Chapter I: Front Matter

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 141.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]

THE GREEK GYPSIES AT LIVERPOOL.

Towards the middle of last July, the people of Liverpool were surprised by the advent of a large band of Greek gypsies, ninety-nine in number, whom the London train had left stranded on a vacant space of ground beside the railway station. Though spoken of as ‘Greek’ gypsies, they were really from all parts of the Græco-Turkish corner of Europe, and some even from Smyrna and its neighbourhood. But they preferred to be regarded as Greeks, and all of them spoke the modern Greek tongue. They had come to Liverpool, intending to take an early steamer to New York; but their progress was here suddenly arrested; and their stay in Liverpool proved to be of longer duration than had been anticipated by themselves or by others. From their first squatting-ground beside the station they had early been removed to a secluded corner at Walton, within the grounds of the Zoological Gardens. But how long they must yet remain there, and what was to be done with them, seemed difficult problems.

It was not the fault of these strange emigrants that they thus halted on the outward verge of Europe. They had honestly paid their way hither from their Mediterranean home, and they had enough money among them to pay for their passage across the Atlantic. But at this point America interfered. Ready as she once was to welcome all immigrants with open arms, America has become less hospitable of recent years. She has excluded the Chinaman, for racial reasons; and now she is drawing the line at the ‘pauper,’ of whatever race, because of his poverty. It is not many years since Longfellow apostrophised _Driving Cloud_, ‘chief of the mighty Omawhaws,’ telling him it was in vain that he and his meagre tribe ‘claimed the soil for their hunting-grounds,’

While down-trodden millions
Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too,
Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division!

But times are changed. And the European ‘pauper’ finds no resting-place on North American soil, but is sent back to his old hopeless existence in the garrets and ‘caverns’ of Europe. It is only the self-supporting immigrant that receives a welcome. There is nothing unnatural in this attitude of the Americans. A young and ambitious country does not want its ranks to be recruited from the idle, unenergetic, and criminal classes of older states; indeed, half the troubles of America have come, not from the descendants of the men who founded the Republic, but from the heterogeneous invaders of the present century. Thus, the American attitude is intelligible enough. Nevertheless, the mere fact that the poor are not permitted to seek a home in that vast country, forms a grim commentary on the popular conception of America as the great haven of refuge for all the victims of Old-world tyrannies.

It must be confessed that the appearance of the gypsy camp at Walton was not at all suggestive of the ideal emigrant; so that it was perhaps as well that the present writer conceived the idea of visiting them without any intention of advocating their claim to such a title. The scene, truly, did not suggest any such qualities as cleanliness, industry, or wealth. Scattered along two sides of an open grassy triangle stood the gypsy tents, some fifteen or twenty—small-sized, mean, and dingy, loosely put together, constructed of old canvas or sacking, which fell on either side of a low ridge-pole, and was closed at one end. In the open space between the two rows of tents a group of gypsy men were amusing themselves—some wrestling and fighting playfully; while the others looked on, talking, laughing, and smoking. A few female figures were moving about among the tents; and a host of children, of all sizes, scampered, toddled, and tumbled over the grass, as happy as if they had never breathed a milder air than that of this chilly English summer day.

One glance at the swarthy faces of these people was enough to convince one that their claim to be called ‘gypsies’ did not rest upon the mere fact that they were nomads by habit and tinkers by trade, but that they were the little-mixed representatives of a distinct racial type. A closer examination did reveal the presence of an infusion of white blood among a few of them; but nearly all were the darkest of all dark-skinned Europeans. In no degree whatever did their tawny complexion result from long exposure to wind and sun; for, when one glanced at the skin which their half-open shirts disclosed, or at the bodies of the ill-clad little creatures everywhere running about, one saw the same uniform dusky hue. The hair of all was jet black; but the colour of their eyes seemed to be invariably of a deep hazel shade, rather than the opaque black that may be seen in the eyes of many people of a fairer skin.

