro_ the other day--as I hope I need not state it is my\ncustom devoutly to do--I came upon the following passage in the review\nof a book called \"Psychopathy; or, the True Healing Art. By Joseph\nAshman. London: Burns, Southampton Row. We have not the pleasure of\nbeing personally acquainted with Joseph Ashman, and we fear that the\nloss is ours. Judging him through the medium of his book, he must,\nindeed, be a rara avis.... The one great thing,\" it went on to say,\n\"that Joseph Ashman wants the world to know is, that he cures disease by\nvery simple means. And all that the world wants to know from Joseph\nAshman is, Are these cures real--are his statements facts? Why, then,\ndoes not Joseph content himself with his facts? He has plenty of them.\nHere is one:--'Seeing one day a cabman with a swollen face standing by a\npolice-court ready to prosecute a man who had assaulted him, I asked if,\non condition I healed him, he would forgive his adversary. He replied\nthat he would, and we accordingly got into his cab together. Bringing\nout the magnetized carte, I told him to look at it, and at the same\ntime made a few motions over the swelling with my hand. I then left him\nfeeling much better, and returned in an hour's time, when I found him\ntaking a glass of beer with his antagonist, whom he had forgiven.'\"\n\nNow as the one pursuit and end of my present existence is the discovery\nof rarae aves, I need not say I at once took up the clue herein afforded,\nand went in pursuit of Joseph Ashman. I found not only him but his\ninstitution, for Mr. Ashman does not work single-handed. It is in the\nMarylebone Road, almost opposite the Yorkshire Stingo; and is most\nmodest and unpretending in its outward semblance, being situated in one\nof those semi-rustic houses so indicative of suburban London, down an\noverstocked garden, into which you enter by means of a blistered iron\ngate, painted violently green, and swinging heavily on its hinges. Down\na vista of decrepit dahlias one sped to the portal, alongside which was\na trio of bell-handles, one above the other, showing that the\nPsychopathic Institution did not occupy the whole even of that modest\ndomicile. I always approach these manifold bells with considerable\ndiffidence, conscious that I must inevitably ring the wrong one; so, on\nthis occasion, I rang none at all, but knocked a faint double knock on\nthe knocker by way of compromise--very faint, indeed, lest I should\ndisturb any patients who were being \"psychopathized.\" While I waited I\nhad leisure to observe that hidden among the dahlias, and thatched over\nas it were with a superannuated costermonger's barrow, was a double\nperambulator, which set me calculating the probabilities of Mr. Ashman\nbeing a family man.\n\nThe door was opened before I had settled the point to my own mental\nsatisfaction, by a short, cheery-looking man, with long, straight flaxen\nhair flowing down over the shoulders of his black frock-coat, a beard a\nfew shades lighter, and a merry twinkling eye, which looked more\nsympathetic than psychopathic, and I should think was calculated to do\npatients good directly it lighted on them. He looked as much as to ask\nwhether I was psychopathically wrong, when I informed him that I had not\ncome as a patient, but simply to inspect his institution if he would\npermit me. The permission was at once accorded. \"We are hard at work,\"\nhe said, as he ushered me into the front parlour; \"but come in and see\nwhat we are about.\"\n\nA man who looked like a respectable artisan was sitting at the table;\nand a second, in his shirt sleeves, was astride of a chair in what\nappeared to be rather an idiotic ride-a-cock-horse-to-Banbury-Cross\nfashion, and Mr. Ashman was pinching him and prodding him as butchers do\nfat animals at the Smithfield Show.\n\n\"That there gentleman,\" said Mr. Ashman, in a broad provincial dialect,\n\"couldn't get astride that chair when he come here half-an-hour ago. How\nd'ye feel now, sir?\"\n\n\"Feel as though I should like to race somebody twenty rods for five\npound a-side,\" answered the patient, getting up and walking about the\nroom as if it were a new sensation. He had been brought, it appeared, to\nMr. Ashman by his friend, who was sitting at the table, and who was an\nold psychopathic patient. He assured me he had suffered from rheumatism\nfor twenty years, and was completely disabled without his stick until he\ncame into that room half-an-hour since. He walked up and down stickless\nand incessantly as the carnivora at the Zoo all the time he was telling\nme.\n\n\"Would you mind putting your ear to this man's back, sir?\" said Mr.\nAshman to me. I did so; and when he bent, his backbone seemed to go off\nwith a lot of little cracks like the fog-signals of a railway. \"That\nthere old rusty hinge we mean to grease.\" And away he went\npsychopathizing him again. When he was done, Mr. Ashman explained to me\nlearnedly, and with copious illustrations from anatomical plates, his\ntheory of this disease, which was his favourite one for treatment,\nbecause it yielded rapidly. Paralysis and that class of disease are much\nslower. He had succeeded in acute rheumatism, and also in calculus. \"I\nlike fat men--fighting men to heal,\" he said. \"I leave the delicate ones\nto others.\" The sturdy little psychopathist looked healthy enough to\nheal a sick rhinoceros.\n\nWhile he was lecturing me his hands were not idle. I should think they\nseldom were. He was pouring salad oil from a flask on to flannel to give\nto the other man who was sitting at the table, and had approached\nconvalescence from a chronic disease after one or two visits, and who\nused this oiled flannel to keep up the influence. Both the men seemed\nperfectly genuine; and the rheumatic gentleman, when he left, pronounced\nthe effect of his psychopathizing miraculous. The fee was five\nshillings. \"I shan't charge you nothin' for the flannel,\" he said to No.\n2. I began to take quite a fancy to Joseph Ashman, and thanked _Figaro_\ninwardly for directing me to the institution.\n\nA working woman who was next in the little row of patients assembled in\nthe back room, came in with her wrists bound up in bits of flannel, and\nher hands looking puffed and glazy. She, too, had lost the use of them\nfor six years, she told me, and had been pronounced incurable by the\ndoctors. This was her fourth visit to Mr. Ashman. \"Take up the chair,\nma'am,\" he said to his patient; and she did carry it in rather a wobbly\nfashion across the room. \"Now the other hand,\" and she did it with the\nother hand. \"Now show the gentleman how you did it when you came to me.\nShe's rather hard o' hearin',\" he explained to me; but after one or two\nrepetitions the poor old body comprehended, and carried it in her\ncrooked elbow. \"Now I'll call my assistant,\" he said, and summoned a\nruddy, red-bearded man, who looked as though he might have just come in\nfrom a brisk country walk. \"When these cases require a good deal of\nrubbing I let my assistants do the preliminary work, and then come in as\nthe Healing Medium myself.\" The rubbers, he informed me, like the\nMedium, must be qualified, not only physically, but morally. Benevolence\nwas the great requisite; and certainly both these men seemed running\nover with it, if looks meant anything. When Joseph Ashman took his turn,\nworking the poor old patient's stiff wrists, and pulling her fingers\ntill they cracked, like children playing \"sweethearts,\" she never\nwinced, but actually seemed to like it, and trotted off well satisfied\nwith her fourth instalment of good health.\n\nThe next rubber who was introduced to me was not such a ruddy man,\nbeing, in fact, somewhat saturnine in appearance; but I could quite\nunderstand that he was, as he described himself, brimful of electricity.\nHis chevelure was like that on the little man we stick on the conductor\nof an electrical machine and make each particular hair stand on end like\nquills upon the fretful porcupine.\n\nI could not for the life of me see the difference between this treatment\nand simple mesmerism, except that it was much more rapid in its effects\nthan any magnetic treatment I have ever witnessed. Indeed, I frankly\nconfess I do not understand it now, though Mr. Ashman made me accept one\nof his little books on Psychopathic healing, and told me I should see\nthe distinction when I had read it. I must be very dense, for I have\nread it diligently through, and still fail to trace the distinction.\n\nThe man made a great impression on me. I felt he was just one of those\nwho would carry life into a sick room, and communicate vital\npower--supposing it to be communicable--from the dumpy fingers of his\nfat soft hand. The perambulator did not belie him. Numbers of pretty\nblack-eyed children were running about, and there was a Mrs. Ashman\nsomewhere among the poor patients in the back room. All the children\ncame to me except the eldest boy, who, his father told me in a\nmysterious tone, had suffered some indignity at the hands of my cloth,\nand dreaded a parson ever after. I believe my injudicious brother had\nset him a long task (perhaps his Duty to his Neighbour), and the poor\nlad was always afraid he should be dropped down upon to \"say it.\" Mr.\nAshman's book is a little bewildering to an outsider who fails to\ndistinguish the _two_ vital forces. He says: \"It is much rarer to find a\nhigh development of a temperament in which the psychical element\nprevails, than in which it is well blended with the vital-magnetic, or\nthan in which the latter excels. In nearly all popular public men there\nis a blending of the two. We see it well exemplified in John Bright,\nSpurgeon, and others. This is the secret of their drawing, magnetic\npower. It is the secret, too, of many a physician's success: his genial\nmagnetism cures when his medicine is useless, although, of course, he\ndoes not know it. As is the difference between these two forces, so is\nthe difference in the method of their employment for the purpose of\ncure.\" However, when I left I promised--and I mean to keep my vow--that\nif ever I am unfortunate enough to find my vertebrae creaking like \"an\nold hinge,\" I will come to Mr. Ashman and have it greased. The remark in\nhis book as to the success of medicine depending on the qualities of him\nwho administered it was, we may recollect, confirmed at the 1874 meeting\nof the British Association in Belfast.\n\nJoseph Ashman has had a chequered history. He has dwelt in the tents of\nthe Mormonites; has been one of the Peculiar People. In early life he\nwas in service in the country, where his master used to flog him until,\nto use his own expression, he nearly cut him in two. His earliest\npatients were cattle. \"For a healer,\" he said, \"give me a man as can\nclean a window or scrub a floor. Christ himself, when He chose those who\nwere to be healers as well as preachers, chose fishermen, fine, deep\nchested men, depend upon it, sir,\" and he rapped upon his own sonorous\nlungs until they reverberated. He was certainly blessed with a\nsuperabundance of good health, and looked benevolent enough to impart\nall his surplus stock to anybody who wanted it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV.\n\nA PHRENOLOGICAL EVENING.\n\n\nThe experience I am about to chronicle occurred when the Beecher-Tilton\nscandal was at its height; and I was attracted by the somewhat ambiguous\ntitle \"Burns upon Beecher.\"\n\nMr. James Burns, the spirited proprietor of the Progressive Library,\nSouthampton Row, having devoted himself to the study of phrenology, has\nfor some time past held a series of craniological seances on Tuesday\nevenings, at which he \"takes off\" the head of some well-known person, or\nyour own, if you like, whether you are well-known or born to blush\nunseen, not in the way of physical decapitation, but by the method of\nphrenological diagnosis. I greatly regretted having, on a previous\noccasion, missed the analysis of Dr. Kenealy's cerebral developments. I\nbelieve the Claimant himself was once the object of Mr. Burns' remarks;\nbut when Mr. Beecher's cranium was laid down for dissection at the\nheight of the Beecher-Tilton sensation, I could resist no longer, but,\ndespite all obstacles, repaired to the Institute of Progress.\n\nAbout a score of people were gathered in that first-floor front where I\nhad seen so many strange things. Of these persons some formed the\nregular phrenological class conducted there weekly by Mr. Burns. The\nothers were, generally speaking, of the ordinary lecture-audience type.\nOne stout lady occupied an easy-chair in a corner, and slept from first\nto last.\n\nThe first part of the lecture was a little discursive, I fancy for my\nespecial benefit, and summarized Mr. Burns' system, which is to a great\nextent original. Beginning by a disavowal of all dogmas, he began by\nadvancing what was to me the entirely novel doctrine, that the brain was\nnot the sole organ of the mind, but that the whole organism of man had\nto be taken into account in the diagnosis of character, since the entire\nbody was permeated with the mind. The bones, fluids, and viscera were\nall related to mental phenomena. The lecturer even questioned whether\nthe science he promulgated was properly termed phrenology. It certainly\ndid not answer to the conventional idea of that craft. Referring to a\ncalico diagram which was pinned to the curtains of the first-floor\nfront, and at which he pointed with a walking-stick, Mr. Burns notified\nfour divisions of the animal frame--1, the vital organs; 2, the\nmechanical; 3, the nervous (which in the lower orders were ganglionic\nonly); 4, the cerebral apparatus. He defended the animal powers from the\ndebased idea usually attached to them, and pointed out their close\nconnexion with the spirit, nearer to which they were placed than any\nportion of the economy.\n\nHe then proceeded to apply his preliminary remarks to preachers in\ngeneral. Theodore Parker, for instance, was a man of spare body and\nlarge brain. He was surrounded by intellectual people, and his disciples\nwere quite sui generis. On the other hand, Spurgeon was a man of strong\nanimal and perceptive powers, and so able to send the Walworth\nshopkeepers into ecstasies. His ganglions were big, as was the case in\nall great preachers. Emotion, he said, was more a matter of bowels than\nof brain. The ganglionic power carried the brain; but there were, of\ncourse, combinations of all grades.\n\nIn the case of Henry Ward Beecher, two of whose photographs he held in\nhis hand, he dwelt on the disadvantage of having only the shadow instead\nof the substance of his head to deal with. Here, he said, we had all the\nelements on a large scale. The brain, thoracic system, osseous\nstructure, and abdominal development were all in excess. The face was,\nas it were, the picture of all. Henry Ward Beecher was emphatically a\nlarge man. The blood was positive; the circulation good. The digestion\nwas perfect, and the man enjoyed good food. Especially the length from\nthe ear to the front of the eyebrows denoted intellectual grasp. There\nwas not much will power. Whatever he had done (and Mr. Burns\nemphatically disclaimed passing any judgment on the \"scandal\") he had\nnot done of determination, but had rather \"slid into it.\" He was no\nplanner. He gathered people round him by the \"solar\" force of his mind.\nIf he had been a designing man--if largely developed behind the ears--he\nwould have gone to work in a different way. There was good development\nin the intellectual, sympathetic, and emotional part of his nature; and\nthis combination made him a popular preacher. There was more than mere\nanimal magnetism needed to account for this; there was intellectual\npower, but not much firmness or conscientiousness. If he were present,\nhe would probably acknowledge that something had led him on to do\nwhatever he had done in spite of himself. What was very peculiar in the\nman was his youthfulness. He had been before the world for forty years.\nMr. Fowler, the phrenologist, of Ludgate Circus, had been a fellow\nstudent of Beecher, and had measured his head, which he ascertained to\nhave grown an inch in ten years. Beecher was essentially a growing\nman--growing like a boy. The ganglionic power was that which kept people\nalways growing, and was the great means of their getting a hold over\nother people.\n\nMr. Burns then passed in review the three portraits of Beecher, Tilton,\nand Mrs. Tilton respectively, in the _Pictorial World_. Mrs. Tilton he\ndescribed as a negative person, inclined to be hysterical and\n\"clinging.\" There was in her a high type of brain, morally,\nintellectually, and spiritually. Still the brain, he said, did not make\nus good or bad. Again repudiating all judgment as to the scandal, he\ndwelt upon the close social relationships between Beecher and Mrs.\nTilton, and recurred to the strong vital influence of the former,\ncomparing it to that of Brigham Young upon his \"spiritual affinities.\"\nIn all probability, taking into account the different natures of Beecher\nand Mrs. Tilton, whatever had occurred \"the people couldn't help\nthemselves.\"\n\nThen as to Theodore Tilton. Mr. Burns had read the _Golden Age_, and\npronounced it a smart publication. There was, however, in Tilton a want\nof ganglionic power; he was all brain. He was a man who might be read,\nbut he could not lecture or preach. His was a higher mind than\nBeecher's, but not one that would command much human sympathy.\n\nSuppose Mrs. Tilton were not the wife of either, her relations to each\nmight be conscientious, but still violate the laws of monogamic life.\nThe influence of Beecher over her would be ganglionic as well as\nintellectual; that of Tilton purely intellectual: when lo, a gust of\nganglionic power would supervene on the latter, and carry all before it.\n\nConcluding his analysis of Mr. Beecher thus, Mr. Burns discovered that\nhe had two clerics among his audience, and asked us--for I was one of\nthem--if we would be examined. I readily consented, and handed my notes\nto Miss Chandos (the young lady mesmerist, whose seance I reported a\nfew pages back) to report progress. She, therefore, is responsible for\nthe diagnosis that follows.\n\nHandling me from head to foot, much as a fancier does a prize ox at\nSmithfield, Mr. Burns found the life power good, and the muscles well\nnourished, the working faculties being in a high state of activity. The\nhead--I blushed to hear--measured one inch beyond the average of a man\nof my size, and the cerebral faculties were harmoniously organized. I\nhad large perceptive powers; and my human nature (wherever that may be\nlocated) was full, as was also firmness. The thinking sphere was good. I\nshould have made, Mr. Burns informed me, a good sculptor or artist.\n\nOmitting one or two complimentary remarks which Miss Chandos has\nfaithfully, if not flatteringly, reported, and the enunciation of which\nquite confused me as I sat the centre and cynosure of that wondering\ngroup, I was glad to learn that I was an open man, though possessed of\nsufficient caution and not defective in moral courage. In fact \"pluck\"\nwas large. I really wished Mr. Burns would relieve me by finding some\nbad bumps; but no--the worst he could say of me was that I was restless.\nWhat chiefly seemed to strike him, though, were my vital powers, and he\nreally covered me with confusion when he began to calculate my Beecher\npowers on a possible Mrs. Tilton. However, he toned down this remark by\nnoticing that my domestic faculties were well developed. My faith and\nhope were small. I was a \"doubting\" man. The positive and negative were\nwell blent in me, and I was also \"mediumistic.\"\n\nThe diagnosis of two ladies concluded the evening's exercises, but\nneither of these personages displayed any very remarkable traits; Mr.\nBurns declaring he felt some difficulty in discovering the bumps under\nthe \"back hair.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI.\n\nA SPIRITUAL PICNIC.\n\n\nIn a volume bearing the title of _Mystic London_ it would seem perchance\nthat Spiritualism, as par excellence the modern mystery, should stand\nfirst. I have thought it better, however, to defer its treatment\nsomewhat, working up to it as to a climax, and then gently descending to\nmundane matters once more ere I close my present work.\n\nOf London at this hour, just as of Rome in the later Republic and\nEmpire, it may be safely affirmed that there is in its midst an element\nof the mysterious and occult utterly undreamed of by the practical\npeople. Many phases of this element have already been treated of in my\ndifferent works; and I add some of the more exceptional as properly\nbelonging to my present subject.\n\nNow I candidly confess that, up to a recent date, I had not given\nSpiritualists--qua spiritualists--credit for being a cheerful or\nconvivial people. Though there exist upon the tablets of my memory\nrecollections of certain enjoyable dinners, cosy teas, and charming\npetits soupers, eaten at the mahogany of believers in the modern\nmystery, yet these were purely exceptional events, oases in the desert\nof spiritualistic experiences. Generally speaking, the table, instead of\ngroaning under its accumulated bounties, leapt about as if from the\nabsence thereof; and the only adjuncts of the inhospitable mahogany were\npaper tubes for the spirit voices, handbells for the spirit hands, and\noccasional accordions and musical boxes for the delectation of\nharmonious ghosts. It was a \"flow of soul\" if not always a \"feast of\nreason;\" but, as regarded creature comforts, or any of the ordinary\ndelights of mundane existence, a very Siberian desert. A grave subject\nof discussion (I am not, I assure you, indulging in a sepulchral pun) at\nthe recent Liverpool Conference was how to feed mediums, and I fancy the\npreponderating opinion was that fasting was a cardinal virtue in their\ncase--a regimen that had come to be in my mind, perhaps unfairly,\nassociated with seances in general. I was glad, therefore, when I read\nin the columns of the _Medium_ the announcement of the spiritual picnic\nor \"demonstration,\" at the People's Garden, Willesden. Still I wanted to\nsee Spiritualists enjoy themselves in the \"normal condition.\" I\nsympathized with the avowed object of the gathering, that the followers\nof the new creed should know one another, as surely the disciples of a\ncommon school ought to do. Armed, therefore, with a ticket, I proceeded,\nvia the North London Railway, to the scene of action. It was not what we\nmaterialistic people should call a fine August day. It was cold and\ndull, and tried hard to rain; but it was far more in keeping with the\ncharacter of the meeting than what Father Newman calls the \"garish day\"\none looks for in mid-August. In the words of the circle the \"conditions\nwere excellent;\" and as I journeyed on, reading my _Medium_ like a true\nbeliever, I marvelled to see, by the evidence of its advertisements, how\nthe new creed had taken hold of a certain section, at all events, of\nsociety. Besides a dozen public mediums who paraded their varied\nattractions at terms ranging from _2s. 6d._ to _21s._, there were\nspiritualistic young men who put forward their creed as a qualification\nfor clerkships--perhaps they had no other claim--spiritual lodging-house\nkeepers, and even spiritual undertakers, all pervaded by what we may\nliterally call a common esprit de corps.\n\nIn due course we reached the People's Garden, the popular title whereof\nseemed to have been given on the lucus a non principle, for the London\nfolk have not, as yet, affected it largely. Why this should be so one\ncannot guess, for it is the very ideal of a Cockney Paradise, and is\nadmirably worked by a body of shareholders, most of whom belong to the\nartisan class, though under very distinguished patronage indeed. When I\ngot to the grounds the Spiritualists were indulging in a merry-go-round\nduring a refreshing drizzle. A temporary rush under cover ensued, and\nthen the weather became more favourable, though the skies preserved\ntheir neutral tint. Mrs. Bullock, a suburban medium, who had become\nentranced, had located herself in a bower, and beckoned people from the\naudience to receive her \"benediction,\" which was given in a remarkable\ndialect. I thought it was Yorkshire, but a spiritualistic gentleman\nexplained to me that it was \"partly North American Indian.