Atlantic Classics, Second Series
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Title: Atlantic Classics, Second Series
Editor: Ellery Sedgwick
Contributor: Jane Addams
Anne C. E. Allinson
Lida F. Baldwin
William Beebe
John Jay Chapman
Samuel McChord Crothers
Fannie Stearns Davis
Lucy Martin Donnelly
William Trufant Foster
Robert M. Gay
Edgar J. Goodspeed
Sharlot Mabridth Hall
Richard Bowland Kimball
Jean Kenyon Mackenzie
Henry Childs Merwin
Laura Spencer Portor
Elizabeth Taylor
Release date: December 7, 2011 [eBook #38245]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38245
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
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ATLANTIC CLASSICS
Second Series
ATLANTIC CLASSICS
SECOND SERIES
The Atlantic Monthly Press, Inc.
Three Park Street
Boston
COPYRIGHT, 1910, 1912, 1913, 1914, 1915, 1916, 1917 BY THE ATLANTIC
MONTHLY COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1899, 1903, 1907, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY JOHN JAY CHAPMAN
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY PRESS, INC.
TO
ATLANTIC READERS EVERYWHERE
FROM ALASKA TO ZANZIBAR
AND FROM NINE TO NINETY
Preface
When, some two years ago a collection of Atlantic essays was offered to
the public, it was the editor's idea that this volume should be, to use
the current phrase, a kind of permanent exhibit of the character and
quality of _The Atlantic_. In these hurrying days, even the sedatest of
magazines must quicken its pace to keep abreast of the marching world,
and much that is most serviceable in _The Atlantic_ during its appointed
life dies at the heart when a new number brings fresh interests to men's
minds. But a residue there is, no more useful at the time, perhaps, than
much which perishes, but which evidently ought to have such length of
days as the covers of a book can ensure for it. The experiment was made
with the first volume of Atlantic Classics, composed of sixteen essays,
by as many authors, all dealing with topics of more than temporary
interest. The success of this book, which has been many times reprinted,
outstripped anticipation; more than that, it assumed a character quite
unlooked for, and proceeded, on its own account, to introduce itself
into the curricula of colleges and high schools throughout the country,
welcomed, as the editor is credibly informed, by students as well as by
teachers.
Even a layman can see that in such a use there is a sound development. A
book of contemporary expression, exhilarating to the student and
knitting his interests to those of the world outside the schoolroom, may
be peculiarly suited to call forth his appreciation and to kindle
emulation within him. Such a book may teach him to think of literature
as a living thing, quite as alive and full of spirit as he is himself,
and by such method, perhaps, tender shoots of young intelligence may be
spared the blighting influence of too formal education.
These matters belong most properly to the province of the schoolmaster.
The editor's is a different purpose. It is not a text which he seeks to
compile, but (forgive a layman's distinction) a _book_, a book to read,
enjoy, and keep. To all who have found amusement and profit in the first
series of Atlantic Classics, I think I can promise that here shall be
found no lowering of the bars, but only the enlargement of interest
which must come from such an influx of new company.
During pleasant hours spent in selecting this second series of essays
typical of _The Atlantic_, I have more than once turned aside to re-read
well-remembered pages of a similar character written an hundred years
and more ago by men whose names, if not effulgent, still shine in
clusters from the more condensed paragraphs of our literary histories.
Comparisons are odious, and stir inordinate prejudice; so names shall
not be mentioned here, but as I turn from those enshrined volumes to
the less sententious essays of our day, I can truly say I feel no drop
to earth from heaven. Here before me is a group of essays, quite as
individual, if less self-conscious; quite as urbane, often in better
taste; and quite (one reader thinks) as suggestive of company he should
like to keep. Take for instance such a paper as Miss Mackenzie's 'Exile
and Postman.' Bind it in levant, gild well ornament and title, and let
it stand straight on your bookshelf for an hundred years. Then shall
your great-grandson take it down and learn with respect that in his
grandsire's day English still lived as English, and that the magic of
words cannot die.
In republishing this collection, The Atlantic Press owes its warm thanks
to every author represented, and desires to make acknowledgment to
Houghton Mifflin Company for the inclusion of Mr. Merwin's inimitable
'Dogs and Men,' already reprinted in a volume of the author's own; to
the Macmillan Company for permission granted to Miss Addams to allow her
contemporary legend 'The Devil Baby' to be reprinted here. It should be
added that Mr. Chapman's shining paper on 'The Greek Genius' will be
found in more extended form in his volume of similar title, to which
every instructed reader should turn.
E. S.
_The Atlantic Office._ January, 1918.
Contents
DOGS AND MEN _Henry C. Merwin_ 1
JUNGLE NIGHT _William Beebe_ 26
THE DEVIL BABY AT HULL-HOUSE _Jane Addams_ 52
EVERY MAN'S NATURAL DESIRE TO BE SOMEBODY ELSE _Samuel McChord Crothers_ 78
THE TEMPLE'S DIFFICULT DOOR _Robert M. Gay_ 95
EXILE AND POSTMAN _Jean Kenyan Mackenzie_ 109
THE LIFE OF ADVENTURE _Edgar J. Goodspeed_ 121
AN INDICTMENT OF INTERCOLLEGIATE ATHLETICS _William T. Foster_ 134
CAR-WINDOW BOTANY _Lida F. Baldwin_ 162
STUDIES IN SOLITUDE _Fannie Stearns Gifford_ 173
THE GREEK GENIUS _John Jay Chapman_ 184
IN PRAISE OF OLD LADIES _Lucy Martin Donnelly_ 217
A MEMORY OF OLD GENTLEMEN _Sharlot M. Hall_ 227
VIOLA'S LOVERS _Richard Bowland Kimball_ 235
HAUNTED LIVES _Laura Spencer Portor_ 247
THE ACROPOLIS AND GOLGOTHA _Anne C. E. Allinson_ 273
THE BAPTIZING OF THE BABY _Elizabeth Taylor_ 292
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES 307
Dogs and Men
By Henry C. Merwin
There are men and women in the world who, of their own free will, live a
dogless life, not knowing what they miss; and for them this essay,
securely placed in the dignified _Atlantic_, there to remain so long as
libraries and books shall endure, is chiefly written. Let them not pass
it by in scorn, but rather stop to consider what can be said of the
animal as a fellow being entitled to their sympathy, and having,
perhaps, a like destiny with themselves.
As to those few persons who are not only dogless but dog-haters, they
should excite pity rather than resentment. The man who hates a good dog
is abnormal, and cannot help it. I once knew such a man, a money-lender
long since passed away, whose life was largely a crusade against dogs,
carried on through newspapers, pamphlets, and in conversation.
He used to declare that he had often been bitten by these animals, and
that, on one occasion, a terrier actually jumped on the street-car in
which he was riding, took a small piece out of his leg (a mere soupcon,
no doubt), and then jumped off--all without apparent provocation, and in
a moment of time. Probably this story, strange as it may sound, was
substantially true. The perceptions of the dog are wonderfully acute. A
recent occurrence may serve as the converse of the money-lender's story.
A lost collie, lame and nearly starved, was taken in, fed, and cared for
by a household of charitable persons, who, however, did not like or
understand dogs, and were anxious to get rid of this one, provided that
a good home could be found for him. In the course of a week there came
to call upon them in her buggy an old lady who is extremely fond of
dogs, and who possesses that combination of a masterful spirit with deep
affection which acts like witchcraft upon the lower animals. The collie
was brought out, and the story of his arrival was related at length.
Meanwhile the old lady and the dog looked each other steadfastly in the
eye. 'Do you want to come with me, doggie?' she said at last, not really
meaning to take him. Up jumped the dog, and sat down beside her, and
could not be dislodged by any entreaties or commands--and all parties
were loath to use force. She took him home, but brought him back the
next day, intending to leave him behind her. Again, however, the dog
refused to be parted from his new and real friend. He bestowed a
perfunctory wag of the tail upon his benefactors--he was not ungrateful;
but, like all dogs, he sought not chiefly meat and bones and a
comfortable place by the fire, but affection and caresses. The dog does
not live that would refuse to forsake his dinner for the companionship
of his master.
The mission of the dog--I say it with all reverence--is the same as the
mission of Christianity, namely, to teach mankind that the universe is
ruled by love. Ownership of a dog tends to soften the hard hearts of
men. There are two great mysteries about the lower animals: one, the
suffering which they have to endure at the hands of man; the other, the
wealth of affection which they possess, and which for the most part is
unexpended. All animals have this capacity for loving other creatures,
man included. Crows, for example, show it to a remarkable degree. 'As
much latent affection goes to waste in every flock of crows that flies
overhead as would fit a human household for heaven.'[A] A crow and a
dog, if kept together, will become almost as fond of each other as of
their master.
[Note A: _Atlantic Monthly_, vol. 89, p. 322.]
Surely this fact, this capacity of the lower animals to love, not only
man, but one another, is the most significant, the most deserving to be
pondered, the most important in respect to their place in the universe,
of all the facts that can be learned about them. Compared with it, how
trivial is anything that the zoologist or biologist or the physiologist
can tell us about the nature of the lower animals!
The most beautiful sight in the world, I once heard it said (by myself,
to be honest), is the expression in the eyes of an intelligent,
sweet-tempered pup--a pup old enough to take an interest in things about
him, and yet so young as to imagine that everybody will be good to him;
so young as not to fear that any man or boy will kick him, or that any
dog will take away his bone. In the eyes of such a pup there is a look
of confiding innocence, a consciousness of his own weakness and
inexperience, a desire to love and to be loved, which are irresistible.
In older dogs one is more apt to notice an eager, anxious, inquiring
look, as if they were striving to understand things which the Almighty
had placed beyond their mental grasp; and the nearest approach to a
really human expression is seen in dogs suffering from illness. Heine,
who, as the reader well knows, served a long apprenticeship to pain,
somewhere says that pain refines even the lower animals; and all who are
familiar with dogs in health and in disease will see the truth of this
statement. I have seen in the face of an intelligent dog, suffering
acutely from distemper, a look so human as to be almost terrifying; as
if I had accidentally caught a glimpse of some deep-lying trait in the
animal which nature had intended to conceal from mortal gaze.
The dog, in fact, makes a continual appeal to the sympathies of his
human friends, and thus tends to prevent them from becoming hard or
narrow. There are certain families, especially perhaps in New England,
and most of all, no doubt, in Boston, who need to be regenerated, and
might be regenerated by keeping a dog, provided that they went about it
in the proper spirit. A distinguished preacher and author, himself a
Unitarian, remarked recently in an address to Unitarians that they were
usually the most self-satisfied people that he ever met. It was a casual
remark, and perhaps neither he nor those who heard it appreciated its
full significance. However, the preacher was probably thinking, not so
much of Unitarians as of a certain kind of person often found in this
neighborhood, and not necessarily professing any particular form of
religion. We all know the type. When a man _invariably_ has money in the
bank, and is respectable and respected, was graduated at Harvard, has a
decorous wife and children, has never been carried away by any passion
or enthusiasm, knows the right people, and conforms strictly to the
customs of good society; and when this sort of thing has been going on
for, perhaps, two or three generations, then there is apt to creep into
the blood a coldness that would chill the heart of a bronze statue. Such
persons are really degenerates of their peculiar kind, and need to be
saved, perhaps by desperate measures. Let them elope with the cook; let
them get religion of a violent Methodistic, or of an intense
Ritualistic, kind (the two forms have much in common); or if they
cannot get religion, let them get a dog, give him the run of the house,
love him and spoil him, and so, by the blessing of Providence, their
salvation may be effected.
Reformers and philanthropists should always keep dogs, in order that the
spontaneous element may not wholly die out of them. Their tendency is to
regard the human race as a problem, and particular persons as 'cases' to
be dealt with, not according to one's impulses, but according to certain
rules approved by good authority, and supposed to be consistent with
sound economic principles. To my old friend ----, who once liked me for
myself, without asking why, I have long ceased to be an individual, and
am now simply an item of humanity to whom he owes such duty as my
particular wants or vices would seem to indicate. But if he had a dog he
could not regard him in that impersonal way, or worry about the dog's
morals: he would simply take pleasure in his society, and love him for
what he was, without considering what he might have been.
I know and honor one philanthropist who, in middle life or thereabout,
became for the first time the possessor of a dog; and thenceforth there
was disclosed in him a genuine vein of sentiment and affection which
many years of doing good and virtuous living had failed to eradicate.
Often had I heard of his civic deeds and of his well-directed charities,
but my heart never quite warmed toward him until I learned that, with
spectacles on nose and comb in hand, he had spent three laborious hours
in painfully going over his spaniel, and eliminating those parasitic
guests which sometimes infest the coat of the cleanest and most
aristocratic dog. I am not ashamed to say that I have a confidence in
his wisdom now which I did not have before, knowing that his head will
never be allowed to tyrannize over his heart. His name should be
recorded here, were it not that his modesty might be offended by the
act. (Three letters would suffice to print it.)
In speaking of the dog as a kind of missionary in the household, I mean,
it need hardly be said, something more than mere ownership of the
animal. It will not suffice to pay a large sum for a dog of fashionable
breed, equip him with a costly collar, and then relegate him to the
stable or the kitchen. He should be one of the family, living on equal
terms with the others, and their constant companion. The dog's life is
short at the best, and every moment of it will be needed for his
development. It is wonderful how, year by year, the household pet grows
in intelligence, how many words he learns the meaning of, how quick he
becomes in interpreting the look, the tone of voice, the mood of the
person whom he loves. He is old at ten or eleven, and seldom lives
beyond thirteen or fourteen. If he lived to be fifty, he would know so
much that we should be uneasy, perhaps terrified, in his presence.
A certain amount of discipline is necessary for a dog. If left to his
own devices, he is apt to become somewhat dissipated, to spend his
evenings out, to scatter among many the affection which should be
reserved for a few. But, on the other hand, a dog may easily receive too
much discipline; he becomes like the child of a despotic father. A dog
perfectly trained, from the martinet point of view,--one who never
'jumps up' on you, never lays an entreating paw on your arm, never gets
into a chair, or enters the drawing-room,--such a dog is a sad sight to
one who really knows and loves the animal. It is against his nature to
be so repressed. Over-careful housewives, and persons who are burdened
with costly surroundings, talk of injury to carpets and other furniture
if the dog has a right of entry everywhere in the house. But what is
furniture for? Is it for display, is it a guaranty of the wealth of the
owners, or is it for use? Blessed are they whose furniture is so
inexpensive or so shabby that children and dogs are not excluded from
its sacred precincts. Perhaps the happiest household to which I ever had
the honor of being admitted was one where it was sometimes a little
difficult to find a comfortable vacant chair: the dogs always took the
arm-chairs. Alas, where are those hospitable chairs now? Where the dogs
that used to sit up in them, and wink and yawn, and give their paws in
humorous embarrassment?
'The drawing-room was made for dogs, and not dogs for the
drawing-room,' would be Lady Barnes's thesis, did she formulate it. It
was this same Lady Barnes--Rhoda Broughton's--who once said, 'I have no
belief in Eliza, the housemaid I leave in charge here. When last I came
down from London the dogs were so unnaturally good that I felt sure she
bullied them. I spoke very seriously to her, and this time, I am glad to
say, they are as disobedient as ever, and have done even more mischief
than when I am at home.' And she laughed with a delicate relish of her
own folly.
Of all writers of fiction, by the way, is there any whose dogs quite
equal those of Rhoda Broughton? Even the beloved author of _Rab and His
Friends_, even Sir Walter himself, with his immortal Dandie Dinmonts,
has not, it seems to me, given us such life-like and home-like pictures
of dogs as those which occur in her novels. They seem to be there, not
of set purpose, but as if dogs were such an essential part of her own
existence that they crept into her books almost without her knowing it.
No room in her novels is complete without a dog or two; and every remark
that she makes about them has the quality of a caress. Even in a tragic
moment, the heroine cannot help observing, that 'Mink is lying on his
small hairy side in a sunpatch, with his little paws crossed like the
hands of a dying saint.' 'Mr. Brown,' that dear, faithful mongrel, is
forever associated with the unfortunate Joan; and Brenda's 'wouff' will
go resounding down the halls of time so long as novels are read.
Perhaps the final test of anybody's love of dogs is willingness to
permit them to make a camping-ground of the bed. There is no other place
in the world that suits the dog quite so well. On the bed he is safe
from being stepped upon; he is out of the way of draughts; he has a
commanding position from which to survey what goes on in the world; and,
above all, the surface is soft and yielding to his outstretched limbs.
No mere man can ever be so comfortable as a dog looks.
Some persons object to having a dog on the bed at night; and it must be
admitted that he lies a little heavily upon one's limbs; but why be so
base as to prefer comfort to companionship! To wake up in the dark
night, and put your hand on that warm soft body, to feel the beating of
that faithful heart--is not this better than undisturbed sloth? The best
night's rest I ever had was once when a cocker spaniel puppy, who had
just recovered from stomach-ache (dose one to two soda-mints), and was a
little frightened by the strange experience, curled up on my shoulder
like a fur tippet, gently pushed his cold, soft nose into my neck, and
there slept sweetly and soundly until morning.
Companionship with his master is the dog's remedy for every ill, and
only an extreme case will justify sending him away or boarding him out.
To put a dog in a hospital, unless there is some surgical or other like
necessity for doing so, is an act of doubtful kindness. Many and many a
dog has died from homesickness. If he is ill, keep him warm and quiet,
give him such simple remedies as you would give to a child: pour beef
tea or malted milk down his throat, or even a little whiskey, if he is
weak from want of food; and let him live or die, as did our fathers and
our fathers' dogs--at home.
Many dogs are sensitive to an excessive degree, so sensitive indeed that
any correction of them, beyond such as can be conveyed by a word,
amounts to positive cruelty. A dog of that kind may easily be thrown by
harsh treatment into a state of nervous disorder, and will be really
unable to do what is required of him. In that state he often presents an
appearance of obstinacy, whereas in fact he is suffering from a sort of
nervous atrophy or paralysis, closely resembling that of a 'balky'
horse.
This nervous temperament makes the dog susceptible to misery in many
forms, but the worst evil that can befall is to be lost. The very words
'lost dog' call up such pictures of canine misery as can never be
forgotten by those who have witnessed them. I have seen a lost dog,
lame, emaciated, wounded, footsore, hungry, and thirsty, yet suffering
so intensely from fear, and loneliness, and despair,--from the mere
sense of being lost,--as to be absolutely unconscious of his bodily
condition. The mental agony was so much greater that it swallowed up
the physical pain.
A little Boston terrier, who was lost in a large city for two or three
days, became so wrecked in his nervous system that no amount of care or
petting could restore him to equanimity, and it was found necessary to
kill him. Oh, reader, pass not by the lost dog! Succor him if you can;
preserve him from what is worse than death. It is easy to recognize him
by the look of nervous terror in his eye, by his drooping tail, by his
uncertain movements.
There is a remorseful experience of my own, of which I should be glad to
unburden myself to the reader. It once became my duty to kill a dog
afflicted with some incurable disease. Instead of doing it myself, as I
should have done, I took him to a place where lost dogs are received,
and where those for whom no home can be found are mercifully destroyed.
There, instead of myself leading him to the death-chamber, as, again, I
should have done, I handed him over to the executioner. The dog was an
abnormally nervous and timid one; and as he was dragged most unwillingly
away, he turned around, as nearly as he could, and cast back at me a
look of horror, of fear, of agonized appeal--a look that has haunted me
for years.
Whether he had any inkling of what was in store for him, I do not know,
but it is highly probable that he had. Dogs and other animals are
wonderful mind-readers. I have known three cases in which some
discussion about the necessity of killing an old dog, held in his
presence, was quickly followed by the sudden, unaccountable
disappearance of the animal; and no tidings of him could ever be
obtained, although the greatest pains were taken to obtain them. Horses
are inferior only to dogs in this capacity. Often, especially in the
case of vicious or half-broken horses, an intention will flash from the
mind of the horse to the mind of the rider or driver, and _vice versa_,
without the slightest indication being given by horse or man. Men who
ride race-horses have told me that a sudden conviction in their own
minds, in the course of a race, that they could not win has passed
immediately to the horse, and caused him to slacken his speed, although
they had not ceased to urge him. It is notorious in the trotting world
that faint-hearted and pessimistic drivers often lose races which they
ought to win.
