As I expressed my
gladness
I was startled by a loud cry from
my guide, the first sound that I had heard him utter.
my guide, the first sound that I had heard him utter.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v07 - Cic to Cuv
In the centre of the cave was Sawny, with
some of the younger sort of the women pawing over him and
bandaging his wounded shoulder. He was growling and spitting
inarticulately all the time like a wildcat. And every time his
shoulder hurt him, as the women worked with it, he would take
his other hand and strike one of them down, as though it was
to her that he owed the twinge of pain.
Presently the monster arose and took the gold brocade again
in his hand. I thought that of a certainty now the time was
And I looked at Nell Kennedy.
come.
God knows what was in my eyes. My heart was like to
break. For the like of this pass was never man in. That I
should have to smite my love to the death within an hour of the
first kiss and the first owning of her affection!
But she that loved me read my thought in mine eyes.
She bared her neck for me, so that I could see its tender
whiteness in the flicker of the fire.
'Strike there," she said, "and let me die in your arms, who
are my heart's love, Launcelot Kennedy. "
I heard the Beast-man's step on the stair. I looked from Nell's
dear neck to her eyes and back again to her bosom.
I lifted my
hand with the steel in it, and nerved myself for the striking, for
## p. 4195 (#573) ###########################################
S. R. CROCKETT
4195
I must make no mistaking. And even in that moment I saw a
dagger also in Marjorie's hand.
Suddenly a tremendous rush of sound filled the cave. The
dagger fell from my hand, and Nell and I clasped one another.
The clamor seemed to be about us and all round us. Roaring
echoes came back to us. The bowels of the earth quaked. Yet
methought there was something familiar in the sound of it. I
turned me about, and there, standing erect with all his little
height, was the dominie. His cheeks were distended, and he
was blowing upon his great war-pipes such a thunderous pibroch
as never had been heard in any land since the pipes skirled on
the Red Harlaw.
What possession had come upon his mind I know not. But
the effect I can tell. The pack of fiends that caroused and slew
beneath stood stricken a moment, in amaze at the dreadful
incomprehensible sounds. Then they fled helter-skelter, yelly-
hooing with fear, down the narrow sea-way, from which the tide
had now fully ebbed. And when I looked over, there was not a
soul to be seen. Only over the edge of a caldron the body of
the murdered woman, or at least a part of it, lay—a bloody
incentive to haste out of this direful Cave of Death.
The dominie stepped down as though he had been leading a
march, strutting and passaging like the king's piper marching
about the banqueting-table at Holyrood. I declare, the creature
seemed fey. He was certainly possessed with a devil. But the
fearlessness of the man. won into our veins also. For with steel
or pistol in each of our hands we marched after him, ready to
encounter aught that might come in our way. Aye, and even
thus passed out of the cave, hasting down the long passage
without a quiver of the heart or a blenching of the cheek, so
suddenly and so starkly, by way of sudden hope, had the glorious
music brought the hot blood back to our hearts, even as it had
stricken our cruel foes with instant terror.
cave of Sawny Bean,
But when in the gray
Thus dry-shod we marched out of the
and not so much as a dog barked at us.
of a stormy morning we reached the cliff's edge, we heard inland
the wild voices of the gang yelling down the wind, as though
the furies of fear were pursuing them and tearing at their vitals.
What they expected I know not. But I guess that they must
have taken us for whatever particular devil they happened to
believe in, come to take them quick to their own place. Which,
## p. 4196 (#574) ###########################################
4196
S. R. CROCKETT
after all, could not be much worse than the den in which we
had seen them at their disport, nor could all the torturing fiends
of lowest hell have been their marrows in devilish cruelty.
So once more the world was before us, and strangely quiet it
seemed, as if we had died in stress and riot and been born again
into an uncanny quiet. There remained now for us only the
bringing to pass of righteous judgments upon the wicked ones
who had compassed and plotted all this terrible tale of evils.
These murders without end, the hellish cruelties and death-
breeding deceits, must not fall alone on the crazed outlaw and
his brood, for the chief criminals were those that were greater
than Sawny Bean and his merciless crew.
## p. 4197 (#575) ###########################################
4197
GEORGE CROLY
(1780-1860)
HE versatile Irishman George Croly turned to literature as his
means of livelihood when about thirty years old. He had
been educated in his native town of Dublin, where he had
graduated from Trinity College when only fifteen. Even thus early.
he had distinguished himself as a classical student and for grace in
extempore speaking. He next studied for the ministry, and in 1804
was ordained, and obtained a small curacy in the North of Ireland.
But George Croly had a great fund of ambition, which kept him
dissatisfied in this humble position. Hopes of preferment were several
times held out to him, but they all failed; and tired of disappoint-
ment, he gave up his curacy in 1810 and moved to London with his
mother and sisters. There he soon found an opening in journalism,
and became dramatic critic on the New Times, and a regular con-
tributor to the Literary Gazette and Britannia. He also wrote for
Blackwood's Magazine, and as fellow contributor met the young lady
whom he afterwards married.
In spite of his scholarship and great facility in expression, Croly's
cannot be called an original mind. His verse is mostly a reflection
of the literary influences he experienced. A certain exaggeration of
emotion, the romance of Byron and Moore then in highest favor,
appealed to him, and he emulated it in his most ambitious poems.
'Paris' (1815), although much weaker, strongly suggests 'Childe
Harold. ' Like Moore, his imagination delighted in Oriental color
and richness, and he often chose Eastern subjects, as in 'The Angel
of the World. '
The Traditions of the Rabbins' has been called an imitation of
De Quincey, and indeed a portion of it is wrongly included in the
collection of De Quincey's works. His Life and Times of George
IV. ' is more valuable as entertaining reading than for historical
significance. To religious literature he contributed a 'Commentary
on the Apocalypse,' and a book upon 'Divine Providence, or the
Three Cycles of Revelation. ' But although he loved literature and
had read extensively, Croly's appreciation of it seems to have been
entirely emotional. He could not analyze his impressions, and his crit-
ical work is vague enthusiasm rather than suggestive discrimination.
He essayed drama successfully. Catiline,' in spite of bombastic
reminiscences of Marlowe, has tragic strength and richly rhythmic
## p. 4198 (#576) ###########################################
4198
GEORGE CROLY
verse.
'Pride Shall Have a Fall,' a clever exposure of social weak-
nesses, was successfully given at the Covent Garden Theatre.
Although happy in authorship, Croly was anxious to resume his
clerical profession, and in 1835 gladly accepted the rectorship of St.
Stephen's Church, Walbrook, where a fashionable congregation ac-
corded him a great reputation for eloquence. He was less success-
ful in 1847, when appointed afternoon lecturer at the Foundling
Hospital. The orphans and servant-maids failed to appreciate his
flowery periods and emotional fervors. He was evidently quite be-
yond them, and soon resigned in disgust at their ingratitude.
Croly's poems and several other works, highly praised when they
appeared, have been nearly forgotten. His fame rests now upon his
fiction: Tales of the Saint Bernard,' 'Marston,' and 'Salathiel the
Immortal. ' The last especially, with the enduring fascination of the
Wandering Jew legend, is always interesting. It has been often said.
that no one else has told the story so well. All the romance-loving
side of Croly's nature comes out in the glowing descriptions of East-
ern scenery, and in the appeal to heroic sentiment. The fantastic
figure of Nero, ancient passions and vices, a spirit of former bar-
barity interwoven with ideality, the tragedy of unending human life,
are curiously impressed on the picturesque pages.
THE FIRING OF ROME
From Salathiel the Immortal'
NTELLIGENCE in a few days arrived from Brundusium of the
Emperor's landing, and of his intention to remain at Antium.
on the road to Rome, until his triumphal entry should be
prepared. My fate now hung in the scale. I was ordered to
attend the imperial presence. At the vestibule of the Antian
palace my careful centurion deposited me in the hands of a
senator. As I followed him through the halls, a young female
richly attired, and of the most beautiful face and form, crossed
us, light and graceful as a dancing nymph. The senator bowed
profoundly. She beckoned to him, and they exchanged a few
words. I was probably the subject; for her countenance, spark-
ling with the animation of youth and loveliness, grew pale at
once; she clasped both her hands upon her eyes, and rushed
into an inner chamber. She knew Nero well; and dearly she
was yet to pay for her knowledge. The senator, to my inquir
ing glance, answered in a whisper, "The Empress Poppæa. "
## p. 4199 (#577) ###########################################
GEORGE CROLY
4199
A few steps onward, and I stood in the presence of the most
formidable being on earth. Yet whatever might have been the
natural agitation of the time, I could scarcely restrain a smile at
the first sight of Nero. I saw a pale, undersized, light-haired
young man sitting before a table with a lyre on it, a few copies
of verses and drawings, and a parrot's cage, to whose inmate he
was teaching Greek with great assiduity. But for the regal fur-
niture of the cabinet, I should have supposed myself led by
mistake into an interview with some struggling poet. He shot
round one quick glance on the opening of the door, and then
proceeded to give lessons to his bird. I had leisure to gaze on
the tyrant and parricide.
Physiognomy is a true science. The man of profound thought,
the man of active ability, and above all the man of genius, has
his character stamped on his countenance by nature; the man of
violent passions and the voluptuary have it stamped by habit.
But the science has its limits: it has no stamp for mere cruelty.
The features of the human monster before me were mild and
almost handsome; a heavy eye and a figure tending to fullness
gave the impression of a quiet mind; and but for an occasional
restlessness of brow, and a brief glance from under it, in which
the leaden eye darted suspicion, I should have pronounced Nero
one of the most indolently tranquil of mankind.
He remanded the parrot to his perch, took up his lyre, and
throwing a not unskillful hand over the strings, in the intervals
of the performance languidly addressed a broken sentence to me.
"You have come, I understand, from Judea; - they tell me that
you have been, or are to be, a general of the insurrection;
you must be put to death; -your countrymen give us a great
deal of trouble, and I always regret to be troubled with them. -
But to send you back would only be encouragement to them, and
to keep you here among strangers would only be cruelty to you.
-
―――
I am charged with cruelty: you see the charge is not true. -
I am lampooned every day; I know the scribblers, but they must
lampoon or starve. I leave them to do both. Have you brought
any news from Judea? - They have not had a true prince there
since the first Herod; and he was quite a Greek, a cut-throat,
and a man of taste. He understood the arts. -I sent for you to
see what sort of animal a Jewish rebel was. Your dress is hand-
some, but too light for our winters. -You cannot die before sun-
set, as till then I am engaged with my music master. We all
――――
## p. 4200 (#578) ###########################################
4200
GEORGE CROLY
―――――――――
must die when our time comes. - - Farewell-till sunset may
Jupiter protect you! "
I retired to execution! and before the door closed, heard this
accomplished disposer of life and death preluding upon his lyre
with increased energy. I was conducted to a turret until the
period in which the Emperor's engagement with his music-
master should leave him at leisure to see me die. Yet there was
kindness even under the roof of Nero, and a liberal hand had
covered the table in my cell. The hours passed heavily along,
but they passed; and I was watching the last rays of my last
sun, when I perceived a cloud rise in the direction of Rome. It
grew broader, deeper, darker, as I gazed; its centre was suddenly
tinged with red; the tinge spread; the whole mass of cloud
became crimson: the sun went down, and another sun seemed to
have risen in his stead. I heard the clattering of horses' feet in
the courtyards below; trumpets sounded; there was confusion in
the palace; the troops hurried under arms; and I saw a squad-
ron of cavalry set off at full speed.
