Chapter 19

Very graphic and interesting is Mr. Hughes' narrative of his journey from Madrid to Portugal, especially that of the three days from Elvas to Aldea Gallega, which were passed in a jolting springless cart, drawn by mules, and driven by Senhor Manoel Alberto, a Portuguese carrier and cavalheiro, poor in pocket, but proud as a grandee. Manoel was a good study, an excellent specimen of his class and country, and as such his employer exhibits him. At Arroyolos Mr. Hughes ordered a stewed fowl for dinner, and made his charioteer sit down and partake. "I soon had occasion to repent my politeness, for Manoel, without hesitation, plunged his fork into the dish, and drank out of my glass; and great was his surprise when I called for another tumbler, and, extricating as much of the fowl as I chose to consume, left him in undisturbed possession of the remainder." His next meal Mr. Hughes thought proper to eat alone, but sent out half his chicken to the muleteer. "He refused to touch it, saying that he had ordered a chicken for himself! This was a falsehood, for he supped, as I afterwards ascertained, on a miserable _sopa_, but his pride would not permit him to touch what was given in a way that indicated inferiority." In his rambles through Alemtejo, a province little visited and not often described by Englishmen, Mr. Hughes exposes some of the blunders of Friend Borrow, of Bible and gipsy celebrity, whose singularly attractive style has procured for his writings a popularity of which their mistatements and inaccuracies render them scarcely worthy. He refers especially to the absurd notion of the English _caloro_, that the Portuguese will probably some day adopt the Spanish language; a most preposterous idea, when we remember the shyness, not to say the antipathy, existing between the two nations, and the immense opinion each entertains of itself and all belonging to it. He regrets "that one who has so stirring a style should take refuge in bounce and exaggeration from the honourable task of candid and searching observation, and prefer the fame of a Fernão Mendez Pinto to that of an honest and truthful writer." With respect to exaggeration, Mr. Borrow might, if so disposed, retaliate on his censor, who, whilst wandering in the olive groves of Venda do Duque, encounters "black ants as large almost as _figs_, unmolested in the vivid sun-beam." Before such monsters as these, the terrible _termes fatalis_ of the Indies, which undermines houses and breakfasts upon quarto volumes, must hide its diminished head. A misprint can scarcely be supposed, unless indeed an _f_ has been substituted for a _p_, which would not mend the matter. Apropos of Mr. Borrow: it appears that the ill success of his tract and Testament crusade did not entirely check missionary zeal for the spiritual amelioration of the Peninsula. His followers, however, met with small encouragement. One of their clever ideas was to bottle tracts, throw them into the sea, and allow them to be washed ashore! This ingenious plan, adopted before Cadiz, did not answer, "first," says Mr. Hughes, who, we must do him the justice to say, is a stanch foe to humbug, "because the bottling gave a ludicrous colour to the transaction; and, secondly, for the conclusive reason, that Cadiz, being surrounded by fortified sea walls, mounted with frowning guns and sentries, the bottles never reached the inhabitants."

Whilst touching on Portuguese literature, Mr. Hughes refers to what he considers the depreciating spirit of English critics. "There is a ludicrous difference," he says, "in the criticism of London and Lisbon. Every thing is condemned in the former place, and every thing hailed with rapture in the latter. There are faults on both sides." We have been informed that previous literary efforts of the author of the "Overland Journey" met, at the hands of certain reviewers, with rougher handling than they deserved. His present book is certainly not so cautiously written as to guarantee it against censure. The good that is in it, which is considerable, is defaced by triviality and bad taste. We shall not again dilate on faults to which we have already adverted, but merely advise Mr. Hughes, when next he sits down to record his rambles, to eschew flimsy and unpalatable gossip, and, bearing in mind Lord Bacon's admonition to travellers, to be "rather advised in his discourse than forward to tell stories."