As to remarkable stories about this or that animal, perhaps it might be
said that they are probably true when they illustrate the animal's
perceptive abilities, and are probably false when they depend upon his
power to originate. There appeared lately an account of a race between
loons in the wild state: how the loons got together and arranged the
preliminaries (whether they made books on the event or adopted the pool
system of betting was not stated), how the race was run, or rather
flown, amid intense loon excitement, and how the victor was greeted with
screams of applause!
Some power of origination animals, and dogs especially, certainly have.
There is the familiar trick which dogs play when one, to get a bone away
from another, rushes off a little space, gives the bark which signifies
the presence of an intruder, then comes back and quietly runs away with
the bone which the other dog, in his curiosity to see who is coming, has
impulsively dropped. This is an example, not of reasoning only, but of
origination.
In general, however, when dogs surprise us, as they frequently do, it is
by the delicacy and acuteness of their perceptive powers. How unerringly
do they distinguish between different classes of persons, as, for
example, between the members of the family and the servants; and again,
between the servants and the friends of the household! Unquestionably
the dog has three sets of manners for these three classes of persons. He
will take liberties in the kitchen that he would never dream of taking
in the dining-room. We have known our cook to fly in terror from the
kitchen because Figaro, a masterful cocker spaniel, threatened to bite
her if she did not give him a piece of meat forthwith. Figaro reasoned
that the cook was partly _his_ cook, and that he had a right to bully
her if he could.
As for the different members of the family, the dog will 'size them up'
with an unerring instinct. It is impossible to conceal any weakness of
character from him; and if you are strong, he will know that, too. As I
write these lines, the vision of 'Mr. Guppy' rises before me. Mr. Guppy
was a very small Boston terrier with a white head, but otherwise of a
brindle color. He had a beautiful 'mug,' much like that of a bull dog,
with a short nose, wide jaws, and plenty of loose skin hanging about his
stout little neck. It must be admitted that he was somewhat
self-indulgent, being continually on the watch for a chance to lie close
by the fire--a situation considered by his friends to be unwholesome for
him. Mr. Guppy understood me very well. He knew that I was a poor, weak,
easy-going, absent-minded creature, with whom he could take liberties;
accordingly, when we were alone together, the rogue would lie sleeping
with his head on the hearth, while I was absorbed in my book. But hark!
there is a step on the stairs, of one whom Mr. Guppy both loved and
feared more than any dog ever loved or feared me; and forthwith the
little impostor would rise and crawl softly back to his place on a rug
in the corner; and there he would be found lying and winking, with an
expression of perfect innocence, when the disciplinarian entered the
room.
Dogs have the same sensitiveness that we associate with well-bred men
and women. Their politeness is remarkable. Offer a dog water when he is
not thirsty, and he will almost always take a lap or two, just out of
civility, and to show his gratitude. I know a group of dogs that never
forget to come and tell their mistress when they have had their dinner,
feeling sure that she will sympathize with them; and if they have failed
to get it, they will notify her immediately of the omission. If you
happen to step on a dog's tail or paw, how eagerly--after one
irrepressible yelp of pain--will he tell you by his caresses that he
knows you did not mean to hurt him and forgives you!
In their relations with one another, also, dogs have a keen sense of
etiquette. A well-known traveler makes this unexpected remark about a
tribe of naked black men, living on one of the South Sea Islands: 'In
their everyday intercourse there is much that is stiff, formal, and
precise.' Almost the same remark might be made about dogs. Unless they
are on very intimate terms, they take great pains never to brush against
or even to touch one another. For one dog to step over another is a
dangerous breach of etiquette unless they are special friends. It is no
uncommon thing for two dogs to belong to the same person, and live in
the same house, and yet never take the slightest notice of each other.
We have a spaniel so dignified that he will never permit another member
of the dog family to pillow his head on him; but, with the egotism of a
true aristocrat, he does not hesitate to make use of the other dogs for
that purpose.
Often canine etiquette is so subtle that one has much difficulty in
following it out. In our household are two uncongenial dogs, who, in
ordinary circumstances, completely ignore each other, and between whom
any familiarity would be resented fiercely. And yet, when we are all out
walking, if I am obliged to scold or punish one of these two, the other
will run up to the offender, bark at him, and even jostle him, as if he
were saying, 'Well, old man, you got it that time; aren't you ashamed of
yourself?' And the other dog, feeling that he is in the wrong, I
suppose, submits meekly to the insult.
A family of six dogs used to pair off in couples, each couple being on
terms of special intimacy and affection; and besides these
relationships, there were many others among them. For example, they all
deferred to the oldest dog, although he was smaller and weaker than the
rest. If a fight began, he would jump in between the contestants and
stop it; if a dog misbehaved, he would rush at the offender with a
warning growl; and this exercise of authority was never resented. The
other dogs seemed to respect his weight of years, his character, which
was of the highest, and his moral courage, which was undoubted. This
same dog--his name was Pedro--had many human traits. He and his
companions slept together on a sofa upstairs, where, of a cold night,
they would curl up together in an indistinguishable heap. Sometimes the
old dog would put himself to bed before the others, and then, finding
that he needed the warmth and companionship of their presence, he would
go into the hall, put his head between the balusters, and whine softly
until they came upstairs to join him.
That animals reason is a fact of everyday experience. That they can
communicate their wants and feelings to one another and to man is
equally plain. 'When a cat or a dog,' wrote the late Mr. Romanes, 'pulls
one's dress to lead one to the kittens or puppies in need of assistance,
the animal is behaving in the same manner as a deaf mute might behave
when invoking assistance from a friend. That is to say, the animal is
translating the logic of feelings into the logic of signs; and so far as
this particular action is concerned, it is psychologically
indistinguishable from that which is performed by the deaf mute.'
Mentally, we are not so many epochs removed from the other animals, and
emotionally the connection is closer yet. I will not discuss the
question whether dumb animals have any sense of right and wrong. I
believe that they have this sense in a rudimentary degree; or at least
that it is latent in them, and may be developed. The popular instinctive
notions about animals, the result of the experience of the race, seem to
justify this view. 'If we say a _vicious_ horse,' remarked Dr. Arnold,
'why not a _virtuous_ horse?' And we do speak of a 'kind' horse.
Moreover, it is obvious that dogs have a sense of humor; and they have
also a sense of shame, perfectly distinct from the fear of punishment.
Of this sense of shame let me give one example. The dog's eyesight, so
far at least as stationary objects are concerned, is very poor, his real
reliance being on his sense of smell; and I have often seen a dog
mistake one of his own family for a strange animal, run toward him, with
every sign of hostility, and then, when he came within a few feet of the
other dog, suddenly drop his tail between his legs and slink away, as if
he feared that somebody had noticed his absurd mistake.
Can it be that an animal should possess a sense of humor and a sense of
shame, without having also some elementary sense of right and wrong? But
even if it be thought that he is devoid of that sense, it is certain
that he has those kindly impulses from which it has been developed. All
that is best in man springs from something which is practically the same
in the dog that it is in him, namely, the instinct of pity or
benevolence. To that instinct, as it exists in the lower animals, Darwin
attributed the origin of conscience in man; and there are now few, if
any, philosophers who would give a different account of it.
I have seen a pup not six months old run to comfort another pup that
cried out from pain; and the impulse that prompted this act was
essentially the same as that which impels the noblest of mankind when
they befriend the poor or the afflicted. We are akin to the lower
animals morally, as well as physically and mentally.
But this is a modern discovery. It is astonishing and confusing to
realize how little organized Christianity has done for the lower
animals. The ecclesiastical conception of them was simply that they were
creatures without souls, and therefore had no rights as against, or at
the hands of, mankind. To this day that conception remains, although it
is qualified, of course, by other and more humane considerations. Even
Cardinal Newman said,--
'We have no duties toward the brute creation; there is no relation of
justice between them and us. Of course, we are bound not to treat them
ill, for cruelty is an offense against the holy law which our Maker has
written on our hearts, and it is displeasing to Him. But they can claim
nothing at our hand; into our hand they are absolutely delivered. We may
use them, we may destroy them at our pleasure: not our wanton pleasure,
but still for our own ends, for our own benefit and satisfaction,
provided that we can give a rational account of what we do.'
This position, although not perhaps cruel in itself, inevitably results
in immeasurable cruelties. When an English traveler remonstrated with a
Spanish lady for throwing a sick kitten out of the second-story window,
she justified herself by saying that the kitten had no soul; and that is
the national point of view.
Protestantism has been almost as indifferent as Catholicism to the lower
animals. In fact, the conscience which exists outside of the church,
Catholic or Protestant, has in this matter, outstripped the conscience
of the church. 'Cruelty,' said Du Maurier, 'is the only unpardonable
sin'; and the world is slowly but surely coming to that opinion. The
long-deferred awakening of mankind to the sufferings of dumb animals was
not due to a decline of the ecclesiastical conception of them, although
it has declined; nor even to the new knowledge concerning the common
origin of man and beast--indeed, it slightly preceded that knowledge;
but it was due to the gradual enlightenment and moral improvement of the
race, especially of the English-speaking race.
The nineteenth century, as we are often told, saw more discoveries and
inventions than had been made in the preceding six thousand years; but I
believe that in future ages not one of those discoveries and inventions,
nor all together, will bulk so large as factors in the development and
uplifting of man, as will those humane laws and societies which first
came into existence in that century.
We overvalue intellectual as compared with moral and emotional gifts.
The material civilization upon which we pride ourselves is almost wholly
the achievement of the intellect. Fame and wealth, luxury, cultivation,
and leisure,--all the big prizes of the world, in fact,--are obtained
by the successful exercise of the intellect. The moral qualities, of
themselves, can procure us nothing but a clear conscience, and the
approval, perhaps mixed with contempt, of our neighbors.
And yet, when the intellectual qualities are brought to the test of
reality; when one's view of them is not clouded by pride, avarice, or
passion, then how amazingly does their value shrink and shrivel! When a
man lies on his deathbed, for example, his intellectual achievements,
though of the highest order, will seem as nothing to him--he will ask
himself simply whether he has lived a good or a bad life; and after his
death his family and his friends will look at the matter in precisely
the same way.
Even the progress of mankind is far more moral than intellectual.
Competent authorities tell us that the Anglo-Saxon of to-day is mentally
inferior to the Greek who lived two thousand years ago: and if the human
race has improved during that time, it is not so much because man has
advanced in knowledge as because he has acquired more sympathy with his
inferiors, be they brute or human, more generosity, more mercy toward
them. Not Stevenson, nor Faraday, nor Morse, nor Fulton, nor Bell, did
so much for the human race, to say nothing of the other animals, as did
that dueling Irishman who, in the year 1822, proposed in the English
Parliament, amid shrieks and howls of derision, what afterward became
the first law for the protection of dumb animals ever placed on the
statute-book of any country. Every movement for the relief of the brute
creation has originated in England; and when we damn, as we righteously
may, John Bull for one thing and another, let us remember this fact to
his eternal honor!
It is hard to part from an old dog-friend with no hope of ever meeting
him again, hard to believe that the spirit of love which burned so
steadfastly in him is quenched forever. But for those who hold what I
have called the ecclesiastical conception of the lower animals, no other
view is possible. That devout Catholic and exquisite poet, Dr. Parsons,
has beautifully expressed this fact:
When parents die there's many a word to say--
Kind words, consoling--one can always pray;
When children die 't is natural to tell
Their mother, 'Certainly with them 't is well!'
But for a dog, 't was all the life he had,
Since death is end of dogs, or good or bad.
This was his world, he was contented here;
Imagined nothing better, naught more dear,
Than his young mistress; sought no higher sphere;
Having no sin, asked not to be forgiven;
Ne'er guessed at God nor ever dreamed of heaven.
Now he has passed away, so much of love
Goes from our life, without one hope above!
But is there no hope? Is there not as much--or, if the reader prefers,
as little--hope for the dog as there is for man? I remember reading
years ago in a prominent magazine the statement that doubtless a few
men, the very wickedest, will become extinct at death, whereas the rest
of mankind will be immortal. This view had some adherents then, but
would now be regarded by almost everybody as irrational. Who can believe
that between the best and the worst man there is any such gulf as would
justify so diverse a fate!
Moreover we have learned that there are no chasms or jumps in nature.
One thing slides into another; every creature is a link between two
other creatures; and man himself can be traced back physically,
mentally, and morally, to the lower animals. Is it not then reasonable
to suppose that immortality belongs to all forms of life or to none?
that if man is immortal, the dog is immortal, too? Even to speculate
upon this subject seems almost ridiculous, our knowledge is so limited;
and yet it is hard to refrain from speculation. The transmigration of
souls may be a fact, or men and dogs and all other forms of life may be
simply forms, temporary phases, proceeding from one source, and
returning thereto. But alas, every supposition that we can make is
rendered almost, if not quite, untenable by the mere fact that the human
intellect has conceived it--it is so unlikely that we should hit upon
the right solution!
In this situation, what we seem bound to do is to refrain from hasty,
and especially from egotistic conclusions, to keep our minds open, to
regard the lower animals, not only with pity, but with a certain
reverence. We do not know what or whence they are; but we do know that
their nature resembles ours; that they have Individuality, as we have
it; that they feel pain, both physical and mental; that they are capable
of affection; that, although innocent, as we believe, their sufferings
have been, and are, unspeakable. Is there no mystery here?
To many men, to most men, perhaps, a dog is simply an animated machine,
developed or created for the convenience of the human race. It may be
so; and yet again it may be that the dog has his own rightful place in
the universe, irrespective and independent of man, and that an injury
done to him is an insult to the Creator.
[Illustration]
Jungle Night
By William Beebe
I
Within gun-reach in front of me trudged my little Akawai Indian hunter.
He turned his head suddenly, his ears catching some sound which mine had
missed, and I saw that his profile was rather like that of Dante.
Instantly the thought spread and the simile deepened. Were we two not
all alone? and this unearthly hour and light.--Then I chuckled softly,
but the silence that the chuckle shattered shrank away and made it a
loud, coarse sound, so that I involuntarily drew in my breath. But it
was really amusing, the thought of Dante setting out on a hunt for
kinkajous and giant armadillos. Jeremiah looked at me wonderingly, and
we went on in silence. And for the next mile Dante vanished from my
thoughts and I mused upon the sturdy little red man. Jeremiah was his
civilized name; he would never tell me his real one. It seemed so
unsuited to him that I thought up one still less appropriate and called
him Nupee--which is the three-toed sloth; and in his quiet way he saw
the humor of it, for a more agile human being never lived.
Nupee's face was unclouded, but his position as hunter to our expedition
had brought decisions and responsibilities which he had not known
before. The simple life,--the unruffled existence in the little open
_benab_, with hammock, cassava field, and an occasional hunt,--this was
of the past. A wife had come, slipping quietly into his life,
Indian-fashion; and now, before the baby arrived, decisions had to be
made. Nupee longed for some store shoes and a suit of black clothes. He
had owned a big _benab_ which he himself had built; but a godmother,
like the cowbird in a warbler's nest, had gradually but firmly ousted
him and had filled it with diseased relatives, so that it was unpleasant
to visit. He now, to my knowledge, owned a single shirt and a pair of
short trousers.
The shoes were achieved. I detected in him qualities which I knew that I
should find in some one, as I do on every expedition, and I made him
perform some unnecessary labor and gave him the shoes. But the clothes
would cost five dollars, a month's wages, and he had promised to get
married--white-fashion--in another month, and that would consume several
times five dollars. I did not offer to help him decide. His Akawai
marriage ceremony seemed not without honor, and as for its sincerity--I
had seen the two together. But my lips were sealed. I could not tell
him that a recementing of the ritual of his own tribe did not seem quite
the equal of a five-dollar suit of clothes. That was a matter for
individual decision.
But to-night I think that we both had put all our worries and sorrows
far away, and I memory as well; and I felt sympathy in the quiet, pliant
gait which carried him so swiftly over the sandy trail. I knew Nupee now
for what he was--the one for whom I am always on the lookout, the
exceptional one, the super-servant, worthy of friendship as an equal. I
had seen his uncle and his cousins. They were Indians, nothing more.
Nupee had slipped into the place left vacant for a time by Aladdin, and
by Satan and Shimosaka, by Drojak and Trujillo--all exceptional, all
faithful, all servants first and then friends. I say 'for a time'--for
they all hoped, and I think still hope with me, that we shall meet and
travel and camp together again, whether in the Cinghalese thorn-bush, or
Himalayan daks, in Dyak canoes or among the camphor groves of
Sakarajama.
Nupee and I had not been thrown together closely. This had proved a
static expedition, settled in one place, with no dangers to speak of, no
real roughing it, and we met only after each hunting trip. But the magic
of a full moon had lured me from my laboratory table, and here we were,
we two, plodding junglewards, becoming better acquainted in silence than
I have often achieved with much talk.
It was nearly midnight. We traversed a broad trail of white sand,
between lines of saplings of pale-barked rubber trees, flooded,
saturated, with milky-gray light. Not a star appeared in the cloudless
sky, which, in contrast to the great silver moon-plaque, was blue-black.
These open sandy stretches, so recently etched into what had been
primitive jungle, were too glowing with light for most of the nocturnal
creatures who, in darkness, flew and ran and hunted about in them. And
the lovers of twilight were already come and gone. The stage was vacant
save for one actor--the nighthawk of the silvery collar, whose eerie
_wheeeo!_ or more leisurely and articulate _who-are-you?_ was queried
from stump and log. There was in it the same liquid tang, the virile
ringing of skates on ice, which enriches the cry of the whip-poor-will
in our country lanes.
Where the open trail skirted a hillside we came suddenly upon a great
gathering of these goat-suckers, engaged in some strange midnight revel.
Usually they roost and hunt and call in solitude, but here at least
forty were collected on the white sand within an area of a few yards. We
stopped and watched. They were dancing--or, rather, popping, as corn
pops in a hopper. One after another, or a half dozen at a time, they
bounced up a foot or two from the ground and flopped back, at the
instant of leaving and returning uttering a sudden, explosive _wop!_
This they kept up unceasingly for the five minutes we gave to them, and
our passage interrupted them for only a moment. Later we passed single
birds which popped and wopped in solitary state; whether practicing, or
snobbishly refusing to perform in public, only they could tell. It was a
scene not soon forgotten.
Suddenly before us rose the jungle, raw-edged, with border zone of
bleached, ashamed trunks and lofty branches white as chalk, of dead and
dying trees. For no jungle tree, however hardy, can withstand the
blasting of violent sun after the veiling of emerald foliage is torn
away. As the diver plunges beneath the waves, so, after one glance
backward over the silvered landscape, I passed at a single stride into
what seemed by contrast inky blackness, relieved by the trail ahead,
which showed as does a ray of light through closed eyelids. As the
chirruping rails climbed among the roots of the tall cat-tails out
yonder, so we now crept far beneath the level of the moonlit foliage.
The silvery landscape had been shifted one hundred, two hundred feet
above the earth. We had become lords of creation in name alone,
threading our way humbly among the fungi and toad-stools, able only to
look aloft and wonder what it was like. And for a long time no voice
answered to tell us whether any creature lived and moved in the
tree-tops.