As I was gazing on the spectacle before me, which perpetu-
ally became more menacing, the door of my cell slowly opened,
and a masked figure stood upon the threshold. I had made up
my mind; and demanding if he was the executioner, I told him
"that I was ready. " The figure paused, listened to the sounds.
below, and after looking for a while on the troops in the court-
yard, signified by signs that I had a chance of saving my life.
The love of existence rushed back upon me. I eagerly inquired
what was to be done. He drew from under his cloak the dress
of a Roman slave, which I put on, and noiselessly followed his
steps through a long succession of small and strangely intricate
passages. We found no difficulty from guards or domestics.
The whole palace was in a state of extraordinary confusion.
Every human being was packing up something or other: rich
vases, myrrhine cups, table services, were lying in heaps on the
floors; books, costly dresses, instruments of music, all the append-
ages of luxury, were flung loose in every direction, from the
sudden breaking up of the court. I might have plundered the
value of a province with impunity. Still we wound our hurried
way. In passing along one of the corridors, the voice of com-
plaining struck the ear; the mysterious guide hesitated; I glanced
through the slab of crystal that showed the chamber within. It
was the one in which I had seen the Emperor, but his place
## p. 4201 (#579) ###########################################
GEORGE CROLY
4201
was now filled by the form of youth and beauty that had crossed
me on my arrival. She was weeping bitterly, and reading with
strong and sorrowful indignation a long list of names, probably
one of those rolls in which Nero registered his intended victims,
and which in the confusion of departure he had left open. A
second glance saw her tear the paper into a thousand fragments,
and scatter them in the fountain that gushed upon the floor.
I left this lovely and unhappy creature, this dove in the vul-
ture's talons, with almost a pang. A few steps more brought us
to the open air, but among bowers that covered our path with
darkness. At the extremity of the gardens my guide struck
with his dagger upon a door; it was opened: we found horses.
outside; he sprang on one; I sprang on its fellow; and palace,
guards, and death, were left far behind.
He galloped so furiously that I found it impossible to speak;
and it was not till we had reached an eminence a few miles
from Rome, where we breathed our horses, that I could ask to
whom I had been indebted for my escape. But I could not
extract a word from him. He made signs of silence, and pointed
with wild anxiety to the scene that spread below. It was of a
grandeur and terror indescribable. Rome was an ocean of flame.
Height and depth were covered with red surges, that rolled
before the blast like an endless tide. The billows burst up the
sides of the hills, which they turned into instant volcanoes,
exploding volumes of smoke and fire; then plunged into the
depths in a hundred glowing cataracts, then climbed and con-
sumed again. The distant sound of the city in her convulsion
went to the soul. The air was filled with the steady roar of the
advancing flame, the crash of falling houses, and the hideous
outcry of the myriads flying through the streets, or surrounded
and perishing in the conflagration.
Hostile to Rome as I was, I could not restrain the exclama-
tion: "There goes the fruit of conquest, the glory of ages, the
purchase of the blood of millions! Was vanity made for man? "
My guide continued looking forward with intense earnestness, as
if he were perplexed by what avenue to enter the burning city.
I demanded who he was, and whither he would lead me. He
returned no answer. A long spire of flame that shot up from a
hitherto untouched quarter engrossed all his senses. He struck
in the spur, and making a wild gesture to me to follow, darted
down the hill. I pursued; we found the Appian choked with
―――――――――――――――――
## p. 4202 (#580) ###########################################
4202
GEORGE CROLY
wagons, baggage of every kind, and terrified crowds hurrying
into the open country. To force a way through them was
impossible. All was clamor, violent struggle, and helpless death.
Men and women of the highest rank were on foot, trampled by
the rabble, that had then lost all respect of conditions. One
dense mass of miserable life, irresistible from its weight, crushed
by the narrow streets, and scorched by the flames over their
heads, rolled through the gates like an endless stream of black
lava.
We turned back, and attempted an entrance through the gar-
dens of the same villas that skirted the city wall near the Pala-
tine. All were deserted, and after some dangerous leaps over
the burning ruins we found ourselves in the streets. The fire
had originally broken out upon the Palatine, and hot smoke that
wrapped and half blinded us hung thick as night upon the
wrecks of pavilions and palaces: but the dexterity and knowledge
of my inexplicable guide carried us on. It was in vain that I
insisted upon knowing the purpose of this terrible traverse. He
pressed his hand on his heart in reassurance of his fidelity, and
still spurred on.
We now passed under the shade of an immense range of lofty
buildings, whose gloomy and solid strength seemed to bid
defiance to chance and time. A sudden yell appalled me. A
ring of fire swept round its summit; burning cordage, sheets of
canvas, and a shower of all things combustible, flew into the air
above our heads. An uproar followed, unlike all that I had ever
heard,—a hideous mixture of howls, shrieks, and groans. The
flames rolled down the narrow street before us, and made the
passage next to impossible. While we hesitated, a huge frag-
ment of the building heaved as if in an earthquake, and for-
tunately for us fell inwards. The whole scene of terror was
then open.
The great amphitheatre of Statilius Taurus had
caught fire; the stage with its inflammable furniture was intensely
blazing below. The flames were wheeling up, circle above circle,
through the seventy thousand seats that rose from the ground to
the roof. I stood in unspeakable awe and wonder on the side of
this colossal cavern, this mighty temple of the city of fire. At
length a descending blast cleared away the smoke that covered
the arena.
The cause of those horrid cries was now visible.
The wild beasts kept for the games had broken from their dens.
Maddened by affright and pain, lions, tigers, panthers, wolves,
## p. 4203 (#581) ###########################################
GEORGE CROLY
4203
whole herds of the monsters of India and Africa, were inclosed
in an impassable barrier of fire. They bounded, they fought,
they screamed, they tore; they ran howling round and round the
circle; they made desperate leaps upwards through the blaze;
they were flung back, and fell only to fasten their fangs in each
other, and with their parching jaws bathed in blood, died raging.
I looked anxiously to see whether any human being was
involved in this fearful catastrophe. To my great relief I could
see none. The keepers and attendants had obviously escaped.
As I expressed my gladness I was startled by a loud cry from
my guide, the first sound that I had heard him utter. He
pointed to the opposite side of the amphitheatre. There indeed.
sat an object of melancholy interest; a man who had either been.
unable to escape, or had determined to die. Escape was now
impossible. He sat in desperate calmness on his funeral pile.
He was a gigantic Ethiopian slave, entirely naked. He had
chosen his place, as if in mockery, on the imperial throne; the
fire was above him and around him; and under this tremendous
canopy he gazed, without the movement of a muscle, on the
combat of the wild beasts below: a solitary sovereign with the
whole tremendous game played for himself, and inaccessible to
the power of man.
I was forced away from this absorbing spectacle, and we
once more threaded the long and intricate streets of Rome. As
we approached the end of one of these bewildering passages,
scarcely wide enough for us to ride abreast, I was startled by
the sudden illumination of the sky immediately above; and ren-
dered cautious by the experience of our hazards, called to my
companion to return. He pointed behind me, and showed the
fire bursting out in the houses by which we had just galloped.
I followed on. A crowd that poured from the adjoining streets
cut off our retreat. Hundreds rapidly mounted on the houses
in front, in the hope by throwing them down to check the con-
ration. The obstacle once removed, we saw the source of
the light-spectacle of horror! The great prison of Rome was
on fire. Never can I forget the sights and sounds-the dismay
-the hopeless agony-the fury and frenzy that then over-
whelmed the heart. The jailers had been forced to fly before
they could loose the fetters or open the cells of the prisoners.
We saw those gaunt and woe-begone wretches crowding to their
casements, and imploring impossible help; clinging to the heated
## p. 4204 (#582) ###########################################
GEORGE CROLY
4204
bars; toiling with their impotent grasp to tear out the massive
stones; some wringing their hands; some calling on the terrified
spectators by every name of humanity to save them; some vent-
ing their despair in execrations and blasphemies that made the
blood run cold; others, after many a wild effort to break loose,
dashing their heads against the walls, or stabbing themselves.
The people gave them outcry for outery; but the flame forbade
approach. Before I could extricate myself from the multitude a
whirl of fiery ashes shot upwards from the falling roof; the walls
rent into a thousand fragments; and the huge prison with all
its miserable inmates was a heap of red embers.
Exhausted as I was by this restless fatigue, and yet more by
the melancholy sights that surrounded every step, no fatigue.
seemed to be felt by the singular being that governed my move-
ments. He sprang through the burning ruins,- he plunged into
the sulphurous smoke,- he never lost the direction that he had
first taken; and though baffled and forced to turn back a hun-
dred times, he again rushed on his track with the directness of
an arrow. For me to make my way back to the gates would be
even more difficult than to push forward. My ultimate safety
might be in following, and I followed. To stand still and to
move were equally perilous. The streets, even with the im-
provements of Augustus, were still scarcely wider than the
breadth of the little Italian carts that crowded them. They
were crooked, long, and obstructed by every impediment of a
city built in haste, after the burning by the Gauls, and with no
other plan than the caprice of its hurried tenantry. The houses
were of immense height, chiefly wood, many roofed with thatch,
and all covered or cemented with pitch. The true surprise is
that it had not been burned once a year from the time of its
building.
The memory of Nero, that hereditary concentration of vice,
of whose ancestor's yellow beard the Roman orator said, "No
wonder that his beard was brass, when his mouth was iron and
his heart lead," the parricide and the poisoner-may yet be
fairly exonerated of an act which might have been the deed
of a drunken mendicant in any of the fifty thousand hovels of
this gigantic aggregate of everything that could turn to flame.
We passed along through all the horrid varieties of misery,
guilt, and riot that could find their place in a great public
calamity: groups gazing in woe on the wreck of their fortunes,
-
## p. 4205 (#583) ###########################################
GEORGE CROLY
4205
rushing off to the winds in vapor and fire; groups plundering in
the midst of the flame; groups of rioters, escaped felons, and
murderers, exulting in the public ruin, and dancing and drink-
ing with Bacchanalian uproar; gangs of robbers trampling down
and stabbing the fugitives to strip them of their last means;
revenge, avarice, despair, profligacy, let loose naked; undisguised
demons, to swell the wretchedness of this tremendous infliction
upon a guilty and blood-covered empire.
