In [1]:
pattern = "DG4 DB24 DG2 K24 DG24 R4"
colors = {"DG" : [0,100,0],"DB" : [28,0,112],"K" : [16,16,16],"R" : [200,0,0]}
In [2]:
import numpy as np
In [3]:
n = 300
In [4]:
dg4 = np.zeros((n,4,3))
db24 = np.zeros((n,24,3))
dg2 = np.zeros((n,2,3))
k24 = np.zeros((n,24,3))
dg24 = np.zeros((n,24,3))
r4 = np.zeros((n,4,3))
In [5]:
dg4[:,:,1] = 100
db24[:,:,0] = 28
db24[:,:,2] = 112
dg2[:,:,1] = 100
k24[:,:,:] = 16
dg24[:,:,1] = 100
r4[:,:,0] = 200
In [6]:
import matplotlib.pyplot as plt
In [7]:
plt.imshow(db24/255)
plt.show()
In [8]:
vert = np.concatenate([dg4,db24,dg2,k24,dg24,r4],axis = 1)
vert = np.concatenate([vert]*(n//vert.shape[1]+1),axis = 1)[:,:n,:]/255
In [9]:
plt.imshow(vert)
plt.show()
In [10]:
horiz = np.transpose(vert,axes=(1,0,2))
plt.imshow(horiz)
plt.show()
In [11]:
basket = np.zeros((100,100,3))
for i in range(100):
for j in range(100):
if (i+j)%2 == 0:
basket[i,j,:] = horiz[i,j,:]
else:
basket[i,j,:] = vert[i,j,:]
plt.imshow(basket)
plt.show()
In [12]:
tartan = np.zeros((n,n,3))
for i in range(n):
for j in range(n):
if (i-j+1)%4 < 2:
tartan[i,j,:] = horiz[i,j,:]
else:
tartan[i,j,:] = vert[i,j,:]
plt.imshow(tartan)
plt.show()
Strings¶
In [13]:
pattern.split()
Out[13]:
['DG4', 'DB24', 'DG2', 'K24', 'DG24', 'R4']
In [14]:
for color_code in pattern.split():
print(color_code)
DG4 DB24 DG2 K24 DG24 R4
In [15]:
pwd
Out[15]:
'C:\\Users\\Richard\\OneDrive - University at Buffalo\\Teaching\\MTH 337\\2024 - Spring\\Notes'
In [16]:
ls
Volume in drive C is Windows-SSD
Volume Serial Number is 2650-5481
Directory of C:\Users\Richard\OneDrive - University at Buffalo\Teaching\MTH 337\2024 - Spring\Notes
04/15/2024 10:05 AM <DIR> .
04/15/2024 09:59 AM <DIR> ..
04/10/2024 10:04 AM <DIR> .ipynb_checkpoints
11/16/2023 03:09 PM 397 0.png
10/26/2023 02:13 PM 971,584 darwin.txt
04/20/2022 08:51 AM 517 sample.txt
10/24/2023 02:53 PM 517 sample2.txt
12/07/2023 03:30 PM 169 sudoku.txt
11/30/2023 03:10 PM 978 sudokus.txt
04/15/2024 09:24 AM 51,737 week10_in_class.ipynb
04/15/2024 10:05 AM 361,049 week11-12_in_class.ipynb
02/07/2024 12:30 PM 11,548 week2_notes.ipynb
02/14/2024 12:53 PM 117,505 week3_notes.ipynb
02/21/2024 11:28 AM 46,118 week4_notes.ipynb
03/04/2024 10:30 AM 191,226 week5_notes.ipynb
03/04/2024 11:38 AM 2,067 week6_notes.ipynb
03/25/2024 11:29 AM 137,412 week7_notes.ipynb
04/09/2024 12:20 PM 16,661 week9_in_class.ipynb
15 File(s) 1,909,485 bytes
3 Dir(s) 324,398,452,736 bytes free
In [17]:
f = open('sample.txt')
In [18]:
text = f.read()
In [19]:
f.close()
In [20]:
print(text)
April 20, 2022 This is a sample text file. We will use this file as an example of text files, and what we can do with text in Python. We will open this file in Jupyter and read the contents using Python commands. We print this file line by line in and copy the contents onto a new file. Finally, we will analyze the words in this file and use Python to generate a list of the 10 most common words used. It is my hope that this will give you a good start for the "Computing with Text" project. Good luck!
In [21]:
text
Out[21]:
'April 20, 2022\n\nThis is a sample text file. We will use this file as an example of text files, and what we can do with text in Python.\nWe will open this file in Jupyter and read the contents using Python commands. We print this file line by line in\nand copy the contents onto a new file. Finally, we will analyze the words in this file and use Python to generate a\nlist of the 10 most common words used. It is my hope that this will give you a good start for the "Computing with Text"\nproject.\n\nGood luck!'
In [22]:
text.split()
Out[22]:
['April', '20,', '2022', 'This', 'is', 'a', 'sample', 'text', 'file.', 'We', 'will', 'use', 'this', 'file', 'as', 'an', 'example', 'of', 'text', 'files,', 'and', 'what', 'we', 'can', 'do', 'with', 'text', 'in', 'Python.', 'We', 'will', 'open', 'this', 'file', 'in', 'Jupyter', 'and', 'read', 'the', 'contents', 'using', 'Python', 'commands.', 'We', 'print', 'this', 'file', 'line', 'by', 'line', 'in', 'and', 'copy', 'the', 'contents', 'onto', 'a', 'new', 'file.', 'Finally,', 'we', 'will', 'analyze', 'the', 'words', 'in', 'this', 'file', 'and', 'use', 'Python', 'to', 'generate', 'a', 'list', 'of', 'the', '10', 'most', 'common', 'words', 'used.', 'It', 'is', 'my', 'hope', 'that', 'this', 'will', 'give', 'you', 'a', 'good', 'start', 'for', 'the', '"Computing', 'with', 'Text"', 'project.', 'Good', 'luck!']
In [23]:
with open('sample.txt') as f:
text = f.read()
text = text.upper()
print(text)
APRIL 20, 2022 THIS IS A SAMPLE TEXT FILE. WE WILL USE THIS FILE AS AN EXAMPLE OF TEXT FILES, AND WHAT WE CAN DO WITH TEXT IN PYTHON. WE WILL OPEN THIS FILE IN JUPYTER AND READ THE CONTENTS USING PYTHON COMMANDS. WE PRINT THIS FILE LINE BY LINE IN AND COPY THE CONTENTS ONTO A NEW FILE. FINALLY, WE WILL ANALYZE THE WORDS IN THIS FILE AND USE PYTHON TO GENERATE A LIST OF THE 10 MOST COMMON WORDS USED. IT IS MY HOPE THAT THIS WILL GIVE YOU A GOOD START FOR THE "COMPUTING WITH TEXT" PROJECT. GOOD LUCK!
In [26]:
with open('sample1.txt','w') as f:
f.write(text)
Exercise: Write a function that takes a file name as input and counts the words in the file.
In [ ]:
Exercise: Write a function that takes a file name as input and returns a list of all the words in the file (without repeats).
In [ ]:
In [31]:
"This is a string.".split()
Out[31]:
['This', 'is', 'a', 'string.']
In [32]:
"This is a string.".upper()
Out[32]:
'THIS IS A STRING.'
In [33]:
"This is a string.".lower()
Out[33]:
'this is a string.'
In [37]:
",This is a string. Another sentence...".strip('.,!?')
Out[37]:
'This is a string. Another sentence'
In [29]:
with open('darwin.txt',encoding='utf-8') as f:
darwin = f.read()
In [38]:
darwin.find('On\nthe Origin of Species\n\nBY MEANS OF NATURAL SELECTION')
Out[38]:
1207
In [40]:
darwin.find('\n\n\n\n\n\n \n *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK')
Out[40]:
934752
In [41]:
darwin[1207:934752]
Out[41]:
'On\nthe Origin of Species\n\nBY MEANS OF NATURAL SELECTION,\n\nOR THE\nPRESERVATION OF FAVOURED RACES IN THE STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.\n\nBy Charles Darwin, M.A.,\n\nFellow Of The Royal, Geological, Linnæan, Etc., Societies;\nAuthor Of ‘Journal Of Researches During H.M.S. Beagle’s Voyage\nRound The World.’\n\nLONDON:\nJOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET.\n1859.\n\n“But with regard to the material world, we can at least go so far as\nthis—we can perceive that events are brought about not by insulated\ninterpositions of Divine power, exerted in each particular case, but by the\nestablishment of general laws.”\n\nW. WHEWELL: _Bridgewater Treatise_.\n\n“To conclude, therefore, let no man out of a weak conceit of sobriety, or\nan ill-applied moderation, think or maintain, that a man can search too far or\nbe too well studied in the book of God’s word, or in the book of\nGod’s works; divinity or philosophy; but rather let men endeavour an\nendless progress or proficience in both.”\n\nBACON: _Advancement of Learning_.\n\n_Down, Bromley, Kent,\n October_, 1_st_, 1859.\n\n\nContents\n\n INTRODUCTION.\n 1. VARIATION UNDER DOMESTICATION.\n 2. VARIATION UNDER NATURE.\n 3. STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE.\n 4. NATURAL SELECTION.\n 5. LAWS OF VARIATION.\n 6. DIFFICULTIES ON THEORY.\n 7. INSTINCT.\n 8. HYBRIDISM.\n 9. ON THE IMPERFECTION OF THE GEOLOGICAL RECORD.\n 10. ON THE GEOLOGICAL SUCCESSION OF ORGANIC BEINGS.\n 11. GEOGRAPHICAL DISTRIBUTION.\n 12. GEOGRAPHICAL DISTRIBUTION—_continued_.\n 13. MUTUAL AFFINITIES OF ORGANIC BEINGS: MORPHOLOGY:\n 14. RECAPITULATION AND CONCLUSION.\n INDEX\n\nDETEAILED CONTENTS. ON THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES.\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. VARIATION UNDER DOMESTICATION.\n\n Causes of Variability.\n Effects of Habit.\n Correlation of Growth.\n Inheritance.\n Character of Domestic Varieties.\n Difficulty of distinguishing between Varieties and Species.\n Origin of Domestic Varieties from one or more Species.\n Domestic Pigeons, their Differences and Origin.\n Principle of Selection anciently followed, its Effects.\n Methodical and Unconscious Selection.\n Unknown Origin of our Domestic Productions.\n Circumstances favourable to Man’s power of Selection.\n\nCHAPTER 2. VARIATION UNDER NATURE.\n\n Variability.\n Individual Differences.\n Doubtful species.\n Wide ranging, much diffused, and common species vary most.\n Species of the larger genera in any country vary more than the\n species of the smaller genera.\n Many of the species of the larger genera resemble varieties in being\n very closely, but unequally, related to each other, and in having\n restricted ranges.\n\nCHAPTER 3. STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE.\n\n Bears on natural selection.\n The term used in a wide sense.\n Geometrical powers of increase.\n Rapid increase of naturalised animals and plants.\n Nature of the checks to increase.\n Competition universal.\n Effects of climate.\n Protection from the number of individuals.\n Complex relations of all animals and plants throughout nature.\n Struggle for life most severe between individuals and varieties of\n the same species; often severe between species of the same genus.\n The relation of organism to organism the most important of all\n relations.\n\nCHAPTER 4. NATURAL SELECTION.\n\n Natural Selection: its power compared with man’s selection, its power\n on characters of trifling importance, its power at all ages and on\n both sexes.\n Sexual Selection.\n On the generality of intercrosses between individuals of the same\n species.\n Circumstances favourable and unfavourable to Natural Selection,\n namely, intercrossing, isolation, number of individuals.\n Slow action.\n Extinction caused by Natural Selection.\n Divergence of Character, related to the diversity of inhabitants of\n any small area, and to naturalisation.\n Action of Natural Selection, through Divergence of Character and\n Extinction, on the descendants from a common parent.\n Explains the Grouping of all organic beings.\n\nCHAPTER 5. LAWS OF VARIATION.\n\n Effects of external conditions.\n Use and disuse, combined with natural selection; organs of flight and\n of vision.\n Acclimatisation.\n Correlation of growth.\n Compensation and economy of growth.\n False correlations.\n Multiple, rudimentary, and lowly organised structures variable.\n Parts developed in an unusual manner are highly variable: specific\n characters more variable than generic: secondary sexual characters\n variable.\n Species of the same genus vary in an analogous manner.\n Reversions to long-lost characters.\n Summary.\n\nCHAPTER 6. DIFFICULTIES ON THEORY.\n\n Difficulties on the theory of descent with modification.\n Transitions.\n Absence or rarity of transitional varieties.\n Transitions in habits of life.\n Diversified habits in the same species.\n Species with habits widely different from those of their allies.\n Organs of extreme perfection.\n Means of transition.\n Cases of difficulty.\n Natura non facit saltum.\n Organs of small importance.\n Organs not in all cases absolutely perfect.\n The law of Unity of Type and of the Conditions of Existence embraced\n by the theory of Natural Selection.\n\nCHAPTER 7. INSTINCT.\n\n Instincts comparable with habits, but different in their origin.\n Instincts graduated.\n Aphides and ants.\n Instincts variable.\n Domestic instincts, their origin.\n Natural instincts of the cuckoo, ostrich, and parasitic bees.\n Slave-making ants.\n Hive-bee, its cell-making instinct.\n Difficulties on the theory of the Natural Selection of instincts.\n Neuter or sterile insects.\n Summary.\n\nCHAPTER 8. HYBRIDISM.\n\n Distinction between the sterility of first crosses and of hybrids.\n Sterility various in degree, not universal, affected by close\n interbreeding, removed by domestication.\n Laws governing the sterility of hybrids.\n Sterility not a special endowment, but incidental on other\n differences.\n Causes of the sterility of first crosses and of hybrids.\n Parallelism between the effects of changed conditions of life and\n crossing.\n Fertility of varieties when crossed and of their mongrel offspring\n not universal.\n Hybrids and mongrels compared independently of their fertility.\n Summary.\n\nCHAPTER 9. ON THE IMPERFECTION OF THE GEOLOGICAL RECORD.\n\n On the absence of intermediate varieties at the present day.\n On the nature of extinct intermediate varieties; on their number.\n On the vast lapse of time, as inferred from the rate of deposition\n and of denudation.\n On the poorness of our palæontological collections.\n On the intermittence of geological formations.\n On the absence of intermediate varieties in any one formation.\n On the sudden appearance of groups of species.\n On their sudden appearance in the lowest known fossiliferous strata.\n\nCHAPTER 10. ON THE GEOLOGICAL SUCCESSION OF ORGANIC BEINGS.\n\n On the slow and successive appearance of new species.\n On their different rates of change.\n Species once lost do not reappear.\n Groups of species follow the same general rules in their appearance\n and disappearance as do single species.\n On Extinction.\n On simultaneous changes in the forms of life throughout the world.\n On the affinities of extinct species to each other and to living\n species.\n On the state of development of ancient forms.\n On the succession of the same types within the same areas.\n Summary of preceding and present chapters.\n\nCHAPTER 11. GEOGRAPHICAL DISTRIBUTION.\n\n Present distribution cannot be accounted for by differences in\n physical conditions.\n Importance of barriers.\n Affinity of the productions of the same continent.\n Centres of creation.\n Means of dispersal, by changes of climate and of the level of the\n land, and by occasional means.\n Dispersal during the Glacial period co-extensive with the world.\n\nCHAPTER 12. GEOGRAPHICAL DISTRIBUTION—_continued_.\n\n Distribution of fresh-water productions.\n On the inhabitants of oceanic islands.\n Absence of Batrachians and of terrestrial Mammals.\n On the relation of the inhabitants of islands to those of the nearest\n mainland.\n On colonisation from the nearest source with subsequent modification.\n Summary of the last and present chapters.\n\nCHAPTER 13. MUTUAL AFFINITIES OF ORGANIC BEINGS: MORPHOLOGY:\nEMBRYOLOGY: RUDIMENTARY ORGANS.\n\n CLASSIFICATION, groups subordinate to groups.\n Natural system.\n Rules and difficulties in classification, explained on the theory of\n descent with modification.\n Classification of varieties.\n Descent always used in classification.\n Analogical or adaptive characters.\n Affinities, general, complex and radiating.\n Extinction separates and defines groups.\n MORPHOLOGY, between members of the same class, between parts of the\n same individual.\n EMBRYOLOGY, laws of, explained by variations not supervening at an\n early age, and being inherited at a corresponding age.\n RUDIMENTARY ORGANS; their origin explained.\n Summary.\n\nCHAPTER 14. RECAPITULATION AND CONCLUSION.\n\n Recapitulation of the difficulties on the theory of Natural\n Selection.\n Recapitulation of the general and special circumstances in its\n favour.\n Causes of the general belief in the immutability of species.\n How far the theory of natural selection may be extended.\n Effects of its adoption on the study of Natural history.\n Concluding remarks.\n\nON THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES.\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nWhen on board H.M.S. ‘Beagle,’ as naturalist, I was much struck with\ncertain facts in the distribution of the inhabitants of South America,\nand in the geological relations of the present to the past inhabitants\nof that continent. These facts seemed to me to throw some light on the\norigin of species—that mystery of mysteries, as it has been called by\none of our greatest philosophers. On my return home, it occurred to me,\nin 1837, that something might perhaps be made out on this question by\npatiently accumulating and reflecting on all sorts of facts which could\npossibly have any bearing on it. After five years’ work I allowed\nmyself to speculate on the subject, and drew up some short notes; these\nI enlarged in 1844 into a sketch of the conclusions, which then seemed\nto me probable: from that period to the present day I have steadily\npursued the same object. I hope that I may be excused for entering on\nthese personal details, as I give them to show that I have not been\nhasty in coming to a decision.\n\nMy work is now nearly finished; but as it will take me two or three\nmore years to complete it, and as my health is far from strong, I have\nbeen urged to publish this Abstract. I have more especially been\ninduced to do this, as Mr. Wallace, who is now studying the\nnatural history of the Malay archipelago, has arrived at almost exactly\nthe same general conclusions that I have on the origin of species. Last\nyear he sent to me a memoir on this subject, with a request that I\nwould forward it to Sir Charles Lyell, who sent it to the Linnean\nSociety, and it is published in the third volume of the Journal of that\nSociety. Sir C. Lyell and Dr. Hooker, who both knew of my work—the\nlatter having read my sketch of 1844—honoured me by thinking it\nadvisable to publish, with Mr. Wallace’s excellent memoir, some brief\nextracts from my manuscripts.\n\nThis Abstract, which I now publish, must necessarily be imperfect. I\ncannot here give references and authorities for my several statements;\nand I must trust to the reader reposing some confidence in my accuracy.\nNo doubt errors will have crept in, though I hope I have always been\ncautious in trusting to good authorities alone. I can here give only\nthe general conclusions at which I have arrived, with a few facts in\nillustration, but which, I hope, in most cases will suffice. No one can\nfeel more sensible than I do of the necessity of hereafter publishing\nin detail all the facts, with references, on which my conclusions have\nbeen grounded; and I hope in a future work to do this. For I am well\naware that scarcely a single point is discussed in this volume on which\nfacts cannot be adduced, often apparently leading to conclusions\ndirectly opposite to those at which I have arrived. A fair result can\nbe obtained only by fully stating and balancing the facts and arguments\non both sides of each question; and this cannot possibly be here done.\n\nI much regret that want of space prevents my having the satisfaction of\nacknowledging the generous assistance which I have received from very\nmany naturalists, some of them personally unknown to me. I cannot,\nhowever,\nlet this opportunity pass without expressing my deep obligations to Dr.\nHooker, who for the last fifteen years has aided me in every possible\nway by his large stores of knowledge and his excellent judgment.\n\nIn considering the Origin of Species, it is quite conceivable that a\nnaturalist, reflecting on the mutual affinities of organic beings, on\ntheir embryological relations, their geographical distribution,\ngeological succession, and other such facts, might come to the\nconclusion that each species had not been independently created, but\nhad descended, like varieties, from other species. Nevertheless, such a\nconclusion, even if well founded, would be unsatisfactory, until it\ncould be shown how the innumerable species inhabiting this world have\nbeen modified, so as to acquire that perfection of structure and\ncoadaptation which most justly excites our admiration. Naturalists\ncontinually refer to external conditions, such as climate, food, etc.,\nas the only possible cause of variation. In one very limited sense, as\nwe shall hereafter see, this may be true; but it is preposterous to\nattribute to mere external conditions, the structure, for instance, of\nthe woodpecker, with its feet, tail, beak, and tongue, so admirably\nadapted to catch insects under the bark of trees. In the case of the\nmisseltoe, which draws its nourishment from certain trees, which has\nseeds that must be transported by certain birds, and which has flowers\nwith separate sexes absolutely requiring the agency of certain insects\nto bring pollen from one flower to the other, it is equally\npreposterous to account for the structure of this parasite, with its\nrelations to several distinct organic beings, by the effects of\nexternal conditions, or of habit, or of the volition of the plant\nitself.\n\nThe author of the ‘Vestiges of Creation’ would, I presume, say that,\nafter a certain unknown number of\ngenerations, some bird had given birth to a woodpecker, and some plant\nto the misseltoe, and that these had been produced perfect as we now\nsee them; but this assumption seems to me to be no explanation, for it\nleaves the case of the coadaptations of organic beings to each other\nand to their physical conditions of life, untouched and unexplained.\n\nIt is, therefore, of the highest importance to gain a clear insight\ninto the means of modification and coadaptation. At the commencement of\nmy observations it seemed to me probable that a careful study of\ndomesticated animals and of cultivated plants would offer the best\nchance of making out this obscure problem. Nor have I been\ndisappointed; in this and in all other perplexing cases I have\ninvariably found that our knowledge, imperfect though it be, of\nvariation under domestication, afforded the best and safest clue. I may\nventure to express my conviction of the high value of such studies,\nalthough they have been very commonly neglected by naturalists.\n\nFrom these considerations, I shall devote the first chapter of this\nAbstract to Variation under Domestication. We shall thus see that a\nlarge amount of hereditary modification is at least possible, and, what\nis equally or more important, we shall see how great is the power of\nman in accumulating by his Selection successive slight variations. I\nwill then pass on to the variability of species in a state of nature;\nbut I shall, unfortunately, be compelled to treat this subject far too\nbriefly, as it can be treated properly only by giving long catalogues\nof facts. We shall, however, be enabled to discuss what circumstances\nare most favourable to variation. In the next chapter the Struggle for\nExistence amongst all organic beings throughout the world, which\ninevitably follows from their high geometrical powers of\nincrease, will be treated of. This is the doctrine of Malthus, applied\nto the whole animal and vegetable kingdoms. As many more individuals of\neach species are born than can possibly survive; and as, consequently,\nthere is a frequently recurring struggle for existence, it follows that\nany being, if it vary however slightly in any manner profitable to\nitself, under the complex and sometimes varying conditions of life,\nwill have a better chance of surviving, and thus be _naturally\nselected_. From the strong principle of inheritance, any selected\nvariety will tend to propagate its new and modified form.\n\nThis fundamental subject of Natural Selection will be treated at some\nlength in the fourth chapter; and we shall then see how Natural\nSelection almost inevitably causes much Extinction of the less improved\nforms of life and induces what I have called Divergence of Character.\nIn the next chapter I shall discuss the complex and little known laws\nof variation and of correlation of growth. In the four succeeding\nchapters, the most apparent and gravest difficulties on the theory will\nbe given: namely, first, the difficulties of transitions, or in\nunderstanding how a simple being or a simple organ can be changed and\nperfected into a highly developed being or elaborately constructed\norgan; secondly the subject of Instinct, or the mental powers of\nanimals, thirdly, Hybridism, or the infertility of species and the\nfertility of varieties when intercrossed; and fourthly, the\nimperfection of the Geological Record. In the next chapter I shall\nconsider the geological succession of organic beings throughout time;\nin the eleventh and twelfth, their geographical distribution throughout\nspace; in the thirteenth, their classification or mutual affinities,\nboth when mature and in an embryonic condition. In the last chapter I\nshall give a\nbrief recapitulation of the whole work, and a few concluding remarks.\n\nNo one ought to feel surprise at much remaining as yet unexplained in\nregard to the origin of species and varieties, if he makes due\nallowance for our profound ignorance in regard to the mutual relations\nof all the beings which live around us. Who can explain why one species\nranges widely and is very numerous, and why another allied species has\na narrow range and is rare? Yet these relations are of the highest\nimportance, for they determine the present welfare, and, as I believe,\nthe future success and modification of every inhabitant of this world.\nStill less do we know of the mutual relations of the innumerable\ninhabitants of the world during the many past geological epochs in its\nhistory. Although much remains obscure, and will long remain obscure, I\ncan entertain no doubt, after the most deliberate study and\ndispassionate judgment of which I am capable, that the view which most\nnaturalists entertain, and which I formerly entertained—namely, that\neach species has been independently created—is erroneous. I am fully\nconvinced that species are not immutable; but that those belonging to\nwhat are called the same genera are lineal descendants of some other\nand generally extinct species, in the same manner as the acknowledged\nvarieties of any one species are the descendants of that species.\nFurthermore, I am convinced that Natural Selection has been the main\nbut not exclusive means of modification.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\nVARIATION UNDER DOMESTICATION.\n\n\nCauses of Variability. Effects of Habit. Correlation of Growth.\nInheritance. Character of Domestic Varieties. Difficulty of\ndistinguishing between Varieties and Species. Origin of Domestic\nVarieties from one or more Species. Domestic Pigeons, their Differences\nand Origin. Principle of Selection anciently followed, its Effects.\nMethodical and Unconscious Selection. Unknown Origin of our Domestic\nProductions. Circumstances favourable to Man’s power of Selection.\n\n\nWhen we look to the individuals of the same variety or sub-variety of\nour older cultivated plants and animals, one of the first points which\nstrikes us, is, that they generally differ much more from each other,\nthan do the individuals of any one species or variety in a state of\nnature. When we reflect on the vast diversity of the plants and animals\nwhich have been cultivated, and which have varied during all ages under\nthe most different climates and treatment, I think we are driven to\nconclude that this greater variability is simply due to our domestic\nproductions having been raised under conditions of life not so uniform\nas, and somewhat different from, those to which the parent-species have\nbeen exposed under nature. There is, also, I think, some probability in\nthe view propounded by Andrew Knight, that this variability may be\npartly connected with excess of food. It seems pretty clear that\norganic beings must be exposed during several generations to the new\nconditions of life to cause any appreciable amount of variation; and\nthat when the organisation has once begun to vary, it generally\ncontinues to vary for many generations.