The tropical jungle by day is the most wonderful place in the world. At
night I am sure it is the most weirdly beautiful of all places outside
the world. For it is primarily unearthly, unreal; and at last I came to
know why. In the light of the full moon it was rejuvenated. The simile
of theatrical scenery was always present to the mind, the illusion lying
especially in the completeness of transformation from the jungle by
daylight. The theatrical effect was heightened by the sense of being in
some vast building. This was due to the complete absence of any breath
of air. Not a leaf moved; even the pendulous air-roots reaching down
their seventy-foot plummets for the touch of soil did not sway a hair's
breadth. The throb of the pulse set the rhythm for one's steps. The
silence, for a time, was as perfect as the breathlessness. It was a
wonderfully ventilated amphitheatre; the air was as free from any
feeling of tropical heat, as it lacked all crispness of the north. It
was exactly the temperature of one's skin. Heat and cold were for the
moment as unthinkable as wind.
One's body seemed wholly negligible. In soft padding moccasins and easy
swinging gait, close behind my Indian hunter, and in such khaki browns
that my body was almost invisible to my own downward glance, I was
conscious only of the play of my senses: of two at first, sight and
smell; later, of hearing. The others did not exist. We two were
unattached, impersonal, moving without effort or exertion. It was magic,
and I was glad that I had only my Akawai for companion, for it was magic
that a word would have shattered. Yet there was this wonderfully
satisfying thing about it, that most magic lacks: it exists at present,
to-day, perhaps, at least once a month, and I know that I shall
experience it again. When I go to the window and look out upon the city
night, I find all extraneous light emaciated and shattered by the blare
of gas and electricity, but from one upreaching tower I can see
reflected a sheen which is not generated in any power-house of earth.
Then I know that within the twenty-four hours the _terai_ jungles of
Garhwal, the tree-ferns of Pahang, and the mighty _moras_ which now
surround us, were standing in silvery silence and in the peace which
only the wilderness knows.
I soon took the lead and slackened the pace to a slow walk. Every few
minutes we stood motionless, listening with mouth as well as ears. For
no one who has not listened in such silence can realize how important
the mouth is. Like the gill of old which gave it origin, our ear has
still an entrance inward as well as outward, and the sweep of breath and
throb of the blood are louder than we ever suspect. When at an opera or
concert I see some one sitting rapt, listening with open mouth, I do not
think of it as ill-bred. I know it for unconscious and sincere
absorption based on an excellent physical reason.
It was early spring in the tropics; insect life was still in the
gourmand stage, or that of pupal sleep. The final period of pipe and
fiddle had not yet arrived, so that there was no hum from the
underworld. The flow of sap and the spread of petals were no less silent
than the myriad creatures which, I knew, slumbered or hunted on every
side. It was as if I had slipped back one dimension in space and walked
in a shadow world. But these shadows were not all colorless. Although
the light was strained almost barren by the moon mountains, yet the glow
from the distant lava and craters still kept something of color, and the
green of the leaves, great and small, showed as a rich dark olive. The
afternoon's rain had left each one filmed with clear water, and this
struck back the light as polished silver. There was no tempered
illumination. The trail ahead was either black, or a solid sheet of
light. Here and there in the jungle on each side, where a tree had
fallen, or a flue of clear space led moonwards, the effect was of cold
electric light seen through trees in city parks. When such a shaft
struck down upon us, it surpassed simile. I have seen old paintings in
Belgian cathedrals of celestial light which now seems less imaginary.
At last the silence was broken, and like the first breath of the
trade-wind which clouds the Mazaruni surface, the mirror of silence was
never quite clear again--or so it seemed. My northern mind, stored with
sounds of memory, never instinctively accepted a new voice of the jungle
for what it was. Each had to go through a reference clearing-house of
sorts. It was like the psychological reaction to words or phrases. Any
strange wail or scream striking suddenly upon my ear instantly
crystallized some vision of the past--some circumstance or adventure
fraught with similar sound. Then, appreciably as a second thought, came
the keen concentration of every sense to identify this new sound, to
hear it again, to fix it in mind with its character and its meaning.
Perhaps at some distant place and time, in utterly incongruous
surroundings, it may in turn flash into consciousness--a memory-simile
stimulated by some sound of the future.
II
I stood in a patch of moonlight listening to the baying of a hound--or
so I thought: that musical ululation which links man's companion
wolf-wards. Then I thought of the packs of wild hunting dogs, the
dreaded 'warracabra tigers,' and I turned to the Indian at my elbow,
full of hopeful expectation. With his quiet smile he whispered,
'Kunama,' and I knew I had heard the giant tree-frog of Guiana--a frog
of size and voice well in keeping with these mighty jungles. I knew
these were powerful _beenas_ with the Indians, tokens of good hunting,
and every fortunate _benab_ would have its dried mummy frog hung up with
the tail of the giant armadillo and other charms. Well might these
batrachians arouse profound emotions among the Indians, familiar as they
are with the strange beings of the forest. I could imagine the great
goggle-eyed fellow sprawled high near the roof of the jungle, clutching
the leaves with his vacuum-cupped toes. The moonlight would make him
ghostly--a pastel frog; but in the day he flaunted splashes of azure and
green on his scarlet body.
At a turn in the trail we squatted and waited for what the jungle might
send of sight or sound. And in whispers Nupee told me of the big frog
_kunama_, and its ways. It never came to the ground, or even descended
part way down the trees; and by some unknown method of distillation it
made little pools of its own in deep hollows, and there lived. And this
water was thick like honey and white like milk, and when stirred became
reddish. Besides which, it was very bitter. If a man drank of it,
forever after he hopped each night and clasped all the trees which he
encountered, endlessly endeavoring to ascend them and always failing.
And yet, if he could once manage to reach a pool of _kunama_ water in an
uncut tree and drink, his manhood would return and his mind be healed.
When the Indians desired this _beena_, they marked a tree whence a frog
called at night, and in the daytime cut it down. Forming a big circle,
they searched and found the frog, and forthwith smoked it and rubbed it
on arrows and bow before they went out. I listened gravely and found
that it all fitted in with the magic of the night. If an Indian had
appeared down the trail, hopping endlessly and gripping the trunks,
gazing upward with staring eyes, I should not have thought it more
strange than the next thing that really happened.
We had settled on our toes in another squatting-place--a dark aisle with
only scattered flecks of light. The silence and breathlessness of the
moon-craters could have been no more complete than that which enveloped
us. My eye wandered from spot to spot, when suddenly I began to think of
that great owl-like goatsucker, the 'poor-me-one.' We had shot one at
Kalacoon a month before and no others had called since, and I had not
thought of the species again. Quite without reason I began to think of
the bird, of its wonderful markings, of the eyes which years ago in
Trinidad I had made to glow like iridescent globes in the light of a
flash--and then a poor-me-one called behind us, not fifty feet away.
Even this did not seem strange among these surroundings. It was an
interesting happening, one which I have experienced many times in my
life. It may have been just another coincidence. I am quite certain it
was not. In any event it was a Dantesque touch, emphasized by the
character of the call--the wail of a lost soul being as good a simile as
any other. It started as a high, trembling wail, the final cry being
lost in the depths of whispered woe:--
Oo--------------ooh!
oh!
oh!
oh!
oh!
oh!
Nupee never moved; only his lips formed the name by which he knew
it--_kalawoe_. Whatever else characterized the sounds of the jungle at
night, none became monotonous or common. Five minutes later the great
bird called to us from far, far away, as if from another round of
purgatory--an eerie lure to enter still deeper into the jungle depths.
We never heard it again.
Nature seems to have apportioned the voices of many of her creatures
with sensitive regard for their environment. Sombre voices seem
fittingly to be associated with subdued light, and joyous notes with the
blaze of sunlit twigs and open meadows. A bobolink's bubbling carol is
unthinkable in a jungle, and the strain of a wood pewee on a sunny
hillside would be like an organ playing dance-music. This is even more
pronounced in the tropics, where, quite aside from any mental
association on my part, the voices and calls of the jungle reflect the
qualities of that twilight world. The poor-me-one proves too much. He is
the very essence of night, his wings edged with velvet silence, his
plumage the mingled concentration of moss and lichens and dead wood.
I was about to rise and lead Nupee still farther into the gloom when the
jungle showed another mood--a silent whimsy, the humor of which I could
not share with the little red man. Close to my face, so near that it
startled me for a moment, over the curved length of a long, narrow
caladium leaf, there came suddenly two brilliant lights. Steadily they
moved onward, coming up into view for all the world like two tiny
headlights of a motor-car. They passed, and the broadside view of this
great elater was still absurdly like the profile of a miniature tonneau
with the top down. I laughingly thought to myself how perfect the
illusion would be if a red tail-light should be shown, when to my
amazement a rosy red light flashed out behind, and my bewildered eyes
all but distinguished a number! Naught but a tropical forest could
present such contrasts in such rapid succession as the poor-me-one and
this parody of man's invention.
I captured the big beetle and slid him into a vial, where in his disgust
he clicked sharply against the glass. The vial went into my pocket and
we picked up our guns and crept on. As we traversed a dark patch, dull
gleams like heat lightning flashed over the leaves, and, looking down, I
saw that my khaki was aglow from the illuminated insect within. This
betrayed every motion, so I wrapped the vial in several sheets of paper
and rolled it up in my handkerchief. The glow was duller but almost as
penetrating. At one time or another I have had to make use of all my
garments, from topee to moccasins, in order to confine captives armed
with stings, beaks, teeth, or fangs, but now I was at a complete loss. I
tried a gun-barrel with a handkerchief stopper, and found that I now
carried an excellent, long-handled flashlight. Besides, I might have
sudden use for the normal function of the gun. I had nothing
sufficiently opaque to quench those flaring headlights, and I had to own
myself beaten and release him. He spread his wings and flew swiftly
away, his red light glowing derisively; and even in the flood of pure
moonlight he moved within an aura which carried far through the jungle.
I knew that killing him was of no use, for a week after death from
chloroform I have seen the entire interior of a large insect box
brilliantly lighted by the glow of these wonderful candles, still
burning on the dead shoulders of the same kind of insect.
Twice, deeper in the jungle, we squatted and listened, and twice the
silence remained unbroken and the air unmoved. Happening to look up
through a lofty, narrow canyon of dark foliage, I was startled as by
some sudden sound by seeing a pure white cloud, moon-lit, low down, pass
rapidly across. It was first astounding, then unreal: a bit of
exceedingly poor work on the part of the property man, who had mixed the
hurricane scenery with that of the dog-days. Even the elements seemed to
have been laved with magic. The zone of high wind, with its swift-flying
clouds, must have been flowing like a river just above the motionless
foliage of the tree-tops.
This piece of ultra-unnaturalism seemed to break part of the spell and
the magic silence was lifted. Two frogs boomed again, close at hand, and
now all the hound similitude was gone, and in its place another, still
more strange, when we think of the goggle-eyed author far up in the
trees. The sound now was identical with the short cough or growl of a
hungry lion, and though I have heard the frogs many times since that
night, this resemblance never changed or weakened. It seemed as if the
volume, the roaring outburst, could come only from the throat of some
large, full-lunged mammal.
A sudden tearing rush from the trail-side, and ripping of vines and
shrubs, was mingled with deep, hoarse snorts, and we knew that we had
disturbed one of the big red deer--big only in comparison with the
common tiny brown brockets. A few yards farther the leaves rustled high
overhead, although no breath of wind had as yet touched the jungle. I
began a slow, careful search with my flashlight, and, mingled with the
splotches and specks of moonlight high overhead, I seemed to see scores
of little eyes peering down. But at last my faint electric beam found
its mark and evolved the first bit of real color which the jungle had
shown--always excepting the ruby tail-light. Two tiny red globes gleamed
down at us, and as they gleamed, moved without a sound, apparently
unattached, slowly through the foliage. Then came a voice, as wandering,
as impersonal as the eyes--a sharp, incisive _wheeeeeat!_ with a
cat-like timbre; and from the eyes and voice I reconstructed a night
monkey--a kinkajou.
Then another notch was slipped and the jungle for a time showed
something of the exuberance of its life. A paca leaped from its meal of
nuts and bounced away with quick, repeated pats; a beetle with wings
tuned to the bass clef droned by; some giant tree-cricket tore the
remaining intervals of silence to shreds with unmuted wing-fiddles,
_cricks_ so shrill and high that they well-nigh passed beyond the upper
register of my ear out into silence again. The roar of another frog was
comforting to my ear-drum.
Then silence descended again, and hours passed in our search for sound
or smell of the animal we wished chiefest to find--the giant armadillo.
These rare beings have a distinct odor. Months of work in the open had
sharpened my nostrils so that on such a tramp as this they were not much
inferior to those of Nupee. This sense gave me as keen pleasure as eye
or ear, and furnished quite as much information. The odors of city and
civilization seemed very far away: gasolene, paint, smoke, perfumery,
leather--all these could hardly be recalled. And how absurd seemed
society's unwritten taboo on discussion of this admirable but pitifully
degenerate sense! Why may you look at your friend's books, touch his
collection of _netsukes_, listen to his music, yet dare sniff at naught
but his blossoms!
In the open spaces of the earth, and more than anywhere in this
conservatory of unblown odors, we come more and more to appreciate and
envy a dog's sensitive muzzle. Here we sniffed as naturally as we turned
ear, and were able to recognize many of our nasal impressions, and even
to follow a particularly strong scent to its source. Few yards of trail
but had their distinguishable scent, whether violent, acrid smell or
delectable fragrance. Long after a crab-jackal had passed, we noted the
stinging, bitter taint in the air; and now and then the pungent wake of
some big jungle-bug struck us like a tangible barrier.
The most tantalizing odors were the wonderfully delicate and penetrating
ones from some great burst of blossoms, odors heavy with sweetness,
which seeped down from vine or tree high overhead, wholly invisible from
below even in broad daylight. These odors remained longest in memory,
perhaps because they were so completely the product of a single sense.
There were others too, which were unforgettable, because, like the voice
of the frog, they stirred the memory a fraction before they excited
curiosity. Such I found the powerful musk from the bed of leaves which a
fawn had just left. For some reason this brought vividly to mind the
fearful compound of smells arising from the decks of Chinese junks.
III
Along the moonlit trail there came wavering whiffs of orchids, ranging
from attar of roses and carnations to the pungence of carrion, the
latter doubtless distilled from as delicate and as beautiful blossoms as
the former. There were, besides, the myriad and bewildering smells of
sap, crushed leaves, and decaying wood; acrid, sweet, spicy, and
suffocating, some like musty books, others recalling the paint on the
Noah's Ark of one's nursery.
But the scent of the giant armadillo eluded us. When we waded through
some new, strange odor I looked back at Nupee, hoping for some sign that
it was the one we sought. But that night the great armored creatures
went their way and we ours, and the two did not cross. Nupee showed me a
track at the trail-side made long ago, as wide and deep as the spoor of
a dinosaur, and I fingered it reverently as I would have touched the
imprint of a recently alighted pterodactyl, taking care not to spoil the
outlines of the huge claw-marks. All my search for him had been in vain
thus far, though I had been so close upon his trail as to have seen
fresh blood. I had made up my mind not to give up, but it seemed as if
success must wait for another year.
We watched and called the ghostly kinkajous and held them fascinated
with our stream of light; we aroused unnamable creatures which squawked
companionably at us and rustled the tree-top leaves; we listened to the
whispered rush of passing vampires skimming our faces and were soothed
by the hypnotic droning hum which beetles left in their swift wake.
Finally we turned and circled through side trails so narrow and so dark
that we walked with outstretched arms, feeling for the trunks and
lianas, choosing a sloth's gait and the hope of new adventures rather
than the glare of my flash on our path.
When we entered Kalacoon trail, we headed toward home. Within sight of
the first turn a great black branch of a tree had recently fallen across
the trail in a patch of moonlight. Before we reached it, the branch had
done something it should not have done--it had straightened slightly. We
strained our eyes to the utmost but could not, in this eerie light, tell
head from tail end of this great serpent. It moved very slowly, and with
a motion which perfectly confounded our perception. Its progress seemed
no faster than the hour hand of a watch, but we knew that it moved, yet
so close to the white sand that the whole trail seemed to move with it.
The eye refused to admit any motion except in sudden shifts, like widely
separated films of a motion-picture. For minute after minute it seemed
quiescent; then we would blink and realize that it was two feet higher
up the bank. One thing we could see--a great thickening near the centre
of the snake: it had fed recently and to repletion, and slowly it was
making its way to some hidden lair, perhaps to lie motionless until
another moon should silver the jungle. Was there any stranger life in
the world?
Whether it was a giant bushmaster or a constrictor, we could not tell in
the diffused light. I allowed it to go unharmed, for the spell of
silence and the jungle night was too strongly woven to be shattered
again by the crash of gun or rifle. Nupee had been quite willing to
remain behind, and now, as so often with my savage friends, he looked at
me wonderingly. He did not understand and I could not explain. We were
at one in the enjoyment of direct phenomena; we could have passed months
of intimate companionship in the wilds as I had done with his
predecessors; but at the touch of abstract things, of letting a deadly
creature live for any reason except for lack of a gun--then they looked
at me always with that puzzled look, that straining to grasp the
something which they knew must be there. And at once always followed
instant acceptance, unquestioning, without protest. The transition was
smooth, direct, complete: the sahib had had opportunity to shoot; he had
not done so; what did the sahib wish to do now--to squat longer or to go
on?
We waited for many minutes at the edge of a small glade, and the event
which seemed most significant to me was in actual spectacle one of the
last of the night's happenings. I sat with chin on knees,
coolie-fashion--a position which, when once mastered, and with muscles
trained to withstand the unusual flexion for hour after hour, is one of
the most valuable assets of the wilderness lover and the watcher of wild
things. It enables one to spend long periods of time in the lowest of
umbrella tents, or to rest on wet ground or sharp stones where actual
sitting down would be impossible. Thus is one insulated from _betes
rouges_ and enthusiastic ants whose sole motto is eternal preparedness.
Thus too one slips, as it were, under the visual guard of human-shy
creatures, whose eyes are on the lookout for their enemy at human
height. From such a position, a single upward leap prepares one
instantly for advance or retreat, either of which manoeuvres is well
within instant necessity at times. Then there were always the two
positions to which one could change if occasion required--flat-footed,
with arm-pits on knees, or on the balls of the feet with elbows on
knees. Thus is every muscle shifted and relaxed.
Squatting is one of the many things which a white man may learn from
watching his _shikarees_ and guides, and which, in the wilderness, he
may adopt without losing caste. We are a chair-ridden people, and dare
hardly even cross our knees in public. Yet how many of us delight in
sitting Buddha-fashion, or as near to it as we can attain, when the ban
of society is lifted! A chairless people, however, does not necessarily
mean a more simple, primitive type. The Japanese method of sitting is
infinitely more difficult and complex than ours. The characters of our
weak-thighed, neolithic forbears are as yet too pronounced in our own
bodies for us to keep an upright position for long. Witness the
admirable admittance of this anthropological fact by the architects of
our subway cars, who know that only a tithe of their patrons will be
fortunate enough to find room on the cane-barked seats which have come
to take the place of the stumps and fallen logs of a hundred thousand
years ago. So they have thoughtfully strung the upper reaches of the
cars with imitation branches and swaying lianas, to which the
last-comers cling jealously, and swing with more or less of the grace of
their distant forbears. Their fur, to be sure, is rubbed thinner; nuts
and fruits have given place to newspapers and novels, and the roar and
odors are not those of the wind among the leaves and blossoms. But the
simile is amusing enough to end abruptly, and permit individual
imagination to complete it.
When I see an overtired waiter or clerk swaying from foot to foot like a
rocking elephant, I sometimes place the blame further back than
immediate impatience for the striking of the closing hour. It were more
true to blame the gentlemen whose habits were formed before caste, whose
activities preceded speech.
We may be certain that chairs will never go out of fashion. We are at
the end of bodily evolution in that direction. But to see a
white-draped, lanky Hindu, or a red-cloaked lama of the hills, quietly
fold up, no matter where he may be, is to witness the perfection of
chairless rest. One can read or write or doze comfortably, swaying
slightly with a bird's unconscious balance, or, as in my case at
present, wholly disarm suspicion on the part of the wild creatures by
sinking from the height of a man to that of a jungle deer. And still I
had lost nothing of the insulation which my moccasins provided from all
the inconveniences of the forest floor. Looking at Nupee after this rush
of chaotic thoughts which came between jungle happenings, I chuckled as
I hugged my knees, for I knew that Nupee had noticed and silently
considered my little accomplishment, and that he approved, and I knew
that I had acquired merit in his sight. Thus may we revel in the
approval of our super-servants, but they must never know it.