TO THE STETHOSCOPE

"Tuba mirum spargens sonum." _Dies Iræ._

[The Stethoscope, as most, probably, of our readers are aware, is a short, straight, wooden tube, shaped like a small post-horn. By means of it, the medical man can listen to the sounds which accompany the movements of the lungs and heart; and as certain murmurs accompany the healthy action of these organs, and certain others mark their diseased condition, an experienced physician can readily discover not only the extent, but also the nature of the distemper which afflicts his patient, and foretell more or less accurately the fate of the latter.

The Stethoscope has long ceased to excite merely professional interest. There are few families to whom it has not proved an object of horror and the saddest remembrance, as connected with the loss of dear relatives, though it is but a revealer, not a producer of physical suffering.

As an instrument on which the hopes and fears, and one may also say the destinies of mankind, so largely hang, it appears to present a fit subject for poetic treatment. How far the present attempt to carry out this idea is successful, the reader must determine.]

STETHOSCOPE! thou simple tube, Clarion of the yawning tomb, Unto me thou seem'st to be A very trump of doom.

Wielding thee, the grave physician By the trembling patient stands, Like some deftly skilled musician; Strange! the trumpet in his hands. Whilst the sufferer's eyeball glistens Full of hope and full of fear, Quietly he bends and listens With his quick, accustomed ear-- Waiteth until thou shalt tell Tidings of the war within: In the battle and the strife, Is it death, or is it life, That the fought-for prize shall win?

Then thou whisperest in his ear Words which only he can hear-- Words of wo and words of cheer. Jubilatés thou hast sounded, Wild exulting songs of gladness; Misererés have abounded Of unutterable sadness. Sometimes may thy tones impart, Comfort to the sad at heart; Oftener when thy lips have spoken, Eyes have wept, and hearts have broken.

Calm and grave physician, thou Art like a crownéd KING; Though there is not round thy brow A bauble golden ring, As a Czar of many lands, Life and Death are in thy hands. Sceptre-like, that Stethoscope Seemeth in thy hands to wave: As it points, thy subject goeth Downwards to the silent grave; Or thy kingly power to save Lifts him from a bed of pain, Breaks his weary bondage-chain, And bids him be a man again.

Like a PRIEST beside the altar Bleeding victims sacrificing, Thou dost stand, and dost not falter Whatsoe'er their agonising: Death lifts up his dooming finger, And the Flamen may not linger!

PROPHET art thou, wise physician, Down the future calmly gazing, Heeding not the strange amazing Features of the ghastly vision. Float around thee shadowy crowds, Living shapes in coming shrouds;-- Brides with babes, in dark graves sleeping That still sleep which knows no waking; Eyes all bright, grown dim with weeping; Hearts all joy, with anguish breaking; Stalwart men to dust degraded; Maiden charms by worms invades; Cradle songs as funeral hymns; Mould'ring bones for living limbs; Stately looks, and angel faces, Loving smiles, and winning graces, Turned to skulls with dead grimaces. All the future, like a scroll, Opening out, that it may show, Like the ancient Prophet's roll, Mourning, lamentation, anguish, Grief, and every form of wo.

On a couch with kind gifts laden, Flowers around her, books beside her, Knowing not what shall betide her, Languishes a gentle maiden. Cold and glassy is her bright eye, Hectic red her hollow cheek, Tangled the neglected ringlets, Wan the body, thin and weak; Like thick cords, the swelling blue veins Shine through the transparent skin; Day by day some fiercer new pains Vex without, or war within: Yet she counts it but a passing, Transient, accidental thing; Were the summer only here, It would healing bring! And with many a fond deceit Tries she thus her fears to cheat: "When the cowslip's early bloom Quite hath lost its rich perfume; When the violet's fragrant breath Tasted have the lips of death; When the snowdrop long hath died, And the primrose at its side In its grave is sleeping; When the lilies all are over, And amongst the scented clover Merry lambs are leaping; When the swallow's voice is ringing Through the echoing azure dome, Saying, 'From my far-off home I have come, my wild way winging O'er the waves, that I might tell, As of old, I love ye well. Hark! I sound my silver bell; All the happy birds are singing From each throat A merry note, Welcome to my coming bringing.' When that happy time shall be, From all pain and anguish free, I shall join you, full of life and full of glee."

