SERVITUDE.
SERVITUDE is very ancient. We may strain our eyes through the twilight of early myth and dubious history, yet never discover a time, since Job and Cecrops lived, when servants were not. It is so natural for the rich to buy, and for the strong and crafty to usurp, the services of those who are poorer, feebler, or more ignorant than themselves, that the problem has been worked out alike all the world over. Society divided itself into two great classes, the Bond and the Free, though each of these classes ramified and subdivided itself almost endlessly. Few of us have any adequate idea of the immense disproportion, in most countries, between those who have commanded obedience and those who have rendered it Many well-meaning persons are in the habit of writing and speaking as if slavery had been invented for the especial purpose of cultivating American sugar and cotton by African labou.r, and as if the ‘ domestic institution ’ were a span-new abuse.
This is far from being the truth. A white skin has not always secured an immunity from bondage. Seventy-five years ago, it is no exaggeration to say that four-fifths of the population of Christian Europe were under thrall to some one or other. In this rough estimate must be reckoned the serfs of Russia, Poland, and Hungary, the slaves of Denmark, the vassals of the Church, the Crown boors, and the innumerable peasants who were bound to the soil, throughout the wide continent. Add to these the servile race who toiled in the mines of many countries, and even in Scotland, without the right to choose a healthier occupation; add also the vast multitude of slaves and soil-bound cultivators belonging to Asia, Africa, and Spanish America, and we might almost venture on the paradox that the normal state of man was not freedom, but its opposite.
The old system, however, was rotten to the core. It fell before the storm-blast of the French Revolution, and if some portions of the antique superstructure still cxist, they drop singly and unpitied, like dead leaves in December.
For all that, in spite of all that we hear and read about the majesty of the popular will, the change is a recent one. It is not so very long since Gibbon, in computing the powers of resistance possessed by the civilised world against any future irruption of barbarians, mentioned ‘the hardy soldiers of Russia, the
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gallant nobles of France, and the intrepid freemen of England.’ Few casual readers, now a days, would perceive that a compliment was conveyed in these words at all analogous to the boast in our fine old seasong, that ‘ Britons never will be slaves’ The word ‘freeman’ indeed is now in somewhat ill odour; it is associated with vcnal votes, drunkenness, obtuseness, and all the worst qualities of a bought-andsold elector. It once had a more honoured significance, for it denoted an independent position at a time when independence was rare. How slavery began, we cannot tell; but, though direct proof be absent, it is not diflicult to conjecture that the first workers under compulsion were captives taken in war. Insects may be as resolute slave-owners as any of President Davis’s constituents, since Reaumur discovered how the ants of South America sally forth to kidnap hundreds of the black ‘ slave ants,’ destined to do the work of the warlike colony. Early history, whether sacred or profane, gives us countless instances in which whole tribes and nations have been exposed to the sad alternative of chains or the sword. We need not go back to such trite examples as those which the Helots present; there were numerous slaves in Greece, before ever a Dorian spoon dipped in the black soup of Sparta. The brass-greaved heroes who beleaguered Troy looked on captives as the most legitimate part of the spoil they coveted. In the cruel old wars of the East, few obtained mercy except from motives of self-interest actuating the victor. Here, an Assyrian king would sweep off an entire race to hew wood and draw water; there, a Pharaoh would impose the yoke on the free necks of a neighbouring tribe. The great army of Xerxes comprised myriads of slaves; no Persian monarch moved without a like imposing train of subject beings —men whose hearts were not in the war, and who were scattered like sheep before the onset of a handful of Grecian freemen.
All slaves were not prisoners to bow and spear; some were criminals, or the oflspring of criminals; some were debtors, or the descendants of debtors; others were poor, and had bartered liberty for bread. Kidnapping was very common. How readily did the company of merchants agree to buy Joseph from his envious brothers! It was not the first bargain in human flesh, be sure, that those worthy folks had driven. The pirates who haunted the Egean were not a whit more scrupulous than the Barbary corsairs of a later day. No man was so rich or highly placed as to be quite sure that some chapter of misfortunes might not one day bring him to the servile state. There were great distinctions among the slaves in old Hellas. Some were lettered and polished, rich in accomplishments and knowledge, and valued as the choicest possessions
of a discerning master; such slaves as these were actors, cdagogues, sin rs, dancing-girls, or the like. Then t ere were the p ain workers-smiths, carpenters, domestics, and so forth, who were not habitually treated with scorn or harshness. Beneath this was a lower class of live chattels—the stupid, the lazy, the ignorant or barbarous, and these were in all respects regarded as animals of an inferior kind, and dealt with as such. These observations apply to the slaves of Athens, Corinth, Thebes. Fierce Sparta maintained under her martial thumb two orders of toilers under compulsion; tho lower, consisting of our old friends the Helots, did the rou h work of Lacedsemon; the higher com riscd the erioeceans, who were serfs rather than s aves, and whose duty it was to till the farms of the Heracleids.
Rome, thoroughgoing in all things, adopted the ‘ cculiar institution’ with the utmost avidity; it
led up a gap in her social system; for the poor civis Romanus was of a sturdy and still‘-necked disposition, and did not take kindly to work and wages.
he patricians, the knights, the Up er Ten Thousand, had sore need of attendants more p astic, nimble, and obsequious than their sesterces could hire in the forum; so the haughty armies that bore S.P.Q.R. on shield and standard went about the world slavecatching. The plantation system is due originally to Roman invention; so is compulsory labour in the mines. One patrician kept swarms of captives toiling in the subterranean darkness, like gnomes, to roduce copper or gold for the market; another ti ed his estate in Cam a by the unwilling hands of the old soldiers of thiidates or Zenobia; a third ‘went in’ for gladiators, and invested largely in those aecutors and spearrnen whose blood was to fatten the dust of the arena. No wonder the Romans had to trample out a Servile War, with such elements of discontent and ionate sense of wrong scattered about their country. The marvel is rather that the luxurious slave-owners, fanned on their purple couches by slavish hands, anointed by slaves in the bath-room, robed by slaves in the vestiary, fed, amused, instructed, cringed to by slaves, were not more frequently massacred b those whose li they had stolen. But it is pro able that the humbler citizens, like the ‘ or whites ’ of the South, were the true buclrlers of e outnumbered nobility, and that the discontented slaves trembled at the prospect of finding themselves face to face with the armed
democracy of Rome. The Wealthy Quirites had another saf ard in the aflection and loyalty of their freedmen. ‘hese enfranchised rsons were of tried
merit, and their fidelity to their te owners and present pptrons was illustrated by many touching traits whic history has recorded. Free- orn servants, on the other hand, were exceedingly scarce : clients and
‘tcs were to be had by any one who was lavish of good cheer and small coin, but the household work was done by slavish hands. So fully was man’s properiiyin man recognised by Roman law, that a man’s chil nwere his goods and chattels, and he could only emancigzfg his son by a mock-sale of the young man to some y else.