From this eulogy of squatting, my mind returned to the white light of
the glade. I watched the motionless leaves about me, many of them
drooping and rich maroon by daylight, for they were just unbudded.
Reaching far into the dark mystery of the upper jungle stretched the
air-roots, held so straight by gravity, so unheeding of the whirling of
the planet through space. Only one mighty liana--a monkey-ladder--had
revolted against this dominance of the earth's pull and writhed and
looped upon itself in fantastic whorls, while along its length rippled
ever the undulations which mark this uneasy growth, this crystallized
Saint Vitus plant.
A momentary shiver of leaves drew our eyes to the left, and we began to
destroy the optical images evolved by the moon-shadows and to seek the
small reality which we knew lived and breathed somewhere on that long
branch. Then a sharp crack like a rifle lost whatever it was to us
forever, and we half leaped to our feet as something swept downward
through the air and crashed length after length among the plants and
fallen logs. The branches overhead rocked to and fro, and for many
minutes, like the aftermath of a volcanic eruption, came a shower, first
of twigs and swirling leaves, then of finer particles, and lastly of
motes which gleamed like silver dust as they sifted down to the trail.
When the air cleared I saw that the monkey-ladder had vanished and I
knew that its yards upon yards of length lay coiled and crushed among
the ferns and sprouting palms of the jungle floor. It seemed most
fitting that the vegetable kingdom, whose silence and majesty gave to
the jungle night its magic qualities, should have contributed this
memorable climax.
Long before the first Spaniard sailed up the neighboring river, the
monkey-ladder had thrown its spirals aloft, and through all the
centuries, all the years, it had seen no change wrought beneath it. The
animal trail was trod now and then by Indian hunters, and lately we had
passed several times. The sound of our guns was less than the crashing
fall of an occasional forest tree. Now, with not a leaf moved by the
air, with only the two of us squatting in the moonlight for audience,
the last cell had given way. The sap could no longer fight the decay
which had entered its heart; and at the appointed moment, the moment set
by the culmination of a greater nexus of forces than our human mind
could ever hope to grasp, the last fibre parted and the massive growth
fell.
In the last few minutes, as it hung suspended, gracefully spiraled in
the moonlight, it had seemed as perfect as the new-sprouted _moras_ at
my feet. As I slowly walked out of the jungle I saw in this the
explanation of the simile of artificial scenery, of all the strange
magic which had come to me as I entered. The alchemy of moonlight turned
all the jungle to perfect growth, growth at rest. In the silvery light
was no trace of gnawing worm, of ravening ant, or corroding fungus. The
jungle was rejuvenated and made a place more wonderful than any
fairyland of which I have read or which I have conceived. The jungle by
day, as I have said--that, too, is wonderful. We may have two friends,
quite unlike in character, whom we love each for his own personality,
and yet it would be a hideous, an unthinkable thing to see one
transformed into the other.
So, with the mist settling down and tarnishing the great plaque of
silver, I left the jungle, glad that I could be far away before the
first hint of dawn came to mar the magic. Thus in memory I can keep the
dawn away until I return.
And sometime in the future, when the lure of the full moon comes, and I
answer, I shall be certain of finding the same silence, the same
wonderful light, and the waiting trees and the magic. But Nupee may not
be there. He will perhaps have slipped into memory, with Drojak and
Aladdin. And if I find no one as silently friendly as Nupee, I shall
have to watch alone through my jungle night.
[Illustration]
The Devil Baby at Hull-House
By Jane Addams
I
The knowledge of the existence of the Devil Baby burst upon the
residents of Hull-House one day when three Italian women, with an
excited rush through the door, demanded that he be shown them. No amount
of denial convinced them that he was not there, for they knew exactly
what he was like, with his cloven hoofs, his pointed ears and diminutive
tail; moreover, the Devil Baby had been able to speak as soon as he was
born and was most shockingly profane.
The three women were but the forerunners of a veritable multitude; for
six weeks the streams of visitors from every part of the city and
suburbs to this mythical baby poured in all day long, and so far into
the night that the regular activities of the settlement were almost
swamped.
The Italian version, with a hundred variations, dealt with a pious
Italian girl married to an atheist. Her husband vehemently tore a holy
picture from the bedroom wall, saying that he would quite as soon have a
devil in the house as that; whereupon the devil incarnated himself in
her coming child. As soon as the Devil Baby was born, he ran about the
table shaking his finger in deep reproach at his father, who finally
caught him and in fear and trembling brought him to Hull-House. When the
residents there, in spite of the baby's shocking appearance, wishing to
save his soul, took him to church for baptism, they found that the shawl
was empty, and the Devil Baby, fleeing from the holy water, ran lightly
over the backs of the pews.
The Jewish version, again with variations, was to the effect that the
father of six daughters had said before the birth of a seventh child
that he would rather have a devil in the house than another girl,
whereupon the Devil Baby promptly appeared.
Save for a red automobile which occasionally figured in the story, and a
stray cigar which, in some versions, the newborn child snatched from his
father's lips, the tale might have been fashioned a thousand years ago.
Although the visitors to the Devil Baby included people of every degree
of prosperity and education,--even physicians and trained nurses who
assured us of their scientific interest,--the story constantly
demonstrated the power of an old wives' tale among thousands of people
in modern society who are living in a corner of their own, their vision
fixed, their intelligence held by some iron chain of silent habit. To
such primitive people the metaphor apparently is still the very 'stuff
of life'; or, rather, no other form of statement reaches them, and the
tremendous tonnage of current writing for them has no existence. It was
in keeping with their simple habits that the reputed presence of the
Devil Baby at Hull-House did not reach the newspapers until the fifth
week of his sojourn--after thousands of people had already been informed
of his whereabouts by the old method of passing news from mouth to
mouth.
During the weeks of excitement it was the old women who really seemed to
have come into their own, and perhaps the most significant result of the
incident was the reaction of the story upon them. It stirred their minds
and memories as with a magic touch; it loosened their tongues and
revealed the inner life and thoughts of those who are so often
inarticulate. These old women enjoyed a moment of triumph, as if they
had made good at last and had come into a region of sanctions and
punishments which they understood.
Throughout six weeks, as I went about Hull-House, I would hear a voice
at the telephone repeating for the hundredth time that day, 'No, there
is no such baby'; 'No, we never had it here'; 'No, he couldn't have seen
it for fifty cents'; 'We didn't send it anywhere because we never had
it'; 'I don't mean to say that your sister-in-law lied, but there must
be some mistake'; 'There is no use getting up an excursion from
Milwaukee, for there isn't any Devil Baby at Hull-House'; 'We can't
give reduced rates because we are not exhibiting anything'; and so on
and on. As I came near the front door, I would catch snatches of
arguments that were often acrimonious: 'Why do you let so many people
believe it, if it isn't here?' 'We have taken three lines of cars to
come, and we have as much right to see it as anybody else'; 'This is a
pretty big place, of course you could hide it easy enough'; 'What you
saying that for--are you going to raise the price of admission?' We had
doubtless struck a case of what the psychologists call the 'contagion of
emotion,' added to that 'aesthetic sociability' which impels any one of
us to drag the entire household to the window when a procession comes
into the street or a rainbow appears in the sky.
But the Devil Baby of course was worth many processions and rainbows,
and I will confess that, as the empty show went on day after day, I
quite revolted against such a vapid manifestation of an admirable human
trait. There was always one exception, however: whenever I heard the
high eager voices of old women, I was irresistibly interested, and left
anything I might be doing in order to listen to them.
II
Perhaps my many talks with these aged visitors crystallized thoughts and
impressions that I had been receiving through years; or the tale itself
may have ignited a fire, as it were, whose light illumined some of my
darkest memories of neglected and uncomfortable old age, of old peasant
women who had ruthlessly probed into the ugly depths of human nature in
themselves and others. Many of them who came to see the Devil Baby had
been forced to face tragic human experiences; the powers of brutality
and horror had had full scope in their lives, and for years they had had
acquaintance with disaster and death. Such old women do not shirk life's
misery by feeble idealism, for they are long past the stage of
make-believe. They relate without flinching the most hideous
experiences. 'My face has had this queer twist for now nearly sixty
years; I was ten when it got that way, the night after I saw my father
do my mother to death with his knife.' 'Yes, I had fourteen children;
only two grew to be men and both of them were killed in the same
explosion. I was never sure they brought home the right bodies.' But
even the most hideous sorrows which the old women related had apparently
subsided into the paler emotion of ineffectual regret, after Memory had
long done her work upon them; the old people seemed, in some
unaccountable way, to lose all bitterness and resentment against life,
or rather they were so completely without it that they must have lost it
long since.
Perhaps those women, because they had come to expect nothing more from
life and had perforce ceased from grasping and striving, had obtained,
if not renunciation, at least that quiet endurance which allows the
wounds of the spirit to heal. Through their stored-up habit of
acquiescence, they vouchsafed a fleeting glimpse of that translucent
wisdom so often embodied in old women, but so difficult to portray. I
recall a conversation with one of them, a woman whose fine mind and
indomitable spirit I had long admired; I had known her for years, and
yet the recital of her sufferings, added to those which the Devil Baby
had already induced other women to tell me, pierced me afresh.
'I had eleven children, some born in Bohemia and some born here; nine of
them boys; all of the children died when they were little, but my dear
Liboucha, you know all about her. She died last winter in the insane
asylum. She was only twelve years old when her father, in a fit of
delirium tremens, killed himself after he had chased us around the room
trying to kill us first. She saw it all; the blood splashed on the wall
stayed in her mind the worst; she shivered and shook all that night
through, and the next morning she had lost her voice, couldn't speak out
loud for terror. After a while her voice came back, although it was
never very natural, and she went to school again. She seemed to do as
well as ever and was awful pleased when she got into High School. All
the money we had, I earned scrubbing in a public dispensary, although
sometimes I got a little more by interpreting for the patients, for I
know three languages, one as well as the other. But I was determined
that, whatever happened to me, Liboucha was to be educated. My husband's
father was a doctor in the old country, and Liboucha was always a clever
child. I wouldn't have her live the kind of life I had, with no use for
my mind except to make me restless and bitter. I was pretty old and worn
out for such hard work, but when I used to see Liboucha on a Sunday
morning, ready for church, in her white dress with her long yellow hair
braided round her beautiful pale face, lying there in bed as I
was,--being brought up a freethinker and needing to rest my aching bones
for the next week's work,--I'd feel almost happy, in spite of
everything.
'But of course no such peace could last in my life; the second year at
High School, Liboucha began to seem different and do strange things. You
know the time she wandered away for three days and we were all wild with
fright, although a kind woman had taken her in and no harm came to her.
I could never be easy after that; she was always gentle, but she was
awful sly about running away, and at last I had to send her to the
asylum. She stayed there off and on for five years, but I saw her every
week of my life and she was always company for me, what with sewing for
her, washing and ironing her clothes, cooking little things to take out
to her and saving a bit of money to buy fruit for her. At any rate, I
had stopped feeling so bitter, and got some comfort out of seeing the
one thing that belonged to me on this side of the water, when all of a
sudden she died of heart-failure, and they never took the trouble to
send for me until the next day.'
She stopped, as if wondering afresh that the Fates could have been so
casual, but with a sudden illumination, as if she had been awakened out
of the burden and intensity of her restricted personal interests into a
consciousness of those larger relations which are, for the most part, so
strangely invisible. It was as if the young mother of the grotesque
Devil Baby, that victim of wrongdoing on the part of others, had
revealed to this tragic woman, much more clearly than soft words had
ever done, that the return of a deed of violence upon the head of the
innocent is inevitable; as if she had realized that, although she was
destined to walk all the days of her life with that piteous multitude
who bear the undeserved wrongs of the world, she would walk henceforth
with a sense of companionship.
Among the visitors were pitiful old women who, although they had already
reconciled themselves to much misery, were still enduring more. 'You
might say it's a disgrace to have your son beat you up for the sake of a
bit of money you've earned by scrubbing,--your own man is
different,--but I haven't the heart to blame the boy for doing what he's
seen all his life; his father forever went wild when the drink was in
him and struck me to the very day of his death. The ugliness was born
in the boy as the marks of the devil was born in the poor child
upstairs.'
This more primitive type embodies the eternal patience of those humble
toiling women who through the generations have been held of little
value, save as their drudgery ministered to their men. One of them
related her habit of going through the pockets of her drunken son every
pay-day, and complained that she had never got so little as the night
before, only twenty-five cents out of fifteen dollars he had promised
for the rent long overdue. 'I had to get that as he lay in the alley
before the door; I couldn't pull him in, and the copper who helped him
home left as soon as he heard me coming and pretended he didn't see me.
I have no food in the house nor coffee to sober him up with. I know
perfectly well that you will ask me to eat something here, but if I
can't carry it home, I won't take a bite nor a sup. I have never told
you so much before. Since one of the nurses said he could be arrested
for my nonsupport, I've been awfully close-mouthed. It's the foolish way
all the women in our street are talking about the Devil Baby that's
loosened my tongue--more shame to me.'
There are those, if possible more piteous still, who have become
absolutely helpless and can therefore no longer perform the household
services exacted from them. One last wish has been denied them. 'I hoped
to go before I became a burden, but it was not to be'; and the long
days of unwonted idleness are darkened by the haunting fear that 'they'
will come to think the burden too heavy and decide that the poorhouse is
'the best.' Even then there is no word of blame for undutiful children
or heedless grandchildren, for apparently all that is petty and
transitory falls away from austere old age; the fires are burned out,
resentments, hatreds, and even cherished sorrows have become actually
unintelligible. It is as if the horrors through which these old people
had passed had never existed for them; and, facing death as they are,
they seem anxious to speak only such words of groping wisdom as they can
command.
This aspect of memory has never been more clearly stated than by Gilbert
Murray in his _Life of Euripides_. He tells us that the aged poet, when
he was officially declared to be one of 'the old men of Athens,' said,
'Even yet the age-worn minstrel can turn Memory into song'; and the
memory of which he spoke was that of history and tradition, rather than
his own. The aged poet turned into song even the hideous story of Medea,
transmuting it into 'a beautiful remote song about far-off children who
have been slain in legend, children who are now at peace and whose
ancient pain has become part mystery and part music. Memory--that Memory
who is the mother of the Muses--having done her work upon them.'
The vivid interest of so many old women in the story of the Devil Baby
may have been an unconscious, although powerful, testimony that tragic
experiences gradually become dressed in such trappings in order that
their spent agony may prove of some use to a world which learns at the
hardest; and that the strivings and sufferings of men and women long
since dead, their emotions no longer connected with flesh and blood, are
thus transmuted into legendary wisdom. The young are forced to heed the
warning in such a tale, although for the most part it is so easy for
them to disregard the words of the aged. That the old women who came to
visit the Devil Baby believed that the story would secure them a hearing
at home, was evident, and as they prepared themselves with every detail
of it, their old faces shone with a timid satisfaction. Their features,
worn and scarred by harsh living, even as effigies built into the floor
of an old church become dim and defaced by rough-shod feet, grew
poignant and solemn. In the midst of their double bewilderment, both
that the younger generation were walking in such strange paths and that
no one would listen to them, for one moment there flickered up that last
hope of a disappointed life, that it may at least serve as a warning
while affording material for exciting narrations.
Sometimes in talking to one of them, who was 'but a hair's breadth this
side of the darkness,' one realized that old age has its own expression
for the mystic renunciation of the world. The impatience with all
non-essentials, the craving to be free from hampering bonds and soft
conditions, was perhaps typified in our own generation by Tolstoi's last
impetuous journey, the light of his genius for a moment making
comprehensible to us that unintelligible impulse of the aged.
Often, in the midst of a conversation, one of these touching old women
would quietly express a longing for death, as if it were a natural
fulfillment of an inmost desire. Her sincerity and anticipation were so
genuine that I would feel abashed in her presence, ashamed to 'cling to
this strange thing that shines in the sunlight, and to be sick with love
for it.' Such impressions were in their essence transitory, but one
result from the hypothetical visit of the Devil Baby to Hull-House will,
I think, remain: a realization of the sifting and reconciling power
inherent in Memory, itself. The old women, with much to aggravate and
little to soften the habitual bodily discomforts of old age, exhibited
an emotional serenity so vast and reassuring that I found myself
perpetually speculating as to how soon the fleeting and petty emotions
which seem so unduly important to us now might be thus transmuted; at
what moment we might expect the inconsistencies and perplexities of life
to be brought under this appeasing Memory, with its ultimate power to
increase the elements of Beauty and Significance and to reduce, if not
to eliminate, stupidity and resentment.
III
As our visitors to the Devil Baby came day by day, it was gradually
evident that the simpler women were not moved wholly by curiosity, but
that many of them prized the story as a valuable instrument in the
business of living.
The legend exhibited all the persistence of one of those tales which
have doubtless been preserved through the centuries because of their
taming effects upon recalcitrant husbands and fathers. Shamefaced men
brought by their women-folk to see the baby but ill-concealed their
triumph when there proved to be no such visible sign of retribution for
domestic derelictions. On the other hand, numbers of men came by
themselves. One group from a neighboring factory, on their 'own time,'
offered to pay twenty-five cents, a half-dollar, two dollars apiece to
see the child, insisting that it must be at Hull-House because 'the
women-folks had seen it.' To my query as to whether they supposed we
would exhibit for money a poor little deformed baby, if one had been
born in the neighborhood, they replied, 'Sure, why not?' and, 'It
teaches a good lesson, too,' they added as an afterthought, or perhaps
as a concession to the strange moral standards of a place like
Hull-House. All the members of this group of hardworking men, in spite
of a certain swagger toward one another and a tendency to bully the
derelict showman, wore that hang-dog look betraying the sense of unfair
treatment which a man is so apt to feel when his womankind makes an
appeal to the supernatural. In their determination to see the child, the
men recklessly divulged much more concerning their motives than they had
meant to do, and their talk confirmed my impression that such a story
may still act as a restraining influence in that sphere of marital
conduct, which, next to primitive religion itself, we are told, has
always afforded the most fertile field for irrational tabus and savage
punishments.
What story more than this could be calculated to secure sympathy for the
mother of too many daughters, and contumely for the irritated father?
The touch of mysticism, the supernatural sphere in which it was placed,
would render a man perfectly helpless.
The story of the Devil Baby, evolved to-day as it might have been
centuries before in response to the imperative needs of anxious wives
and mothers, recalled the theory that woman first fashioned the
fairy-story, that combination of wisdom and romance, in an effort to
tame her mate and to make him a better father to her children, until
such stories finally became a rude creed for domestic conduct, softening
the treatment that men accorded to women.
These first pitiful efforts of women, so wide-spread and powerful that
we have not yet escaped their influence, still cast vague shadows upon
the vast spaces of life, shadows that are dim and distorted because of
their distant origin. They remind us that for thousands of years women
had nothing to oppose against unthinkable brutality save 'the charm of
words,' no other implement with which to subdue the fiercenesses of the
world about them.
During the weeks that the Devil Baby drew multitudes of visitors to
Hull-House, my mind was opened to the fact that new knowledge derived
from concrete experience is continually being made available for the
guidance of human life; that humble women are still establishing rules
of conduct as best they may, to counteract the base temptations of a
man's world. Thousands of women, for instance, make it a standard of
domestic virtue that a man must not touch his pay envelope, but bring it
home unopened to his wife. High praise is contained in the phrase, 'We
have been married twenty years and he never once opened his own
envelope'; or covert blame in the statement, 'Of course he got to
gambling; what can you expect from a man who always opens his own pay?'