\" The Osborne\nBellringers next gave a campanological concert, which was exceedingly\ngood of its kind, the small gentleman who played the bass bell working\nso actively as to suggest the idea that he could not long survive such\nhard labour in his fleshly condition. These campanologists are said to\nbe big mediums, and occasionally to be floated or otherwise spirited\nduring their performances; but nothing abnormal occurred at the People's\nGarden. Then there was dancing on the monster platform, which is, I\nshould think, correctly described as \"the largest in the world.\" This\nwas indeed a new phase of Spiritualism: the terpsichorean spiritualists\ngenerally let their tables do the dancing for them, as Eastern\npotentates hire their dancing-girls. Donkey-races, croquet, and other\nunspiritual diversions varied the order of proceedings; and as for the\none-and-ninepenny teas, I can only say I should think the Garden\nCommittee did not get much profit out of them, for the Spiritualists\nregaled themselves in the most material fashion. During the afternoon\nthe arrivals were fast and frequent. All the medium-power of London\nseemed present; and the only wonder was that we were not all floated\nbodily away. There was Mrs. Guppy, who, in answer to my demand whether\nshe had been \"floated\" from Highbury, informed me that she had come far\nless romantically--\"nine in a cab!\" There was Dr. Monk, too, a\nNonconformist clergyman, who had lately been taking aerial journeys of\nthe Guppy order about Bristol. In fact, the elite of the sect were well\nrepresented; and during the whole afternoon, despite the dirty-looking\nday, the fun was fast and furious, and all went merry as the proverbial\nmarriage-bell.\n\nPart of the programme was an entertainment by a gentleman bearing the\ndelightfully sepulchral name of Dr. Sexton, whose mission in life it is\nto \"expose\" the tricks of Dr. Lynn and Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke. How\nthose gentlemen are to be \"exposed,\" seeing they only claim to deceive\nyou by legerdemain, I cannot comprehend; but they made the Spiritualists\nvery angry by taking their names in vain on the handbills of the\nEgyptian Hall, and more than insinuating that there was a family\nlikeness between their performances; and, consequently, the conjurors\nwere to be \"exposed;\" that is, the public were to have their visit to\nthe Temple of Magic spoilt by being shown beforehand how the tricks were\ndone. Aided by an expert assistant named Organ, Dr. Sexton soon let us\ninto the mysteries of the cabinet business, which seemed just as easy as\nmaking the egg stand on end--when you know how. It is perfectly true\nthat, after hearing Dr. Sexton's exposition--rather than expose--it is\nquite easy for any one to frustrate the designs of these clever\nconjurors, if he wishes to do so. I am not sure that the expose is wise.\nIllogical people will not see the force of Dr. Sexton's argument, and\nwill possibly think it \"proves too much.\" If so much can be done by\nsleight of hand and ingenious machinery, they will argue, perhaps, that\nthe Davenports and other mediums are only cleverer conjurors still, or\nhave better machinery. Alas! all my fairyland is pasteboard now. I know\nhow the man gets out of the corded box--I could do it myself. I know\nwhere the gorilla goes when he seems lost in the magic cabinet. It is\nall a clever combination of mirrors. The blood-red letters of some dear\ndeparted friend are only made with red ink and a quill pen, and the name\nof the \"dear departed\" forged. Well, I suppose _I_ am illogical, too. If\none set of things is so simple when it is shown to you, why may not all\nbe? I fear the Willesden outing has unsettled my convictions, and shaken\nmy faith in most sublunary things.\n\nThe gathering clearly proved the growth of Spiritualism in London. That\nsuch numbers could be got together in the dead season bespeaks a very\nextensive ramification indeed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII.\n\nA GHOSTLY CONFERENCE.\n\n\nA distinct and well-marked epoch is reached in the history of any\nparticular set of opinions when its adherents begin to organize and\nconfer, and the individual tenets become the doctrines of a party. Such\na culmination has been attained by the believers in Modern Spiritualism.\nFor a long while after the date of the now historical Rochester\nRappings, the manifestations were mostly individual, and in a great\ndegree limited to such exercises as Mr. Home's elongation, Mrs. Guppy's\nflight from Highbury to Lamb's Conduit Street, or, more recently still,\nthe voices and manipulations of John and Katie King, the orations of\nMrs. Hardinge, Mr. Morse, and Mrs. Tappan. But all this was spasmodic,\nand not likely to take the world by storm, while Spiritualists had\nadopted the time-honoured maxim--\"Magna est veritas et prevalebit.\"\nTherefore they must organize. They have done so, not without protest on\nthe part of some of the most noted of their adherents; but the majority\ncarried the day, and the result is the British National Association of\nSpiritualists, which has recently been sitting in solemn conclave at\nits first Annual Conference in Lawson's Rooms, Gower Street.\n\nNow I plead guilty to being greatly interested in this subject of\nSpiritualism generally, and in the doings of the Conference in\nparticular. I cannot help thinking that clergymen and scientists ought\nto look into any set of opinions whose professors have attained the\ndimensions of this body. Their doctrines have spread and are spreading.\nAlready the Spiritualists number among them such men as Mr. Alfred\nWallace, Mr. Varley, Mr. Crookes, Mr. S. C. Hall, &c., and are extending\ntheir operations amongst all classes of society, notably among the\nhigher. I could even name clergymen of all denominations who hold\nSpiritualistic views, but refrain, lest it should seem invidious, though\nI cannot see why it should be incongruous for the clergy to examine\ndoctrines which profess to amplify rather than supplant those of\nrevelation, any more than I can why scientists stand aloof from what\nprofesses to be a purely positive philosophy, based upon the inductive\nmethod. So it is, however; Spiritualism is heterodox at once in its\nreligious and philosophical aspects. I suppose that is why it had such\nspecial attraction for me. Certain it is, I have been following the\nghostly conference like a devotee.\n\nWe began on Monday evening with a musical soiree at the Beethoven Rooms,\nin Harley Street; and there was certainly nothing ghostly or sepulchral\nin our opening day; only then there was nothing very spiritualistic\neither. For a long time I thought it was going to be all tea and muffins\nand pianoforte. By-and-by, however, Mr. Algernon Joy read a report of\nthe organization, which was rather more interesting than reports\ngenerally are, and Mr. Benjamin Coleman, a venerable gentleman, the\nfather of London Spiritualists, delivered a Presidential address. Still\nthere were no ghosts--not even a spirit rap to augment the applause\nwhich followed the speakers. Once my hopes revived when two new physical\nmediums, with letters of recommendation from Chicago, were introduced,\nand I expected to see the young gentlemen elongate or float round the\nroom; but nothing of the kind occurred; and a young lady dashed my hopes\nto the ground by singing \"The Nightingale's Trill.\" Mr. Morse gave an\naddress in the trance state--as I was afterwards informed; but he looked\nand spoke so like an ordinary mortal that I should not have found out\nthat he was in an abnormal condition.\n\nI fear I went home from Harley Street not quite in so harmonious a frame\nof mind as could have been wished.\n\nThe next morning (Wednesday) Dr. Gully presided at the opening of the\nConference proper in Gower Street, where the rooms were more like vaults\nand smelt earthy. The President ably enough summarized the objections\nwhich had been raised to the Association, and also the objects it\nproposed to itself. He said:--\"If the Association keeps clear of\ndogmatic intrusion, then will there be no fear of its becoming\nsectarian. Already, however, there is a signal of dogmatism among\nSpiritualists--and already the dogmatizers call themselves by another\nname. But the Association has nothing to do with this. It knows its\nfunction to be the investigation of facts, and of facts only; and, as\nwas said, no sect was ever yet framed on undoubted facts. Now what are\nthe facts of Spiritualism up to this date? They are reducible to\ntwo:--1st. The continued life and individuality of the spirit body of\nman after it has quitted its body of flesh; and, 2nd. Its communion with\nspirits still in the flesh, under certain conditions, by physical\nexhibition and mental impression. Spirit identity cannot be regarded yet\nas an established fact--at all events, not so as to warrant us in\nbuilding upon it.\"\n\nI was agreeably surprised with the moderate tone of this address; and\nafter a brief theological discussion, Mr. W. H. Harrison, the editor of\nthe _Spiritualist_, followed with a paper on Organization. I do not know\nwhat Mr. Harrison was not for organizing. Libraries, reading-rooms,\ncolleges, everything was to be spiritualized. Later in the day there was\na paper on Physical Manifestations. I should have preferred the\nmanifestations without the paper, for I fear I am a poor believer at\nsecond hand. The reader told some \"stumping\" stories. Here is one as a\nspecimen--spiritual in more senses than one:--\n\n\"One evening I accompanied the Davenports to Mr. Guppy's residence in\nGreat Marlborough Street. After supper Ira, the eldest of the brothers,\nMr. Guppy, and myself, adjourned to a dark room, which Mr. Guppy had had\nprepared for experimental purposes. To get to this room we had to pass\nthrough a room that served the combined purposes of a sculptor's studio\nand a billiard room. Emerging from this room we came into a yard, in one\ncorner of which the dark cabinet in question was constructed. Taking our\nseats, we extinguished the light. Mr. Guppy was at the time smoking a\ncigar. This was at once taken from his hand, and carried in the air,\nwhere it could be seen by the light given out by its combustion. Some\nwhisky and water was standing on the table. This was handed to us to\ndrink. When it came to my turn, I found there was but little left in the\nglass. This I pointed out. The glass was forthwith taken from my mouth,\nand replenished and brought back again.\"\n\nOn Thursday Mr. Everitt read a paper on Direct Writing by Spirits,\ntelling us that on one occasion nine hundred and thirty-six words were\nwritten in six seconds. Mr. Everitt must be a bold man--I don't mean\naltogether for asking us to believe that, but for saying what he did\nabout the medium, who was his wife:--\"There are many considerations why\nit would be impossible for the medium to have produced these writings.\nFor instance, we have sixteen papers upon the same subject, and in those\npapers there are a great many ancient authors referred to. Mrs. Everitt\nhas never read or seen a single book of any of these authors, and, with\na few exceptions, their names had never been heard by her before, much\nless did she know the age they lived in, the country they belonged to,\nthe works they had written, or the arguments made use of for the defence\nof their doctrines and teachings. Besides the above reasons there are\nphysical and mental difficulties which preclude the possibility of their\nbeing produced by the medium. The physical impossibility is the\nmarvellous rapidity of their production, as many as 936 words having\nbeen written in six seconds. The mental difficulty is that the medium\nhas not a logical mind. Like most females, she takes a short cut by\njumping to conclusions. She does not, indeed cannot, argue out any\nproposition by the ordinary rules of logic. Now the papers referred to\nshow that the author or authors are not only well acquainted with\nancient lore and the classics, but also possessed very high ability as\nlogicians. For the above reasons we conclude that the medium, from sheer\nincapacity, both mentally and physically, could not have written these\npapers, nor any other human being under the same circumstances. We are\ntherefore absolutely driven, after looking at the subject from every\nconceivable point of view, to conclude respecting their production that\nthey came from a supernatural source, and were produced by supernatural\nmeans.\"\n\nIn the afternoon of this day a clergyman, whose name it would be highly\nindecorous in me to mention, descanted on the aspect of Spiritualism\nfrom his point of view in the Church of England. I understood the\npurport of the paper to be (1) that he claimed the right of members of\nthe Church of England to investigate the phenomena; (2) that, if\nconvinced of their spiritual origin, such conviction need not shake the\ninvestigator's previous faith. If the clergyman in question really said\nno more than the printed reports of the Conference represent him to have\ndone, he rather reversed the conduct of Balaam, and cursed those he came\nto bless. This is the curt resume that went forth:--\n\n\"The Rev. ---- read a paper, in which he defined his position with\nregard to Spiritualism as that of a mere inquirer, adding that even if\nhe became convinced of its truth, he saw no reason why he should alter\nthe opinions he at present held as a clergyman of the Church of England.\nAfter eighteen months' inquiry into the subject, however, he was,\nperhaps, more of a sceptic than before.\" If that was all the clergyman\nin question had to say for the Association, they must rather regret they\never \"organized\" him, and might well pray to be saved from their\nfriends; but I heard it whispered--presumably by a spirit voice--that\nthere had been a passage at arms between the lady secretary and the\nclergyman in question, and that Miss--but no, I must not mention\nnames--the fair official punished the delinquent that most awful\npenalty--silence.\n\nFriday finished the Conference with a trance paper--I did not know there\nwere such things--dictated to Mrs. Cora Tappan by invisible guides, and\nwas read by Miss--I mean by the fair incognita above-mentioned. Not a\nmanifestation--literally not the ghost of one--only this very glowing\nperoration:--\"But it is in a larger sense of social, mental, political,\nand even religious renovation, that Spiritualism is destined to work its\nchief results. The abrogation of the primal terror of mankind, the most\nancient spectre in the world of thought, grim and shadowy Death, is, in\nitself, so vital a change that it constitutes a revolution in the world\nof mind. Chemistry has already revealed the wonderful fact that no\nultimate atom can perish. The subtle chemistry of Spiritualism steps in\nwhere science ceases, gathering up the ultimate atoms of thought into a\nspiritual entity and proving them imperishable. Already has this thought\npervaded the popular mind, tinged the decaying forms of theology and\nexternal science with its glow, and made the life of man a heritage of\nimmortal glory. More than this, taking spirit as the primal basis of\nlife, each individual, and all members of society and humanity in the\naggregate, must for ever strive to express its highest life (i.e. the\nlife of the spirit). The child will be taught from within, external\nmethods being employed only as aids, but never as dictators of thought.\nSociety will be the flowing out of spiritual truths, taking shape and\nsubstance as the expression of the soul. Governments will be the\nprotecting power of a parent over loving children, instead of the\ndictates of force or tyranny. Religion will wear its native garb of\nsimplicity and truth, the offspring of the love and faith that gave it\nbirth. Modern Spiritualism is as great a solvent of creeds, dogmas,\ncodes, scientific sophisms, as is the sunlight of the substances\ncontained in earth and air, revealing by the stages of intermediate\nlife, from man, through spirits, angels, archangels, seraphim, and\ncherubim, to God, the glorious destiny of every soul. There is a vine\ngrowing in the islands of the tropic seas that thrives best upon the\nancient ruins or crumbling walls of some edifice built by man; yet ever\nas it thrives, the tiny tendrils penetrate between the fibres of the\nstone, cutting and cutting till the whole fabric disappears, leaving\nonly the verdant mass of the foliage of the living vine. Spiritualism is\nto the future humanity what this vine is to the ancient ruin.\"\n\nThere was another paper coming on \"Compound Consciousness,\" but the\ntitle did not attract me. After my four days' patient waiting for ghosts\nwho never came and spirits that would not manifest, I felt, perhaps, a\nlittle impatient, put on my hat and left abruptly--the fair secretary,\nof whom I shall evermore stand in supreme awe, scowling at me when I did\nso. As I passed into Gower Street--sweet, serene Gower Street, sacred\nfrom the wheels of profane cabmen, I was almost surprised to see the\n\"materialized\" forms around me; and it really was not until I got well\nwithin sound--and smell--of the Underground Railway that I quite\nrealized my abased position, or got out of the spheres whither the lofty\nperiods of Mrs. Tappan's paper, so mellifluously delivered, had wafted\nme!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII.\n\nAN EVENING'S DIABLERIE.\n\n\nMr. Spurgeon a short time since oracularly placed it on record that,\nhaving hitherto deemed Spiritualism humbug, he now believes it to be the\ndevil. This sudden conversion is, of course, final; and I proceed to\nnarrate a somewhat exceptional endorsement of the opinion which has\nrecently occurred within my own experience. There was a time, how long\nago it boots not to say, when _I_ considered Spiritualism humbug; and a\ngood deal came in my way which might have led me to the same conclusion\nas Mr. Spurgeon, if I had been disposed--which I am not--to go with a\nhop, skip, and jump.\n\nThe investigator who first presented the \"diabolical\" theory to my\nnotice was a French Roman Catholic priest, who had broken discipline so\nfar as to enter the married state, but retained all the doctrines of his\nformer faith intact. He had, in fact, anticipated to some extent the\nposition of Pere Hyacinthe; for it was several years ago I first became\nacquainted with him. Individually as well as nationally this gentleman,\ntoo, was prone to jump at conclusions. He lost a dear friend, and\nimmediately proceeded to communicate with the departed by means of\ntable-turning and rapping. For a few days he was quite convinced of the\nidentity of the communicating spirit; but then, and all within the\ncompass of a single week, he pronounced the exorcism of the Catholic\nChurch on the intelligence, I suppose experimentally in the first\ninstance; found his challenge not satisfactorily answered, and\nimmediately jumped to the conclusion that it was the foul fiend himself.\nI sat very frequently with this gentleman afterwards, prior to the\nexperience I am about to narrate; and certainly the intelligence always\ngave itself out to be the spirit unmentionable to ears polite, whose\npresence my friend had taken for granted.\n\nI once went with this gentleman to the Marshalls, when they were at\ntheir zenith. We arranged previously that he should not sit at the\ntable, but on one side, and give me a secret signal when he was silently\npronouncing the exorcism. He did so; and certainly all manifestations at\nonce ceased, though we had been in full converse with the invisibles a\nmoment before. Old Mrs. M. had to announce with much chagrin, \"The\nsperrits is gone!\"\n\nMy other partner in diablerie was a barrister whom I must not mention by\nname, but who possessed considerable power as a writing medium. The\npresiding intelligence in his case was, however, of a low character, and\ngiven to very bad language. He avowed himself to have been a bargee in\nthe earth-plane--should one say the water-plane?--and certainly swore\nlike one.\n\nAs for myself, I am destitute of all \"medium-power,\" whatever that may\nbe, though enthusiastic spirituelle ladies tell me I am \"mediumistic\"--a\nqualification which is still more occult to me. I own to being greatly\ninterested in spiritualistic inquiries, except as regards dark seances,\nwhich have a tendency to send me to sleep; and I believe that my\npresence does not \"stop manifestations:\" so that I suppose I am not a\nhopeless sceptic.\n\nOn the occasion of which I am about to speak we met in my study, where I\nam in the habit of rearing a few pet snakes. I had just got a fine new\nspecimen; and having no proper habitation for it, had turned my\nwaste-basket upside-down on a small chess table, and left him to\ntabernacle under it for the night. This was the table we generally used\nfor seances; and my legal friend, who was writing, immediately began to\nuse most foul language, on the subject of the snake, exhorting me to\n\"put him anywhere, put him in the cupboard, old boy.\" Such was the\nedifying style of communication we always got through this worthy limb\nof the law, but it was so much worse than usual on the present occasion\nas to fairly make us roar at its insane abuse. The gentleman himself, I\nought to add, is by no means prone to profane swearing. My priestly\nfriend was making a wide-awake hat reply by tilts; and still got his old\nreply that his Satanic Majesty was personally present. I did not in the\nleast credit this assertion, any more than I accepted as proven the\nidentity of the bargee, though I hold the impersonation in either case\nto be a strange psychological fact. That I did not do so is best\nevidenced by the circumstance that I said, \"This spirit asserts himself\nto be his Satanic Majesty. Have you either of you any objection to\ncommunicate with him supposing such to be the case?\"\n\nNeither one nor the other had the slightest. My Catholic friend, I knew,\nalways carried a bottle of holy water in his pocket, and at my entreaty\nforbore for the moment to exorcise. The legal gentleman, though a\n\"writer\" himself, was not at all convinced about the phenomena, as was\nperhaps natural, seeing the exceedingly bad company to which it\nprofessed to relegate him. As for me, my scepticism was to me robur et\naes triplex. I disposed of the snake, put out the gas; and down we three\nsat, amid profound darkness, like three male witches in \"Macbeth,\"\nhaving previously locked the door to prevent any one disturbing our\nhocus-pocus.\n\nAny one who has sat at an ordinary dark seance will recollect the number\nof false starts the table makes, the exclamations, \"Was that a rap?\"\nwhen the wood simply cracks, or, \"Did you feel a cold air?\" when\nsomebody breathes a little more heavily than usual. I have myself made\nthe experiment, though not without adding an open confession\nimmediately afterwards. I have blown on the fingers of the sitters, and\nmade them feel sure it was a \"spirit aura,\" have done the neatest of\nraps with my index-finger when my little finger has been securely hooked\nin that of my next neighbour. In fact, for test purposes, dark seances\nare a mistake, though they are admirable for a flirtation.\n\nOn this occasion, however, we were very much in earnest, and there was\nno waiting--I hope no collusion. I am quite sure I did not myself\nconsciously produce any manifestation. I can answer for my legal friend,\nas far as any one person can answer for another; and we neither of us\nsuspected--or suspect--the priest of the order of St. Benedict; only we\nwould rather he had not pronounced such decided opinions; because the\nwish might have been father to the thought, or rather the thought might,\nin some utterly unaccountable way, have produced the effects that\nfollowed. I have an idea that if Mr. Spurgeon in his present frame of\nmind were to sit at a table for manifestations, he would obtain the\nclearest assurance that it was \"all the devil,\" just as it is well known\nRoman Catholic sitters get communications from Roman Catholic spirits,\ntheists from theistic, and Mormons from the denizens of some\nspiritualistic Utah.