No sooner were their visitors descried, than several young children, and one girl of about seventeen, swooped down on them with pleading cries for money. Strongly resembling the children of our itinerant Italians in their dress and appearance, they were also like them in their appealing tones and in the very words they used. ‘Grazia, grazia, deh mi pena [penny], ma dona!’ were the words they reiterated in various combinations, as they held out their dirty little hands beseechingly for the expected ‘pena.’ Whether they had become familiar with this Italian patois during their temporary residence in Italy, or whether—as is likelier—they had been always accustomed to it in their homes among the Ionian Islands, it was clearly the favourite form of speech among the younger children. But that they also understood modern Greek became speedily clear, although they were far from appreciating the uses to which that language was put. For on this occasion the writer was accompanied by a Greek gentleman, representing an eminent merchant of Liverpool who had greatly exerted himself on behalf of his otherwise friendless countrymen; and by his instructions, all attempts at begging were sternly suppressed, not only because the thing itself was objectionable, but also because he foresaw that, if indulged in, it would further complicate the position of the gypsies, and counteract his efforts to arouse the sympathy of the American authorities. Accordingly, by a few rapid sentences in Greek, the suppliants were effectually repressed.

As soon as the leading men of the band who were then present—the chief himself had gone into town with two of his followers—understood that one of their visitors was a fellow-countryman, representing their patron, they thronged around him with a hundred questions, gesticulating violently the while; and the burden of their complaint was: ‘How long must we remain here?’ ‘Why should we be detained when our journey is half over?’ ‘Why will the Americans not let us come?’ Their case was really a hard one. Three hundred napoleons had they spent on their journey from Greece—on the clear understanding that they were to obtain a passage across the Atlantic from Liverpool, the money for which they had in their possession. Then came the word that they would not be allowed to land; when immediately the steamship companies unanimously refused to take them as passengers. Nor was Canada a bit more friendly than the States; so that only South America remained open to them. This, indeed, was where they specially wished to go—among the Southern Europeans and their fellow-gypsies. But a voyage to Brazil means a great deal more money than the short passage to New York. The other alternative held up to them—to return to their native country—they indignantly repelled. They had left it for want of employment, and in the hopes of making more money in the New World; for the reasons, in short, which induce other people to emigrate; and they had no wish to waste their substance on a fruitless journey to and from Liverpool.

Although nomadic gypsies, not very clean in their appearance and ways, it must be remembered that these people were, like many other gypsies, honest craftsmen. Some English gypsies who visited them came away with the impression that they were extremely well skilled in metal-working; and the account given by one of their ‘interviewers,’ a Roumanian gentleman, quite bears this out. ‘Mr —— asked the chief why the tribe thought of going to America, and was answered that they wished to make a living. In Roumania they could “use the lead” [solder], and they could make and clean pans [the pans being presumably of copper, since they were noted for their skill in copper-working]. They were also builders, and carried bricks and mortar. They also tilled the soil.... From his [Mr ——’s] knowledge of their habits in Roumania, he did not think the Americans need fear their advent, as they would strive to earn an honest living.’ To all this favourable testimony may be added the statement made by the proprietor of the Gardens, that, so far as he could judge, they were absolutely free from the vice of drunkenness, which was more than he could say of many of the ‘roughs’ who came to look at them.

The passports which they produced from their pocket-books were seen to be bi-lingual—French and Greek in several instances, French and Roumanian, apparently, in others. One ran in the name of King Milan I. of Servia. The French designation given to them was that of _chaudronnier_ (tinker). Their Christian names, detailed in their respective passports, were various—such as Michael (the name of their chief), Constantin, Stefano, and Janka; among the female names were Maria and Ghuri (pron. Gew′ri). The passports, which had been duly _visé’d_ by the various consuls, frequently included a considerable number of individuals in each, thus covering one or more families. As already stated, these people came from all parts of Greece and European Turkey—from Corfu on the west, and Smyrna on the east, and also from the principalities of Servia, Bulgaria, and Roumania. Many of them, no doubt, are among the people particularly treated of in Dr Paspati’s well-known work on the Turkish Gypsies.

After their first expressions of indignation and annoyance at their mysterious detention had passed off, these men fell into a pleasanter humour, and accepted with gratitude a few cigars which their visitors offered them. They seemed great smokers, both men and women, their favourite pipe being about a foot in length, with a pendulous, elastic tube. On learning that the present writer had come all the way from ‘Scozia’ (Scotland) to see them, they showed much gratification, to which their chief spokesman at once gave expression in modern Greek through the medium of our interpreter; and, pointing to the freshly-lit cigar at which he was now puffing vigorously, he said with emphasis, ‘_Bōn’, bōn’_;’ in this case employing his Italian dialect as likely to be the most intelligible form of speech. This man was quite an accomplished linguist, and could speak Greek, Russian, Roumanian, and two or three other dialects of South-eastern Europe. The curious thing was, that while he seemed rather proud of his attainments, he never once included in his list his own mother-tongue, the speech of the gypsy race. Neither would he admit that he was a ‘ziganka,’ not for a long time, at anyrate; but subsequently, both he and his comrades answered to the name of _Roum_,[1] and the cigar was no longer _bōn’_, but _lâsho_.[2]

[1] _Roum_ or _Rom_, the gypsies’ own name for a gypsy all the world over.