The East maintained the doctrine and practice of slavery, but in a milder form than that which Europe witnessed. The Scripture narrative draws a sharp line of demarcation between the condition of the bondsman or bondswoman, and that of the hired servant; ct the former was not seldom in a more comfo le position than the latter.
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There was no plantation-system known in Asia. The cultivator was often a serf incapable of quitting the spot where he toiled, and ground down by impost and tribute. But h’e was not a slave; the ound he ploughed was his own, and he had some rig ts which even despots respected. The Mohammedans treat slaves, so far as we know, in precisely the same way in which bondsmen were treated by the idolaters of Egypt and the star-worshi pers of Mesopotamia. There are old adias still a ‘ve who were once urchased in a pu lic mart, and who, like the J osep of Scripture, rosc to great power and wealth by the favour of a princely master. The slave is dealt with as one of the family, shares in its prosperity, and probably earns promotion and freedom. Half the courtiers of an oriental monarch, his holaums and his paces, his treasurer and chamber ain, are emancipater slaves. The servile condition has no peculiar disgrace in Moslcm eyes ; colour is no brand of infamy; even the fetich-worshipping negro from Sennaar is adopted into the victorious religion, and hailed on the instant as a Mussulmau and a brother. Hassan beats carpets to-day; tomorrow, he may wear silk and gold, may fill his master’s pipe, and seriously aspire to m his master’s daughter. Morgiana, honwt girl, has only need to keep a sharp eye on all suspicious strangers, whether oil-merchants with forty jars or not, and she may come to wed with young Hopeful, with the full consent of M0rgiana’s pro rietor.
S avery did not, in Eu Christendom, take a form so paternal and ind gent as this. So long as some rags and relics of the V\’cstern Empire hung together, the rich were accustomed to treat their domestics with a. good-humour. It was no longer the fashion for ladies, as in the cruel old Seven-billed City, to stick pins in the shrinking flesh of a tender female slave. It was out of date to fling tiresome servitors into the stone-walled fishpond of the hall, to fatten the pampered lampreys that feasted there. The so-called citizens of Aquitaine and Lyon did not much misuse their animated property. Very different was the conduct of those fierce
ranks, V’ ths, Vandals, and all the hard robber races of the orth; they parcclled out the lan among their chiefs, and the rural population went with the land, and suffered, duling many a sad century, wrongs whose full weight and bitterness we are happily unable to appreciate. The Gauls and other su Ject races were ound to the dust. Tyranny never, rhaps, toofira form so cruelly contemptuous, so lihrd, and so hopeless. The villeins revolted now and then, as in the Jacquerie of France and the Peasants’ lVar of Germany. But after a. brief saturnalia of savage retaliation, the old chains were riveted on afresh. The unhappy people of Central Europe had good cause to envy the servile population of those lands over which the Crescent floated supreme. While the serfs of France ed under that hard and insultin yoke whic civilisation slowly mitigated, and w ‘ch the troubles of ’89 eventually overthrew, England, always peculiar, possessed a gentler system. Under the Saxon sway, the freemen were either simple freemen or ‘sixhundredmen,’ answering nearly to the freedmen of Rome, or franklins, thanes, earls, alderman, and athelings. The great class of the bond was divided into the two sections of the churls and the theowes, otherwise esnés. A wide severed these sections. The churl was a serf, but not a slave ; he was bound to the soil, but he could own property; he had legal privileges; and his dearest rights as man, husband, and father were not trampled under foot, as was the case abroad. If a farm were given to a monastery or willed to a kinsman, with that farm went smith and carpenter, hind and milkmaid. But emancipation was readily to be bought for money, or earned by good service against the Danes. The churl had but to exercise industry and thrift, and the ladder of life
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was thought no disgrace to ntle blood that its owner should learn to carve s ‘ ully, to pour wine,
was before him.
The theowes were not so well ofll They ranked much lower. A stigma clung to them, whereas honest Sibbert, the churl, was held a respectable person. The theowes were sometimes sprung from conquered Britons; more often they were t e descendants of convicted felons, or other ofienders who had been doomed to wear that dis ful collar that Gurth was so glad to get rid of. T ey were held in contempt, and perhaps roughly entreatcd, though inhumanity was ‘ ly foreign to the Anglo-Saxon character. The or-man Conquest was a blessing to the theowes, if not to the churls. Both became villeins alike, though the proudest baron never pretended to ssess such absolute authority over his vassals in ngland as was exercised by French nobles. Long before the Reformation, though much of feudal service remained legal, no serf trod the soil of England. In Scotland, the system lin red to a. later day. Not only were the colliers and mid” bound to toil in their pits, through successive generations, in the midst of depravity and enforced ignorance, but strange stories are told of the vassalage existin in remote districts; thus, in memoirs recently pub ‘ ed, and widely read, we are
rised to see it gravely stated that, in Selkirkshire, wit in a hundred years, a man was ‘niffcred away’ for a pony; and yet it would be a gross exaggeration to declare that the bulk of the Scottish peasantry, centuries a 0, were otherwise than free.