\n\nWe had not, on this occasion, a moment to wait. The table forthwith\nbegan to plunge and career about the room as though the bargee--or the\nother personage himself--had actually been \"in possession.\" It required\nall our agility to follow it in its rapid motion about the room. At last\nit became comparatively quiet; and I received in reply to a question as\nto who was present the exceedingly objectionable name which Mr. Spurgeon\nhas coupled with the whole subject. Some persons I know entertain a\ncertain amount of respect, or at all events awe, for the intelligence in\nquestion. For myself I feel nothing of the kind, and therefore I added,\n\"If you are what you profess to be, give us some proof.\" We were sitting\nwith only the tips of our fingers on the table; but it forthwith rose up\nquite perpendicularly, and came down with a crash that completely\nshivered it in pieces. I have not the slightest idea how it was\ndone--but it certainly was done. A large portion of the table was\nreduced to a condition that fitted it for Messrs. Bryant and May's\nmanufactory. When we lighted the gas and looked at our watches we found\nwe had only been sitting a very few minutes.\n\nOf course the obvious explanation will be that the gentleman with the\ndiabolical theory and the evidently strong will-power (as evidenced in\nthe denouement at Mrs. Marshall's) produced the diabolical effects\nconsciously or unconsciously. I do not think the former was the case;\nand if it is possible to get such results unconsciously, that phenomenon\nis quite as curious as the spiritualistic explanation. In fact I am not\nsure that the psychological is not more difficult than the\npneumatological theory. My own notion is that the \"Psychic Force\" people\nare clearly on the right track, though their cause, as at present\nelaborated, is not yet equal to cover all the effects.\n\nMr. Spurgeon and the \"diabolists\" concede the whole of the\nspiritualistic position. They not only say that the effects are due to\nspiritual causes, but they also identify the producing spirit. I have\nnever been able to get as far as that. I did not feel on the occasion in\nquestion at all as though I had been in communication with his sable\nMajesty. If I was, certainly my respect for that potentate is not\nincreased, for I should have fancied he would have done something much\n\"bigger\" in reply to my challenge than smash up a small chess-table.\nHowever, there was a sort of uncanny feeling about the experience, and\nit seemed to me so far illustrative of Mr. Spurgeon's position as to be\nworth committing to paper. If that gentleman, however, lends such a\ndoctrine the sanction of his approval, he will, let him be assured, do\nmore to confirm the claims of Spiritualism than all the sneers of\nProfessors Huxley and Tyndall, and the scorn of Mr. George Henry Lewes\ncan undo.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX.\n\nSPIRITUAL ATHLETES.\n\n\nI am about for once to depart from my usual custom of narrating only\npersonal experiences, and in this and the two following chapters print\nthe communications of a friend who shares my interest in these matters,\nand has frequently accompanied me in my investigations into this\nmysterious Borderland. In these cases, however, he investigated on his\nown account, and I am not responsible for the conclusions at which he\narrives:--\n\n\"Attracted,\" he says, \"by an article in a popular journal on the subject\nof 'Spirit Faces,' I determined, if possible, to 'assist' at a seance. I\nhad not hitherto taken much interest in spiritualistic matters, because\nin the first place, the cui bono question remained persistently\nunanswered; and, secondly, because most of the 'doings' were in the\ndark; and it appears to me that, given darkness, there are few things in\nthe way of conjuring and ventriloquism that could _not_ be done.\nTerpsichorean tables and talking hats never had any particular charm for\nme, because I could always make a table dance, or a hat say anything I\nwanted it to say. I saw the Davenports, and preferred Professor\nAnderson. I even went to a dark seance at the Marshalls', and noticed\nthat when Mr. and Mrs. Marshall had perceptibly partaken of beefsteak\nand onions, or some equally fragrant food, for dinner, the breath which\naccompanied the spirit-voices was unmistakably impregnated with onions\ntoo; and hence I drew my own conclusions. I am not saying I know how Mr.\nand Mrs. Marshall do John King and Katie King. I don't know how\nProfessor Anderson or Professor Pepper do their tricks. I confess Mr.\nHome and the Marshalls have the pull of the professors in one way--that\nis, they don't perform on a platform but in a private room, and they let\nyou examine everything beforehand. Theirs is the ars celare artem.\nAgain, I don't know how men in the street get out of the very curious\nknots in which I have tied them, but I know they do it; and therefore I\nam sure the Davenports could do it without calling in the ghost of one's\ndeceased grandmamma as a sort of Deus--or rather Dea--ex machina. I have\nnever seen Mr. Home handle fire or elongate. I have seen him 'levitate,'\nor float, and I candidly confess I don't know how he does it, any more\nthan I can solve Sir David Brewster's trick by which four young ladies\ncan lift a heavy man on the points of their fingers. It's very\nmysterious, and very nice for the man.\n\n\"So it happened that I had shelved spiritualism for some time, when the\narticle on 'Spirit Faces' came under my notice. I did not care so much\nabout the face part of the matter (at least not the spirit face), but I\nwanted to test it as a matter of athletics. In one respect the\nphysiognomy did interest me, for I read that the medium was\npretty--mediums, according to my experience, being generally very much\nthe reverse--and I found that report had certainly not misrepresented\nthe young lady in this respect. Her name is now public property, so I\nneed not veil it under the pseudonyms of Miss Blank, or Asterisk, or\nanything of that sort. Miss Florence Cook, then, is a trim little lady\nof sweet sixteen, and dwells beneath the parental roof in an eastern\nsuburb of London. It is quite true she does not accept payment for\nseances, which I strove to impress upon her was very foolish indeed, for\nshe works almost as hard as Lulu twice in the week. However, she, or\nrather her parents, take high ground in the matter, which of course is\nvery praiseworthy on their parts, and convenient for their guests if\nthey happen to be impecunious.\n\n\"Now, I do not purpose going through the details of the seance, which\nwas considerably irksome, being protracted by endless psalm singing.\nWhat I want to do--with Miss Cook's permission--is to calculate the\nchances of her being sufficiently athletic to perform the tricks\nherself, without the aid of spirits. Does she not underrate her unaided\npowers in assigning a supernatural cause for the effects produced?\n\n\"Well, then, this lithe little lady is arrayed in the ordinary garb of\nthe nineteenth century with what is technically termed a 'pannier,' and\nlarge open sleeves, each of which, I fear, she must have found\nconsiderably in the way, as also the sundry lockets and other nick-nacks\nsuspended from her neck. However, there they were. We put her in a\ncupboard, which had a single Windsor chair in it, and laid a stoutish\nnew cord on her lap. Then came singing, which may or may not have been\nintended to drown any noise in the cupboard; but, after some delay, she\nwas found tied around the waist, neck, and two wrists, and the ends of\nthe cord fastened to the back of the chair. These knots we sealed, and\nconsigned her to the cupboard again. Shortly after there appeared at an\naperture in the upper portion of the cupboard a face which looked\nutterly unspiritual and precisely like that of the medium, only with\nsome white drapery thrown over the head. The aperture was just the\nheight that would have allowed Miss Cook to stand on the chair and peep\nout. I do not say she did; I am only calculating the height. The face\nremained some minutes in a strong light; then descended. We opened the\ncupboard, and found the little lady tied as before with the seals\nunbroken. Spiritual, or material, it was clever.\n\n\"After a pause, the same process was gone through again; only this time\nstout tape was substituted for rope. The cord cut the girl's wrists; and\ntape was almost more satisfactory. Again she was bound, and we sealed\nthe knots; and again a face appeared--this time quite black, and not\nlike the medium at all. I noticed that the drapery ran right round the\nface, and cut it off at a straight line on the lower part. This gave the\nidea of a mask. I am not saying it was a mask. I am only throwing out a\nhint that, if the 'spirits' wish to convince people they should let the\nneck be well seen. I am bound to say it bore a strong light for several\nminutes; and some people say they saw eyelids. I did not. I do not say\nthey were not there. I know how impossible it is to prove a negative,\nand only say I did not see them.\n\n\"What followed possessed no special interest for any but the professed\nspiritualist, as it was done without any tying; Miss Cook arguing\nlogically enough that, if the previous manifestations were clearly\nproved to have taken place by other agency than that of the medium\nherself, mere multiplication of proofs was unnecessary. I had only gone\nto study the matter from an athletic point of view; and I certainly came\naway impressed with the idea that, if Miss Florence Cook first got into\nand then got out of those knots, she was even more nimble and lithesome\nthan she looked, and ought to start an Amateur Ladies' Athletic Society\nforthwith. As to her making faces at us through the window, I did not\ncare sufficiently about the matter to inquire whether she did or not,\nbecause, if she got out of the ropes, it was easy enough to get on the\nchair and make faces.\n\n\"Of course the cui bono remains. The professors make money by it; and\nMiss Cook can make at most, only a little mild and scarcely enviable\nnotoriety. A satirical old friend of mine, when I told him the above\nfacts, chuckled, and said, 'That's quite enough for a girl of sixteen;\nand anything that's do-able, a girl of those years will do.' It was no\nuse talking to him of panniers and loose sleeves, and lockets. He was an\nold bachelor, and knew nothing about such things. At least, he had no\nbusiness to, if he did.\n\n\"I cannot forbear adding a domestic episode, though it is perhaps\nscarcely relevant to the subject. Certain young imps in my house,\nhearing what I had seen, got up an exhibition of spirit faces for my\nbenefit. They rigged up a kind of Punch-and-Judy erection, and the\ncleanest of them did the spirit face, with a white pocket-handkerchief\nover his head. He looked as stolid and unwinking as the genuine\nspirit-physiognomy itself. The gas was lowered to a 'dim religious\nlight,' and then a black coal-scuttle, with features chalked on it,\ndeceived some of the circle into the idea that it was a nigger. But the\none element which interested me was wanting; there was no rope-tying\nwhich could at all entitle the juvenile performance to be categorized\nunder 'Spiritual Athletics.'\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL.\n\n\"SPOTTING\" SPIRIT MEDIUMS.\n\n\n\"Among the recent utterances of spiritualistic organs is one to the\neffect that 'manifestations' come in cycles--in 'great waves,' I believe\nwas the actual expression; and of the many fluctuations to which\nspiritualistic society has been exposed of late is a very prominent\nirruption of young lady mediums. The time seems to have gone by for\nportly matrons to be wafted aerially from the northern suburbs to the\nW.C. district, or elderly spinsters to exhibit spirit drawings which\ngave one the idea of a water-colour palette having been overturned, and\nthe resulting 'mess' sat upon for the purposes of concealment. Even\ninspirational speakers have so far 'gone out' as to subside from\naristocratic halls to decidedly second-rate institutions down back\nstreets. In fact, the 'wave' that has come over the spirit world seems\nto resemble that which has also supervened upon the purely mundane\narrangements of Messrs. Spiers and Pond; and we anxious investigators\ncan scarcely complain of the change which brings us face to face with\nfair young maidens in their teens to the exclusion of the matrons and\nspinsters aforesaid, or the male medium who was once irreverently\ntermed by a narrator a 'bull-necked young man.'\n\n\"The names of these interesting young denizens of two worlds are so well\nknown that it is perhaps unnecessary caution or superfluous gallantry to\nconceal them; but I will err, if error it be, on the safe side, and call\nNo. 1 Miss C. and No. 2 Miss S., premising only that each is decidedly\nattractive, with the unquestioned advantage of having seen only some\nsixteen or seventeen summers apiece. Miss C. has been 'out' some time;\nher familiar being 'Katie King;' while Miss S. has made her debut more\nrecently, having for her attendant sprites one 'Florence Maple,' a young\nlady spirit who has given a wrong terrestrial address in Aberdeen, and\nPeter, a defunct market gardener, who sings through the young lady's\norganism in a clear baritone voice. It was to me personally a source of\ngreat satisfaction when I learnt that Miss C. had been taken in hand by\na F.R.S.--whom I will call henceforth the Professor--and Miss S. by a\nSerjeant learned in the law. Now, if ever, I thought, we have a chance\nof hearing what science and evidential acumen have to say on the subject\nof 'Face Manifestations.' Each of these gentlemen, I ought to mention,\nhad written voluminously on the subject of Spiritualism, and both seemed\ninclined to contest its claims in favour of some occult physical--or, as\nthey named it, psychic--force. This would make their verdict the more\nvaluable to outsiders, as it was clear they had not approached the\nsubject with a foregone conclusion in its favour. True, the\nSpiritualists claimed both the Professor and the Serjeant persistently\nas their own; but Spiritualists have a way of thinking everybody\n'converted' who simply sits still in a decorous manner, and keeps his\neyes open without loudly proclaiming scepticism.\n\n\"Personally I had been, up to the date of present occurrences,\naccustomed to summarize my convictions on the subject by the\nconveniently elastic formula that there might be 'something in it.' I\nstill think so; but perhaps with a difference.\n\n\"For the former of the two exposes--if such they shall be deemed--I am\ncompelled to rely on documentary evidence; but I have 'sat' so many\ntimes with Miss S., have been requested so often by the inspirational\nPeter to 'listen to the whip-poor-will, a-singin' on the tree,' have\nshaken the spirit hand, gazed on the spirit face, and even cut off\nportions of the spirit veil of the fair Florence, that I can follow the\norder of events just as though I had been present. I must confess the\nwonderful similarity existing between Miss S. and Florence had exercised\nme considerably, and perhaps prepared me to accept with calmness what\nfollowed. Why delay the result? Miss S. and her mamma were invited to\nthe country house of the learned Serjeant. A 'cabinet' was extemporized\nin the bay of the window, over which the curtains were drawn and a shawl\npinned. With a confidence which is really charming to contemplate, no\n'tests' were asked of the medium, no 'conditions' imposed on the sitter.\nMiss S. was put in the cabinet with only a chair, and the expectant\ncircle waited with patience. In due time the curtains were drawn aside,\nand the spirit-face appeared at the opening. It was still the facsimile\nof Miss S., with the eyes piously turned up and a ghostly head-dress\ncovering the hair. One by one the assembled were summoned to look more\nclosely. The initiated gazed and passed on, knowing they must not peep;\nbut, alas, one lady who was _not_ initiated, and therefore unaware of\nthe tacitly imposed conditions, imitated the example of Mother Eve, drew\naside the curtains and exposed the unspiritual form of Miss S. standing\non the chair; the 'spirit-hands' at the same time struggling so\nconvulsively to close the aperture that the head-gear fell off, and\nbetrayed the somewhat voluminous chignon of Miss S. herself. Hereupon\nensued a row, it being declared that the medium was killed, though\neventually order was restored by the rather incongruous process of a\ngentleman present singing a comic song. The learned Serjeant still\nclings to the belief that Miss S. was in a condition of 'unconscious\nsomnambulism.' I only hope, if ever I am arraigned before him in his\njudicial capacity, he will extend his benevolent credulity to me in an\nequal degree, and give me the benefit of the doubt.\n\n\"It may be in the recollection of those who follow the fluctuations of\nthe Spiritual 'wave' that some months ago a Dialectical gentleman seized\nrudely on the spirit form of Katie, which struggled violently with him,\nscratching his face and pulling out his whiskers, eventually making good\nits retreat into the cupboard, where Miss C. was presumably bound hand\nand foot. I must confess the fact of that escape rather prejudiced me in\nfavour of Katie, though I would rather she had evaporated into thin air,\nand left the dialectical whiskers intact. Still it scored a point on\nKatie's side, and I eagerly availed myself of the opportunity to pay my\ndevoirs at the shrine of Miss C.; the more so as the Professor had\nasserted twice that he had seen and handled the form of the medium while\nlooking on and conversing with that of the spirit at the same time. If I\ncould retain my former faith in the Professor, of course this would be\nfinal and my conversion an accomplished fact.\n\n\"We sat no longer in the subterranean breakfast room of Miss C.'s\nparental abode; but moved up to the parlour floor, where two rooms\ncommunicated through folding doors, the front apartment being that in\nwhich we assembled, and the back used as a bedroom, where the ladies\ntook off their 'things.' This latter room, be it remembered, had a\nsecond room communicating with the passage, and so with the universe of\nspace in general. One leaf of the folding doors was closed, and a\ncurtain hung over the other. Pillows were placed on the floor, just\ninside the curtain, and the little medium, who was nattily arrayed in a\nblue dress, was laid upon them. We were requested to sing and talk\nduring 'materialization,' and there was as much putting up and lowering\nof the light as in a modern sensation drama. The Professor acted all the\ntime as Master of the Ceremonies, retaining his place at the aperture;\nand I fear, from the very first, exciting suspicion by his marked\nattentions, not to the medium, but to the ghost. When it did come it was\narrayed according to orthodox ghost fashion, in loose white garments,\nand I must confess with no resemblance to Miss C. We were at the same\ntime shown the recumbent form of the pillowed medium, and there\ncertainly was something blue, which might have been Miss C., or only her\ngown going to the wash. By-and-by, however, with 'lights down,' a bottle\nof phosphorized oil was produced, and by this weird and uncanny radiance\none or two privileged individuals were led by the 'ghost' into the back\nbedroom, and allowed to put their hands on the entranced form of the\nmedium. I was not of the 'elect,' but I talked to those who were, and\ntheir opinion was that the 'ghost' was a much stouter, bigger woman than\nthe medium; and I must confess that certain unhallowed ideas of the\nbedroom door and the adjacent kitchen stairs connected themselves in my\nmind with recollections of a brawny servant girl who used to sit sentry\nover the cupboard in the breakfast room. Where was she?\n\n\"As a final bonne bouche the spirit made its exit from the side of the\nfolding door covered by the curtain, and immediately Miss C. rose up\nwith dishevelled locks in a way that must have been satisfactory to\nanybody who knew nothing of the back door and the brawny servant, or who\nhad never seen the late Mr. Charles Kean act in the 'Corsican Brothers'\nor the 'Courier of Lyons.'\n\n\"I am free to confess the final death-blow to my belief that there might\nbe 'something in' the Face Manifestations was given by the effusive\nProfessor who has 'gone in' for the Double with a pertinacity altogether\nopposed to the calm judicial examination of his brother learned in the\nlaw, and with prejudice scarcely becoming a F.R.S.\n\n\"I am quite aware that all this proves nothing. Miss S. and Miss C. may\neach justify Longfellow's adjuration--\n\n    'Trust her not, she is fooling thee;'\n\nand yet ghosts be as genuine as guano. Only I fancy the 'wave' of young\nladies will have to ebb for a little while; and I am exceedingly\ninterested in speculating as to what will be the next 'cycle.' From\n'information I have received,' emanating from Brighton, I am strongly of\nopinion that babies are looking up in the ghost market, and that our\nnext manifestations may come through an infant phenomenon.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI.\n\nA SEANCE FOR SCEPTICS.\n\n\n\"Attracted by the prominence recently given to the subject of\nSpiritualism in the _Times_, and undeterred by that journal's subsequent\nrecantation, or the inevitable scorn of the _Saturday Review_, I\ndetermined to test for myself the value of the testimony so copiously\nquoted by believers in the modern marvel. Clearly if certain published\nletters of the period were to be put in evidence, Spiritualism had very\nmuch the better, and Science exceedingly little to say for itself. But\nwe all know that this is a subject on which scientific men are apt to be\nreticent. 'Tacere tutum est' seems the Fabian policy adopted by those\nwho find this new Hannibal suddenly come from across sea into their\nmidst. It is moreover a subject about which the public will not be\nconvinced by any amount of writing or talking, but simply by what it can\nsee and handle for itself. It may be of service, then, if I put on\nrecord the result of an examination made below the surface of this\nmatter.\n\n\"Like most other miracles this particular one evidently has its phases\nand comes about in cycles. For a generation past, or nearly so, Modern\nSpiritualism has been so far allied with Table-turning and mysterious\nrappings as to have appropriated to itself in consequence certain\nludicrous titles, against which it vainly protests. Then cropped up\n'levitations' and 'elongations' of the person, and Mr. Home delighted to\nput red-hot coals on the heads of his friends. None of these\nmanifestations, however, were sufficient to make the spiritualistic\ntheory any other than a huge petitio principii. The Davenports were the\nfirst to inaugurate on anything like an extended scale the alleged\nappearance of the human body, or rather of certain members of the human\nbody, principally arms and hands, through the peep-hole of their\ncabinet. Then came 'spirit-voices' with Mrs. Marshall, and aerial\ntransits on the part of Mrs. Guppy; then the entire 'form of the\ndeparted' was said to be visible chez Messrs. Herne and Williams in\nLamb's Conduit Street, whose abode formed Mrs. Guppy's terminus on the\noccasion of her nocturnal voyage. Then came Miss Florence Cook's spirit\nfaces at Hackney, which were produced under a strong light, which\nsubmitted to be touched and tested in what seemed a very complete\nmanner, and even held conversations with persons in the circle. Finally,\nI heard it whispered that these faces were being recognised on a\nsomewhat extensive scale at the seances of Mrs. Holmes, in Old Quebec\nStreet, where certain other marvels were also to be witnessed, which\ndecided me on paying that lady a visit.\n\n\"Even these, however, were not the principal attractions which drew me\nto the tripod of the seeress in Quebec Street. It had been continually\nurged as an argument against the claims of Modern Spiritualism, first,\nthat it shunned the light and clave to 'dark' circles; secondly, that it\nwas over-sensitive on the subject of 'sceptics.' Surely, we are all\nsceptics in the sense of investigators. The most pretentious disciple of\nSpiritualism does not claim to have exhausted the subject. On the\ncontrary, they all tell us we are now only learning the alphabet of the\ncraft. Perhaps the recognised Spirit-faces may have landed us in words\nof one syllable, but scarcely more. However, the great advantage which\nMrs. Holmes possessed in my eyes over all professors of the new art was\nthat she did not object to sceptics. Accordingly to Quebec Street I\nwent, for the distinct purpose of testing the question of recognition.