[2] _Lásho_, otherwise _látcho_, ‘good.’

The Greek gentleman and the visitor from Scozia had by this time made a sufficient investigation of the camp. The general effect of the people and their surroundings was undoubtedly disappointing. There was an almost total absence of colour in their attire, which—among the men, at least—was very plain, and had little of a distinctive character about it. One, however, wore a broad leathern belt studded with brass-headed nails, which had something about it suggesting the picturesque; while the fingers of most of the men and women were adorned with many rings. The men wore their hair short, and some had moustaches and beards. There was more that was characteristic about the women. The general hue of their attire was ‘sad-coloured,’ like that of the men; but one had a red, white-spotted kerchief wound round her head, gypsy fashion; and most of them had necklaces of coral or beads, and large silver coins disposed in strings around their neck and shoulders. Their raven tresses were braided in long plaits, which hung down on either side. But none of these gypsy women could be called handsome, and, indeed, were much inferior to the men in this respect. Among the children, however, there were one or two really pretty faces; one, a little girl of five or six, had quite a refined and sweet expression, as well as regular delicate features. In her case, an exception was made to the stern decree against almsgiving; and it was amusing to see her shy hesitation as, with hanging head, and a side-glance at the gypsy man beside her—who, with many cuffs to right and left, had repressed all attempts at begging—she held out a tiny hand for the offered ‘pena,’ while her neat little mouth parted smilingly over a row of shining ‘ivories.’ The children, in fact, who numbered more than fifty, constituted the most attractive feature of the scene; and queer, impish little creatures they were. Even where they had no claims to beauty, they were still inexpressibly droll. Some possessed very little clothing wherewith to hide their small brown bodies. One marched gravely about with nothing on but a dilapidated shirt; while, in the distance, a nurse about eight years old was seen to pursue and capture a wholly naked little savage of half her age. Something in their serio-comic air and the tumbled-together look of their garments, frequently reminded one of the odd little Bohemians in Callot’s etchings.

In one tent lay an old and very dark-skinned, white-bearded man. Through some accident, he had lost the use of his legs; but he lay stolidly on the ground, smoking a cigar, indifferent, apparently, to the inquisitive looks of a dozen curious spectators. A baby was lying very still in a heap of swaddling-clothes beside him—‘dying,’ said some of the onlookers, though the mother herself pronounced the illness to be nothing serious.

On leaving the camp, another incident in the checkered life of the sojourners presented itself. Two of their young women—girls, rather—had gone into the streets to do a little ‘shopping,’ and had attempted to enter a butcher’s shop, with intent to purchase; but from the recesses of this booth, suddenly evoked by their appearance, there issued forth what Mr Skimpole would have described as ‘the absurd figure of an angry butcher,’ who, with furious mien and uplifted arm, drove the poor girls back into the street. Followed by a small crowd of street-children, the two young Romany maidens strode along, one with a splendid scowl on her face, as she flashed her angry glances on the jeering _gaújoes_.[3] But a friend and compatriot was at hand. The irate butcher, being questioned, explained that he did not drive them away for any attempted dishonesty, but because he knew, from the previous days’ experience, that they had only copper to offer him for meat that was fairly worth some silver. To do him justice, the good butcher began to abate his wrath as soon as he perceived that there was money to be made after all. The girls were recalled, and—a perfect mob of children looking in at door and windows—their aprons were filled with a goodly store of meat, with which they departed in happiness, blessing their kindly benefactor.

[3] _Gaújoes_, Gentiles or non-gypsies.