Still we spurred on, but our jaded horses at length sank
under us; and leaving them to find their way into the fields,
we struggled forward on foot.
――――
A WIFE'S INFLUENCE
Α
URELIA - One hope there is, worth all the rest-Revenge!
The time is harassed, poor, and discontent;
Your spirit practiced, keen, and desperate,-
The Senate full of feuds,- the city vext
With petty tyranny- the legions wronged-
Catiline [scornfully]—
From Catiline >
―――
Aurelia
Catiline - Hear me, bold heart!
Yet who has stirred? Woman, you paint the air
With Passion's pencil.
Were my will a sword!
The whole gross blood of Rome
Could not atone my wrongs! I'm soul-shrunk, sick,
Weary of man! And now my mind is fixed
For Sylla: there to make companionship
Rather of bear and tiger-of the snake-
The lion in his hunger-than of man!
Aurelia I had a father once, who would have plunged
Rome in the Tiber for an angry look!
You saw our entrance from the Gaulish war,
When Sylla fled?
Catiline
My legion was in Spain.
Aurelia-We crept through Italy, a flood of fire,
A living lava, rolling straight on Rome.
For days, before we reached it, the whole road
Was thronged with suppliants-tribunes, consulars;
The mightiest names o' the State. Could gold have bribed,
We might have pitched our tents, and slept on gold;
## p. 4206 (#584) ###########################################
4206
GEORGE CROLY
But we had work to do! Our swords were thirsty.
We entered Rome as conquerors, in arms;
I by my father's side, cuirassed and helmed,
Bellona beside Mars.
Catiline [with coldness] –
Aurelia
―
The world was yours!
- Rome was all eyes; the ancient tottered forth;
The cripple propped his limbs beside the wall;
The dying left his bed to look, and die.
The way before us was a sea of heads;
The way behind a torrent of brown spears:
So, on we rode, in fierce and funeral pomp,
Through the long living streets, that sunk in gloom,
As we, like Pluto and Proserpina,
Enthroned, rode on-like twofold destiny!
Catiline [sternly, interrupting her]—
Those triumphs are but gewgaws. All the earth,
What is it? Dust and smoke. I've done with life!
Aurelia [coming closer and looking steadily upon him]—
Before that eve, one hundred senators
And fifteen hundred knights had paid in blood
The price of taunts, and treachery, and rebellion!
Were my tongue thunder, I would cry-Revenge!
Catiline [in sudden wildness]-
―
No more of this! In to your chamber, wife!
There is a whirling lightness in my brain,
That will not now bear questioning. -Away!
[Aurelia moves slowly towards the door.
Where are our veterans now? Look on these walls;
I cannot turn their tissues into life.
Where are our revenues- our chosen friends?
Are we not beggars? Where have beggars friends?
I see no swords and bucklers on these floors!
I shake the State! I-what have I on earth
-
But these two hands? Must I not dig or starve? --
Come back! I had forgot. My memory dies,
I think, by the hour. Who sups with us to-night?
Let all be of the rarest,
-spare no cost.
If 'tis our last,-it may be, let us sink
In sumptuous ruin, with wonderers round us, wife!
One funeral pile shall send up amber smoke!
We'll burn in myrrh, or-blood!
---
-
[She goes.
I feel a nameless pressure on my brow,
As if the heavens were thick with sudden gloom;
## p. 4207 (#585) ###########################################
GEORGE CROLY
4207
A shapeless consciousness, as if some blow
Were hanging o'er my head.
Partake of prophecy.
They say such thoughts
The air is living sweetness.
Shall I be like thee yet? The clouds have passed —
And, like some mighty victor, he returns
WHI
[He stands at the casement.
Golden sun,
To his red city in the west, that now
Spreads all her gates, and lights her torches up
In triumph for her glowing conqueror.
THE LILY OF THE VALLEY
HITE bud, that in meek beauty so dost lean
Thy cloistered cheek as pale as moonlight snow,
Thou seem'st beneath thy huge high leaf of green,
An eremite beneath his mountain's brow.
White bud! thou 'rt emblem of a lovelier thing,
The broken spirit that its anguish bears
To silent shades, and there sits offering
To Heaven the holy fragrance of its tears.
## p. 4208 (#586) ###########################################
4208
GEORGE CUPPLES
(1822-1891)
A
LTHOUGH the Scotch Lowlands were settled by men of pure
Anglican blood, the neighboring Highlands and the original
Celtic inhabitants of the locality have contributed a strain
from another of the primitive Aryan stocks, to the great enrichment
in fervor and emotional expressiveness of the people. The Scotch-
man retains the energy, perseverance, and executive masterfulness
of his brothers in Yorkshire and Northumberland, but has in addi-
tion a vein of romantic imagination and a touch of Celtic excitability.
He may be "dour and canny," and yet not destitute of an instinct
for music and color. His name may contain the Celtic "Mac" or
"Col," or the English "ton" or "son," but even when his name
comes from one source is genius may derive from the other. Steven-
son's name is English; but his literary work has the Celtic vivid-
ness, brilliancy, pathos, and sense of congruous form. Carlyle's name
is Celtic; but in him lies the grim hardness of the Norse seafarers,
and the deification of duty, and the impulse to subordinate form to
substance, characteristic of the Saxon.
-
The Scotchman is born to a rich inheritance of tradition, — Eng-
lish wars, border forays, centuries of turbulent life embalmed in
legend and ballad. He lives on the scene of action of historical per-
sonages, who become as real to him as Holyrood or Arthur's Seat.
Scotch national consciousness lies deep in the soul of Scotchmen,
though the kingdom be merged into Great Britain, and gives them
an individuality and pride of lineage which colors their literature.
They are loyal to the Bruce even when they sing 'God Save the
Queen. Blackwood's of the middle of the century, though reckoning
the Englishmen Bulwer-Lytton and De Quincey among its honored
contributors, was an intensely Scottish magazine; and its Scottish
staff was marked by a distinctive literary tone,- a compound of boy-
ish high spirits and old-fashioned conservatism such as we sometimes
notice in the cadets of a noble house, to whom their family tra-
ditions are sacred, but the necessity of a decorous bearing before
the world not at all apparent. The wit of the 'Noctes' is not very
subtle, but it is hearty and clean, though it needs high spirits to
make it seem amusing. The scholarship is not very profound, but
it reaches back to traditions of gentlemanly culture and thoroughly
distrusts modern preciosity. Nothing is literature in the estimation
## p. 4209 (#587) ###########################################
GEORGE CUPPLES
4209
of these writers unless it is classic or Scotch. All of them are
marked by a hearty love for outdoor sports, and a patriotism enthu-
siastic indeed, but rather circumscribed, though perhaps on that very
account all the more intense. Professor Wilson is the most typical
individual of these writers, and George Cupples of the next genera-
tion one of the most interesting, and on the whole the one whose
literary gift was the most decided and original.
George Cupples was born at Legerwood, August 2d, 1822, and died
October 7th, 1891. His father was a minister of the Free Kirk, and
his paternal ancestors had been Calvinistic ministers for at least three
generations. It was natural that the young man should be intended
for the same profession, but he did not feel drawn to it, and when
about seventeen went to sea for two years. Although of a firm physi-
cal constitution, the life of the seaman wearied him, and he resumed
his education at the University of Edinburgh. He fell naturally into
a literary career, and though much of his work was journalistic, he
was reckoned in his day a critic of true insight. His novels are his
best title to reputation, and show a vein of genuine creative power.
Cupples combined some of the sterling and attractive traits of the
cultured Scotchman of the period into a genuine, manly, and winning
personality. Though slightly whimsical, his peculiarities were of the
kind that endear a man to his friends; and Cupples numbered among
his, Dr. John Brown, Dr. Stirling, Blackwood, and many others of
the cultivated Scotchmen of the period.
'The Green Hand,' which came out in Blackwood from 1848 to
1851, is one of the best sea stories ever written. If we put Steven-
son's 'Treasure Island' first for balance of description and narration,
and sureness in the character touches, The Green Hand' and 'Tom
Cringle's Log' are close seconds. Cupples's book is perhaps slightly
overloaded with description, and deficient in technical construction as
a narrative; but it is nevertheless a story which we read without
skipping, for the descriptive pages are highly charged with the poetic
element, and bear the unmistakable marks of being based on actual
observation. Life in a sailing vessel has closer contact with the
elemental moods of nature than in a steamer, where the motive
power is a mechanical contrivance with the tiresome quality of regu-
larity. To be in alliance or warfare with the wind, and dependent
on its fitful moods, brought an element of variety and interest into
the seaman's life which steam navigation, with its steadily revolving
screw and patent valves, must always lack. Of this Cupples avails
himself to the fullest extent; and it would be difficult to find a better
presentation of the mysterious life and vastness of the ocean, and of
the subtle impression it makes on those brought in daily contact with
it, not excepting Victor Hugo's 'Toilers of the Sea. This is due to
VII-264
## p. 4210 (#588) ###########################################
GEORGE CUPPLES
4210
the fact that he spent two years before the mast when a young man.
Especially noticeable too is his admirable use of adjectives denoting
color, which are descriptive because they image truly the observations
of a
man of genius, and are not, as in so much modern writing,
purple patches sewed on without any real feeling for the rich and
subtle scheme of nature. In calling up to the imagination the sounds
of the sea, the creaking of the blocks, the wind in the rigging, the
wash of the water on the sides, the ripple on the bow, and the
infinite variety of the voice of the waves, Cupples shows true poetic
power. It is not too much to say that 'The Green Hand' does not
suffer from the fact that one of the parts stands in the magazine in
juxtaposition to De Quincey's Vision of Sudden Death. '
'Kyloe Jock and the Weird of Wanton-Walls' is a transcript from
the boy life of the author. It appeared in Macmillan's Magazine, in
the autumn numbers of 1860. It is but a short sketch of a group of
simple people in a secluded border parish, but the quality of the
writer is shown as well in small things as in great ones. In it the
wintry scenes especially are given with broad and sure touches, for
the author is a genuine lover of nature; but the characters of Kirstie
the nurse, and of Kyloe Jock, the half-savage herd-boy who knows
so well the wild creatures of the woods and fields that he has even
given names to the foxes, show the feeling for human nature and the
ability to embody it which marks the artist. Kyloe Jock's Scotch is
said to be an absolutely perfect reproduction of the vernacular; and
it might be said that this book, like some of our modern Scotch
stories, would be better if the dialect were not quite so good.
