When Croesus sent his Lydian messengers to the Oracle, one Alcmaeon, who seems to have been a shrewd fellow, with a sharp eye to the main chance, entertained them with generous hospitality; which so pleased Croesus, when he was told of it, that he immediately invited Alcmaeon to visit him at Sardis. When he arrived, the King told him that he was at liberty to enter his treasury and help himself to as much gold as he could carry off on his person at once. No sooner said than done. Alcmaeon, without bashfulness, arrayed himself in a tunic that bagged abominably at the waist, drew on the biggest buskins in Sardis, dressed his hair loose, and, marching into the treasure-house, (imagine what the treasury of Croesus must have been,) waded into a desert of gold dust. He crammed the bosom of his tunic, crammed his bombastian buskins, filled his hair full, and finally stuffed his mouth, so that, as he passed out, he could only wink his fat red eyes and bob to Croesus, who, when he had laughed till his sides ached, repaid his funny, but voracious guest for the amusement he had afforded him by not only confirming the gift of gold, but conferring an equal amount in jewels and rich raiment.
But we must not remain to marvel among the overwhelming displays of barbaric profusion. Akbhar, the imperial Mogul, who on his birthday caused himself to be weighed in golden scales three times,—first against gold pieces, then against silver, and lastly against fine perfumes,—who scattered among his courtiers showers of gold and silver nuts, for which even his gravest ministers were not too dignified to scramble,—even Akbhar must not detain us. Nor Aurengzebe, who made his marches, seated on a throne flashing with gold and rich brocades, and borne on the shoulders of men; while his princesses and favorite begums followed in all the pomp and glory of the seraglio, nestled in delicious pavilions curtained with massy silk, and mounted on the backs of stately elephants of Pegu and Martaban.
We must get away from these; for the realm of the Supernatural and theMarvellous lies open before us, and on the very threshold, over whichSir John Mandeville conducts us, broods in his fiery nest that wondrousfowl, the Phoenix.
"In Egypt is the city of Eliopolis, that is to say, the City of the Sun. In that city there is a temple made round, after the shape of the temple of Jerusalem. The priests of that temple have all their writing dated by the fowl that is called Phoenix; and there is none but one in all the world. And he cometh to burn himself upon the altar of the temple at the end of five hundred years; for so long he liveth. And at the end of the five hundred years, they array their altar carefully, and put thereon spices and live sulphur, and other things that will burn lightly. And then the bird Phoenix cometh and burneth himself to ashes. And the first day next after, men find in the ashes a worm; and the second day next after, men find a bird, quick and perfect; and the third day next after, he flieth away. And so there is no more birds of that kind in all the world but that alone. And, truly, that is a great miracle of God. And men may well liken that bird unto God, because there is no God but one, and also that our Lord arose from death the third day. This bird men see often flying in those countries; and he is not much more than an eagle. And he hath a crest of feathers upon his head greater than the peacock hath. And his neck is yellow, after the color of an orial, that is a stone well shining. And his beak is colored blue, and his wings are of purple color, and his tail is yellow and red. And he is a full fair bird to look upon against the sun; for he shineth full gloriously and nobly."
Let us pray that our Phoenix may not fall into the clutches of the De Sautys, to be made goose-meat of; rather may they themselves be utterly cast out,—into the land of giants that are hideous to look upon, and have but one eye, and that in the middle of the forehead,—into the land of folk of foul stature and of cursed kind, that have no heads, and whose eyes be in their shoulders,—into the isle of those that go upon their hands and feet, like beasts, and that are all furred and feathered,—or into the country of the people who have but one leg, the foot of which is so large that it shades all the rest of the body from the sun, when they lie down on their backs to rest at noonday. But not into the Land of Women, where all are wise, noble, and worthy. For once there was a king in that country, and men married; but presently befell a war with the Scythians, and the king was slain in battle, and with him all of the best blood of his realm. So when the queen, and the other noble ladies, saw that they were all widows, and all the royal blood was spilled, they armed themselves, and, like mad creatures, slew all the men that were left in the country; for they wished that all the women might be widows, as the queen and they were. And thenceforward they never would suffer men to dwell among them, especially men of the De Sauty sort, who, as Hans Christian Andersen says, ask questions and never dream.
The town of Lop, says Marco Polo, is situated near the commencement of the great desert called the Desert of Lop. It is asserted as a well-known fact, that this desert is the abode of many evil spirits, which entice travellers to destruction with extraordinary delusions. If, during the daytime, any persons remain behind on the road until the caravan has passed a hill and is no longer in sight, they unexpectedly hear themselves called by their names, in a tone of voice to which they are accustomed. Supposing the call to proceed from their companions, they are led away by it from the direct road, and, not knowing in what direction to advance, are left to perish. In the night-time they are persuaded they hear the march of a great cavalcade, and concluding the noise to be the tramp of their own party, they make the best of their way in the direction of the quarter whence it seems to come; but when the day breaks, they find they have been misled and drawn into a situation of danger. Sometimes, during the day, these spirits assume the appearance of their travelling-companions, who address them by name, and endeavor to draw them out of the proper road. It is said, also, that some travellers, in their way across the desert, have seen what appeared to them to be a body of armed men advancing toward them, and, fearful of being attacked and plundered, have taken to flight. Thus, losing the right path, and ignorant of the direction they should take to regain it, they have miserably perished of hunger.
Marvellous, indeed, and almost passing belief, are the stories related of these spirits of the desert, which are said to fill the air at times with the sounds of all kinds of musical instruments, of drama, and the clash of arms. When the journey across this dreadful waste is completed, the trembling traveller arrives at the city of the Great Khan.[1]
[Footnote 1: Leigh Hunt.]
In this rich chapter of horrors how finished an allegory for old JohnBunyan! With what religious unction he would have led his Christiantraveller from that unknown city on the edge of the sands, across theSoul's Desert of Lop, with its
"Voices calling in the dead of night,And airy tongues that syllable men's names,"
safe into theCity of the Great Khan!
Leigh Hunt declares that he has read, in some other account, of a dreadful, unendurable face that used to stare at people as they went by.
The Barbaric has also its features of solemnity and grandeur, filling the mind with exalted contemplations, and the imagination with inspiring and ennobling apparitions. Surroundings that contribute a quality of awfulness embrace in such scenes the soul of the traveller, and hold him in their tremendous thrall. Mean or flippant ideas may not enter here; but the man puts off the smaller part of him, as the Asiatic puts off his sandals on entering the porches of his god. Of such is the Eternal Sphinx, as Eothen Kinglake beheld her. We cannot feel her aspect more grandly than by the aid of his inspiration.
"And near the Pyramids, more wondrous and more awful than all else in the land of Egypt, there sits the lonely Sphinx. Comely the creature is; but the comeliness is not of this world; the once worshipped beast is a deformity and a monster to this generation; and yet you can see that those lips, so thick and heavy, were fashioned according to some ancient mould of beauty, now forgotten,—forgotten because that Greece drew forth Cytherea from the flashing foam of the Aegean, and in her image created new forms of beauty, and made it a law among men that the short and proudly wreathed lip should stand for the sign and main condition of loveliness through all generations to come. Yet still lives on the race of those who were beautiful in the fashion of the elder world; and Christian girls of Coptic blood will look on you with the sad, serious gaze, and kiss you your charitable hand with the big, pouting lips of the very Sphinx.