The women are so fatalistically certain of this relation of punishment
to domestic sin, of reward to domestic virtue, that when they talk about
it, as they so constantly did in connection with the Devil Baby, it
often sounds as if they were using the words of a widely known ritual.
Even the young girls seized upon it as a palpable punishment, to be
held over the heads of reckless friends. That the tale was useful was
evidenced by many letters similar to the anonymous epistle here given.
'me and my friends we work in talor shop and when we are going home on
the roby street car where we get off that car at blue island ave. we
will meet some fellows sitting at that street where they drink some beer
from pail, they keep look in cars all time and they will wait and see if
we will come sometimes we will have to work, but they will wait so long
they are tired and they don't care they get rest so long but a girl what
works in twine mill saw them talk with us we know her good and she say
what youse talk with old drunk man for we shall come to thier dance when
it will be they will tell us and we should know all about where to see
them that girl she say oh if you will go with them you will get devils
baby like some other girls did who we knows, she say Jane Addams she
will show one like that in Hull House if you will go down there we shall
come sometime and we will see if that is trouth we do not believe her
for she is friendly with them old men herself when she go out from her
work they will wink to her and say something else to. We will go down
and see you and make a lie from what she say.'
IV
The story evidently held some special comfort for hundreds of forlorn
women, representatives of that vast horde of the denied and proscribed,
who had long found themselves confronted by those mysterious and
impersonal wrongs which are apparently nobody's fault but seem to be
inherent in the very nature of things.
Because the Devil Baby embodied an undeserved wrong to a poor mother,
whose tender child had been claimed by the forces of evil, his merely
reputed presence had power to attract to Hull-House hundreds of women
who had been humbled and disgraced by their children; mothers of the
feeble-minded, of the vicious, of the criminal, of the prostitute. In
their talk it was as if their long role of maternal apology and
protective reticence had at last broken down; as if they could speak out
freely because for once a man responsible for an ill-begotten child had
been 'met up with' and had received his deserts. Their sinister version
of the story was that the father of the Devil Baby had married without
confessing a hideous crime committed years before, thus basely deceiving
both his innocent young bride and the good priest who performed the
solemn ceremony; that the sin had become incarnate in his child, which,
to the horror of the young and trusting mother, had been born with all
the outward aspects of the devil himself.
As if drawn by a magnet, week after week, a procession of forlorn women
in search of the Devil Baby came to Hull-House from every part of the
city, issuing forth from the many homes in which dwelt 'the two
unprofitable goddesses, Poverty and Impossibility.' With an
understanding that was quickened perhaps by my own acquaintance with the
mysterious child, I listened to many tragic tales from the visiting
women: of premature births, 'because he kicked me in the side'; of
children maimed and burned, because 'I had no one to leave them with
when I went to work.' These women had seen the tender flesh of growing
little bodies given over to death because 'he wouldn't let me send for
the doctor,' or because 'there was no money to pay for the medicine.'
But even these mothers, rendered childless through insensate brutality,
were less pitiful than some of the others, who might well have cried
aloud of their children as did a distracted mother of her child
centuries ago,--
That God should send this one thing more
Of hunger and of dread, a door
Set wide to every wind of pain!
Such was the mother of a feeble-minded boy who said, 'I didn't have a
devil baby myself, but I bore a poor "innocent," who made me fight
devils for twenty-three years.' She told of her son's experiences, from
the time the other little boys had put him up to stealing that they
might hide in safety and leave him to be found with 'the goods' on him,
until, grown into a huge man, he fell into the hands of professional
burglars; he was evidently the dupe and stool-pigeon of the vicious and
criminal until the very day he was locked into the State Penitentiary.
'If people played with him a little, he went right off and did anything
they told him to, and now he's been sent up for life. We call such
innocents "God's Fools" in the old country, but over here the Devil
himself gets them. I've fought off bad men and boys from the poor lamb
with my very fists; nobody ever came near the house except such like and
the police officers who were always arresting him.'
There were a goodly number of visitors, of the type of those to be found
in every large city, who are on the verge of nervous collapse or who
exhibit many symptoms of mental aberration and yet are sufficiently
normal to be at large most of the time and to support themselves by
drudgery which requires little mental effort, although the exhaustion
resulting from the work they are able to do is the one thing from which
they should be most carefully protected. One such woman, evidently
obtaining inscrutable comfort from the story of the Devil Baby even
after she had become convinced that we harbored no such creature, came
many times to tell of her longing for her son who had joined the army
some eighteen months before and was stationed in Alaska. She always
began with the same words. 'When spring comes and the snow melts so that
I know he could get out, I can hardly stand it. You know I was once in
the Insane Asylum for three years at a stretch, and since then I
haven't had much use of my mind except to worry with. Of course I know
that it is dangerous for me, but what can I do? I think something like
this: "The snow is melting, now he could get out, but his officers won't
let him off, and if he runs away he'll be shot for a deserter--either
way I'll never see him again; I'll die without seeing him"--and then I
begin all over again with the snow.' After a pause, she said, 'The
recruiting officer ought not to have taken him; he's my only son and I'm
a widow; it's against the rules, but he was so crazy to go that I guess
he lied a little. At any rate, the government has him now and I can't
get him back. Without this worry about him, my mind would be all right;
if he was here he would be earning money and keeping me and we would be
happy all day long.'
Recalling the vagabondish lad who had never earned much money and had
certainly never 'kept' his hard-working mother, I ventured to suggest
that, even if he were at home, he might not have worked these hard
times, that he might get into trouble and be arrested,--I did not need
to remind her that he had already been arrested twice,--that he was now
fed and sheltered and under discipline, and I added hopefully something
about seeing the world. She looked at me out of her withdrawn harried
eyes, as if I were speaking a foreign tongue. 'That wouldn't make any
real difference to me--the work, the money, his behaving well and all
that, if I could cook and wash for him; I don't need all the money I
earn scrubbing that factory; I only take bread and tea for supper, and I
choke over that, thinking of him.'
V
A sorrowful woman clad in heavy black, who came one day, exhibited such
a capacity for prolonged weeping that it was evidence in itself of the
truth of at least half her statement, that she had cried herself to
sleep every night of her life for fourteen years in fulfillment of a
'curse' laid upon her by an angry man that 'her pillow would be wet with
tears as long as she lived.' Her respectable husband had kept a shop in
the Red Light district, because he found it profitable to sell to the
men and women who lived there. She had kept house in the rooms 'over the
store,' from the time she was a bride newly come from Russia, and her
five daughters had been born there, but never a son to gladden her
husband's heart.
She took such a feverish interest in the Devil Baby that when I was
obliged to disillusion her, I found it hard to take away her comfort in
the belief that the Powers that Be are on the side of the woman, when
her husband resents too many daughters. But, after all, the birth of
daughters was but an incident in her tale of unmitigated woe, for the
scoldings of a disappointed husband were as nothing to the curse of a
strange enemy, although she doubtless had a confused impression that if
there was retribution for one in the general scheme of things, there
might be for the other.
When the weeping woman finally put the events of her disordered life in
some sort of sequence, it was clear that about fifteen years ago she had
reported to the police a vicious house whose back door opened into her
own yard. Her husband had forbidden her to do anything about it and had
said that it would only get them into trouble; but she had been made
desperate one day when she saw her little girl, then twelve years old,
come out of the door, gleefully showing her younger sister a present of
money. Because the poor woman had tried for ten years, without success,
to induce her husband to move from the vicinity of such houses, she was
certain that she could save her child only by forcing out 'the bad
people' from her own door-yard. She therefore made her one frantic
effort, found her way to the city hall, and there reported the house to
the chief himself. Of course, 'the bad people' 'stood in with the
police,' and nothing happened to them except, perhaps, a fresh levy of
blackmail; but the keeper of the house, beside himself with rage, made
the dire threat and laid the curse upon her. In less than a year from
that time he had enticed her daughter into a disreputable house in
another part of the district. The poor woman, ringing one doorbell after
another, had never been able to find her; but the girl's sisters, who in
time came to know where she was, had been dazzled by her mode of life.
The weeping mother was quite sure that two of her daughters, while still
outwardly respectable and 'working downtown,' earned money in the
devious ways which they had learned all about when they were little
children, although for the past five years the now prosperous husband
had allowed the family to live in a suburb where the two younger
daughters were 'growing up respectable.'
At moments it seemed possible that these simple women, representing an
earlier development, eagerly seized upon the story simply because it was
primitive in form and substance. Certainly one evening a long-forgotten
ballad made an unceasing effort to come to the surface of my mind, as I
talked to a feeble woman who, in the last stages of an incurable disease
from which she soon afterwards died, had been helped off the street-car
in front of Hull-House.
The ballad tells that the lover of a proud and jealous mistress, who
demanded as a final test of devotion that he bring her the heart of his
mother, had quickly cut the heart from his mother's breast and
impetuously returned to his lady bearing it upon a salver; but that,
when stumbling in his gallant haste, he stooped to replace upon the
silver plate his mother's heart which had rolled upon the ground, the
heart, still beating with tender solicitude, whispered the hope that her
child was not hurt.
The ballad itself was scarcely more exaggerated than the story of our
visitor that evening, who had made the desperate effort of a journey
from home in order to see the Devil Baby. I was familiar with her
vicissitudes: the shiftless drinking husband and the large family of
children, all of whom had brought her sorrow and disgrace; and I knew
that her heart's desire was to see again before she died her youngest
son, who was a life prisoner in the penitentiary. She was confident that
the last piteous stage of her disease would secure him a week's parole,
founding this forlorn hope upon the fact that 'they sometimes let them
out to attend a mother's funeral, and perhaps they'd let Joe come a few
days ahead; he could pay his fare afterwards from the insurance money.
It wouldn't take much to bury me.'
Again we went over the hideous story. Joe had violently quarreled with a
woman, the proprietor of the house in which his disreputable wife lived,
because she withheld from him a part of his wife's 'earnings,' and in
the altercation had killed her--a situation, one would say, which it
would be difficult for even a mother to condone. But not at all: her
thin gray face worked with emotion, her trembling hands restlessly
pulled at her shabby skirt as the hands of the dying pluck at the
sheets, but she put all the vitality she could muster into his defense.
She told us he had legally married the girl who supported him, 'although
Lily had been so long in that life that few men would have done it. Of
course such a girl must have a protector or everybody would fleece her;
poor Lily said to the day of her death that he was the kindest man she
ever knew, and treated her the whitest; that she herself was to blame
for the murder because she told on the old miser, and Joe was so
hot-headed she might have known that he would draw a gun for her.' The
gasping mother concluded, 'He was always that handsome and had such a
way. One winter when I was scrubbing in an office-building, I'd never
get home much before twelve o'clock; but Joe would open the door for me
just as pleasant as if he hadn't been waked out of a sound sleep.'
She was so triumphantly unconscious of the incongruity of a sturdy son
in bed while his mother earned his food, that her auditors said never a
word, and in silence we saw a hero evolved before our eyes: a defender
of the oppressed, the best beloved of his mother, who was losing his
high spirits and eating his heart out behind prison bars. He could well
defy the world even there, surrounded as he was by that invincible
affection which assures both the fortunate and unfortunate alike that we
are loved, not according to our deserts, but in response to some
profounder law.
This imposing revelation of maternal solicitude was an instance of what
continually happened in connection with the Devil Baby. In the midst of
the most tragic recitals there remained that something in the souls of
these mothers which has been called the great revelation of tragedy, or
sometimes the great illusion of tragedy--that which has power in its own
right to make life acceptable and at rare moments even beautiful.
At least, during the weeks when the Devil Baby seemed to occupy every
room in Hull-House, one was conscious that all human vicissitudes are in
the end melted down into reminiscence, and that a metaphorical statement
of those profound experiences which are implicit in human nature itself,
however crude in form the story may be, has a singular power of healing
the distracted spirit.
If it has always been the mission of literature to translate the
particular act into something of the universal, to reduce the element of
crude pain in the isolated experience by bringing to the sufferer a
realization that his is but the common lot, this mission may have been
performed by such stories as this for simple hard-working women, who,
after all, at any given moment compose the bulk of the women in the
world.
[Illustration]
Every Man's Natural Desire to be Somebody Else
By Samuel McChord Crothers
I
Several years ago a young man came to my study with a manuscript which
he wished me to criticize.
'It is only a little bit of my work,' he said modestly, 'and it will not
take you long to look it over. In fact it is only the first chapter, in
which I explain the Universe.'
I suppose that we have all had moments of sudden illumination when it
occurred to us that we had explained the Universe, and it was so easy
for us that we wondered why we had not done it before. Some thought
drifted into our mind and filled us with vague forebodings of
omniscience. It was not an ordinary thought, that explained only a
fragment of existence. It explained everything. It proved one thing and
it proved the opposite just as well. It explained why things are as they
are, and if it should turn out that they are not that way at all, it
would prove that fact also. In the light of our great thought chaos
seemed rational.
Such thoughts usually occur about four o'clock in the morning. Having
explained the Universe, we relapse into satisfied slumber. When, a few
hours later, we rise, we wonder what the explanation was.
Now and then, however, one of these highly explanatory ideas remains to
comfort us in our waking hours. Such a thought is that which I here
throw out, and which has doubtless at some early hour occurred to most
of my readers. It is that every man has a natural desire to be somebody
else.
This does not explain the Universe, but it explains that perplexing part
of it which we call Human Nature. It explains why so many intelligent
people, who deal skillfully with matters of fact, make such a mess of it
when they deal with their fellow creatures. It explains why we get on as
well as we do with strangers, and why we do not get on better with our
friends. It explains why people are so often offended when we say nice
things about them, and why it is that, when we say harsh things about
them, they take it as a compliment. It explains why people marry their
opposites and why they live happily ever afterwards. It also explains
why some people don't. It explains the meaning of tact and its opposite.
The tactless person treats a person according to a scientific method as
if he were a thing. Now, in dealing with a thing, you must first find
out what it is, and then act accordingly. But with a person, you must
first find out what he is and then carefully conceal from him the fact
that you have made the discovery.
The tactless person can never be made to understand this. He prides
himself on taking people as they are without being aware that that is
not the way they want to be taken.
He has a keen eye for the obvious, and calls attention to it. Age, sex,
color, nationality, previous condition of servitude, and all the facts
that are interesting to the census-taker, are apparent to him and are
made the basis of his conversation. When he meets one who is older than
he, he is conscious of the fact, and emphasizes by every polite
attention the disparity in years. He has an idea that at a certain
period in life the highest tribute of respect is to be urged to rise out
of one chair and take another that is presumably more comfortable. It
does not occur to him that there may remain any tastes that are not
sedentary. On the other hand, he sees a callow youth and addresses
himself to the obvious callowness, and thereby makes himself thoroughly
disliked. For, strange to say, the youth prefers to be addressed as a
person of precocious maturity.
The literalist, observing that most people talk shop, takes it for
granted that they like to talk shop. This is a mistake. They do it
because it is the easiest thing to do, but they resent having attention
called to their limitations. A man's profession does not necessarily
coincide with his natural aptitude or with his predominant desire. When
you meet a member of the Supreme Court you may assume that he is gifted
with a judicial mind. But it does not follow that that is the only
quality of mind he has; nor that when, out of court, he gives you a
piece of his mind, it will be a piece of his judicial mind that he
gives.
My acquaintance with royalty is limited to photographs of royal groups,
which exhibit a high degree of domesticity. It would seem that the
business of royalty when pursued as a steady job becomes tiresome, and
that when they have their pictures taken they endeavor to look as much
like ordinary folks as possible--and they usually succeed.
The member of one profession is always flattered by being taken for a
skilled practitioner of another. Try it on your minister. Instead of
saying, 'That was an excellent sermon of yours this morning,' say, 'As I
listened to your cogent argument, I thought what a successful lawyer you
would have made.' Then he will say, 'I did think of taking to the law.'
If you had belonged to the court of Frederick the Great, you would have
proved a poor courtier indeed if you had praised His Majesty's
campaigns. Frederick knew that he was a Prussian general, but he wanted
to be a French literary man. If you wished to gain his favor, you
should have told him that in your opinion he excelled Voltaire.
We do not like to have too much attention drawn to our present
circumstances. They may be well enough in their way, but we can think of
something which would be more fitting for us. We have either seen better
days or we expect them.
Suppose you had visited Napoleon in Elba and had sought to ingratiate
yourself with him.
'Sire,' you would have said, 'this is a beautiful little empire of
yours, so snug and cosy and quiet. It is just such a domain as is suited
to a man in your condition. The climate is excellent. Everything is
peaceful. It must be delightful to rule where everything is arranged for
you and the details are taken care of by others. As I came to your
dominion I saw a line of British frigates guarding your shores. The
evidences of such thoughtfulness are everywhere.'
Your praise of his present condition would not have endeared you to
Napoleon. You were addressing him as the Emperor of Elba. In his own
eyes he was Emperor, though in Elba.
It is such a misapprehension which irritates any mature human being when
his environment is taken as the measure of his personality.
The man with a literal mind moves in a perpetual comedy of errors. It is
not a question of two Dromios. There are half a dozen Dromios under one
hat.
How casually introductions are made, as if it were the easiest thing in
the world to make two human beings acquainted! Your friend says, 'I want
you to know Mr. Stifflekin,' and you say that you are happy to know him.
But does either of you know the enigma that goes under the name of
Stifflekin? You may know what he looks like and where he resides and
what he does for a living. But that is all in the present tense. To
really know him you must not only know what he is but what he used to
be; what he used to think he was; what he used to think he ought to be
and might be if he worked hard enough. You must know what he might have
been if certain things had happened otherwise, and you must know what
might have happened otherwise if he had been otherwise. All these
complexities are a part of his own dim apprehension of himself. They are
what make him so much more interesting to himself than he is to any one
else.
It is this consciousness of the inadequacy of our knowledge which makes
us so embarrassed when we offer any service to another. Will he take it
in the spirit in which it is given?
That was an awkward moment when Stanley, after all his hardships in his
search for Dr. Livingstone, at last found the Doctor by a lake in
Central Africa. Stanley held out his hand and said stiffly, 'Dr.
Livingstone, I presume?' Stanley had heroically plunged through the
equatorial forests to find Livingstone and to bring him back to
civilization. But Livingstone was not particularly anxious to be found,
and had a decided objection to being brought back to civilization. What
he wanted was a new adventure. Stanley did not find the real Livingstone
till he discovered that the old man was as young at heart as himself.
The two men became acquainted only when they began to plan a new
expedition to find the source of the Nile.
II
The natural desire of every man to be somebody else explains many of the
minor irritations of life. It prevents that perfect organization of
society in which every one should know his place and keep it. The desire
to be somebody else leads us to practice on work that does not strictly
belong to us. We all have aptitudes and talents that overflow the narrow
bounds of our trade or profession. Every man feels that he is bigger
than his job, and he is all the time doing what theologians call 'works
of supererogation.'
The serious-minded housemaid is not content to do what she is told to
do. She has an unexpended balance of energy. She wants to be a general
household reformer. So she goes to the desk of the titular master of the
house and gives it a thorough reformation. She arranges the papers
according to her idea of neatness. When the poor gentleman returns and
finds his familiar chaos transformed into a hateful order, he becomes a
reactionary.
The serious manager of a street railway company is not content with the
simple duty of transporting passengers cheaply and comfortably. He wants
to exercise the functions of a lecturer in an ethical culture society.
While the transported victim is swaying precariously from the end of a
strap he reads a notice urging him to practice Christian courtesy and
not to push. While the poor wretch pores over this counsel of
perfection, he feels like answering as did Junius to the Duke of
Grafton, 'My Lord, injuries may be atoned for and forgiven, but insults
admit of no compensation.'
A man enters a barber's shop with the simple desire of being shaved. But
he meets with the more ambitious desires of the barber. The serious
barber is not content with any slight contribution to human welfare. He
insists that his client shall be shampooed, manicured, massaged, steamed
beneath boiling towels, cooled off by electric fans and, while all this
is going on, that he shall have his boots blacked.