\nNo case is on record of a variable being ceasing to be variable under\ncultivation. Our oldest cultivated plants, such as wheat, still often\nyield new varieties: our oldest domesticated animals are still capable\nof rapid improvement or modification.\n\nIt has been disputed at what period of life the causes of variability,\nwhatever they may be, generally act; whether during the early or late\nperiod of development of the embryo, or at the instant of conception.\nGeoffroy St. Hilaire’s experiments show that unnatural treatment of the\nembryo causes monstrosities; and monstrosities cannot be separated by\nany clear line of distinction from mere variations. But I am strongly\ninclined to suspect that the most frequent cause of variability may be\nattributed to the male and female reproductive elements having been\naffected prior to the act of conception. Several reasons make me\nbelieve in this; but the chief one is the remarkable effect which\nconfinement or cultivation has on the functions of the reproductive\nsystem; this system appearing to be far more susceptible than any other\npart of the organisation, to the action of any change in the conditions\nof life. Nothing is more easy than to tame an animal, and few things\nmore difficult than to get it to breed freely under confinement, even\nin the many cases when the male and female unite. How many animals\nthere are which will not breed, though living long under not very close\nconfinement in their native country! This is generally attributed to\nvitiated instincts; but how many cultivated plants display the utmost\nvigour, and yet rarely or never seed! In some few such cases it has\nbeen found out that very trifling changes, such as a little more or\nless water at some particular period of growth, will determine whether\nor not the plant sets a seed. I cannot here enter on the copious\ndetails which I have collected on\nthis curious subject; but to show how singular the laws are which\ndetermine the reproduction of animals under confinement, I may just\nmention that carnivorous animals, even from the tropics, breed in this\ncountry pretty freely under confinement, with the exception of the\nplantigrades or bear family; whereas, carnivorous birds, with the\nrarest exceptions, hardly ever lay fertile eggs. Many exotic plants\nhave pollen utterly worthless, in the same exact condition as in the\nmost sterile hybrids. When, on the one hand, we see domesticated\nanimals and plants, though often weak and sickly, yet breeding quite\nfreely under confinement; and when, on the other hand, we see\nindividuals, though taken young from a state of nature, perfectly\ntamed, long-lived, and healthy (of which I could give numerous\ninstances), yet having their reproductive system so seriously affected\nby unperceived causes as to fail in acting, we need not be surprised at\nthis system, when it does act under confinement, acting not quite\nregularly, and producing offspring not perfectly like their parents or\nvariable.\n\nSterility has been said to be the bane of horticulture; but on this\nview we owe variability to the same cause which produces sterility; and\nvariability is the source of all the choicest productions of the\ngarden. I may add, that as some organisms will breed most freely under\nthe most unnatural conditions (for instance, the rabbit and ferret kept\nin hutches), showing that their reproductive system has not been thus\naffected; so will some animals and plants withstand domestication or\ncultivation, and vary very slightly—perhaps hardly more than in a state\nof nature.\n\nA long list could easily be given of “sporting plants;” by this term\ngardeners mean a single bud or offset, which suddenly assumes a new and\nsometimes very different character from that of the rest of the plant.\nSuch buds can be propagated by grafting, etc., and sometimes by seed.\nThese “sports” are extremely rare under nature, but far from rare under\ncultivation; and in this case we see that the treatment of the parent\nhas affected a bud or offset, and not the ovules or pollen. But it is\nthe opinion of most physiologists that there is no essential difference\nbetween a bud and an ovule in their earliest stages of formation; so\nthat, in fact, “sports” support my view, that variability may be\nlargely attributed to the ovules or pollen, or to both, having been\naffected by the treatment of the parent prior to the act of conception.\nThese cases anyhow show that variation is not necessarily connected, as\nsome authors have supposed, with the act of generation.\n\nSeedlings from the same fruit, and the young of the same litter,\nsometimes differ considerably from each other, though both the young\nand the parents, as Müller has remarked, have apparently been exposed\nto exactly the same conditions of life; and this shows how unimportant\nthe direct effects of the conditions of life are in comparison with the\nlaws of reproduction, and of growth, and of inheritance; for had the\naction of the conditions been direct, if any of the young had varied,\nall would probably have varied in the same manner. To judge how much,\nin the case of any variation, we should attribute to the direct action\nof heat, moisture, light, food, etc., is most difficult: my impression\nis, that with animals such agencies have produced very little direct\neffect, though apparently more in the case of plants. Under this point\nof view, Mr. Buckman’s recent experiments on plants seem extremely\nvaluable. When all or nearly all the individuals exposed to certain\nconditions are affected in the same way, the change at first appears to\nbe directly due to such conditions; but in some cases it can be shown\nthat quite opposite conditions produce\nsimilar changes of structure. Nevertheless some slight amount of change\nmay, I think, be attributed to the direct action of the conditions of\nlife—as, in some cases, increased size from amount of food, colour from\nparticular kinds of food and from light, and perhaps the thickness of\nfur from climate.\n\nHabit also has a decided influence, as in the period of flowering with\nplants when transported from one climate to another. In animals it has\na more marked effect; for instance, I find in the domestic duck that\nthe bones of the wing weigh less and the bones of the leg more, in\nproportion to the whole skeleton, than do the same bones in the\nwild-duck; and I presume that this change may be safely attributed to\nthe domestic duck flying much less, and walking more, than its wild\nparent. The great and inherited development of the udders in cows and\ngoats in countries where they are habitually milked, in comparison with\nthe state of these organs in other countries, is another instance of\nthe effect of use. Not a single domestic animal can be named which has\nnot in some country drooping ears; and the view suggested by some\nauthors, that the drooping is due to the disuse of the muscles of the\near, from the animals not being much alarmed by danger, seems probable.\n\nThere are many laws regulating variation, some few of which can be\ndimly seen, and will be hereafter briefly mentioned. I will here only\nallude to what may be called correlation of growth. Any change in the\nembryo or larva will almost certainly entail changes in the mature\nanimal. In monstrosities, the correlations between quite distinct parts\nare very curious; and many instances are given in Isidore Geoffroy St.\nHilaire’s great work on this subject. Breeders believe that long limbs\nare almost always accompanied by an elongated head. Some instances of\ncorrelation are quite whimsical; thus\ncats with blue eyes are invariably deaf; colour and constitutional\npeculiarities go together, of which many remarkable cases could be\ngiven amongst animals and plants. From the facts collected by\nHeusinger, it appears that white sheep and pigs are differently\naffected from coloured individuals by certain vegetable poisons.\nHairless dogs have imperfect teeth; long-haired and coarse-haired\nanimals are apt to have, as is asserted, long or many horns; pigeons\nwith feathered feet have skin between their outer toes; pigeons with\nshort beaks have small feet, and those with long beaks large feet.\nHence, if man goes on selecting, and thus augmenting, any peculiarity,\nhe will almost certainly unconsciously modify other parts of the\nstructure, owing to the mysterious laws of the correlation of growth.\n\nThe result of the various, quite unknown, or dimly seen laws of\nvariation is infinitely complex and diversified. It is well worth while\ncarefully to study the several treatises published on some of our old\ncultivated plants, as on the hyacinth, potato, even the dahlia, etc.;\nand it is really surprising to note the endless points in structure and\nconstitution in which the varieties and sub-varieties differ slightly\nfrom each other. The whole organisation seems to have become plastic,\nand tends to depart in some small degree from that of the parental\ntype.\n\nAny variation which is not inherited is unimportant for us. But the\nnumber and diversity of inheritable deviations of structure, both those\nof slight and those of considerable physiological importance, is\nendless. Dr. Prosper Lucas’s treatise, in two large volumes, is the\nfullest and the best on this subject. No breeder doubts how strong is\nthe tendency to inheritance: like produces like is his fundamental\nbelief: doubts have been thrown on this principle by theoretical\nwriters alone. When a\ndeviation appears not unfrequently, and we see it in the father and\nchild, we cannot tell whether it may not be due to the same original\ncause acting on both; but when amongst individuals, apparently exposed\nto the same conditions, any very rare deviation, due to some\nextraordinary combination of circumstances, appears in the parent—say,\nonce amongst several million individuals—and it reappears in the child,\nthe mere doctrine of chances almost compels us to attribute its\nreappearance to inheritance. Every one must have heard of cases of\nalbinism, prickly skin, hairy bodies, etc., appearing in several\nmembers of the same family. If strange and rare deviations of structure\nare truly inherited, less strange and commoner deviations may be freely\nadmitted to be inheritable. Perhaps the correct way of viewing the\nwhole subject, would be, to look at the inheritance of every character\nwhatever as the rule, and non-inheritance as the anomaly.\n\nThe laws governing inheritance are quite unknown; no one can say why\nthe same peculiarity in different individuals of the same species, and\nin individuals of different species, is sometimes inherited and\nsometimes not so; why the child often reverts in certain characters to\nits grandfather or grandmother or other much more remote ancestor; why\na peculiarity is often transmitted from one sex to both sexes or to one\nsex alone, more commonly but not exclusively to the like sex. It is a\nfact of some little importance to us, that peculiarities appearing in\nthe males of our domestic breeds are often transmitted either\nexclusively, or in a much greater degree, to males alone. A much more\nimportant rule, which I think may be trusted, is that, at whatever\nperiod of life a peculiarity first appears, it tends to appear in the\noffspring at a corresponding age, though sometimes earlier. In many\ncases this could\nnot be otherwise: thus the inherited peculiarities in the horns of\ncattle could appear only in the offspring when nearly mature;\npeculiarities in the silkworm are known to appear at the corresponding\ncaterpillar or cocoon stage. But hereditary diseases and some other\nfacts make me believe that the rule has a wider extension, and that\nwhen there is no apparent reason why a peculiarity should appear at any\nparticular age, yet that it does tend to appear in the offspring at the\nsame period at which it first appeared in the parent. I believe this\nrule to be of the highest importance in explaining the laws of\nembryology. These remarks are of course confined to the first\n_appearance_ of the peculiarity, and not to its primary cause, which\nmay have acted on the ovules or male element; in nearly the same manner\nas in the crossed offspring from a short-horned cow by a long-horned\nbull, the greater length of horn, though appearing late in life, is\nclearly due to the male element.\n\nHaving alluded to the subject of reversion, I may here refer to a\nstatement often made by naturalists—namely, that our domestic\nvarieties, when run wild, gradually but certainly revert in character\nto their aboriginal stocks. Hence it has been argued that no deductions\ncan be drawn from domestic races to species in a state of nature. I\nhave in vain endeavoured to discover on what decisive facts the above\nstatement has so often and so boldly been made. There would be great\ndifficulty in proving its truth: we may safely conclude that very many\nof the most strongly-marked domestic varieties could not possibly live\nin a wild state. In many cases we do not know what the aboriginal stock\nwas, and so could not tell whether or not nearly perfect reversion had\nensued. It would be quite necessary, in order to prevent the effects of\nintercrossing, that only a\nsingle variety should be turned loose in its new home. Nevertheless, as\nour varieties certainly do occasionally revert in some of their\ncharacters to ancestral forms, it seems to me not improbable, that if\nwe could succeed in naturalising, or were to cultivate, during many\ngenerations, the several races, for instance, of the cabbage, in very\npoor soil (in which case, however, some effect would have to be\nattributed to the direct action of the poor soil), that they would to a\nlarge extent, or even wholly, revert to the wild aboriginal stock.\nWhether or not the experiment would succeed, is not of great importance\nfor our line of argument; for by the experiment itself the conditions\nof life are changed. If it could be shown that our domestic varieties\nmanifested a strong tendency to reversion,—that is, to lose their\nacquired characters, whilst kept under unchanged conditions, and whilst\nkept in a considerable body, so that free intercrossing might check, by\nblending together, any slight deviations of structure, in such case, I\ngrant that we could deduce nothing from domestic varieties in regard to\nspecies. But there is not a shadow of evidence in favour of this view:\nto assert that we could not breed our cart and race-horses, long and\nshort-horned cattle, and poultry of various breeds, and esculent\nvegetables, for an almost infinite number of generations, would be\nopposed to all experience. I may add, that when under nature the\nconditions of life do change, variations and reversions of character\nprobably do occur; but natural selection, as will hereafter be\nexplained, will determine how far the new characters thus arising shall\nbe preserved.\n\nWhen we look to the hereditary varieties or races of our domestic\nanimals and plants, and compare them with species closely allied\ntogether, we generally perceive in each domestic race, as already\nremarked, less uniformity of character than in true species. Domestic\nraces of\nthe same species, also, often have a somewhat monstrous character; by\nwhich I mean, that, although differing from each other, and from the\nother species of the same genus, in several trifling respects, they\noften differ in an extreme degree in some one part, both when compared\none with another, and more especially when compared with all the\nspecies in nature to which they are nearest allied. With these\nexceptions (and with that of the perfect fertility of varieties when\ncrossed,—a subject hereafter to be discussed), domestic races of the\nsame species differ from each other in the same manner as, only in most\ncases in a lesser degree than, do closely-allied species of the same\ngenus in a state of nature. I think this must be admitted, when we find\nthat there are hardly any domestic races, either amongst animals or\nplants, which have not been ranked by some competent judges as mere\nvarieties, and by other competent judges as the descendants of\naboriginally distinct species. If any marked distinction existed\nbetween domestic races and species, this source of doubt could not so\nperpetually recur. It has often been stated that domestic races do not\ndiffer from each other in characters of generic value. I think it could\nbe shown that this statement is hardly correct; but naturalists differ\nmost widely in determining what characters are of generic value; all\nsuch valuations being at present empirical. Moreover, on the view of\nthe origin of genera which I shall presently give, we have no right to\nexpect often to meet with generic differences in our domesticated\nproductions.\n\nWhen we attempt to estimate the amount of structural difference between\nthe domestic races of the same species, we are soon involved in doubt,\nfrom not knowing whether they have descended from one or several\nparent-species. This point, if it could be cleared up, would be\ninteresting; if, for instance, it could be shown that the greyhound,\nbloodhound, terrier, spaniel, and bull-dog, which we all know propagate\ntheir kind so truly, were the offspring of any single species, then\nsuch facts would have great weight in making us doubt about the\nimmutability of the many very closely allied and natural species—for\ninstance, of the many foxes—inhabiting different quarters of the world.\nI do not believe, as we shall presently see, that all our dogs have\ndescended from any one wild species; but, in the case of some other\ndomestic races, there is presumptive, or even strong, evidence in\nfavour of this view.\n\nIt has often been assumed that man has chosen for domestication animals\nand plants having an extraordinary inherent tendency to vary, and\nlikewise to withstand diverse climates. I do not dispute that these\ncapacities have added largely to the value of most of our domesticated\nproductions; but how could a savage possibly know, when he first tamed\nan animal, whether it would vary in succeeding generations, and whether\nit would endure other climates? Has the little variability of the ass\nor guinea-fowl, or the small power of endurance of warmth by the\nrein-deer, or of cold by the common camel, prevented their\ndomestication? I cannot doubt that if other animals and plants, equal\nin number to our domesticated productions, and belonging to equally\ndiverse classes and countries, were taken from a state of nature, and\ncould be made to breed for an equal number of generations under\ndomestication, they would vary on an average as largely as the parent\nspecies of our existing domesticated productions have varied.\n\nIn the case of most of our anciently domesticated animals and plants, I\ndo not think it is possible to come to any definite conclusion, whether\nthey have descended from one or several species. The argument mainly\nrelied on by those who believe in the multiple origin\nof our domestic animals is, that we find in the most ancient records,\nmore especially on the monuments of Egypt, much diversity in the\nbreeds; and that some of the breeds closely resemble, perhaps are\nidentical with, those still existing. Even if this latter fact were\nfound more strictly and generally true than seems to me to be the case,\nwhat does it show, but that some of our breeds originated there, four\nor five thousand years ago? But Mr. Horner’s researches have rendered\nit in some degree probable that man sufficiently civilized to have\nmanufactured pottery existed in the valley of the Nile thirteen or\nfourteen thousand years ago; and who will pretend to say how long\nbefore these ancient periods, savages, like those of Tierra del Fuego\nor Australia, who possess a semi-domestic dog, may not have existed in\nEgypt?\n\nThe whole subject must, I think, remain vague; nevertheless, I may,\nwithout here entering on any details, state that, from geographical and\nother considerations, I think it highly probable that our domestic dogs\nhave descended from several wild species. In regard to sheep and goats\nI can form no opinion. I should think, from facts communicated to me by\nMr. Blyth, on the habits, voice, and constitution, etc., of the humped\nIndian cattle, that these had descended from a different aboriginal\nstock from our European cattle; and several competent judges believe\nthat these latter have had more than one wild parent. With respect to\nhorses, from reasons which I cannot give here, I am doubtfully inclined\nto believe, in opposition to several authors, that all the races have\ndescended from one wild stock. Mr. Blyth, whose opinion, from his large\nand varied stores of knowledge, I should value more than that of almost\nany one, thinks that all the breeds of poultry have proceeded from the\ncommon wild\nIndian fowl (Gallus bankiva). In regard to ducks and rabbits, the\nbreeds of which differ considerably from each other in structure, I do\nnot doubt that they all have descended from the common wild duck and\nrabbit.\n\nThe doctrine of the origin of our several domestic races from several\naboriginal stocks, has been carried to an absurd extreme by some\nauthors. They believe that every race which breeds true, let the\ndistinctive characters be ever so slight, has had its wild prototype.\nAt this rate there must have existed at least a score of species of\nwild cattle, as many sheep, and several goats in Europe alone, and\nseveral even within Great Britain. One author believes that there\nformerly existed in Great Britain eleven wild species of sheep peculiar\nto it! When we bear in mind that Britain has now hardly one peculiar\nmammal, and France but few distinct from those of Germany and\nconversely, and so with Hungary, Spain, etc., but that each of these\nkingdoms possesses several peculiar breeds of cattle, sheep, etc., we\nmust admit that many domestic breeds have originated in Europe; for\nwhence could they have been derived, as these several countries do not\npossess a number of peculiar species as distinct parent-stocks? So it\nis in India. Even in the case of the domestic dogs of the whole world,\nwhich I fully admit have probably descended from several wild species,\nI cannot doubt that there has been an immense amount of inherited\nvariation. Who can believe that animals closely resembling the Italian\ngreyhound, the bloodhound, the bull-dog, or Blenheim spaniel, etc.—so\nunlike all wild Canidæ—ever existed freely in a state of nature? It has\noften been loosely said that all our races of dogs have been produced\nby the crossing of a few aboriginal species; but by crossing we can get\nonly forms in some degree intermediate between their parents; and if we\naccount for our several domestic races by this process, we must admit\nthe former existence of the most extreme forms, as the Italian\ngreyhound, bloodhound, bull-dog, etc., in the wild state. Moreover, the\npossibility of making distinct races by crossing has been greatly\nexaggerated. There can be no doubt that a race may be modified by\noccasional crosses, if aided by the careful selection of those\nindividual mongrels, which present any desired character; but that a\nrace could be obtained nearly intermediate between two extremely\ndifferent races or species, I can hardly believe. Sir J. Sebright\nexpressly experimentised for this object, and failed. The offspring\nfrom the first cross between two pure breeds is tolerably and sometimes\n(as I have found with pigeons) extremely uniform, and everything seems\nsimple enough; but when these mongrels are crossed one with another for\nseveral generations, hardly two of them will be alike, and then the\nextreme difficulty, or rather utter hopelessness, of the task becomes\napparent. Certainly, a breed intermediate between _two very distinct_\nbreeds could not be got without extreme care and long-continued\nselection; nor can I find a single case on record of a permanent race\nhaving been thus formed.\n\n_On the Breeds of the Domestic Pigeon_.—Believing that it is always\nbest to study some special group, I have, after deliberation, taken up\ndomestic pigeons. I have kept every breed which I could purchase or\nobtain, and have been most kindly favoured with skins from several\nquarters of the world, more especially by the Honourable W. Elliot from\nIndia, and by the Honourable C. Murray from Persia. Many treatises in\ndifferent languages have been published on pigeons, and some of them\nare very important, as being of considerable antiquity. I have\nassociated with several eminent fanciers, and have been permitted to\njoin two\nof the London Pigeon Clubs. The diversity of the breeds is something\nastonishing. Compare the English carrier and the short-faced tumbler,\nand see the wonderful difference in their beaks, entailing\ncorresponding differences in their skulls. The carrier, more especially\nthe male bird, is also remarkable from the wonderful development of the\ncarunculated skin about the head, and this is accompanied by greatly\nelongated eyelids, very large external orifices to the nostrils, and a\nwide gape of mouth. The short-faced tumbler has a beak in outline\nalmost like that of a finch; and the common tumbler has the singular\nand strictly inherited habit of flying at a great height in a compact\nflock, and tumbling in the air head over heels. The runt is a bird of\ngreat size, with long, massive beak and large feet; some of the\nsub-breeds of runts have very long necks, others very long wings and\ntails, others singularly short tails. The barb is allied to the\ncarrier, but, instead of a very long beak, has a very short and very\nbroad one. The pouter has a much elongated body, wings, and legs; and\nits enormously developed crop, which it glories in inflating, may well\nexcite astonishment and even laughter. The turbit has a very short and\nconical beak, with a line of reversed feathers down the breast; and it\nhas the habit of continually expanding slightly the upper part of the\noesophagus. The Jacobin has the feathers so much reversed along the\nback of the neck that they form a hood, and it has, proportionally to\nits size, much elongated wing and tail feathers. The trumpeter and\nlaugher, as their names express, utter a very different coo from the\nother breeds. The fantail has thirty or even forty tail-feathers,\ninstead of twelve or fourteen, the normal number in all members of the\ngreat pigeon family; and these feathers are kept expanded, and are\ncarried so erect that in good birds the head and tail\ntouch; the oil-gland is quite aborted. Several other less distinct\nbreeds might have been specified.