\nIf I myself, or any person on whose testimony I could rely, established\na single case of undoubted recognition, that, I felt, would go farther\nthan anything else towards solving the spiritualistic problem.\n\n\"I devoted two Monday evenings to this business; that being the day on\nwhich Mrs. Holmes, as she phrases it, 'sits for faces.' On the former of\nthe two occasions twenty-seven persons assembled, and the first portion\nof the evening was devoted to the Dark Seance, which presented some\nnovel features in itself, but was not the special object for which I\nwas present. Mrs. Holmes, who is a self-possessed American lady,\nevidently equal to tackling any number of sceptics, was securely tied in\na chair. All the circle joined hands; and certainly, as soon as the\nlight was out, fiddles, guitars, tambourines and bells did fly about the\nroom in a very unaccountable manner, and when the candle was lighted, I\nfound a fiddle-bow down my back, a guitar on my lap, and a tambourine\nring round my neck. But there was nothing spiritual in this, and the\nvoice which addressed us familiarly during the operation may or may not\nhave been a spirit voice.\n\n\"Mrs. Holmes having been released from some very perplexing knots,\navowedly by Spirit power, proceeded to what is called the 'Ring Test,'\nand I was honoured by being selected to make the experiment. I sat in\nthe centre of the room and held both her hands firmly in mine. I passed\nmy hands over her arms, without relaxing my grasp, so as to feel that\nshe had nothing secreted there; when suddenly a tambourine ring,\njinglers and all, was passed on to my arm. Very remarkable; but still\nnot necessarily spiritual. Certain clairvoyants present said they could\nwitness the 'disintegration' of the ring. I only felt it pass on to my\narm. On the occasion of my second visit this same feat was performed on\nan elderly gentleman, a very confirmed sceptic indeed. This second\ncircle consisted of twenty persons, many of them very pronounced\ndisbelievers, and not a little inclined to be 'chaffy.' However all\nwent on swimmingly.\n\n\"After about an hour of rather riotous dark seance, lights were\nrekindled and circles re-arranged for the Face Seance which takes place\nin subdued light. In the space occupied by the folding doors between the\nfront and back room a large black screen is placed, with an aperture, or\npeep-hole, about eighteen inches square, cut in it. The most minute\nexamination of this back room is allowed, and I took care to lock both\ndoors, leaving the keys crosswise in the key-hole, so that they could\nnot be opened from the outside. We then took our seats in the front room\nin three or four lines. I myself occupied the centre of the first row,\nabout four feet from the screen, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes sitting at a small\ntable in front of the screen; the theory being that the spirits behind\ncollect from their 'emanations' material to form the faces. Soon after\nwe were in position a most ghostly-looking child's face appeared at the\naperture, but was not recognised. Several other corpse-like visages\nfollowed with like absence of recognition. Then came a very old lady's\nface, quite life-like, and Mrs. Holmes informed us that the cadaverous\npeople were those only recently deceased. The old lady looked anxiously\nround as if expecting to be recognised, but nobody claimed acquaintance.\nIn fact no face was recognised at my first visit. The next was a jovial\nJoe Bagstock kind of face which peered quite merrily round our circle,\nand lastly came a most life-like countenance of an elderly man. This\nface, which had a strange leaden look about the eyes, came so close to\nthe orifice that it actually _lifted_ its grey beard outside. On the\noccasion of my second visit a lady present distinctly recognised this as\nthe face of her husband, and asked the form to show its hand as an\nadditional mark of identity. This request was complied with, the figure\nlifting a thin, white and--as the widow expressed it--'aristocratic'\nhand, and kissing it most politely. I am bound to say there was less\nemotion manifested on the part of the lady than I should have expected\nunder the circumstances; and a young man who accompanied her, and who\nfrom the likeness to her must have been her son, surveyed his\nresuscitated papa calmly through a double-barrelled opera glass. I am\nnot sure that I am at liberty to give this lady's name; but, at this\nsecond visit, Mrs. Makdougall Gregory, of 21, Green Street, Grosvenor\nSquare, positively identified the old lady above-mentioned as a Scotch\nlady of title well known to her.\n\n\"I myself was promised that a relation of my own would appear on a\nfuture occasion; but on neither of those when I attended did I see\nanything that would enable me to test the value of the identifications.\nThe faces, however, were so perfectly life-like, with the solitary\nexception of a dull leaden expression in the eye, that I cannot imagine\nthe possibility of a doubt existing as to whether they belonged to\npersons one knew or not. At all events here is the opportunity of making\nthe test. No amount of scepticism is a bar to being present. The\nappearances are not limited to a privileged few. All see alike: so that\nthe matter is removed out of the sphere of 'hallucinations.' Everything\nis done in the light, too, as far as the faces are concerned. So that\nseveral not unreasonable test-conditions are fulfilled in this case, and\nso far a step made in advance of previous manifestations.\n\n\"We may well indeed pause--at least I know I did--to shake ourselves,\nand ask whereabouts we are. Is this a gigantic imposture? or are the\nWitch of Endor and the Cumaean Sibyl revived in the unromantic\nneighbourhood of the Marble Arch, and under circumstances that\naltogether remove them from the category of the miraculous? England will\ntake a good deal of convincing on this subject, which is evidently one\nthat no amount of 'involuntary muscular action,' or 'unconscious\ncerebration,' will cover. What if the good old-fashioned ghost be a\nreality after all, and Cock Lane no region of the supernatural?\n\n\"What then? Why, one may expect to meet one's deceased ancestors at any\nhour of the day or night, provided only there be a screen for them to\n'form' behind, and a light sufficiently subdued to prevent\ndisintegration; with, of course, the necessary pigeon-hole for the\ndisplay of their venerable physiognomies. On their side of the question,\nit will be idle to say, 'No rest but the grave!' for there may not be\nrest even there, if Delphic priestesses and Cumaean Sibyls come into\nvogue again; and we may as well omit the letters R. I. P. from our\nobituary notices as a purely superfluous form of speech.\"\n\n     *     *     *     *     *\n\nSpeaking now in my own proper person as author, I may mention--as I have\npurposely deferred doing up to this point--that a light was subsequently\nstruck at one of Mrs. Holmes's Dark Seances, and that the discoveries\nthus made rendered the seance a final one. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes retired,\nfirst to Brighton, and then to America.\n\nThey were, at the time of my writing, holding successful seances in the\nlatter place; and public (Spiritualistic) opinion still clings to the\nbelief that Mrs. Holmes is a genuine medium.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII.\n\nAN EVENING WITH THE HIGHER SPIRITS.\n\n\nAt the head of social heresies, and rapidly beginning to take rank as a\nreligious heresy as well, I have no hesitation in placing modern\nSpiritualism. Those who associate this latest mystery only with gyrating\narticles of furniture, rapping tables, or simpering planchettes, are\nsimply in the abyss of ignorance, and dangerously underrate the gravity\nof the subject. The later development of Spirit Faces and Spirit Forms,\neach of which I have examined thoroughly, and made the results of my\nobservations public, fail to afford any adequate idea of the pitch to\nwhich the mania--if mania it be--has attained. To many persons\nSpiritualism forms the ultimatum, not only in science, but also in\nreligion. Whatever the Spirits tell them they believe and do as devoutly\nas the Protestant obeys his Bible, the Catholic his Church, or the\nscientific man follows up the results of his demonstrations. That is, in\nfact, the position they assume. They claim to have attained in matters\nof religion to demonstration as clear and infallible as the philosopher\ndoes in pure science. They say no longer \"We believe,\" but \"We know.\"\nThese people care little for the vagaries of Dark Circles, or even the\ndoings of young ladies with \"doubles.\" The flight of Mrs. Guppy through\nthe air, the elongation of Mr. Home's braces, the insertion of live\ncoals among the intricacies of Mr. S. C. Hall's exuberant locks, are but\nthe A B C which have led them to their present advanced position. These\nphysical \"manifestations\" may do for the neophytes. They are the\ninitiated. I am the initiated; or I ought to be, if patience and\nperseverance constitute serving an apprenticeship. I have devoted a good\nportion of my late life to the study. I have given up valuable evenings\nthrough several consecutive winters to dark seances; have had my hair\npulled, my head thumped with paper tubes, and suffered other indignities\nat the hands of the \"Invisibles;\" and, worse than all, my friends have\nlooked upon me as a lunatic for my pains, and if my enemies could have\nwrought their will they would have incarcerated me as non compos, or\nmade an auto-da-fe of me as a heretic years ago.\n\nThrough sheer length of service, then, if on no other account, I had\ngrown somewhat blase with the ordinary run of manifestations. Spirit\nFaces no longer interest me; for I seek among them in vain the\nlineaments of my departed friends. Spirit Hands I shake as unconcernedly\nas I do those of my familiar acquaintances at the club or in the street.\nI have even cut off a portion of the veil of Miss Florence Maple, the\nAberdeen Spirit, and gone away with it in my pocket: so that it was, at\nall events, a new sensation when I received an invitation to be present\nat a trance seance, where one of the Higher Spirits communicated to the\nassembled things undreamed of in mundane philosophy. The sitting was a\nstrictly private one; so I must not mention names or localities; but\nthis does not matter, as I have no marvels in the vulgar sense of the\nword to relate: only Higher Teachings, which will do just as well with\nasterisks or initials as with the names in full.\n\nThe scene, then, was an artist's studio at the West End of London, and\nthe medium a magnetic lady with whom I had frequently sat before, though\nnot for the \"Higher\" teachings. Her instruction had so far come in the\nshape of very vigorous raps, which ruined my knuckles to imitate them,\nand in levitation of a small and volatile chess table, which resisted\nall my efforts to keep it to the paths of propriety. This lady was not\nyoung; and I confess frankly this was, to my thinking, an advantage.\nWhen I once told a sceptical friend about Miss Florence Cook's seance,\nand added, triumphantly, \"Why, she's a pretty little simple girl of\nsixteen,\" that clenched the doubts of this Thomas at once, for he\nrejoined, \"What is there that a pretty little _simple_ girl of sixteen\nwon't do?\" Miss Showers is sweet sixteen, too; and when \"Peter\" sings\nthrough her in a clear baritone voice, I cannot, despite myself, help\nthe thought occasionally flitting across my mind, \"Would that you were\nsix-and-twenty, or, better still, six-and-thirty, instead of sixteen!\"\nWithout specifying to which of the two latter classes our present medium\nbelonged, one might venture to say she had safely passed the former. She\nwas of that ripe and Rubens-like beauty to which we could well imagine\nsome \"Higher\" spirit offering the golden apple of its approval, however\nthe skittish Paris of the spheres might incline to sweet sixteen. I had\na short time before sat infructuously with this lady, when a distressing\ncontretemps occurred. We were going in for a dark seance then, and just\nas we fancied the revenants were about to justify the title, we were\nstartled by a crash, and on my lighting up, all of the medium I could\nsee were two ankles protruding from beneath the table. She had fainted\n\"right off,\" as the ladies say, and it required something strong to\nbring her to. In fact, we all had a \"refresher,\" I recollect, for\nsitting is generally found to be exhausting to the circle as well as to\nthe medium. On the present occasion, however, everything was, if not en\nplein jour, en plein gaz. There was a good deal of preliminary\ndifficulty as to the choice of a chair for the medium. Our artist-friend\nhad a lot of antique affairs in his studio, no two being alike, and I\nwas glad to see the lady select a capacious one with arms to it, from\nwhich she would not be likely to topple off when the spirits took\npossession. The rest of us sat in a sort of irregular circle round the\nroom, myself alone being accommodated with a small table, not for the\npurposes of turning (I am set down as \"too physical\") but in order to\nreport the utterances of the Higher Spirits. We were five \"assistants\"\nin all--our host, a young lady residing with him, another lady well\nknown as a musical artiste, with her mamma and my unworthy self.\nInstalled in her comfortable chair, the medium went through a series of\nfacial contortions, most of which looked the reverse of pleasing, though\noccasionally she smiled benignantly par parenthese. I was told--or I\nunderstood it so--that this represented her upward passage through\ndifferent spheres. She was performing, in fact, a sort of spiritualistic\n\"Excelsior.\" By way of assimilating our minds to the matter in hand, we\ndiscussed the Apocryphal Gospels, which happened to be lying on the\ntable; and very soon, without any other process than the facial\ncontortions having been gone through, the medium broke silence, and, in\nmeasured tones of considerable benignity, said:--\"Friends, we greet you\nin the name of our Lord and Master. Let us say the Lord's Prayer.\"\n\nShe then repeated the Lord's Prayer, with considerable alterations from\nthe Authorized Version, especially, I noticed, inserting the\nSwedenborgian expressions, \"the Heavens,\" \"on earth;\" but also altering\nthe order of the clauses, and omitting one altogether. She then informed\nus that she was ready to answer questions on any subject, but that we\nwere not bound to accept any teaching which she--or let us say they,\nfor it was the spirits now speaking--might give us. \"What did we wish to\nknow?\" I always notice that when this question is asked at a spirit\ncircle everybody simultaneously shuts up, as though the desire for\nknowledge were dried at its source. Nobody spoke, and I myself was not\nprepared with a subject, but I had just been reviewing a Swedenborgian\nbook, and I softly insinuated \"Spiritual Marriage.\" It was graciously\naccepted; and our Sibyl thus delivered herself:--Mankind, the higher\nSpirit or Spirits, said was originally created in pairs, and the soul\nwas still dual. Somehow or other--my notes are not quite clear how--the\nparts had got mixed up, separated, or wrongly sorted. There were,\nhowever, some advantages in this wrong sorting, which was so frequent an\naccident of terrestrial marriage, since it was possible for people to be\ntoo much alike--an observation I fancied I had heard before, or at least\nnot so profound a one as to need a ghost \"Come from the dead to tell us\nthat, Horatio!\" When the right halves did get together on earth the good\ndeveloped for good, the evil for evil, until they got to the heavens or\nthe other places--they were all plurals. Swedenborgianism has an\nobjection to the singular number; and I could not fail to identify the\nteaching of the Higher Spirit at once with that of the New Jerusalem\nChurch. Two preliminary facts were brought before us; the Higher Spirits\nwere in theology Swedenborgian, and in medical practice homoeopaths. So\nwas the Medium. Although there was no marriage in the spiritual world,\nin our sense of the term, there was not only this re-sorting and\njunction of the disunited bivalves, but there were actual \"nuptials\"\ncelebrated. We were to be careful and understand that what terrestrials\ncalled marriage celestials named nuptials--it seemed to me rather a\ndistinction without a difference. There was no need of any ceremony, but\nstill a ceremony was pleasing and also significant. I asked if it was\ntrue, as I had read in the Swedenborgian book, that all adult angels\nwere married. She replied, \"Yes; they married from the age of 18 to 24,\nand the male was always a few years older than the female.\"\n\nThere was a tendency, which I continually had to check, on the part of\nthe Medium to wander off from matrimonial to theological subjects; and\nthe latter, though trite, were scarcely so heterodox as I expected. I\nhad found most \"spiritualistic\" teaching to be purely Theistic. Love to\nGod and man were declared to be the great essentials, and creeds to\nmatter little. If a man loved truth, it was no matter how wild or absurd\nhis ideas might be. The love of God might seem a merely abstract idea,\nbut it was not so. To love goodness was to love God. The love of the\nneighbour, in the sense of loving all one's kind, might seem hard, too;\nbut it was not really so. There were in the sphere where this\nIntelligence dwelt millions of angels, or good spirits, working for the\nsalvation of men.\n\nI ought to mention that this lady, in her normal condition, is\nsingularly reticent, and that the \"communications\" I chronicle were\ndelivered fluently in one unbroken chain of what often rose into real\neloquence.\n\nSo Christ came for the good of man, and Christ was not the only Messiah\nwho had appeared on earth. In the millions of ages that had passed over\nour globe, and in the other planets of our solar system, there had risen\nup \"other men filled with the spirit of good, and so Sons of God.\" I\nhere tried to get at the views of the Higher Spirits on the Divinity of\nChrist, but found considerable haziness; at one time it was roundly\nasserted, at another it seemed to me explained away by such expressions\nas I have quoted above.\n\nOur planet, I was informed, had been made the subject of special care\nbecause we were more material, more \"solid\" than the inhabitants of any\nother orb. There was an essential difference between Christ and all\nother great teachers, such as Buddha; and there were no historical\nrecords of any other manifestation of the Messiah than that we\npossessed; but such manifestations had taken place.\n\nThe Spirit then gave us an account of its surroundings, which is, I\nbelieve, purely Swedenborgian. The \"celestial\" angels were devoted to\ntruth, the \"spiritual\" angels to goodness; and so, too, there were the\nHomes of the Satans, where falsehoods prevailed, and of the Devils,\nwhere evils predominated. Spirits from each of these came to man and\nheld him in equilibrio; but gained power as his will inclined towards\nthem. The will was not altogether free, because affected by inherited\ntendencies; but the \"determination\" was. I have no idea what the Higher\nSpirit meant by this; and I rather fancy the Higher Spirit was in some\ndoubt itself. It rather put me in mind of the definition of metaphysics:\n\"If you are talking to me of what you know nothing about, and I don't\nunderstand a word of what you are saying--that's metaphysics.\"\n\nAll can do good, continued the Sibyl. Evil cannot compel you. Utter only\nsuch an aspiration as, \"God help me,\" and it brings a crowd of angels\nround you. From those who came to them from this world, however, they\n(the Higher Spirits) found that teachers taught more about what we were\nto think than what we were to do. Goodness was so easy. A right belief\nmade us happier; but right action was essential.\n\nPushed by our host, who was rather inclined to \"badger\" the Higher\nSpirit, as to irresistible tendencies, the Intelligence said they were\n_not_ irresistible. When we arrived in the Spirit World we should find\neverything that had occurred in our lives photographed. You will condemn\nyourselves, it was added. You will not be \"had up\" before an angry God.\n_You_ will decide, in reference to any wrong action, whether you could\nhelp it. Even in the act of doing it a man condemns himself; much more\nso there. The doctrine of the Atonement was summarily disposed of as a\n\"damnable heresy.\" \"Does the Great Spirit want one man to die? It hurts\nus even to think of it!\"\n\nI then questioned the Medium with regard to the resurrection of the\nbody; and was told that man, as originally created, was a spiritual\nbeing, but had \"superinduced\" his present body of flesh--how he managed\nit I did not quite gather. As to possible sublimation of corporeal\nintegument, the case of ghosts was mentioned. It was to no purpose I\ngently insinuated I had never seen a ghost, or had the existence of one\nproperly authenticated. I was told that if I fired a pistol through a\nghost only a small particle of dust would remain which could be swept\nup. I was not aware that even so much would remain. Fancy \"sweeping up\"\na Higher Spirit!\n\nI could not help once or twice pausing to look round on this strange\npreacher and congregation. The comfortable-looking lady propped in an\narm-chair, and with an urbane smile discoursing on these tremendous\ntopics, our little congregation of five, myself writing away for dear\nlife, the young hostess nursing a weird-looking black cat; the other\nyoung lady continually harking back to \"conjugal\" subjects, which\nseemed to interest her; the mamma slightly flabbergastered at the rather\nrevolutionary nature of the communications; and our host every now and\nthen throwing in a rude or caustic remark. I dreaded to think what might\nhave been the result of a domiciliary visit paid by a Commissioner in\nLunacy to that particular studio!\n\nBack, then, the musical young lady took us to conjugal pairs. It was\nvery difficult to convey to us what this conjugal love was like. Was it\nElective Affinity? I asked. Yes; something like that, but still not\nthat. It was the spontaneous gravitation in the spheres, either to\nother, of the halves of the dual spirit dissociated on earth. Not at\nall--again in reply to me--like flirting in a corner. The two, when\nwalking in the spheres, looked like one. This conjugal puzzle was too\nmuch for us. We \"gave it up;\" and with an eloquent peroration on the\nDynamics of Prayer, the seance concluded.\n\nThe Lord's Prayer was again said, with even more varieties than before;\na few extemporaneous supplications were added. The process of coming-to\nseemed even more disagreeable, if one may judge by facial expression,\nthan going into the trance. Eventually, to get back quite to earth, our\nSibyl had to be demesmerized by our host, and in a few minutes was\npartaking of a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee as though she had never\nbeen in nubibus at all.\n\nWhat the psychological condition had been I leave for those more\nlearned than myself to determine. That some exaltation of the faculties\ntook place was clear. That the resulting intelligence was of deep\npractical import few, I fancy, would aver. Happily my mission is not to\ndiscuss, but to describe; and so I simply set down my experience in the\nsame terms in which it was conveyed to me as \"An Evening with the Higher\nSpirits.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII.\n\nSPIRIT FORMS.