This mid-day visit had not been enough for the gentleman from Scozia, who returned the same evening to the camp with a small party, one of the number being a famous ‘word-master’ of Rómanes.[4] And now it became apparent that the correctly behaved people of the forenoon, freed from the check of their patron’s influence, had dropped the mask, and stood boldly forth in their true colours. Not that they were very bad, even then; their only vice was that of begging. But how to describe that! From entrance to exit it was incessant, clamorous, piteous, and beyond all satisfying. Men, women, children, even babies begged! From every side came the _grazia_ formula; and the nearer petitioners would lift and kiss the hem of one’s garments. Coppers vanished like smoke. Cigars and cigarettes were eagerly accepted on all sides, even by mere children. Nay, so free from shame were the supplicants, that, perceiving whence one of the ladies drew her store of cigarettes—thoughtfully laid in for their benefit—one of the young gypsies quietly thrust his hand into the folds of the dress and drew out the remaining two or three! There was not the slightest attempt at violence or furtive theft; only an incessant, plaintive begging by voice and manner—of the most artistic order, evolved out of the practice of many generations. Although our own gypsies had long ago the reputation of practising this art, it is now quite dissociated from them—in this direct form.

[4] Rómanes, the gypsy language.

Those English gypsies who had visited them had a good deal to say of their begging propensities. From one they had demanded tobacco to an unlimited extent, from others they had asked for sugar and soap. And while it was amusing to hear our own gypsies express their righteous indignation at the ways of their ‘kin beyond sea,’ it was very interesting to listen to their remarks upon their common language; for, although very imperfectly indeed, and only in occasional-words and phrases, they could understand each other a little—only a little, however, so great are the differences of intonation, inflexion, and vocabulary. Nevertheless, now that those Greeks had revealed themselves in their true character as gypsies, it became clearly evident to their visitors that—unlike their brethren in Montenegro—they still retained the language of their race. In the midst of the tumult and crowd—not only of gypsies but of indiscriminate _gaújoes_—it was impossible even for a _báro lávengro_[5] to do more than exchange a few brief sentences with them. But, in that imperfect way, it became clear that this was a camp of true Romané. _Roum_, or rather _Erroum_ is the form they give to the more common _Rom_, in which peculiarity they resemble the _Erroumans_ of the Basque countries. Various words were thus obtained from them, corresponding generally with those which one finds in Dr Paspati’s collection.

[5] _Báro lávengro_, ‘great word-maker,’ that is, fluent speaker of the gypsy language.

But patience has its limits, and a steady and persistent demand for _largesse_ cannot be as steadily complied with; so, with words of farewell to the older members of the tribe, who had throughout restrained themselves—and indeed some of the youthful mendicants, who were void of shame—the gypsy camp was left to become an interesting memory.

When these lines were written, the newspapers told of heavy rains and wet bedraggled tents; and further, of a proposal made by an inveterate showman to exhibit the gypsies through the music-halls, with their ancestral games, dances, and craftsmanship. Misguided wanderers from the blue Ægean, is there no better fate before you than this?

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

BY FRED. M. WHITE.

IN TWENTY CHAPTERS.—CHAP. I.

The shades of evening had commenced to fall; already the slanting sun shining through the open window glittered on the array of crystal glasses, turning the wine within them to a blood-red hue. The remains of an ample dessert were scattered about the bare polished table, rich luscious-looking fruits and juicy pines filling the air with their fragrance. A pleasant room, with its panelled walls and quaint curiosities, with here and there a modern picture framed; and again other works standing upon easels or placed against the wainscot. From the Corso below came the sounds of laughter and gaiety; while within, the delicate scent of the pines was overpowered by the odour of tobacco which rose from the cigarettes of the three men sitting there. They were all young—artists evidently, and from the appearance of one of them, he was of a different nationality from the others. Frederick Maxwell was an Englishman, with a passion for art, and no doubt had he been forced to gain a living by his brush, would have made some stir in the world; but being born with the traditional silver spoon in his mouth, his flirtation with the arts never threatened to become serious. He was leaving Rome in a few days, and the dessert upon the table was the remains of a farewell dinner—that custom dear to every English heart. A handsome fair-haired man this Englishman, his clear bright cheek and blue eyes contrasting with the aquiline features and olive-hued complexions of his companions. The man with the black moustache and old velvet painting-jacket, a man with bohemian stamped on him indelibly, was Carlo Visci, also an artist, and a genius to boot, but cursed with that indomitable idleness which is the bane of so many men of talent. The other and slighter Italian, he with the melancholy face and earnest eyes, was Luigi Salvarini, independent as to means, and possessed, poor fool! with the idea that he was ordained by Providence for a second Garibaldi.