-
―
The peculiar qualities of the author are not seen to such good
advantage in another book of his, 'Scotch Deerhounds and Their
Masters. ' He was
a breeder and unquestioned authority on the
"Grand Dog," and accumulated a store of curious information on its
origin and history; but his enthusiasm for this noble breed, or
"race" as he loves to call it,—and it certainly is the finest and most
striking of all the varieties of the "friend of man,"-led him into
some strange vagaries. One would almost suspect him of holding
the theory that dogs domesticated man, so high does he rank them
as agents of early civilization. His etymology and his ethnology are
alike erratic. He holds that every ancient people in whose name can
be found the combinations "gal," "alb," or "iber," or any other
syllable of a Celtic word, was of the Celtic family, and that the
Scotch deerhound and the Irish greyhound are descendants of the
primeval Celtic dog. In this way he proves that the Carthaginians
and the shepherd kings of Egypt were undoubtedly Celts, for their
sculpture shows that they hunted with large swift dogs that sprang
at the throat of their prey. On the other hand, every tribe that
## p. 4211 (#589) ###########################################
GEORGE CUPPLES
4211
owned large clumsy dogs that barked is probably non-Celtic. Mr.
Cupples's contempt for such dogs is too intense for definite statement,
and he evidently thinks that the tribe that owns them cannot hope
to rise very high in the scale of civilization. This is certainly Philo-
Celticism run mad, and is the more remarkable because Mr. Cupples
could discover no Celtic strain in his own ancestry. He gave his
dogs, however, Celtic names, as Luath, Shulach, Maida, Morna, Mal-
vina, Oscar, etc. It would have been quite impossible for him to
disgrace one of his "tall, swift, venatic hounds" with so Saxon a
name as Rover or Barkis. But his enthusiasm is so genuine, and
there is such a wealth of curious information in his pages, that his
book has a charm and a substantial value of its own.
The other work of Mr. Cupples was, like that of most of the
journalistic men of letters of the period, largely anonymous. His
essay on Emerson, contributed to the Douglas Jerrold's Magazine, is
very highly spoken of. Personally, Mr. Cupples must have been a
man of great simplicity and charm, a happy combination of the
genuine and most agreeable traits of that hearty and outspoken
variety of man, the literary Scotchman.
IN THE TROPICS
From The Green Hand›
LOOKED up the after-hatchway.
I
It seemed still quite dark;
and a patch of the deep dark-blue sky showed high over the
square opening, with two or three keen sparks of stars, green
ones and blue ones-you'd have thought the ladder, short as it
was, went up to somewhere clean above the world. But the
moment I got on deck I saw it was really lighter-the heavy
fog creeping slowly astern off the ship on both hands; the white
mist rolling faster over it before the sea breeze against her bows,
which had swung seaward by this time from the tide, that
rushed like a mill-stream upon both her tight cables; while the
muddy river water, bubbling, eddying, and frothing away past,
spread far up in the middle, into the dusk astern. Such a
jabbering, croaking, hissing, shrieking, and yelling, too, as burst
into one's ears out of the dark, as if whole legions of monkeys,
bullfrogs, parrots, parrakeets, and what not, were coming
together full upon us from both sides, one band nearer than
the other; till the heavy boom of the surf round the point, and
the roar of the tide coming in over the shallows about the river-
mouth, pretty well drowned it. The sudden change was a good
## p. 4212 (#590) ###########################################
4212
GEORGE CUPPLES
relief,- Babel though it seemed after the closeness below,-
with what had been going on; and I looked ahead toward the
sea, which lay away out off our larboard bow, round the head-
land, and over the opposite point; a cold watery streak of light
showing it from where the breakers rose plunging and scattering
along the sandy bar, to the steady gray line of horizon, clipped
by one of the two brown chops we had got into. It looked
dreary enough as yet, the mouth of it being wider than I'd
fancied it from seaward at night: though even with full water
over the long spit of sand in the middle, there was no draught
at all for the Indiaman except by the channel betwixt it and the
bold point on our right; and pretty narrow it appeared from our
present berth, heaving as it did with the green swell that set in,
while meantime the mist scudding across the face of the head-
land let us see but the hard lump of bare black rock underneath.
In less time than I've taken to speak, however, the full space
of sky aloft was turning clear; the sea far away suddenly shone
out blue, with the surges tipped white; you saw a sparkling star
high over it sink slowly in, and the fog spread off the water
near us, till here and there you caught the muffled-up shape of
a big tree or two looming through, not half a mile off our star-
board quarter; the mist creeping over the headland till the sharp
peak of it stood out against its shadow on the shoulder of a hill
beyond, and old Bob Martin's single clump of cocoas on the rise,
waving in landward from the brisk sea breeze. One passenger
after another came peeping sleepily out of the companion-hatch,
at the men clearing away the wreck of the spars and swabbing
the quarter-deck down; but scarce had Smith, one of the young
writers, reached the poop, when he gave a shout that covered
both poop ladders in no time, with people scrambling over each
other to get up. Next minute you'd have fancied them a knot
of flamingoes with their wings out, as the bright red daybreak
brought out the edge of the woods far astern, through a hazy
lane in the purple mist, topped so with stray cocoanut-trees and
cabbage-palms, dabbled like brushes in the color, that they
scarce knew them to be woods at all, and not a whole lot of
wild savages fresh from other business of the kind, coming down
with all sorts of queer tools upon us; more especially when one
heard such a chorus of unaccountable cries, whistling, and
screaming, as seemed to struggle with the sound of the sea
ahead of us, and the splash alongside. The huge round sun
## p. 4213 (#591) ###########################################
GEORGE CUPPLES
4213
.
struck hot crimson along the far turn of the beach, with all
manner of twisted blots upon him, as it were, and the very
grass and long reeds seemingly rustling into his face, so one
didn't for the moment know him either; while the muddy, choco-
late-colored eddies, sweeping and closing beyond the ship's
rudder, glittered and frothed up like blood; and every here and
there, along the streak of light, the head of a log or a long
branch came dipping up terribly plain; no wonder the old Serin-
gapatam had apparently turned tail to it all, ready to bolt if she
could. Almost as soon as you took your hands off your eyes,
though, and could see without a red ball or two before them,
there was the nearest shore growing out toward our starboard
bulwark all along, crowded with wet green woods, up into steam-
ing high ground-all to eastward a dazzle of light, with two or
three faint mountain peaks shooting up far off in it, and a
woody blue hill or so between; while here and there a broad
bright hazy spoke off the sun came cutting down into the forest,
that brought a patch full of long big leaves, ten times greener
than the rest, and let look off the deck into the heart of it
among the stems over the bank. The jabber in the woods had
passed off all at once with the dusk, the water deepening over
the bar, and the tide running slower, so that every one's con-
fused face turned breathless with delight and it grew stiller and
stiller. The whole breadth of the river shone out by this time,
full and smooth, to the opposite shore three times as far away,
where the wood and bulrushes seemed to grow out of the water;
a long thick range of low muddy-looking mangroves, with a
cover of dark green, rounding from the farthest point one saw,
down to some sandy hummocks near the mouth, and a ridge of
the same drifted up by the wind off the beach. Beyond that side
there was nothing apparently but a rolling sweep of long
coarse grass, with a few straggling cocoanut-trees and baobabs
like big swollen logs on end, and taken to sprouting at top;
a dun-colored heave of land in the distance, too, that came out
as it got hotter, in a long, desert-like, red brick-dust sort of a
glare. The sole living things to be seen as yet were some small
birds rising up out of the long grass, and the turkey-buzzards
sailing high over all across, as if on the look-out.
The air was so cool and clear, however, from the tornado
over night,—not a cloud in the sky, and the strange scent of
the land reaching us as the dew rose off it, you could see far
## p. 4214 (#592) ###########################################
4214
GEORGE CUPPLES
and wide, with a delicious feeling of it all, that kept every one
standing there on the spot where he first gained the deck, even
the men looking over their shoulders with the ropes in their
fists, and the fresh morning breeze lifting one's hair.
NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA
From The Green Hand'
I
HAD to get fairly off the saddle,—rather sore, I must say,
with riding up St. Helena roads after so many weeks at sea,
and flung myself down on the grass, with little enough
fear of the hungry little beast getting far adrift. This said
crag, by the way, drew my eye to it by the queer colors it
showed-white, blue, gray, and bright red-in the hot sunlight;
and being too far off to make out clearly, I slung off the ship's
glass I had across my back, just to overhaul it better. The hue
of it was to be seen running all down the deep rift between, that
seemingly wound away into some glen toward the coast; while
the lot of plants and trailers half covering the steep front of it
would no doubt, I thought, have delighted my old friend the
Yankee, if he was the botanizing gentleman in question. By
this time it was a lovely afternoon far and wide to Diana's Peak,
the sky glowing clearer deep blue at that height than you'd have
thought sky could do, even in the tropics-the very peaks of
bare red rock being softened into a purple tint, far off around
you. One saw into the rough bottom of the huge Devil's Punch
Bowl, and far through without a shadow down the green patches
in the little valleys, and over Deadwood Camp,-there was noth-
ing, as it were, between the grass, the ground, the stones, and
leaves, and the empty hollow of the air; while the sea spread
far round underneath, of a softer blue than the sky over you.
You'd have thought all the world was shrunk into St. Helena,
with the Atlantic lying three-quarters round it in one's sight,
like the horns of the bright new moon round the dim old one;
which St. Helena pretty much resembled, if what the star-gazers
say of its surface be true, all peaks and dry hollows—if indeed
you weren't lifting up out of the world, so to speak, when one
looked through his fingers right into the keen blue overhead!
If I lived a thousand years I couldn't tell half what I felt
lying there; but as you may imagine, it had somewhat in it of
## p. 4215 (#593) ###########################################
GEORGE CUPPLES
4215
the late European war by land and sea. Not that I could have
said so at the time, but rather a sort of half-doze, such as I've
known one have when a schoolboy, lying on the green grass the
same way, with one's face turned up into the hot summer
heavens; half of it flying glimpses, as it were, of the French
Revolution, the battles we used to hear of when we were child-
ren- then the fears about the invasion, with the channel full
of British fleets, and Dover Cliffs-Trafalgar and Nelson's death,
and the battle of Waterloo, just after we heard he had got out of
Elba. In the terrible flash of the thing all together, one almost
fancied them all gone like smoke; and for a moment I thought
I was falling away off, down into the wide sky, so up I started to
sit. From that, suddenly I took to guessing and puzzling closely
again how I should go to work myself, if I were the strange
Frenchman I saw in the brig at sea, and wanted to manage
Napoleon's escape out of St. Helena. And first, there was how
to get into the island and put him up to the scheme. why, sure
enough, I couldn't have laid it down better than they seemed to
have done all along: what could one do but just dodge about
that latitude under all sorts of false rig, then catch hold of
somebody fit to cover one's landing. No Englishman would do
it, and no foreigner but would set Sir Hudson Lowe on his
guard in a moment. Next we should have to get put on the
island and really a neat enough plan it was, to dog one of the
very cruisers themselves, knock up a mess of planks and spars
in the night-time, set them all ablaze with tar, and pretend we
were fresh from a craft on fire; when even Captain Wallis of the
Podargus, as it happened, was too much of a British seaman not
to carry us straight to St. Helena!
some of the younger sort of the women pawing over him and
bandaging his wounded shoulder. He was growling and spitting
inarticulately all the time like a wildcat. And every time his
shoulder hurt him, as the women worked with it, he would take
his other hand and strike one of them down, as though it was
to her that he owed the twinge of pain.