Then, thou fearful Stethoscope! Thou dost seem thy lips to ope, Saying, "Bid farewell to hope: I foretell thee days of gloom, I pronounce thy note of doom-- Make thee ready for the tomb! Cease thy weeping, tears avail not, Pray to God thy courage fail not. He who knoweth no repenting, Sympathy or sad relenting, Will not heed thy sore lamenting-- Death, who soon will be thy guide To his couch, will hold thee fast; As a lover at thy side Will be with thee to the last, Longing for thy latest gasp, When within his iron grasp As his bride he will thee clasp."

Shifts the scene. The Earth is sleeping, With her weary eyelids closed, Hushed by darkness into slumber; Whilst in burning ranks disposed, High above, in countless number, All the heavens, in radiance steeping, Watch and ward And loving guard O'er her rest the stars are keeping.

Often has the turret-chime Of the hasty flight of time Warning utterance given; And the stars are growing dim On the gray horizon's rim, In the dawning light of heaven. But there sits, the Bear out-tiring, As if no repose requiring, One pale youth, all unattending To the hour; with bright eye bending O'er the loved and honoured pages, Where are writ the words of sages, And the heroic deeds and thoughts of far distant ages.

Closed the book, With gladsome look Still he sits and visions weaveth. Fancy with her wiles deceiveth; Days to come with glory gildeth; And though all is bleak and bare, With perversest labour buildeth Wondrous castles in the air. He who shall possess each palace, Fortune has for him no malice, Only countless joys in store: Over rim, And mantling brim, His full cup of life shall pour. Whilst he dreams, The future seems Like the present spread before him: Nought to fear him, All to cheer him, Coming greatness gathers o'er him; And into the ear of Night Thus he tells his visions bright:--

"I shall be a glorious Poet! All the wond'ring world shall know it, Listening to melodious hymning; I shall write immortal songs.

"I shall be a Painter limning Pictures that shall never fade; Round the scenes I have portrayed Shall be gathered gazing throngs: Mine shall be a Titian's palette!

"I shall wield a Phidias' mallet! Stone shall grow to life before me, Looks of love shall hover o'er me, Beauty shall in heart adore me That I make her charms immortal. Now my foot is on the portal Of the house of Fame: Soon her trumpet shall proclaim Even this now unhonoured name, And the doings of this hand Shall be known in every land.

"Music! my bewitching pen Shall enchant the souls of men. Aria, fugue, and strange sonata, Opera, and gay cantata, Through my brain, In linkéd train, Hark! I hear them winding go, Now with half-hushed whisper stealing, Now in full-voiced accent pealing, Ringing loud, and murmuring low. Scarcely can I now refrain, Whilst these blessed notes remain, From pouring forth one undying angel-strain.

"Eloquence! my lips shall speak As no living lips have spoken-- Advocate the poor and weak, Plead the cause of the heart-broken; Listening senates shall be still, I shall wield them at my will, And this little tongue, the earth With its burning words shall fill.

"Ye stars which bloom like flowers on high, Ye flowers which are the stars of earth, Ye rocks that deep in darkness lie, Ye seas that with a loving eye Gaze upwards on the azure sky, Ye waves that leap with mirth; Ye elements in constant strife, Ye creatures full of bounding life: I shall unfold the hidden laws, And each unthought-of wondrous cause, That waked ye into birth. A high-priest I, by Nature taught Her mysteries to reveal: The secrets that she long hath sought In darkness to conceal Shall have their mantle rent away, And stand uncovered to the light of day. O Newton! thou and I shall be Twin brothers then! Together link'd, our names shall sound Upon the lips of men."