\n\nIn the skeletons of the several breeds, the development of the bones of\nthe face in length and breadth and curvature differs enormously. The\nshape, as well as the breadth and length of the ramus of the lower jaw,\nvaries in a highly remarkable manner. The number of the caudal and\nsacral vertebræ vary; as does the number of the ribs, together with\ntheir relative breadth and the presence of processes. The size and\nshape of the apertures in the sternum are highly variable; so is the\ndegree of divergence and relative size of the two arms of the furcula.\nThe proportional width of the gape of mouth, the proportional length of\nthe eyelids, of the orifice of the nostrils, of the tongue (not always\nin strict correlation with the length of beak), the size of the crop\nand of the upper part of the oesophagus; the development and abortion\nof the oil-gland; the number of the primary wing and caudal feathers;\nthe relative length of wing and tail to each other and to the body; the\nrelative length of leg and of the feet; the number of scutellæ on the\ntoes, the development of skin between the toes, are all points of\nstructure which are variable. The period at which the perfect plumage\nis acquired varies, as does the state of the down with which the\nnestling birds are clothed when hatched. The shape and size of the eggs\nvary. The manner of flight differs remarkably; as does in some breeds\nthe voice and disposition. Lastly, in certain breeds, the males and\nfemales have come to differ to a slight degree from each other.\n\nAltogether at least a score of pigeons might be chosen, which if shown\nto an ornithologist, and he were told that they were wild birds, would\ncertainly, I think, be ranked by him as well-defined species. Moreover,\nI do not believe that any ornithologist would place touch; the\noil-gland is quite aborted. Several other less distinct breeds might\nhave been specified.\nthe English carrier, the short-faced tumbler, the runt, the barb,\npouter, and fantail in the same genus; more especially as in each of\nthese breeds several truly-inherited sub-breeds, or species as he might\nhave called them, could be shown him.\n\nGreat as the differences are between the breeds of pigeons, I am fully\nconvinced that the common opinion of naturalists is correct, namely,\nthat all have descended from the rock-pigeon (Columba livia), including\nunder this term several geographical races or sub-species, which differ\nfrom each other in the most trifling respects. As several of the\nreasons which have led me to this belief are in some degree applicable\nin other cases, I will here briefly give them. If the several breeds\nare not varieties, and have not proceeded from the rock-pigeon, they\nmust have descended from at least seven or eight aboriginal stocks; for\nit is impossible to make the present domestic breeds by the crossing of\nany lesser number: how, for instance, could a pouter be produced by\ncrossing two breeds unless one of the parent-stocks possessed the\ncharacteristic enormous crop? The supposed aboriginal stocks must all\nhave been rock-pigeons, that is, not breeding or willingly perching on\ntrees. But besides C. livia, with its geographical sub-species, only\ntwo or three other species of rock-pigeons are known; and these have\nnot any of the characters of the domestic breeds. Hence the supposed\naboriginal stocks must either still exist in the countries where they\nwere originally domesticated, and yet be unknown to ornithologists; and\nthis, considering their size, habits, and remarkable characters, seems\nvery improbable; or they must have become extinct in the wild state.\nBut birds breeding on precipices, and good fliers, are unlikely to be\nexterminated; and the common rock-pigeon, which has the same habits\nwith the domestic breeds, has not been exterminated\neven on several of the smaller British islets, or on the shores of the\nMediterranean. Hence the supposed extermination of so many species\nhaving similar habits with the rock-pigeon seems to me a very rash\nassumption. Moreover, the several above-named domesticated breeds have\nbeen transported to all parts of the world, and, therefore, some of\nthem must have been carried back again into their native country; but\nnot one has ever become wild or feral, though the dovecot-pigeon, which\nis the rock-pigeon in a very slightly altered state, has become feral\nin several places. Again, all recent experience shows that it is most\ndifficult to get any wild animal to breed freely under domestication;\nyet on the hypothesis of the multiple origin of our pigeons, it must be\nassumed that at least seven or eight species were so thoroughly\ndomesticated in ancient times by half-civilized man, as to be quite\nprolific under confinement.\n\nAn argument, as it seems to me, of great weight, and applicable in\nseveral other cases, is, that the above-specified breeds, though\nagreeing generally in constitution, habits, voice, colouring, and in\nmost parts of their structure, with the wild rock-pigeon, yet are\ncertainly highly abnormal in other parts of their structure: we may\nlook in vain throughout the whole great family of Columbidæ for a beak\nlike that of the English carrier, or that of the short-faced tumbler,\nor barb; for reversed feathers like those of the jacobin; for a crop\nlike that of the pouter; for tail-feathers like those of the fantail.\nHence it must be assumed not only that half-civilized man succeeded in\nthoroughly domesticating several species, but that he intentionally or\nby chance picked out extraordinarily abnormal species; and further,\nthat these very species have since all become extinct or unknown. So\nmany strange contingencies seem to me improbable in the highest degree.\n\n\nSome facts in regard to the colouring of pigeons well deserve\nconsideration. The rock-pigeon is of a slaty-blue, and has a white rump\n(the Indian sub-species, C. intermedia of Strickland, having it\nbluish); the tail has a terminal dark bar, with the bases of the outer\nfeathers externally edged with white; the wings have two black bars;\nsome semi-domestic breeds and some apparently truly wild breeds have,\nbesides the two black bars, the wings chequered with black. These\nseveral marks do not occur together in any other species of the whole\nfamily. Now, in every one of the domestic breeds, taking thoroughly\nwell-bred birds, all the above marks, even to the white edging of the\nouter tail-feathers, sometimes concur perfectly developed. Moreover,\nwhen two birds belonging to two distinct breeds are crossed, neither of\nwhich is blue or has any of the above-specified marks, the mongrel\noffspring are very apt suddenly to acquire these characters; for\ninstance, I crossed some uniformly white fantails with some uniformly\nblack barbs, and they produced mottled brown and black birds; these I\nagain crossed together, and one grandchild of the pure white fantail\nand pure black barb was of as beautiful a blue colour, with the white\nrump, double black wing-bar, and barred and white-edged tail-feathers,\nas any wild rock-pigeon! We can understand these facts, on the\nwell-known principle of reversion to ancestral characters, if all the\ndomestic breeds have descended from the rock-pigeon. But if we deny\nthis, we must make one of the two following highly improbable\nsuppositions. Either, firstly, that all the several imagined aboriginal\nstocks were coloured and marked like the rock-pigeon, although no other\nexisting species is thus coloured and marked, so that in each separate\nbreed there might be a tendency to revert to the very same colours and\nmarkings. Or, secondly,\nthat each breed, even the purest, has within a dozen or, at most,\nwithin a score of generations, been crossed by the rock-pigeon: I say\nwithin a dozen or twenty generations, for we know of no fact\ncountenancing the belief that the child ever reverts to some one\nancestor, removed by a greater number of generations. In a breed which\nhas been crossed only once with some distinct breed, the tendency to\nreversion to any character derived from such cross will naturally\nbecome less and less, as in each succeeding generation there will be\nless of the foreign blood; but when there has been no cross with a\ndistinct breed, and there is a tendency in both parents to revert to a\ncharacter, which has been lost during some former generation, this\ntendency, for all that we can see to the contrary, may be transmitted\nundiminished for an indefinite number of generations. These two\ndistinct cases are often confounded in treatises on inheritance.\n\nLastly, the hybrids or mongrels from between all the domestic breeds of\npigeons are perfectly fertile. I can state this from my own\nobservations, purposely made on the most distinct breeds. Now, it is\ndifficult, perhaps impossible, to bring forward one case of the hybrid\noffspring of two animals _clearly distinct_ being themselves perfectly\nfertile. Some authors believe that long-continued domestication\neliminates this strong tendency to sterility: from the history of the\ndog I think there is some probability in this hypothesis, if applied to\nspecies closely related together, though it is unsupported by a single\nexperiment. But to extend the hypothesis so far as to suppose that\nspecies, aboriginally as distinct as carriers, tumblers, pouters, and\nfantails now are, should yield offspring perfectly fertile, _inter se_,\nseems to me rash in the extreme.\n\nFrom these several reasons, namely, the improbability of man having\nformerly got seven or eight supposed\nspecies of pigeons to breed freely under domestication; these supposed\nspecies being quite unknown in a wild state, and their becoming nowhere\nferal; these species having very abnormal characters in certain\nrespects, as compared with all other Columbidæ, though so like in most\nother respects to the rock-pigeon; the blue colour and various marks\noccasionally appearing in all the breeds, both when kept pure and when\ncrossed; the mongrel offspring being perfectly fertile;—from these\nseveral reasons, taken together, I can feel no doubt that all our\ndomestic breeds have descended from the Columba livia with its\ngeographical sub-species.\n\nIn favour of this view, I may add, firstly, that C. livia, or the\nrock-pigeon, has been found capable of domestication in Europe and in\nIndia; and that it agrees in habits and in a great number of points of\nstructure with all the domestic breeds. Secondly, although an English\ncarrier or short-faced tumbler differs immensely in certain characters\nfrom the rock-pigeon, yet by comparing the several sub-breeds of these\nbreeds, more especially those brought from distant countries, we can\nmake an almost perfect series between the extremes of structure.\nThirdly, those characters which are mainly distinctive of each breed,\nfor instance the wattle and length of beak of the carrier, the\nshortness of that of the tumbler, and the number of tail-feathers in\nthe fantail, are in each breed eminently variable; and the explanation\nof this fact will be obvious when we come to treat of selection.\nFourthly, pigeons have been watched, and tended with the utmost care,\nand loved by many people. They have been domesticated for thousands of\nyears in several quarters of the world; the earliest known record of\npigeons is in the fifth Aegyptian dynasty, about 3000 B.C., as was\npointed out to me by Professor Lepsius; but Mr. Birch informs me that\npigeons are given in a bill\nof fare in the previous dynasty. In the time of the Romans, as we hear\nfrom Pliny, immense prices were given for pigeons; “nay, they are come\nto this pass, that they can reckon up their pedigree and race.” Pigeons\nwere much valued by Akber Khan in India, about the year 1600; never\nless than 20,000 pigeons were taken with the court. “The monarchs of\nIran and Turan sent him some very rare birds;” and, continues the\ncourtly historian, “His Majesty by crossing the breeds, which method\nwas never practised before, has improved them astonishingly.” About\nthis same period the Dutch were as eager about pigeons as were the old\nRomans. The paramount importance of these considerations in explaining\nthe immense amount of variation which pigeons have undergone, will be\nobvious when we treat of Selection. We shall then, also, see how it is\nthat the breeds so often have a somewhat monstrous character. It is\nalso a most favourable circumstance for the production of distinct\nbreeds, that male and female pigeons can be easily mated for life; and\nthus different breeds can be kept together in the same aviary.\n\nI have discussed the probable origin of domestic pigeons at some, yet\nquite insufficient, length; because when I first kept pigeons and\nwatched the several kinds, knowing well how true they bred, I felt\nfully as much difficulty in believing that they could ever have\ndescended from a common parent, as any naturalist could in coming to a\nsimilar conclusion in regard to the many species of finches, or other\nlarge groups of birds, in nature. One circumstance has struck me much;\nnamely, that all the breeders of the various domestic animals and the\ncultivators of plants, with whom I have ever conversed, or whose\ntreatises I have read, are firmly convinced that the several breeds to\nwhich each has attended, are descended from so many aboriginally\ndistinct species.\nAsk, as I have asked, a celebrated raiser of Hereford cattle, whether\nhis cattle might not have descended from long horns, and he will laugh\nyou to scorn. I have never met a pigeon, or poultry, or duck, or rabbit\nfancier, who was not fully convinced that each main breed was descended\nfrom a distinct species. Van Mons, in his treatise on pears and apples,\nshows how utterly he disbelieves that the several sorts, for instance a\nRibston-pippin or Codlin-apple, could ever have proceeded from the\nseeds of the same tree. Innumerable other examples could be given. The\nexplanation, I think, is simple: from long-continued study they are\nstrongly impressed with the differences between the several races; and\nthough they well know that each race varies slightly, for they win\ntheir prizes by selecting such slight differences, yet they ignore all\ngeneral arguments, and refuse to sum up in their minds slight\ndifferences accumulated during many successive generations. May not\nthose naturalists who, knowing far less of the laws of inheritance than\ndoes the breeder, and knowing no more than he does of the intermediate\nlinks in the long lines of descent, yet admit that many of our domestic\nraces have descended from the same parents—may they not learn a lesson\nof caution, when they deride the idea of species in a state of nature\nbeing lineal descendants of other species?\n\n_Selection_.—Let us now briefly consider the steps by which domestic\nraces have been produced, either from one or from several allied\nspecies. Some little effect may, perhaps, be attributed to the direct\naction of the external conditions of life, and some little to habit;\nbut he would be a bold man who would account by such agencies for the\ndifferences of a dray and race horse, a greyhound and bloodhound, a\ncarrier and tumbler pigeon. One of the most remarkable features in our\ndomesticated races\nis that we see in them adaptation, not indeed to the animal’s or\nplant’s own good, but to man’s use or fancy. Some variations useful to\nhim have probably arisen suddenly, or by one step; many botanists, for\ninstance, believe that the fuller’s teazle, with its hooks, which\ncannot be rivalled by any mechanical contrivance, is only a variety of\nthe wild Dipsacus; and this amount of change may have suddenly arisen\nin a seedling. So it has probably been with the turnspit dog; and this\nis known to have been the case with the ancon sheep. But when we\ncompare the dray-horse and race-horse, the dromedary and camel, the\nvarious breeds of sheep fitted either for cultivated land or mountain\npasture, with the wool of one breed good for one purpose, and that of\nanother breed for another purpose; when we compare the many breeds of\ndogs, each good for man in very different ways; when we compare the\ngame-cock, so pertinacious in battle, with other breeds so little\nquarrelsome, with “everlasting layers” which never desire to sit, and\nwith the bantam so small and elegant; when we compare the host of\nagricultural, culinary, orchard, and flower-garden races of plants,\nmost useful to man at different seasons and for different purposes, or\nso beautiful in his eyes, we must, I think, look further than to mere\nvariability. We cannot suppose that all the breeds were suddenly\nproduced as perfect and as useful as we now see them; indeed, in\nseveral cases, we know that this has not been their history. The key is\nman’s power of accumulative selection: nature gives successive\nvariations; man adds them up in certain directions useful to him. In\nthis sense he may be said to make for himself useful breeds.\n\nThe great power of this principle of selection is not hypothetical. It\nis certain that several of our eminent breeders have, even within a\nsingle lifetime, modified to\na large extent some breeds of cattle and sheep. In order fully to\nrealise what they have done, it is almost necessary to read several of\nthe many treatises devoted to this subject, and to inspect the animals.\nBreeders habitually speak of an animal’s organisation as something\nquite plastic, which they can model almost as they please. If I had\nspace I could quote numerous passages to this effect from highly\ncompetent authorities. Youatt, who was probably better acquainted with\nthe works of agriculturalists than almost any other individual, and who\nwas himself a very good judge of an animal, speaks of the principle of\nselection as “that which enables the agriculturist, not only to modify\nthe character of his flock, but to change it altogether. It is the\nmagician’s wand, by means of which he may summon into life whatever\nform and mould he pleases.” Lord Somerville, speaking of what breeders\nhave done for sheep, says:—“It would seem as if they had chalked out\nupon a wall a form perfect in itself, and then had given it existence.”\nThat most skilful breeder, Sir John Sebright, used to say, with respect\nto pigeons, that “he would produce any given feather in three years,\nbut it would take him six years to obtain head and beak.” In Saxony the\nimportance of the principle of selection in regard to merino sheep is\nso fully recognised, that men follow it as a trade: the sheep are\nplaced on a table and are studied, like a picture by a connoisseur;\nthis is done three times at intervals of months, and the sheep are each\ntime marked and classed, so that the very best may ultimately be\nselected for breeding.\n\nWhat English breeders have actually effected is proved by the enormous\nprices given for animals with a good pedigree; and these have now been\nexported to almost every quarter of the world. The improvement is by no\nmeans generally due to crossing different breeds;\nall the best breeders are strongly opposed to this practice, except\nsometimes amongst closely allied sub-breeds. And when a cross has been\nmade, the closest selection is far more indispensable even than in\nordinary cases. If selection consisted merely in separating some very\ndistinct variety, and breeding from it, the principle would be so\nobvious as hardly to be worth notice; but its importance consists in\nthe great effect produced by the accumulation in one direction, during\nsuccessive generations, of differences absolutely inappreciable by an\nuneducated eye—differences which I for one have vainly attempted to\nappreciate. Not one man in a thousand has accuracy of eye and judgment\nsufficient to become an eminent breeder. If gifted with these\nqualities, and he studies his subject for years, and devotes his\nlifetime to it with indomitable perseverance, he will succeed, and may\nmake great improvements; if he wants any of these qualities, he will\nassuredly fail. Few would readily believe in the natural capacity and\nyears of practice requisite to become even a skilful pigeon-fancier.\n\nThe same principles are followed by horticulturists; but the variations\nare here often more abrupt. No one supposes that our choicest\nproductions have been produced by a single variation from the\naboriginal stock. We have proofs that this is not so in some cases, in\nwhich exact records have been kept; thus, to give a very trifling\ninstance, the steadily-increasing size of the common gooseberry may be\nquoted. We see an astonishing improvement in many florists’ flowers,\nwhen the flowers of the present day are compared with drawings made\nonly twenty or thirty years ago. When a race of plants is once pretty\nwell established, the seed-raisers do not pick out the best plants, but\nmerely go over their seed-beds, and pull up the “rogues,” as they call\nthe plants that deviate from the proper standard. With animals this\nkind of selection is, in fact, also followed; for hardly any one is so\ncareless as to allow his worst animals to breed.\n\nIn regard to plants, there is another means of observing the\naccumulated effects of selection—namely, by comparing the diversity of\nflowers in the different varieties of the same species in the\nflower-garden; the diversity of leaves, pods, or tubers, or whatever\npart is valued, in the kitchen-garden, in comparison with the flowers\nof the same varieties; and the diversity of fruit of the same species\nin the orchard, in comparison with the leaves and flowers of the same\nset of varieties. See how different the leaves of the cabbage are, and\nhow extremely alike the flowers; how unlike the flowers of the\nheartsease are, and how alike the leaves; how much the fruit of the\ndifferent kinds of gooseberries differ in size, colour, shape, and\nhairiness, and yet the flowers present very slight differences. It is\nnot that the varieties which differ largely in some one point do not\ndiffer at all in other points; this is hardly ever, perhaps never, the\ncase. The laws of correlation of growth, the importance of which should\nnever be overlooked, will ensure some differences; but, as a general\nrule, I cannot doubt that the continued selection of slight variations,\neither in the leaves, the flowers, or the fruit, will produce races\ndiffering from each other chiefly in these characters.\n\nIt may be objected that the principle of selection has been reduced to\nmethodical practice for scarcely more than three-quarters of a century;\nit has certainly been more attended to of late years, and many\ntreatises have been published on the subject; and the result, I may\nadd, has been, in a corresponding degree, rapid and important. But it\nis very far from true that the principle is a modern discovery. I could\ngive several references to the full acknowledgment of the importance of\nthe principle in works of high antiquity. In rude and\nbarbarous periods of English history choice animals were often\nimported, and laws were passed to prevent their exportation: the\ndestruction of horses under a certain size was ordered, and this may be\ncompared to the “roguing” of plants by nurserymen. The principle of\nselection I find distinctly given in an ancient Chinese encyclopædia.\nExplicit rules are laid down by some of the Roman classical writers.\nFrom passages in Genesis, it is clear that the colour of domestic\nanimals was at that early period attended to. Savages now sometimes\ncross their dogs with wild canine animals, to improve the breed, and\nthey formerly did so, as is attested by passages in Pliny. The savages\nin South Africa match their draught cattle by colour, as do some of the\nEsquimaux their teams of dogs. Livingstone shows how much good domestic\nbreeds are valued by the negroes of the interior of Africa who have not\nassociated with Europeans. Some of these facts do not show actual\nselection, but they show that the breeding of domestic animals was\ncarefully attended to in ancient times, and is now attended to by the\nlowest savages. It would, indeed, have been a strange fact, had\nattention not been paid to breeding, for the inheritance of good and\nbad qualities is so obvious.\n\nAt the present time, eminent breeders try by methodical selection, with\na distinct object in view, to make a new strain or sub-breed, superior\nto anything existing in the country. But, for our purpose, a kind of\nSelection, which may be called Unconscious, and which results from\nevery one trying to possess and breed from the best individual animals,\nis more important. Thus, a man who intends keeping pointers naturally\ntries to get as good dogs as he can, and afterwards breeds from his own\nbest dogs, but he has no wish or expectation of permanently altering\nthe breed. Nevertheless I cannot\ndoubt that this process, continued during centuries, would improve and\nmodify any breed, in the same way as Bakewell, Collins, etc., by this\nvery same process, only carried on more methodically, did greatly\nmodify, even during their own lifetimes, the forms and qualities of\ntheir cattle. Slow and insensible changes of this kind could never be\nrecognised unless actual measurements or careful drawings of the breeds\nin question had been made long ago, which might serve for comparison.\nIn some cases, however, unchanged or but little changed individuals of\nthe same breed may be found in less civilised districts, where the\nbreed has been less improved. There is reason to believe that King\nCharles’s spaniel has been unconsciously modified to a large extent\nsince the time of that monarch. Some highly competent authorities are\nconvinced that the setter is directly derived from the spaniel, and has\nprobably been slowly altered from it. It is known that the English\npointer has been greatly changed within the last century, and in this\ncase the change has, it is believed, been chiefly effected by crosses\nwith the fox-hound; but what concerns us is, that the change has been\neffected unconsciously and gradually, and yet so effectually, that,\nthough the old Spanish pointer certainly came from Spain, Mr. Borrow\nhas not seen, as I am informed by him, any native dog in Spain like our\npointer.\n\nBy a similar process of selection, and by careful training, the whole\nbody of English racehorses have come to surpass in fleetness and size\nthe parent Arab stock, so that the latter, by the regulations for the\nGoodwood Races, are favoured in the weights they carry. Lord Spencer\nand others have shown how the cattle of England have increased in\nweight and in early maturity, compared with the stock formerly kept in\nthis country. By comparing the accounts given in old pigeon treatises\nof carriers\nand tumblers with these breeds as now existing in Britain, India, and\nPersia, we can, I think, clearly trace the stages through which they\nhave insensibly passed, and come to differ so greatly from the\nrock-pigeon.\n\nYouatt gives an excellent illustration of the effects of a course of\nselection, which may be considered as unconsciously followed, in so far\nthat the breeders could never have expected or even have wished to have\nproduced the result which ensued—namely, the production of two distinct\nstrains. The two flocks of Leicester sheep kept by Mr. Buckley and Mr.