In feu times, the household domestics were very usually, in England most usually, free persons. The lady chatelaine presided over a bevy of maidens, who plied their spinning-wheels or distaffs, who carded wool, twisted flax, and bleached linen, under her superintendcnce. But the cook was almost always a man, the scullions were boys, and the turnspit was sometimes a four-footed creature, sometimes a aha. urchin, mottled with perpetual roasting be ore a huge fire. The sewers, botelcr, grooms of the chamber, pages, and so on, were of course of the male sex; indeed, medieval households consisted mainly of males. Tom, and Peter, and Stephen did a great man things which we now commit to housemaids and ‘tchcn-maids, just as Giacomo and Carlo make the beds and sweep the floors in the palnzzo of some Italian grandee. Even Master Slender, who was but a poor gentleman, kept, as we know, three men and a maid. The Lord Ogle, or his Grace of Northumberland, whose curious wills and year-books amuse the devotees of the British Museum, kept up 0. small army of masculine retainers. In our days, two at least of Master Slender’s men would be replaced by feminine representatives, and the whole tenor of the arran ent shews how few channels were once open for in ustrial enterprise.
There was one especial reason for the maintenance of a host of men-servants ; nobles and estated gentlemen went to fair and market, to church or assize, or even through London streets, at the head of their domestics. Their men followed them in a liv of the family colours, wearing their lord’s badge in s’ ver, and prepared with sword and dagger to rufile it for the credit of the good house at home. Then Capulct and Montague, Neville and Clifford, would meet ; and the blades flashed out, and blue coats were pitted against tawny coats. and the streets witnessed much backsword play, with abimdant bruises and some bloodshed, until the civic authorities came with clubs to beat the weapons down, and atch up a peace. When the country grew more on erly under Queen Elizabeth’s firm sway, a new fashion came up; ‘French thrift,’ as Falstaff calls it, revailed; the old swashbucklers were discarded, an ntlemcn of the highest station appeared in public with but a single page. Presently, too, this very page was metamorphosed. A knight’s or peer’s page was once, as royal pages still arc, scions of some ancient family. It
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to hand cup and platter, and to do fifty things which we now estazm as menial ofiices. Such accomplishments were then considered fitting parts of the education of even a k.ing‘s son ; they earned high praise, and secured promotion to the aspirant. The first step of the ladder of chivalry was the sideboard. Every great laddy had her waiting-gentlewomeu, her usher, pages, an so forth. The principal nobles were daily served at table and in the bath by the sons and nephews of the landed gentry; the monarch’s sonal attendants were members of titled fa ” With the lapse of time, this antique ceremonial decayed. In 1689, the Duke of Beaufort alone kc t up the cumbrous splendour of the days of yore. e alone had pages and uerries of high degree, for whose instruction and iilvancement in life he had pledged himself. But long before this, the youths who bore the jewelled sword, or carried the embroidered mantle of a master, had ceased to be chosen for any other merits than their sprightlincss and intelligence. The pupil had been converted into the Mercury. More women were employed in household affairs, with each succeeding generation, as men found more profitable occupations, and as commerce expanded. Still, a great mansion of the eighteenth century was not without a suflicient garrison of plush and powder. In addition to the many maids over whom the staid housekeeper ruled with her ivory staff, not always a mere symbol of authority, men still abounded. There were the running-footmen, clad in white, those human meteors that ran before my lord’s coach-and-six, and whose gilt poles were useful in those days of miry roads and requent floods. There were the bewigged coachmen and postilions; the ‘running-master ’ of the race-horses, who answers to u. modern trainer; the ms, porter, and groomporters ; footnnen, groom o the chambers, the butlers, deckers, and the ‘rubber,’ whose business it was to wax and polish the oaken floors in true Parisian style. There were still a few pages, though already the order had grown obsolete, as it remained until more recent times, when the page once more reappeared in a galaxy of buttons. Above all, there was what we call the valet, gravely siéyled, in the early Georgian epoch, a gentleman’s en eman.
It has often been leged that in bygone days there was more of genome sympathy and attachment between master and servant than is now the case. Of course, we must take this assertion, like all others which sock to shew us the past through a dim enchanted haze, with the addition of a few grains of salt; but it has robably some truth in it. People spoke more fami’ ly to their servants then than now; meddled with them more; asked their advice; praised them heartil when pleased, and not seldom cursed and cuffed them when things went wron . We wonder at the flippant playfulness with whic young Sir Harry, on the stage, jibes, rates, or a lauds his booted domestic, ‘Toni, ou rascal.’ e are surprised that the theatrical y Betty, or Lydia Ianguish, is so playfully communicative to her whiteaproncd Abigail. The tone is a traditional one. Lady Betty was once very nearly as ignorant and silly as hcr untaught soubrette; Sir Harry’s common conversation was not much more intellectual than Tom’s, so the gulf to be bridged over was n. short one. But servitude was not all sunshine, even then. Betty thought no more of emphasisin a reproof wr a sound box on the ear of the 0 ender, than of correcting her lapdog; and the squire or my lord was not very measured in his wrath when John Thomas was deeply in fault. To be sure, master and IIlfll\ WCl‘G equal in the eye of the law, but theory differecl from practice. Out on the teful mutineer, cane him, horsewhip him; strip ‘ livery Off the vi1lain’s shoulders; duck him in the horsepond,
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-too, in a manner that would have deligli
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some of you. And veiz likely Scpiire Western was e
obeyed to the letter. t John ‘1homas take out a summons for the assault if he can. Any magistrate, until that terrible Sir Richard held his court at Bow Street, would have pooh-poohed the complaint. With all that, there is much that is pleasing in the past relations of master and servant, of waiting-woman and mistress, as we see them reflected in the mirror of bygone literature. That maid in Moliere’s Tartufie, next to the grand hypocrite himself, is the life and soul of the iece. How she loves the family that she serves! er whole heart belongs to them; she identifies herself with their fortunes in weal and woe; she is as anxious in their behalf as if they were her kith and kin. The books of the dead centuries. whether they deal with fact or fiction, are full of instances of the tenderest and stanchest fidelity on the rt of servants. Sometimes occurs an episode of b iick treachery, or of a coarsely venal spirit; but it is evident that there then existed a class of domestics who were born in their master’s house or on his land, who served father and son with unblemished faith, and whose last thought would have been to ‘better themselves.’