"Laugh and mock, if you will, at the worship of stone idols; but mark ye this, ye breakers of images, that in one regard the stone idol bears awful semblance of Deity,—unchangefulness in the midst of change,—the same seeming will and intent, forever and forever inexorable. Upon ancient dynasties of Ethiopian and Egyptian kings,—upon Greek and Roman, upon Arab and Ottoman conquerors,—upon Napoleon dreaming of an Eastern empire,—upon battle and pestilence,—upon the ceaseless misery of the Egyptian race,—upon keen-eyed travellers,—Herodotus yesterday, Warbarton to-day,—upon all, and more, this unworldly Sphinx has watched and watched like a Providence, with the same earnest eyes, and the same sad, tranquil mien. And we, we shall die; and Islam will wither away; and the Englishman, leaning far over to hold his loved India, will plant a firm foot on the banks of the Nile, and sit in the seats of the Faithful; and still that sleepless rock will lie watching and watching the works of the new, busy race, with those same sad, earnest eyes, and that same tranquil mien, everlasting. You dare not mock at the Sphinx!"
Not less stupendously placid than the Sphinx, and even grimmer in his remoteness from the places that have heard Messiah's name, is the Boodh, throned in trance, and multitudinously worshipped. Shall I tell you how I first beheld him in his glory?
We were approaching some sacred caves in Burmah. Lighting our torches, and each man taking one, we mounted the steep, tortuous, and slippery foot-path of damp, green stones, through the thorny shrubs that beset it, to the low entrance to the outer cavern. Stooping uncomfortably, we passed into a small, vacant antechamber, having a low, dripping roof, perpendicular walls, clammy and green, and a rocky floor, sloping inward through a narrow arch to a long, double, transverse gallery, divided in the direction of its length, partly by a face of rock, partly by a row of pillars. Here were innumerable images of Guadma, the counterfeit presentment of the Fourth Boodh, whose successor is to see the end of all things,—innumerable, and of every stature, from Hop-o'-my-thumbs to Hurlo-thrombos, but all of the identical orthodox pattern,—with pendulous ears, one hand planted squarely on the knee, the other sleeping in the lap, an eternity of front face, and a smooth stagnancy of expression, typical of an unfathomable calm,—the Guadma of a span as grim as he of ten cubits, and he of ten cubits as vacant as the Guadma of a span,—of stone, of lead, of wood, of clay, of earthenware and alabaster,—on their bottoms, on their heads, on their backs, on their sides, on their faces,—black, white, red, yellow,—an eye gone, a nose gone, an ear gone, a head gone,—an arm off at the shoulder, a leg at the knee,—a back split, a bosom burst,—Guadma, imperturbable, eternal, calm,—in the midst of time, timeless! It is not annihilation which the Boodh has promised, as the blessed crown of a myriad of progressive transmigrations; it is not Death; it is not Sleep,—it is this.
Our entrance awoke a pandemonium. Myriads of bats and owls, and all manner of fowls of darkness and bad omen, crazed by the glare of twenty torches, startled the echoes with infernal clangor. Screaming and huddling together, some fled under the wide skirts of sable, which Darkness, climbing to the roof in fear, drew up after her; some hid with lesser shadows between columns of great girth, or in the remotest murky niches, or down in the black profound of resounding chasms; some, bewildered or quite blinded by the flashes of the co-eternal beam, dashed themselves against the stony walls, and fell crippled, gasping, staring, at our feet. And when, at last, our guides and servants, mounting to pinnacles and jutting points, and many a frieze and coigne of vantage, placed blue lights on them all, and at the word illuminated all together, there was redoubled bedlam in that abode of Hecate, and the eternal calm of the Boodh became awful. For what deeds of outer darkness, done long ago in that black hole of superstition, so many damned souls shrieked from their night-fowl transmigrations, 'twere vain to question there were no disclosures in that trance of stone.
For an experience of the oppressive awfulness of solitude, and all the weary monotony of waste, come now, with Kinglake, into mid-desert.
"As long as you are journeying in the interior of the desert, you have no particular point to make for as your resting-place. The endless sands yield nothing but small stunted shrubs; even these fail after the first two or three days; and from that time you pass over broad plains, you pass over newly reared hills, you pass through valleys that the storm of the last week has dug; and the hills and the valleys are sand, sand, sand, still sand and only sand, and sand and sand again. The earth is so samely, that your eyes turn toward heaven,—toward heaven, I mean, in the sense of sky. You look to the sun, for he is your task-master, and by him you know the measure of the work that you have done, the measure of the work that remains for you to do. He comes when you strike your tent in the early morning, and then, for the first hour of the day, as you move forward on your camel, he stands at your near side, and makes you know that the whole day's toil is before you. Then, for a while, and a long while, you see him no more; for you are veiled and shrouded, and dare not look upon the greatness of his glory; but you know where he strides over your head by the touch of his flaming sword. No words are spoken; but your Arabs moan, your camels sigh, your skin glows, your shoulders ache; and, for sights, you see the pattern and the web of the silk that veils your eyes, and the glare of the outer light.
"Time labors on,—your skin glows, and your shoulders ache, your Arabs moan, your camels sigh, and you see the same pattern on the silk, and the same glare beyond; but conquering Time marches on, and by-and-by the descending sun has compassed the heaven, and now softly touches your right arm, and throws your lank shadow over the sand, right along on the way to Persia. Then again you look upon his face, for his power is all veiled in his beauty, and the redness of flames has become the redness of roses; the fair, wavy cloud that fled in the morning now comes to his sight once more,—comes blushing, but still comes on,—comes burning with blushes, yet hastens, and clings to his side."
When one has been sufficiently dis-Europized by remote travel, to become, as to his imagination, a child again, and receive a child's impressions from the strangeness that surrounds him, the grotesque and fantastic aspects of his situation afford him the same emotions, of unquestioning wonder and romantic sympathy, that he derived in the old time from the adventures of Sinbad the Sailor, the exploits of Jack the Giant-Killer, what Gulliver saw, or Munchausen did. Behold Belzoni in the necropolis of Thebes, crawling on his very face among the dusty rubbish of unnumbered mummies, to steal papyri from their bosoms. Fatigued with the exertion of squirming through a mummy-choked passage of five hundred yards, he sought a resting-place; but when he would have sat down, his weight bore on the body of an Egyptian, and crushed it like a bandbox. He naturally had recourse to his hands to sustain his weight; but they found no better support, and he sunk altogether in a crash of broken bones, rags, and wooden cases, that raised such a dust as kept him motionless for a quarter of an hour, waiting for it to subside. He could not move from the place, however, without increasing it, and every step he took smashed a mummy. Once, in forcing his way through a steeply inclined passage, about twenty feet in length, and no wider than his body could be squeezed through, he was overwhelmed with an avalanche of bones, legs, arms, and hands, rolling from above; and every forward move brought his face in contact with the abhorred features of some decayed Egyptian.[1]
[Footnote 1: Bayard Taylor.]