Presently the monster arose and took the gold brocade again
in his hand. I thought that of a certainty now the time was
And I looked at Nell Kennedy.
come.
God knows what was in my eyes. My heart was like to
break. For the like of this pass was never man in. That I
should have to smite my love to the death within an hour of the
first kiss and the first owning of her affection!
But she that loved me read my thought in mine eyes.
She bared her neck for me, so that I could see its tender
whiteness in the flicker of the fire.
'Strike there," she said, "and let me die in your arms, who
are my heart's love, Launcelot Kennedy. "
I heard the Beast-man's step on the stair. I looked from Nell's
dear neck to her eyes and back again to her bosom.
I lifted my
hand with the steel in it, and nerved myself for the striking, for
## p. 4195 (#573) ###########################################
S. R. CROCKETT
4195
I must make no mistaking. And even in that moment I saw a
dagger also in Marjorie's hand.
Suddenly a tremendous rush of sound filled the cave. The
dagger fell from my hand, and Nell and I clasped one another.
The clamor seemed to be about us and all round us. Roaring
echoes came back to us. The bowels of the earth quaked. Yet
methought there was something familiar in the sound of it. I
turned me about, and there, standing erect with all his little
height, was the dominie. His cheeks were distended, and he
was blowing upon his great war-pipes such a thunderous pibroch
as never had been heard in any land since the pipes skirled on
the Red Harlaw.
What possession had come upon his mind I know not. But
the effect I can tell. The pack of fiends that caroused and slew
beneath stood stricken a moment, in amaze at the dreadful
incomprehensible sounds. Then they fled helter-skelter, yelly-
hooing with fear, down the narrow sea-way, from which the tide
had now fully ebbed. And when I looked over, there was not a
soul to be seen. Only over the edge of a caldron the body of
the murdered woman, or at least a part of it, lay—a bloody
incentive to haste out of this direful Cave of Death.
The dominie stepped down as though he had been leading a
march, strutting and passaging like the king's piper marching
about the banqueting-table at Holyrood. I declare, the creature
seemed fey. He was certainly possessed with a devil. But the
fearlessness of the man. won into our veins also. For with steel
or pistol in each of our hands we marched after him, ready to
encounter aught that might come in our way. Aye, and even
thus passed out of the cave, hasting down the long passage
without a quiver of the heart or a blenching of the cheek, so
suddenly and so starkly, by way of sudden hope, had the glorious
music brought the hot blood back to our hearts, even as it had
stricken our cruel foes with instant terror.
cave of Sawny Bean,
But when in the gray
Thus dry-shod we marched out of the
and not so much as a dog barked at us.
of a stormy morning we reached the cliff's edge, we heard inland
the wild voices of the gang yelling down the wind, as though
the furies of fear were pursuing them and tearing at their vitals.
What they expected I know not. But I guess that they must
have taken us for whatever particular devil they happened to
believe in, come to take them quick to their own place. Which,
## p. 4196 (#574) ###########################################
4196
S. R. CROCKETT
after all, could not be much worse than the den in which we
had seen them at their disport, nor could all the torturing fiends
of lowest hell have been their marrows in devilish cruelty.
So once more the world was before us, and strangely quiet it
seemed, as if we had died in stress and riot and been born again
into an uncanny quiet. There remained now for us only the
bringing to pass of righteous judgments upon the wicked ones
who had compassed and plotted all this terrible tale of evils.
These murders without end, the hellish cruelties and death-
breeding deceits, must not fall alone on the crazed outlaw and
his brood, for the chief criminals were those that were greater
than Sawny Bean and his merciless crew.
## p. 4197 (#575) ###########################################
4197
GEORGE CROLY
(1780-1860)
HE versatile Irishman George Croly turned to literature as his
means of livelihood when about thirty years old. He had
been educated in his native town of Dublin, where he had
graduated from Trinity College when only fifteen. Even thus early.
he had distinguished himself as a classical student and for grace in
extempore speaking. He next studied for the ministry, and in 1804
was ordained, and obtained a small curacy in the North of Ireland.
But George Croly had a great fund of ambition, which kept him
dissatisfied in this humble position. Hopes of preferment were several
times held out to him, but they all failed; and tired of disappoint-
ment, he gave up his curacy in 1810 and moved to London with his
mother and sisters. There he soon found an opening in journalism,
and became dramatic critic on the New Times, and a regular con-
tributor to the Literary Gazette and Britannia. He also wrote for
Blackwood's Magazine, and as fellow contributor met the young lady
whom he afterwards married.
In spite of his scholarship and great facility in expression, Croly's
cannot be called an original mind. His verse is mostly a reflection
of the literary influences he experienced. A certain exaggeration of
emotion, the romance of Byron and Moore then in highest favor,
appealed to him, and he emulated it in his most ambitious poems.
'Paris' (1815), although much weaker, strongly suggests 'Childe
Harold. ' Like Moore, his imagination delighted in Oriental color
and richness, and he often chose Eastern subjects, as in 'The Angel
of the World. '
The Traditions of the Rabbins' has been called an imitation of
De Quincey, and indeed a portion of it is wrongly included in the
collection of De Quincey's works. His Life and Times of George
IV. ' is more valuable as entertaining reading than for historical
significance. To religious literature he contributed a 'Commentary
on the Apocalypse,' and a book upon 'Divine Providence, or the
Three Cycles of Revelation. ' But although he loved literature and
had read extensively, Croly's appreciation of it seems to have been
entirely emotional. He could not analyze his impressions, and his crit-
ical work is vague enthusiasm rather than suggestive discrimination.
He essayed drama successfully. Catiline,' in spite of bombastic
reminiscences of Marlowe, has tragic strength and richly rhythmic
## p. 4198 (#576) ###########################################
4198
GEORGE CROLY
verse.
'Pride Shall Have a Fall,' a clever exposure of social weak-
nesses, was successfully given at the Covent Garden Theatre.
Although happy in authorship, Croly was anxious to resume his
clerical profession, and in 1835 gladly accepted the rectorship of St.
Stephen's Church, Walbrook, where a fashionable congregation ac-
corded him a great reputation for eloquence. He was less success-
ful in 1847, when appointed afternoon lecturer at the Foundling
Hospital. The orphans and servant-maids failed to appreciate his
flowery periods and emotional fervors. He was evidently quite be-
yond them, and soon resigned in disgust at their ingratitude.
Croly's poems and several other works, highly praised when they
appeared, have been nearly forgotten. His fame rests now upon his
fiction: Tales of the Saint Bernard,' 'Marston,' and 'Salathiel the
Immortal. ' The last especially, with the enduring fascination of the
Wandering Jew legend, is always interesting. It has been often said.
that no one else has told the story so well. All the romance-loving
side of Croly's nature comes out in the glowing descriptions of East-
ern scenery, and in the appeal to heroic sentiment. The fantastic
figure of Nero, ancient passions and vices, a spirit of former bar-
barity interwoven with ideality, the tragedy of unending human life,
are curiously impressed on the picturesque pages.
THE FIRING OF ROME
From Salathiel the Immortal'
NTELLIGENCE in a few days arrived from Brundusium of the
Emperor's landing, and of his intention to remain at Antium.
on the road to Rome, until his triumphal entry should be
prepared. My fate now hung in the scale. I was ordered to
attend the imperial presence. At the vestibule of the Antian
palace my careful centurion deposited me in the hands of a
senator. As I followed him through the halls, a young female
richly attired, and of the most beautiful face and form, crossed
us, light and graceful as a dancing nymph. The senator bowed
profoundly. She beckoned to him, and they exchanged a few
words. I was probably the subject; for her countenance, spark-
ling with the animation of youth and loveliness, grew pale at
once; she clasped both her hands upon her eyes, and rushed
into an inner chamber. She knew Nero well; and dearly she
was yet to pay for her knowledge. The senator, to my inquir
ing glance, answered in a whisper, "The Empress Poppæa. "
## p. 4199 (#577) ###########################################
GEORGE CROLY
4199
A few steps onward, and I stood in the presence of the most
formidable being on earth. Yet whatever might have been the
natural agitation of the time, I could scarcely restrain a smile at
the first sight of Nero. I saw a pale, undersized, light-haired
young man sitting before a table with a lyre on it, a few copies
of verses and drawings, and a parrot's cage, to whose inmate he
was teaching Greek with great assiduity. But for the regal fur-
niture of the cabinet, I should have supposed myself led by
mistake into an interview with some struggling poet. He shot
round one quick glance on the opening of the door, and then
proceeded to give lessons to his bird. I had leisure to gaze on
the tyrant and parricide.
Physiognomy is a true science. The man of profound thought,
the man of active ability, and above all the man of genius, has
his character stamped on his countenance by nature; the man of
violent passions and the voluptuary have it stamped by habit.
But the science has its limits: it has no stamp for mere cruelty.
The features of the human monster before me were mild and
almost handsome; a heavy eye and a figure tending to fullness
gave the impression of a quiet mind; and but for an occasional
restlessness of brow, and a brief glance from under it, in which
the leaden eye darted suspicion, I should have pronounced Nero
one of the most indolently tranquil of mankind.
He remanded the parrot to his perch, took up his lyre, and
throwing a not unskillful hand over the strings, in the intervals
of the performance languidly addressed a broken sentence to me.
"You have come, I understand, from Judea; - they tell me that
you have been, or are to be, a general of the insurrection;
you must be put to death; -your countrymen give us a great
deal of trouble, and I always regret to be troubled with them. -
But to send you back would only be encouragement to them, and
to keep you here among strangers would only be cruelty to you.
-
―――
I am charged with cruelty: you see the charge is not true. -
I am lampooned every day; I know the scribblers, but they must
lampoon or starve. I leave them to do both. Have you brought
any news from Judea? - They have not had a true prince there
since the first Herod; and he was quite a Greek, a cut-throat,
and a man of taste. He understood the arts. -I sent for you to
see what sort of animal a Jewish rebel was. Your dress is hand-
some, but too light for our winters. -You cannot die before sun-
set, as till then I am engaged with my music master. We all
――――
## p. 4200 (#578) ###########################################
4200
GEORGE CROLY
―――――――――
must die when our time comes. - - Farewell-till sunset may
Jupiter protect you! "
I retired to execution! and before the door closed, heard this
accomplished disposer of life and death preluding upon his lyre
with increased energy. I was conducted to a turret until the
period in which the Emperor's engagement with his music-
master should leave him at leisure to see me die. Yet there was
kindness even under the roof of Nero, and a liberal hand had
covered the table in my cell. The hours passed heavily along,
but they passed; and I was watching the last rays of my last
sun, when I perceived a cloud rise in the direction of Rome. It
grew broader, deeper, darker, as I gazed; its centre was suddenly
tinged with red; the tinge spread; the whole mass of cloud
became crimson: the sun went down, and another sun seemed to
have risen in his stead. I heard the clattering of horses' feet in
the courtyards below; trumpets sounded; there was confusion in
the palace; the troops hurried under arms; and I saw a squad-
ron of cavalry set off at full speed.