At the present day, we find household service more strictly professional in England than in any other country. The rule holds good with us—once a servant, always a servant. J eames wears the plush of many
‘masters. Like a gigantic chameleon, he is crimson
for Sir John, sky-blue when he polishes the banl-:er’s late, claret-coloured as he ushers in the patients of
r Pillem, and canary when he stands behind the carria e of the Dowa er Countess of Broadacres. But, t ugh all these c anges of tint and shoulderknot, he is Jeames still ; Jeaines, until the day when he shall proudly inscribe the name of ‘ James Plushley’ over the door of his newly opened public-house. Nor do I think that Mary the arlour-maid, or Susan and Jemima, whose service es a humbler ran e, will ever earn a living in any other station in ‘ e than their present one. They will never migrate to a counter, nor manipulate a sewing-machine, nor join Miss Faithfull’s band of feminine printers. They may
Jeames, or the liceman, or the greeu- ocer, but their profession while single is chosen for etter for worse. In Germany, now, another practice prevails. Girls of very respectable families are sent to service as to a school. They are not attracted by wages, but by the ambition of acquiring housewifely lore. They scour and scrub to-day, that to-moi-row they may be fit for the laborious post of a German matron. Many large reataurationa in Deutschland are crowded with young women of the burgher class, who give their services in return for tuition in the mystery of cooking.‘ They study this art, according to Teutonic principles, most intently, that they may find favour in the eyes of the future spouse. The kitchen of such an establishment is a curious sight. Yellow-haired Bertha is erin into the saucepan, where simmers some dia olica mess of ea-shells, brow_n sugar, pork, vinegar, and cabbage; lue-eye Katrina is preparing to pour over the seething bulbsbraten that sweet sauce without which her betrothed Hans cannot dine. Veal and raspberry jam! Head of Lueullus! how strange are the tastes of man.
It is proverbial that foreign servants are much more familiar in demeanour, and ex t to be talked to on much more equal terms, than our own. This remark is only true of that part of Central Europe commonly traversed by tourists. Russian servants are patient, obsequious creatures; Poles are respectful, and Austrians shew a formal deference to their employers. French, Swiss, and Belgian servants are certainly frank of speech. They venture on remarks, jokefl. and queries, which from an Enwlish domestic would be justly deemed impertinent, but which are not iinpertiiiently meant. They will argue the oint, ‘ Mr
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Midshipman Easy and his philoso hicsl parent. As a general rule, I should say that nch masters and mistresses were a’ little afraid of their retainers. When s. Gallic family moves from Paris to the country, or vice versd, there is no attempt at sending the servants by second-class train. White-capped bonncs, the cook with her grizzled head tied up in a gaudy handkerchief, the spruce femmc do cllambre, and sleek-haired Baptiste the footboy, occupy seats in the same first-class carriage which conveys Monsieur, Madame, and the few but noisy children. A practical equality is one of the most cherished of our neighbours’ ‘ideas’ It is not without difliculty that a Frenchman can be induced to wear livery; he calls it a badge of tyranny, a feudal abuse, and much more. I have seen an honest Norman lad tear the coroneted buttons from his new coat, and roll in the dust, howling as if the plush he had been coaxed into wearing had been the shirt of N essus. It takes a high wage and much cajolery to reconcile a Gaul to such a costume. Italian servants also dislike livery. But a well-whiskered man, elaborately got up in glossy black, with rings, studs, chains, scented handkerchief, and embroidered shirt, will meekly do the whole work of housemaid, footman, and what not, and will work harder than the drudge of a London lodginghouse, while outshining his employer in gorgcousness of raiment and polish of manner. Yet this invaluable satellite has one tender oint: it is a sin against his caste to carry a parcel, owever small, through the public streets; that is portcr’s work, peasant-girl’s work, so hire a facchino at once, and leave Luigi to
his dusters and his Turk’s head brush.
Of the ‘helps’ of America, little need be said. The best of them—and even those are uncouth and unmanageable enough—are Irish or free blacks; the few native-born Americans who eat the bread of servitude contrive to give their hirers no cause to congratulate themselves upon t/mt fact. The slaves of the South, however, are by no means so timid and defereutial in manner as some of us suppose. They are familiar, jocose, or argumentative by turns, and it is only the ultima ratio of the cowhide which reduces them to passive obedience. Implicit respectfulness is not, indeed, a plant of American wth. How much have I said of servants, and how ittle of
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Tun taste for ro dancing which the celebrated Madame Violante rought into fashion in the earl part of the last century, flourished nowhere so muc and lo as in Dublin, where the agile lady established erself, and opened a theatre, the attractions of which for a time su eded every other lace of public amusement. Madfige Violante was the londin of her day, but more of an artist, and less of an acrobat. She treated the public to scenic efi’ects they had never witnessed before; she trained some notable actresses—-among whom was Peg Woflington—aud carried rope-dancing to so high a pitch, that the beau monde of Dublin talked of, and attended to, nothing else for some years. Long after the days of her management had gone by, and her theatre passed into other hands and uses (it is said to have become a Methodist chapel), the relish for this sp_ecies_ of performance was strong enough in the ubhc mind to produce a kind of civil war regardin t e merits of two rival rope-dancers, who had esta lislied themselves and their ropes at opposite ends of the city. Oue astonished the natives of the then fnshionab e ‘ line of rope-dancers, and took
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Liberties, the other amazed the dwellers of the New Town, which had not then extended to Merrion Square. They had arrived in Dublin on the same day, set up their rival camps, and sent forth their manifestoes next morning; and henceforth there was nothing but contention at dinner-table and tea-party, in tavern, coffee-house, and billiard-room, concerning the moral, social, and acrobatic worth of Signor Sarfuico and Monsieur Perote.