Behold Denham in the Desert of Dead Bones, where his sick comrades were constantly disheartened by the sight of the skulls and skeletons of men who had perished on those sands. During several days, they passed from sixty to ninety skeletons a day; but the numbers that lay about the wells at El Hammar were countless. Those of two women, whose perfect and regular teeth bespoke them young, perhaps beautiful, were particularly shocking. Their arms were still clasped around each other's neck, in the attitude in which they had expired, although the flesh had long since been consumed in the rays of the sun, and the blackened bones alone were left.
Parkyns, among the little greenish-gray monkeys of Tigré, enjoyed a treat to make the mouth of our young imagination water. He saw them conversing, quarrelling, making love; mothers were taking care of their children, combing their hair, nursing or "trotting" them; and the passions of all—jealousy, rage, love—were as strongly marked as in men. They had a language as distinct to them as ours to us; and their women were as noisy and as fond of disputation as any fish-fag in Billingsgate.
"On their marches, a few of the heedless youth occasionally lagged behind to snatch a handful of berries; sometimes a matron halted for a while to nurse her baby, and, not to lose time, dressed its hair while it took its meal. Now and then a young lady, excited by jealousy or some sneering look or word, made an ugly mouth at one of her companions, and then, uttering a shrill squeal, highly expressive of rage, vindictively snatched at the offender's tail or leg, and administered a hearty bite. This provoked a retort, and a most unladylike quarrel ensued, till a loud remonstrance from mothers or aunts called them to order."
According to Marco Polo, there have been among the monkeys, from time to time, certain Asiatic Yankees, who did a lively business in the manufacture of an article which would, no doubt, have found a ready purchaser at Barnum's Museum.
"It should be known," says the veracious old Venetian, "that what is reported respecting the dead bodies of diminutive human creatures or pigmies, brought from India, is an idle tale; such pretended men being manufactured in the island of Basman in the following manner. The country produces a species of monkey of a tolerable size, and having a countenance resembling that of a man. Those persons who make it their business to catch them shave off the hair, leaving it only about the chin. They then dry and preserve them with camphor and other drugs; and having prepared them in such a mode that they have exactly the appearance of little men, they put them into wooden boxes, and sell them to trading people, who carry them to all parts of the world."
Not the least familiar of the aspects of the Barbaric are its actions and situations of horror. I could tell tales from the later, not less than from the older travellers, that would send my readers shuddering to sleepless beds: the ferocities of Tippoo reënacted in the name of Nena Sahib; the noiseless murders of Thuggee's nimble cord; the drunkendiablerieof the Doorga Pooja; the monstrous human sacrifices of the Khonds and Bheels; the dreadful rites of the Janni before the gory altar of the Earth goddess; the indiscriminate slashing and stabbing of the Amok; the shuddering dodges of the plague-chased Cavrite; the grim and lonely duels of the French lion-killer under the melancholy stars; the carrion-like exposures of the Parsee dead; the nightmarish legends of the Evil Eye. But my hope is to part with them on pleasant terms; so rather would I strew their pillows with the consolations of this many-mooded Barbaric,—moss from ruins, and pretty flowers from the desert,—that beneficent botany which maketh the wilderness to blossom like the rose.
When Mungo Park, deserted by his guides, and stripped by thieves, utterly paralyzed by misfortune, and misery, would have laid him down to die in a desert place,—at that moment, of all others, the extraordinary beauty of a small moss in fructification caught his eye. "I mention this," he says, "to show you from what trifling circumstances the mind will sometimes derive consolation; for, though the whole plant was not larger than the top of one of my fingers, I could not contemplate the delicate conformation of its root, leaves, and capsule without admiration. Can that Being, thought I, who planted, watered, and brought to perfection, in this obscure part of the world, a thing which appears of so small importance, look with unconcern upon the situation and sufferings of creatures formed after his own image? I started up, and, disregarding both danger and fatigue, travelled forward, assured that relief was at hand; and I was not disappointed."
Richardson, in the midst of Sahara, beheld with brimming eyes two small trees, the common desert acacia, and by-and-by two or three pretty blue flowers. As he snatched them, to fold them in his bosom, he could not help exclaiming,Elhamdullah!"Praise be to God!"—for Arabic was growing second-born to his tongue, and he began to think in it and to pray in it. An Arab said to him, "Yakob, if we had a reed, and were to make a melodious sound, those flowers, the color of heaven, would open and shut their mouths."
Once, Mungo Park (the once too often of telling this story can never come) sat all day,—without food, under a tree. The night threatened to be very pitiless; for the wind arose, and there was every sign of a heavy rain; and wild beasts prowled around. But about sunset, as he was preparing to pass the night in the branches of the tree, a woman, returning from the labors of the field, perceived how weary and dejected he was, and, taking up his saddle and bridle, invited him to follow her. She conducted him to her hut, where she lighted a lamp, spread a mat on the floor, and bade him welcome. Then she went out, and presently returning with a fine fish, broiled it on the embers, and set his supper before him. The rites of hospitality thus performed toward a stranger in distress, thatsavageangel, pointing to the mat, and assuring him that he might sleep there without fear, commanded the females of her family, who all the while had stood gazing on him in fixed astonishment, to resume their spinning. Then they sang, to a sweet and plaintive air, these words: "The winds roared, and the rains fell. The poor white man, faint and weary, came and sat under our tree. Let us pity the white man; no mother hath he to bring him milk, no wife to grind his corn." Flowers in the desert![1]
[Footnote 1: Leigh Hunt.]
Flowers in the desert! And De Sauty shall spare them, though he botanize on his mother's grave. Borro-boolah-gah may know us by our India-rubber shirts and pictorial pocket-handkerchiefs; and King Mumbo Jumbo may reduce his rebellious locks to subjection with a Yankee currycomb; but these, our desert flowers, are All Right, De Sauty!
There is a lady in this case.
For three days she had sat opposite me at the table of the pleasantest of White Mountain resorts, (of course I give no hint as to whichthatis,—tastes differ,) and I had gradually become enthralled. Her beauty was dazzling, and her name was Tarlingford. For the first of these items, I was indebted to my own intelligence; for the second to the hotel register, which also informed me that she was from New York.
I, too, had come from New York;—a coincidence too startling to be calmly overlooked.
Our acquaintance began oddly. One morning, at breakfast, I was musing over a hard-boiled egg, and wondering if I could perforate her affections with anything like the success which had followed my fork as it penetrated the shell before me, when I felt a timid touch upon my toe, thrilling me from end to end like a telegraph-wire when the insulation is perfect. I looked up, and detected a pink flush making its way browward on the lovely countenance across the table.
"I beg your pardon," said I, with much concern.
"It was my fault, Sir; excuseme," said she, permitting the pink flush to deepen, rosily.
"Shall I pass you the buttered toast?" said I.
"Muffins, if you please," said she, and so sweetly that I was blinded to the absence of sugar in my second cup of coffee.
I was confused by this incident. Many men would have concealed their disquietude by an affectation of sudden appetite, or by bullying the waiter, or by abrupt departure from the scene. I did neither. I felt I had a right to be confused, and I gloried in it.