\n\n\nSome years ago I contributed to the columns of a daily paper an article\non Spirit Faces, which was to me the source of troubles manifold. In the\nfirst place, the inquirers into Spiritualism, whose name I found to be\nlegion, inundated me with letters, asking me to take them to the house\nof pretty Miss Blank, the medium. Miss Blank might have been going on\ntill now, holding nightly receptions, without having exhausted her list\nof self-invited guests; I had but one answer; the lady was a comparative\nstranger to me, and not a professional medium; ergo, the legion must ask\nsome one to chaperone them elsewhere. Spirit Faces had got comparatively\ncommon and almost gone out since I wrote. We are a long way beyond faces\nnow. Then, again, my second source of trouble was that forthwith, from\nthe date of my writing, the Spiritualists claimed me for their own, as\nMelancholy did the young gentleman in Gray's elegy. Though I fancied my\npaper was only a calm judicial statement of things seen, and I carefully\navoided saying whether I was convinced or not, I found myself nolens\nvolens enrolled among the initiated, and expected to devote about five\nevenings out of the seven to seances. I did go, and do go still to a\ngreat many; so that I feel pretty well posted up in the \"Latest\nIntelligence\" of the Spiritual world. But the worst of all is that my\nown familiar friends, in whom I trusted, have also lifted up their heels\nagainst me--I mean metaphorically, of course. \"What's the last new thing\nin spirits?\" they ask me out loud in omnibuses or railway carriages,\ncausing my fellow-travellers to look at me in doubt as to whether I am a\nlicensed victualler or a necromancer. As \"bigots feign belief till they\nbelieve,\" I really begin to have some doubts myself as to the state of\nmy convictions.\n\nBut I wish to make this paper again a simple statement of things heard\nand seen--especially seen. I flatter myself the title is a nice, weird,\nghostly one, calculated to make people feel uncomfortable about the\nsmall hours of the morning. Should such be the case--as they say in\nprefaces--the utmost hopes of the writer will be realized. When last I\ncommunicated my experiences, the ultimate end we had reached was the\nappearance of a white counterpart of pretty Miss Blank's face at the\npeep-hole of a corner cupboard. There were a good many more or\nless--generally less--successful imitations of this performance in\nvarious quarters, and the sensation subsided. Miss B. was still facile\nprinceps from the fact that she stood full light--I mean her spirit-face\ndid--whilst all the others leaned to a more or less dim religious kind\nof gloom. In a short time, however, \"Katie\"--as the familiar of Miss B.\nwas termed--thought she would be able to \"materialize\" herself so far as\nto present the whole form, if we re-arranged the corner cupboard so as\nto admit of her doing so. Accordingly we opened the door, and from it\nsuspended a rug or two opening in the centre, after the fashion of a\nBedouin Arab's tent, formed a semicircle, sat and sang Longfellow's\n\"Footsteps of Angels.\" Therein occurs the passage: \"Then the forms of\nthe departed enter at the open door.\" And, lo and behold, though we had\nleft Miss B. tied and sealed to her chair, and clad in an ordinary black\ndress somewhat voluminous as to the skirts, a tall female figure draped\nclassically in white, with bare arms and feet, did enter at the open\ndoor, or rather down the centre from between the two rugs, and stood\nstatue-like before us, spoke a few words, and retired; after which we\nentered the Bedouin tent and found pretty Miss B. with her dress as\nbefore, knots and seals secure, and her boots on! This was Form No. 1,\nthe first I had ever seen. It looked as material as myself; and on a\nsubsequent occasion--for I have seen it several times--we took four very\ngood photographic portraits of it by magnesium light. The difficulty I\nstill felt, with the form as with the faces, was that it seemed so\nthoroughly material and flesh-and-blood like. Perhaps, I thought, the\nauthoress of \"The Gates Ajar\" is right, and the next condition of things\nmay be more material than we generally think, even to the extent of\nadmitting, as she says, pianofortes among its adjuncts. But I was to see\nsomething much more ghostly than this.\n\nThe great fact I notice about Spiritualism is, that it is obeying the\noccult impetus of all great movements, and steadily going from east to\nwest. From Hackney and Highbury it gravitates towards Belgravia and\nTyburnia. I left the wilds of Hackney behind, and neared Hyde Park for\nmy next Form. I must again conceal names and localities; I have no\ndesire to advertise mediums, or right to betray persons who have shown\nme hospitality--and Spirit Forms. We arranged ourselves in a semicircle\naround the curtains which separated the small back drawing-room from the\nlarge front one, joined hands, sang until we were hoarse as crows, and\nkept our eyes steadily fixed on an aperture left between the curtains\nfor the faces to show themselves. The room was in blank darkness, and,\nfeeling rather tired of the incantation, I looked over my shoulder into\nthe gloom, and lo! a shadowy form stood self-illuminated not far from\nme. At last I had seen it--a good orthodox ghost in white, and visible\nin the darkness. It was the form of the redoubtable John King himself,\nwho was, I believe, a bold buccaneer in the flesh, but who looked more\nlike an Arab sheikh in the spirit. He sailed about the room, talked to\nus, and finally disappeared. Eventually he reappeared behind the\ncurtains, and for a brief space the portiere was drawn aside, and the\nspirit form was seen lighting up the recumbent figure of the medium,\nwho was stretched on a sofa, apparently in deep trance. It must be borne\nin mind that we were forming a cordon round the passage from one room to\nthe other during the whole of this time. A trio of \"spirits\" generally\nputs in an appearance at these seances. In this case there were John\nKing, whom I had now seen, as well as heard; Katie, the familiar of Miss\nB.; and a peculiarly lugubrious gentleman named Peter, who, I fancy, has\nnot been seen, but who has several times done me the favour of grasping\nmy hand and hoisting me towards the ceiling, as though he were going to\ncarry me off bodily to spirit-land. I stand some six feet in my boots,\nand have stepped upon my chair, and still felt the hand coming downwards\nto me--where from I have no idea.\n\nBut my later experiences have still to be told. I was invited a few\nweeks ago to a very select seance indeed, where the same medium was to\nofficiate. This family, who spared no expense in their investigations,\nhad actually got a large, handsome cabinet standing in their dining-room\nas a recognised piece of furniture. It was only used, however, on this\noccasion for the imprisonment of the medium. The evolutions of John\nKing, who soon appeared, all took place outside the cabinet door. He was\nonly \"materialized\" to the middle; and, to our utter amazement, came up\nto the table, and apparently _through_ the table, into the very middle\nof the circle, where he disported himself in various ways, keeping up\nan animated conversation the whole time, and frequently throwing himself\ninto the attitude of a person swimming on his back. He also went upwards\nas high as the gasalier, and altogether did a good many marvellous\nthings, considering that all this time he presented the appearance of\nonly half a man illuminated by his own light.\n\nOn one occasion only have I been seated next to the medium during the\nmanifestation of any of these forms. At this seance I held him firmly by\none hand, and a slightly sceptical lady had the other. We never let go\nfor a moment, but during the whole of the sitting, while John King,\nKatie, and Peter were talking, tiny children's hands were playing with\nmy arm, hands, and hair. There were, of course, no children in the room.\nPeter, the lugubrious, is great at light porterage. I have known him\nbring a large collection of valuable Sevres china, and a timepiece with\nits glass case, from the chimney-piece to the table--no easy task in the\nlight, much less in blank darkness. He also frequently takes down the\npictures from the wall and puts them on the table. Katie winds up a\nlarge musical box, and wafts it, while playing, all over the room. Of\ncourse we rub our eyes and ask what on earth, if it be on earth, does\nthis mean? I have not--to keep up the diction of my subject--the _ghost_\nof an idea. If it's conjuring, why don't the mediums say so, and enter\nthe field openly against Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke and Dr. Lynn? Even\nif I had a decided opinion about it I should refrain from propounding it\nhere, because, in the first place, it would be an impertinence, and, in\nthe second, no conclusion can be arrived at upon testimony alone. People\nmust see for themselves and draw their own inferences. In the meantime\nthe thing, whatever it is, grows and grows upwards. A year ago I had to\njourney down east to find it. Now I must array myself gorgeously like a\nStaffordshire miner, and seek the salons of the West. The great\ndesideratum, it still appears to me, is that some man with a name in\nscience should examine the matter, honestly resolving to endorse the\nfacts if true, but to expose them mercilessly if there be a loophole for\nsuspicion. Omne ignotum pro magnifico habetur. I used to think ghosts\nbig things, but that was before I knew them. I should think no more of\nmeeting a ghost now than a donkey on a dark night, and would infinitely\nsooner tackle a spirit than a burglar. People's curiosity is roused, and\nthe sooner somebody gets at the truth the better. It is a somewhat\nirksome task, it is true; but no general principle can be arrived at\nexcept by an induction of particulars. Let us be Baconian, even to our\nghosts. If they _are_ ghosts, they are a good deal more substantial than\nI had thought. If they are not, let somebody, in the name of\nnineteenth-century science, send them off as with the crow of\nchanticleer, and let us hear no more of Spirit Faces or Spirit Forms.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV.\n\nSITTING WITH A SIBYL.\n\n\nThe connexion of modesty with merit is proverbial, though questioned by\nSydney Smith, who says their only point in common is the fact that each\nbegins with an--m. Modesty, however--waiving the question of\naccompanying merit--is a trait which, in my mystic inquiries and devious\nwanderings, I meet with far more frequently than might be expected. I\nhave just met with two instances which I hasten to put on record, if\nonly to confute those who say that the age in general, and spirit\nmediums in particular, are not prone to be modest and retiring. My first\nmodest person was a Spirit Photographer; my second was a Sibyl. I might\nhave looked for bashfulness in the latter, but was certainly surprised\nto meet with it in the former. I suddenly learnt from the Medium the\nfact that a Spirit Photographer had settled down in my immediate\nneighbourhood, and the appearance of his ghostly advertisement brings to\nmy recollection some previous mystic experiences I myself had in this\nway.\n\nA now celebrated medium, Mrs. Guppy, nee Miss Nicholl, was, in the days\nof her maidenhood, a practitioner of photography in Westbourne Grove;\nand, as far as I know, she might have been the means of opening up to\nthe denizens of the Summer Land this new method of terrestrial\noperations. Ever on the qui vive for anything new in the occult line, I\nat once interviewed Miss Nicholl and sat for my portrait, expecting at\nthe least to find the attendant spirit of my departed grandmamma or\ndefunct maiden aunt standing sentinel over me, as I saw departed\nrelations doing in many cartes de visite in the room. I confess there\nwas a kind of made-up theatrical-property look about the attendant\nspirits which gave one the idea that the superior intelligences must\nhave dressed in a hurry when they sat or stood for their portraits. They\nlooked, in fact, if it be not irreverent to say it, rather like so many\nbundles of pneumatical rags than respectable domestic ghosts. However,\nas long as I got the ghosts I did not care about the dress. Tenue de\nsoir point de rigueur, I would have said, as they do outside the cheap\ncasinos in Paris, or \"Evening dress not required,\" if one must descend\nto the vernacular. Well, I sat persistently and patiently through I am\nafraid to say how many operations, and the operator described me as\nbeing surrounded by spirits--I always am according to Mediums, but my\nspirits must be eminently unsociable ones, for they seldom give me a\nword, and on this occasion refused to be \"taken\" as resolutely as the\nbashful gentleman in the _Graphic_ who resisted the operations of the\nprison officials to obtain a sun-picture of his interesting\nphysiognomy. There was indeed a blotch on one of the negatives, which I\nwas assured was a spirit. I could not see things in that light.\n\nFoiled on this particular occasion my anxiety was dormant, but never\ndied out. I still longed for a denizen of the other world to put in an\nappearance, and kept on being photographed over and over again until I\nmight have been the vainest man alive, on the bare hope that the artist\nmight be a Medium malgre lui or undeveloped. I had heard there were such\nbeings, but they never came in my way. I was really serious in this\nwish, because I felt if it could be granted, the possibility of\ndeception being prevented, the objectivity of the phenomena would be\nguaranteed. At this time I was heretical enough to believe that most\nghosts were due to underdone pork or untimely Welsh rare-bits, and that\nthe raps assigned to their agency were assignable to the active toes of\nthe Medium which might be anywhere and up to anything with the\nopportunities of a dark seance.\n\nA short time since, however, M. Buguet, a celebrated French Spirit\nPhotographer came from Paris to London, and received sitters for the\nmodest sum of _30s._ each. This would have been much beyond my means;\nbut I suppose my wish had transpired, and that gentleman sent me an\ninvitation to sit gratis, which, I need not say, I thankfully accepted.\nI felt sure that M. Buguet did not know either my long-lost grandmother\nor lamented maiden aunt, so that any portraits I might get from him\nwould be presumably genuine. I sat; and over my manly form, when the\nnegative came to be cleaned, was a female figure in the act of\nbenediction. I have no notion how she got there--for I watched every\nstage in the operation, and selected my plate myself; but neither, on\nthe other hand, does she bear the faintest resemblance to anybody I ever\nknew.\n\nStill M. Buguet is not my modest photographer. Elated by success so far,\nI called on the local gentleman who advertised in the _Medium_; but the\nlocal gentleman was \"engaged.\" I wrote to the local gentleman appointing\nan interview; but the local gentleman replied not. Yet still his\nadvertisement remains; and I see in every spiritualistic album dozens of\n\"property\" relations in the shape of quasi-spirits, and wonder why the\nlocal gentleman would not take me, so as to be immortalized in these\npages.\n\nEqually modest was the advertising Sibyl. I wrote to the Sibyl, and\nsomebody replied, and \"respectfully declined.\" But I was not to be done.\nThere is more than one Sibyl in the world. I called on No. 2 without\nannouncing my intention or sending in my name. This Sibyl at once\nadmitted me, and I mounted to the first floor front of a respectable\nsuburban lodging-house.\n\nI waited anxiously for a long time, wondering whether Sibyl was\npartaking of the onions, whose presence in that modest domicile was\nodoriferously evidenced to my nose, though it was then scarcely\nhalf-past one o'clock. Presently a portly middle-aged man, who might\nhave been Sibyl's youthful papa, or rather aged husband, entered, wiping\nhis mouth. He had clearly been partaking of the fragrant condiment.\n\nWhere was Sibyl?\n\n\"She would be with us directly,\" the gentleman said, varying the\nproceedings by picking his teeth in the interim.\n\nShe _was_ with us in a minute, and never, I suppose, did picturesque\nanticipations more suddenly collapse and come to grief than mine. I had\npictured Sibyl a bright ethereal being, and the realization of my ideal\nweighed twelve stone, if an ounce. She was a big, fleshy, large-boned\nwoman of an utterly uncertain age, not without considerable good-nature\nin her extensive features; but the pervading idea that you had when you\nlooked at Sibyl was that there was _too much of her_. I could not help\nthinking of the husband who said he did not like a big wife: he\npreferred two small ones; and then again I fell into wonderment as to\nwhether the man who was still engaged with his dental apparatus was\nSibyl's husband or papa.\n\nI told them I was anxious to test Sibyl's powers; and, with a few passes\nfrom his fat dumpy hands, the man soon put her to sleep. It looked to me\nlike an after-dinner nap, but I was told it was magnetic. It might have\nbeen. By the way, I had unmistakable evidence from my olfactory organ\nthat Sibyl _had_ been eating onions.\n\nI had provided myself with two locks of hair, as I had heard that\n\"psychometry\" was among Sibyl's qualifications. I handed her the first,\nand she immediately proceeded to describe a series of tableaux which\nappeared to pass through her mind. She kept handling the lock of hair,\nand said, \"The person to whom this belongs is ill--weak,\" which was true\nenough, but might, I thought, be a shot. I should mention, however, that\nit was quite impossible Sibyl could know me. She had not even heard my\nname. She then described a bedroom, with some person--she could not see\nwhat person--lying in bed, and a lady in a blue dress bending over her.\nThis, again, I thought might flow out as a deduction from her premises\nof the hair belonging to an invalid. The blue dress was correct enough,\nbut still so little special as to be a very possible coincidence. She\nthen, however, startled me by saying, \"I notice this, that on the table\nby the bedside, where the bottles of medicine are standing, milk has\nbeen spilt--a large quantity--and not wiped up.\" This was a trivial\ndetail, not known to me at the time, but confirmed on subsequent\ninquiry.\n\nShe then passed on to describe a second tableau, where the same person\nin the blue dress was in a room _all hung over with plates_, along with\na gentleman whom she described very accurately. He was the occupant of\nthe house where the patient lay, and, having a hobby for old china, had\nturned his dining-room into a sort of crockery shop by hanging it all\nover with the delf.\n\nThis was curious enough, though not very convincing. It seemed as though\nthe influence of this person who had given me the hair was stronger than\nthat of the hair itself. With the second lock of hair we failed utterly.\nShe said that also came from a sick person, but a person not sick with\nthe same disease as the other. She was quite positive they came from\ndifferent people, and asked me to feel the difference of texture. I am\nsorry, for Sibyl's sake, to say they both came from the same person, and\nwere cut at the same time, though from different parts of the head,\nwhich made one look silkier than the other.\n\nAs a test of Sibyl's clairvoyance, this was not very satisfactory. She\nread the inscription on a card when her eyes were bandaged, pressing it\nto her forehead; but then olden experiences in the way of blindman's\nbuff convince me that it is very difficult to say when a person is\nproperly blinded.\n\nAltogether, then, I never quite got over my previous disappointment at\nSibyl's bulk. Had she been pretty and frizzle-headed like Miss Annie Eva\nFay, or like Miss Showers or Miss Florence Cook, I might have been\ndisposed to make more of her coincidences and to wink at her failures.\nWe _are_ so liable to be led away by our feelings in these matters.\nSibyl was large, had eaten onions, and would have been improved if she\nhad brushed her hair, and so I am afraid I rather grudged the somewhat\nexorbitant fee which the fat-handed man--not Sibyl--took and pocketed in\nan interval of his dental pursuit, and I passed out from that suburban\nlodging, none of us, I fancy, very well satisfied with one another. I\nhave an idea I unconsciously expressed my inner feelings of\ndisappointment with Sibyl and something stronger in reference to her\nmale companion.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV.\n\nSPIRITUALISTS AND CONJURERS.\n\n\n\"How it's done\" is the question which, in the words of Dr. Lynn, we want\nto settle with reference to his own or kindred performances, and, still\nmore, in the production of the phenomena known as spiritual. I have\nspent some years of my existence in a hitherto vain endeavour to solve\nthe latter problem; and the farther I go, the more the mystery seems to\ndeepen. Of late, the two opposed parties, the Spiritualists and the\nConjurers, have definitely entered the arena, and declared war to the\nknife. Each claims to be Moses, and denounces the others as mere\nmagicians. Mr. Maskelyne holds a dark seance, professing to expose the\nspiritualistic ones; Dr. Lynn brandishes against them his strong right\narm upon which is written in letters all of blood the name of one's\ndeceased grandmother, while, in return, Dr. Sexton exposes the\nconjurers, and spoils one's enjoyment of a hitherto enjoyable evening,\nby showing \"how it's done\"--how the name of one's departed relative is\nforged and painted early in the afternoon, instead of \"coming out\" on\nthe spot--and in spots--like measles or nettle-rash (as we feel defunct\nrelations ought to come) or walking in and out of the corded box at\npleasure, and even going so far as to give the address of the clever\nmechanist down a by-street near Notting-hill Gate, who will make the\nmysterious packing case to order in return for a somewhat heavy\n\"consideration.\"\n\nI accepted Dr. Lynn's invitation to be present on his \"opening night;\"\nand wondered, in passing, why everybody should not make their cards of\ninvitation such thorough works of art as his. Now I am going to do\neven-handed justice all the way round; and I must say that Dr. Lynn's\nexperiment of fastening his attendant to a sort of penitential stool\nwith copper wire, surrounded by scrutineers from the audience, and then\nmaking the man's coat come off, and a ring pass over his arm, behind a\nsimple rug held in front of him, is quite as wonderful as anything I\nhave ever witnessed at a seance. It has the great advantage of being\ndone in the light, instead of, as in Mr. Fay's case, in darkness, and\nwithout a cabinet. In fact, I have no idea how it's done; though I have\nno doubt the first time I see Dr. Sexton he will point to something\nunsatisfactory in the bolts to which that doorkeeper is fastened, and\ngive me the addresses of the ironmonger who will sell me some like them,\nor the tailor who will manufacture me a swallow tail coat with an\nimperceptible slit down the back. Then again, I have, as I said, seen\nyoung Mr. Sexton go in and out of the corded box, and I know how that's\ndone; but Dr. Lynn's man goes into three, one inside the other. Well, I\ncan understand that if Dr. Sexton's theory be correct, it may perhaps be\nas easy to get into a \"nest\" of three as into one box; but how, in the\nname of nature--or art--does the nautical gentleman get out of the\ndouble sack in which he is tied? I cannot bring myself to print what Dr.\nSexton's theory of the box is, because it appears to be such a wanton\ncruelty to \"expose\" things when people go to the Egyptian Hall on\npurpose to be mystified. I remember how the fact of having seen Dr.