As their names and titles indicate, the one was an Italian, and the other a Frenchman. Sarfuico was young, muscular, and tall for a gentleman whose business had to be conducted on the tight-rope. Per-ote’s age could not be ascertained; his adversaries asserted that the blackness of his thin hair was owing to dye ; he was small, slender, and wind-dried, professed to have been brought up on the rope, and considered it the grandest and most elevating of human pursuits. Signor Sarfuico was grave, silent, and even dignified. On the hemp he danced the latest minuet, carried a hamper of glass on his back, and balanced his sword on his chin with a taciturn stateliness sufficient for a cardinal in full canonicals. His Gallic antagonist talked with immense volubility throughout his rformance, generally in his own praise and that o his science, as he pleased to call it ; related his experiences, delivered his opinions on men and manners, and exchanged repartees with his Dublin audience. Signor Sarfuico assured the
ublic that he was the last scion of a noble Florentine amily. Monsieur Perote boasted his descent from a s ecial pride in one of performed before Henri Quatre. Each entleman professed to know nothing of the other, ut their mutual hatred was said to exceed that of ordinary rivals; through their respective satellites a whisper oozed out that they had travelled and danced together for years on the continent-—that their quarrels had latterly been such as to call for police mterference-and that the had separated with vows of vengeance on each 0 er; some intention of that kind was supposed to influence the Frenchman’s movements in particular, for wherever the Italian went, there he followed him, and set up his op sing camp. ey were both excellent in, or rather on, their peculiar lines. As ropes were walked or danced in those days, Dublin had not seen their uals, and they divided the town between them.e(h)owagers fought their battles over the cards; young men quarrelled in coffee-houses, and met next morning in the Phoenix Park about them; family controversies ar0se—social circles split and fell awa —people altered their wills-—old friends passed eac other without speal-r.ing—and enga ments were broken oil‘, on aocoimt of S’ or arfuico and Monsieur Perote. They got mix up with politics, as what in Dublin did not? The popular or Irish party were the chief supporters of Perote; he bowed to the carmen, and wanted justice for Ireland. The high Tories and friends of government, on the other hand, lent their strength to Sarfuico; he was areduoed gentleman, and no doubt of sound principles. The Irish party being the most numerous, gave Perote a considerable majority, and what was still more in the Frenchman’s favour, the ladies threw their wei ht into the scale. In spite of the better looks and h.i er pretensions of his rival, Monsieur Perote’ abundant compliments and general devotion to the fair sex carried the day; the ladies, yorm and old, espoused his cause as ladies only can; and their influence, great as it is, and has been in all tim and places, had a power on the banks of the Liffe in those days sufficient to swamp any opposition. onsieur Perote’s fame and cashbox went up at a rate which threatened extinction to his rival, till the Italian’s ingenuity found out a mode of making things more than even. Sarfuico raised his rope. The elevation was full twenty feet
his ancestors who
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above anything Perote had ever attempted. The bare advertisement drew a considerable house on the first evenin of exhibition, and when it went abroad how he ad carried the sack,-balanced the sword, and drank a glass of wine to the health of the lord-lieutenant, Perote’s populari fell to freezingpoint. In vain his most astonishing feats were put in requisition: he stood on one le to no purpose, danced the minuet De la Cour wit no effect; notwithstanding his bows, the carmen ran to see and shout for his daring antagonist ; and though his compliments rose if possible to a higher key, the ladies deserted him and his rope.
At this epoch, it became public by their joint advertisement that Sarfuico and Perote had made friends. Why and how, their most confidential advisers could not declare, but it was generally believed that, as became his sition, Perote had made the first overtures, and goin-fuico, remembering former da , and not unwilling to rule over his enemy, agree to let b gones be bygones, and receive him into his service.
ey were henceforth to act together, and the surmises, speculations, and reports that went through Dub ‘ when that announcement was issued, were unexampled. Would the Italian bring down his rope? Would the Frenchman elevate his? Would the stage admit of two ropes? Would there be anything more than the old tricks ‘Z Heavy bets were taken on those important questions, and a full hour before its doors were opened, a crowd that mi ht have filled a building twice the size, had collec in front of Sarfuico’s theatre. The getting in and getting places was a considerable busincss ; and when no more seats could be found for the ladies, and no more standing-room for the gentlemen, the curtain rose. r Then what a rise for the eager faces—what a disa pointment of s wd conjectures -what a losing of eavy bets appeared, for there was Sarfuico’s rope alone, at its highest elevation, and there were the rivals both u on it. The Italian looked more than usually grave an gand ; the Frenchman determined and unflinching, as if his couragehad been screwed up for some desperate purpose. The one bowed solemnly to the boxes, the other to the whole house, but it was carelessly done, and Perote’s hand was not even laid on his heart when he turned to the ladies.
As soon as the house recovered from its amazement, it made the roof ring and the rope tremble, not to speak of those who stood on it, with thunders of applause. Sarfuico’s theatre, it must be premised, had been an ancient windmill of more than common height, which allowed room for his present elevation, and there he and his former rival stood some forty feet above the stage. Most people expected the Frenchman to fall, but he did not. The Italian had evidently no notion of the like; hc rcceivcd the ovation as his due ; and the little dark man who acted as his crier—by the way, he called him Manifcstato-came forward and announced that the ladies and gentlemen were that evening to witness a performance never before exhibited on any stage; it was called the dance of friendship, invented by Monsieur Perotc, and immensely improved by Signor Sarfuieo.
The two on the rope immediately began to put themselves in dancing position; they were both in the full dress of the period, with lace ruflies, bagwigs, and swords. The e es of the whole house were fixed on them. Signor uico was still grand, but in beginning the dance of friendship, he seemed to have some difliculty with his feet. Perote had perceived this, and made some remark, which nobody else could hear; but it amused the Italian’s anger. He raised his hand as if to strike him; the same instant, Perote‘s rapier was drawn, and before the audience could comprehend that they had actually
uarrelled, Sa.rfuico’s hanger was out also, and they ghrusting at each other on the tight-rope. A pm might have been heard falling in the crowded house,
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where everybody sat still in his place gazing up at the two fighting in the air. How they kept their footing, the enius of mischief only knows. The concentrated atred and malice of their faces were fearful to see up there in the flickering lamplight. Pass after pass, lunge after lunge, they made at each other with the ra idity of lightning. Both were
ood swordsmen, but ’erote was the best of the two ; he warded ofl’ the Italian’s thrusts with his small rapier, and positively seemed more certain of his footing than before the quarrel began; till Sarfuico, making one desperate lun e, received a back-stroke which threw him off his alance, and at the same moment attempted to grapple with his enemy. Down he went, and down went Perote. A cry of horror rose from the spectators; but some power had interfered on their behalf, for there was the Italian hangin to the ropc by his feet, and the Frenchman ho ding on to it with both his hands. ‘ Look, ladies and gentlemen,’ he cried with a face of trium )h sufiicient for having saved Christendom; ‘ behold how I have perilled my life, and, still_more, my fame, to unmask deceit, and vindicate science! Look at the straps attached to his shoe~soles, and passed over the rope: there is how he made himself safe, and dared to surpass me, whose life was spent on the rope, whose great-great-grandfather performed before Henri Quatre. I guessed it—I knew it, through the inspiration of my science, and I die happy, since the villain is unmasked.’