Very soon Miss Tarlingford withdrew, and I experienced an aching void within, which chops and fritters had no power to replenish.
I opened a chambermaid's heart with a half-dollar, and the treasures of her knowledge were revealed to me. The beauty and her party were to remain a fortnight Among her companions there were no males, except a youthful irresponsibility.Exultemus!
Later in the morning I heard the tinkling of the parlor pianoforte. Music has soothing charms for me, though I have not a savage breast. I drew near, and found Miss Tarlingford trifling with the keys,—those keys which lock together so many chains of human sympathy. She rose, and gave out demonstrations of impending disappearance. I interposed,—
"Pray, continue. I am famished for music, and came specially to listen."
"It is hardly worth while."
"How can you say so? It is I who know best what I need."
"I will play for you, then."
And she did. This was wonderful. Usually, a long and painful struggle precedes feminine acquiescence, on such occasions. Repeated refusals, declarations of incapacity, partial consent vouchsafed and then waywardly withdrawn, poutings, head-tossings, feebler murmurs of disinclination, and final reluctant yielding form the fashionable order of proceeding. The charm of it all is, that the original intention is the same as the ultimate action. Whence, then, this folly? Having been many times wretchedly bored by this sort of thing, I was now correspondingly gladdened by the contrast.
Miss Tarlingford played well, and I said so.
"Pretty well," she answered, frankly; "but not so well as I could wish."
Shock Number Two. It is customary in good society for tolerable performers to disavow all praises, (secretly yearning for more,) and to assail with invective their own artistic accomplishments. Here was a young lady who played well, and had the hardihood to acknowledge it. This rather took away my breath, and a vacuum began to come under my waistcoat.
For three blissful days Miss Tarlingford and I were seldom separated. Her sister, a pale, sedate maiden, of amiable appearance, and her brother, a small, rude boy, of intrusive habits and unguarded speech, I consented to undergo, for the sake of conventional necessity. To the mother of the Tarlingfords additional respect seemed due, and was accorded.
Three blissful days of sunshine, meadowy rambles, forest explorations, the majestic tranquillity of Nature spiced with the sauce of flirtation, or something stronger. Sometimes we took our morning happiness on foot, sometimes our mid-day ecstasy served up on horseback, sometimes our evening rapture in an open wagon at two forty.
The puerile Tarlingford, interfering at first, was summarily crushed. Aspiring to equestrian distinctions, he wrought upon maternal indulgence, until, not without misgivings, maternal anxiety was stifled, and, with injunctions that we should hover protectingly near him, he was sent forth, a thorn in our sides. In half an hour he was accidentally remembered, and was found to be nowhere within view; so we pursued our way, well pleased. He had dropped quietly off, at the first canter, into a miry slough, and had returned sobbingly, covered with mortification and mud, to the arms of his parent. Keen questioning at dinner was the result.
"Why did you so neglect him?" demanded fond mamma, adding, reproachfully, "The child's life might have been sacrificed."
"Mother, we looked for him, and he was gone. Why didn't he cry out?"
"So I did," shouted this youth of open speech; "but you two had your heads together, laughing and talking like anything, and couldn't hear, I suppose." (With a juvenile sneer.)
"Oh, fie, Walter! Now I think you were so frightened that you could not speak."
"I shall know better than to intrust him to your care again," said indignant mamma, as one who withdrew a blessed privilege.
"Don't say that, mother; it would be a punishment too severe," said the mischievous little pale sister, in tones of pity, and her face brimming with mirth.
Everybody laughed, and peace was restored.
On the third evening, misery came to me in an envelope post-marked NewYork:—
"My DEAR PLOVINS:—
"I shall be with you the night after you receive this. Engage a room for me. Have you seen anything of a Miss Tarlingford, where you are staying? You should know her. She is very brilliant and accomplished, but is retiring. I am willing to tell you, but it must go no farther, that we are betrothed.
"Yours, in a hurry,
My heart was as the mercury of a thermometer which is plunged into ice; but I preserved an outward composure. Turning over the pile of letters awaiting owners, I came upon one, directed in Lillivan's handwriting, to Miss A. Tarlingford, etc., etc.
To think that a paltry superscription should carry such a weight of tribulation with it!
I thus discovered that my lines had fallen in unpleasant places. I was fishing in a preoccupied stream, and had got myself entangled.
I avoided the public table, and shrunk from society. During the whole of the next morning, I kept aloof from the temptations of Tarlingford, and took to billiards.
In the afternoon, as I sat gloomily in my room, with feet protruding from the window, and body inclined rearward, (the American attitude of despair,) the piano tinkled. It was the same melody which had attracted me a few happy days before. Strengthening myself with a powerful resolution to extricate myself from the bewitching influence which had surrounded me, I arose, and went straightway to the parlor. Could it be that a flash of pleasure beamed on Miss Tarlingford's face? or was I a deluded gosling? The latter suggestion seemed the more credible, so I cheerfully adopted it.
"We have missed you, Mr. Plovins," said the fair enslaver; "I hope you have not been unwell?"
"Unwell?—oh, no, no!"
"You have not been near me—us, today," (reprovingly,) "not even at dinner; and the trout were superb."
A sudden hope mounted within me.
"Miss Tarlingford, pray, excuse me,—your first name, may I ask what it is?"
"Arabella is my name, and" (whisperingly) "you may use it, if you like."
"Oh, hideous horror! And this is what they call flirtation," I thought. And the hope which had risen blazing, like a rocket, went down fuliginous, like the stick.
"Mr. Plovins, I will say you are very—very inconstant, to be absent all day, thus."
"Miss Tarlingford, it is not inconstancy, it is billiards."
"Billiards!"
"Billiards. I adore them. You know nothing of billiards; women never do. They are my joy. Pardon me," (with a sudden uprising of the moral sense,) "I have an engagement at the billiard-room, and I should be there."
"Dear me! I should like to do billiards."
"Heaven forbid!"
"Why so, Sir?"
"No, I do not mean that; but ladies never play billiards."
"I suppose there is no reason why they should not?"
"A thousand."
"Why, what harm?"
"My dear Miss Tarlingford, if your first name were not Arabella,—alas, alas!—there would be none."
"Nonsense! now you are laughing at me. Come, you shall teach me billiards."
"It cannot be, Miss Tarlingford." (Low tragedy tones.)
"Why not?"
"Because your name is Arabella."
"Very well, Sir,—if you do not like my name, you need not repeat it."
"I adore it; it is not that. Forgive me."
"Then I will get my hat";—and her light footsteps tapped upon the stairs.
Here was a state of things! Where were my firmness and my resolution now? Where was the Pythian probity for which, according to my expectations, Lillivan was to have poured Damoniac gratitude upon me? Was I, or was I not, rapidly degenerating into villany? I felt that I was, and blushed for my family.
If her name had been anything but Arabella,—anything the initial of which was not A, then I could have justified myself; but now,—and I was about to teach her billiards! To what depth of depravity had I come at last!
She rejoined me, beaming with anticipation and radiant with the exercise of running down-stairs. Together we entered the billiard-room.