\nSexton do the trick of reading the names in the hat spoilt my enjoyment\nof Dr. Lynn's experiment. He really appeared quite bungling when I knew\nall he was about. He did not, on this occasion, produce the letters on\nhis arm; but I saw he could quite easily have done so, though the doing\nit would have been no sort of reproduction of Mr. Forster's\nmanifestation, who showed you the name of some relative when you had\nlooked in on him quite unexpectedly. I can quite understand how it is\nthat the spiritualists, who hold these matters to be sacred as\nrevelation itself--in fact, to be revelation itself, are shocked at\nseeing their convictions denounced as trickery and \"exposed\" on a public\nplatform; but I confess I do not quite see how they can adopt the tu\nquoque principle, and \"expose\" Dr. Lynn and Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke\nas tricksters, because they do not pretend to be anything else. It\nwould have been fatal if the magicians had \"found out\" Moses, and they\nwisely refrained from trying; but it would have served no purpose for\nMoses to \"find out\" the magicians: and it strikes me Moses would have\ndeemed it very infra dig. to make the attempt. The two things stand on\nquite different grounds; and I cannot help thinking that the\nspiritualists unwisely concede a point when they accept the challenge of\nthe conjurers. I am quite aware that the theory of the spiritualists\nmakes of many a conjurer a medium malgre lui, and says he ought to come\nout in his true colours. It was so Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke were\noriginally introduced to a London public at the Crystal Palace under the\nauspices of an eminent spiritualist; but it really appears to me that\nsuch an assertion amounts to begging the question; for I doubt whether\nit would not \"pay\" quite as well to come out boldly in Mr. Williams's or\nMr. Morse's line as in that of Dr. Lynn or Mr. Maskelyne.\n\nIn a lengthened confab which I once had with Mr. Maskelyne himself after\none of his performances, he told me that by constant attendance at the\nseances of the Davenports he found out how that was all done; and, being\na working watchmaker, was able soon to get the necessary apparatus\nconstructed. I must again be just, and state that while the cabinet\nseance of Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke seems to me the exact counterpart\nof the Davenports', their dark seance fails to reproduce that of the\nspiritualists as the performances of Professor Pepper himself. True,\nthis latter gentleman does all his exposes on a platform which is sacred\nagainst all intrusion, and Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke assume to allow\nas much examination as the spiritualists. But I myself, who have seen\nMr. Home float around Mr. S. C. Hall's drawing-room, and handled him\nabove and below in transitu, quite fail to discern any reproduction of\nthat phenomenon in the heavy, lumbering levitation of the lady by means\nof the scissors-like apparatus behind her, which we are only privileged\nto behold from the stalls. The dancing walking-stick is as palpably made\nterpsichorean by a string as the chairs I have seen cross Mr. Hall's\ndrawing-room in full light were not drawn by strings, for I was able to\nlook closely at them; and I do not know how that was done.\n\nFresh from Dr. Lynn's really marvellous performances of recent times,\nand with Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke's equally clever tricks in my\nmind's eye, though not quite so recently, I still am bold to say I\nbelieve there are still six of one to half-a-dozen of the other. If the\nconjurers reproduce the spiritual phenomena in some instances, the\nspiritualists distance the conjurers in others. I speak of phenomena\nonly. The magicians produced many of the same phenomena as Moses; but,\neven so, if we are orthodox we must believe the source of such\nmanifestations to have been utterly different.\n\nBut I am, as I said, wise in my generation, and stick to phenomena. I\nventure to think the conjurers unwise in irritating the spiritualists,\nwho are a growing body, by placarding their entertainment as exposes,\neven though such announcements may \"draw\" the non-spiritual public. I\nsuppose, however, they understand the science of advertising better than\nI do; but I feel sure the spiritualists are unwise to follow their\nexample, because they have got nothing to expose. Dr. Lynn or Messrs.\nMaskelyne and Cooke are as much pleased as conscientious mediums would\nbe shocked at being proved clever tricksters. The only folks who are\ninjured by being told \"how it's done,\" are the British Public, who pay\ntheir five shillings to be mystified at the Egyptian Hall, just as the\nspiritualists do in Lamb's Conduit Street.\n\nIf it is to come to a race for the championship--and seriously it would\nseem that, having begun, the two parties are bound to continue the\nstrife--one can scarcely imagine anything more attractive than such a\ncombined display of talent. Dr. Lynn gets lots of people to come and see\n\"How it's done\"--the gentleman with the mandolin is well worth a visit,\nand I cannot guess how he does it--while Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke\nmust really be making a good thing of it. Mr. Williams's seances are\ndecidedly attractive (and how he does it has puzzled me for years, as I\nsaid), nor does the Progressive Institute seem to decrease in interest;\nbut let us only picture the fascination of a long evening where Pepper's\nGhost should be pitted against John King, Mrs. Guppy and Messrs.\nMaskelyne and Cooke's lady float in competition round the room or even\nin from the suburbs, while the Davenports and Dr. Lynn's man should\nwriggle out of or into iron rings and their own dress coats! Until some\nsuch contest takes place, the public mind will probably gravitate\ntowards the conjurers rather than the spiritualists, and that through\nthe actually suicidal policy of the latter; because while the\nspiritualists of necessity can show no visible source of their\nmanifestations, one of their own rank devotes himself to aiding the\nconjurers by showing in reference to their tricks, \"How it's done.\" It\nwould have been wiser, surely, to stand upon dignity, and in a truly\nconservative spirit (is it too late even now to reassume it?), say,\n\"These men are mediums, but it does not suit their pockets to confess\nit.\"\n\nWell, they are signs of the times. London loves to be mystified, and\nwould only have one instead of manifold methods to be so if the\nspiritualists and conjurers were to strike hands, and reduce us all to\nthe dead level of pure faith or relentless reason and cold common\nsense!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI.\n\nPROS AND CONS OF SPIRITUALISM.\n\n\nIt has been repeatedly urged upon me on previous occasions, and also\nduring the progress of these sheets through the press, that I should\nmake a clean breast of my own belief or disbelief in spiritualism; that\nbesides being descriptive, I should go one step beyond a mere catalogue\nof phenomena, and, to some extent at least, theorize on this mysterious\nand generally proscribed subject.\n\nLet me say at the outset that against the proscription of this, or\nindeed any topic which does not offend against morals, I would at the\nvery outset protest as the height of unwisdom. Thus to taboo a subject\nis at once to lend it a factitious interest, and more than half to\nendorse its truth: and I believe modern spiritualism has been very\ngenerally treated in this way. Whether truth has gained by such\nindiscriminate condemnation and prejudgment is, I think, greatly open to\nquestion.\n\nFor myself, I have, from the first, steadily refused to look upon\nspiritualism in this bugbear fashion. The thing was either true or\nfalse--or, more probably still, partly true and partly false: and I must\nbring to bear on the discovery of its truth or falsehood, just the same\ncritical faculties that I should employ on any other problem of common\nlife. That, I fancy, is no transcendental view of the matter; but just\nthe plain common sense way of going to work. It was, at all events,\nright or wrong, the method I adopted to get at such results as I proceed\nto make public. I declined to be scared from the study either by Bogey\nor my esteemed friend Mrs. Grundy, but went at it just in the calm\nBaconian inductive method in which I should have commenced any other\nstudy or pursuit.\n\nWhat I want to do is to tabulate these results in the same order as that\nin which they occurred to me; and here I am met by a preliminary\ndifficulty, not incidental to this subject only, but common to any\nnarrative where we have to take a retrospective glance over a number of\nyears. We are apt to view the subject from our present standpoint; and I\nshall try to avoid this by quoting, whenever I can, what I published, or\ncommitted to writing in the course of my investigations. I shall not\ncull from others, because I want to make this purely a personal\nnarrative.\n\nLet me add, too, I do not in the least expect persons to believe what I\nsay. Some, I think, will regard me as a harmless (_if_ a harmless)\nlunatic, on account of certain statements I may have to make. Others\nwill consider the whole thing as decidedly unorthodox and \"wrong.\" For\neach of these issues I am prepared. I would not have believed any one\nelse if they had, prior to my experience, told me what I am going to\ntell them here; and therefore I do not expect them to believe me. All I\nhope to do is to interest persons sufficiently in the subject to induce\nthem to look into the matter on their own account; for verily I believe,\nas a distinguished spiritualist once said to me, that this thing is\neither an important truth or else one of the biggest swindles ever\npalmed off upon humanity.\n\nOne word more, and I proceed to my narrative. Of the three aspects under\nwhich it is possible to view spiritualism, the scientific, the\ntheological, and the social, I shall not touch at all on the first since\nI am not a scientific man; shall only glance at the second, because this\nis not the place for a theological discussion. I shall confine myself to\nthe third, therefore, which I call the social aspect; looking at the\nsubject as a question of the day, the truth about which we are as much\ninterested in solving as any other political or social question, but the\ninvestigation of which need not make us get excited and angry and call\none another bad names. I venture to hope that by these means I may\nmanage to compile a not unedifying or uninteresting narrative, though\nour subject be withal somewhat a ponderous one.\n\nIn order then to cover the preliminary part of my narrative, and to let\nmy readers somewhat into the state of my own mind, when I had looked at\nthe subject for several years, I will quote some extracts from a paper\nI read before a society of spiritualists at the Beethoven Rooms a few\nyears ago under the title \"Am I a Spiritualist?\" I may mention that the\nassembly was divided, and never decided whether I was or not, and what\nis more, I do not think they are quite decided to the present day. I am\na patient investigator still; but I really do not feel it necessary to\nissue perpetual bulletins as to the state of my convictions.\n\nTaking as my thesis, then, the question, Am I a Spiritualist? it will\ncertainly appear, at first sight, I said, that the person best qualified\nto answer this question is precisely the person who puts it; but a\nlittle consideration will, I think, show that the term \"Spiritualist\" is\none of such wide and somewhat elastic meaning--in fact, that the word\nvaries so widely according to the persons who use it--that the question\nmay really be asked of one's self without involving an inconsistency.\n\nWhen persons ask me, as they often do, with a look of unmitigated\nhorror, \"Is it possible that you, a clergyman, are a spiritualist?\" I am\noften inclined to answer, \"Yes, madam,\"--(for it is generally a lady who\nputs the question in that particular shape)--\"I _am_ a spiritualist, and\nprecisely because I am a clergyman. I have had to express more than once\nmy unfeigned assent and consent to the Common Prayer Book, and the\nThirty Nine Articles; and that involves belief in the inspiration of all\nthe Bible (except the Apocrypha), and the whole of that (_not_ excepting\nthe Apocrypha) is spiritual, or spiritualistic (if you prefer the term)\nfrom beginning to end; and therefore it is not _in spite of_ my being a\nclergyman, but _because_ I am a clergyman that I am such a confirmed\nspiritualist.\"\n\nI could answer thus, only I do not, simply because to do so would be\ndishonest. I know my questioner is using the word in an utterly\ndifferent sense from what I have thought proper to suppose. Besides such\nan answer would only lead to argumentation, and the very form of the\nquestion shows me the person who puts it has made up her mind on this,\nas probably on most other subjects; and when a feminine mind is once\nmade up (others than ladies have feminine minds on these subjects) it is\nvery little use trying to alter it. I never do. I administer some\northodox verbal sedative, and change the subject. But even accepting the\nterm in the way I know it is meant to be used--say, for instance, as it\ncomes from the mouth of some conservative old gentleman, or supposed\nscientific authority--one's medical man to wit--\"Do you believe in\nspiritualism?\" meaning \"Are you such an ass as to believe in\ntable-turning, and rapping, and all that kind of nonsense?\"--even so,\nthe question would admit of being answered by another question; though I\nrarely enter so far on the matter with those whose minds are evidently\nquite comfortably made up on the matter. It is such a pity to interfere\nwith cherished opinions. I have found out that there are Athanasian\ncreeds in science as well as in theology; and really, whilst they form\nrecognised formulae in the one or the other, it is positively lost labour\nto go running one's head against them. The question I want to ask--not\nthe gentle apothecaries, but my readers--is, What do you mean by\nbelieving in spiritualism? Many of the phenomena of spiritualism I\ncannot but believe, if I am to take my five senses as my guides in this\nas in other matters, and quite setting aside any credence I may give to\nrespectable testimony. When, however, I pass from facts to theories, and\nam asked to account for those facts, then I hesitate. There are some\nhere, I know, who will say that the spiritualist like the lady who\nhesitates is lost--who think me as heterodox for doing so, as the\ninflexible old ladies and the omniscient apothecaries did on account of\nmy even deigning to look into the evidence of such phenomena. I feel\nreally that I have set myself up like an animated ninepin to be knocked\ndown by the first thorough-going spiritualist who cares to bowl at me.\nBut whatever else they think of me--sceptical though they deem me on\nsubjects where perhaps you are, many of you, a little prone to\ndogmatize--I claim the character at least of an honest sceptic. I do not\naltogether disavow the title, but I understand it to mean \"inquirer.\" I\nconfess myself, after long years of perfectly unbiassed inquiry, still\nan investigator--a sceptic. It is the fashion to abuse St. Thomas\nbecause he sought sensible proofs on a subject which it was certainly\nmost important to have satisfactorily cleared up. I never could read the\nwords addressed to him at all in the light of a rebuke--\"Because thou\nhast seen thou hast believed.\" The Church of England treats the doubt of\nSt. Thomas as permitted by God \"for the more confirmation of the faith;\"\nand I feel sure that professed spiritualists will not be so inconsistent\nas to censure any man for examining long and carefully matters which\nthey believe to admit of demonstration. I heard the most eloquent of\ntheir advocates say, when comparing spiritual with credal conviction,\n\"Our motto no longer is 'I believe,' but 'I know.'\" Belief may be\ninstantaneous, but knowledge will be gradual; and so it is that,\nstanding at a certain fixed point in very many years' study of\nspiritualism, I pause, and--so to say, empanelling a jury--ask the\nquestion it seems I ought to answer at others' asking--Am I a\nSpiritualist?\n\nOne word of apology further before entering on the details of the\nmatter. It will be inevitable that the first personal pronoun shall\nrecur frequently in the course of this paper, and that so the paper\nshall seem egotistical. The very question itself sounds so. I am not\nvain enough to suppose that it matters much to anybody here whether I am\na spiritualist or not, except in so far as I may be in any sense a\nrepresentative man. I believe I am. That is, I believe, nay, am sure,\nthat a great many persons go as far as I do, and stop where I stop.\nThere is a largish body of investigators, I believe, dangling there,\nlike Mahomet's coffin, between heaven and earth, and it would be a\ncharity to land them somewhere. Of the clerical mind, I do _not_ claim\nto be a representative, because the clerical mind, qua clerical, has\nmade up itself that the phenomena in question are diabolical. Of course\nif I accepted this theory my question would be utterly irrelevant, and I\nshould claim a place among the spiritualists at once. The diabolical\npeople not only accept the phenomena, but admit their spiritual origin,\nand, more than this, identify the spirits. They are in point of fact the\nmost thorough-going spiritualists of all.\n\nIn sketching their creed, I have mentioned the three stages through\nwhich most minds must go in this matter. Some few, indeed, take them by\nintuition, but most minds have to plod patiently along the path of\ninquiry, as I have done. The first stage is acceptance of the phenomena,\nthe second the assignment of those phenomena to spirits as their source,\nthe third is identification of these spirits.\n\n1. On the first part of my subject I shall venture to speak with some\nboldness. I am not a philosopher, therefore I can afford to do so. I\nshall suppose my five senses to serve my purposes of observation, as\nthey would be supposed to serve me if I were giving evidence in a court\nof justice. If I saw a table move, I shall say _it did_ move, not \"it\nappeared to move.\" I do this in my capacity of a commonplace instead of\na philosophical investigator; and I must say, if I were, as I supposed\nmyself just now, in the witness-box, with a good browbeating counsel\ncross-examining me on this point, I would rather have to defend the\nposition of the commonplace inquirer than the philosopher, pledged to\ndefend the philosophy of the last fifty years, and bound hand and foot\nby his philosophic Athanasian Creed, and I don't know how many articles,\nmore than thirty-nine, I fancy.\n\nIn the latter part of the year 1856, or beginning of 1857, then, I was\nresiding in Paris, that lively capital being full of Mr. Home's doings\nat the Tuileries. At that time I knew nothing, even of table-turning. I\nlistened to the stories of Mr. Home and the Emperor as mere canards. I\nnever stopped to question whether the matter were true, because I in my\nomniscience knew it to be impossible. It is this phase of my experience\nthat makes me so unwilling to argue with the omniscient people now; it\nis such a waste of time. At this period my brother came to visit me, and\nhe had either been present himself or knew persons who had been present\nat certain seances at Mr. Rymer's. He seemed staggered, if not\nconvinced, by what he had heard or seen, and this staggered me too, for\nhe was not exactly a gullible person and certainly by no means\n\"spiritual.\" I was staggered, I own, but then I was omniscient, and so I\ndid what is always safest, laughed at the matter. He suggested that we\nshould try experiments instead of laughing, and, not being a\nphilosopher, I consented. We sat at the little round table in our tiny\nsalon, which soon began to turn, then answered questions, and finally\ntold us that one of the three, viz., my wife, was a medium, and\nconsequently we could receive communications. I went to a side table and\nwrote a question as to the source of the manifestations, keeping it\nconcealed from those at the table, and not rejoining them myself. The\nanswer spelt out by them was--\"We, the spirits of the departed, are\npermitted thus to appear to men.\" Again I wrote--\"What object is served\nby your doing so?\" The answer was--\"It may make men believe in God.\" I\nhave said I am not a philosopher, therefore I do not mind confessing\nthat I collapsed. I struck my flag at once as to the _impossibility_ of\nthe matter. At the same time I did not--as I know many ardent\nspiritualists will think I ought--at once swallow the whole thing,\ntheory and all. I should not have believed if a man had told me this;\nwas it to be expected that I should believe a table? Honesty is my best\npolicy; and I had better, therefore, say I was never so utterly knocked\nover by anything that occurred to me in my life before or since. My\nvisage of utter, blank astonishment is a joke against me to this hour.\nWe pursued the inquiry almost nightly during the remainder of my stay in\nParis--up to late in the summer of 1857 that is--and also on our return\nto England; but, strangely as it seems to me now, considering how we\nbegan, we did it more as a pastime than anything else. The only time we\nwere serious was when my wife and I sat alone, as we often did. Of\ncourse when I came to inquire at all into the matter I was met by\nFaraday's theory of involuntary muscular action, and also with the\ndoctrine of unconscious cerebration--I was quite ready to accept either.\nMy own position, as far as I can recall it, then was that the spiritual\nagency was \"not proven.\" My wife had great reluctance against admitting\nthe spiritual theory. I was simply passive; but two circumstances seemed\nto me to militate against the theories I have mentioned: (1.) The table\nwe used for communicating was a little gimcrack French affair, the top\nof which spun round on the slightest provocation, and no force whatever,\nnot even a philosopher's, applied to the surface would do more than spin\nthe top round; but when the table turned, _it turned bodily, legs and\nall_. (2.) As to that ponderously difficult theory of unconscious\ncerebration communicated by involuntary muscular action, whenever we\nasked any questions as to the future, we were instantly checked, and\ntold it was better that the future should not be revealed to us. I was\nanxious about a matter in connexion with an election to an appointment\nin England, and we asked some questions as to what form the proceedings\nwould take. The reply was that certain candidates would be selected from\nthe main body, and the election made from these. I thought I had caught\nthe table in an inconsistency, and said--\"There now you _have_ told us\nsomething about the future.\" It immediately replied--\"No, I have not;\nthe matter is already settled in the minds of the examiners.\" Whence\ncame that answer? Certainly not from our minds, for it took us both by\nsurprise. I could multiply a hundredfold instances of this kind, but, of\ncourse, to educated spiritualists these are mere A B C matters; whilst\nnon-spiritualists would only accept them on the evidence of their own\nsenses. I do not mean to say they actually question the facts to the\nextent of doubting one's veracity, or else nearly all testimony must go\nfor nothing; but there is in these matters always room for doubting\nwhether the narrator has not been deceived; and, moreover, even if\naccepted at secondhand, I doubt whether facts so accepted ever become,\nas it were, assimilated, so as to have any practical effect.\n\nMy facts at all events came at first-hand. I suppose a man need not be\nconsidered credulous for believing in his own wife, and nearly all these\nphenomena were produced by my wife's mediumship. It was not until late\nin the year 1865 or early in 1866, that I ever sat with a professional\nmedium. My wife, moreover, from first to last, has steadily disbelieved\nthe spirit theory, so that she has not laid herself open to suspicion of\nbeing prejudiced in favour of the subject. She has been emphatically an\ninvoluntary, nay, even unwilling agent in these matters.\n\nDuring these eight or nine years the communications were generally given\nby automatic writing, though sometimes still by tilting of the table. I\nam very much tempted to quote two, which linger in my recollection,\nprincipally, I believe, because they were so destructive of the\ncerebration theory, besides being curious in themselves. I kept no\nrecords until a later date. At present all rests on tradition. Each of\nthese cases occurred in presence of myself, my wife, and a pupil. In the\nformer, he was a young Englishman, who had lived a great deal abroad,\nwhose mother was a Catholic and father a Protestant. He had been brought\nup in the latter faith; and when I desired him to ask a mental question,\nhe asked, in French--that being the language most familiar to him--\"Is\nthe Catholic or the Protestant religion the true one?