Like the sullen heavy boom Of a signal gun at sea, When athwart the gathering gloom, Awful rocks are seen to loom Frowning on the lee; Like the muffled kettle-drum, With the measured tread, And the wailing trumpet's hum, Telling that a soldier's dead; Like the deep cathedral bell Tolling forth its doleful knell, Saying, "Now the strife is o'er, Death hath won a victim more"-- So, thou doleful Stethoscope! Thou dost seem to say, "Hope thou on against all hope, Dream thy life away: Little is there now to spend; And that little's near an end. Saddest sign of thy condition is thy bounding wild ambition; Only dying eyes can gaze on so bright a vision. Ere the spring again is here, Low shall be thy head, Vainly shall thy mother dear, Strive her breaking heart to cheer, Vainly strive to hide the tear Oft in silence shed. Pangs and pains are drawing near, To plant with thorns thy bed: Lo! they come, a ghastly troop, Like fierce vultures from afar; Where the bleeding quarry is, There the eagles gathered are! Ague chill, and fever burning, Soon away, but swift returning, In unceasing alternation; Cold and clammy perspiration, Heart with sickening palpitation, Panting, heaving respiration; Aching brow, and wasted limb, Troubled brain, and vision dim, Hollow cough like dooming knell Saying, 'Bid the world farewell!' Parchéd lips, and quenchless thirst, Every thing as if accurst; Nothing to the senses grateful; All things to the eye grown hateful; Flowers without the least perfume; Gone from every thing its bloom; Music but an idle jangling; Sweetest tongues but weary wrangling; Books, which were most dearly cherished, Come to be, each one, disrelished; Clearest plans grown all confusion; Kindest friends but an intrusion: Weary day, and weary night-- Weary night, and weary day; Would God it were the morning light! Would God the light were pass'd away! And when all is dark and dreary, And thou art all worn and weary, When thy heart is sad and cheerless, And thine eyes are seldom tearless, When thy very soul is weak, Satan shall his victim seek. Day by day he will be by thee, Night by night will hover nigh thee, With accursed wiles will try thee, Soul and spirit seek to buy thee. Faithfully he'll keep his tryst, Tell thee that there is no Christ, No long-suffering gracious Father, But an angry tyrant rather; No benignant Holy Spirit, Nor a heaven to inherit, Only darkness, desolation, Hopelessness of thy salvation, And at best annihilation.

"God with his great power defend thee! Christ with his great love attend thee! May the blessed Spirit lend thee Strength to bear, and all needful succour send thee!" Close we here. My eyes behold, As upon a sculpture old, Life all warm and Death all cold Struggling which alone shall hold-- Sign of wo, or sign of hope!-- To his lips the Stethoscope.

But the strife at length is past, They have made a truce at last, And the settling die is cast. Life shall sometimes sound a blast, But it shall be but "Tantivy," Like a hurrying war reveillie, Or the hasty notes that levy Eager horse, and man, and hound, On an autumn morn, When the sheaves are off the ground, And the echoing bugle-horn Sends them racing o'er the scanty stubble corn. But when I a-hunting go, I, King Death, I that funeral trump shall blow With no bated breath. Long drawn out, and deep and slow Shall the wailing music go; Winding horn shall presage meet Be of coming winding-sheet, And all living men shall know That beyond the gates of gloom, In my mansions of the tomb, I for every one keep room, And shall hold and house them all, till the very Day of Doom.

V. V.

EPIGRAMS.

Bait, hook, and hair, are used by angler fine; Emma's bright hair alone were bait, hook, line.

* * * * *

Faraday was the first to elicit the electric spark from the magnet; he found that it is visible at the instants of breaking and of renewing the contact of the conducting wires; and _only then_.

Around the magnet, Faraday Is sure that Volta's lightnings play; But _how_ to draw them from the wire? He took a lesson from the heart: 'Tis when we meet, 'tis when we part, Breaks forth the electric fire.

M.

LETTERS ON THE TRUTHS CONTAINED IN POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS.

1.--THE DIVINING ROD.

_February_, 1847.