As I was gazing on the spectacle before me, which perpetu-
ally became more menacing, the door of my cell slowly opened,
and a masked figure stood upon the threshold. I had made up
my mind; and demanding if he was the executioner, I told him
"that I was ready. " The figure paused, listened to the sounds.
below, and after looking for a while on the troops in the court-
yard, signified by signs that I had a chance of saving my life.
The love of existence rushed back upon me. I eagerly inquired
what was to be done. He drew from under his cloak the dress
of a Roman slave, which I put on, and noiselessly followed his
steps through a long succession of small and strangely intricate
passages. We found no difficulty from guards or domestics.
The whole palace was in a state of extraordinary confusion.
Every human being was packing up something or other: rich
vases, myrrhine cups, table services, were lying in heaps on the
floors; books, costly dresses, instruments of music, all the append-
ages of luxury, were flung loose in every direction, from the
sudden breaking up of the court. I might have plundered the
value of a province with impunity. Still we wound our hurried
way. In passing along one of the corridors, the voice of com-
plaining struck the ear; the mysterious guide hesitated; I glanced
through the slab of crystal that showed the chamber within. It
was the one in which I had seen the Emperor, but his place
## p. 4201 (#579) ###########################################
GEORGE CROLY
4201
was now filled by the form of youth and beauty that had crossed
me on my arrival. She was weeping bitterly, and reading with
strong and sorrowful indignation a long list of names, probably
one of those rolls in which Nero registered his intended victims,
and which in the confusion of departure he had left open. A
second glance saw her tear the paper into a thousand fragments,
and scatter them in the fountain that gushed upon the floor.
I left this lovely and unhappy creature, this dove in the vul-
ture's talons, with almost a pang. A few steps more brought us
to the open air, but among bowers that covered our path with
darkness. At the extremity of the gardens my guide struck
with his dagger upon a door; it was opened: we found horses.
outside; he sprang on one; I sprang on its fellow; and palace,
guards, and death, were left far behind.
He galloped so furiously that I found it impossible to speak;
and it was not till we had reached an eminence a few miles
from Rome, where we breathed our horses, that I could ask to
whom I had been indebted for my escape. But I could not
extract a word from him. He made signs of silence, and pointed
with wild anxiety to the scene that spread below. It was of a
grandeur and terror indescribable. Rome was an ocean of flame.
Height and depth were covered with red surges, that rolled
before the blast like an endless tide. The billows burst up the
sides of the hills, which they turned into instant volcanoes,
exploding volumes of smoke and fire; then plunged into the
depths in a hundred glowing cataracts, then climbed and con-
sumed again. The distant sound of the city in her convulsion
went to the soul. The air was filled with the steady roar of the
advancing flame, the crash of falling houses, and the hideous
outcry of the myriads flying through the streets, or surrounded
and perishing in the conflagration.
Hostile to Rome as I was, I could not restrain the exclama-
tion: "There goes the fruit of conquest, the glory of ages, the
purchase of the blood of millions! Was vanity made for man? "
My guide continued looking forward with intense earnestness, as
if he were perplexed by what avenue to enter the burning city.
I demanded who he was, and whither he would lead me. He
returned no answer. A long spire of flame that shot up from a
hitherto untouched quarter engrossed all his senses. He struck
in the spur, and making a wild gesture to me to follow, darted
down the hill. I pursued; we found the Appian choked with
―――――――――――――――――
## p. 4202 (#580) ###########################################
4202
GEORGE CROLY
wagons, baggage of every kind, and terrified crowds hurrying
into the open country. To force a way through them was
impossible. All was clamor, violent struggle, and helpless death.
Men and women of the highest rank were on foot, trampled by
the rabble, that had then lost all respect of conditions. One
dense mass of miserable life, irresistible from its weight, crushed
by the narrow streets, and scorched by the flames over their
heads, rolled through the gates like an endless stream of black
lava.
We turned back, and attempted an entrance through the gar-
dens of the same villas that skirted the city wall near the Pala-
tine. All were deserted, and after some dangerous leaps over
the burning ruins we found ourselves in the streets. The fire
had originally broken out upon the Palatine, and hot smoke that
wrapped and half blinded us hung thick as night upon the
wrecks of pavilions and palaces: but the dexterity and knowledge
of my inexplicable guide carried us on. It was in vain that I
insisted upon knowing the purpose of this terrible traverse. He
pressed his hand on his heart in reassurance of his fidelity, and
still spurred on.
We now passed under the shade of an immense range of lofty
buildings, whose gloomy and solid strength seemed to bid
defiance to chance and time. A sudden yell appalled me. A
ring of fire swept round its summit; burning cordage, sheets of
canvas, and a shower of all things combustible, flew into the air
above our heads. An uproar followed, unlike all that I had ever
heard,—a hideous mixture of howls, shrieks, and groans. The
flames rolled down the narrow street before us, and made the
passage next to impossible. While we hesitated, a huge frag-
ment of the building heaved as if in an earthquake, and for-
tunately for us fell inwards. The whole scene of terror was
then open.
The great amphitheatre of Statilius Taurus had
caught fire; the stage with its inflammable furniture was intensely
blazing below. The flames were wheeling up, circle above circle,
through the seventy thousand seats that rose from the ground to
the roof. I stood in unspeakable awe and wonder on the side of
this colossal cavern, this mighty temple of the city of fire. At
length a descending blast cleared away the smoke that covered
the arena.
The cause of those horrid cries was now visible.
The wild beasts kept for the games had broken from their dens.
Maddened by affright and pain, lions, tigers, panthers, wolves,
## p. 4203 (#581) ###########################################
GEORGE CROLY
4203
whole herds of the monsters of India and Africa, were inclosed
in an impassable barrier of fire. They bounded, they fought,
they screamed, they tore; they ran howling round and round the
circle; they made desperate leaps upwards through the blaze;
they were flung back, and fell only to fasten their fangs in each
other, and with their parching jaws bathed in blood, died raging.
I looked anxiously to see whether any human being was
involved in this fearful catastrophe. To my great relief I could
see none. The keepers and attendants had obviously escaped.
As I expressed my gladness I was startled by a loud cry from
my guide, the first sound that I had heard him utter. He
pointed to the opposite side of the amphitheatre. There indeed.
sat an object of melancholy interest; a man who had either been.
unable to escape, or had determined to die. Escape was now
impossible. He sat in desperate calmness on his funeral pile.
He was a gigantic Ethiopian slave, entirely naked. He had
chosen his place, as if in mockery, on the imperial throne; the
fire was above him and around him; and under this tremendous
canopy he gazed, without the movement of a muscle, on the
combat of the wild beasts below: a solitary sovereign with the
whole tremendous game played for himself, and inaccessible to
the power of man.
I was forced away from this absorbing spectacle, and we
once more threaded the long and intricate streets of Rome. As
we approached the end of one of these bewildering passages,
scarcely wide enough for us to ride abreast, I was startled by
the sudden illumination of the sky immediately above; and ren-
dered cautious by the experience of our hazards, called to my
companion to return. He pointed behind me, and showed the
fire bursting out in the houses by which we had just galloped.
I followed on. A crowd that poured from the adjoining streets
cut off our retreat. Hundreds rapidly mounted on the houses
in front, in the hope by throwing them down to check the con-
ration. The obstacle once removed, we saw the source of
the light-spectacle of horror! The great prison of Rome was
on fire. Never can I forget the sights and sounds-the dismay
-the hopeless agony-the fury and frenzy that then over-
whelmed the heart. The jailers had been forced to fly before
they could loose the fetters or open the cells of the prisoners.
We saw those gaunt and woe-begone wretches crowding to their
casements, and imploring impossible help; clinging to the heated
## p. 4204 (#582) ###########################################
GEORGE CROLY
4204
bars; toiling with their impotent grasp to tear out the massive
stones; some wringing their hands; some calling on the terrified
spectators by every name of humanity to save them; some vent-
ing their despair in execrations and blasphemies that made the
blood run cold; others, after many a wild effort to break loose,
dashing their heads against the walls, or stabbing themselves.
The people gave them outcry for outery; but the flame forbade
approach. Before I could extricate myself from the multitude a
whirl of fiery ashes shot upwards from the falling roof; the walls
rent into a thousand fragments; and the huge prison with all
its miserable inmates was a heap of red embers.
Exhausted as I was by this restless fatigue, and yet more by
the melancholy sights that surrounded every step, no fatigue.
seemed to be felt by the singular being that governed my move-
ments. He sprang through the burning ruins,- he plunged into
the sulphurous smoke,- he never lost the direction that he had
first taken; and though baffled and forced to turn back a hun-
dred times, he again rushed on his track with the directness of
an arrow. For me to make my way back to the gates would be
even more difficult than to push forward. My ultimate safety
might be in following, and I followed. To stand still and to
move were equally perilous. The streets, even with the im-
provements of Augustus, were still scarcely wider than the
breadth of the little Italian carts that crowded them. They
were crooked, long, and obstructed by every impediment of a
city built in haste, after the burning by the Gauls, and with no
other plan than the caprice of its hurried tenantry. The houses
were of immense height, chiefly wood, many roofed with thatch,
and all covered or cemented with pitch. The true surprise is
that it had not been burned once a year from the time of its
building.
The memory of Nero, that hereditary concentration of vice,
of whose ancestor's yellow beard the Roman orator said, "No
wonder that his beard was brass, when his mouth was iron and
his heart lead," the parricide and the poisoner-may yet be
fairly exonerated of an act which might have been the deed
of a drunken mendicant in any of the fifty thousand hovels of
this gigantic aggregate of everything that could turn to flame.
We passed along through all the horrid varieties of misery,
guilt, and riot that could find their place in a great public
calamity: groups gazing in woe on the wreck of their fortunes,
-
## p. 4205 (#583) ###########################################
GEORGE CROLY
4205
rushing off to the winds in vapor and fire; groups plundering in
the midst of the flame; groups of rioters, escaped felons, and
murderers, exulting in the public ruin, and dancing and drink-
ing with Bacchanalian uproar; gangs of robbers trampling down
and stabbing the fugitives to strip them of their last means;
revenge, avarice, despair, profligacy, let loose naked; undisguised
demons, to swell the wretchedness of this tremendous infliction
upon a guilty and blood-covered empire.