Monsieur Perote did not dio happy or otherwise on that occasion. Before his parting speech was done, the spectators had recovered their senses suflicicntly to give the alarm, and rush to the rescue with ladders, fire-escapes, and feather-beds to be fallen u He was got safely down; so was Sarfuico, t ough it proved a more difficult business, and the doctors never could understand why he did not die of apo
lexy. From that evening, however, his glory had
epa.rted—a fact of which the last scion of the noble Florentine family was so sensible, that he departed also without sound of trum et, and to the great regret of several tradesmen. now successful rival made a longer stay and a ood deal of noise about the unmaskmg; but the who e scene clued the Dublin world of fashion of its fancy for such performances. One knows not what Blondin may effect, but the like have never been popular among the playgoers of the royal city since t ey happened to witness a Duel on
the Tight-rope.
VITALITY VERSUS DISEASE
THE term ‘vitality,’ or ‘vital force,’ is employed to designate that power which is exhibited in the production and growth of animals and vegetables. Dr Carpenter has shewn that it is nearly allied to the so-called physical forca, light, heat, electricity, &c., and appears different to them only on account of its peculiar relations to matter. Of all the forces observed in nature, it is erhaps the most wonderful, and possesses for us t e catest interest. To vital force, man owes not only ‘ existence, but also his growth and nutrition, his power of resisting the invasion of disease, of repairing injuries, of recovery from disease, and of repro ucing his species. Hypothetically, vital force may be re rdcd as intended to be equally powerful in all e individuals of a species; but as the force of gravity may be affected by various rturbations in matter, so the vital force by w ‘ch !_m_1mals are produced, grow, resist disease, and repair 1nJuries, is subject to many variations from the normal Standard, and is misdirected, cnfeebled, or lost by various antagonistic agencies which interfere with its due development and ultimate oses.
In a recently published medigiiwork,‘ Dr Horace
‘ Lecture: on the Germ: and Vrstige: af Diaean, 8:0. By Horace Dobell, M.D., 1861.
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Dobell has advanced some ingenious considerations regarding this vital force, and the relations it bears to the development of disease. Some of his deductions have a practical bearing on the public health, and on this account pomess interest for general readers. We pro therefore, in this article to give in brief ou ‘ e some of the ideas gathered from a perusal of his book, divested of the somewhat obscure phraseology which the author has ado ted, and with such illustration as may be understo by non-professional readers.
The stud of vital force, as exhibited in the healthy human body, is surrounded by great difiiculties, greater beset the investi ation into the causes and consequencu of those pertur ations in vital action which are observed during disease. By careful study and observation, we may, however, learn something concerning the amount of vitality apportioned to the human frame, at different periods of life, when the body is in a normal state ; and we have also the power of ascertaining by what agencies healthy vitality is op sed, and at last, it may be, overpowered.
perience teaches, then, that if the human body be sound, it can, within reasonable limits, repair injuries, heal wounds, and emerge from accidental diseases, without any serious deterioration of health.
The physician can -measure with t nicety the amount of resistance which healthy vitality will pzppose to the destructive action of certain poisons. q
but still
e knows, for example, within certain limits, the uantities of various potent taken into the system without death, and how much is need to produce a fatal result. A small quantit of arsenic is easily disposed of by a person in heal , and no harm ensues; but arsenic, if given in doses even to a healthy person, outwei hs the resistance vitality can oppose to it, and deat takes lace. The physician knows further, that whenever ealth has been deteriorated from any cause, and vital force rendered feebler, the resistance the body can op se to noxious agents is priportionately lessened, and” a smaller dose of poison e s to a. fatal result. These remarks are true, not only in reference to mineral poisons, but also to the subtile poisons of typhus and typhoid fevers, of smallpox, scarlet fever, cholera, and the like. These deleterious agents cannot be weighed in scales as we weigh arsenic and stryclinine ; but it is known equally of all, that a large dose is enough to kill even a vigorous person, and that he may recover from a smaller one. A feeble person, on the other hand, is borne down and overpowered even by a small quantity of one of these poisons, and life is soon extinguished. Men and women endowed with a large amount of vitality, may be able to resist an e idcmic influence altogether, or at least have fair c nccs of perfect recovery from it. Those, on the cont , who have been enfeebled by adverse sanitary riziillruenccs, are the first to be attacked, and most certainly succumb.
Most people are familiar with the fact, that certain conditions of life are much more favourable to health than others. Impure air, improper food, intemperatc habits, scanty clothing, and overhard work, enfecble the health and inidermine the constitution. In other words, they depress the vital force, and render it liable to extinction.
Unfavourable conditions of life, by lowering the standard of the general health, will not only predispose persons to take prevailing diseases, and render convalesccnce from them im ect, but will roduco maladies specially their own. Every ph ‘sician s notcbook contains evidence of the truth of t is. Take the case of one of Dr Dobell’s patients. This entleman had had singular advantages throughout ‘e. His physician on being summoned, learns that he is eighty-two years of age; that he was born in the country, of healthy parents; was during childhood appropriately clothed and fed, and encouraged during
poisons which_ may be
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roducing disease or boyhood in all sports and amusements conducive to health at his time of life. His education was carefully superintended, but the brain never overtaxed; and he was allowed to mix freely with young Eople of both sexes, whose example was likely to ve no injurious effect upon him. As he grew up, he was constantly forewarned against indulging in any habit which might introduce disease into his ure blood, and had the good sense, when away
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m restraint, to avoid all excesses. He had the various ailments of children, broken bones, and dislocations from accident, colds, and fevers. He had
throu h the duties and trials of adult frlife commonto ; but vi ur and stren , ans-ing’ ‘ m healthy conditions of egxdstence, brougltilt him throu h all scarcely injured. Little more is to be elicited y medical examination than failure of power, and sim le decay from old age. At eighty-two, he sinks ually out of life in the ordinary course of nature.