Now this I declare: the ball-room, with its flashing lights, intoxicating perfumes, starry hosts of gleaming, eyes, refulgent robes, mirrors duplicating countless splendors and ceaseless whirl of vanity, may add a tenfold lustre to the charm of beauty, and I know it does; the opera-box embellishments of blazing gas, and glittering gems and flowers, fresh from native beds of millinery, all-odorous with divinest scents of Lubin, harmoniously dulcified, have their value, which is great and glorious, no doubt, and regally doth woman expand and glow among them; in numberless ways, and aided by numberless accessories, do feminine graces nimbly and sweetly recommend themselves unto our pleasant senses; but this I will for ever and ever say,—that nowhere, neither in gorgeous hall, nor gilded opera-box, nor in any other place, nor under any other circumstances, may such bewildering and insidious power of maidenly enchantment be exercised as at the billiard-table; especially when the enchantress is utterly ignorant of the duties required of her, and confidingly seeks manly encouragement and guidance. Controlled by the hand of beauty, the cue becomes a magic wand, and the balls are no longer bits of inanimate ivory, but, poked restlessly hither and thither, circulating messengers of fascination.
I know, for I have been there.
Had Miss Tarlingford turned her thoughts toward the bowling-alley, I might without difficulty have retained my self-possession; for her sex are not charming at ten-pins. They stride rampant, and hurl danger around them, aiming anywhere at random; or they make small skips and screams, and perform ridiculous flings in the air, injurious to the alleys and to their game; or they drop balls with unaffected languor, and develop at an early stage of proceedings a tendency togutters, above which they never rise throughout; and all this is annoying, and fit only for Bloomers, who can be degraded by nothing on earth.
But billiards! what statuesque postures, what freedom of gesture, what swaying grace and vivacious energy this game involves! And then the attendant distractions,—the pinching together of the hand, to form the needed notch, the perfect art of which, like fist-clenching, is unattainable by woman, who substitutes some queerness all her own,—the fierce grasping and propulsion of the cue,—the loving reclension upon the table when the long shots come in,—the dainty foot, uprising, to preserve the owner's balance, but, as it gleams suspended, destroying the observer's,—all combine, as they did this time, to scatter stern promptings of duty beyond recalling.
First, Arabella's little hand must be moulded into a bridge, and, being slow to cramp itself correctly, though pliant as a politician's conscience, the operation of folding it together had to be many times repeated. Next, shots must be made for her, she retaining her hold of the cue, to get into the way of it. Then all went on smoothly with her, turbulently with me, until, enthusiastically excited, she must be lifted on to the table's edge, "just to try one lovely little shot," which escaped her reach from the ground.
My game was up!
We were alone. Arabella perched upon the table, jubilant at having achieved a pocket,—I dismal and blue, beside her.
"There, take me down," she said.
I looked around through each window, inclined my ear to the door, swept an arm around her waist, and forgot to proceed.
"Oh, Arabella! Arabella! wherefore art thou Arabella?"
"Do you wish I were somebody else?" she asked, slyly.
"No, no! but what of Frank Lillivan?"
"Frank, do you know him?" (With a luminous face.)
"And he has told me——yes."
"What?"
"Of his relations with Miss Tarlingford."
"With Anna,—yes."
"What Anna? Who is Anna?"
"Dear me! my sister Anna. Don't be absurd!"
"But I never knew"——
"No,—you knew nothing of her; the worse for you! You avoided her,—I'm sure I don't see why,—and she is retiring."
"Retiring!—the very word!"
"What word? You vex me; you puzzle me; take me down."
"Forgive me, dear Arabella! I'm too delighted to explain. I never will explain. I thought it was you on whom Frank's affections were fixed."
"Dear, no! Frank is sensible; he knows better; he has judgment"; and she laughed a quiet laugh, and made as if she would jump down.
As she descended, two heads caromed together with a click. It was the irrepressible influence of the billiard atmosphere, I suppose. No one contemplated it.
That evening, when Frank Lillivan arrived, I met him at the door.
"God bless you, Frank!" said I; "I forgive you everything. Say no more."
"Hollo! what's up?" cried Frank.
"Well, certainly, it was a little imprudent for you to neglect writing the whole address of the letter you sent to Anna Tarlingford. I thought it was for Arabella."
"Dear me!" said Frank, twinkling, "what then?"
That is enough.
* * * * *
Wait a little: dowenot wait?Louis Napoleon is not Fate;Francis Joseph is not Time;There's One hath swifter feet than Crime;Cannon-parliaments settle nought;Venice is Austria's,—whose is Thought?Minié is good, but, spite of change,Gutenberg's gun has the longer range.Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever!In the shadow, year out, year in,The silent headsman waits forever!
Wait, we say; our years are long;Men are weak, but Man is strong;Since the stars first curved their rings,We have looked on many things;Great wars come and great wars go,Wolf-tracks light on polar snow;We shall see him come and gone,This second-hand Napoleon.Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever!In the shadow, year out, year in,The silent headsman waits forever!
We saw the elder Corsican,And Clotho muttered as she span,While crowned lackeys bore the trainOf the pinchbeck Charlemagne,—"Sister, stint not length of thread!Sister, stay the scissors dread!On St. Helen's granite bleak,Hark, the vulture whets his beak!"Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever!In the shadow, year out, year in,The silent headsman waits forever!
The Bonapartes, we know their bees,That wade in honey, red to the knees;Their patent-reaper, its sheaves sleep soundIn doorless garners underground:We know false Glory's spendthrift race,Pawning nations for feathers and lace;It may be short, it may be long,—"'Tis reckoning-day!" sneers unpaid Wrong.Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever!In the shadow, year out, year in,The silent headsman waits forever!
The cock that wears the eagle's skinCan promise what he ne'er could win;Slavery reaped for fine words sown,System for all and rights for none,Despots at top, a wild clan below,Such is the Gaul from long ago:Wash the black from the Ethiop's face,Wash the past out of man or race!Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever!In the shadow, year out, year in,The silent headsman waits forever!
'Neath Gregory's throne a spider swingsAnd snares the people for the kings:"Luther is dead; old quarrels pass;The stake's black scars are healed with grass";So dreamers prate;—did man e'er liveSaw priest or woman yet forgive?But Luther's broom is left, and eyesPeep o'er their creeds to where it lies.Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever!In the shadow, year out, year in,The silent headsman waits forever!
Smooth sails the ship of either realm,Kaiser and Jesuit at the helm;But we look down the deeps and markSilent workers in the dark,Building slow the sharp-tusked reefs,Old instincts hardening to new beliefs:Patience, a little; learn to wait;Hours are long on the clock of Fate.Spin, spin, Clotho, spin!Lachesis, twist! and Atropos, sever!Darkness is strong, and so is Sin,But only God endures forever!
* * * * *
The aurora borealia, or rather, the polar aurora,—for there are aurorae australes as well as aurorae boreales,—has been an object of wonder and admiration from time immemorial.
Pliny and Aristotle record phenomena identical with those which later times have witnessed. The ancients ranked this with other celestial phenomena, as portending great events.