Still we spurred on, but our jaded horses at length sank
under us; and leaving them to find their way into the fields,
we struggled forward on foot.
――――
A WIFE'S INFLUENCE
Α
URELIA - One hope there is, worth all the rest-Revenge!
The time is harassed, poor, and discontent;
Your spirit practiced, keen, and desperate,-
The Senate full of feuds,- the city vext
With petty tyranny- the legions wronged-
Catiline [scornfully]—
From Catiline >
―――
Aurelia
Catiline - Hear me, bold heart!
Yet who has stirred? Woman, you paint the air
With Passion's pencil.
Were my will a sword!
The whole gross blood of Rome
Could not atone my wrongs! I'm soul-shrunk, sick,
Weary of man! And now my mind is fixed
For Sylla: there to make companionship
Rather of bear and tiger-of the snake-
The lion in his hunger-than of man!
Aurelia I had a father once, who would have plunged
Rome in the Tiber for an angry look!
You saw our entrance from the Gaulish war,
When Sylla fled?
Catiline
My legion was in Spain.
Aurelia-We crept through Italy, a flood of fire,
A living lava, rolling straight on Rome.
For days, before we reached it, the whole road
Was thronged with suppliants-tribunes, consulars;
The mightiest names o' the State. Could gold have bribed,
We might have pitched our tents, and slept on gold;
## p. 4206 (#584) ###########################################
4206
GEORGE CROLY
But we had work to do! Our swords were thirsty.
We entered Rome as conquerors, in arms;
I by my father's side, cuirassed and helmed,
Bellona beside Mars.
Catiline [with coldness] –
Aurelia
―
The world was yours!
- Rome was all eyes; the ancient tottered forth;
The cripple propped his limbs beside the wall;
The dying left his bed to look, and die.
The way before us was a sea of heads;
The way behind a torrent of brown spears:
So, on we rode, in fierce and funeral pomp,
Through the long living streets, that sunk in gloom,
As we, like Pluto and Proserpina,
Enthroned, rode on-like twofold destiny!
Catiline [sternly, interrupting her]—
Those triumphs are but gewgaws. All the earth,
What is it? Dust and smoke. I've done with life!
Aurelia [coming closer and looking steadily upon him]—
Before that eve, one hundred senators
And fifteen hundred knights had paid in blood
The price of taunts, and treachery, and rebellion!
Were my tongue thunder, I would cry-Revenge!
Catiline [in sudden wildness]-
―
No more of this! In to your chamber, wife!
There is a whirling lightness in my brain,
That will not now bear questioning. -Away!
[Aurelia moves slowly towards the door.
Where are our veterans now? Look on these walls;
I cannot turn their tissues into life.
Where are our revenues- our chosen friends?
Are we not beggars? Where have beggars friends?
I see no swords and bucklers on these floors!
I shake the State! I-what have I on earth
-
But these two hands? Must I not dig or starve? --
Come back! I had forgot. My memory dies,
I think, by the hour. Who sups with us to-night?
Let all be of the rarest,
-spare no cost.
If 'tis our last,-it may be, let us sink
In sumptuous ruin, with wonderers round us, wife!
One funeral pile shall send up amber smoke!
We'll burn in myrrh, or-blood!
---
-
[She goes.
I feel a nameless pressure on my brow,
As if the heavens were thick with sudden gloom;
## p. 4207 (#585) ###########################################
GEORGE CROLY
4207
A shapeless consciousness, as if some blow
Were hanging o'er my head.
Partake of prophecy.
They say such thoughts
The air is living sweetness.
Shall I be like thee yet? The clouds have passed —
And, like some mighty victor, he returns
WHI
[He stands at the casement.
Golden sun,
To his red city in the west, that now
Spreads all her gates, and lights her torches up
In triumph for her glowing conqueror.
THE LILY OF THE VALLEY
HITE bud, that in meek beauty so dost lean
Thy cloistered cheek as pale as moonlight snow,
Thou seem'st beneath thy huge high leaf of green,
An eremite beneath his mountain's brow.
White bud! thou 'rt emblem of a lovelier thing,
The broken spirit that its anguish bears
To silent shades, and there sits offering
To Heaven the holy fragrance of its tears.
## p. 4208 (#586) ###########################################
4208
GEORGE CUPPLES
(1822-1891)
A
LTHOUGH the Scotch Lowlands were settled by men of pure
Anglican blood, the neighboring Highlands and the original
Celtic inhabitants of the locality have contributed a strain
from another of the primitive Aryan stocks, to the great enrichment
in fervor and emotional expressiveness of the people. The Scotch-
man retains the energy, perseverance, and executive masterfulness
of his brothers in Yorkshire and Northumberland, but has in addi-
tion a vein of romantic imagination and a touch of Celtic excitability.
He may be "dour and canny," and yet not destitute of an instinct
for music and color. His name may contain the Celtic "Mac" or
"Col," or the English "ton" or "son," but even when his name
comes from one source is genius may derive from the other. Steven-
son's name is English; but his literary work has the Celtic vivid-
ness, brilliancy, pathos, and sense of congruous form. Carlyle's name
is Celtic; but in him lies the grim hardness of the Norse seafarers,
and the deification of duty, and the impulse to subordinate form to
substance, characteristic of the Saxon.
-
The Scotchman is born to a rich inheritance of tradition, — Eng-
lish wars, border forays, centuries of turbulent life embalmed in
legend and ballad. He lives on the scene of action of historical per-
sonages, who become as real to him as Holyrood or Arthur's Seat.
Scotch national consciousness lies deep in the soul of Scotchmen,
though the kingdom be merged into Great Britain, and gives them
an individuality and pride of lineage which colors their literature.
They are loyal to the Bruce even when they sing 'God Save the
Queen. Blackwood's of the middle of the century, though reckoning
the Englishmen Bulwer-Lytton and De Quincey among its honored
contributors, was an intensely Scottish magazine; and its Scottish
staff was marked by a distinctive literary tone,- a compound of boy-
ish high spirits and old-fashioned conservatism such as we sometimes
notice in the cadets of a noble house, to whom their family tra-
ditions are sacred, but the necessity of a decorous bearing before
the world not at all apparent. The wit of the 'Noctes' is not very
subtle, but it is hearty and clean, though it needs high spirits to
make it seem amusing. The scholarship is not very profound, but
it reaches back to traditions of gentlemanly culture and thoroughly
distrusts modern preciosity. Nothing is literature in the estimation
## p. 4209 (#587) ###########################################
GEORGE CUPPLES
4209
of these writers unless it is classic or Scotch. All of them are
marked by a hearty love for outdoor sports, and a patriotism enthu-
siastic indeed, but rather circumscribed, though perhaps on that very
account all the more intense. Professor Wilson is the most typical
individual of these writers, and George Cupples of the next genera-
tion one of the most interesting, and on the whole the one whose
literary gift was the most decided and original.
George Cupples was born at Legerwood, August 2d, 1822, and died
October 7th, 1891. His father was a minister of the Free Kirk, and
his paternal ancestors had been Calvinistic ministers for at least three
generations. It was natural that the young man should be intended
for the same profession, but he did not feel drawn to it, and when
about seventeen went to sea for two years. Although of a firm physi-
cal constitution, the life of the seaman wearied him, and he resumed
his education at the University of Edinburgh. He fell naturally into
a literary career, and though much of his work was journalistic, he
was reckoned in his day a critic of true insight. His novels are his
best title to reputation, and show a vein of genuine creative power.
Cupples combined some of the sterling and attractive traits of the
cultured Scotchman of the period into a genuine, manly, and winning
personality. Though slightly whimsical, his peculiarities were of the
kind that endear a man to his friends; and Cupples numbered among
his, Dr. John Brown, Dr. Stirling, Blackwood, and many others of
the cultivated Scotchmen of the period.
'The Green Hand,' which came out in Blackwood from 1848 to
1851, is one of the best sea stories ever written. If we put Steven-
son's 'Treasure Island' first for balance of description and narration,
and sureness in the character touches, The Green Hand' and 'Tom
Cringle's Log' are close seconds. Cupples's book is perhaps slightly
overloaded with description, and deficient in technical construction as
a narrative; but it is nevertheless a story which we read without
skipping, for the descriptive pages are highly charged with the poetic
element, and bear the unmistakable marks of being based on actual
observation. Life in a sailing vessel has closer contact with the
elemental moods of nature than in a steamer, where the motive
power is a mechanical contrivance with the tiresome quality of regu-
larity. To be in alliance or warfare with the wind, and dependent
on its fitful moods, brought an element of variety and interest into
the seaman's life which steam navigation, with its steadily revolving
screw and patent valves, must always lack. Of this Cupples avails
himself to the fullest extent; and it would be difficult to find a better
presentation of the mysterious life and vastness of the ocean, and of
the subtle impression it makes on those brought in daily contact with
it, not excepting Victor Hugo's 'Toilers of the Sea. This is due to
VII-264
## p. 4210 (#588) ###########################################
GEORGE CUPPLES
4210
the fact that he spent two years before the mast when a young man.
Especially noticeable too is his admirable use of adjectives denoting
color, which are descriptive because they image truly the observations
of a
man of genius, and are not, as in so much modern writing,
purple patches sewed on without any real feeling for the rich and
subtle scheme of nature. In calling up to the imagination the sounds
of the sea, the creaking of the blocks, the wind in the rigging, the
wash of the water on the sides, the ripple on the bow, and the
infinite variety of the voice of the waves, Cupples shows true poetic
power. It is not too much to say that 'The Green Hand' does not
suffer from the fact that one of the parts stands in the magazine in
juxtaposition to De Quincey's Vision of Sudden Death. '
'Kyloe Jock and the Weird of Wanton-Walls' is a transcript from
the boy life of the author. It appeared in Macmillan's Magazine, in
the autumn numbers of 1860. It is but a short sketch of a group of
simple people in a secluded border parish, but the quality of the
writer is shown as well in small things as in great ones. In it the
wintry scenes especially are given with broad and sure touches, for
the author is a genuine lover of nature; but the characters of Kirstie
the nurse, and of Kyloe Jock, the half-savage herd-boy who knows
so well the wild creatures of the woods and fields that he has even
given names to the foxes, show the feeling for human nature and the
ability to embody it which marks the artist. Kyloe Jock's Scotch is
said to be an absolutely perfect reproduction of the vernacular; and
it might be said that this book, like some of our modern Scotch
stories, would be better if the dialect were not quite so good.