\nBurgess, as Mr. Youatt remarks, “have been purely bred from the\noriginal stock of Mr. Bakewell for upwards of fifty years. There is not\na suspicion existing in the mind of any one at all acquainted with the\nsubject that the owner of either of them has deviated in any one\ninstance from the pure blood of Mr. Bakewell’s flock, and yet the\ndifference between the sheep possessed by these two gentlemen is so\ngreat that they have the appearance of being quite different\nvarieties.”\n\nIf there exist savages so barbarous as never to think of the inherited\ncharacter of the offspring of their domestic animals, yet any one\nanimal particularly useful to them, for any special purpose, would be\ncarefully preserved during famines and other accidents, to which\nsavages are so liable, and such choice animals would thus generally\nleave more offspring than the inferior ones; so that in this case there\nwould be a kind of unconscious selection going on. We see the value set\non animals even by the barbarians of Tierra del Fuego, by their killing\nand devouring their old women, in times of dearth, as of less value\nthan their dogs.\n\nIn plants the same gradual process of improvement, through the\noccasional preservation of the best individuals, whether or not\nsufficiently distinct to be ranked\nat their first appearance as distinct varieties, and whether or not two\nor more species or races have become blended together by crossing, may\nplainly be recognised in the increased size and beauty which we now see\nin the varieties of the heartsease, rose, pelargonium, dahlia, and\nother plants, when compared with the older varieties or with their\nparent-stocks. No one would ever expect to get a first-rate heartsease\nor dahlia from the seed of a wild plant. No one would expect to raise a\nfirst-rate melting pear from the seed of a wild pear, though he might\nsucceed from a poor seedling growing wild, if it had come from a\ngarden-stock. The pear, though cultivated in classical times, appears,\nfrom Pliny’s description, to have been a fruit of very inferior\nquality. I have seen great surprise expressed in horticultural works at\nthe wonderful skill of gardeners, in having produced such splendid\nresults from such poor materials; but the art, I cannot doubt, has been\nsimple, and, as far as the final result is concerned, has been followed\nalmost unconsciously. It has consisted in always cultivating the best\nknown variety, sowing its seeds, and, when a slightly better variety\nhas chanced to appear, selecting it, and so onwards. But the gardeners\nof the classical period, who cultivated the best pear they could\nprocure, never thought what splendid fruit we should eat; though we owe\nour excellent fruit, in some small degree, to their having naturally\nchosen and preserved the best varieties they could anywhere find.\n\nA large amount of change in our cultivated plants, thus slowly and\nunconsciously accumulated, explains, as I believe, the well-known fact,\nthat in a vast number of cases we cannot recognise, and therefore do\nnot know, the wild parent-stocks of the plants which have been longest\ncultivated in our flower and kitchen gardens. If it has taken centuries\nor thousands of years to improve\nor modify most of our plants up to their present standard of usefulness\nto man, we can understand how it is that neither Australia, the Cape of\nGood Hope, nor any other region inhabited by quite uncivilised man, has\nafforded us a single plant worth culture. It is not that these\ncountries, so rich in species, do not by a strange chance possess the\naboriginal stocks of any useful plants, but that the native plants have\nnot been improved by continued selection up to a standard of perfection\ncomparable with that given to the plants in countries anciently\ncivilised.\n\nIn regard to the domestic animals kept by uncivilised man, it should\nnot be overlooked that they almost always have to struggle for their\nown food, at least during certain seasons. And in two countries very\ndifferently circumstanced, individuals of the same species, having\nslightly different constitutions or structure, would often succeed\nbetter in the one country than in the other, and thus by a process of\n“natural selection,” as will hereafter be more fully explained, two\nsub-breeds might be formed. This, perhaps, partly explains what has\nbeen remarked by some authors, namely, that the varieties kept by\nsavages have more of the character of species than the varieties kept\nin civilised countries.\n\nOn the view here given of the all-important part which selection by man\nhas played, it becomes at once obvious, how it is that our domestic\nraces show adaptation in their structure or in their habits to man’s\nwants or fancies. We can, I think, further understand the frequently\nabnormal character of our domestic races, and likewise their\ndifferences being so great in external characters and relatively so\nslight in internal parts or organs. Man can hardly select, or only with\nmuch difficulty, any deviation of structure excepting such as is\nexternally visible; and indeed he rarely cares for what is internal. He\ncan never act by selection, excepting on variations\nwhich are first given to him in some slight degree by nature. No man\nwould ever try to make a fantail, till he saw a pigeon with a tail\ndeveloped in some slight degree in an unusual manner, or a pouter till\nhe saw a pigeon with a crop of somewhat unusual size; and the more\nabnormal or unusual any character was when it first appeared, the more\nlikely it would be to catch his attention. But to use such an\nexpression as trying to make a fantail, is, I have no doubt, in most\ncases, utterly incorrect. The man who first selected a pigeon with a\nslightly larger tail, never dreamed what the descendants of that pigeon\nwould become through long-continued, partly unconscious and partly\nmethodical selection. Perhaps the parent bird of all fantails had only\nfourteen tail-feathers somewhat expanded, like the present Java\nfantail, or like individuals of other and distinct breeds, in which as\nmany as seventeen tail-feathers have been counted. Perhaps the first\npouter-pigeon did not inflate its crop much more than the turbit now\ndoes the upper part of its oesophagus,—a habit which is disregarded by\nall fanciers, as it is not one of the points of the breed.\n\nNor let it be thought that some great deviation of structure would be\nnecessary to catch the fancier’s eye: he perceives extremely small\ndifferences, and it is in human nature to value any novelty, however\nslight, in one’s own possession. Nor must the value which would\nformerly be set on any slight differences in the individuals of the\nsame species, be judged of by the value which would now be set on them,\nafter several breeds have once fairly been established. Many slight\ndifferences might, and indeed do now, arise amongst pigeons, which are\nrejected as faults or deviations from the standard of perfection of\neach breed. The common goose has not given rise to any marked\nvarieties; hence the Thoulouse and the common breed, which differ only\nin colour, that\nmost fleeting of characters, have lately been exhibited as distinct at\nour poultry-shows.\n\nI think these views further explain what has sometimes been\nnoticed—namely that we know nothing about the origin or history of any\nof our domestic breeds. But, in fact, a breed, like a dialect of a\nlanguage, can hardly be said to have had a definite origin. A man\npreserves and breeds from an individual with some slight deviation of\nstructure, or takes more care than usual in matching his best animals\nand thus improves them, and the improved individuals slowly spread in\nthe immediate neighbourhood. But as yet they will hardly have a\ndistinct name, and from being only slightly valued, their history will\nbe disregarded. When further improved by the same slow and gradual\nprocess, they will spread more widely, and will get recognised as\nsomething distinct and valuable, and will then probably first receive a\nprovincial name. In semi-civilised countries, with little free\ncommunication, the spreading and knowledge of any new sub-breed will be\na slow process. As soon as the points of value of the new sub-breed are\nonce fully acknowledged, the principle, as I have called it, of\nunconscious selection will always tend,—perhaps more at one period than\nat another, as the breed rises or falls in fashion,—perhaps more in one\ndistrict than in another, according to the state of civilisation of the\ninhabitants—slowly to add to the characteristic features of the breed,\nwhatever they may be. But the chance will be infinitely small of any\nrecord having been preserved of such slow, varying, and insensible\nchanges.\n\nI must now say a few words on the circumstances, favourable, or the\nreverse, to man’s power of selection. A high degree of variability is\nobviously favourable, as freely giving the materials for selection to\nwork on; not that mere individual differences are not amply\nsufficient, with extreme care, to allow of the accumulation of a large\namount of modification in almost any desired direction. But as\nvariations manifestly useful or pleasing to man appear only\noccasionally, the chance of their appearance will be much increased by\na large number of individuals being kept; and hence this comes to be of\nthe highest importance to success. On this principle Marshall has\nremarked, with respect to the sheep of parts of Yorkshire, that “as\nthey generally belong to poor people, and are mostly _in small lots_,\nthey never can be improved.” On the other hand, nurserymen, from\nraising large stocks of the same plants, are generally far more\nsuccessful than amateurs in getting new and valuable varieties. The\nkeeping of a large number of individuals of a species in any country\nrequires that the species should be placed under favourable conditions\nof life, so as to breed freely in that country. When the individuals of\nany species are scanty, all the individuals, whatever their quality may\nbe, will generally be allowed to breed, and this will effectually\nprevent selection. But probably the most important point of all, is,\nthat the animal or plant should be so highly useful to man, or so much\nvalued by him, that the closest attention should be paid to even the\nslightest deviation in the qualities or structure of each individual.\nUnless such attention be paid nothing can be effected. I have seen it\ngravely remarked, that it was most fortunate that the strawberry began\nto vary just when gardeners began to attend closely to this plant. No\ndoubt the strawberry had always varied since it was cultivated, but the\nslight varieties had been neglected. As soon, however, as gardeners\npicked out individual plants with slightly larger, earlier, or better\nfruit, and raised seedlings from them, and again picked out the best\nseedlings and bred from them, then, there appeared (aided by some\ncrossing with distinct species) those many admirable varieties of the\nstrawberry which have been raised during the last thirty or forty\nyears.\n\nIn the case of animals with separate sexes, facility in preventing\ncrosses is an important element of success in the formation of new\nraces,—at least, in a country which is already stocked with other\nraces. In this respect enclosure of the land plays a part. Wandering\nsavages or the inhabitants of open plains rarely possess more than one\nbreed of the same species. Pigeons can be mated for life, and this is a\ngreat convenience to the fancier, for thus many races may be kept true,\nthough mingled in the same aviary; and this circumstance must have\nlargely favoured the improvement and formation of new breeds. Pigeons,\nI may add, can be propagated in great numbers and at a very quick rate,\nand inferior birds may be freely rejected, as when killed they serve\nfor food. On the other hand, cats, from their nocturnal rambling\nhabits, cannot be matched, and, although so much valued by women and\nchildren, we hardly ever see a distinct breed kept up; such breeds as\nwe do sometimes see are almost always imported from some other country,\noften from islands. Although I do not doubt that some domestic animals\nvary less than others, yet the rarity or absence of distinct breeds of\nthe cat, the donkey, peacock, goose, etc., may be attributed in main\npart to selection not having been brought into play: in cats, from the\ndifficulty in pairing them; in donkeys, from only a few being kept by\npoor people, and little attention paid to their breeding; in peacocks,\nfrom not being very easily reared and a large stock not kept; in geese,\nfrom being valuable only for two purposes, food and feathers, and more\nespecially from no pleasure having been felt in the display of distinct\nbreeds.\n\n\nTo sum up on the origin of our Domestic Races of animals and plants. I\nbelieve that the conditions of life, from their action on the\nreproductive system, are so far of the highest importance as causing\nvariability. I do not believe that variability is an inherent and\nnecessary contingency, under all circumstances, with all organic\nbeings, as some authors have thought. The effects of variability are\nmodified by various degrees of inheritance and of reversion.\nVariability is governed by many unknown laws, more especially by that\nof correlation of growth. Something may be attributed to the direct\naction of the conditions of life. Something must be attributed to use\nand disuse. The final result is thus rendered infinitely complex. In\nsome cases, I do not doubt that the intercrossing of species,\naboriginally distinct, has played an important part in the origin of\nour domestic productions. When in any country several domestic breeds\nhave once been established, their occasional intercrossing, with the\naid of selection, has, no doubt, largely aided in the formation of new\nsub-breeds; but the importance of the crossing of varieties has, I\nbelieve, been greatly exaggerated, both in regard to animals and to\nthose plants which are propagated by seed. In plants which are\ntemporarily propagated by cuttings, buds, etc., the importance of the\ncrossing both of distinct species and of varieties is immense; for the\ncultivator here quite disregards the extreme variability both of\nhybrids and mongrels, and the frequent sterility of hybrids; but the\ncases of plants not propagated by seed are of little importance to us,\nfor their endurance is only temporary. Over all these causes of Change\nI am convinced that the accumulative action of Selection, whether\napplied methodically and more quickly, or unconsciously and more\nslowly, but more efficiently, is by far the predominant Power.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\nVARIATION UNDER NATURE.\n\n\nVariability. Individual differences. Doubtful species. Wide ranging,\nmuch diffused, and common species vary most. Species of the larger\ngenera in any country vary more than the species of the smaller genera.\nMany of the species of the larger genera resemble varieties in being\nvery closely, but unequally, related to each other, and in having\nrestricted ranges.\n\nBefore applying the principles arrived at in the last chapter to\norganic beings in a state of nature, we must briefly discuss whether\nthese latter are subject to any variation. To treat this subject at all\nproperly, a long catalogue of dry facts should be given; but these I\nshall reserve for my future work. Nor shall I here discuss the various\ndefinitions which have been given of the term species. No one\ndefinition has as yet satisfied all naturalists; yet every naturalist\nknows vaguely what he means when he speaks of a species. Generally the\nterm includes the unknown element of a distinct act of creation. The\nterm “variety” is almost equally difficult to define; but here\ncommunity of descent is almost universally implied, though it can\nrarely be proved. We have also what are called monstrosities; but they\ngraduate into varieties. By a monstrosity I presume is meant some\nconsiderable deviation of structure in one part, either injurious to or\nnot useful to the species, and not generally propagated. Some authors\nuse the term “variation” in a technical sense, as implying a\nmodification directly due to the physical conditions of life; and\n“variations” in this sense are supposed not to be inherited: but who\ncan say that the dwarfed condition of shells in the brackish waters of\nthe Baltic, or dwarfed plants on Alpine summits, or the thicker fur of\nan animal from far northwards, would not in some cases be inherited for\nat least some few generations? and in this case I presume that the form\nwould be called a variety.\n\nAgain, we have many slight differences which may be called individual\ndifferences, such as are known frequently to appear in the offspring\nfrom the same parents, or which may be presumed to have thus arisen,\nfrom being frequently observed in the individuals of the same species\ninhabiting the same confined locality. No one supposes that all the\nindividuals of the same species are cast in the very same mould. These\nindividual differences are highly important for us, as they afford\nmaterials for natural selection to accumulate, in the same manner as\nman can accumulate in any given direction individual differences in his\ndomesticated productions. These individual differences generally affect\nwhat naturalists consider unimportant parts; but I could show by a long\ncatalogue of facts, that parts which must be called important, whether\nviewed under a physiological or classificatory point of view, sometimes\nvary in the individuals of the same species. I am convinced that the\nmost experienced naturalist would be surprised at the number of the\ncases of variability, even in important parts of structure, which he\ncould collect on good authority, as I have collected, during a course\nof years. It should be remembered that systematists are far from\npleased at finding variability in important characters, and that there\nare not many men who will laboriously examine internal and important\norgans, and compare them in many specimens of the same species. I\nshould never have expected that the branching of the main nerves close\nto the great central ganglion of an insect would have been variable in\nthe same species; I should have expected that changes of this nature\ncould have been effected only by slow degrees: yet quite recently Mr.\nLubbock has shown a degree of variability in these main nerves in\nCoccus, which may almost be compared to the irregular branching of the\nstem of a tree. This philosophical naturalist, I may add, has also\nquite recently shown that the muscles in the larvæ of certain insects\nare very far from uniform. Authors sometimes argue in a circle when\nthey state that important organs never vary; for these same authors\npractically rank that character as important (as some few naturalists\nhave honestly confessed) which does not vary; and, under this point of\nview, no instance of an important part varying will ever be found: but\nunder any other point of view many instances assuredly can be given.\n\nThere is one point connected with individual differences, which seems\nto me extremely perplexing: I refer to those genera which have\nsometimes been called “protean” or “polymorphic,” in which the species\npresent an inordinate amount of variation; and hardly two naturalists\ncan agree which forms to rank as species and which as varieties. We may\ninstance Rubus, Rosa, and Hieracium amongst plants, several genera of\ninsects, and several genera of Brachiopod shells. In most polymorphic\ngenera some of the species have fixed and definite characters. Genera\nwhich are polymorphic in one country seem to be, with some few\nexceptions, polymorphic in other countries, and likewise, judging from\nBrachiopod shells, at former periods of time. These facts seem to be\nvery perplexing, for they seem to show that this kind of variability is\nindependent of the conditions of life. I am inclined to suspect that we\nsee in these polymorphic genera variations in points of structure which\nare of no service or disservice to the species, and which consequently\nhave not been seized on and rendered definite by natural selection, as\nhereafter will be explained.\n\n\nThose forms which possess in some considerable degree the character of\nspecies, but which are so closely similar to some other forms, or are\nso closely linked to them by intermediate gradations, that naturalists\ndo not like to rank them as distinct species, are in several respects\nthe most important for us. We have every reason to believe that many of\nthese doubtful and closely-allied forms have permanently retained their\ncharacters in their own country for a long time; for as long, as far as\nwe know, as have good and true species. Practically, when a naturalist\ncan unite two forms together by others having intermediate characters,\nhe treats the one as a variety of the other, ranking the most common,\nbut sometimes the one first described, as the species, and the other as\nthe variety. But cases of great difficulty, which I will not here\nenumerate, sometimes occur in deciding whether or not to rank one form\nas a variety of another, even when they are closely connected by\nintermediate links; nor will the commonly-assumed hybrid nature of the\nintermediate links always remove the difficulty. In very many cases,\nhowever, one form is ranked as a variety of another, not because the\nintermediate links have actually been found, but because analogy leads\nthe observer to suppose either that they do now somewhere exist, or may\nformerly have existed; and here a wide door for the entry of doubt and\nconjecture is opened.\n\nHence, in determining whether a form should be ranked as a species or a\nvariety, the opinion of naturalists having sound judgment and wide\nexperience seems the only guide to follow. We must, however, in many\ncases, decide by a majority of naturalists, for few well-marked and\nwell-known varieties can be named which have not been ranked as species\nby at least some competent judges.\n\n\nThat varieties of this doubtful nature are far from uncommon cannot be\ndisputed. Compare the several floras of Great Britain, of France or of\nthe United States, drawn up by different botanists, and see what a\nsurprising number of forms have been ranked by one botanist as good\nspecies, and by another as mere varieties. Mr. H. C. Watson, to whom I\nlie under deep obligation for assistance of all kinds, has marked for\nme 182 British plants, which are generally considered as varieties, but\nwhich have all been ranked by botanists as species; and in making this\nlist he has omitted many trifling varieties, but which nevertheless\nhave been ranked by some botanists as species, and he has entirely\nomitted several highly polymorphic genera. Under genera, including the\nmost polymorphic forms, Mr. Babington gives 251 species, whereas Mr.\nBentham gives only 112,—a difference of 139 doubtful forms! Amongst\nanimals which unite for each birth, and which are highly locomotive,\ndoubtful forms, ranked by one zoologist as a species and by another as\na variety, can rarely be found within the same country, but are common\nin separated areas. How many of those birds and insects in North\nAmerica and Europe, which differ very slightly from each other, have\nbeen ranked by one eminent naturalist as undoubted species, and by\nanother as varieties, or, as they are often called, as geographical\nraces! Many years ago, when comparing, and seeing others compare, the\nbirds from the separate islands of the Galapagos Archipelago, both one\nwith another, and with those from the American mainland, I was much\nstruck how entirely vague and arbitrary is the distinction between\nspecies and varieties. On the islets of the little Madeira group there\nare many insects which are characterized as varieties in Mr.\nWollaston’s admirable work, but which it cannot\nbe doubted would be ranked as distinct species by many entomologists.\nEven Ireland has a few animals, now generally regarded as varieties,\nbut which have been ranked as species by some zoologists. Several most\nexperienced ornithologists consider our British red grouse as only a\nstrongly-marked race of a Norwegian species, whereas the greater number\nrank it as an undoubted species peculiar to Great Britain. A wide\ndistance between the homes of two doubtful forms leads many naturalists\nto rank both as distinct species; but what distance, it has been well\nasked, will suffice? if that between America and Europe is ample, will\nthat between the Continent and the Azores, or Madeira, or the Canaries,\nor Ireland, be sufficient? It must be admitted that many forms,\nconsidered by highly-competent judges as varieties, have so perfectly\nthe character of species that they are ranked by other highly-competent\njudges as good and true species. But to discuss whether they are\nrightly called species or varieties, before any definition of these\nterms has been generally accepted, is vainly to beat the air.\n\nMany of the cases of strongly-marked varieties or doubtful species well\ndeserve consideration; for several interesting lines of argument, from\ngeographical distribution, analogical variation, hybridism, etc., have\nbeen brought to bear on the attempt to determine their rank. I will\nhere give only a single instance,—the well-known one of the primrose\nand cowslip, or Primula veris and elatior. These plants differ\nconsiderably in appearance; they have a different flavour and emit a\ndifferent odour; they flower at slightly different periods; they grow\nin somewhat different stations; they ascend mountains to different\nheights; they have different geographical ranges; and lastly, according\nto very numerous experiments made during several years by\nthat most careful observer Gärtner, they can be crossed only with much\ndifficulty. We could hardly wish for better evidence of the two forms\nbeing specifically distinct. On the other hand, they are united by many\nintermediate links, and it is very doubtful whether these links are\nhybrids; and there is, as it seems to me, an overwhelming amount of\nexperimental evidence, showing that they descend from common parents,\nand consequently must be ranked as varieties.\n\nClose investigation, in most cases, will bring naturalists to an\nagreement how to rank doubtful forms. Yet it must be confessed, that it\nis in the best-known countries that we find the greatest number of\nforms of doubtful value. I have been struck with the fact, that if any\nanimal or plant in a state of nature be highly useful to man, or from\nany cause closely attract his attention, varieties of it will almost\nuniversally be found recorded. These varieties, moreover, will be often\nranked by some authors as species. Look at the common oak, how closely\nit has been studied; yet a German author makes more than a dozen\nspecies out of forms, which are very generally considered as varieties;\nand in this country the highest botanical authorities and practical men\ncan be quoted to show that the sessile and pedunculated oaks are either\ngood and distinct species or mere varieties.