DEAR ARCHY,--As a resource against the long ennui of the solitary evenings of commencing winter, I determined to betake me to the neglected lore of the marvellous, the mystical, the supernatural. I remembered the deep awe with which I had listened many a year ago to tales of seers, and ghosts, and vampires, and all the dark brood of night; and I thought it would be infinitely agreeable to thrill again with mysterious terrors, to start in my chair at the closing of a distant door, to raise my eyes with uneasy apprehension towards the mirror opposite, and to feel my skin creep with the sensible "afflatus" of an invisible presence. I entered, accordingly, upon what I thought a very promising course of appalling reading; but, alack and well-a-day! a change has come over me since the good old times, when Fancy, with Fear and Superstition behind her, would creep on tiptoe to catch a shuddering glimpse of Cobbold Fay, or Incubus. Vain were all my efforts to revive the pleasant horrors of earlier years. It was as if I had planned going to the play to enjoy again the full gusto of scenic illusion, and through some unaccountable absence of mind, was attending a morning rehearsal only; when, instead of what I had expected, great coats, hats, umbrellas, and ordinary men and women, masks, tinsel, trap-doors, pulleys, and a world of intricate machinery, lit by a partial gleam of sunshine, had met my view. The spell I had anticipated was not there. But yet the daylight scene was worth a few minutes' study. My imagination was not to be gratified; but still it might be entertaining to see how the tricks are done, the effects produced, the illusion realised. I found myself insensibly growing philosophical; what amused me became matter of speculation--speculation turned into serious inquiry--the object of which shaped itself into "the amount of truth contained in popular superstitions." For what has been believed for ages must have something real at bottom. There can be no prevalent delusion without a corresponding truth. If the dragons, that flew on scaly wings and expectorated flames, were fabulous, there existed nevertheless very respectable reptiles, which it was a credit to a hero or even a saint to destroy. If the Egyptian worship of cats and onions was a mistake, there existed nevertheless an object of worship.

Among the immortal productions of the Scottish Shakspeare,--you smile, but _that_ phrase contains the true belief, not a popular delusion; for the spirit of the poet lived not in the form of his productions, but in his creative power and vivid intuition of nature; and the form even is often nearer you than you think: See the works of imaginative prose writers, _passim_.

Well, among the novels of Scott, I was going to say, none perhaps more grows upon our preference than the Antiquary. In no one has the great Author more gently and more indulgently, never with happier humour, displayed the mixed web of strength and infirmity of human character, (never, besides, with more facile power evoked pathos and terror, or disported himself in the sublimity and beauty of nature.) Yet gentle as is his mood, he misses not the opportunity, albeit in general he betrays an honest leaning towards old superstitions, mercilessly to crush one of the humblest. Do you remember the Priory of St. Ruth, and the pleasant summer party made to visit it, and the preparation for the subsequent rogueries of Dousterswivel, in the tale of Martin Waldeck, and the discovery of a spring of water by means of the divining rod?

I am disposed, do you know, to rebel against the judgment of the novelist on this occasion,--to take the part of the charlatan against the author of his being, and to question, whether his performance last alluded to might not have been something more and better than a trick. Yet I know not if it is prudent to brave public opinion, which has stamped this pretension as imposture. But, courage! I will not flinch. I will be desperate, with Sir Arthur, defy the sneeze of the great Pheulphan, and trust to unearth a real treasure in this discredited ground.

Therefore leave off appealing to the shade of Oldbuck, and listen to a plain narrative, and you shall hear how much truth there is in the reputed popular delusion of the divining rod.

I see my tone of confidence has already half-staggered your disbelief; but pray do not, like many other incredulous gentry, run off at once into the opposite extreme. Don't let your imagination suddenly instal you perpetual chairman of the universal fresh-water company, or of the general gold-mine-discovery-proprietary-association. What I have to fell you falls very far short of so splendid a mark.

But perhaps you know nothing at all about the divining rod. Then I will enlighten your primitive ignorance.