\" Mark you, he\nnever articulated this, or gave the least hint that he was asking in\nFrench. He did it in fact, spontaneously. My wife immediately wrote \"Ta\nmere est Catholique\"--so far, in French, with difficulty, and then\nbreaking off into English, \"Respect her faith.\"\n\nIn the second instance, my pupil was a French youth, a Catholic, who was\nliving in my house, but used to go to his priest frequently to be\nprepared for his first communion. One day when we were writing, this\nyouth asked who the communicating spirit was, and received in reply the\nname of Louis D----. The name was totally unknown to us; but to our\nsurprise when the youth came back from his visit to the priest that day\nhe informed us that his reverend instructor had dwelt strongly on the\nvirtues of Louis D----. Seeing the boy look amazed as the name which had\njust been given at our seance was pronounced, the priest inquired the\nreason; and, on being informed, of course directed his catechumen never\nto join in such diablerie again.\n\nThe impression, then, left on my mind by these years of desultory\ndabbling with--rather than study of--the subject, was decidedly that the\nphenomena of spiritualism were genuine. Looking at the matter from my\npresent standpoint and frame of mind, it seems to me incredible that I\nshould have thought so little of the source of the phenomena. It was, as\nI said, that I was then dabbling with, not studying, the subject.\n\nBut even without advancing beyond this rudimentary stage, I saw a very\nserious result produced. I saw men who literally believed in nothing,\nand who entered on this pursuit in a spirit of levity, suddenly\nstaggered with what appeared to afford even possibility of demonstration\nof another world, and the continued existence of the spirit after bodily\ndeath. I believe a great many persons who have never felt doubt\nthemselves are unaware of the extent to which doubt prevails amongst\nyoung men especially; and I have seen many instances of this doubt\nbeing--if not removed--shaken to its very foundation by their witnessing\nthe phenomena of spiritualism. \"Yes, but did it make good consistent\nChristians of them?\" asks one of my excellent simple-minded objectors.\nAlas! my experience does not tell me that good consistent Christians are\nso readily made. Does our faith--I might have asked--make _us_ the good\nconsistent Christians it ought to do, and would do perhaps, if we gave\nit fair play?\n\nSo, then, my study of spiritualism had been purely phenomenal. It was a\nvery sad and serious event which drove me to look deeper. Some people\nwill, I daresay, think it strange that I allude to this cause here. The\nfact that I do so shows, at all events, that I have looked seriously at\nspiritualism since. It was none other than the loss, under painful\ncircumstances, of one of my children. Now I had always determined that,\nin the event of my losing one near and dear to me, I would put\nspiritualism to the test, by trying to communicate with that one. This\nwill, I think, show that, even then, if I did not accept the\nspiritualistic theory, I did not by any means consider the position\nuntenable. The very day after my boy's death, I got his mother to sit,\nand found she was writing a little loving message purporting to come\nfrom him. This, a sceptic would say, was natural enough under the\ncircumstances. I said no word, but sat apart, and kept writing \"Who is\nit that communicates? write your name.\" Suddenly the sentence was\nbroken off, and the child's name written, though I had not expressed my\nwish aloud. This was strange; but what followed was stranger still. Of\ncourse, so far all might have been fairly attributed to cerebration--if\nsuch a process exists. It was natural enough, it might be urged, that\nthe mother, previously schooled in the belief of the probability of\ncommunication, should write in her lost child's name. For years the same\nthing never occurred again, though we sat night after night for the\npurpose of renewing such communications. I can certainly say of myself\nthat, at this time, I _was_ a spiritualist--as thorough and devout a one\nas any existing; and the fact that I was so, when carried away by my\nfeelings, makes me the more cautious to test and try myself as to\nwhether my feelings may not sometimes sway my judgment even now; whether\nthe wish be not often father of the thought, at all events in the\nidentification of spiritual communications, and so, possibly, of the\nspiritual nature of such communications altogether.\n\nHowever, from this time--the autumn of 1865--my spiritual studies\nunderwent an entire change--they _were_ studies--serious studies. I now\nkept a careful journal of all communications, which journal I continued\nfor three years, so that I can trace all my fluctuations of opinion--for\nI did fluctuate--during that period. Now, too, it was necessary for me\nto consult those who had already gone deeply into the subject; and the\nrecord of my experiences would be both imperfect and ungracious if I did\nnot here acknowledge the prompt kindness of the two gentlemen to whom I\napplied--Mr. Benjamin Coleman and Mr. Samuel Carter Hall. I was\ncomparatively a stranger to each of them, but they replied to my\ninquiries with the most ready courtesy, and I am happy to date my\npresent friendship with each of them from this time. At Mr. Hall's I met\nMr. Home, and on the second occasion of my doing so, not only saw him\nfloat, but handled him above and below during the whole of the time he\nfloated round Mr. Hall's drawing-room. I am unphilosophical enough to\nsay that I entirely credit the evidence of my senses on that occasion,\nand am as certain that Mr. Home was in space for five minutes as I am of\nmy own existence. The ordinary solution of cranes and other cumbrous\nmachinery in Mr. Hall's drawing-room I cannot credit, for I think we\nshould have seen them, and I am sure I should have felt ropes round Mr.\nHome's body. Chairs went from one end of the room to the other _in full\nlight_; and nobody had previously tumbled over strings and wires, so\nthat I don't think there could have been any there.\n\nI fancy, as far as any order is traceable in the somewhat erratic course\nof spiritualistic experiences, that most people arrive at spiritualism\nvia mesmerism. It so happened that this order was exactly inverted in\nmy case. It was not until 1866 that I found I possessed the power of\nmagnetism, and moreover, had in my house a subject whom Alphonse Didier\n(with whom I afterwards put myself in communication) declared to be \"one\nin a thousand.\" Some of the details of this lady's case are very\ncurious, but this is scarcely the place to dilate upon them further than\nas they affected my spiritualistic studies. She passed with\nextraordinary ease into the condition of lucidity, when she was\nconscious only of basking in light, anxious to be magnetized more deeply\nso as to get more thoroughly into the light, and, moreover, aware only\nof the existence of those who had passed away from earth. She knew they\nwere with her: said I _must_ know it, as I was there too, and that it\nwas I only who would not \"let her\" see them. The fact that \"our life is\ntwofold\" was to me most marvellously brought out by my magnetic\ntreatment of this lady; and, moreover, the power of influencing action\ncould not fail to be suggestive of the truth of one of the cardinal\ndoctrines of spiritualism--that we are thus influenced by disembodied\nspirits, as I, an embodied spirit, could influence another spirit in the\nbody. Some of the likes and dislikes which I, so to say, produced then\nin 1866 have remained to the present hour. For instance, one particular\narticle of food (I will not mention what, or it would be fatal to my\nreader's gravity), for which she previously had a penchant, I rendered\nso distasteful to her that the very smell of it now makes her\nuncomfortable. I must plead guilty to having experimented somewhat in\nthis way; but what a wonderful light it sheds upon the great problem of\nthe motives of human action! By the simple exercise of my will I could\nmake my patient perform actions the most abhorrent to her. For\ninstance--the ladies will appreciate this power--at a time when\ncrinolines were extensive, I made that poor creature draggle about in a\ncostume conspicuous by the absence of crinoline, and making her look\nlike some of the ladies out of a Noah's ark.\n\nDuring this period my wife and I constantly sat alone, and she wrote. It\nis no disrespect to her to say that writing is not her forte, but the\ncommunications she made in this way were exceedingly voluminous, and\ncouched in a particularly happy style, though on subjects far above the\nrange of ordinary compositions. We never obtained a single communication\npurporting to come from our child, but the position claimed by the\ncommunicating intelligence was that of his spirit-guardian.\n\nHaving now probably said enough in these confessions to convince every\nnon-spiritualist that I am insane, because I believed the evidence of my\nsenses, and even ventured to look into matters so unorthodox and\nunscientific as mesmerism and spiritualism, I go on to \"make a clean\nbreast,\" and set myself wrong with the other moiety of my readers. I\nmust candidly confess that the experiences of this year (1866) did not\nconfirm my sudden conviction of the spiritual agency in these phenomena.\nI drifted back, in fact, to my previous position, accepting the\nphenomena, but holding the cause an open question. The preface to the\nbook, \"From Matter to Spirit,\" exactly expressed--shall I say\nexpresses?--my state of mind. There is one passage in that preface which\nappears to me to clinch the difficulty--\"I am perfectly convinced that I\nhave both seen and heard, in a manner which should make unbelief\nimpossible, things called spiritual, which cannot be taken by a\nreasonable being to be capable of explanation by imposture, coincidence,\nor mistake. So far I feel the ground firm under me. But when it comes to\nwhat is the cause of these phenomena I find I cannot adopt any\nexplanation which has yet been suggested. If I were bound to choose\namong things which I can conceive, I should say that there is some sort\nof action--some sort of combination of will, intellect, and physical\npower, which is not that of any of the human beings present. But\nthinking it very likely that the universe may contain a few agencies,\nsay half a million, about which no man knows anything, I cannot but\nsuspect that a small proportion of these agencies, say five thousand,\nmay be severally competent to the production of all the phenomena, or\nmay be quite up to the task among them. _The physical explanations which\nI have seen are easy, but miserably insufficient: the spiritual\nhypothesis is sufficient but ponderously difficult._\" This statement is\nnatural enough from the scientific side of the question. Perhaps the\ntheological inquirer, taking the fact into consideration that Scripture\ncertainly concedes the spiritual origin of kindred phenomena, would\nrather reverse the statement, and say (what I individually feel) that\nthe psychological explanation is the ponderously difficult--the\npneumatological, the comparatively easy one.\n\nIt is now no secret that the author of this excellent treatise, is\nProfessor De Morgan; and I can only say that if I am accused of\nheterodoxy, either from the spiritualist or anti-spiritualist side of\nthe discussion, I am not ashamed to be a heretic in such company. Let me\nput the matter in the present tense, indicative mood--that is the state\nof my opinion on the cause of the phenomena. Admitting the facts, I hold\nthe spiritual theory to be \"not proven,\" but still to be a hypothesis\ndeserving our most serious consideration, not only as being the only one\nthat will cover all the facts, but as the one I believe invariably given\nin explanation by the intelligence that produces the phenomena, even\nwhen, as in our case, all those present are sceptical of or opposed to\nsuch a theory.\n\n3. It may perhaps sound illogical if, after stating that I hold the\nspiritual origin of these phenomena unproven, I go on to speak of the\nidentification of the communicating spirit; but I hope I have made it\nclear that, even if I do not consider the spiritualistic explanation\ndemonstrated, it is still a hypothesis which has much in its favour.\n\nI have already mentioned the subject of identification in the case of\nthe first communication purporting to come from our little child, and\nhow no such communications were received for a period of some years\nafter. In December, 1866, I went to the Marshalls', entering as an\nentire stranger, and sitting down at the table. I saw some strong\nphysical manifestations--a large table being poised in space, in full\nlight, for some seconds. It was signified there was a spirit present who\nwished to communicate, and the message given by raps to me was--\"Will\nyou try to think of us more than you have done?\" I asked the name, and\nmy child's was correctly given, though I had not been announced, and I\nhave no reason to believe my name was known. The place where he passed\naway from earth was also correctly specified. I then asked for my\nfather, and his name was correctly given, and a message added, which I\ncannot say was equally suggestive of individuality. It was--\"Bright\ninspiration will dawn upon your soul, and do not hide your light under a\nbushel.\"\n\nAnother case in which I tested individuality strongly, with utter\nabsence of success, was also brought before me somewhat earlier in this\nyear. I was sent for by a lady who had been a member of my congregation,\nand who had taken great interest in these questions. She was suddenly\nsmitten down with mortal disease, and I remained with her almost to the\nlast--indeed, I believe her last words were addressed to me, and\nreferred to this very subject of identification--she consulting _me_ as\nto the great problem she was then on the very point of solving! As soon\nas she had gone from us, I went home, and tried to communicate with her.\nI was informed that her spirit was present, and yet every detail as to\nnames, &c., was utterly wrong.\n\nIn the spring of the following year I went again to the Marshalls', in\ncompany with one or two other persons, my own object being to see if I\ncould obtain communication from the spirit of a highly-gifted lady who\nhad recently died--and also, I may mention--had been the medium of my\nprevious slight acquaintance with Mr. Coleman. She was very much\ninterested in these matters, and, when in this world, her great forte\nhad been writing. She published a volume of poems, which won the special\ncommendation of the late Charles Dickens, and her letters were most\ncharacteristic ones. I mentioned that I wished to communicate with the\nspirit I was thinking of, and said I should be quite satisfied if the\ninitials were correctly given. Not so--the whole three names were\nimmediately given in full. I do not feel at liberty to mention the\nnames; but the surname was one that nine out of ten people always spelt\nwrongly (just as they do _my_ name), but on this occasion it was\ncorrectly spelt. I asked for a characteristic message, and received the\nwords, \"I am saved, and will now save others;\"--about as unlike my\nfriend's ordinary style as possible. It may be said her nature had\nundergone revolution, but that was not the question. The test was that\nsomething should be given, identifying the spirit, by the style of its\n_former_ writing while embodied on earth.\n\nWith one more case, bearing on this subject of identity, and bringing\nthe matter up to the present date, I feel I may advantageously close\nthis portion of my experiences--though as I do so, I am thoroughly\ndissatisfied with myself to find how much I have left unsaid. It is so\ndifficult to put these things on paper, or in any way to convey them to\nanother;--most difficult of all for one unblessed with leisure, and\ncombining in his single self the pursuits of some three laborious\ncallings.\n\nLast year, whilst sitting at Mrs. B----'s, I was touched by a hand which\nseemed to me that of a small girl, and which attracted my attention by\nthe way it lingered in mine--this would amuse Professor Pepper--and the\npertinacity with which it took off my ring. However, I never took any\nsteps to identify the owner of the hand.\n\nSome few months ago, my wife and I were sitting, and a communication\ncame ostensibly from our child. It was quite unexpected; and I said, \"I\nthought you could not communicate.\" \"I could not before,\" was the reply.\n\"But you have not tried me for two years.\" This we found was true; but\nwe actually had to look into dates to ascertain it. He added, that he\nalways was present at seances where I went, and especially at Mrs.\nB----'s. It will, I daresay, sound strange to non-spiritualists, but the\ninitiated can understand the conversational tone we adopt. I said, \"But,\nJohnny, that was not your hand that touched me at Mrs. B----'s. It was\ntoo large.\" The answer was, \"No! it was Charlie's turn.\" I said, \"What\n_do_ you mean by Charlie's turn?\" The word was rewritten with almost\npetulant haste and remarkable plainness, \"Charlie's _twin_.\" Charlie is\nmy eldest boy, and his twin-brother was still-born. He would be between\nthirteen and fourteen years of age, and that was precisely the sized\nhand I felt. This was curious; as the event had occurred a year before,\nand such an explanation had never even crossed my mind. I was promised\nthat, if I would go to Mrs. B----'s again, each of the children would\ncome and place a hand in mine. I went to the ordinary seance some time\nbefore Christmas, and was then told that the test I wished--which I had\nnot then specified--should be given to me at a private seance. We had\nthe private seance, but nothing occurred.\n\nSuch is my case. To one section of my readers I shall appear credulous,\nto another hard of belief. I believe that I represent the candid\ninquirer. As for being scared off from the inquiry by those who call it\nunorthodox, or cry out \"fire and brimstone,\" I should as little think of\nheeding them as the omniscient apothecaries who smile at my believing in\nmesmerism. If a man's opinions are worth anything--if he has fought his\nway to those opinions at the bayonet's point--he will not be scared off\nfrom them by the whole bench of Bishops on the one side, or the College\nof Surgeons on the other. Not that I for one moment plead guilty to\nheterodoxy, either scientific or theological. I am not, as I have said\nseveral times, a philosopher, but I believe it is scientific to hold as\nestablished what you can prove by experiment. I don't think my creed\ncontains a jot or tittle beyond this. And as for theological orthodoxy,\nI simply take my stand upon the Canons of the Church of England. If all\nthis spiritual business is delusion, how comes it that No. 72 of the\nConstitutions and Canons Ecclesiastical says: \"Neither shall any\nminister, not licensed, attempt, upon any pretence whatever, either of\npossession or obsession, by fasting or prayer, to cast out any devil or\ndevils?\"\n\nThe question, however, is not of this kind of orthodoxy. It rather\nrefers to the creed of spiritualism. The question, in fact, to which I\nand the many who think with me pause for a reply, is:--Allowing, as we\ndo, some of the phenomena--but considering the pneumatological\nexplanation hypothetical only--and therefore any identification of\ncommunicating intelligence impossible--are we (for I am sincerely tired\nof that first person singular, and glad to take refuge in a community),\nare we, or are we not, spiritualists?\n\nSo far was I able to commit myself in my address to the spiritualists of\nHarley Street. I was, I confess, greatly pleased when, in 1869, the\nDialectical Society took up this matter, because I felt they were just\nthe people to look into it dispassionately. They were bound to no set of\nopinions, but regarded everything as an open question, accepting nothing\nsave as the conclusion of a logical argument. I joined the\nSociety--straining my clerical conscience somewhat to do so--and\neventually formed one of the committee appointed by the Society to\ninquire into the matter, and having a sub-committee sitting at my own\nhouse. This, however, broke up suddenly, for I found even philosophers\nwere not calm in their examination of unpalatable facts. One gentleman\nwho approached the subject with his mind fully made up, accused the lady\nmedium of playing tricks, and me of acting showman on the occasion. As\nthere was no method of shunting this person, I was obliged to break up\nmy sub-committee. To mention spiritualism to these omniscient gentlemen\nis like shaking a red rag at a bull. As a case in point (though, of\ncourse, I do not credit these gentlemen with the assumption of\nomniscience), I may quote the replies of Professor Huxley and Mr. G. H.\nLewes to the Society's invitation to sit on their committee:--\n\n\"Sir,--I regret that I am unable to accept the invitation of the Council\nof the Dialectical Society to co-operate with a committee for the\ninvestigation of 'spiritualism;' and for two reasons. In the first\nplace, I have no time for such an inquiry, which would involve much\ntrouble and (unless it were unlike all inquiries of that kind I have\nknown) much annoyance. In the second place, I take no interest in the\nsubject. The only case of 'spiritualism' I have had the opportunity of\nexamining into for myself, was as gross an imposture as ever came under\nmy notice. But supposing the phenomena to be genuine--they do not\ninterest me. If anybody would endow me with the faculty of listening to\nthe chatter of old women and curates in the nearest cathedral town, I\nshould decline the privilege, having better things to do.\n\n\"And if the folk in the spiritual world do not talk more wisely and\nsensibly than their friends report them to do, I put them in the same\ncategory.\n\n\"The only good that I can see in a demonstration of the truth of\n'spiritualism' is to furnish an additional argument against suicide.\nBetter live a crossing-sweeper than die and be made to talk twaddle by a\n'medium' hired at a guinea a seance.\n\n\"I am, Sir, &c.,\n\"T. H. HUXLEY.\n\n\"29th January, 1869.\"\n\nConfessedly Professor Huxley only tried one experiment. I cannot help\nthinking if he had not approached the subject with a certain amount of\nprejudice he would have been content to \"Try again.\" The side-hit at\ncurates of course I appreciate!\n\n\"Dear Sir,--I shall not be able to attend the investigation of\n'spiritualism;' and in reference to your question about suggestions\nwould only say that the one hint needful is that all present should\ndistinguish between facts and inferences from facts. When any man says\nthat phenomena are produced by _no_ known physical laws, he declares\nthat he knows the laws by which they are produced.\n\n\"Yours, &c.,\n\"G. H. LEWES.\n\n\"Tuesday, 2nd February, 1869.\"\n\nI am not, as I have said, a scientific man, nor do I advance the\nslightest pretensions to genius; therefore I have no doubt it is some\nmental defect on my part which prevents my seeing the force of Mr. G. H.\nLewes's concluding sentence. I have worked at it for years and am\ncompelled to say I cannot understand it.\n\nI sat, however, through the two years' examination which the Society\ngave to the subject; and it is not anticipating the conclusion of this\nchapter to say I was fully able to concur in the report they\nsubsequently issued, the gist of which is continued in the final\nparagraph:--\n\n\"In presenting their report, your committee taking into consideration\nthe high character and great intelligence of many of the witnesses to\nthe more extraordinary facts, the extent to which their testimony is\nsupported by the reports of the sub-committees, and the absence of any\nproof of imposture or delusion as regards a large portion of the\nphenomena; and further, having regard to the exceptional character of\nthe phenomena, the large number of persons in every grade of society and\nover the whole civilized world who are more or less influenced by a\nbelief in their supernatural origin, and to the fact that no\nphilosophical explanation of them has yet been arrived at, deem it\nincumbent upon them to state their conviction that the subject is worthy\nof more serious attention and careful investigation than it has hitherto\nreceived.