\n\nWhen a young naturalist commences the study of a group of organisms\nquite unknown to him, he is at first much perplexed to determine what\ndifferences to consider as specific, and what as varieties; for he\nknows nothing of the amount and kind of variation to which the group is\nsubject; and this shows, at least, how very generally there is some\nvariation. But if he confine his attention to one class within one\ncountry, he will soon make up his mind how to rank most of the doubtful\nforms. His\ngeneral tendency will be to make many species, for he will become\nimpressed, just like the pigeon or poultry-fancier before alluded to,\nwith the amount of difference in the forms which he is continually\nstudying; and he has little general knowledge of analogical variation\nin other groups and in other countries, by which to correct his first\nimpressions. As he extends the range of his observations, he will meet\nwith more cases of difficulty; for he will encounter a greater number\nof closely-allied forms. But if his observations be widely extended, he\nwill in the end generally be enabled to make up his own mind which to\ncall varieties and which species; but he will succeed in this at the\nexpense of admitting much variation,—and the truth of this admission\nwill often be disputed by other naturalists. When, moreover, he comes\nto study allied forms brought from countries not now continuous, in\nwhich case he can hardly hope to find the intermediate links between\nhis doubtful forms, he will have to trust almost entirely to analogy,\nand his difficulties will rise to a climax.\n\nCertainly no clear line of demarcation has as yet been drawn between\nspecies and sub-species—that is, the forms which in the opinion of some\nnaturalists come very near to, but do not quite arrive at the rank of\nspecies; or, again, between sub-species and well-marked varieties, or\nbetween lesser varieties and individual differences. These differences\nblend into each other in an insensible series; and a series impresses\nthe mind with the idea of an actual passage.\n\nHence I look at individual differences, though of small interest to the\nsystematist, as of high importance for us, as being the first step\ntowards such slight varieties as are barely thought worth recording in\nworks on natural history. And I look at varieties which are in any\ndegree more distinct and permanent, as steps leading to more\nstrongly marked and more permanent varieties; and at these latter, as\nleading to sub-species, and to species. The passage from one stage of\ndifference to another and higher stage may be, in some cases, due\nmerely to the long-continued action of different physical conditions in\ntwo different regions; but I have not much faith in this view; and I\nattribute the passage of a variety, from a state in which it differs\nvery slightly from its parent to one in which it differs more, to the\naction of natural selection in accumulating (as will hereafter be more\nfully explained) differences of structure in certain definite\ndirections. Hence I believe a well-marked variety may be justly called\nan incipient species; but whether this belief be justifiable must be\njudged of by the general weight of the several facts and views given\nthroughout this work.\n\nIt need not be supposed that all varieties or incipient species\nnecessarily attain the rank of species. They may whilst in this\nincipient state become extinct, or they may endure as varieties for\nvery long periods, as has been shown to be the case by Mr. Wollaston\nwith the varieties of certain fossil land-shells in Madeira. If a\nvariety were to flourish so as to exceed in numbers the parent species,\nit would then rank as the species, and the species as the variety; or\nit might come to supplant and exterminate the parent species; or both\nmight co-exist, and both rank as independent species. But we shall\nhereafter have to return to this subject.\n\nFrom these remarks it will be seen that I look at the term species, as\none arbitrarily given for the sake of convenience to a set of\nindividuals closely resembling each other, and that it does not\nessentially differ from the term variety, which is given to less\ndistinct and more fluctuating forms. The term variety, again, in\ncomparison with mere individual differences, is also applied\narbitrarily, and for mere convenience sake.\n\n\nGuided by theoretical considerations, I thought that some interesting\nresults might be obtained in regard to the nature and relations of the\nspecies which vary most, by tabulating all the varieties in several\nwell-worked floras. At first this seemed a simple task; but Mr. H. C.\nWatson, to whom I am much indebted for valuable advice and assistance\non this subject, soon convinced me that there were many difficulties,\nas did subsequently Dr. Hooker, even in stronger terms. I shall reserve\nfor my future work the discussion of these difficulties, and the tables\nthemselves of the proportional numbers of the varying species. Dr.\nHooker permits me to add, that after having carefully read my\nmanuscript, and examined the tables, he thinks that the following\nstatements are fairly well established. The whole subject, however,\ntreated as it necessarily here is with much brevity, is rather\nperplexing, and allusions cannot be avoided to the “struggle for\nexistence,” “divergence of character,” and other questions, hereafter\nto be discussed.\n\nAlph. De Candolle and others have shown that plants which have very\nwide ranges generally present varieties; and this might have been\nexpected, as they become exposed to diverse physical conditions, and as\nthey come into competition (which, as we shall hereafter see, is a far\nmore important circumstance) with different sets of organic beings. But\nmy tables further show that, in any limited country, the species which\nare most common, that is abound most in individuals, and the species\nwhich are most widely diffused within their own country (and this is a\ndifferent consideration from wide range, and to a certain extent from\ncommonness), often give rise to varieties sufficiently well-marked to\nhave been recorded in botanical works. Hence it is the most\nflourishing, or, as they may be called, the dominant species,—those\nwhich range widely over the world, are the most diffused in their own\ncountry, and are the most numerous in individuals,—which oftenest\nproduce well-marked varieties, or, as I consider them, incipient\nspecies. And this, perhaps, might have been anticipated; for, as\nvarieties, in order to become in any degree permanent, necessarily have\nto struggle with the other inhabitants of the country, the species\nwhich are already dominant will be the most likely to yield offspring\nwhich, though in some slight degree modified, will still inherit those\nadvantages that enabled their parents to become dominant over their\ncompatriots.\n\nIf the plants inhabiting a country and described in any Flora be\ndivided into two equal masses, all those in the larger genera being\nplaced on one side, and all those in the smaller genera on the other\nside, a somewhat larger number of the very common and much diffused or\ndominant species will be found on the side of the larger genera. This,\nagain, might have been anticipated; for the mere fact of many species\nof the same genus inhabiting any country, shows that there is something\nin the organic or inorganic conditions of that country favourable to\nthe genus; and, consequently, we might have expected to have found in\nthe larger genera, or those including many species, a large\nproportional number of dominant species. But so many causes tend to\nobscure this result, that I am surprised that my tables show even a\nsmall majority on the side of the larger genera. I will here allude to\nonly two causes of obscurity. Fresh-water and salt-loving plants have\ngenerally very wide ranges and are much diffused, but this seems to be\nconnected with the nature of the stations inhabited by them, and has\nlittle or no relation to the size of the genera to which the species\nbelong. Again, plants low in the scale of organisation are\ngenerally much more widely diffused than plants higher in the scale;\nand here again there is no close relation to the size of the genera.\nThe cause of lowly-organised plants ranging widely will be discussed in\nour chapter on geographical distribution.\n\nFrom looking at species as only strongly-marked and well-defined\nvarieties, I was led to anticipate that the species of the larger\ngenera in each country would oftener present varieties, than the\nspecies of the smaller genera; for wherever many closely related\nspecies (_i.e._ species of the same genus) have been formed, many\nvarieties or incipient species ought, as a general rule, to be now\nforming. Where many large trees grow, we expect to find saplings. Where\nmany species of a genus have been formed through variation,\ncircumstances have been favourable for variation; and hence we might\nexpect that the circumstances would generally be still favourable to\nvariation. On the other hand, if we look at each species as a special\nact of creation, there is no apparent reason why more varieties should\noccur in a group having many species, than in one having few.\n\nTo test the truth of this anticipation I have arranged the plants of\ntwelve countries, and the coleopterous insects of two districts, into\ntwo nearly equal masses, the species of the larger genera on one side,\nand those of the smaller genera on the other side, and it has\ninvariably proved to be the case that a larger proportion of the\nspecies on the side of the larger genera present varieties, than on the\nside of the smaller genera. Moreover, the species of the large genera\nwhich present any varieties, invariably present a larger average number\nof varieties than do the species of the small genera. Both these\nresults follow when another division is made, and when all the smallest\ngenera, with from only one to four species, are absolutely excluded\nfrom the tables. These\nfacts are of plain signification on the view that species are only\nstrongly marked and permanent varieties; for wherever many species of\nthe same genus have been formed, or where, if we may use the\nexpression, the manufactory of species has been active, we ought\ngenerally to find the manufactory still in action, more especially as\nwe have every reason to believe the process of manufacturing new\nspecies to be a slow one. And this certainly is the case, if varieties\nbe looked at as incipient species; for my tables clearly show as a\ngeneral rule that, wherever many species of a genus have been formed,\nthe species of that genus present a number of varieties, that is of\nincipient species, beyond the average. It is not that all large genera\nare now varying much, and are thus increasing in the number of their\nspecies, or that no small genera are now varying and increasing; for if\nthis had been so, it would have been fatal to my theory; inasmuch as\ngeology plainly tells us that small genera have in the lapse of time\noften increased greatly in size; and that large genera have often come\nto their maxima, declined, and disappeared. All that we want to show\nis, that where many species of a genus have been formed, on an average\nmany are still forming; and this holds good.\n\nThere are other relations between the species of large genera and their\nrecorded varieties which deserve notice. We have seen that there is no\ninfallible criterion by which to distinguish species and well-marked\nvarieties; and in those cases in which intermediate links have not been\nfound between doubtful forms, naturalists are compelled to come to a\ndetermination by the amount of difference between them, judging by\nanalogy whether or not the amount suffices to raise one or both to the\nrank of species. Hence the amount of difference is one very important\ncriterion in settling whether two forms should\nbe ranked as species or varieties. Now Fries has remarked in regard to\nplants, and Westwood in regard to insects, that in large genera the\namount of difference between the species is often exceedingly small. I\nhave endeavoured to test this numerically by averages, and, as far as\nmy imperfect results go, they always confirm the view. I have also\nconsulted some sagacious and most experienced observers, and, after\ndeliberation, they concur in this view. In this respect, therefore, the\nspecies of the larger genera resemble varieties, more than do the\nspecies of the smaller genera. Or the case may be put in another way,\nand it may be said, that in the larger genera, in which a number of\nvarieties or incipient species greater than the average are now\nmanufacturing, many of the species already manufactured still to a\ncertain extent resemble varieties, for they differ from each other by a\nless than usual amount of difference.\n\nMoreover, the species of the large genera are related to each other, in\nthe same manner as the varieties of any one species are related to each\nother. No naturalist pretends that all the species of a genus are\nequally distinct from each other; they may generally be divided into\nsub-genera, or sections, or lesser groups. As Fries has well remarked,\nlittle groups of species are generally clustered like satellites around\ncertain other species. And what are varieties but groups of forms,\nunequally related to each other, and clustered round certain forms—that\nis, round their parent-species? Undoubtedly there is one most important\npoint of difference between varieties and species; namely, that the\namount of difference between varieties, when compared with each other\nor with their parent-species, is much less than that between the\nspecies of the same genus. But when we come to discuss the principle,\nas I call it, of Divergence of Character,\nwe shall see how this may be explained, and how the lesser differences\nbetween varieties will tend to increase into the greater differences\nbetween species.\n\nThere is one other point which seems to me worth notice. Varieties\ngenerally have much restricted ranges: this statement is indeed\nscarcely more than a truism, for if a variety were found to have a\nwider range than that of its supposed parent-species, their\ndenominations ought to be reversed. But there is also reason to\nbelieve, that those species which are very closely allied to other\nspecies, and in so far resemble varieties, often have much restricted\nranges. For instance, Mr. H. C. Watson has marked for me in the\nwell-sifted London Catalogue of plants (4th edition) 63 plants which\nare therein ranked as species, but which he considers as so closely\nallied to other species as to be of doubtful value: these 63 reputed\nspecies range on an average over 6.9 of the provinces into which Mr.\nWatson has divided Great Britain. Now, in this same catalogue, 53\nacknowledged varieties are recorded, and these range over 7.7\nprovinces; whereas, the species to which these varieties belong range\nover 14.3 provinces. So that the acknowledged varieties have very\nnearly the same restricted average range, as have those very closely\nallied forms, marked for me by Mr. Watson as doubtful species, but\nwhich are almost universally ranked by British botanists as good and\ntrue species.\n\nFinally, then, varieties have the same general characters as species,\nfor they cannot be distinguished from species,—except, firstly, by the\ndiscovery of intermediate linking forms, and the occurrence of such\nlinks cannot affect the actual characters of the forms which they\nconnect; and except, secondly, by a certain amount of\ndifference, for two forms, if differing very little, are generally\nranked as varieties, notwithstanding that intermediate linking forms\nhave not been discovered; but the amount of difference considered\nnecessary to give to two forms the rank of species is quite indefinite.\nIn genera having more than the average number of species in any\ncountry, the species of these genera have more than the average number\nof varieties. In large genera the species are apt to be closely, but\nunequally, allied together, forming little clusters round certain\nspecies. Species very closely allied to other species apparently have\nrestricted ranges. In all these several respects the species of large\ngenera present a strong analogy with varieties. And we can clearly\nunderstand these analogies, if species have once existed as varieties,\nand have thus originated: whereas, these analogies are utterly\ninexplicable if each species has been independently created.\n\nWe have, also, seen that it is the most flourishing and dominant\nspecies of the larger genera which on an average vary most; and\nvarieties, as we shall hereafter see, tend to become converted into new\nand distinct species. The larger genera thus tend to become larger; and\nthroughout nature the forms of life which are now dominant tend to\nbecome still more dominant by leaving many modified and dominant\ndescendants. But by steps hereafter to be explained, the larger genera\nalso tend to break up into smaller genera. And thus, the forms of life\nthroughout the universe become divided into groups subordinate to\ngroups.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\nSTRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE.\n\n\nBears on natural selection. The term used in a wide sense. Geometrical\npowers of increase. Rapid increase of naturalised animals and plants.\nNature of the checks to increase. Competition universal. Effects of\nclimate. Protection from the number of individuals. Complex relations\nof all animals and plants throughout nature. Struggle for life most\nsevere between individuals and varieties of the same species; often\nsevere between species of the same genus. The relation of organism to\norganism the most important of all relations.\n\n\nBefore entering on the subject of this chapter, I must make a few\npreliminary remarks, to show how the struggle for existence bears on\nNatural Selection. It has been seen in the last chapter that amongst\norganic beings in a state of nature there is some individual\nvariability; indeed I am not aware that this has ever been disputed. It\nis immaterial for us whether a multitude of doubtful forms be called\nspecies or sub-species or varieties; what rank, for instance, the two\nor three hundred doubtful forms of British plants are entitled to hold,\nif the existence of any well-marked varieties be admitted. But the mere\nexistence of individual variability and of some few well-marked\nvarieties, though necessary as the foundation for the work, helps us\nbut little in understanding how species arise in nature. How have all\nthose exquisite adaptations of one part of the organisation to another\npart, and to the conditions of life, and of one distinct organic being\nto another being, been perfected? We see these beautiful co-adaptations\nmost plainly in the woodpecker and missletoe; and only a little less\nplainly in the humblest parasite which clings\nto the hairs of a quadruped or feathers of a bird; in the structure of\nthe beetle which dives through the water; in the plumed seed which is\nwafted by the gentlest breeze; in short, we see beautiful adaptations\neverywhere and in every part of the organic world.\n\nAgain, it may be asked, how is it that varieties, which I have called\nincipient species, become ultimately converted into good and distinct\nspecies, which in most cases obviously differ from each other far more\nthan do the varieties of the same species? How do those groups of\nspecies, which constitute what are called distinct genera, and which\ndiffer from each other more than do the species of the same genus,\narise? All these results, as we shall more fully see in the next\nchapter, follow inevitably from the struggle for life. Owing to this\nstruggle for life, any variation, however slight and from whatever\ncause proceeding, if it be in any degree profitable to an individual of\nany species, in its infinitely complex relations to other organic\nbeings and to external nature, will tend to the preservation of that\nindividual, and will generally be inherited by its offspring. The\noffspring, also, will thus have a better chance of surviving, for, of\nthe many individuals of any species which are periodically born, but a\nsmall number can survive. I have called this principle, by which each\nslight variation, if useful, is preserved, by the term of Natural\nSelection, in order to mark its relation to man’s power of selection.\nWe have seen that man by selection can certainly produce great results,\nand can adapt organic beings to his own uses, through the accumulation\nof slight but useful variations, given to him by the hand of Nature.\nBut Natural Selection, as we shall hereafter see, is a power\nincessantly ready for action, and is as immeasurably superior to man’s\nfeeble efforts, as the works of Nature are to those of Art.\n\n\nWe will now discuss in a little more detail the struggle for existence.\nIn my future work this subject shall be treated, as it well deserves,\nat much greater length. The elder De Candolle and Lyell have largely\nand philosophically shown that all organic beings are exposed to severe\ncompetition. In regard to plants, no one has treated this subject with\nmore spirit and ability than W. Herbert, Dean of Manchester, evidently\nthe result of his great horticultural knowledge. Nothing is easier than\nto admit in words the truth of the universal struggle for life, or more\ndifficult—at least I have found it so—than constantly to bear this\nconclusion in mind. Yet unless it be thoroughly engrained in the mind,\nI am convinced that the whole economy of nature, with every fact on\ndistribution, rarity, abundance, extinction, and variation, will be\ndimly seen or quite misunderstood. We behold the face of nature bright\nwith gladness, we often see superabundance of food; we do not see, or\nwe forget, that the birds which are idly singing round us mostly live\non insects or seeds, and are thus constantly destroying life; or we\nforget how largely these songsters, or their eggs, or their nestlings,\nare destroyed by birds and beasts of prey; we do not always bear in\nmind, that though food may be now superabundant, it is not so at all\nseasons of each recurring year.\n\nI should premise that I use the term Struggle for Existence in a large\nand metaphorical sense, including dependence of one being on another,\nand including (which is more important) not only the life of the\nindividual, but success in leaving progeny. Two canine animals in a\ntime of dearth, may be truly said to struggle with each other which\nshall get food and live. But a plant on the edge of a desert is said to\nstruggle for life against the drought, though more properly it should\nbe said to be dependent on the moisture. A\nplant which annually produces a thousand seeds, of which on an average\nonly one comes to maturity, may be more truly said to struggle with the\nplants of the same and other kinds which already clothe the ground. The\nmissletoe is dependent on the apple and a few other trees, but can only\nin a far-fetched sense be said to struggle with these trees, for if too\nmany of these parasites grow on the same tree, it will languish and\ndie. But several seedling missletoes, growing close together on the\nsame branch, may more truly be said to struggle with each other. As the\nmissletoe is disseminated by birds, its existence depends on birds; and\nit may metaphorically be said to struggle with other fruit-bearing\nplants, in order to tempt birds to devour and thus disseminate its\nseeds rather than those of other plants. In these several senses, which\npass into each other, I use for convenience sake the general term of\nstruggle for existence.\n\nA struggle for existence inevitably follows from the high rate at which\nall organic beings tend to increase. Every being, which during its\nnatural lifetime produces several eggs or seeds, must suffer\ndestruction during some period of its life, and during some season or\noccasional year, otherwise, on the principle of geometrical increase,\nits numbers would quickly become so inordinately great that no country\ncould support the product. Hence, as more individuals are produced than\ncan possibly survive, there must in every case be a struggle for\nexistence, either one individual with another of the same species, or\nwith the individuals of distinct species, or with the physical\nconditions of life. It is the doctrine of Malthus applied with manifold\nforce to the whole animal and vegetable kingdoms; for in this case\nthere can be no artificial increase of food, and no prudential\nrestraint from marriage. Although some species may be\nnow increasing, more or less rapidly, in numbers, all cannot do so, for\nthe world would not hold them.\n\nThere is no exception to the rule that every organic being naturally\nincreases at so high a rate, that if not destroyed, the earth would\nsoon be covered by the progeny of a single pair. Even slow-breeding man\nhas doubled in twenty-five years, and at this rate, in a few thousand\nyears, there would literally not be standing room for his progeny.\nLinnæus has calculated that if an annual plant produced only two\nseeds—and there is no plant so unproductive as this—and their seedlings\nnext year produced two, and so on, then in twenty years there would be\na million plants. The elephant is reckoned to be the slowest breeder of\nall known animals, and I have taken some pains to estimate its probable\nminimum rate of natural increase: it will be under the mark to assume\nthat it breeds when thirty years old, and goes on breeding till ninety\nyears old, bringing forth three pair of young in this interval; if this\nbe so, at the end of the fifth century there would be alive fifteen\nmillion elephants, descended from the first pair.\n\nBut we have better evidence on this subject than mere theoretical\ncalculations, namely, the numerous recorded cases of the astonishingly\nrapid increase of various animals in a state of nature, when\ncircumstances have been favourable to them during two or three\nfollowing seasons. Still more striking is the evidence from our\ndomestic animals of many kinds which have run wild in several parts of\nthe world: if the statements of the rate of increase of slow-breeding\ncattle and horses in South America, and latterly in Australia, had not\nbeen well authenticated, they would have been quite incredible. So it\nis with plants: cases could be given of introduced plants which have\nbecome common throughout whole islands in a period of less than ten\nyears. Several\nof the plants now most numerous over the wide plains of La Plata,\nclothing square leagues of surface almost to the exclusion of all other\nplants, have been introduced from Europe; and there are plants which\nnow range in India, as I hear from Dr. Falconer, from Cape Comorin to\nthe Himalaya, which have been imported from America since its\ndiscovery. In such cases, and endless instances could be given, no one\nsupposes that the fertility of these animals or plants has been\nsuddenly and temporarily increased in any sensible degree. The obvious\nexplanation is that the conditions of life have been very favourable,\nand that there has consequently been less destruction of the old and\nyoung, and that nearly all the young have been enabled to breed. In\nsuch cases the geometrical ratio of increase, the result of which never\nfails to be surprising, simply explains the extraordinarily rapid\nincrease and wide diffusion of naturalised productions in their new\nhomes.