In a Bible imprinted at London in the year 1599, the 22d verse of the 37th chapter of Job reads thus: "The brightness commeth out of the Northe, the praise to God which is terrible." The writer of the Book of Job was very conversant with natural objects, and may have referred to the aurora borealis and the phenomena immediately connected therewith.
In 1560, we are told, it was seen at London in the shape of burning spears, a similitude which would be no less appropriate now than then. Frequent displays are recorded during the fifteen years following that date. During the latter half of the seventeenth century, the phenomena were frequently visible, often-times being characterized by remarkable brilliancy. After 1745, the displays suddenly diminished, and were but rarely seen for the next nine years. The present century has been favored to a remarkable degree. The displays during the years 1835, '36, '37, '46, '48, '51, '52, and '59, have been especially grand.
What is the origin of these remarkable phenomena? The ancients asked the question, and the moderns reply by repeating it. Before proceeding to describe the magnificent auroral displays of August 28th and September 2d, let us examine authorities upon this subject, and see if we cannot arrive at some satisfactory solution of the phenomena. The following is the description given by Humboldt in "Cosmos":—
"An aurora borealis is always preceded by the formation in the horizon of a sort of nebulous veil, which slowly ascends to a height of 4°, 6°, 8°, and even to 10°. It is towards the magnetic meridian of the place that the sky, at first pure, begins to get brownish. Through this obscure segment, the color of which passes from brown to violet, the stars are seen, as through a thick fog. A wider arc, but one of brilliant light, at first white, then yellow, bounds the dark segment. Sometimes the luminous arc appears agitated, for hours together, by a sort of effervescence, and by a continuous change of form, before the rising of the rays and columns of light, which ascend as far as the zenith. The more intense the emission of the polar light, the more vivid are its colors, which, from violet and bluish white, pass through all the intermediate shades of green and purple-red. Sometimes the columns of light appear to come out of the brilliant arc mingled with blackish rays, resembling a thick smoke; sometimes they rise simultaneously from different points of the horizon, and unite themselves into a sea of flames, the magnificence of which no painting could express; for, at each instant, rapid undulations cause their form and brilliancy to vary. Motion appears to increase the visibility of the phenomena. Around the point in the heaven which corresponds to the direction of the dipping needle produced, the rays appear to meet and form the boreal corona. It is seldom that the appearance is so complete, and is prolonged to the formation of the corona; but when the latter appears, it always announces the end of the phenomenon. The rays then become more rare, shorter, and less vividly colored. Soon nothing further is seen on the celestial vault than wide, motionless, nebulous spots, pale, or of an ashy color; they have already disappeared, when the traces of the dark segment whence the appearance originated still remain on the horizon."
The connection that seems to exist, says De la Rive, between the polar light and the appearance of a certain species of clouds is confirmed by all observers; all have affirmed that the polar light emitted its most brilliant rays when the high regions of the air contained heaps of cirri,—strata of sufficient tenuity and lightness to cause a corona to arise around the light. Sometimes these clouds are grouped and arranged almost like the rays of an aurora borealis; they then appear to disturb the magnetized needle. Father Secchi has remarked, that magnetic disturbances are manifested at Rome whilst the sky is veiled with clouds that are slightly phosphorescent, which, at night, present the appearance of feeble aurorae boreales.
After a brilliant aurora borealis, we have been able to recognize, on the following morning, trains of clouds, which, during the night, had appeared as so many luminous rays.
The absolute height of aurorae boreales has been very variously estimated by different observers. It has long been thought that we might determine it by regarding, from two places widely distant from each other, the same part of the aurora,—the corona, for example. But we have started from a very inaccurate assumption, namely, that the two observers had their eyes directed to the same point at the same time,—whilst it is now well proved that the corona is an effect of perspective, due to the apparent convergence of the parallel rays situated in the magnetic meridian; so that each observer sees his own aurora borealis, as each sees his own rainbow. The aspect of the phenomenon depends also upon the positions of the observers. The seat of the aurora borealis is in the upper regions of the atmosphere; though sometimes it appears to be produced in the less elevated regions where the clouds are formed. This, at least, is what follows from some observations, especially from those of Captain Franklin, who saw an aurora borealis the light of which appeared to him to illuminate the lower surface of a stratum of clouds; whilst some twenty-five miles farther on, Mr. Kendal, who had watched the whole of the night without losing sight of the sky for a single moment, did not perceive any trace of light. Captain Parry saw an aurora borealis display itself against the side of a mountain; and we are assured that a luminous ring has sometimes been perceived upon the very surface of the sea, around the magnetic pole. Lieutenant Hood and Dr. Richardson, being placed at the distance of about forty-five miles from each other, in order to make simultaneous observations, whence they might deduce the parallax of the phenomenon, and consequently its height, were led to the conclusion that the aurora borealis had not a greater elevation than five miles. M. Liais, having had the opportunity of applying a method, which he had devised for measuring the height of aurorae boreales, to an aurora seen at Cherbourg Oct. 31, 1853, found that the arc of the aurora was about two and a half miles above the ground, at its lower edge.
Various observations made by Professor Olmsted, in conjunction with Professor Twining, of New Haven, led him, on the contrary, to fix the elevation on different occasions at forty-two, one hundred, and one hundred and sixty miles. He claims that it is rarely less than seventy miles from the earth, and never more than one hundred and sixty. He also claims that its origin is cosmical,—or, in other words, that the earth, in revolving in its orbit, at certain periods passes through a nebulous body, which evolves this strange light in more or less brilliancy, as the body is larger or smaller. To support this theory, he attempted to establish that there were fixed epochs for its display in the highest degree of brilliancy. The length of these periods was from sixty to seventy years, and the next appearance was to be in 1890. The remarkable displays of August 28th and September 2d show the fallacy of his conclusions in this respect.
Mairon and Dalton had also thought that the aurora borealis was a cosmical, and not an atmospheric phenomenon. But M. Biot, who had himself had an opportunity of observing the aurora in the Shetland Isles in 1817, had already been led to recognize it as an atmospheric phenomenon, by the consideration that the arcs and the coronae of the aurora in no way participate in the apparent motion of the stars from east to west,—a proof that they are drawn along by the rotation of the earth. Hence, almost all observers have arrived at the same conclusions; we will in particular cite MM. Lottin and Bravais, who have observed more than a hundred and forty aurorae boreales. It is therefore now clearly proved that the aurora borealis is not an extra-atmospheric phenomenon. To the proofs drawn from the appearance of the phenomenon itself we may add others deduced from certain effects which accompany it, such as the noise of crepitation, which the dwellers nearest to the pole affirm that they have heard when there is the appearance of an aurora, and the sulphurous odor that accompanies it. Finally, if the phenomena took place beyond our planet and its atmosphere, why should they take place at the polar regions only, as they often do?
J. S. Winn, in a letter to Dr. Franklin, dated Spithead, August 12th, 1772, says: "The observation is new, I believe, that the aurora borealis is constantly succeeded by hard southerly or southwest winds, attended with hazy weather and small rain. I think I am warranted from experience in sayingconstantly, for in twenty-three instances that have occurred since I first made the observation it has invariably obtained; and the knowledge has been of vast service to me, as I have got out of the Channel when other men as alert, and in faster ships, but unapprised of this circumstance, have not only been driven back, but with difficulty escaped shipwreck."