Have you never marveled at the patience of people in having so many
things done to them that they don't want, just to avoid hurting the
feelings of professional people who want to do more than is expected of
them? You watch the stoical countenance of the passenger in a Pullman
car as he stands up to be brushed. The chances are that he doesn't want
to be brushed. He would prefer to leave the dust on his coat rather than
to be compelled to swallow it. But he knows what is expected of him. It
is a part of the solemn ritual of traveling. It precedes the offering.
The fact that every man desires to be somebody else explains many of the
aberrations of artists and literary men. The painters, dramatists,
musicians, poets, and novelists are just as human as housemaids and
railway managers and porters. They want to do 'all the good they can to
all the people they can in all the ways they can.' They get tired of the
ways they are used to and like to try new combinations. So they are
continually mixing things. The practitioner of one art tries to produce
effects that are proper to another art.
A musician wants to be a painter and use his violin as if it were a
brush. He would have us see the sunset glories that he is painting for
us. A painter wants to be a musician and paint symphonies, and he is
grieved because the uninstructed cannot hear his pictures, although the
colors do swear at each other. Another painter wants to be an architect
and build up his picture as if it were made of cubes of brick. It looks
like brick-work, but to the natural eye it doesn't look like a picture.
A prose-writer gets tired of writing prose, and wants to be a poet. So
he begins every line with a capital letter, and keeps on writing prose.
You go to the theatre with the simple-minded Shakespearean idea that the
play's the thing. But the playwright wants to be a pathologist. So you
discover that you have dropped into a grewsome clinic. You sought
innocent relaxation, but you are one of the non-elect and have gone to
the place prepared for you. You must see the thing through. The fact
that you have troubles of your own is not a sufficient claim for
exemption.
Or you take up a novel expecting it to be a work of fiction. But the
novelist has other views. He wants to be your spiritual adviser. He must
do something to your mind, he must rearrange your fundamental ideas, he
must massage your soul, and generally brush you off. All this in spite
of the fact that you don't want to be brushed off and set to rights. You
don't want him to do anything to your mind. It's the only mind you have
and you need it in your own business.
III
But if the desire of every man to be somebody else accounts for many
whimsicalities of human conduct and for many aberrations in the arts, it
cannot be lightly dismissed as belonging only to the realm of comedy. It
has its origin in the nature of things. The reason why every man wants
to be somebody else is that he can remember the time when he was
somebody else. What we call personal identity is a very changeable
thing, as all of us realize when we look over old photographs and read
old letters.
The oldest man now living is but a few years removed from the
undifferentiated germ-plasm, which might have developed into almost
anything. In the beginning he was a bundle of possibilities. Every
actuality that is developed means a decrease in the rich variety of
possibilities. In becoming one thing it becomes impossible to be
something else.
The delight in being a boy lies in the fact that the possibilities are
still manifold. The boy feels that he can be anything that he desires.
He is conscious that he has capacities that would make him a successful
banker. On the other hand, there are attractions in a life of adventure
in the South Seas. It would be pleasant to lie under a bread-fruit tree
and let the fruit drop into his mouth, to the admiration of the gentle
savages who would gather about him. Or he might be a saint--not a
commonplace modern saint who does chores and attends tiresome committee
meetings, but a saint such as one reads about, who gives away his rich
robes and his purse of gold to the first beggar he meets, and then goes
on his carefree way through the forest to convert interesting robbers.
He feels that he might practice that kind of unscientific charity, if
his father would furnish him with the money to give away.
But by and by he learns that making a success in the banking business is
not consistent with excursions to the South Seas or with the more
picturesque and unusual forms of saintliness. If he is to be in a bank
he must do as the bankers do.
Parents and teachers conspire together to make a man of him, which means
making a particular kind of man of him. All mental processes which are
not useful must be suppressed. The sum of their admonitions is that he
must pay attention. That is precisely what he is doing. He is paying
attention to a variety of things that escape the adult mind. As he
wriggles on the bench in the school-room, he pays attention to all that
is going on. He attends to what is going on out-of-doors; he sees the
weak points of his fellow pupils, against whom he is planning punitive
expeditions; and he is delightfully conscious of the idiosyncrasies of
the teacher. Moreover, he is a youthful artist and his sketches from
life give acute joy to his contemporaries when they are furtively passed
around.
But the schoolmaster says sternly, 'My boy, you must learn to pay
attention; that is to say, you must not pay attention to so many things,
but you must pay attention to one thing, namely, the second declension.'
Now, the second declension is the least interesting thing in the room,
but unless he confines his attention to it he will never learn it.
Education demands narrowing of attention in the interest of efficiency.
A man may, by dint of application to a particular subject, become a
successful merchant or real-estate man or chemist or overseer of the
poor. But he cannot be all these things at the same time. He must make
his choice. Having in the presence of witnesses taken himself for better
or worse, he must, forsaking all others, cleave to that alone. The
consequence is that, by the time he is forty, he has become one kind of
a man, and is able to do one kind of work. He has acquired a stock of
ideas true enough for his purposes, but not so transcendentally true as
to interfere with his business. His neighbors know where to find him,
and they do not need to take a spiritual elevator. He does business on
the ground floor. He has gained in practicality, but has lost in the
quality of interestingness.
The old prophet declared that the young men dream dreams and the old men
see visions, but he did not say anything about the middle-aged men.
_They_ have to look after the business end.
But has the man whose working hours are so full of responsibilities
changed so much as he seems to have done? When he is talking shop is he
'all there'? I think not. There are elusive personalities that are in
hiding. As the rambling mansions of the old Catholic families had secret
panels opening into the 'priest's hole,' to which the family resorted
for spiritual comfort, so in the mind of the most successful man there
are secret chambers where are hidden his unsuccessful ventures, his
romantic ambitions, his unfulfilled promises. All that he dreamed of as
possible is somewhere concealed in the man's heart. He would not for the
world have the public know how much he cares for the selves that have
not had a fair chance to come into the light of day. You do not know a
man until you know his lost Atlantis, and his Utopia for which he still
hopes to set sail.
When Dogberry asserted that he was 'as pretty a piece of flesh as any is
in Messina,' and 'one that hath two gowns and everything handsome about
him,' he was pointing out what he deemed to be quite obvious. It was in
a more intimate tone that he boasted, 'and a fellow that hath had
losses.'
When Julius Caesar rode through the streets of Rome in his chariot, his
laurel crown seemed to the populace a symbol of his present greatness.
But gossip has it that Caesar at that time desired to be younger than he
was, and that before appearing in public he carefully arranged his
laurel wreath so as to conceal the fact that he had had losses.
Much that passes for pride in the behavior of the great comes from the
fear of the betrayal of emotions that belong to a simpler manner of
life. When the sons of Jacob saw the great Egyptian officer to whom they
appealed turn away from them, they little knew what was going on. 'And
Joseph made haste, for his bowels did yearn upon his brother: and he
sought where to weep, and he entered into his chamber, and wept there.
And he washed his face, and went out, and refrained himself.' Joseph
didn't want to be a great man. He wanted to be human. It was hard to
refrain himself.
IV
What of the lost arts of childhood, the lost audacities and ambitions
and romantic admirations of adolescence? What becomes of the sympathies
which make us feel our kinship to all sorts of people? What becomes of
the early curiosity in regard to things which were none of our business?
We ask as Saint Paul asked of the Galatians, 'Ye began well; who did
hinder you?'
The answer is not wholly to our discredit. We do not develop all parts
of our nature because we are not allowed to do so. Walt Whitman might
exult over the Spontaneous Me. But nobody is paid for being spontaneous.
A spontaneous switchman on the railway would be a menace to the
traveling public. We prefer some one less temperamental.
As civilization advances and work becomes more specialized, it becomes
impossible for any one to find free and full development for all his
natural powers in any recognized occupation. What then becomes of the
other selves? The answer must be that playgrounds must be provided for
them outside the confines of daily business. As work becomes more
engrossing and narrowing, the need is more urgent for recognized and
carefully guarded periods of leisure.
The old Hebrew sage declared, 'Wisdom cometh from the opportunity of
leisure.' It does not mean that a wise man must belong to what we call
the leisure classes. It means that, if one has only a little free time
at his disposal, he must use that time for the refreshment of his hidden
selves. If he cannot have a sabbath rest of twenty-four hours, he must
learn to sanctify little sabbaths, it may be of ten minutes' length. In
them he shall do no manner of work. It is not enough that the self that
works and receives wages shall be recognized and protected; the world
must be made safe for our other selves. Does not the Declaration of
Independence say that every man has an inalienable right to the pursuit
of happiness?
The old-time minister, after he had exhorted the believers at
considerable length, used to turn to a personage who for homiletical
purposes was known as the Objector. To him he addressed his most labored
arguments. At this point I am conscious of the presence of the Objector.
'All you say,' he remarks, 'in praise of your favorite platitude is true
to a fault. But what has all this to do with the War? There is only one
thing in these days worth thinking about--at least, it is the only thing
we _can_ think about.'
'I agree with you, courteous Objector. No matter where we start, we all
come back to this point: Who was to blame for the War, and how is it
coming out? Our explanatory idea has a direct bearing on the question
before us. The Prussian militarists had a painstaking knowledge of
facts, but they had a contempt for human nature. Their tactlessness was
almost beyond belief. They treated persons as if they were things. They
treated facts with deadly seriousness, but had no regard for feelings.
They had spies all over the world to report all that could be seen, but
they took no account of what could not be seen. So, while they were
dealing scientifically with the obvious facts and forces, all the hidden
powers of the human soul were being turned against them. Prussianism
insists on highly specialized men who have no sympathies to interfere
with their efficiency. Having adopted a standard, all variation must be
suppressed. It is against this effort to suppress the human variations
that we are fighting. We don't want all men to be reduced to one
pattern.'
'But what about the Kaiser? Does your formula explain him? Does he want
to be somebody else?'
'I confess, dear Objector, that it is probably a new idea to him; but he
may come to it.'
[Illustration]
The Temple's Difficult Door
By Robert M. Gay
Do you remember the little old white church which, when we were boys, we
attended more or less unwillingly, according to the season, with its
stiff-backed pews in which we sat aching, counting the pipes in the
organ and the balusters in the altar-rail and the dentils in the
moulding of the pulpit? Of course you remember it, and the little old
lady who sat in a corner ejaculating her hallelujahs and amens with the
regularity of a cuckoo-clock, and the solemn precentor who sawed out the
time with his hand, and the preacher who took his texts from the Old
Testament and rolled the names of the Ten Tribes and their enemies as a
sweet morsel under his tongue. The little old lady, you recollect, was
valiant in prayer-meeting. She was not afraid to criticize the minister,
or to repeat week by week the story of her conversion in her ninth year.
Nor did she fail continually to impress upon us boys--facing us
sometimes, with uplifted finger--the immanence of him who goeth to and
fro in the earth and rageth like a lion, seeking whom he may devour. Ah,
those prayer-meetings! Shall we, shall we ever forget them? Or the
references to the sinners who sat on the back row (where we always sat)?
Or the wailing hymns, or the dismal testimonies, or the waves of
dejection that swept over us during the cataloguing of our omissions and
commissions?
And there was always a boy! Do you remember him? A boy of our own age,
mind you, a boy who ostentatiously arose and, with the decorum of a
deacon, dwelt upon his former iniquities and present beatitude. We
expected this of an occasional girl, yet the girls never did it; a
mumbled text, a flurried word or two, were the extent of their temerity.
As for us, it was not our custom to discuss our souls, even among
ourselves. It is said that to forget the existence of a stomach is the
best symptom of health in that useful organ, and, if the analogy holds,
our souls must have been singularly robust. We were bashful about our
virtues and vices; we could not fathom the sentiments of _Take Time to
be Holy;_ we were in mortal fear that some day somebody might convict us
of sin and hale us forthwith into the fold of the elect. Yet here was a
boy who flaunted his goodness in our faces. It was evident that he was
not normal, that it lay with us as a duty to puncture the bubble of his
presumptuousness.
The time came, you remember, very opportunely. On a memorable evening it
was announced that this Infant Samuel, as the little old lady called
him, was to recite to the congregation the entire Book of Esther from
memory. For us, who found it beyond our power to remember a Golden Text
of ten words for ten minutes, such a performance was unbelievable. We
put our heads together and evolved a plot, dark, yet charming in its
simple effectiveness. We decided to make faces at him.
We were expert in the art of face-making, because we had practiced it
for weeks upon our sisters who sang in the choir. They had suffered, but
were now immune. The grimaces of a Grimaldi could not have ruffled the
calm of their scornful features.
We planted ourselves in the front row, and the boy began his recital. In
time his preoccupied and lack-lustre eye wandered in our direction and
rested upon us. He started, looked away, stammered, recovered, and went
bravely on. But we knew that he would look back. We dared not glance at
our neighbors, but had faith that each was doing his duty.
Of course he did look back, but why prolong the mournful tale? It is
sufficient to say that Esther and Ahasuerus remained unwedded and Haman
unhung; and that our victim retired amid the titterings of the judicious
and the commiserations of the pious, while we plumed ourselves upon a
difficult task laudably accomplished.
I have indulged in this long reminiscence, which probably can be matched
in the experience of most of my masculine readers, because it is
provocative of thoughts that deserve to be aired. An essay might be
written upon the pathos that lies in the spectacle of a boy who is
incited to a public display of his goodness; in the docility which is as
clay in the hands of deluded adults. That he suffered there can be no
doubt--not one half so much under the ordeal of our contriving, which, I
hope, cured him, as under the isolation which his dedication to goodness
made inevitable. He was a lonely boy, though he may not have realized
that he was. That he could ever understand his fellows, or be understood
by them, was impossible. He was the victim of the most perverse fate
that can afflict a boy: he had been born in the bosom of a family whose
piety contained not a grain of the salt of humor, not a particle of the
leaven of imagination, not--But I am forgetting. I wish to ask the
reader's consideration, not of the victim, but of the tormentors.
Why is it that boys are suspicious of that approximate moral perfection
called goodness? Girls find a deep satisfaction in being good--in being
neat, in being clean, in being decorous. If they are not these, we call
them tomboys, still casting the onus of sinfulness upon the other sex.
When we boys confided our exploit to the little girls, we found that
they openly defended the boy, though, it must be admitted, they
privately admired us, as is the way of their sex. Our fathers, informed
by our sisters, and instigated by our mothers, solemnly reproached us,
but with a twinkle that would not be hidden. Manifestly, the trail of
the serpent was over them, too. They were sorry that they had not sat in
the choir.
The meekest of men love to tell how bad they were as boys, hugging their
fiction of early depravity with an unregenerate glee. The more innocuous
they may be now, the more they love to boast--especially to their
wives--of these phantasmal wild oats. The ladies pretend to be shocked
at the stories, but are glad to believe them; and so it is not
surprising if some men, in their fear of being mistaken for saints,
remain boys all their lives.
The pursuit of the ideal is complicated by man's suspicion of goodness,
and by woman's curious, but characteristic, indecision whether to
espouse perfection or imperfection. Gifted with a natural propensity
toward virtue and propriety and neatness and respectability and all the
other approximate perfections of life, attaining them with ease and
wearing them with grace, she of course values them little enough in man.
His foibles interest her more than his virtues. She admires even while
she condemns. He, because he is a man, prefers admiration to
commendation.
In education, man as a rule inculcates ideals of perfection without
pretending to practice them; but woman, with an iron logic which, man's
aspersions to the contrary notwithstanding, is characteristic of her,
not only points but leads the way. Hence it is that some teachers of
her sex have two manners, the human for social occasions, and the divine
for the class-room. In the privacy of their homes they have their
imperfections; in the class-room they are icily perfect. Their
perfectness extends to such details as facial expression and tone of
voice. Occasionally a man adopts the duplex character, but with
deplorable result. I remember such a one in high school. Those of us who
had the good fortune to meet him socially, found that he had his
peccadillos of character, manner, and language, but in the school he was
a pattern which we despaired of imitating. From his necktie to his
reading of Burke's 'Conciliation,' he was without spot or blemish. We
did not dare to love him; we gave up all hope of emulation. We nicknamed
him Mrs. Dawson, and let it go at that.
But women carry this dual character more successfully than men. Whether
because they are better actors or because we confuse saintliness with
femininity, even as boys we are more ready to forgive it in them. To the
little girls, it seems perfectly natural. They catch the idea readily
and practice their teachers' precisions and pruderies upon the family.
We must admit, too, that in the art of being a pattern, women show a
sterner conscientiousness than men. They are not constitutionally so
lazy. It requires hard and sustained effort to be a pattern, an
inveterate and dogged attention to detail. It is chiefly here that we
men fail. The male saints--witness Jerome--had a time of it with their
petty temptations, simply because sainthood is largely a matter of
detail. Most men are good enough in essentials, but fail in the little
things; the little things, of which woman is enamored,--too often, the
slave. To be perfect gives her a satisfaction that man will never
understand; and, prompted by the constitutional laziness aforesaid, he
takes refuge in calling goodness womanish.
His institutions, therefore, are good enough in essentials; his
political organizations and governments, his bureaus and offices and
federations and unions, all are nobly planned, but lack the feminine
touch that makes for perfection. His streets are dirty and so are his
politics; his laws need dusting; a little sweeping would not hurt his
governments; his various organizations would be none the worse for some
polishing and weeding and clipping of loose threads and sewing up of
rents and various other species of revamping. All these last subtleties
are beyond him, just as, be he never so neat, are all the tiny
sweetnesses and refinements and knots and bows and satisfying
knick-knacks of his wife's person. She is a creature of _soupcons_ and
_nuances_ and intuitive niceties. She can endure no compromise with
disorder or dirt or decay. Her motes are all beams until they are
demolished; she uses a mountain of faith to move a mustard-seed; she
cannot see the polished surface for the speck of dust that is on it. In
her extreme development she spends her life doing the million and one
trifles that man would leave undone.
The trouble is that, not satisfied with all this, she longs to make him
perfect, too. Never deterred by the stupendousness of the task, she goes
on, century by century, generation by generation, teaching him,
preaching to him, marrying him; gently leading him or tyrannously
compelling him toward the heaven of her ideal. And here again her gaze
is microscopic. In her attention to his foibles she is liable to
overlook his sins. She can seldom understand badness in boys, nor can
ever see that the boy who is most bad in small matters may be the most
good in large. She loves to keep her male offspring lamblike, and tries
his docility by making him wear long hair and wide collars and linen and
ruffles and lace, never learning but through hard experience that, like
the puppy, he takes naturally to mud and feels at ease only close to the
soil. When he at last rebels and privily snips off his hair and rends
his sashes and furbelows, she weeps, not because of the loss of
material, but because of the loss of an ideal.
And who can blame her? It is seldom enough in this world that we can
kiss and fondle an ideal, except in dreams.
I have a theory that our school laws should be revised and that we
should confide our grammar-school teaching of boys only to women who
have been married. My reason is not the one the reader is imagining,
however. It is not because she will have had children. No. I do not go
so far as that. I merely demand that she shall have had a husband. He is
quite sufficient. He is a male. A year's association with him will have
softened her fibre, will have aroused in her mind doubts of the
perfectibility of mankind. Then, then she will be ready to teach boys.
Yet it must be admitted that every teacher who has managed to remain
human is confronted by a dilemma. As a teacher, he is expected to
inculcate ideals of perfection, not only in studies, but in deportment;
and yet, when he happens to come upon a student who approaches
perfection, it is a mournful occasion. The student may be admirable, but
he is dull company. It has been suggested that teaching can be a
satisfying profession only to very big or very little natures. I suppose
that the idea is that the big nature sees the future in the instant,
tolerates the present imperfection, dreaming of a distant flawlessness;
while the little nature satisfies itself by attaining perfection in
trifles.