\n\nIn a state of nature almost every plant produces seed, and amongst\nanimals there are very few which do not annually pair. Hence we may\nconfidently assert, that all plants and animals are tending to increase\nat a geometrical ratio, that all would most rapidly stock every station\nin which they could any how exist, and that the geometrical tendency to\nincrease must be checked by destruction at some period of life. Our\nfamiliarity with the larger domestic animals tends, I think, to mislead\nus: we see no great destruction falling on them, and we forget that\nthousands are annually slaughtered for food, and that in a state of\nnature an equal number would have somehow to be disposed of.\n\nThe only difference between organisms which annually produce eggs or\nseeds by the thousand, and those which produce extremely few, is, that\nthe slow-breeders would require a few more years to people, under\nfavourable\nconditions, a whole district, let it be ever so large. The condor lays\na couple of eggs and the ostrich a score, and yet in the same country\nthe condor may be the more numerous of the two: the Fulmar petrel lays\nbut one egg, yet it is believed to be the most numerous bird in the\nworld. One fly deposits hundreds of eggs, and another, like the\nhippobosca, a single one; but this difference does not determine how\nmany individuals of the two species can be supported in a district. A\nlarge number of eggs is of some importance to those species, which\ndepend on a rapidly fluctuating amount of food, for it allows them\nrapidly to increase in number. But the real importance of a large\nnumber of eggs or seeds is to make up for much destruction at some\nperiod of life; and this period in the great majority of cases is an\nearly one. If an animal can in any way protect its own eggs or young, a\nsmall number may be produced, and yet the average stock be fully kept\nup; but if many eggs or young are destroyed, many must be produced, or\nthe species will become extinct. It would suffice to keep up the full\nnumber of a tree, which lived on an average for a thousand years, if a\nsingle seed were produced once in a thousand years, supposing that this\nseed were never destroyed, and could be ensured to germinate in a\nfitting place. So that in all cases, the average number of any animal\nor plant depends only indirectly on the number of its eggs or seeds.\n\nIn looking at Nature, it is most necessary to keep the foregoing\nconsiderations always in mind—never to forget that every single organic\nbeing around us may be said to be striving to the utmost to increase in\nnumbers; that each lives by a struggle at some period of its life; that\nheavy destruction inevitably falls either on the young or old, during\neach generation or at recurrent intervals. Lighten any check, mitigate\nthe\ndestruction ever so little, and the number of the species will almost\ninstantaneously increase to any amount. The face of Nature may be\ncompared to a yielding surface, with ten thousand sharp wedges packed\nclose together and driven inwards by incessant blows, sometimes one\nwedge being struck, and then another with greater force.\n\nWhat checks the natural tendency of each species to increase in number\nis most obscure. Look at the most vigorous species; by as much as it\nswarms in numbers, by so much will its tendency to increase be still\nfurther increased. We know not exactly what the checks are in even one\nsingle instance. Nor will this surprise any one who reflects how\nignorant we are on this head, even in regard to mankind, so\nincomparably better known than any other animal. This subject has been\nably treated by several authors, and I shall, in my future work,\ndiscuss some of the checks at considerable length, more especially in\nregard to the feral animals of South America. Here I will make only a\nfew remarks, just to recall to the reader’s mind some of the chief\npoints. Eggs or very young animals seem generally to suffer most, but\nthis is not invariably the case. With plants there is a vast\ndestruction of seeds, but, from some observations which I have made, I\nbelieve that it is the seedlings which suffer most from germinating in\nground already thickly stocked with other plants. Seedlings, also, are\ndestroyed in vast numbers by various enemies; for instance, on a piece\nof ground three feet long and two wide, dug and cleared, and where\nthere could be no choking from other plants, I marked all the seedlings\nof our native weeds as they came up, and out of the 357 no less than\n295 were destroyed, chiefly by slugs and insects. If turf which has\nlong been mown, and the case would be the same with turf closely\nbrowsed by quadrupeds, be let to grow,\nthe more vigorous plants gradually kill the less vigorous, though fully\ngrown, plants: thus out of twenty species growing on a little plot of\nturf (three feet by four) nine species perished from the other species\nbeing allowed to grow up freely.\n\nThe amount of food for each species of course gives the extreme limit\nto which each can increase; but very frequently it is not the obtaining\nfood, but the serving as prey to other animals, which determines the\naverage numbers of a species. Thus, there seems to be little doubt that\nthe stock of partridges, grouse, and hares on any large estate depends\nchiefly on the destruction of vermin. If not one head of game were shot\nduring the next twenty years in England, and, at the same time, if no\nvermin were destroyed, there would, in all probability, be less game\nthan at present, although hundreds of thousands of game animals are now\nannually killed. On the other hand, in some cases, as with the elephant\nand rhinoceros, none are destroyed by beasts of prey: even the tiger in\nIndia most rarely dares to attack a young elephant protected by its\ndam.\n\nClimate plays an important part in determining the average numbers of a\nspecies, and periodical seasons of extreme cold or drought, I believe\nto be the most effective of all checks. I estimated that the winter of\n1854-55 destroyed four-fifths of the birds in my own grounds; and this\nis a tremendous destruction, when we remember that ten per cent. is an\nextraordinarily severe mortality from epidemics with man. The action of\nclimate seems at first sight to be quite independent of the struggle\nfor existence; but in so far as climate chiefly acts in reducing food,\nit brings on the most severe struggle between the individuals, whether\nof the same or of distinct species, which subsist on the same kind of\nfood. Even when climate, for instance extreme\ncold, acts directly, it will be the least vigorous, or those which have\ngot least food through the advancing winter, which will suffer most.\nWhen we travel from south to north, or from a damp region to a dry, we\ninvariably see some species gradually getting rarer and rarer, and\nfinally disappearing; and the change of climate being conspicuous, we\nare tempted to attribute the whole effect to its direct action. But\nthis is a very false view: we forget that each species, even where it\nmost abounds, is constantly suffering enormous destruction at some\nperiod of its life, from enemies or from competitors for the same place\nand food; and if these enemies or competitors be in the least degree\nfavoured by any slight change of climate, they will increase in\nnumbers, and, as each area is already fully stocked with inhabitants,\nthe other species will decrease. When we travel southward and see a\nspecies decreasing in numbers, we may feel sure that the cause lies\nquite as much in other species being favoured, as in this one being\nhurt. So it is when we travel northward, but in a somewhat lesser\ndegree, for the number of species of all kinds, and therefore of\ncompetitors, decreases northwards; hence in going northward, or in\nascending a mountain, we far oftener meet with stunted forms, due to\nthe _directly_ injurious action of climate, than we do in proceeding\nsouthwards or in descending a mountain. When we reach the Arctic\nregions, or snow-capped summits, or absolute deserts, the struggle for\nlife is almost exclusively with the elements.\n\nThat climate acts in main part indirectly by favouring other species,\nwe may clearly see in the prodigious number of plants in our gardens\nwhich can perfectly well endure our climate, but which never become\nnaturalised, for they cannot compete with our native plants, nor resist\ndestruction by our native animals.\n\n\nWhen a species, owing to highly favourable circumstances, increases\ninordinately in numbers in a small tract, epidemics—at least, this\nseems generally to occur with our game animals—often ensue: and here we\nhave a limiting check independent of the struggle for life. But even\nsome of these so-called epidemics appear to be due to parasitic worms,\nwhich have from some cause, possibly in part through facility of\ndiffusion amongst the crowded animals, been disproportionably favoured:\nand here comes in a sort of struggle between the parasite and its prey.\n\nOn the other hand, in many cases, a large stock of individuals of the\nsame species, relatively to the numbers of its enemies, is absolutely\nnecessary for its preservation. Thus we can easily raise plenty of corn\nand rape-seed, etc., in our fields, because the seeds are in great\nexcess compared with the number of birds which feed on them; nor can\nthe birds, though having a superabundance of food at this one season,\nincrease in number proportionally to the supply of seed, as their\nnumbers are checked during winter: but any one who has tried, knows how\ntroublesome it is to get seed from a few wheat or other such plants in\na garden; I have in this case lost every single seed. This view of the\nnecessity of a large stock of the same species for its preservation,\nexplains, I believe, some singular facts in nature, such as that of\nvery rare plants being sometimes extremely abundant in the few spots\nwhere they do occur; and that of some social plants being social, that\nis, abounding in individuals, even on the extreme confines of their\nrange. For in such cases, we may believe, that a plant could exist only\nwhere the conditions of its life were so favourable that many could\nexist together, and thus save each other from utter destruction. I\nshould add that the good effects of frequent intercrossing, and the ill\neffects\nof close interbreeding, probably come into play in some of these cases;\nbut on this intricate subject I will not here enlarge.\n\nMany cases are on record showing how complex and unexpected are the\nchecks and relations between organic beings, which have to struggle\ntogether in the same country. I will give only a single instance,\nwhich, though a simple one, has interested me. In Staffordshire, on the\nestate of a relation where I had ample means of investigation, there\nwas a large and extremely barren heath, which had never been touched by\nthe hand of man; but several hundred acres of exactly the same nature\nhad been enclosed twenty-five years previously and planted with Scotch\nfir. The change in the native vegetation of the planted part of the\nheath was most remarkable, more than is generally seen in passing from\none quite different soil to another: not only the proportional numbers\nof the heath-plants were wholly changed, but twelve species of plants\n(not counting grasses and carices) flourished in the plantations, which\ncould not be found on the heath. The effect on the insects must have\nbeen still greater, for six insectivorous birds were very common in the\nplantations, which were not to be seen on the heath; and the heath was\nfrequented by two or three distinct insectivorous birds. Here we see\nhow potent has been the effect of the introduction of a single tree,\nnothing whatever else having been done, with the exception that the\nland had been enclosed, so that cattle could not enter. But how\nimportant an element enclosure is, I plainly saw near Farnham, in\nSurrey. Here there are extensive heaths, with a few clumps of old\nScotch firs on the distant hill-tops: within the last ten years large\nspaces have been enclosed, and self-sown firs are now springing up in\nmultitudes, so close together that all cannot live.\nWhen I ascertained that these young trees had not been sown or planted,\nI was so much surprised at their numbers that I went to several points\nof view, whence I could examine hundreds of acres of the unenclosed\nheath, and literally I could not see a single Scotch fir, except the\nold planted clumps. But on looking closely between the stems of the\nheath, I found a multitude of seedlings and little trees, which had\nbeen perpetually browsed down by the cattle. In one square yard, at a\npoint some hundred yards distant from one of the old clumps, I counted\nthirty-two little trees; and one of them, judging from the rings of\ngrowth, had during twenty-six years tried to raise its head above the\nstems of the heath, and had failed. No wonder that, as soon as the land\nwas enclosed, it became thickly clothed with vigorously growing young\nfirs. Yet the heath was so extremely barren and so extensive that no\none would ever have imagined that cattle would have so closely and\neffectually searched it for food.\n\nHere we see that cattle absolutely determine the existence of the\nScotch fir; but in several parts of the world insects determine the\nexistence of cattle. Perhaps Paraguay offers the most curious instance\nof this; for here neither cattle nor horses nor dogs have ever run\nwild, though they swarm southward and northward in a feral state; and\nAzara and Rengger have shown that this is caused by the greater number\nin Paraguay of a certain fly, which lays its eggs in the navels of\nthese animals when first born. The increase of these flies, numerous as\nthey are, must be habitually checked by some means, probably by birds.\nHence, if certain insectivorous birds (whose numbers are probably\nregulated by hawks or beasts of prey) were to increase in Paraguay, the\nflies would decrease—then cattle and horses would become feral, and\nthis would certainly greatly alter (as\nindeed I have observed in parts of South America) the vegetation: this\nagain would largely affect the insects; and this, as we just have seen\nin Staffordshire, the insectivorous birds, and so onwards in\never-increasing circles of complexity. We began this series by\ninsectivorous birds, and we have ended with them. Not that in nature\nthe relations can ever be as simple as this. Battle within battle must\never be recurring with varying success; and yet in the long-run the\nforces are so nicely balanced, that the face of nature remains uniform\nfor long periods of time, though assuredly the merest trifle would\noften give the victory to one organic being over another. Nevertheless\nso profound is our ignorance, and so high our presumption, that we\nmarvel when we hear of the extinction of an organic being; and as we do\nnot see the cause, we invoke cataclysms to desolate the world, or\ninvent laws on the duration of the forms of life!\n\nI am tempted to give one more instance showing how plants and animals,\nmost remote in the scale of nature, are bound together by a web of\ncomplex relations. I shall hereafter have occasion to show that the\nexotic Lobelia fulgens, in this part of England, is never visited by\ninsects, and consequently, from its peculiar structure, never can set a\nseed. Many of our orchidaceous plants absolutely require the visits of\nmoths to remove their pollen-masses and thus to fertilise them. I have,\nalso, reason to believe that humble-bees are indispensable to the\nfertilisation of the heartsease (Viola tricolor), for other bees do not\nvisit this flower. From experiments which I have tried, I have found\nthat the visits of bees, if not indispensable, are at least highly\nbeneficial to the fertilisation of our clovers; but humble-bees alone\nvisit the common red clover (Trifolium pratense), as other bees cannot\nreach the nectar. Hence I have very little doubt, that if the whole\ngenus of humble-bees became\nextinct or very rare in England, the heartsease and red clover would\nbecome very rare, or wholly disappear. The number of humble-bees in any\ndistrict depends in a great degree on the number of field-mice, which\ndestroy their combs and nests; and Mr. H. Newman, who has long attended\nto the habits of humble-bees, believes that “more than two thirds of\nthem are thus destroyed all over England.” Now the number of mice is\nlargely dependent, as every one knows, on the number of cats; and Mr.\nNewman says, “Near villages and small towns I have found the nests of\nhumble-bees more numerous than elsewhere, which I attribute to the\nnumber of cats that destroy the mice.” Hence it is quite credible that\nthe presence of a feline animal in large numbers in a district might\ndetermine, through the intervention first of mice and then of bees, the\nfrequency of certain flowers in that district!\n\nIn the case of every species, many different checks, acting at\ndifferent periods of life, and during different seasons or years,\nprobably come into play; some one check or some few being generally the\nmost potent, but all concurring in determining the average number or\neven the existence of the species. In some cases it can be shown that\nwidely-different checks act on the same species in different districts.\nWhen we look at the plants and bushes clothing an entangled bank, we\nare tempted to attribute their proportional numbers and kinds to what\nwe call chance. But how false a view is this! Every one has heard that\nwhen an American forest is cut down, a very different vegetation\nsprings up; but it has been observed that the trees now growing on the\nancient Indian mounds, in the Southern United States, display the same\nbeautiful diversity and proportion of kinds as in the surrounding\nvirgin forests. What a struggle between the several kinds of trees\nmust here have gone on during long centuries, each annually scattering\nits seeds by the thousand; what war between insect and insect—between\ninsects, snails, and other animals with birds and beasts of prey—all\nstriving to increase, and all feeding on each other or on the trees or\ntheir seeds and seedlings, or on the other plants which first clothed\nthe ground and thus checked the growth of the trees! Throw up a handful\nof feathers, and all must fall to the ground according to definite\nlaws; but how simple is this problem compared to the action and\nreaction of the innumerable plants and animals which have determined,\nin the course of centuries, the proportional numbers and kinds of trees\nnow growing on the old Indian ruins!\n\nThe dependency of one organic being on another, as of a parasite on its\nprey, lies generally between beings remote in the scale of nature. This\nis often the case with those which may strictly be said to struggle\nwith each other for existence, as in the case of locusts and\ngrass-feeding quadrupeds. But the struggle almost invariably will be\nmost severe between the individuals of the same species, for they\nfrequent the same districts, require the same food, and are exposed to\nthe same dangers. In the case of varieties of the same species, the\nstruggle will generally be almost equally severe, and we sometimes see\nthe contest soon decided: for instance, if several varieties of wheat\nbe sown together, and the mixed seed be resown, some of the varieties\nwhich best suit the soil or climate, or are naturally the most fertile,\nwill beat the others and so yield more seed, and will consequently in a\nfew years quite supplant the other varieties. To keep up a mixed stock\nof even such extremely close varieties as the variously coloured\nsweet-peas, they must be each year harvested separately, and the seed\nthen mixed in due proportion,\notherwise the weaker kinds will steadily decrease in numbers and\ndisappear. So again with the varieties of sheep: it has been asserted\nthat certain mountain-varieties will starve out other\nmountain-varieties, so that they cannot be kept together. The same\nresult has followed from keeping together different varieties of the\nmedicinal leech. It may even be doubted whether the varieties of any\none of our domestic plants or animals have so exactly the same\nstrength, habits, and constitution, that the original proportions of a\nmixed stock could be kept up for half a dozen generations, if they were\nallowed to struggle together, like beings in a state of nature, and if\nthe seed or young were not annually sorted.\n\nAs species of the same genus have usually, though by no means\ninvariably, some similarity in habits and constitution, and always in\nstructure, the struggle will generally be more severe between species\nof the same genus, when they come into competition with each other,\nthan between species of distinct genera. We see this in the recent\nextension over parts of the United States of one species of swallow\nhaving caused the decrease of another species. The recent increase of\nthe missel-thrush in parts of Scotland has caused the decrease of the\nsong-thrush. How frequently we hear of one species of rat taking the\nplace of another species under the most different climates! In Russia\nthe small Asiatic cockroach has everywhere driven before it its great\ncongener. One species of charlock will supplant another, and so in\nother cases. We can dimly see why the competition should be most severe\nbetween allied forms, which fill nearly the same place in the economy\nof nature; but probably in no one case could we precisely say why one\nspecies has been victorious over another in the great battle of life.\n\n\nA corollary of the highest importance may be deduced from the foregoing\nremarks, namely, that the structure of every organic being is related,\nin the most essential yet often hidden manner, to that of all other\norganic beings, with which it comes into competition for food or\nresidence, or from which it has to escape, or on which it preys. This\nis obvious in the structure of the teeth and talons of the tiger; and\nin that of the legs and claws of the parasite which clings to the hair\non the tiger’s body. But in the beautifully plumed seed of the\ndandelion, and in the flattened and fringed legs of the water-beetle,\nthe relation seems at first confined to the elements of air and water.\nYet the advantage of plumed seeds no doubt stands in the closest\nrelation to the land being already thickly clothed by other plants; so\nthat the seeds may be widely distributed and fall on unoccupied ground.\nIn the water-beetle, the structure of its legs, so well adapted for\ndiving, allows it to compete with other aquatic insects, to hunt for\nits own prey, and to escape serving as prey to other animals.\n\nThe store of nutriment laid up within the seeds of many plants seems at\nfirst sight to have no sort of relation to other plants. But from the\nstrong growth of young plants produced from such seeds (as peas and\nbeans), when sown in the midst of long grass, I suspect that the chief\nuse of the nutriment in the seed is to favour the growth of the young\nseedling, whilst struggling with other plants growing vigorously all\naround.\n\nLook at a plant in the midst of its range, why does it not double or\nquadruple its numbers? We know that it can perfectly well withstand a\nlittle more heat or cold, dampness or dryness, for elsewhere it ranges\ninto slightly hotter or colder, damper or drier districts. In this case\nwe can clearly see that if we wished in imagination to give the plant\nthe power of increasing in number, we should have to give it some\nadvantage over its competitors, or over the animals which preyed on it.\nOn the confines of its geographical range, a change of constitution\nwith respect to climate would clearly be an advantage to our plant; but\nwe have reason to believe that only a few plants or animals range so\nfar, that they are destroyed by the rigour of the climate alone. Not\nuntil we reach the extreme confines of life, in the arctic regions or\non the borders of an utter desert, will competition cease. The land may\nbe extremely cold or dry, yet there will be competition between some\nfew species, or between the individuals of the same species, for the\nwarmest or dampest spots.\n\nHence, also, we can see that when a plant or animal is placed in a new\ncountry amongst new competitors, though the climate may be exactly the\nsame as in its former home, yet the conditions of its life will\ngenerally be changed in an essential manner. If we wished to increase\nits average numbers in its new home, we should have to modify it in a\ndifferent way to what we should have done in its native country; for we\nshould have to give it some advantage over a different set of\ncompetitors or enemies.\n\nIt is good thus to try in our imagination to give any form some\nadvantage over another. Probably in no single instance should we know\nwhat to do, so as to succeed. It will convince us of our ignorance on\nthe mutual relations of all organic beings; a conviction as necessary,\nas it seems to be difficult to acquire. All that we can do, is to keep\nsteadily in mind that each organic being is striving to increase at a\ngeometrical\nratio; that each at some period of its life, during some season of the\nyear, during each generation or at intervals, has to struggle for life,\nand to suffer great destruction. When we reflect on this struggle, we\nmay console ourselves with the full belief, that the war of nature is\nnot incessant, that no fear is felt, that death is generally prompt,\nand that the vigorous, the healthy, and the happy survive and multiply.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\nNATURAL SELECTION.\n\n\nNatural Selection: its power compared with man’s selection, its power\non characters of trifling importance, its power at all ages and on both\nsexes. Sexual Selection. On the generality of intercrosses between\nindividuals of the same species. Circumstances favourable and\nunfavourable to Natural Selection, namely, intercrossing, isolation,\nnumber of individuals. Slow action. Extinction caused by Natural\nSelection. Divergence of Character, related to the diversity of\ninhabitants of any small area, and to naturalisation. Action of Natural\nSelection, through Divergence of Character and Extinction, on the\ndescendants from a common parent. Explains the Grouping of all organic\nbeings.