There is an infinite sense of rest and comfort, the desire to sit silent and dream of pleasant things, that comes with tobacco after dinner, when the eye can dwell upon the waxlights glittering on glass and china, and on the artistic confusion the conclusion of the repast produces. So the three men sat listlessly, idly there, each drowsily engaged, and none caring to break the delicious silence, rendered all the more pleasing from the gay girlish laughter and the trip of little feet coming up from the Corso below. But no true Briton can remain long silent; and Maxwell, throwing his cigarette out through the window, rose to his feet, yawning. ‘Heigh-ho! So this pleasant life is come to an end,’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, I suppose one cannot be expected to be always playing.’

Carlo Visci roused himself to laugh gently. ‘Did you ever do anything else, my friend?’ he asked. ‘You play here under sunny skies, in a velvet painting-jacket; then you leave us to pursue the same arduous toil in the tall hat of Albion’s respectability, in the land of fogs and snows. Ah! yes, it is only a change of venue, my philosopher.’

‘Not now,’ Salvarini corrected gravely. ‘Remember, he has vowed by all in his power to aid the welfare of the League. That vow conscientiously followed out is undertaking enough for one man’s lifetime.’

‘Luigi, you are the skeleton at the feast,’ Visci remonstrated. ‘Cannot you be happy here for one brief hour without reminding us that we are bound by chains we cannot sever?’

‘I do not like the mocking tone of your words,’ Salvarini replied. ‘The subject is too earnest for jesting upon.—Surely, Maxwell, you have not so soon forgotten the solemnity of the oath you took last night?’

‘I do remember some gibberish I had to repeat, very much like the conspirators’ chorus at the Opera,’ Maxwell returned with a careless shrug. ‘It is not bad fun playing at sedition.—But for goodness’ sake, Luigi, do not keep harping on the same string, like another Paganini, but without that wizard’s versatility.’

‘You think it play, do you?’ Salvarini asked almost scornfully. ‘You will find it stern reality some day. Your hour may not come yet, it may not come for years; but if you are ordered to cut off your right hand, you will have to obey.’

‘Oh, indeed. Thanks, most earnest youth, for your estimation of my talent for obedience.—Come, Luigi! do not be so Cassandra-like. If the worst comes to the worst, I can pitch this thing into the Tiber.’ He took a gold coin from his pocket as he spoke, making a gesture as if to throw it through the open lattice.

Salvarini stood up, terror written in every line of his face, as he arrested the outstretched arm. ‘For heaven’s sake, Maxwell, what are you thinking of? Are you mad, or drunk, that you can dream of such a thing?’

Maxwell laughed as he restored the coin to his pocket. ‘All right, old fellow. I suppose I must honour your scruples; though, mind you, I do not consider myself bound to do anything foolish even for the League.’

‘You may not think so; indeed, I hope not; but time will tell.’

Maxwell laughed again, and whistled carelessly, thinking no more of the little episode. The League, the coin, everything was forgotten; but the time did come when he in his hour of need remembered Luigi’s words, and vividly realised the meaning of the look on his stern earnest face.

Visci looked on at the incident, totally unmoved, save by a desire to lead the conversation into more pleasant channels. ‘When do you leave, Maxwell?’ he asked. ‘I suppose you are not going for a few days?’

‘In about a week probably, not sooner. I did not know I had so many friends in Rome, till I was going to leave them.’

‘You will not forget your visit to my little place? Genevieve will never forgive me if I let you go without saying good-bye.’

‘Forget little Genevieve!’ Maxwell cried. ‘No, indeed. Whatever my engagements may be, I shall find time to see her; though, I daresay, the day will come when she will forget me easily enough.’

‘I am not so sure of that; she is a warm-hearted child. I tell you what we will do; and perhaps Sir Geoffrey and his daughter will join us. We will go down the day after to-morrow, and make a day of it.—Of course you will be one, Luigi?’

It was growing dark now, too dark to see the rich flush that mounted to the young Italian’s cheek. He hesitated a moment before he spoke. ‘With pleasure, Carlo. A day at your little paradise is not to be lightly refused. I will come gladly.’

‘You make a slight mistake, Visci, when you speak of Genevieve as a child,’ Maxwell observed reflectively. ‘She is seventeen—a woman, according to your Italian reckoning. At anyrate, she is old enough to know the little blind god, or I am much mistaken.’

‘I hope not,’ Visci returned gravely. ‘She is quick and passionate, and somewhat old for her years, by reason of the seclusion she keeps. But let the man beware who lightly wins her heart; it would go hard with him if I crossed his path again!’