The average man or woman who has drifted into the profession is saved
from despair or insanity by that biological interest in, and curiosity
about, humanity, which we call humor. He knows that everlasting concern
with perfection in trifles is a belittler of souls; that correcting
sentences and paragraphs and Latin and German exercises and algebraic
problems and geometrical proofs is poor food for a human mind. On the
other hand, instinct tells him that the larger perfection is cold; that
it dwells in the rarefied air of the mountain-tops; that it is un-human.
To love the derelict student is treason to his profession; yet, as he
looks back over the long line of pupils who have passed through his
hands, he sees that the ones who remain warm and vivid in his memory are
those who fell most short of the very ideals which he tried to
inculcate.
Among all the students in a certain school, I have a living recollection
of just one, and he was the most imperfect student in it. He refused to
study, he refused to behave, he insisted on fighting and bringing snakes
to school in his pocket and--I do not exaggerate--standing on his head
in the middle of a recitation. He passed most of his days sitting in the
headmaster's office, studying demurely when that gentleman was present,
and making paper flying-machines when surveillance relaxed. Yet, as I
search my heart, I find that my memories of him are pleasant; that I
should like to see him again, even at the price of having to recapture
his garter-snakes, or of having to turn him right-side-up during a
recitation. He was much misunderstood. Some of his teachers, having no
faith in my theory of the interestingness of the imperfect, found him a
thorn in the flesh, and predicted for him a sudden end by suspension;
and there were doubtless times when, in an access of impatience, I
longed for the end to come and was ready to officiate at it. He
shattered the pedagogic ideal. Try as I would, I was unable to discover
in him ideals of any sort, and he refused to adopt any that I offered,
however edifying. Yet all the good little boys to whom he administered
black eyes with the utmost generosity have faded from my memory and he
stands out the brighter for the years that have gone. If he had been
good, he, too, would long since have been consigned to the limbo of 'the
dream of things that were.' Viewed in the narrow light of class
discipline, he was a burden, like the grasshopper; in the broad and
genial glow that falls from a humorous philosophy of life, he was a joy,
a heart-filling atomy of mischief, a triumphant example of the
imperfectness of humanity and the humanness of imperfection.
We can postulate so much of the imperfect thing and so little of the
perfect. Flawlessness leaves the weaker imagination so little to take
hold of: it is slippery. Even woman, with that inconsistency which makes
her adorable, really loves perfection no more than we. Every one knows
that a little girl loves an old doll, or a rag doll, or a one-legged
doll, better than the most expensive Parisian wax doll with real hair,
and eyes that open and shut. The Parisian beauty has been longed for for
months, but now that it has become an entity, it leaves the child cold.
If it is so lucky as to lose an arm or some sawdust, there may be hope
for it; but so long as it remains new and whole, it can never hope to
enter the warmest precincts of the little girl's heart. 'To keep in
sight Perfection,' says a contemporary poet, 'is the artist's best
delight,' and his bitterest pang that he can do no more than that; yet
in another epigram the same poet speaks as follows:--
The thousand painful steps at last are trod,
At last the temple's difficult door we win.
Perfect upon his pedestal, the god
Freezes us hopeless when we enter in.
The little girl is tasting this experience. The contemplation of elastic
joints, mechanical eyes, and waxen complexion warmed the cockles of her
heart, but the embodiment of these in a palpable doll freezes her
hopeless. If the poet, with more imagination, suffers too, and the
highest natures--those which we call the transcendental--whiff the
sadness that lies in the attainment of the perfect, surely the
unimaginative mass of mankind can be excused if they find the
inter-lunar regions chilly.
In reckless moments I wonder whether the Greek statues did not suffer
more happily at the hands of fate when they lost their arms and heads
and legs than we are accustomed to think; whether their dilapidation has
not given them a place in our hearts instead of merely in our heads; has
not couched them in our love instead of merely pedestaled them in our
reverence.
Or, to take an illustration from a lower plane, may it not be that we
get a keener pleasure out of eating an imperfect apple? It is neither
the best possible apple, which would be perfect, nor the worst possible
apple, which would have a kind of negative perfection; it has a worm at
the core; but I wonder whether we do not enjoy it more because we have
to eat the more carefully to keep from eating him. Besides, he arouses
in our mind all sorts of questionings. Why is he there? What kind of
worm is he? How did he get in? How would he have got out if we had not
ousted him? And--note this--what sort of an apple would it have been if
he had taken up his residence elsewhere?
I am rather proud of this little apologue of the apple. For the perfect
apple could have roused no queries which the defective apple does not.
The same subtle influences went to make both: the same elements, the
same forces, the same chemical processes. But the defective apple has in
addition to all these--the worm.
There is 'some strangeness' even 'in beauty.' The perfect rhythm is
intolerable. We demand chiaroscuro in life as in color. The preciousness
of the ointment is the more evident for the fly. 'We love people for
their vices,' so the vices do not make them despicable.
If the gods that sit above have a sense of humor, they must find us
grown men and women as funny and as sad as we find the boys and girls
and dogs. Not knowing the sentiments of the gods, we have to content
ourselves with those of the poets and humorists who, we fondly imagine,
have in them something of the god-like vision. They look at humanity
from above. And they find that the spectacle of humanity trying to be
what it cannot be, facing both ways, on the threshold of heaven casting
a longing, lingering look behind, is comic and tragic in its very
essence; for comedy and tragedy differ chiefly in degree. In the
imperfection of humanity lie its tragedy and its humor. Without it, this
would be a happier world; but with it, it is a merrier.
[Illustration]
Exile and Postman
By Jean Kenyon Mackenzie
It used to make me homesick, in our little African clearing, to see the
albino woman. She would move about among her brown companions like a
flame--and her white body, that flickered in the sun and glimmered in
the shade, used to knock at the door of nostalgia. Homesick people
always long for a visit, and that albino was so white!
Once, to our neighborhood, where in those days white women did not come,
there came a white woman. She did not lodge with us; she lodged with the
white officer because she was an officer's wife. We used to wonder if
she would call upon us. One of us had a pair of field-glasses, and we
used to watch her little figure coming and going about the clearing on
the government hill. When one day she was seen to come down into our
valley by the zigzag trail, we thought we had a Visit. I cannot tell you
how anxious we were, in that little bark house, to make a good
appearance--or what fresh disposals were made, with our eyes upon that
descent, of our properties. I do not wish to make you too sad, but that
white woman did not visit us. She went away. She did not know about us,
or about exiles--that they are always dreaming of a Visit.
It seems a hard thing, sometimes, when night closes the doors of all the
little trails, that the day has passed without a visitor. It is true of
exiles that they have the most unreasonable expectations of the sort,
based perhaps upon the migrations of swallows, and not relinquished
until the hour of dusk. Yes, then the little trails of the forest are
perceived by the mind's eye--which like a cat's eyes sees them better
for the dark--to wander away into an infinite distance and a solitude.
Dusk is altogether the most illuminating hour for the exile; he then
knows so exactly where he is; he has a perfectly visual sense of his
surroundings. He sees where he is, but how came he to be there? The
geography of his circumstance is plain, but not the logic. He who has no
other companions than himself suspects this companion, in that hour of
dusk, to be a fool. It must be a poor fool, he thinks, who has drifted
into such a clearing by such a river!
The forest of the Cameroon is as good a place as any to be homesick; but
I will not be saying that the members of my profession--and I am a
missionary--are chronic sufferers. Missionaries are, in the main, gay,
and for excellent reasons--some of them pagan reasons, for they are
little brothers of Antaeus; some of them Christian reasons, for they are
of the company of successful fishermen. A fisherman with a good catch
can defy even the dusk; his string of silver fish is a lantern to his
feet.
No, if there were an altar and a service to placate nostalgia it would
not be that fisherman who would most attend that service. The path to
that altar would be worn brown by the feet of the trader. I think the
trader is lonelier than the missionaries are; he is better versed in
solitude. He goes into the forest with a backward look; he comes out of
the forest sometimes with a secret and a stricken countenance. More than
missionaries do, he does. More often than they, he builds out of his
lonely horror and the license of solitude a perverse habitation for his
soul. Sometimes--and this is very sad--he is afraid. He lingers and
lingers on the margin of that green sea of forest.
'The heart,' say the Bulu, 'has gone to hide in the dark.' And this is a
Bulu way of saying that the heart is not worn upon the sleeve. Well,
upon the sleeve of the white-drill suits that beach-traders wear there
is, I will agree, no device of hearts. But those lonely inland
traders,--those that have traveled ten, twenty, thirty days from their
kind,--what is that they sometimes seem to wear upon the sleeve of their
singlets? And who cares where he wears his heart if there is never a
white man's eye to fall upon it! In those little bark huts on the
trading posts, where young white men pale with the passing hours, there
comes to be a careless fashion in wear, whether of hearts or of collars.
In the warm dusk of those little houses, where there is an earthen
floor, where there are tin trade-boxes as bright as jockeys' jackets,
where there are trade-cloths printed with violent designs, where there
is salt fish and cheap scent and tobacco,--where all these desirable
things may be had for ivory and rubber,--there the trader may wear his
heart upon his sleeve without shame. None of those brilliant eyes, set
in those dark faces, know a white man's heart when they see it. There in
his hut is a monotony of brown bodies quick with vehement gestures;
there is a tumult of controversy in a tongue he does not know. The
sudden glitter of brass ornament is there, and the glitter of brass
spears. There are fantastic head-dresses studded with buttons and shells
and beads, and scented with the odor of wood-fires. Between those brown
bodies and the body of the white man lies the counter. More lies between
them than this. There are between them such barriers that the white man
is not more lonely when he is alone.
Yet how still it is of an idle day under the thatched leaves of that
little house! The sun does its exaggerated violence to the yellow earth
of the clearing; the forest hangs its arras over its secret. How far it
is, in this place not named on the map, from Manchester! How, when the
rain falls, it is other than rainfall on the Clyde! How the pale fruit
that hangs high on the _ajap_ tree is not like the apples that ripen in
Wishaw!
Do not speak of apples! Nostalgia in her cruel equipment carries a
scented phantom apple.
At night there is about that young trader a trouble of drums that never
rest. There is the sharp concerted cry of the dancers. There is the
concerted wail for the dead. There is about him all the rhythmic beating
of the mysterious life of his neighborhood, tormenting him where he lies
under his mosquito net. For this he will rise and walk about, the ember
of his pipe drifting back and forth in the dark, and his gramophone,
roused by himself, making its limited obedient effort.
There is this about a gramophone: it is a thing that speaks the home
tongue. I have seen him sitting under the eaves of his little hut, by
his little table spread with a checkered cloth, his gramophone beside
him, trying, with its tale of the old grouse gunroom, to divert that
lonely meal. Now that I think of it, the gramophone is a kind of hero of
my little piece--a kind of David with five tunes to do battle with
nostalgia. Back in the tent broods Saul, and this poor patient David
plays the endless round of five tunes. Until some day there is a javelin
in the wall, and a proud black man goes away with a gramophone into the
wilderness.
The night sky does more permanent ministry to the homesick, and of all
the bright ministers the moon is the most effectual. It is the great
reflector of lights; there it comes, swinging up its old path in the
sky, and the fires of home are mirrored on its disk. You who read have
spread your hands, in your hour of homesickness, to those phantom
fires--and other hands are always spread. Some of us were sitting on our
heels about a little flame in a new clearing; all of us were alien in
that clearing; one of us was white. And the black woman said to the
white woman when the moonlight fell upon all those women faces,--
'The moon looks upon the villages and upon the home village. We black
people, when we sit in the towns of strangers and the moon shines, we
say, "Now by the light of this same moon the people at home dance to the
drums!" However far we walk, we look upon the moon and we remember our
friends at home.'
Upon another moonlight night, sitting in a forest camp with young black
girls for companions, these sang for me a little set of songs--the
songs, they told me, of the moon:--
'Ah, mone zip, alu a daneya! Ah mone zip'[B]
[Note B: 'Ah, little gazelle, the night has deepened! Ah, little
gazelle!']
This little refrain they sang, clapping their hands ever so lightly, and
the meaning of the singing was a warning.
It was a song of the moon, a song for wanderers. And the moon on that
remembered night, dragging its net of broken silver cords in among the
trees of the forest, caught everywhere the wandering hearts and drew
them back on the little rough trails to the home fires. Every night that
is a moonlight night there is the casting of that silver net upon far
rivers and forests deeper than rivers--wherever aliens make a bed of
leaves or sleep on a canvas cot.
On such a night, and caught in such a net, I have met the postman. Yes,
on just such a night, when the world appeared as it hangs in space, a
crystal globe, and when so observed from a little clearing in an African
forest, it was seen to be charted for voyagers, and all its little paths
ran readily about the globe to that gilt side which is home. On such a
night, and upon such a path, I met the postman.
To hang upon a little wicket gate under the moon at the end of a
moon-filled clearing in a breach of the forest,--to see the black body
of the postman suddenly darken the checkered light upon the path from
the west,--how to speak of this adventure with moderation! How to speak
of postmen at all with moderation! And of those postmen who thread the
lonely forests of the world, their loads upon their backs, their rations
of salt fish on top of their loads; how to recall their aspects, their
monthly or bi-monthly or semi-annual arrivals, the priceless treasures
they carry! how speak of these things to men and women who have never
followed the little gazelle into those forests where the night has
deepened; who have never felt the divinity in postmen!
Imagine that there is a people in this world who let a postman walk up
the path unattended, and who wait until he knocks on the door! Who do
not shout to their neighbors when they receive a letter, and who receive
one every day! These items alone prove the truth of the Bulu proverb
that there are tribes and tribes, and customs and customs.
And I will agree that there are, even on the trails of the wilderness,
postmen and postmen. There are even, though I hate to dwell upon it,
postmen whom I do not trust. Not all postmen have wings upon their
heels. The ideal postman does of course fly. He is like
The bird let loose in eastern skies
When hastening fondly home.
He avoids idle wanderers. But they do not all do so. I remember to have
been wakened one night in a village by the gossip of two old headmen.
They had met before my tent; there in the moonlight they chatted
together. All the little life of the village was sleeping; the two old
men alone were abroad. They were about the business of the post. It is a
pioneer custom in Africa, east and west, that the white man's local
letter is franked from town to town. The black man to whom the white man
gives his letter carries it to the headman of the next settlement, who
carries it in turn to his brother headman down the trail; and so from
hand to hand, by day and by night, with a glance from any passing white
man, the letter goes forward. Such a letter--carried as the custom is,
in a split rod from which there hung, like a flag, a bit of turkey
red--changed hands that night before my tent. And now I write it in a
white man's book that the postmen loitered.
To stand and chat there in the moonlight with the exile's letter in your
hands--how could you do that, you two old heartless headmen? I watched
you from my little green tent. It is remembered of you that you so
delayed, while in some lonely hamlet under that same moon a white man
sickened for a letter. And when one gave the forked stick to the other,
it was then too late. If indeed, as you would say, you spoke no more
than five words of gossip one to the other, those words were five too
many. It is remembered of you, and a thousand nights since when I have
waited for the mail, if it were a moonlight night, I have told myself
with an extreme self-pity and a bitterness, 'The carrier is gossiping in
some clearing.' I have seen in my heart that man with the load of mail
upon his back, standing for hours by a friend of his, laughing and
asking news one of the other. This conjured vision of two black men
holding up the mail is the sad issue of an imagination infected beyond
cleansing. You see, _I saw them do it_.
Some postmen have come in late because their feet were sore. And some,
in passing through their home town, have permitted themselves an illness
or a marriage. Some have waited, with the mail in their loads, to bury
the dead. Such a postman, so given to misadventures and clumsy ill-timed
tragedies, was once late to the tune of eleven days. Who remembers what
delayed him or what exquisite reasons he gave? And who of us in that
little clearing forgets the long hours of that year of days?
Another postman, of an extreme beauty and an extreme speed, arrived
before his time. There was a shouting when he came. All the inhabitants
of that little settlement of white men called to each other; the four or
five of them filled a room of a bark house--those white faces that were
growing daily like the face of the Asra, 'bleich und bleicher,' were all
lit by the flame of the mail. In all that little commonwealth, with its
pioneer trades and its pioneer gardens and its pioneer hospital and
school and church--in all that settlement all the busy crude wheels of
industry slackened and stood still while the white men opened the load
of the mail.
'Now they will be reading the _books_ from home!'
And of Ebenge, that young carrier, it is still remembered that he
arrived before he was due. 'Ah, Ebenge.' you still say to him from time
to time, 'that was a fine walking you walked that walk so long ago when
you slept but three nights with the mail!'
Another postman, never to be forgotten by those exiles whom he served,
never came at all. This was a boy, too young, you would think, for his
great office. The letters in his little pack were from husbands to
wives, and they must travel a hundred miles of forest-trail in time of
war. Not twenty miles they traveled when the postman, surrounded by
black soldiers, was called to deliver. He did not deliver. He could not
give the white man's letters to another hand. He said, No, he could not.
And for this they killed him. That young body tarried forever upon the
trail, witnessing in that interminable delay--as Ebenge had witnessed in
his swift coming--to the sacred element in the mail.
Here is the king's touch for the king's evil--the hand of the postman
dropping a letter. For this the victims of nostalgia do long service.
For this they scribble, in their lonely and various dwellings, their
letters. There is a night, in those alien settlements all about the
world, that is unlike other nights. It is the night before the mail is
closed. The lamp is full of oil that night, and the cup of coffee is at
the elbow. On and on, while the stars march, the white man's hand runs
upon the page. In villages where there are no street lamps, the white
man's window is a lamp all night of the night before the mail. From
steamers that are tied to trees among the rushes, in rivers that you do
not know, the officer on watch may look all night through such a window
at such a man writing, writing a long, long letter--the beating heart of
man, articulate in all that heartless darkness.
How quick a seed, you would say, the seed in such a letter! How such a
letter must bear, some sixty-, some an hundred-fold! Yet myself I saw
this: I saw the harbor-master of Kabinda, a settlement of white men on
the west coast of Africa, come aboard the monthly steamer to get the
mail. He was an old Portuguese, coffee-colored in his gray linen suit. A
long time he had been harbor-master, and many times he had taken the
brown bag of mail ashore. This day, when he lifted his bag, he 'hefted'
it: the lightness of it in his hand made him smile. Some irony that was
the fruit of his long experience of exiles and their letters made that
old indifferent man curl the lip. I think that in Kabinda that night
there went white men hungry to bed.
I would not like to live in Kabinda, where the postman is so old and so
wise. These white postmen know too much; they can count more than ten.
And other things they know: they know a thing too sad to tell. Better
Ebenge, who ran so swiftly with his load, or little Esam, who thought
that for a load of letters some would even dare to die.
[Illustration]
The Life of Adventure
By Edgar J. Goodspeed
'ADVENTURES,' said the gifted Mr. Disraeli, 'are to the adventurous.'
Stevenson somewhere recommends the conception of life as a series of
adventures, each morning witnessing as it were a new embarkation upon
some treasure-quest or feat of arms. And I have often observed that my
adventurous friends have a knack of reporting with all the flavor of
genuine adventures, experiences which upon sober reflection seem rather
to fade into the light of common day. It would appear, therefore, that
it is they who put the adventurous into life, rather than that life is
responsible.
In this fact lies much encouragement for one whose life seems set in a
routine of commonplace; who lives upon a decent city street, where even
burglars seldom penetrate, and nothing more exciting than automobile
collisions ordinarily happens. These last are, however, of a gratifying
frequency, if it is excitement that one craves. Indeed, we have latterly
come to a weary sense of annoyance when the familiar crunch informs us
that two motorists have simultaneously claimed the right of way. The
pious duty of sweeping up all that was mortal of these unfortunates
sometimes becomes really distressing, and one feels like a modern Tobit,
keeping watch o'er man's mortality.