\n\n\nHow will the struggle for existence, discussed too briefly in the last\nchapter, act in regard to variation? Can the principle of selection,\nwhich we have seen is so potent in the hands of man, apply in nature? I\nthink we shall see that it can act most effectually. Let it be borne in\nmind in what an endless number of strange peculiarities our domestic\nproductions, and, in a lesser degree, those under nature, vary; and how\nstrong the hereditary tendency is. Under domestication, it may be truly\nsaid that the whole organisation becomes in some degree plastic. Let it\nbe borne in mind how infinitely complex and close-fitting are the\nmutual relations of all organic beings to each other and to their\nphysical conditions of life. Can it, then, be thought improbable,\nseeing that variations useful to man have undoubtedly occurred, that\nother variations useful in some way to each being in the great and\ncomplex battle of life, should sometimes occur in the course of\nthousands of generations? If such do occur, can we doubt (remembering\nthat many more individuals are born than can possibly survive) that\nindividuals having any advantage, however slight, over others, would\nhave the best chance of surviving and of procreating their kind? On the\nother hand, we may feel sure that any variation in the least degree\ninjurious would be rigidly destroyed. This preservation of favourable\nvariations and the rejection of injurious variations, I call Natural\nSelection. Variations neither useful nor injurious would not be\naffected by natural selection, and would be left a fluctuating element,\nas perhaps we see in the species called polymorphic.\n\nWe shall best understand the probable course of natural selection by\ntaking the case of a country undergoing some physical change, for\ninstance, of climate. The proportional numbers of its inhabitants would\nalmost immediately undergo a change, and some species might become\nextinct. We may conclude, from what we have seen of the intimate and\ncomplex manner in which the inhabitants of each country are bound\ntogether, that any change in the numerical proportions of some of the\ninhabitants, independently of the change of climate itself, would most\nseriously affect many of the others. If the country were open on its\nborders, new forms would certainly immigrate, and this also would\nseriously disturb the relations of some of the former inhabitants. Let\nit be remembered how powerful the influence of a single introduced tree\nor mammal has been shown to be. But in the case of an island, or of a\ncountry partly surrounded by barriers, into which new and better\nadapted forms could not freely enter, we should then have places in the\neconomy of nature which would assuredly be better filled up, if some of\nthe original inhabitants were in some manner modified; for, had the\narea been open to immigration, these same\nplaces would have been seized on by intruders. In such case, every\nslight modification, which in the course of ages chanced to arise, and\nwhich in any way favoured the individuals of any of the species, by\nbetter adapting them to their altered conditions, would tend to be\npreserved; and natural selection would thus have free scope for the\nwork of improvement.\n\nWe have reason to believe, as stated in the first chapter, that a\nchange in the conditions of life, by specially acting on the\nreproductive system, causes or increases variability; and in the\nforegoing case the conditions of life are supposed to have undergone a\nchange, and this would manifestly be favourable to natural selection,\nby giving a better chance of profitable variations occurring; and\nunless profitable variations do occur, natural selection can do\nnothing. Not that, as I believe, any extreme amount of variability is\nnecessary; as man can certainly produce great results by adding up in\nany given direction mere individual differences, so could Nature, but\nfar more easily, from having incomparably longer time at her disposal.\nNor do I believe that any great physical change, as of climate, or any\nunusual degree of isolation to check immigration, is actually necessary\nto produce new and unoccupied places for natural selection to fill up\nby modifying and improving some of the varying inhabitants. For as all\nthe inhabitants of each country are struggling together with nicely\nbalanced forces, extremely slight modifications in the structure or\nhabits of one inhabitant would often give it an advantage over others;\nand still further modifications of the same kind would often still\nfurther increase the advantage. No country can be named in which all\nthe native inhabitants are now so perfectly adapted to each other and\nto the physical conditions under which they live, that none of\nthem could anyhow be improved; for in all countries, the natives have\nbeen so far conquered by naturalised productions, that they have\nallowed foreigners to take firm possession of the land. And as\nforeigners have thus everywhere beaten some of the natives, we may\nsafely conclude that the natives might have been modified with\nadvantage, so as to have better resisted such intruders.\n\nAs man can produce and certainly has produced a great result by his\nmethodical and unconscious means of selection, what may not nature\neffect? Man can act only on external and visible characters: nature\ncares nothing for appearances, except in so far as they may be useful\nto any being. She can act on every internal organ, on every shade of\nconstitutional difference, on the whole machinery of life. Man selects\nonly for his own good; Nature only for that of the being which she\ntends. Every selected character is fully exercised by her; and the\nbeing is placed under well-suited conditions of life. Man keeps the\nnatives of many climates in the same country; he seldom exercises each\nselected character in some peculiar and fitting manner; he feeds a long\nand a short beaked pigeon on the same food; he does not exercise a\nlong-backed or long-legged quadruped in any peculiar manner; he exposes\nsheep with long and short wool to the same climate. He does not allow\nthe most vigorous males to struggle for the females. He does not\nrigidly destroy all inferior animals, but protects during each varying\nseason, as far as lies in his power, all his productions. He often\nbegins his selection by some half-monstrous form; or at least by some\nmodification prominent enough to catch his eye, or to be plainly useful\nto him. Under nature, the slightest difference of structure or\nconstitution may well turn the nicely-balanced scale in the\nstruggle for life, and so be preserved. How fleeting are the wishes and\nefforts of man! how short his time! and consequently how poor will his\nproducts be, compared with those accumulated by nature during whole\ngeological periods. Can we wonder, then, that nature’s productions\nshould be far “truer” in character than man’s productions; that they\nshould be infinitely better adapted to the most complex conditions of\nlife, and should plainly bear the stamp of far higher workmanship?\n\nIt may be said that natural selection is daily and hourly scrutinising,\nthroughout the world, every variation, even the slightest; rejecting\nthat which is bad, preserving and adding up all that is good; silently\nand insensibly working, whenever and wherever opportunity offers, at\nthe improvement of each organic being in relation to its organic and\ninorganic conditions of life. We see nothing of these slow changes in\nprogress, until the hand of time has marked the long lapse of ages, and\nthen so imperfect is our view into long past geological ages, that we\nonly see that the forms of life are now different from what they\nformerly were.\n\nAlthough natural selection can act only through and for the good of\neach being, yet characters and structures, which we are apt to consider\nas of very trifling importance, may thus be acted on. When we see\nleaf-eating insects green, and bark-feeders mottled-grey; the alpine\nptarmigan white in winter, the red-grouse the colour of heather, and\nthe black-grouse that of peaty earth, we must believe that these tints\nare of service to these birds and insects in preserving them from\ndanger. Grouse, if not destroyed at some period of their lives, would\nincrease in countless numbers; they are known to suffer largely from\nbirds of prey; and hawks are guided by eyesight to their prey,—so much\nso, that on\nparts of the Continent persons are warned not to keep white pigeons, as\nbeing the most liable to destruction. Hence I can see no reason to\ndoubt that natural selection might be most effective in giving the\nproper colour to each kind of grouse, and in keeping that colour, when\nonce acquired, true and constant. Nor ought we to think that the\noccasional destruction of an animal of any particular colour would\nproduce little effect: we should remember how essential it is in a\nflock of white sheep to destroy every lamb with the faintest trace of\nblack. In plants the down on the fruit and the colour of the flesh are\nconsidered by botanists as characters of the most trifling importance:\nyet we hear from an excellent horticulturist, Downing, that in the\nUnited States smooth-skinned fruits suffer far more from a beetle, a\ncurculio, than those with down; that purple plums suffer far more from\na certain disease than yellow plums; whereas another disease attacks\nyellow-fleshed peaches far more than those with other coloured flesh.\nIf, with all the aids of art, these slight differences make a great\ndifference in cultivating the several varieties, assuredly, in a state\nof nature, where the trees would have to struggle with other trees and\nwith a host of enemies, such differences would effectually settle which\nvariety, whether a smooth or downy, a yellow or purple fleshed fruit,\nshould succeed.\n\nIn looking at many small points of difference between species, which,\nas far as our ignorance permits us to judge, seem to be quite\nunimportant, we must not forget that climate, food, etc., probably\nproduce some slight and direct effect. It is, however, far more\nnecessary to bear in mind that there are many unknown laws of\ncorrelation of growth, which, when one part of the organisation is\nmodified through variation, and the modifications are accumulated by\nnatural selection for\nthe good of the being, will cause other modifications, often of the\nmost unexpected nature.\n\nAs we see that those variations which under domestication appear at any\nparticular period of life, tend to reappear in the offspring at the\nsame period;—for instance, in the seeds of the many varieties of our\nculinary and agricultural plants; in the caterpillar and cocoon stages\nof the varieties of the silkworm; in the eggs of poultry, and in the\ncolour of the down of their chickens; in the horns of our sheep and\ncattle when nearly adult;—so in a state of nature, natural selection\nwill be enabled to act on and modify organic beings at any age, by the\naccumulation of profitable variations at that age, and by their\ninheritance at a corresponding age. If it profit a plant to have its\nseeds more and more widely disseminated by the wind, I can see no\ngreater difficulty in this being effected through natural selection,\nthan in the cotton-planter increasing and improving by selection the\ndown in the pods on his cotton-trees. Natural selection may modify and\nadapt the larva of an insect to a score of contingencies, wholly\ndifferent from those which concern the mature insect. These\nmodifications will no doubt affect, through the laws of correlation,\nthe structure of the adult; and probably in the case of those insects\nwhich live only for a few hours, and which never feed, a large part of\ntheir structure is merely the correlated result of successive changes\nin the structure of their larvæ. So, conversely, modifications in the\nadult will probably often affect the structure of the larva; but in all\ncases natural selection will ensure that modifications consequent on\nother modifications at a different period of life, shall not be in the\nleast degree injurious: for if they became so, they would cause the\nextinction of the species.\n\nNatural selection will modify the structure of the\nyoung in relation to the parent, and of the parent in relation to the\nyoung. In social animals it will adapt the structure of each individual\nfor the benefit of the community; if each in consequence profits by the\nselected change. What natural selection cannot do, is to modify the\nstructure of one species, without giving it any advantage, for the good\nof another species; and though statements to this effect may be found\nin works of natural history, I cannot find one case which will bear\ninvestigation. A structure used only once in an animal’s whole life, if\nof high importance to it, might be modified to any extent by natural\nselection; for instance, the great jaws possessed by certain insects,\nand used exclusively for opening the cocoon—or the hard tip to the beak\nof nestling birds, used for breaking the egg. It has been asserted,\nthat of the best short-beaked tumbler-pigeons more perish in the egg\nthan are able to get out of it; so that fanciers assist in the act of\nhatching. Now, if nature had to make the beak of a full-grown pigeon\nvery short for the bird’s own advantage, the process of modification\nwould be very slow, and there would be simultaneously the most rigorous\nselection of the young birds within the egg, which had the most\npowerful and hardest beaks, for all with weak beaks would inevitably\nperish: or, more delicate and more easily broken shells might be\nselected, the thickness of the shell being known to vary like every\nother structure.\n\n_Sexual Selection_.—Inasmuch as peculiarities often appear under\ndomestication in one sex and become hereditarily attached to that sex,\nthe same fact probably occurs under nature, and if so, natural\nselection will be able to modify one sex in its functional relations to\nthe other sex, or in relation to wholly different habits of life in the\ntwo sexes, as is sometimes the case\nwith insects. And this leads me to say a few words on what I call\nSexual Selection. This depends, not on a struggle for existence, but on\na struggle between the males for possession of the females; the result\nis not death to the unsuccessful competitor, but few or no offspring.\nSexual selection is, therefore, less rigorous than natural selection.\nGenerally, the most vigorous males, those which are best fitted for\ntheir places in nature, will leave most progeny. But in many cases,\nvictory will depend not on general vigour, but on having special\nweapons, confined to the male sex. A hornless stag or spurless cock\nwould have a poor chance of leaving offspring. Sexual selection by\nalways allowing the victor to breed might surely give indomitable\ncourage, length to the spur, and strength to the wing to strike in the\nspurred leg, as well as the brutal cock-fighter, who knows well that he\ncan improve his breed by careful selection of the best cocks. How low\nin the scale of nature this law of battle descends, I know not; male\nalligators have been described as fighting, bellowing, and whirling\nround, like Indians in a war-dance, for the possession of the females;\nmale salmons have been seen fighting all day long; male stag-beetles\noften bear wounds from the huge mandibles of other males. The war is,\nperhaps, severest between the males of polygamous animals, and these\nseem oftenest provided with special weapons. The males of carnivorous\nanimals are already well armed; though to them and to others, special\nmeans of defence may be given through means of sexual selection, as the\nmane to the lion, the shoulder-pad to the boar, and the hooked jaw to\nthe male salmon; for the shield may be as important for victory, as the\nsword or spear.\n\nAmongst birds, the contest is often of a more peaceful character. All\nthose who have attended to the subject,\nbelieve that there is the severest rivalry between the males of many\nspecies to attract by singing the females. The rock-thrush of Guiana,\nbirds of Paradise, and some others, congregate; and successive males\ndisplay their gorgeous plumage and perform strange antics before the\nfemales, which standing by as spectators, at last choose the most\nattractive partner. Those who have closely attended to birds in\nconfinement well know that they often take individual preferences and\ndislikes: thus Sir R. Heron has described how one pied peacock was\neminently attractive to all his hen birds. It may appear childish to\nattribute any effect to such apparently weak means: I cannot here enter\non the details necessary to support this view; but if man can in a\nshort time give elegant carriage and beauty to his bantams, according\nto his standard of beauty, I can see no good reason to doubt that\nfemale birds, by selecting, during thousands of generations, the most\nmelodious or beautiful males, according to their standard of beauty,\nmight produce a marked effect. I strongly suspect that some well-known\nlaws with respect to the plumage of male and female birds, in\ncomparison with the plumage of the young, can be explained on the view\nof plumage having been chiefly modified by sexual selection, acting\nwhen the birds have come to the breeding age or during the breeding\nseason; the modifications thus produced being inherited at\ncorresponding ages or seasons, either by the males alone, or by the\nmales and females; but I have not space here to enter on this subject.\n\nThus it is, as I believe, that when the males and females of any animal\nhave the same general habits of life, but differ in structure, colour,\nor ornament, such differences have been mainly caused by sexual\nselection; that is, individual males have had, in successive\ngenerations, some slight advantage over other\nmales, in their weapons, means of defence, or charms; and have\ntransmitted these advantages to their male offspring. Yet, I would not\nwish to attribute all such sexual differences to this agency: for we\nsee peculiarities arising and becoming attached to the male sex in our\ndomestic animals (as the wattle in male carriers, horn-like\nprotuberances in the cocks of certain fowls, etc.), which we cannot\nbelieve to be either useful to the males in battle, or attractive to\nthe females. We see analogous cases under nature, for instance, the\ntuft of hair on the breast of the turkey-cock, which can hardly be\neither useful or ornamental to this bird;—indeed, had the tuft appeared\nunder domestication, it would have been called a monstrosity.\n\n_Illustrations of the action of Natural Selection_.—In order to make it\nclear how, as I believe, natural selection acts, I must beg permission\nto give one or two imaginary illustrations. Let us take the case of a\nwolf, which preys on various animals, securing some by craft, some by\nstrength, and some by fleetness; and let us suppose that the fleetest\nprey, a deer for instance, had from any change in the country increased\nin numbers, or that other prey had decreased in numbers, during that\nseason of the year when the wolf is hardest pressed for food. I can\nunder such circumstances see no reason to doubt that the swiftest and\nslimmest wolves would have the best chance of surviving, and so be\npreserved or selected,—provided always that they retained strength to\nmaster their prey at this or at some other period of the year, when\nthey might be compelled to prey on other animals. I can see no more\nreason to doubt this, than that man can improve the fleetness of his\ngreyhounds by careful and methodical selection, or by that unconscious\nselection which results from each man trying\nto keep the best dogs without any thought of modifying the breed.\n\nEven without any change in the proportional numbers of the animals on\nwhich our wolf preyed, a cub might be born with an innate tendency to\npursue certain kinds of prey. Nor can this be thought very improbable;\nfor we often observe great differences in the natural tendencies of our\ndomestic animals; one cat, for instance, taking to catch rats, another\nmice; one cat, according to Mr. St. John, bringing home winged game,\nanother hares or rabbits, and another hunting on marshy ground and\nalmost nightly catching woodcocks or snipes. The tendency to catch rats\nrather than mice is known to be inherited. Now, if any slight innate\nchange of habit or of structure benefited an individual wolf, it would\nhave the best chance of surviving and of leaving offspring. Some of its\nyoung would probably inherit the same habits or structure, and by the\nrepetition of this process, a new variety might be formed which would\neither supplant or coexist with the parent-form of wolf. Or, again, the\nwolves inhabiting a mountainous district, and those frequenting the\nlowlands, would naturally be forced to hunt different prey; and from\nthe continued preservation of the individuals best fitted for the two\nsites, two varieties might slowly be formed. These varieties would\ncross and blend where they met; but to this subject of intercrossing we\nshall soon have to return. I may add, that, according to Mr. Pierce,\nthere are two varieties of the wolf inhabiting the Catskill Mountains\nin the United States, one with a light greyhound-like form, which\npursues deer, and the other more bulky, with shorter legs, which more\nfrequently attacks the shepherd’s flocks.\n\nLet us now take a more complex case. Certain plants excrete a sweet\njuice, apparently for the sake of eliminating something injurious from\ntheir sap: this is\neffected by glands at the base of the stipules in some Leguminosæ, and\nat the back of the leaf of the common laurel. This juice, though small\nin quantity, is greedily sought by insects. Let us now suppose a little\nsweet juice or nectar to be excreted by the inner bases of the petals\nof a flower. In this case insects in seeking the nectar would get\ndusted with pollen, and would certainly often transport the pollen from\none flower to the stigma of another flower. The flowers of two distinct\nindividuals of the same species would thus get crossed; and the act of\ncrossing, we have good reason to believe (as will hereafter be more\nfully alluded to), would produce very vigorous seedlings, which\nconsequently would have the best chance of flourishing and surviving.\nSome of these seedlings would probably inherit the nectar-excreting\npower. Those individual flowers which had the largest glands or\nnectaries, and which excreted most nectar, would be oftenest visited by\ninsects, and would be oftenest crossed; and so in the long-run would\ngain the upper hand. Those flowers, also, which had their stamens and\npistils placed, in relation to the size and habits of the particular\ninsects which visited them, so as to favour in any degree the\ntransportal of their pollen from flower to flower, would likewise be\nfavoured or selected. We might have taken the case of insects visiting\nflowers for the sake of collecting pollen instead of nectar; and as\npollen is formed for the sole object of fertilisation, its destruction\nappears a simple loss to the plant; yet if a little pollen were\ncarried, at first occasionally and then habitually, by the\npollen-devouring insects from flower to flower, and a cross thus\neffected, although nine-tenths of the pollen were destroyed, it might\nstill be a great gain to the plant; and those individuals which\nproduced more and more pollen, and had larger and larger anthers, would\nbe selected.\n\n\nWhen our plant, by this process of the continued preservation or\nnatural selection of more and more attractive flowers, had been\nrendered highly attractive to insects, they would, unintentionally on\ntheir part, regularly carry pollen from flower to flower; and that they\ncan most effectually do this, I could easily show by many striking\ninstances. I will give only one—not as a very striking case, but as\nlikewise illustrating one step in the separation of the sexes of\nplants, presently to be alluded to. Some holly-trees bear only male\nflowers, which have four stamens producing rather a small quantity of\npollen, and a rudimentary pistil; other holly-trees bear only female\nflowers; these have a full-sized pistil, and four stamens with\nshrivelled anthers, in which not a grain of pollen can be detected.\nHaving found a female tree exactly sixty yards from a male tree, I put\nthe stigmas of twenty flowers, taken from different branches, under the\nmicroscope, and on all, without exception, there were pollen-grains,\nand on some a profusion of pollen. As the wind had set for several days\nfrom the female to the male tree, the pollen could not thus have been\ncarried. The weather had been cold and boisterous, and therefore not\nfavourable to bees, nevertheless every female flower which I examined\nhad been effectually fertilised by the bees, accidentally dusted with\npollen, having flown from tree to tree in search of nectar. But to\nreturn to our imaginary case: as soon as the plant had been rendered so\nhighly attractive to insects that pollen was regularly carried from\nflower to flower, another process might commence. No naturalist doubts\nthe advantage of what has been called the “physiological division of\nlabour;” hence we may believe that it would be advantageous to a plant\nto produce stamens alone in one flower or on one whole plant, and\npistils alone in\nanother flower or on another plant. In plants under culture and placed\nunder new conditions of life, sometimes the male organs and sometimes\nthe female organs become more or less impotent; now if we suppose this\nto occur in ever so slight a degree under nature, then as pollen is\nalready carried regularly from flower to flower, and as a more complete\nseparation of the sexes of our plant would be advantageous on the\nprinciple of the division of labour, individuals with this tendency\nmore and more increased, would be continually favoured or selected,\nuntil at last a complete separation of the sexes would be effected.\n\nLet us now turn to the nectar-feeding insects in our imaginary case: we\nmay suppose the plant of which we have been slowly increasing the\nnectar by continued selection, to be a common plant; and that certain\ninsects depended in main part on its nectar for food. I could give many\nfacts, showing how anxious bees are to save time; for instance, their\nhabit of cutting holes and sucking the nectar at the bases of certain\nflowers, which they can, with a very little more trouble, enter by the\nmouth. Bearing such facts in mind, I can see no reason to doubt that an\naccidental deviation in the size and form of the body, or in the\ncurvature and length of the proboscis, etc., far too slight to be\nappreciated by us, might profit a bee or other insect, so that an\nindividual so characterised would be able to obtain its food more\nquickly, and so have a better chance of living and leaving descendants.