‘There are serpents in every paradise,’ Maxwell replied sententiously; ‘and let us hope little Gen. is free from the curiosity of her original ancestress. But child or not, she has a woman’s heart worth the winning, in which assertion our silent friend here will bear me out.’

Luigi Salvarini started from his reverie. ‘You are right, Maxwell,’ he said. ‘Many a man would be proud to wear her gage upon his arm. Even I—— But why ask me? If I was even so disposed to rest under my own fig-tree, there are ties which preclude such a blissful thought.’

Maxwell whistled softly, and muttered something about a man drawing a bow at a venture—the words audible to Salvarini alone.

‘I am tied, as I told you,’ he continued coldly. ‘I do not know why you have drawn me into the discussion at all. I have sterner work before me than dallying by a woman’s side looking into her eyes’——

‘And not anything like so pleasant, I dare swear,’ Maxwell interrupted cheerfully. ‘Come, Luigi; do not be so moody. If I have said anything in my foolish way to offend you, I am heartily sorry.’

‘I am to blame, Maxwell, not you. You wonder why I am so taken up with this League; if you will listen, I will tell you. The story is old now; but I will tell you as best I can remember.’

‘Then, perhaps you will wait till I have found a seat and lighted my cigarette,’ exclaimed a voice from the background at this moment. ‘If Salvarini is going to oblige, I cut in as a listener.’

At these words, uttered in a thin, slightly sneering voice, the trio turned round suddenly. Had it been lighter, they would have seen a trim, well-built figure, with head well set on square shoulders, and a perfectly cut, deadly pale face, lighted with piercing black eyes, and adorned by a well-waxed, pointed moustache. From his accents, there must have been something like a sneer upon his lips. But whatever he might have been, he seemed to be welcome enough now as he drew a chair to the open window.

‘Better late than never,’ Maxwell cried. ‘Help yourself to wine, Le Gautier; and make all due apologies for not turning up to dinner.’

‘I will do so,’ the new-comer said languidly. ‘I was detained out of town.—No; you need not ask if a pair of bright eyes were the lodestars to my ardent soul, for I shall not tell you; and in the second place, I have been obtaining your permit as a Brother of the League. I offered up myself on the shrine of friendship; I lost my dinner, _voilà tout_;’ and saying these words, he put a narrow slip of parchment in Maxwell’s hands.

‘I suppose I had better take care of this?’ the Englishman answered carelessly. ‘I got so exasperated with Salvarini, that I came near pitching the sacred moidore out of the window. I presume, it would not be wise?’

‘Not if you have any respect for a sound body,’ Le Gautier returned dryly. ‘I gather that Luigi has been talking largely about the sacredness of the mission. Well, he is young yet, and the gilt of his enthusiasm does not yet show the nickel beneath, which reminds me. Did my ears deceive me, or were we going to hear a story?’

‘It is no story,’ the Italian replied, ‘merely a little family record, to show you how even patriots are not exempt from tyranny.—You remember my brother, Visci? and his wife. He settled down, after fighting years for his country, not many miles from here. Living with him was his wife’s father, an aged man, universally beloved—a being who had not a single enemy in the world. Well, time went on, till one day, without the slightest warning, the old fellow was arrested for compliance in some so-called plot. My brother’s wife clung round her father’s neck; and there, in my brother’s sight, he saw his wife stricken brutally down by the ruffianly soldiers—dead; dead, mind—her only crime that little act of affection—killed by order of the officer in charge. But revenge followed. Paulo shot three of the scoundrels dead, and left the officer, as he thought, dying. Since then, I have never heard of Paulo.—And now, do you wonder why I am a Socialist, with my hand against all authority and order, when it is backed up by such cowardly, unprovoked oppression as this?’

For a time the listeners remained silent, watching the twinkling stars as they peeped out one by one, nothing to be seen now of each but the glowing tip of his cigarette as the blue smoke drifted from the casement.

‘You do not think that your brother and Paulo Lucci, the celebrated brigand we hear so much of, are the same men?’ Visci asked at length. ‘People have said so, you understand.’

‘I have heard such a tale,’ Salvarini replied sardonically. ‘The affair created quite a stir in the province at the time; but the peasants do me too much homage in connecting my name with so famous a character. Our Italian imagination does not rest at trifles.’

‘Pleasant for the officer who ordered them to strike down your brother’s wife,’ Le Gautier drawled, as he emitted a delicate curl of smoke from his nostrils. ‘Did you ever hear the name of the fellow?’