-
―
The peculiar qualities of the author are not seen to such good
advantage in another book of his, 'Scotch Deerhounds and Their
Masters. ' He was
a breeder and unquestioned authority on the
"Grand Dog," and accumulated a store of curious information on its
origin and history; but his enthusiasm for this noble breed, or
"race" as he loves to call it,—and it certainly is the finest and most
striking of all the varieties of the "friend of man,"-led him into
some strange vagaries. One would almost suspect him of holding
the theory that dogs domesticated man, so high does he rank them
as agents of early civilization. His etymology and his ethnology are
alike erratic. He holds that every ancient people in whose name can
be found the combinations "gal," "alb," or "iber," or any other
syllable of a Celtic word, was of the Celtic family, and that the
Scotch deerhound and the Irish greyhound are descendants of the
primeval Celtic dog. In this way he proves that the Carthaginians
and the shepherd kings of Egypt were undoubtedly Celts, for their
sculpture shows that they hunted with large swift dogs that sprang
at the throat of their prey. On the other hand, every tribe that
## p. 4211 (#589) ###########################################
GEORGE CUPPLES
4211
owned large clumsy dogs that barked is probably non-Celtic. Mr.
Cupples's contempt for such dogs is too intense for definite statement,
and he evidently thinks that the tribe that owns them cannot hope
to rise very high in the scale of civilization. This is certainly Philo-
Celticism run mad, and is the more remarkable because Mr. Cupples
could discover no Celtic strain in his own ancestry. He gave his
dogs, however, Celtic names, as Luath, Shulach, Maida, Morna, Mal-
vina, Oscar, etc. It would have been quite impossible for him to
disgrace one of his "tall, swift, venatic hounds" with so Saxon a
name as Rover or Barkis. But his enthusiasm is so genuine, and
there is such a wealth of curious information in his pages, that his
book has a charm and a substantial value of its own.
The other work of Mr. Cupples was, like that of most of the
journalistic men of letters of the period, largely anonymous. His
essay on Emerson, contributed to the Douglas Jerrold's Magazine, is
very highly spoken of. Personally, Mr. Cupples must have been a
man of great simplicity and charm, a happy combination of the
genuine and most agreeable traits of that hearty and outspoken
variety of man, the literary Scotchman.
IN THE TROPICS
From The Green Hand›
LOOKED up the after-hatchway.
I
It seemed still quite dark;
and a patch of the deep dark-blue sky showed high over the
square opening, with two or three keen sparks of stars, green
ones and blue ones-you'd have thought the ladder, short as it
was, went up to somewhere clean above the world. But the
moment I got on deck I saw it was really lighter-the heavy
fog creeping slowly astern off the ship on both hands; the white
mist rolling faster over it before the sea breeze against her bows,
which had swung seaward by this time from the tide, that
rushed like a mill-stream upon both her tight cables; while the
muddy river water, bubbling, eddying, and frothing away past,
spread far up in the middle, into the dusk astern. Such a
jabbering, croaking, hissing, shrieking, and yelling, too, as burst
into one's ears out of the dark, as if whole legions of monkeys,
bullfrogs, parrots, parrakeets, and what not, were coming
together full upon us from both sides, one band nearer than
the other; till the heavy boom of the surf round the point, and
the roar of the tide coming in over the shallows about the river-
mouth, pretty well drowned it. The sudden change was a good
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relief,- Babel though it seemed after the closeness below,-
with what had been going on; and I looked ahead toward the
sea, which lay away out off our larboard bow, round the head-
land, and over the opposite point; a cold watery streak of light
showing it from where the breakers rose plunging and scattering
along the sandy bar, to the steady gray line of horizon, clipped
by one of the two brown chops we had got into. It looked
dreary enough as yet, the mouth of it being wider than I'd
fancied it from seaward at night: though even with full water
over the long spit of sand in the middle, there was no draught
at all for the Indiaman except by the channel betwixt it and the
bold point on our right; and pretty narrow it appeared from our
present berth, heaving as it did with the green swell that set in,
while meantime the mist scudding across the face of the head-
land let us see but the hard lump of bare black rock underneath.
In less time than I've taken to speak, however, the full space
of sky aloft was turning clear; the sea far away suddenly shone
out blue, with the surges tipped white; you saw a sparkling star
high over it sink slowly in, and the fog spread off the water
near us, till here and there you caught the muffled-up shape of
a big tree or two looming through, not half a mile off our star-
board quarter; the mist creeping over the headland till the sharp
peak of it stood out against its shadow on the shoulder of a hill
beyond, and old Bob Martin's single clump of cocoas on the rise,
waving in landward from the brisk sea breeze. One passenger
after another came peeping sleepily out of the companion-hatch,
at the men clearing away the wreck of the spars and swabbing
the quarter-deck down; but scarce had Smith, one of the young
writers, reached the poop, when he gave a shout that covered
both poop ladders in no time, with people scrambling over each
other to get up. Next minute you'd have fancied them a knot
of flamingoes with their wings out, as the bright red daybreak
brought out the edge of the woods far astern, through a hazy
lane in the purple mist, topped so with stray cocoanut-trees and
cabbage-palms, dabbled like brushes in the color, that they
scarce knew them to be woods at all, and not a whole lot of
wild savages fresh from other business of the kind, coming down
with all sorts of queer tools upon us; more especially when one
heard such a chorus of unaccountable cries, whistling, and
screaming, as seemed to struggle with the sound of the sea
ahead of us, and the splash alongside. The huge round sun
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GEORGE CUPPLES
4213
.
struck hot crimson along the far turn of the beach, with all
manner of twisted blots upon him, as it were, and the very
grass and long reeds seemingly rustling into his face, so one
didn't for the moment know him either; while the muddy, choco-
late-colored eddies, sweeping and closing beyond the ship's
rudder, glittered and frothed up like blood; and every here and
there, along the streak of light, the head of a log or a long
branch came dipping up terribly plain; no wonder the old Serin-
gapatam had apparently turned tail to it all, ready to bolt if she
could. Almost as soon as you took your hands off your eyes,
though, and could see without a red ball or two before them,
there was the nearest shore growing out toward our starboard
bulwark all along, crowded with wet green woods, up into steam-
ing high ground-all to eastward a dazzle of light, with two or
three faint mountain peaks shooting up far off in it, and a
woody blue hill or so between; while here and there a broad
bright hazy spoke off the sun came cutting down into the forest,
that brought a patch full of long big leaves, ten times greener
than the rest, and let look off the deck into the heart of it
among the stems over the bank. The jabber in the woods had
passed off all at once with the dusk, the water deepening over
the bar, and the tide running slower, so that every one's con-
fused face turned breathless with delight and it grew stiller and
stiller. The whole breadth of the river shone out by this time,
full and smooth, to the opposite shore three times as far away,
where the wood and bulrushes seemed to grow out of the water;
a long thick range of low muddy-looking mangroves, with a
cover of dark green, rounding from the farthest point one saw,
down to some sandy hummocks near the mouth, and a ridge of
the same drifted up by the wind off the beach. Beyond that side
there was nothing apparently but a rolling sweep of long
coarse grass, with a few straggling cocoanut-trees and baobabs
like big swollen logs on end, and taken to sprouting at top;
a dun-colored heave of land in the distance, too, that came out
as it got hotter, in a long, desert-like, red brick-dust sort of a
glare. The sole living things to be seen as yet were some small
birds rising up out of the long grass, and the turkey-buzzards
sailing high over all across, as if on the look-out.
The air was so cool and clear, however, from the tornado
over night,—not a cloud in the sky, and the strange scent of
the land reaching us as the dew rose off it, you could see far
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GEORGE CUPPLES
and wide, with a delicious feeling of it all, that kept every one
standing there on the spot where he first gained the deck, even
the men looking over their shoulders with the ropes in their
fists, and the fresh morning breeze lifting one's hair.
NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA
From The Green Hand'
I
HAD to get fairly off the saddle,—rather sore, I must say,
with riding up St. Helena roads after so many weeks at sea,
and flung myself down on the grass, with little enough
fear of the hungry little beast getting far adrift. This said
crag, by the way, drew my eye to it by the queer colors it
showed-white, blue, gray, and bright red-in the hot sunlight;
and being too far off to make out clearly, I slung off the ship's
glass I had across my back, just to overhaul it better. The hue
of it was to be seen running all down the deep rift between, that
seemingly wound away into some glen toward the coast; while
the lot of plants and trailers half covering the steep front of it
would no doubt, I thought, have delighted my old friend the
Yankee, if he was the botanizing gentleman in question. By
this time it was a lovely afternoon far and wide to Diana's Peak,
the sky glowing clearer deep blue at that height than you'd have
thought sky could do, even in the tropics-the very peaks of
bare red rock being softened into a purple tint, far off around
you. One saw into the rough bottom of the huge Devil's Punch
Bowl, and far through without a shadow down the green patches
in the little valleys, and over Deadwood Camp,-there was noth-
ing, as it were, between the grass, the ground, the stones, and
leaves, and the empty hollow of the air; while the sea spread
far round underneath, of a softer blue than the sky over you.
You'd have thought all the world was shrunk into St. Helena,
with the Atlantic lying three-quarters round it in one's sight,
like the horns of the bright new moon round the dim old one;
which St. Helena pretty much resembled, if what the star-gazers
say of its surface be true, all peaks and dry hollows—if indeed
you weren't lifting up out of the world, so to speak, when one
looked through his fingers right into the keen blue overhead!
If I lived a thousand years I couldn't tell half what I felt
lying there; but as you may imagine, it had somewhat in it of
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4215
the late European war by land and sea. Not that I could have
said so at the time, but rather a sort of half-doze, such as I've
known one have when a schoolboy, lying on the green grass the
same way, with one's face turned up into the hot summer
heavens; half of it flying glimpses, as it were, of the French
Revolution, the battles we used to hear of when we were child-
ren- then the fears about the invasion, with the channel full
of British fleets, and Dover Cliffs-Trafalgar and Nelson's death,
and the battle of Waterloo, just after we heard he had got out of
Elba. In the terrible flash of the thing all together, one almost
fancied them all gone like smoke; and for a moment I thought
I was falling away off, down into the wide sky, so up I started to
sit. From that, suddenly I took to guessing and puzzling closely
again how I should go to work myself, if I were the strange
Frenchman I saw in the brig at sea, and wanted to manage
Napoleon's escape out of St. Helena. And first, there was how
to get into the island and put him up to the scheme. why, sure
enough, I couldn't have laid it down better than they seemed to
have done all along: what could one do but just dodge about
that latitude under all sorts of false rig, then catch hold of
somebody fit to cover one's landing. No Englishman would do
it, and no foreigner but would set Sir Hudson Lowe on his
guard in a moment. Next we should have to get put on the
island and really a neat enough plan it was, to dog one of the
very cruisers themselves, knock up a mess of planks and spars
in the night-time, set them all ablaze with tar, and pretend we
were fresh from a craft on fire; when even Captain Wallis of the
Podargus, as it happened, was too much of a British seaman not
to carry us straight to St. Helena!