Colonel James Capper, the discoverer of the circular nature of storms, remarks: "As it appears, that, on all such occasions, the current of air comes in a direction diametrically opposite to that where the meteor appears, it seems probable that the aurora borealis is caused by the ascent of a considerable quantity of electric fluid in the superior regions of the atmosphere to the north and northeast, where, consequently, it causes a body of air near the earth to ascend, when another current of air will rush from the the opposite point to fill up the vacuum, and thus may produce the southerly gales which succeed the aurora borealis."
The bark "Northern Light," arrived at Boston from Africa, was at sea on the night of the great exhibition of the aurora borealis, the 28th of August. The vessel was struck by lightning twice, after which the red flames of the aurora burst upon the astonished vision of the crew. Most of them are confident that they smelt a sulphurous odor all night.
M. de Tessan, who, in the voyage of the "Venus" around the world, had the opportunity of seeing a very beautiful aurora australis, (southern aurora,) which he describes with much care, also considers that this phenomenon takes place in the atmosphere. The summit of the aurora being in the magnetic meridian, it was elevated 14° above the horizon, and the centre of the arc was on the prolongation of the dipping needle, the dip being about 68° at the place of the observation. M. de Tessan did not hear the noise arising from the aurora, which he attributes to the circumstance that he was too far distant from the place of the phenomenon; but he reports the observation of a distinguished officer of the French navy, M. Verdier, who, on the night of October 13th, 1819, being in the latitude of Newfoundland, had heard very distinctly a sort of crackling or crepitation, when the vessel he was on board was in the midst of an aurora borealis. This was also observed in many localities during the aurora of August 28th, 1859. A New York paper, alluding to the subject, remarks: "Many imagined that they heard rushing sounds, as if Aeolus had let loose the winds; others were confident that a sweeping, as if of flames, was distinctly audible." Burns, a good observer, if ever there was one, and not likely to be aware of any theories on the subject, alludes in his "Vision" to a noise accompanying the aurora, as if it were of ordinary occurrence:—
"The cauld blue North was flashing forthHer lights wi' hissing eerie din."
It finds confirmation also in the fact, generally admitted by the inhabitants of the northern regions, that, when the auroras appear low, a crackling is heard similar to that of the electric spark. The Greenlanders think that the souls of the dead are then striking against each other in the air. M. Ramm, Inspector of Forests in Norway, wrote to M. Hansteen, in 1825, that he had heard the noise, which always coincided with the appearance of the luminous jets, when, being only ten years old, he was crossing a meadow covered with snow and hoar-frost, near which no forests were in existence. Dr. Gisler, who for a long time dwelt in the North of Sweden, remarks that the matter of the aurorae boreales sometimes descends so low that it touches the ground; at the summit of high mountains it produces upon the faces of travellers an effect analogous to that of the wind. Dr. Gisler adds, that he has frequently heard the noise of the aurora, and that it resembles that of a strong wind, or the hissing that certain chemical substances produce in the act of decomposition.
M. Necker, who has described a great number of aurorae which he observed at the end of 1839 and at the commencement of 1840, in the Isle of Skye, never himself heard the noise in question; but he remarks that this noise had been very frequently heard by persons charged with meteorological observations at the light-house of Swenburgh Head, at the southern extremity of Shetland. M. Necker is not the only observer who has not heard the noise; neither have MM. Lottier and Bravais, who have observed so great a number of aurorae, ever heard it; and a great many others are in this case. This may be due to the fact that it is necessary to be very near to the aurora in order to hear the crepitation in question, and also to the fact that it is possible that it does not always take place, at least in a manner sufficiently powerful to be heard.
We have just been pointing out, as concomitant effects of the aurora borealis, a noise of crepitation analogous to that of distant discharges, and a sulphurous odor similar to that which accompanies the fall of lightning. M. Matteucci also observed at Pisa, during the appearance of a brilliant aurora borealis, decided signs of positive electricity in the air; but of all phenomena, those which invariably take place at the same time as the appearance of the aurora borealis are the magnetic effects. Magnetized needles suffer disturbances in their normal direction which cause them to deviate generally to the west first, afterwards to the east. These disturbances vary in intensify, but they never fail to take place, and are manifested even in places in which the aurora borealis is not visible. This coincidence, proved by M. Arago without any exception, during several years of observation, is such that the learned Frenchman was able, without ever having been mistaken, to detect from the bottom of the cellars of the observatory of Paris the appearance of an aurora borealis. M. Matteucci had the opportunity of observing this magnetic influence under a new and remarkable form. He saw, during the appearance of the aurora borealis of November 17, 1848, the soft iron armatures employed in the electric telegraph between Florence and Pisa remain attached to their electro-magnets, as if the latter were powerfully magnetized, without, however, the apparatus being in action, and without the currents in the battery being set in action. This singular effect ceases with the aurora, and the telegraph, as well as the batteries, could operate anew, without having suffered any alteration. Mr. Highton also observed in England a very decided action of the aurora borealis, November 17, 1848. The magnetized needle was always driven toward the same side, even with much force. But it is in our own country that the action of the aurora upon the telegraph-wires has been the most remarkable.
My attention was first called in 1847 to the probability of the aurora's producing an effect upon the wires; but, although having an excellent opportunity to observe such an effect, I was not fortunate enough to do so until the winter of 1850, and then, owing to the feeble displays of the aurora, only to a limited extent. In September, 1851, however, there was a remarkable aurora, which took complete possession of all the telegraph-lines in New England and prevented any business from being transacted during its continuance. The following winter there was another remarkable display, which occurred on the 19th of February, 1852. It was exceedingly brilliant throughout the northern portion of our continent. I extract the following account of its effects upon the wires from my journal of that date. I should premise, that the system of telegraphing used upon the wires, during the observation of February, 1852, was Bain's chemical. No batteries were kept constantly upon the line, as in the Morse and other magnetic systems. The main wire was connected directly with the chemically prepared paper on the disc, so that any atmospheric currents were recorded upon the disc with the greatest accuracy. Our usual battery current, decomposing the salts in the paper, and uniting with the iron point of the pen wire, left a light blue mark on the white paper, or, if the current were strong, a dark one,—the color of the mark depending upon the quantity of the current upon the wire.
"Thursday, February 19, 1852.
"Towards evening a heavy blue line appeared upon the paper, which gradually increased in size for the space of half a minute, when a flame of fire succeeded to the blue line, of sufficient intensity to burn through a dozen thicknesses of the moistened paper. The current then subsided as gradually as it, had come on, until it entirely ceased, and was then succeeded by a negative current (which bleaches, instead of coloring, the paper). This gradually increased, in the same manner as the positive current, until it also, in turn, produced its flame of fire, and burned through many thicknesses of the prepared paper; it then subsided, again to be followed by the positive current. This state of things continued during the entire evening, and effectually prevented any business being done over the wires."
* * * * *
Never, however, since the establishment of the telegraphic system in this country, have the wires been so greatly affected by the aurora as upon Sunday night, the 28th of August, 1859. Throughout the entire northern portion of the United States and Canada, the lines were rendered useless for all business purposes through its action. So strongly was the atmosphere charged with the electric fluid, that lines or circuits of only twelve miles in length were so seriously affected by it as to render operation difficult, and, at times, impossible.