I make it a point never to witness these distressing occurrences; that
would be a vocation in itself. Only when the fatal crash is heard do I
emerge, like AEsculapius from his temple. I was a witness once, but only
in a burglary. I had not, of course, seen the burglary, but I could
remember seeing the _corpus delicti in situ_, as it were, later than any
one else; and the proof that the object had existed had, of course, to
precede the evidence that it had disappeared. Such is the logic of the
law. Twenty several times I accordingly visited the Halls of Justice,
and twenty several mornings I sacrificed upon the altar of duty. Months
wore on; we witnesses, from our frequent meetings, came to be firm
friends. We talked of forming a permanent organization. We even began to
produce a literature, though all that I now remember of it is, 'For
we're trying Johnny Artzle in the morning.'
I became so seasoned an habitue of the court building that belated
witnesses for other tribunals, on reaching the witness-room, would rush
up to me and explain in broken English that they had been detained, that
they had come as fast as they could and hoped I would excuse them;
showing that there was nothing about me that looked out of place in the
precincts of the Criminal Court.
But, with all this assiduity, we did not convict our burglar. The kindly
judge reduced his bail, that he might rejoin his family; he seized the
opportunity to filch some golden teeth, which a prosperous dentist had
destined for his fashionable clients, and this irate gentleman thrust in
his case ahead of ours (though the Statute of Limitations had not yet
run against us) and thus snatched from us the satisfaction of immuring
our defendant in his deserved dungeon.
This is why I never witness motor accidents. But it is plain that even
this unhappy business may take on the glamour of romance when approached
from the point of view of adventure. The other morning, when the
familiar crunch informed us that we were again to function as first aids
to broken humanity, I rushed into the street, to see a large limousine,
of the eight-passenger type now usual at obsequies, resting comfortably
on its port side on the opposite parkway. What might it not contain, in
the way of youth, beauty, and interest? Yet in point of fact, when its
cargo had been laboriously hoisted up through the main hatch, which was
ordinarily its right-hand door, it proved to be nothing very romantic
after all, and we gave it its coffee with a certain vague sense of
disappointment. Some people really are not worthy of adventure, and it
is a great pity that many who have adventures refuse to accept them
gratefully in an adventurous spirit.
War is, of course, the main avenue to adventure, and even so commonplace
an affair as military drill has, at least in its early stages,
adventurous possibilities. Our corporal (for I have to admit that I am
only a private--as yet) being one day kept from duty by a seminar on
Plato, an expert on the history of art, excluding that of war, was set
over us. His eagerness exceeded his experience, and it is not too much
to say that he led us into places of danger previously unsuspected. The
company, though with the gravest misgivings, was called upon to deploy
as skirmishers, guide left. Placing himself at our head and crying,
'Follow me,' our gallant leader at once set off at a double-quick in the
wrong direction, where a lieutenant much out of breath overtook us,
crying, 'Hay, corporal! you belong at the other end of the line!'
'Follow me,' ordered our leader unabashed; and we double-quicked to the
other end, there to meet the other lieutenant, with the cry, 'Hay,
corporal! you belong in the middle of the line!'
But one of our most inflexible deans occupied the middle with his squad,
and his conception of military duty would not permit him to budge
without orders. Perhaps he remembered the Marne and defeat by
dislocation. With no place to go, our embarrassment was relieved by the
captain's 'As you were,' and we formed again in our familiar column of
squads. But in the slight confusion which I have to admit had for a
moment prevailed, a metathesis had taken place: from being third squad
we had become fourth, which position carried with it the responsibility
of leading the second platoon. When therefore the hoarse order,
'Platoons column left,' rang out, the company plodded placidly on in
column of squads. We seemed to have lost our platoon consciousness. Our
captain was annoyed; he knew that he had two platoons, but they declined
to separate. Again the order came, without effect.
The company now vaguely felt that something was wrong, and suppressed
cries of 'Hay, corporal! you're pivot man!' 'Hay, second platoon! wake
up!' came to us from front and rear. With a start, our guilty squad
awoke to its new responsibilities, and a sense of the eternal
watchfulness of the soldier's life. _Qui vive? Qui va?_
The day before Marshal Joffre arrived, I asked our guide, a Plattsburg
veteran, whether the Faculty Company was to participate in his review of
the battalion. His face darkened with apprehension.
'Say,' said he, 'that would be a mess! He's reviewed better troops than
we are!'
Never more desperate ones, though, we agreed. Like all great soldiers,
our officers are modest, even about their handiwork. We of the ranks,
however, in our eagerness feel some disappointment that we cannot
exhibit our newly won proficiency, even to General Barry. Why keep it
all for Hindenburg?
Battalion drill is a great day in the life of the military neophyte, and
our favorite evolution is the company front double-quick. It would have
been a pleasure to perform this for the Marshal of France, but our last
execution of the manoeuvre made our officers reluctant to exhibit our
proficiency in it again to the jealous eye of authority. In company
front, we spread in two ranks well across the field, and at the command
'Double time!' we inaugurated a really imposing movement, before the
reviewing officer. For some reason the front rank of the first squad set
a rapid pace, which the whole rank nobly strove to imitate. The second
rank, in fear of being distanced, came thundering up behind, and the
first rank, hearing their onset close upon their heels, regularly ran
away. In consequence, our alignment, usually so precise, suffered
considerably; and it began to look like an interscholastic 'quarter
mile' badly bunched at the finish. Reduced to the more professorial
'quick time' at the end of the race, we soon recovered our breath if not
our composure, and it was remarked that in the rush it had been the
Faculty orators who led the field; both things being after all at bottom
a matter of wind.
Before we were dismissed that morning, the reviewing officer commented
favorably on our drill, excepting only the double-quick, and admonished
us to try to keep from laughing. Yet is it not well known from the
writings of Captain Beith and others that the British Tommies go into
action laughing, joking, and singing music-hall ballads?
The other day the major's usual stirring lecture on the art of war was
replaced by that threadbare faculty device, a written quiz. The first
question (I believe I am disclosing no military secret in telling) was,
'Name the textbook.' The answer was, of course, I.D.R.; but some poor
fellows who had plunged into the contents without first mastering the
cover, were found wanting.
The sociability characteristic of convocation processions naturally
tends to pervade our military marching as well. At battalion the other
day we were trying to catch the captain's far-off orders and then to
distinguish which of several whistles was the 'command of execution' for
our company, when a late arrival dropped into the vacant file beside me,
and in the most sociable manner began to relate an experience on the
rifle range the Saturday before. This extended narrative was much
interrupted, for I lost him every little while under the stress of those
far-off orders, of which he appeared quite unconscious. His method
seemed to be to wait for the evolution to be completed and then rejoin
me wherever I might be and resume his parable, although he did
occasionally complain that he had not heard the order.
Nevertheless, we learn quickly. The other day the first sergeant, a
theologian of a wholly unsuspected bellicosity, called upon the squad
leaders to report. The first corporal at once glibly cried out, 'All
present or accounted for'; whereupon each successive corporal, confident
that none of his men had been killed or captured since the day before,
joyfully answered with the same crisp and comprehensive formula.
For all our attempts at militarism, a certain democratic informality
still lingers among us. The captain is ordinarily affectionately
addressed as 'Henry.' Thus, while at rest, a voice is heard from the
rear rank: 'Well, Henry, I don't understand what the rear rank is to do
on the order, "Company platoons right." Now the front rank--'
'There's no such command,' answers the captain patiently, thus closing
the incident.
The captain frequently marches backward, so that he can face us and
enjoy the swift precision with which we carry out his orders. The other
day he backed into the east bleacher and sat down abruptly on the bottom
step. Luckily he gave the command to halt, or in our blind obedience we
should probably have marched right over him up the bleacher and off the
back of it into space.
I shall never forget our first review. It was with no little reluctance
that our captain consented to our participation in it. He seemed to fear
that we might shy at the visiting officers' decorations, and run away.
Only the most protracted good behavior on our part carried the day.
After marching past the reviewing party, in as straight a company front
as we could exhibit, we opened our ranks for inspection, and the
visiting colonel prowled about among us. Just before he reached our
company, a student major, in a frenzy of apprehension, came up and gave
us one final adjuration not to wiggle.
The colonel--a fine military figure--marched swiftly up and down our
ranks, stopping now and then to address a few crisp questions to one or
another of the men. He seemed to select those whose soldierly bearing
suggested military promise; at least our corporal and I thought so, as
we were the men he spoke to in our part of the line. Or it may be that
we were standing so like statues that he wanted to satisfy himself that
those marble lips could speak. Our comrades were of course eager to know
what he had said, and we had later to tell them that he had imparted to
us important military information of a confidential character; to which
they cynically replied, '_Yaas_, he did!'
We also tactfully let it be known that the colonel was anxious to learn
whether our officers were perfectly satisfactory. With more tractable
and appreciative inquirers we entered into more detail. He had asked the
corporal whether he had ever shot a rifle: corporal blushingly admitted
that he had once shot a squirrel. (Corporal is a football hero, and
accustomed to meet the enemy at much closer quarters than rifle range.
The rest of us, on the other hand, are publicists, and are deadliest at
distances of from 500 to 5000 miles.) Number 2 was asked if he could
cook, and claimed that he could. Colonel in his haste did not think to
ask Number 2 if any one could eat what he cooked, or he would have
learned that Number 2's cookery is best suited to prisoners of war.
Colonel had no sooner departed on his inquisitorial way than the student
major reappeared from nowhere, in a fearful rage, to inquire if we
couldn't stand still even for _two minutes_, and to complain bitterly
that during the inspection one man had been guilty of rubbing his nose.
Murmurs of disapproval ran through the ranks at the mention of this
wretched offender, who was probably responsible for dragging our company
down to a tie with the Law School for third place out of nine in the
honors of the day.
Captain now mercifully ordered, 'Rest,' and a prodigious and concerted
sigh rose from the ranks. Each man abandoned his pokerlike pose of
'Ten-_shun_' for an attitude of infinite dejection and fatigue. It was
6:15 and I remarked to Number 2 that my back ached. He said his ached
clear through. Our former corporal asked the captain what a man was to
do if he had a dinner engagement. Captain said he had one, but guessed
we'd all have to wait for orders to dismiss. Corporal replied that he
hadn't one, but just wanted to know. If one is to rise in the service,
one should never lose an opportunity of extracting military information
from one's officers.
We have not yet been promoted to uniforms, but last night after drill
we were informed that while we could not be provided with the invisible
olive-gray now in fashion, some antiquated khaki-colored uniforms of
1910 were being provided for our adornment. This arrangement met with no
objection. The fact is, we are not wholly unaccustomed to wearing
clothes of the fashion of 1910, and furthermore, while we have no desire
to be conspicuous, some of us rather shrink from the idea of wearing
invisible clothing, no matter how fashionable.
So full of adventure is military life, even in its most elementary form.
But after all I am not primarily a soldier: I am a human coral
insect--that is to say, a university professor, before whom life
stretches, as Stevenson said of another class, 'long and straight and
dusty to the grave.' I should like to be a volcanic being, shouldering
up whole islands at a heave; or even, if that could not be, perhaps
engulfing one or two, reluctantly of course, now and then. Whereas it is
my lot in life to labor long and obscurely beneath the surface, to make
the intellectual or historical structure of the universe solider by some
infinitesimal increment, about which in itself nobody except my wife and
me particularly cares.
Sometimes, however, I repine a little and wish that I were, say, a
porpoise, splashing gayly along at the surface, and making a noise in
the world. Once in a while, when I am going to sleep (for even a coral
insect must sometimes sleep), dreams float through my mind of sudden
achievement, such as might make one a porpoise or better; and once one
of these nearly came true. Judge how nearly. I was wandering through a
half-subterranean Spanish chapel, fitly set with huge old missals, dark
altar-pieces, covered stalls, and quaint curios. Its dim recesses
beckoned us on from one rich relic to another. Interest quickened. It
seemed a place where anything might be, awaiting only the expert eye of
discovery. I had often fancied such a place, and finding in some dim
corner of it a certain long-lost work of literature still remembered
after a thousand years' absence; somewhere in such a sleepy
treasure-house it doubtless lay, enfolding within its mouldering folios,
not its quaint contents only, but fame and fortune for its finder. And
look! Yonder, under a corner staircase, is a shelf of old books, large
and small. You approach it with feigned indifference; here, if anywhere,
will be your prize, a manuscript whose unique rarity will awaken two
hemispheres. It is not among the ponderous tomes, of course; so you take
them down first, postponing putting fortune to the decisive touch. But
these small octavos have just the look of promise; they are thin, too,
as it would be; and what period more likely for it than that sixteenth
century to which they so obviously belong?
Only the other day, a friend of mine who lives on our reef, and on a
branch even more recondite than mine, found among the uncatalogued
antiques of an American museum the one long-lost Tel-el-Amarna tablet,
which had disappeared almost as soon as it was discovered, and of which
it was only known that it was probably in America. Thus may one be
changed in a moment from polyp to porpoise, and be translated from the
misty obscurity of the bottom to the stirring, dazzling, delightful
surface of things.
But after all, the plain truth is that adventure consists less in the
experiences one actually has than in the indefatigable expectancy with
which one awaits them. Indeed, I sometimes fear that people must be
divided into those who have adventures and those who appreciate them.
And between the two the affinity for adventure is greater treasure than
the experiencing of it. If we are possessed of the affinity, adventure
itself is, at most, just round the corner from us. This opens the life
of adventure to all who crave it. What possibilities lie in merely
crossing a street, for example! Some one remarked the other day as he
dodged across among the motor-cars, 'Why not take a chance now and then
and lead a real life for a few minutes?'
I therefore recommend the life of adventure. It conceives each day as a
fresh enterprise, full of delightful possibilities and promise, and so
preserves the wine of life from growing flat.
Here is the secret of youth. The moral of Mr. Disraeli's epigram is, 'Be
adventurous.'
[Illustration]
An Indictment of Intercollegiate Athletics
By William T. Foster
I
Intercollegiate athletics provide a costly, injurious, and excessive
regime of physical training for a few students, especially those who
need it least, instead of inexpensive, healthful, and moderate exercise
for all students, especially those who need it most.
Athletics are conducted either for education or for business. The old
distinction between amateur and professional athletics is of little use.
The real problems of college athletics loom large beside the
considerations that define our use of the terms 'professional' and
'amateur.' The aims of athletics reveal the fact that the important
distinctions are between athletics conducted for educational purposes
and athletics conducted for business purposes.
When athletics are conducted for education the aims are (1) to develop
all the students and faculty physically and to maintain health; (2) to
promote moderate recreation in the spirit of joy, and as a preparation
for study rather than as a substitute for study; and (3) to form habits
and inculcate ideals of right living. When athletics are conducted for
business, the aims are (1) to win games--to defeat another person or
group being the chief end; (2) to make money--as it is impossible
otherwise to carry on athletics as business; (3) to attain individual or
group fame and notoriety. These three--which are the controlling aims of
intercollegiate athletics--are also the aims of horse-racing,
prize-fighting, and professional baseball.
These two sets of aims are in sharp and almost complete conflict.
Roughly speaking, success in attaining the aims of athletics as
education is in inverse proportion to success in attaining the aims of
athletics as business. Intercollegiate athletics to-day are for
business. The question is pertinent whether schools and colleges should
promote athletics as business.
Nearly all that may be said on this subject about colleges applies to
secondary schools. The lower schools as a rule tend to imitate the worst
features of intercollegiate athletics, much as the young people of
fraternities, in their 'social functions,' tend to imitate the empty
lives of their elders that fill the weary society columns of the
newspapers.
If the objection arises that intercollegiate athletics have educational
value, there is no one to deny it. 'Athletics for education' and
'athletics for business' are general terms, used throughout this
discussion as already defined. Exceptions there may be: only the main
tendencies are here set forth. The whole discussion is based on my
personal observations at no less than one hundred universities and
colleges in thirty-eight states during the past five years.
The most obvious fact is that our system of intercollegiate athletics,
after unbounded opportunity to show what it can do for the health,
recreation, and character of _all_ our students, has proved a failure.
The ideal of the coach is excessive training of the few: he best attains
the business ends for which he is hired by the neglect of those students
in greatest need of physical training. Our present system encourages
most students to take their athletics by proxy. When we quote with
approval the remark of the Duke of Wellington that Waterloo was won on
the playing grounds of Eton, we should observe that he did not maintain
that Waterloo was won on the grandstands of Eton.
What athletics may achieve without the hindrance of intercollegiate
games and business motives is suggested by the experience of Reed
College. There the policy of athletics for everybody was adopted five
years ago before there were any teachers, students, alumni, or
traditions. Last year all but six of the students took part in athletics
in the spirit of sport for the sake of health, recreation, and
development. Sixty per cent of the men of the college, including the
faculty, took part in a schedule of sixteen baseball games. Nearly all
the students, men and women alike, played games at least twice a week.
There were series of contests in football, baseball, track, tennis,
volley-ball, basket-ball, and other out-of-door sports. All of this,
according to the report of the athletic association, cost the students
an average of sixteen cents apiece. No money for coaches and trainers;
no money for badges, banners, cups, and other trinkets; no money for
training-tables and railroad fares; no money for grandstands, rallies,
brass bands, and advertising. Fortunately, it is the unnecessary
expenses that heap up the burdens--the cost of athletics as business.
The economical policy is athletics for everybody--athletics for
education.
II
Opposed to the three educational aims are the aims of athletics as
business--winning games, making money, and getting advertised.
Almost invariably the arguments of students in favor of intercollegiate
games stress the business aims and ignore all others. Win games!
Increase the gate-receipts! Advertise the college! These are the usual
slogans. Thus the editors of one college paper reprimand the faculty for
even hesitating to approve a trip of fifteen hundred miles for a single
game of football:--
'Contrary to the expectations of the students, the matter of the
Occidental football game for next fall has not been acted upon as yet.
That such an important matter as this has not received attention so far
from the Faculty is unfortunate. While it is generally believed that the
Faculty will act favorably in regard to letting the game be scheduled,
it is understood that some opposition has developed on the ground that
such a long trip would keep the football men away from their classes too
long a time.
'From every point of view, there seems no reason why the game should not
be played. To state any of the arguments in favor of the offer is
unnecessary. Every one knows what it would mean to football next fall,
the greater interest it would mean to the game, the incentive it would
prove to every football man to work to become one of the seventeen men
to take the trip, the advertising it would give to the college, and,
perhaps most important, the drawing card it would be to bring new
athletes to the college in the fall. These points and others are too
well known to need pointing out and too evident to need proof.'
This is a typical football argument. It attempts to prove the necessity
of the proposed trip by showing that it would tend to perpetuate the
thing the value of which is under dispute.
In like vein the students of Cornell complain because the faculty did
not grant an additional holiday in connection with the Pennsylvania
football game. It is the familiar cry: 'Support the team! Win games!
Advertise the college!'
'Our friends, the professors, will perforce hold forth in their
accustomed cells from eight till one of that fair morning. The benches,
no doubt, will derive great benefit therefrom....
'We want the football team to have as much support as possible. The
Faculty should want the football team to have as much support as
possible. The Faculty should foster true Cornell spirit whenever it can
honestly do so, and intercollegiate athletics is the greatest single
thing that unites the different colleges into Cornell University. A
victory over Penn would mean a lot for Cornell.'
After all, how important is this end for which such sacrifices are made?
To hear the yelling of twenty thousand spectators, one might suppose
this aim to be the only one of great importance in the life of the
university. Yet who wins, who loses, is a matter of but momentary
concern to any except a score or two of participants; whereas, if there
is one thing that should characterize a university, it is its cheerful
sacrifice of temporary for permanent gains,--in Dr. Eliot's fine phrase,
its devotion to the durable satisfactions of life.
The making of money, through intercollegiate athletics, continues a
curse, not only to institutions, but as well to individual players. Only
childlike innocence or willful blindness need prevent American colleges
from perceiving that the rules which aim to maintain athletics on what
is called an 'amateur' basis, by forbidding players to receive pay in
money, are worse than useless, for while failing to prevent men from
playing for pay, they breed deceit and hypocrisy. There are many ways of
paying players for their services. Only one of these, and that the most
honorable, is condemned.
There are many subterranean passages leading to every preparatory s
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