In contrast to this, place the history of another patient, a woman aged forty; the mother of eight children. Her medical man finds her pro ped up in bed with a solitary pillow, the lack of o ers being compensated for by the assistance of a stool. Her face is e, her lips livid, dro of piration stand on her row, and she is unab e to ‘e down, lest life should cease with the act of breathing. A distressing cough harasses the patient at uncertain intervals, and the anxiety of countenance after each paroxysm is past, shews how severe has been the s e to set respiration once more ageing. The legs and body are swollen to twice their ordinary thickness, and the pain endured suggests to the p.-itient’s mind the hope that death may soon bring her deliverance from suffering. Her history is briefly this: She has all her life inhabited a stable-yard in the neighbourhood of Drury Lane. Born of healthy parents, who had emigrated from Ireland, and taken up their quarters in London, her youthful gambols were limited to the stable-yard just mentioned, with a gallery rimning round it, inhabited by a crowded colony of her fellow-countrymen. Beyond an occasional excursion into Holborn or Long Acre, she had, as a child, rarely strayed far from home, and a hop-picking excursion into Kent, of a fortnight’s duration, was all she had ever seen of the country even as an adult. As a young woman she had been much exposed to inclemencies of season while hawking fruit. She had frequently been stinted of food, and been half clad during the winter. In addition to various common complaints of infancy, she had, as the result of living in impure air, and being supplied with insufiicient or improper nutriment, been deformed by rickets. Repeated attacks of rheumatism had resulted in an ng vated form of heart disease. To these morbid con ‘tions was added a liver complaint, probably induced by spirit-drinking. The sum-total of evils was made up by the supervention of dropsy, which, as the combined result of heart and hver disease, was beyond all medical skill to cure, the ofiice of the physician being limited to the mitigation of suffering.
In these histories the influence of the attendant conditions of life is strongly exemplified. The first
tient beginning life with a sound constitution, and
ing surrounded by favourable circumstances, acquired none of those diseases which arise from opposin conditions, and having shaken ofl‘ the effects of accidental ailments, goes through life with organs unimpaired, until at a ripe old age he dies; scarcely from disease, but from natural decay. The second patient, equally healthy at first, has been exposed to
adverse conditions from birth, and the result is that she has become saturated with disease before middle age is passed, and bears the impress in each injured organ of the various disadvantages which she has encountered.
The case of the female patient is happily an extreme
one, and the attendant conditions are only to be found among the very poorest of the peo le. There are, however, a great number of our f ow-bein who, although not so fur exposed to morbific uences that mortal diseases ensue, yet have their health so far deteriorated by various causes, that they become extremely susceptible to prevailing maladies, and have a considerably diminished chance of emerging from them success ully. The variations in the amount of healthy resistance to disease, in recovery from it, are very great, and are perhaps in no two er-sons the same. T ese variations are mainly de en ent on the state of the system as determined by t e existence or absence of any heredi taint; by the conditions of life to which the indivi ual has been subjected; by the presence of other disease at the same time; and by_ the effects of diseases which have reviously existed Su pose, as mstsnced by Dr Dobe _a party of friends, apparently in good health, meeting at a funeral, going together mto a dam , unwarmed cemetery chapel on a cold winter’s ay, and returning together all to complain that they have taken a severe chill. They dine together, and go to their homes. As the result of the chill, one suflers an attack of rheumatic fever; one has swelling of the body and limbs; one jaundice; one bronchitis; while the rest get a restless night, a cold in the head, and think no more about it. The interp
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retation of these variations is diificult and intricate, but they may frequently be traced with great accuracy to the causes just alluded to.
The inter-dependence of one deviation from health u on another is constantly remarked; and the links o connection passing between various diseases, make the chain almost interminable. It is ciuious and instructive to trace out with our author how the germs and vestiges of disease, from whatever source they come, may not only invite other diseases, but actually be the causes of fatality in certain diseases, which, but for their presence, would not probably terminate in death. The term Anaemia. is applied by physicians to a condition of -the body characterised by a deficiency of the red globules of the blood. The skin grows waxy, the lips lose their colour, and all the tissues become pale. Anaemia may result from im ect recovery after any disease, or it may be produced by bad feeding and clothing, or irregular habits. In young children its ap rance is soon followed by rickety and deform bones. The constitutional state which immediately precedes distortion of the bones, is evidenced by late dentition, and b the union of the bones in the skull being retard Then the ends of the long bones begin to enlarge, and their shafts to bend; the spine grows crooked, the chest becomes contracted, and the child pigeonbreasted. In proportion to the intensity of the rickets, so is the amount of deformity, and a certain arrest of development taking place at the same time, a figure may be produced, which even in adult rage is dwarf-like, and stunted in all its proportions. e skeleton once deformed by rickets, the body is exposed to a host of dan ers. The various functions of the body are per-forme imperfectly, and a liability to many diseases is acquired. Rickets can be traced as the distinct cause of death in numerous diseases, which, but for its effects, would not prove fatal. Bronchitis, inflammation of the lungs,_whooping-cough, measles, are very dangerous affections m rickety patients. In these diseases, the respiratory organs are unusually taxed, and the deformity of the chest renders defective the mechanical power by which inspiration is performed. Thus a small_am0u_nt of mucus blocks up the bronchial tubes, an impediment is offered to the entrance of air, and as this cannot be overcome, the patient dies.