\"\n\nWith those cautiously guarded words I venture to think that any one who\neven reads the body of evidence contained in the Dialectical Society's\nreport will be able to coincide.\n\nTo return to my more personal narrative.\n\nAs far as I can trace any order in this somewhat erratic subject, I\nthink I may venture to say that the manifestations of the last few years\nhave assumed a more _material_ form than before. It sounds a little\nHibernian to say so, I know; but I still retain the expression.\nSupposing, for the moment, that the effects were produced by spirits,\nthe control of the medium for the production of trance, spirit-voice,\nautomatic writing, or even communications through raps and tilts of the\ntable was much more intellectual--less physical than those of which I\nnow have to speak--namely, the production of the materialized Spirit\nFaces and Spirit Forms.\n\nTwo phases of manifestation, I may mention in passing, I have not\nseen--namely, the elongation of the body, and the fire test--both as far\nas I know peculiar to Mr. Home: nor again have I had personal experience\nof Mrs. Guppy's aerial transit, or Dr. Monk's nocturnal flight from\nBristol to Swindon. Nothing of the kind has ever come at all within the\nsphere of my observation: therefore I forbear to speak about it.\n\nI shall never forget the delight with which I received a letter from a\ngentleman connected with the literature of spiritualism, informing me\nthat materialized Spirit Faces had at last been produced in full light,\nand inviting me to come and see. I was wearied of dark seances, of fruit\nand flowers brought to order. John King's talk wearied me; and Katie's\nwhispers had become fatally familiar: so I went in eagerly for the new\nsensation, and communicated my results to the world in the two papers\ncalled _Spirit Faces_ and _Spirit Forms_, the former published in\n_Unorthodox London_, the latter in Chapter 43 of the present volume.\nThis class of manifestation has since become very common. I cannot say I\never considered it very satisfactory. I have never discovered any\ntrickery--and I assure my readers I have kept my eyes and ears very wide\nopen--but there are in such manifestations facilities for charlatanism\nwhich it is not pleasant to contemplate. This, let me continually\nrepeat, is a purely personal narrative, and I have never seen any Spirit\nFace or Form that I could in the faintest way recognise. Others, I know,\nclaim to have done so; but I speak strictly of what has occurred to\nmyself. The same has been the case with Spirit Photographs. I have sat,\nafter selecting my own plate and watching every stage in the process;\nand certainly over my form there has been a shadowy female figure\napparently in the act of benediction;[2] but I cannot trace resemblance\nto any one I ever saw in the flesh. Perhaps I have been unfortunate in\nthis respect.\n\nVery similar to Miss Cook's mediumship was that of Miss Showers; a young\nlady whom I have met frequently at the house of a lady at the West-end\nof London, both the medium and her hostess being quite above suspicion.\nIn this case, besides the face and full form we have singing in a clear\nbaritone voice presumably by a spirit called Peter--who gives himself\nout as having been in earth-life, I believe, a not very estimable\nspecimen of a market-gardener. I am exceedingly puzzled how to account\nfor these things. I dare not suspect the medium; but even granting the\ntruth of the manifestations, they seem to me to be of a low class which\none would only come into contact with under protest and for the sake of\nevidence.\n\nMr. Crookes used to explain, and Serjeant Cox still explains these\nmanifestations as being the products of a so-called Psychic Force--a\nterm which I below define. Although I am as little inclined to\nhero-worship, and care as little for large names as any man living, yet\nit is quite impossible not to attach importance to the testimony of\nthese gentlemen; one so eminent in the scientific world, and privileged\nto write himself F.R.S., the other trained to weigh evidence and decide\nbetween balanced probabilities. But it would seem that while Psychic\nForce might cover the ground of my earlier experiences, it singularly\nfails to account for the materializations, and obliges us to relegate\nthem to the category of fraud, unless we accept them as being what they\nprofess to be. This I believe Serjeant Cox ruthlessly does. He claims as\nwe have seen to have \"caught\" Miss Showers, and was not, I believe,\nconvinced by Miss Cook. Mr. Crookes was: and, when we remember that Mr.\nWallace, the eminent naturalist, and Mr. Cromwell Varley, the\nelectrician, both accept the spiritual theory, it really looks as though\nthe scientific mind was more open to receive--perhaps driven to\nreceive--this which I frankly concede to be the only adequate cause for\nthe effects, while the legal mind still remains hair-splitting upon\nconflicting evidence. Whereabouts the theological mind is I do not quite\nknow--perhaps still dangling between the opposite poles of Faith and\nReason, and dubiously debating with me \"Am I a Spiritualist or not?\"\n\nIn a recent pamphlet reprinted from the Quarterly Journal of Science,\nMr. Crookes thus compendiously sums up the various theories which have\nbeen invented to account for spiritualistic phenomena, and, in so doing,\nincidentally defines his now discarded theory of Psychic Force which\nowns Mr. Serjeant Cox for its patron:--\n\n_First Theory._--The phenomena are all the results of tricks, clever\nmechanical arrangements, or legerdemain; the mediums are impostors, and\nthe rest of the company fools.\n\nIt is obvious that this theory can only account for a very small\nproportion of the facts observed. I am willing to admit that some\nso-called mediums of whom the public have heard much are arrant\nimpostors who have taken advantage of the public demand for\nspiritualistic excitement to fill their purses with easily earned\nguineas; whilst others who have no pecuniary motive for imposture are\ntempted to cheat, it would seem, solely by a desire for notoriety.\n\n_Second Theory._--The persons at a seance are the victims of a sort of\nmania or delusion, and imagine phenomena to occur which have no real\nobjective existence.\n\n_Third Theory._--The whole is the result of conscious or unconscious\ncerebral action.\n\nThese two theories are evidently incapable of embracing more than a\nsmall portion of the phenomena, and they are improbable explanations for\neven those. They may be dismissed very briefly.\n\nI now approach the \"spiritual\" theories. It must be remembered that the\nword \"spirits\" is used in a very vague sense by the generality of\npeople.\n\n_Fourth Theory._--The result of the spirit of the medium, perhaps in\nassociation with the spirits of some or all of the people present.\n\n_Fifth Theory._--The actions of evil spirits or devils, personifying who\nor what they please, in order to undermine Christianity and ruin men's\nsouls.\n\n_Sixth Theory._--The actions of a separate order of beings, living on\nthis earth, but invisible and immaterial to us. Able, however,\noccasionally to manifest their presence; known in almost all countries\nand ages as demons not necessarily bad, gnomes, fairies, kobolds, elves,\ngoblins, Puck, &c.\n\n_Seventh Theory._--The actions of departed human beings--the spiritual\ntheory _par excellence_.\n\n_Eighth Theory._--(_The Psychic Force Theory_).--This is a necessary\nadjunct to the 4th, 5th, 6th, and 7th theories, rather than a theory by\nitself.\n\nAccording to this theory the \"medium,\" or the circle of people\nassociated together as a whole, is supposed to possess a force, power,\ninfluence, virtue, or gift, by means of which intelligent beings are\nenabled to produce the phenomena observed. What these intelligent beings\nare is a subject for other theories.\n\nIt is obvious that a \"medium\" possesses a _something_ which is not\npossessed by an ordinary being. Give this _something_ a name. Call it\n\"_x_\" if you like. Mr. Serjeant Cox calls it Psychic Force. There has\nbeen so much misunderstanding on this subject that I think it best to\ngive the following explanation in Mr. Serjeant Cox's own words:--\n\n\"The Theory of _Psychic Force_ is in itself merely the recognition of\nthe now almost undisputed fact that under certain conditions, as yet but\nimperfectly ascertained, and within a limited, but as yet undefined,\ndistance from the bodies of certain persons having a special nerve\norganization, a Force operates by which, without muscular contact or\nconnexion, action at a distance is caused, and visible motions and\naudible sounds are produced in solid substances. As the presence of such\nan organization is necessary to the phenomenon, it is reasonably\nconcluded that the Force does, in some manner as yet unknown, proceed\nfrom that organization. As the organism is itself moved and directed\nwithin its structure by a Force which either is, or is controlled by,\nthe Soul, Spirit, or Mind (call it what we may) which constitutes the\nindividual being we term 'the Man,' it is an equally reasonable\nconclusion that the Force which causes the motions beyond the limits of\nthe body is the same Force that produces motion within the limits of the\nbody. And, inasmuch as the external force is seen to be often directed\nby Intelligence, it is an equally reasonable conclusion that the\ndirecting Intelligence of the external force is the same Intelligence\nthat directs the Force internally. This is the force to which the name\nof _Psychic Force_ has been given by me as properly designating a force\nwhich I thus contend to be traced back to the Soul or Mind of the Man as\nits source. But I, and all who adopt this theory of Psychic Force, as\nbeing the agent through which the phenomena are produced, do not thereby\nintend to assert that this Psychic Force may not be sometimes seized and\ndirected by some other Intelligence than the Mind of the Psychic. The\nmost ardent spiritualists practically admit the existence of Psychic\nForce under the very inappropriate name of Magnetism (to which it has no\naffinity whatever), for they assert that the Spirits of the Dead can\nonly do the acts attributed to them by using the Magnetism (that is, the\nPsychic Force) of the Medium. The difference between the advocates of\nPsychic Force and the spiritualists consists in this--that we contend\nthat there is as yet insufficient proof of any other directing agent\nthan the Intelligence of the Medium, and no proof whatever of the agency\nof Spirits of the Dead; while the spiritualists hold it as a faith, not\ndemanding further proof, that Spirits of the Dead are the sole agents in\nthe production of all the phenomena. Thus the controversy resolves\nitself into a pure question of _fact_, only to be determined by a\nlaborious and long continued series of experiments and an extensive\ncollection of psychological facts, which should be the first duty of the\nPsychological Society, the formation of which is now in progress.\"\n\nIt has frequently struck me, especially in connexion with certain\ninvestigations that I have been making during the last few years, that\nSpiritualism is going through much the same phases as Positivism. It\nseemed at first impossible that the Positive Philosophy of Auguste Comte\ncould culminate in a highly ornate Religion of Humanity, with its fall\nritual, its ninefold sacramental system. It is even curious to notice\nthat it was the death of Clotilde which brought about the change, by\nrevealing to him the gap which Philosophy always does leave between the\npresent and the future. So too Spiritualism is beginning to \"organize\"\nand exhibits some symptoms of formulating a Creed and Articles of\nBelief. The British National Association of Spiritualists, which has\nhonoured me by placing my name on its Council, thus states its\nprinciples, under the mottoes:--\n\n\"He that answereth a matter before he heareth it, it is folly and shame\nunto him.\"--Proverbs xviii. 13.\n\n\"In Scripture we are perpetually reminded that the Laws of the Spiritual\nWorld are, in the highest sense, Laws of Nature.\"--Argyll.\n\n\"He who asserts that, outside of the domain of pure Mathematics,\nanything is impossible, lacks a knowledge of the first principles of\nLogic.\"--Arago.\n\n\nDECLARATION OF PRINCIPLES AND PURPOSES.\n\n\"Spiritualism implies the recognition of an inner nature in man. It\ndeals with facts concerning that inner nature, the existence of which\nhas been the subject of speculation, dispute, and even of denial,\namongst philosophers in all ages; and in particular, with certain\nmanifestations of that inner nature which have been observed in persons\nof peculiar organizations, now called Mediums or Sensitives, and in\nancient times Prophets, Priests, and Seers.\n\n\"Spiritualism claims to have established on a firm scientific basis the\nimmortality of man, the permanence of his individuality, and the Open\nCommunion, under suitable conditions, of the living with the so-called\ndead, and affords grounds for the belief in progressive spiritual states\nin new spheres of existence.\n\n\"Spiritualism furnishes the key to the better understanding of all\nreligions, ancient and modern. It explains the philosophy of\nInspiration, and supersedes the popular notion of the miraculous by the\nrevelation of hitherto unrecognised laws.\n\n\"Spiritualism tends to abrogate exaggerated class distinctions; to\nreunite those who are now too often divided by seemingly conflicting\nmaterial interests; to encourage the co-operation of men and women in\nmany new spheres; and to uphold the freedom and rights of the\nindividual, while maintaining as paramount the sanctity of family life.\n\n\"Finally, the general influence of Spiritualism on the individual is to\ninspire him with self-respect, with a love of justice and truth, with a\nreverence for Divine law, and with a sense of harmony between man, the\nuniverse, and God.\n\n\"The British National Association of Spiritualists is formed to unite\nSpiritualists of every variety of opinion, for their mutual aid and\nbenefit; to promote the study of Pneumatology and Psychology; to aid\nstudents and inquirers in their researches, by placing at their disposal\nthe means of systematic investigation into the now recognised facts and\nphenomena, called Spiritual or Psychic; to make known the positive\nresults arrived at by careful scientific research; and to direct\nattention to the beneficial influence which those results are calculated\nto exercise upon social relationships and individual conduct. It is\nintended to include spiritualists of every class, whether members of\nLocal and Provincial Societies or not, and all inquirers into\npsychological and kindred phenomena.\n\n\"The Association, whilst cordially sympathizing with the teachings of\nJesus Christ, will hold itself entirely aloof from all dogmatism or\nfinalities, whether religious or philosophical, and will content itself\nwith the establishment and elucidation of well-attested facts, as the\nonly basis on which any true religion or philosophy can be built up.\"\n\nThis last clause has, I believe, been modified to suit certain members\nof my profession who were a little staggered by its apparent\n_patronizing_ of Christianity. For myself (but then, I am unorthodox) I\ncare little for these written or printed symbola. Having strained my\nconscience to join the Dialecticians, I allow my name, without\ncompunction, to stand on the Council of the Association,--and shall be\nreally glad if it does them any good. The fact is, I care little for\nformal creeds, but much for the fruit of those creeds. I stand by that\ngood old principle--\"By their fruits ye shall know them;\" and that\nreminds me that to my shreds and patches of \"experience\" I am to append\nsome pros and cons of this matter. They have cropped up incidentally as\nwe have gone on: but I could with advantage collect them if my limits\nadmitted of sermonizing.\n\nAs to the fruits of Spiritualism, I can only say that I have never\nwitnessed any of these anti-Christianizing effects which some persons\nsay arise from a belief in Spiritualism. They simply have not come\nwithin the sphere of my observation, nor do I see any tendency towards\nthem in the tenets of Spiritualism--rather the reverse.\n\nThen again, to pass from practice to faith, Spiritualism professes to be\nthe reverse of exclusive. In addressing the Conference of 1874, and\ndefending my position as a clerical inquirer, I was able to say:--\"On\nthe broad question of theology I can conceive no single subject which a\nclergyman is more bound to examine than that which purports to be a new\nrevelation, or, at all events, a large extension of the old; and which,\nif its claims be substantiated, will quite modify our notions as to what\nwe now call faith. It proposes, in fact, to supply in matters we have\nbeen accustomed to take on trust, something so like demonstration, that\nI feel not only at liberty, but actually bound, whether I like it or\nnot, to look into the thing.\n\n     *     *     *     *     *\n\nWhether your creed is right or wrong is not for me to tell you; but it\nis most important for me that I should assure myself. And while I\nrecognise that my own duty clearly is to examine the principles you\nprofess, I find this to be eminently their characteristic, _that they\nreadily assimilate with those of my own Church_. I see nothing\nrevolutionary in them. You have no propaganda. You do not call upon me,\nas far as I understand, to come out of the body I belong to and join\nyours, as so many other bodies do; but you ask me simply to take your\ndoctrines into my own creed, and vitalize it by their means. That has\nalways attracted me powerfully towards you. You are the broadest\nChurchmen I find anywhere.\"\n\nI am not writing thus in any sense as the apologist of Spiritualism. I\nam not offering anything like an Apologia pro vita mea in making the\ninquiries I have done, am doing, and hope to do. I have elected to take,\nand I elect to maintain, a neutral position in this matter. All I have\ndone is to select from the Pros and Cons that present themselves to my\nmind. If the Pros seem to outweigh the Cons--or vice versa--be it so. I\ncannot help it. I have scarcely decided for myself yet, and I am a\nveteran investigator. Others may be more speedy in arriving at a\nconclusion.\n\nAmong the more obvious \"Cons\" are the oft-quoted facts that some people\nhave lost their heads and wasted a good deal of their time on\nSpiritualism. But people lose their heads by reading classics or\nmathematics, or overdoing any one subject however excellent--even\nfalling in love: and the ingenuity displayed in wasting time is so\nmanifold that this is an objection that can scarcely be urged specially\nagainst Spiritualism, though I own Dark Seances do cut terribly into\ntime.\n\nThen again one is apt to be taken in by mediums or even by spirits. Yes;\nbut this only imposes the ordinary obligation of keeping one's eyes\nopen. I know spiritualists who believe in every medium qua medium, and\nothers who accept as unwritten gospel the idiotic utterances of a\ndeparted buccaneer or defunct clown: but these people are so purely\nexceptional as simply to prove a rule. Do _not_ accept as final in\nso-called spiritual what you would not accept in avowedly mundane\nmatters. Keep your eyes open and your head cool, and you will not go far\nwrong. These are the simple rules that I have elaborated during my\nprotracted study of the subject.\n\n\"We do not believe, we know,\" was, as I said, the proud boast a\nspiritualist once made to me. And if the facts--any of the facts--of\nSpiritualism stand _as_ facts, there is no doubt that it would form the\nstrongest possible counterpoise to the materialism of our age. It\npresses the method of materialism into its service, and meets the\ndoubter on his own ground of demonstration--a low ground, perhaps, but a\ntremendously decisive one, the very one perhaps on which the Battle of\nFaith and Reason will have to be fought out.\n\nIf--let us not forget that pregnant monosyllable--if the assumptions of\nSpiritualism be true, and that we can only ascertain by personal\ninvestigation, I believe the circumstance would be efficacious in\nbringing back much of the old meaning of the word [Greek: pistis] which\nwas something more than the slipshod Faith standing as its modern\nequivalent. It would make it really the substance of things hoped for,\nthe evidence of things not seen.\n\nEven if the dangers of Spiritualism were much greater than they\nare--aye, as great as the diabolical people themselves make out--I\nshould still think (in the cautious words of the Dialecticians)\nSpiritualism was worth looking into, if only on the bare chance, however\nremote, of lighting on some such Philosophy as that so beautifully\nsketched by Mr. S. C. Hall in some of the concluding stanzas of his poem\n\"Philosophy,\" with which I may fitly conclude--\n\n    And those we call \"the dead\" (who are not dead--\n      Death was their herald to Celestial Life)--\n    May soothe the aching heart and weary head\n      In pain, in toil, in sorrow, and in strife.\n\n    That is a part of every natural creed--\n      Instinctive teaching of another state:\n    When manacles of earth are loosed and freed--\n      Which Science vainly strives to dissipate.\n\n    In tortuous paths, with prompters blind, we trust\n      One Guide--to lead us forth and set us free!\n    Give us, Lord God! all merciful and just!\n      The FAITH that is but Confidence in Thee!\n\nTHE END.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[2] Alluded to above, p. 350.\n\n  +--------------------------------------------------------------+\n  | Transcriber's Notes:                                         |\n  |                                                              |\n  | Page 36: Single closing quote mark after \"He will accept     |\n  | you\" _sic_                                                   |\n  | Page 79: \"next my boy\" _sic_                                 |\n  | Page 110: Wormwood Scrubbs _sic_; platform amended to        |\n  | platforms                                                    |\n  | Page 185: anatotomized amended to anatomized; full stop      |\n  | following \"few friends\" removed                              |\n  | Page 186: hooping cough _sic_                                |\n  | Page 234: umpromising amended to unpromising                 |\n  | Page 244: \"vary scrubby ground\" amended to \"very scrubby     |\n  | ground\"                                                      |\n  | Page 338: flabbergastered _sic_                              |\n  | Page 341: facile princeps amended to facile princeps         |\n  | Page 360: scarely amended to scarcely                        |\n  | Page 365: closing parenthesis added after \"particular shape\" |\n  | Page 370: invesgator amended to investigator                 |\n  | Page 388: closing parenthesis added after \"assumption of     |\n  | omniscience\"                                                 |\n  |                                                              |\n  | In the last essay, while there are paragraphs numbered 1     |\n  | and 3, there is no paragraph numbered 2 in the original.     |\n  |                                                              |\n  | Hyphenation has generally been standardized. However, when   |\n  | hyphenated and unhyphenated versions of a word each occur    |\n  | an equal number of times, both versions have been retained   |\n  | (beershop/beer-shop; nowadays/now-a-days;                    |\n  | reaction/re-action; reassumption/re-assumption).             |\n  +--------------------------------------------------------------+","title":"Mystic London; or, Phases of occult life in the metropolis","tradition":"ritual-magic","translated_text":null,"word_count":96139}