‘Curiously enough, his name is the same as yours, though I cannot be sure, as it is five years ago now. He was a Frenchman, likewise.’

‘Moral—let all Le Gautiers keep out of Paulo Lucci’s way,’ Maxwell exclaimed, rising to his feet. ‘We do not pay you the compliment of believing you are the same man; but these brigands are apt to strike first and inquire after. Of course, this is always presuming Salvarini’s brother and Paulo Lucci are one.—I am going as far as the Villa Salvarino. Who says ay to that proposal?—The ayes have it.’

They rose to their feet with one accord, and after changing their coats for something more respectable, trooped down the stairs.

‘You will not forget about Friday?’ Visci reminded. ‘I shall ask Sir Geoffrey and his daughter to come. We are going down to my little place on that day.—Will you make one, Le Gautier?’

‘A thousand thanks, my dear Visci,’ the Frenchman exclaimed; ‘but much as I should like it, the thing is impossible. I am literally overwhelmed in the most important work.’

A general laugh followed this solemn assertion.

‘I am sorry,’ Visci returned politely. ‘You have never been there. I do not think you have ever seen my sister?’

‘Never,’ Le Gautier replied with an inexplicable smile. ‘It is a pleasure to come.’

AN ATLANTIC VOYAGE—AS IT WAS AND AS IT IS.

When Samuel Johnson said, ‘A ship is a prison with a chance of being drowned,’ he in that aphorism gave expression to the opinion generally entertained by landsmen in his day. In fact, the discomforts, and even privations, which sea-travelling then involved were such that very few persons were willing to expose themselves to them, save when compelled by imperative circumstances to do so.

When I crossed the Atlantic in 1841, for the first time, the condition of things had, in the three-quarters of a century which had elapsed since Johnson’s time, measurably improved; but the _désagrémens_ to which passengers were even then subjected were numerous. No regular steam communication between Great Britain and the United States was in existence. The _Sirius_ and the _Great Western_ had indeed crossed the ocean in 1838, and the latter vessel had continued her trips at irregular intervals. But for some little time subsequently, no other steamer attempted to follow her example, the Cunard line not having been established until 1842.

At the period of which I speak, the sailing packets which ran between London and New York, and between Liverpool and that port, were ships of five to six hundred tons burden. The staterooms—as the little cabins ranged on either side of the saloon were termed—were below the sea-level. They were incommodious, dark, and ill ventilated. In fact, the only light they enjoyed was that furnished by small pieces of ground glass inserted in the deck overhead, and from the fan-lights in the doors opening to the saloon, and this was so poor, that the occupants of the staterooms could not even dress themselves without making use of a lamp. The sole ventilation of them was that afforded by the removal of the saloon skylights, which, of course, could only be done in fine weather. The consequence was that the closeness of the atmosphere in the staterooms was at all times most unpleasant; whilst the smell of the bilge-water was so offensive as to create nausea, independent of that arising from the motion of the vessel. In winter, on the other hand, the cold was frequently severe. There was, it is true, a stove in the saloon, but the heat from it scarcely made itself appreciably felt in the side-cabins.

In other matters there was the same absence of provision for the comfort of the passengers. The fresh water required for drinking and cooking purposes was carried in casks; and when the ship had a full cargo, many of these were placed on deck, with the result that their contents were sometimes impregnated with salt water from the waves shipped in heavy weather. At all times, the water was most unpalatable, it being muddy, and filled with various impurities from the old worm-eaten barrels in which it was kept. Not only was the water bad, but the supply occasionally proved inadequate; and when the voyage was an unusually long one, the necessity would arise of placing the passengers upon short allowance.

There was always a cow on board; but there was no other milk to be had than what she supplied, no way of preserving it having then been discovered. Canned fruit and vegetables were equally unknown. There was commonly a fair provision of mutton and pork, live sheep and pigs being carried; but of other fresh meat and of fish, the stock was generally exhausted by the time the vessel had been a few days at sea, refrigerators at that period not having been invented.

But the arrangements on board these ships were defective in much more important matters than in not providing a good table for the passengers. The boats—even when they were seaworthy, which frequently was not the case—were so few in number that, in the event of shipwreck, there was no possibility of their holding more than a third of the souls on board. The longboat, indeed, was practically useless in an emergency, as it was almost invariably filled up with sheds for the accommodation for the cow, sheep, and pigs; and it would have been several hours’ work to clear the boat and launch her.