Fatty degeneration bears a somewhat like relation as a cause of death. The arteries of the brain are liable to have their coats insidiousl softened and made friable by fatty degeneration. W en the strength of the vessels is so impaired, their coats give way the moment any unusual pressure is put upon them ; and the consequence is, that a man in the apparent en]oyment of health is stricken down by apoplexy, and if he survives the stroke, he is )I‘0l)£\l)ly hopelessly paralytic afterwards. A person aving fatty degeneration of the heart, is perhaps not in such danger Of sudden death as is commonly supposed; but if attacked by fever, bronchitis, or other ung disease— in which exaggerated action of the heart is needed to drive the blood current through the 1ungs—the weakened organ proves unequal to the task, and the patient dies. ‘ _
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These facts shew that, in addition to the various forms of pestilence, which stalk about obvious to all, there may be germs and vestiges of disease lurking in the constitution, and stealthil growin into serious ailments; or being present, an giving ttle evidence of their existence under ordinary circumstances, may yet be the cause of death, on the supervention of another disease, which, but for their aid, would not inflict mortal injury. So insidious are the efl’ects_of some of these glerms of disease, that although daily recognised by ysicians, they do not appear in the bills of mortality as causes of death, the deaths produced by them being registered under the superadded ailment. Anaemia and fatty degeneration are, undoubtedly, the indirect causes of eath in _many instances, and yet they have no place in the registrargeneral’s returns.
The germs and vestiges of disease, therefore, viewed in their remote consequences to individuals, have an importance not generally attributed to them; but they have also an importance in another and wider sense——in their remote consequences to the health of communities. Parents cannot suffer permanent deterioration of health without transmitting that deterioration to their subsequent offsprin , and thus the feebleness of parents becomes multip ‘ed by the number of their children. Seeing that crowds of our fellow-beings live habitually under conditions which must have the effect of undermining their strenfih and vigour, one miig not without reason appr end, that unless some vantageous change of circumstances occurs, their progeny must eventually die out, or at best become a feeble and degenerate race. In an article in The Times, four years ago, this sub’ect is thus graphically noticed :
‘ 0 understand this, and be too sure of it, we have only to take awalk through any of our pulous
uarters—Shoreditch, Bethnal Green, the oro h, beth, all the river-side, Clerkenwell, Gray’s ‘fin Lane, and those numerous smaller districts of which the working-classes, for one reason or another, have obtained inalienable possession. Take them at the hours when they shew—going to their work or returning fmm it, or making their pprchases, or cooling themselves in the open air; loo at them, and please remember that when you have deducted half a million people rather better off, there remain two millions of the sort you see before you. Can it be possible that they boast the same blood, the same country, the same wholesome diet and generous nature, as the John Bull of story‘! Whither have fled his rosy hue, his cheerful smile, his round outline, his lump cheeks, and brisk ‘t‘! That is the myth; ‘ is the fact. Divest e crowd of everything that may be considered peculiar and accidental; take the average, or rather the whole without exception, and reflect that these are the children Uzat are to be our future men and wome1i»—thesc before us are the men and women that are to give us mm-e children-to breed them, to teach them, and train them, and make them men and women. Shocking as it may seem, a pla e once in twenty years seems but a light evil to so lhuw a condition of humanity.’
These remarks refer particularly to the poor, who
are exposed to all the evils entailed upon them by
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penury, ignorance, and improvidence. But their more fortunate and richer brethren are not exempt from the causes of physical deterioration, and if not equally ignorant of the conditions necessary to insure healthy vitality, are often careless in observing them, and so self~indulgent, that seeds of disease are sown which are not easily eradicated. The sufferer from gout, proud it may be of his aristocratic malady, and accustomed to regard the pain he endures as specially his own affair, may probably be surprised to learn, that the more frequent his attacks, and the more he becomes imbued with the gouty poison, the larger crop of erms of disease he transmits to his children. The student by profession, who leads a sedentary life, and neglects physical exercise, undermines equally mental and bodily vigour. The voluptuary who eats, drinks, and sleeps beyond what nature requires; the libertine who wastes his strength in unlawful )l€8sures, all pay the forfeit in an impairment of vitality; in a shortening of their own term of life, and in producing feeble and degenerate successors.
The province of the true physician is obviously not limited to the cure of serious illnesses, and the relief of inful ones. He has an equally important duty to ulfil in tracing upwards to their source the feeders of the broad stream of disease and death ; in checking the very beginnings of that death-tide, which, like the well-springs at the source of some great river, are small and im roeptible at first, but soon swell to become a great ood.
No reasonable doubt can exist that a large proportion of the first deviations from health are remediable when sufliciently early precautions are observed, and the vitiatin conditions to which they owe their origin are etected and removed. Ignorance on all matters connected with the preservation of health is no doubt widespread and deep rooted, but the science of preventive medicine has in our days made great progress, and the efforts of various sanitary associations deserve all praise. To the ignorant and intelligent alike, it is to be recommended that they should not regard sli lit deviations from health as unworthy of regard. T e inconvenience from impaired health, without actual sickness, may be slight and transient, but if of lon r duration or frequent recurrence, it may not ‘ saf y be trusted to time, or to an old wife’s nostrum.’
SCALING THE EYRIE.
No man who is not a sportsman can appreciate the rights and wrongs of game-laws. He wonders at their harshness, and he also wonders at the foolhardiness of those who brave them for the sake of so little gain. The most lenient landowner becomes imperative, the most just county magistrate cruel an one-sided, upon this matter; and the otherwise respectful labourer, upon his part, determined and revengeful. The error of both parties is very great, and is not to be accounted for upon grounds of reason,
but of instinct.
A certain large class_of En lishmen are born‘ ppachers, ]ust as a certam muc smaller class are
rn ‘gentlemen-sportsmen.’ Both are commonly sound-hearted, thin-brained, and muscular, the main difierence between them consisting in the fact, that one is in a ition to legally WE his favourite passion, an the other is not. r C arles Boner, the well-known chamois-hunter of Bavaria, has given us ample testimony upon this point in his latel published Forest Creatures,‘ now before us. S ‘ g_of a nobler game, ind_eed,_ than is now common m England, but one which is probably not more temptin and attractive to him than is the pheasant to t e Wiltshire hind, he says: ‘I have waited for the stag’s coming at early morning; have
fynm 