The effects of this magnetic storm were apparent upon the wires during a considerable portion of Saturday evening, and during the whole of the next day. At 6, P.M., the line between Boston and New Bedford (sixty miles in length) could be worked only at intervals, although, of course, no signs of the aurora were apparent to the eye at that hour. The same was true of the wires running eastward through the State of Maine, as well as those to the north.
The wire between Boston and Fall River had no battery upon it Sunday, and yet there was an artificial current upon it, which increased and decreased in intensity, producing upon the electromagnets in the offices the same effect as would be produced by constantly opening and closing the circuit at intervals of half a minute. This current, which came from the aurora, was strong enough to have worked the line, although not sufficiently steady for regular use.
The current from the aurora borealis comes in waves,—light at first, then stronger, until we have, frequently, a strength of current equal to that produced by a battery of two hundred Grove cups. The waves occupy about fifteen seconds each, ordinarily, but I have known them to last a full minute; though this is rare. As soon as one wave passes, another, of the reverse polarity, always succeeds. I have never known this to fail, and it may be set down as an invariable rule. When the poles of the aurora are in unison with the poles of the current upon the line, its effect is to increase the current; but when they are opposed, the current from the battery is neutralized,—null. These effects were observed at times during Saturday, Saturday evening, and Sunday, but were very marked during Sunday evening.
It is hardly necessary to add here, that the effect of the aurora borealis, or magnetic storm, is totally unlike that of common or free electricity, with which the atmosphere is charged during a thunderstorm. The electricity evolved during a thunder-storm, as soon as it reaches a conductor, explodes with a spark, and becomes at once dissipated. The other, on the contrary, is of very low tension, remains upon the wires sometimes half a minute, produces magnetism, decomposes chemicals, deflects the needle, and is capable of being used for telegraphic purposes, although, of course, imperfectly.
Mr. 0.S. Wood, Superintendent of the Canadian telegraph-lines, says:—"I never, in my experience of fifteen years in the working of telegraph-lines, witnessed anything like the extraordinary effect of the aurora borealis, between Quebec and Father Point, last night. The line was in most perfect order, and well-skilled operators worked incessantly from eight o'clock last evening till one o'clock this morning, to get over, in even a tolerably intelligible form, about four hundred words of the steamer "Indian's" report for the press; but at the latter hour, so completely were the wires under the influence of the aurora borealis, that it was found utterly impossible to communicate between the telegraph-stations, and the line was closed for the night."
We have seen from the foregoing examples that the aurora borealis produces remarkable effects upon the telegraph-lines during its entire manifestation. We have, however, to record yet more wonderful effects of the aurora upon the wires, namely,the use of the auroral current for transmitting and receiving telegraphic dispatches. This almost incredible feat was accomplished in the forenoon of September 2, between the hours of half past eight and eleven o'clock, on the wires of the American Telegraph Company between Boston and Portland, and upon the wires of the Old Colony and Fall River Railroad Company between South Braintree and Fall River.
The auroral influence was observed upon all the lines running out of the office in Boston, at the hour of commencing business, (eight o'clock, A. M.,) and it continued so strong up to half past eight as to prevent any business being done; the ordinary current upon the wires being at times neutralized by the magnetism of the aurora, and at other times so greatly augmented as to render operations impracticable. At this juncture it was suggested that the batteries should be cut off, and the wires simply connected with the earth.
It is proper to remark here, that the current from the aurora coming in waves of greater or less intensity, there are times, both while the wave is approaching and while it is receding, when the instruments are enabled to work; but the time, varying according to the rapidity of the vibrations of the auroral bands, is only from one quarter of a minute to one minute in duration. Therefore, whatever business is done upon the wires during these displays has to be accomplished in brief intervals of from quarter to half a minute in duration.
During one of these intervals, the Boston operator said to the one atPortland,—
"Please cut off your battery, and let us see if we cannot work with the auroral current alone."
The Portland operator replied,—
"I will do so. Will you do the same?"
"I have already done so," was the answer. "We are working with the aid of the aurora alone. How do you receive my writing?"
"Very well indeed," responds the operator at Portland; "much better than when the batteries were on; the current is steadier and more reliable. Suppose we continue to work so until the aurora subsides?"
"Agreed," replied the Boston operator. "Are you ready for business?"
"Yes; go ahead," was the answer.
The Boston operator then commenced sending private dispatches, which he was able to do much more satisfactorily than when the batteries were on, although, of course, not so well as he could have done with his own batteries without celestial assistance.
The line was worked in this manner more than two hours, when, the aurora having subsided, the batteries were resumed. While this remarkable phenomenon was taking place upon the wires between Boston and Portland, the operator at South Braintree informed me that he was working the wire between that station and Fall River—a distance of about forty miles—with the current from the aurora alone. He continued to do so for some time, the line working comparatively well. Since then I have visited Fall River, and have the following account from the intelligent operator in the railroad office at that place. The office at the station is about half a mile from the regular office in the village. The battery is kept at the latter place, but the operator at the station is provided with a switch by which he can throw the battery off the line and put the wire in connection with the earth at pleasure. The battery at the other terminus of the line is at Boston; but the operator at South Braintree is furnished with a similar switch, which enables him to dispense with its use at pleasure. There are no intermediate batteries; consequently, if the Fall River operator put his end of the wire in connection with the earth, and the South Braintree operator do the same, the line is without battery, and of course without an electrical current. Such was the state of the line on the 2d of September last, when for more than an hour they held communication over the wire with the aid of the celestial batteries alone.
This seems almost too wonderful for belief, and yet the proof is incontestable. However, the fact being established that the currents from the aurora borealis do have a direct effect upon the telegraph-wires, and that the currents are of both kinds, positive and negative,—as I have shown in my remarks upon the aurora of 1852, which sometimes left a dark line upon the prepared paper, and at other times bleached it,—it is a natural consequence that the wires should work better without batteries than with them, whenever a current from the aurora has sufficient intensity to neutralize the current from the batteries.
I will try to make myself clear upon this point. It makes no difference, in working the Morse, or any other system ofmagnetictelegraph, whether we have the positive or the negative pole to the line; but, whichever way we point, the same direction must be continued with all additional batteries we put upon the line. Now if we put a battery upon the line at Boston, of, say, twenty-five cells, and point the positive pole eastward, and the same number of cells at Portland, pointing the positive pole westward, the current will be null, that is to say, each will neutralize the other. Now the aurora, in presenting its positive pole, we will say, increases the current upon the line beyond the power of the magnet-keeper-spring to control it, and thus prevents the line from working, by surfeiting it with the electric current; until, presently, the wave recedes and is followed by a negative current which neutralizes the battery current, and prevents the line from working for want of power. It is plain, therefore, that, if the batteries be taken off, the positive current of the aurora cannot increase nor the negative decrease the working state of the line to the same extent as when the batteries are connected; but that, whichever pole is presented, the magnetism can be made use of by the operator for the ordinary duties of the line.