The law did not then render it compulsory for every vessel crossing the Atlantic to carry a surgeon, and the owners of the various lines of American packets would not incur the expense of providing one. The consequence was that, if an accident occurred or there was serious illness on board, no medical assistance was available. When I was returning to Europe in the _Mediator_ in 1842, a sailor fell from one of the yards, badly fracturing his right leg. The commander of the vessel was a Yankee—that is, a native of one of the New England States—and he had the ingenuity and readiness of resource which are characteristic of the people of that section of the Union. He so admirably set the injured limb with splints, that, when the ship arrived at London and the man was taken to Bartholomew Hospital, the officials of that institution highly complimented Captain Morgan upon the workmanlike manner in which he had performed the operation. The fact, however, remains, that but for the purely fortuitous circumstance of the commander of the vessel having been able to deal with the case, the result of there being no surgeon on board must have been that the injured man would either have died, or been a cripple for life.

If the cabin passengers had good cause to complain that neither their safety nor their comfort was sufficiently studied, the condition of the steerage passengers was infinitely worse. Men, women, and children were huddled like sheep in the quarters assigned them, no separation of the sexes being attempted. The berths, which ran on either side of the vessel, were not inclosed, and were without curtains. The women were compelled to dress and undress before the eyes of the male passengers, and exposed to their coarse remarks and scurrilous jests. Indeed, the moral downfall of many a poor girl was to be attributed to her feelings of decency and modesty having been blunted by her painful experiences during the voyage.

The steerage passengers were required to both supply and cook their own provisions. There was commonly a fierce struggle for a place at the galley fire, in which the sick and feeble necessarily went to the wall; and sometimes several days would pass without any warm food being obtained by those who were most in need of it. Again, when there was a storm, or even when the ship experienced heavy weather, the hatches were closed, rendering the atmosphere of the steerage almost stifling. In fact, the condition and treatment of this class of passengers were simply abominable, and such as to reflect deep discredit upon the government for allowing so many years to elapse ere any attempt was made to deal with the evil.

Now, all is changed. The steamers which at the present day cross the Atlantic are vessels ranging from four to seven thousand tons burden; and the arrangements on board of them are excellent in all respects. Besides the lifeboats—which are numerous, large, and built on the most approved models—there are rafts which, in case of necessity, can be got ready and launched in a few minutes. In the event, too, of a fire breaking out in any part of the ship, the appliances for extinguishing it are of the most thorough character. In fact, the provision made for the safety of the passengers would be all that could be desired if every ship carried a sufficient number of boats to accommodate, in case of disaster, _every_ passenger, even when her complement was full. Note the late disaster to the _Oregon_.

The comfort of the travelling public is now carefully studied. The cabins for the first-class passengers are placed amidships, where the motion of the vessel is least felt, instead of, as formerly, at the stern. The staterooms are commodious, handsomely furnished, thoroughly ventilated, and heated by steam. The saloon, which is spacious and well lighted, contains a piano, a small library, bagatelle tables, chess, &c., for the use of the passengers. There are also smoking and reading rooms and bathrooms, supplied with hot as well as cold water. The table is so luxuriantly spread that there is scarcely a delicacy which can be obtained in the best hotels in London, found lacking on board these steamers. The supply of fresh water—furnished by condensers—is practically unlimited; whilst that which is required for drinking purposes is in summer cooled with ice, of which a large stock is provided. A surgeon is invariably carried, the law rendering it obligatory to do so; and his services are at the disposal of any of the passengers who needs them without the payment of any fee.

Nor have the steerage passengers failed to participate in the altered condition of things. Instead of their being crowded together in the badly ventilated and unhealthy quarters assigned to them, as was formerly the case, it is now compulsory for a fixed cubic space to be allotted to each individual. Not only, too, are the berths inclosed—which is greatly conducive to the preservation of decency—but the single women occupy a separate compartment, in the charge of a matron. But one of the greatest improvements which has taken place in the condition of occupants of the steerage has been effected by the Act, passed a few years ago, requiring cooked provisions being found by the owners of the ship; and although the passage-money is necessarily higher than it was under the old system, this drawback is more than compensated by the comfort which results from the present arrangement.

In conclusion, I may say that, indulging in a retrospect upon my experiences for the last forty years—during which period I have crossed the Atlantic ten times—I have been forcibly struck by the contrast the peril, tedium, and inconveniences then attendant upon an Atlantic voyage afford to the safety, rapidity, and comfort with which it is now accomplished.

IN ALL SHADES.