\nIts descendants would probably inherit a tendency to a similar slight\ndeviation of structure. The tubes of the corollas of the common red and\nincarnate clovers (Trifolium pratense and incarnatum) do not on a hasty\nglance appear to differ in length; yet the hive-bee can easily suck the\nnectar out of the incarnate clover, but not out of the common red\nclover, which is visited by humble-bees alone; so that whole fields of\nthe red clover offer in vain an abundant supply of precious nectar to\nthe hive-bee. Thus it might be a great advantage to the hive-bee to\nhave a slightly longer or differently constructed proboscis. On the\nother hand, I have found by experiment that the fertility of clover\ngreatly depends on bees visiting and moving parts of the corolla, so as\nto push the pollen on to the stigmatic surface. Hence, again, if\nhumble-bees were to become rare in any country, it might be a great\nadvantage to the red clover to have a shorter or more deeply divided\ntube to its corolla, so that the hive-bee could visit its flowers. Thus\nI can understand how a flower and a bee might slowly become, either\nsimultaneously or one after the other, modified and adapted in the most\nperfect manner to each other, by the continued preservation of\nindividuals presenting mutual and slightly favourable deviations of\nstructure.\n\nI am well aware that this doctrine of natural selection, exemplified in\nthe above imaginary instances, is open to the same objections which\nwere at first urged against Sir Charles Lyell’s noble views on “the\nmodern changes of the earth, as illustrative of geology;” but we now\nvery seldom hear the action, for instance, of the coast-waves, called a\ntrifling and insignificant cause, when applied to the excavation of\ngigantic valleys or to the formation of the longest lines of inland\ncliffs. Natural selection can act only by the preservation and\naccumulation of infinitesimally small inherited modifications, each\nprofitable to the preserved being; and as modern geology has almost\nbanished such views as the excavation of a great valley by a single\ndiluvial wave, so will natural selection, if it be a true principle,\nbanish the belief of the continued creation of new organic\nbeings, or of any great and sudden modification in their structure.\n\n_On the Intercrossing of Individuals_.—I must here introduce a short\ndigression. In the case of animals and plants with separated sexes, it\nis of course obvious that two individuals must always unite for each\nbirth; but in the case of hermaphrodites this is far from obvious.\nNevertheless I am strongly inclined to believe that with all\nhermaphrodites two individuals, either occasionally or habitually,\nconcur for the reproduction of their kind. This view, I may add, was\nfirst suggested by Andrew Knight. We shall presently see its\nimportance; but I must here treat the subject with extreme brevity,\nthough I have the materials prepared for an ample discussion. All\nvertebrate animals, all insects, and some other large groups of\nanimals, pair for each birth. Modern research has much diminished the\nnumber of supposed hermaphrodites, and of real hermaphrodites a large\nnumber pair; that is, two individuals regularly unite for reproduction,\nwhich is all that concerns us. But still there are many hermaphrodite\nanimals which certainly do not habitually pair, and a vast majority of\nplants are hermaphrodites. What reason, it may be asked, is there for\nsupposing in these cases that two individuals ever concur in\nreproduction? As it is impossible here to enter on details, I must\ntrust to some general considerations alone.\n\nIn the first place, I have collected so large a body of facts, showing,\nin accordance with the almost universal belief of breeders, that with\nanimals and plants a cross between different varieties, or between\nindividuals of the same variety but of another strain, gives vigour and\nfertility to the offspring; and on the other hand, that _close_\ninterbreeding diminishes vigour and fertility; that\nthese facts alone incline me to believe that it is a general law of\nnature (utterly ignorant though we be of the meaning of the law) that\nno organic being self-fertilises itself for an eternity of generations;\nbut that a cross with another individual is occasionally—perhaps at\nvery long intervals—indispensable.\n\nOn the belief that this is a law of nature, we can, I think, understand\nseveral large classes of facts, such as the following, which on any\nother view are inexplicable. Every hybridizer knows how unfavourable\nexposure to wet is to the fertilisation of a flower, yet what a\nmultitude of flowers have their anthers and stigmas fully exposed to\nthe weather! but if an occasional cross be indispensable, the fullest\nfreedom for the entrance of pollen from another individual will explain\nthis state of exposure, more especially as the plant’s own anthers and\npistil generally stand so close together that self-fertilisation seems\nalmost inevitable. Many flowers, on the other hand, have their organs\nof fructification closely enclosed, as in the great papilionaceous or\npea-family; but in several, perhaps in all, such flowers, there is a\nvery curious adaptation between the structure of the flower and the\nmanner in which bees suck the nectar; for, in doing this, they either\npush the flower’s own pollen on the stigma, or bring pollen from\nanother flower. So necessary are the visits of bees to papilionaceous\nflowers, that I have found, by experiments published elsewhere, that\ntheir fertility is greatly diminished if these visits be prevented.\nNow, it is scarcely possible that bees should fly from flower to\nflower, and not carry pollen from one to the other, to the great good,\nas I believe, of the plant. Bees will act like a camel-hair pencil, and\nit is quite sufficient just to touch the anthers of one flower and then\nthe stigma of another with the same brush to ensure fertilisation; but\nit must not be\nsupposed that bees would thus produce a multitude of hybrids between\ndistinct species; for if you bring on the same brush a plant’s own\npollen and pollen from another species, the former will have such a\nprepotent effect, that it will invariably and completely destroy, as\nhas been shown by Gärtner, any influence from the foreign pollen.\n\nWhen the stamens of a flower suddenly spring towards the pistil, or\nslowly move one after the other towards it, the contrivance seems\nadapted solely to ensure self-fertilisation; and no doubt it is useful\nfor this end: but, the agency of insects is often required to cause the\nstamens to spring forward, as Kölreuter has shown to be the case with\nthe barberry; and curiously in this very genus, which seems to have a\nspecial contrivance for self-fertilisation, it is well known that if\nvery closely-allied forms or varieties are planted near each other, it\nis hardly possible to raise pure seedlings, so largely do they\nnaturally cross. In many other cases, far from there being any aids for\nself-fertilisation, there are special contrivances, as I could show\nfrom the writings of C. C. Sprengel and from my own observations, which\neffectually prevent the stigma receiving pollen from its own flower:\nfor instance, in Lobelia fulgens, there is a really beautiful and\nelaborate contrivance by which every one of the infinitely numerous\npollen-granules are swept out of the conjoined anthers of each flower,\nbefore the stigma of that individual flower is ready to receive them;\nand as this flower is never visited, at least in my garden, by insects,\nit never sets a seed, though by placing pollen from one flower on the\nstigma of another, I raised plenty of seedlings; and whilst another\nspecies of Lobelia growing close by, which is visited by bees, seeds\nfreely. In very many other cases, though there be no special mechanical\ncontrivance to prevent the stigma of a flower receiving its own pollen,\nyet, as\nC. C. Sprengel has shown, and as I can confirm, either the anthers\nburst before the stigma is ready for fertilisation, or the stigma is\nready before the pollen of that flower is ready, so that these plants\nhave in fact separated sexes, and must habitually be crossed. How\nstrange are these facts! How strange that the pollen and stigmatic\nsurface of the same flower, though placed so close together, as if for\nthe very purpose of self-fertilisation, should in so many cases be\nmutually useless to each other! How simply are these facts explained on\nthe view of an occasional cross with a distinct individual being\nadvantageous or indispensable!\n\nIf several varieties of the cabbage, radish, onion, and of some other\nplants, be allowed to seed near each other, a large majority, as I have\nfound, of the seedlings thus raised will turn out mongrels: for\ninstance, I raised 233 seedling cabbages from some plants of different\nvarieties growing near each other, and of these only 78 were true to\ntheir kind, and some even of these were not perfectly true. Yet the\npistil of each cabbage-flower is surrounded not only by its own six\nstamens, but by those of the many other flowers on the same plant. How,\nthen, comes it that such a vast number of the seedlings are\nmongrelized? I suspect that it must arise from the pollen of a distinct\n_variety_ having a prepotent effect over a flower’s own pollen; and\nthat this is part of the general law of good being derived from the\nintercrossing of distinct individuals of the same species. When\ndistinct _species_ are crossed the case is directly the reverse, for a\nplant’s own pollen is always prepotent over foreign pollen; but to this\nsubject we shall return in a future chapter.\n\nIn the case of a gigantic tree covered with innumerable flowers, it may\nbe objected that pollen could seldom be carried from tree to tree, and\nat most only from flower\nto flower on the same tree, and that flowers on the same tree can be\nconsidered as distinct individuals only in a limited sense. I believe\nthis objection to be valid, but that nature has largely provided\nagainst it by giving to trees a strong tendency to bear flowers with\nseparated sexes. When the sexes are separated, although the male and\nfemale flowers may be produced on the same tree, we can see that pollen\nmust be regularly carried from flower to flower; and this will give a\nbetter chance of pollen being occasionally carried from tree to tree.\nThat trees belonging to all Orders have their sexes more often\nseparated than other plants, I find to be the case in this country; and\nat my request Dr. Hooker tabulated the trees of New Zealand, and Dr.\nAsa Gray those of the United States, and the result was as I\nanticipated. On the other hand, Dr. Hooker has recently informed me\nthat he finds that the rule does not hold in Australia; and I have made\nthese few remarks on the sexes of trees simply to call attention to the\nsubject.\n\nTurning for a very brief space to animals: on the land there are some\nhermaphrodites, as land-mollusca and earth-worms; but these all pair.\nAs yet I have not found a single case of a terrestrial animal which\nfertilises itself. We can understand this remarkable fact, which offers\nso strong a contrast with terrestrial plants, on the view of an\noccasional cross being indispensable, by considering the medium in\nwhich terrestrial animals live, and the nature of the fertilising\nelement; for we know of no means, analogous to the action of insects\nand of the wind in the case of plants, by which an occasional cross\ncould be effected with terrestrial animals without the concurrence of\ntwo individuals. Of aquatic animals, there are many self-fertilising\nhermaphrodites; but here currents in the water offer an obvious means\nfor an occasional cross. And, as in the case of flowers, I have as yet\nfailed, after consultation with one of the highest authorities, namely,\nProfessor Huxley, to discover a single case of an hermaphrodite animal\nwith the organs of reproduction so perfectly enclosed within the body,\nthat access from without and the occasional influence of a distinct\nindividual can be shown to be physically impossible. Cirripedes long\nappeared to me to present a case of very great difficulty under this\npoint of view; but I have been enabled, by a fortunate chance,\nelsewhere to prove that two individuals, though both are\nself-fertilising hermaphrodites, do sometimes cross.\n\nIt must have struck most naturalists as a strange anomaly that, in the\ncase of both animals and plants, species of the same family and even of\nthe same genus, though agreeing closely with each other in almost their\nwhole organisation, yet are not rarely, some of them hermaphrodites,\nand some of them unisexual. But if, in fact, all hermaphrodites do\noccasionally intercross with other individuals, the difference between\nhermaphrodites and unisexual species, as far as function is concerned,\nbecomes very small.\n\nFrom these several considerations and from the many special facts which\nI have collected, but which I am not here able to give, I am strongly\ninclined to suspect that, both in the vegetable and animal kingdoms, an\noccasional intercross with a distinct individual is a law of nature. I\nam well aware that there are, on this view, many cases of difficulty,\nsome of which I am trying to investigate. Finally then, we may conclude\nthat in many organic beings, a cross between two individuals is an\nobvious necessity for each birth; in many others it occurs perhaps only\nat long intervals; but in none, as I suspect, can self-fertilisation go\non for perpetuity.\n\n_Circumstances favourable to Natural Selection_.—This\nis an extremely intricate subject. A large amount of inheritable and\ndiversified variability is favourable, but I believe mere individual\ndifferences suffice for the work. A large number of individuals, by\ngiving a better chance for the appearance within any given period of\nprofitable variations, will compensate for a lesser amount of\nvariability in each individual, and is, I believe, an extremely\nimportant element of success. Though nature grants vast periods of time\nfor the work of natural selection, she does not grant an indefinite\nperiod; for as all organic beings are striving, it may be said, to\nseize on each place in the economy of nature, if any one species does\nnot become modified and improved in a corresponding degree with its\ncompetitors, it will soon be exterminated.\n\nIn man’s methodical selection, a breeder selects for some definite\nobject, and free intercrossing will wholly stop his work. But when many\nmen, without intending to alter the breed, have a nearly common\nstandard of perfection, and all try to get and breed from the best\nanimals, much improvement and modification surely but slowly follow\nfrom this unconscious process of selection, notwithstanding a large\namount of crossing with inferior animals. Thus it will be in nature;\nfor within a confined area, with some place in its polity not so\nperfectly occupied as might be, natural selection will always tend to\npreserve all the individuals varying in the right direction, though in\ndifferent degrees, so as better to fill up the unoccupied place. But if\nthe area be large, its several districts will almost certainly present\ndifferent conditions of life; and then if natural selection be\nmodifying and improving a species in the several districts, there will\nbe intercrossing with the other individuals of the same species on the\nconfines of each. And in this case the effects of intercrossing can\nhardly be counterbalanced\nby natural selection always tending to modify all the individuals in\neach district in exactly the same manner to the conditions of each; for\nin a continuous area, the conditions will generally graduate away\ninsensibly from one district to another. The intercrossing will most\naffect those animals which unite for each birth, which wander much, and\nwhich do not breed at a very quick rate. Hence in animals of this\nnature, for instance in birds, varieties will generally be confined to\nseparated countries; and this I believe to be the case. In\nhermaphrodite organisms which cross only occasionally, and likewise in\nanimals which unite for each birth, but which wander little and which\ncan increase at a very rapid rate, a new and improved variety might be\nquickly formed on any one spot, and might there maintain itself in a\nbody, so that whatever intercrossing took place would be chiefly\nbetween the individuals of the same new variety. A local variety when\nonce thus formed might subsequently slowly spread to other districts.\nOn the above principle, nurserymen always prefer getting seed from a\nlarge body of plants of the same variety, as the chance of\nintercrossing with other varieties is thus lessened.\n\nEven in the case of slow-breeding animals, which unite for each birth,\nwe must not overrate the effects of intercrosses in retarding natural\nselection; for I can bring a considerable catalogue of facts, showing\nthat within the same area, varieties of the same animal can long remain\ndistinct, from haunting different stations, from breeding at slightly\ndifferent seasons, or from varieties of the same kind preferring to\npair together.\n\nIntercrossing plays a very important part in nature in keeping the\nindividuals of the same species, or of the same variety, true and\nuniform in character. It will obviously thus act far more efficiently\nwith those animals\nwhich unite for each birth; but I have already attempted to show that\nwe have reason to believe that occasional intercrosses take place with\nall animals and with all plants. Even if these take place only at long\nintervals, I am convinced that the young thus produced will gain so\nmuch in vigour and fertility over the offspring from long-continued\nself-fertilisation, that they will have a better chance of surviving\nand propagating their kind; and thus, in the long run, the influence of\nintercrosses, even at rare intervals, will be great. If there exist\norganic beings which never intercross, uniformity of character can be\nretained amongst them, as long as their conditions of life remain the\nsame, only through the principle of inheritance, and through natural\nselection destroying any which depart from the proper type; but if\ntheir conditions of life change and they undergo modification,\nuniformity of character can be given to their modified offspring,\nsolely by natural selection preserving the same favourable variations.\n\nIsolation, also, is an important element in the process of natural\nselection. In a confined or isolated area, if not very large, the\norganic and inorganic conditions of life will generally be in a great\ndegree uniform; so that natural selection will tend to modify all the\nindividuals of a varying species throughout the area in the same manner\nin relation to the same conditions. Intercrosses, also, with the\nindividuals of the same species, which otherwise would have inhabited\nthe surrounding and differently circumstanced districts, will be\nprevented. But isolation probably acts more efficiently in checking the\nimmigration of better adapted organisms, after any physical change,\nsuch as of climate or elevation of the land, etc.; and thus new places\nin the natural economy of the country are left open for the old\ninhabitants to struggle for, and become adapted to, through\nmodifications\nin their structure and constitution. Lastly, isolation, by checking\nimmigration and consequently competition, will give time for any new\nvariety to be slowly improved; and this may sometimes be of importance\nin the production of new species. If, however, an isolated area be very\nsmall, either from being surrounded by barriers, or from having very\npeculiar physical conditions, the total number of the individuals\nsupported on it will necessarily be very small; and fewness of\nindividuals will greatly retard the production of new species through\nnatural selection, by decreasing the chance of the appearance of\nfavourable variations.\n\nIf we turn to nature to test the truth of these remarks, and look at\nany small isolated area, such as an oceanic island, although the total\nnumber of the species inhabiting it, will be found to be small, as we\nshall see in our chapter on geographical distribution; yet of these\nspecies a very large proportion are endemic,—that is, have been\nproduced there, and nowhere else. Hence an oceanic island at first\nsight seems to have been highly favourable for the production of new\nspecies. But we may thus greatly deceive ourselves, for to ascertain\nwhether a small isolated area, or a large open area like a continent,\nhas been most favourable for the production of new organic forms, we\nought to make the comparison within equal times; and this we are\nincapable of doing.\n\nAlthough I do not doubt that isolation is of considerable importance in\nthe production of new species, on the whole I am inclined to believe\nthat largeness of area is of more importance, more especially in the\nproduction of species, which will prove capable of enduring for a long\nperiod, and of spreading widely. Throughout a great and open area, not\nonly will there be a better chance of favourable variations arising\nfrom the large number of individuals of the same species\nthere supported, but the conditions of life are infinitely complex from\nthe large number of already existing species; and if some of these many\nspecies become modified and improved, others will have to be improved\nin a corresponding degree or they will be exterminated. Each new form,\nalso, as soon as it has been much improved, will be able to spread over\nthe open and continuous area, and will thus come into competition with\nmany others. Hence more new places will be formed, and the competition\nto fill them will be more severe, on a large than on a small and\nisolated area. Moreover, great areas, though now continuous, owing to\noscillations of level, will often have recently existed in a broken\ncondition, so that the good effects of isolation will generally, to a\ncertain extent, have concurred. Finally, I conclude that, although\nsmall isolated areas probably have been in some respects highly\nfavourable for the production of new species, yet that the course of\nmodification will generally have been more rapid on large areas; and\nwhat is more important, that the new forms produced on large areas,\nwhich already have been victorious over many competitors, will be those\nthat will spread most widely, will give rise to most new varieties and\nspecies, and will thus play an important part in the changing history\nof the organic world.\n\nWe can, perhaps, on these views, understand some facts which will be\nagain alluded to in our chapter on geographical distribution; for\ninstance, that the productions of the smaller continent of Australia\nhave formerly yielded, and apparently are now yielding, before those of\nthe larger Europæo-Asiatic area. Thus, also, it is that continental\nproductions have everywhere become so largely naturalised on islands.\nOn a small island, the race for life will have been less severe, and\nthere will have been less modification and less extermination.\nHence, perhaps, it comes that the flora of Madeira, according to Oswald\nHeer, resembles the extinct tertiary flora of Europe. All fresh-water\nbasins, taken together, make a small area compared with that of the sea\nor of the land; and, consequently, the competition between fresh-water\nproductions will have been less severe than elsewhere; new forms will\nhave been more slowly formed, and old forms more slowly exterminated.\nAnd it is in fresh water that we find seven genera of Ganoid fishes,\nremnants of a once preponderant order: and in fresh water we find some\nof the most anomalous forms now known in the world, as the\nOrnithorhynchus and Lepidosiren, which, like fossils, connect to a\ncertain extent orders now widely separated in the natural scale. These\nanomalous forms may almost be called living fossils; they have endured\nto the present day, from having inhabited a confined area, and from\nhaving thus been exposed to less severe competition.\n\nTo sum up the circumstances favourable and unfavourable to natural\nselection, as far as the extreme intricacy of the subject permits. I\nconclude, looking to the future, that for terrestrial productions a\nlarge continental area, which will probably undergo many oscillations\nof level, and which consequently will exist for long periods in a\nbroken condition, will be the most favourable for the production of\nmany new forms of life, likely to endure long and to spread widely. For\nthe area will first have existed as a continent, and the inhabitants,\nat this period numerous in individuals and kinds, will have been\nsubjected to very severe competition. When converted by subsidence into\nlarge separate islands, there will still exist many individuals of the\nsame species on each island: intercrossing on the confines of the range\nof each species will thus be checked: after physical changes of any\nkind, immigration will be prevented,\nso that new places in the polity of each island will have to be filled\nup by modifications of the old inhabitants; and time will be allowed\nfor the varieties in each to become well modified and perfected. When,\nby renewed elevation, the islands shall be re-converted into a\ncontinental area, there will again be severe competition: the most\nfavoured or improved varieties will be enabled to spread: there will be\nmuch extinction of the less improved forms, and the relative\nproportional numbers of the various inhabitants of the renewed\ncontinent will again be changed; and again there will be a fair field\nfor natural selection to improve still further the inhabitants, and\nthus produce new species.\n\nThat natural selection will always act with extreme slowness, I fully\nadmit. Its action depends on there being places in the polity of\nnature, which can be better occupied by some of the inhabitants of the\ncountry undergoing modification of some kind. The existence of such\nplaces will often depend on physical changes, which are generally very\nslow, and on the immigration of better adapted forms having been\nchecked. But the action of natural selection will probably still\noftener depend on some of the inhabitants becoming slowly modified; the\nmutual relations of many of the other inhabitants being thus disturbed.\nNothing can be effected, unless favourable variations occur, and\nvariation itself is apparently always a very slow process. The process\nwill often be greatly retarded by free intercrossing. Many will exclaim\nthat these several causes are amply sufficient wholly to stop the\naction of natural selection. I do not believe so. On the other hand, I\ndo believe that natural selection will always act very slowly, often\nonly at long intervals of time, and generally on only a very few of the\ninhabitants of the same region at the same time. I further believe,\nthat this very slow, intermittent\naction of natural selection accords perfectly well with what geology\ntells us of the rate and manner at which the inhabitants of this world\nhave changed.\n\nSlow though the process of selection may be, if feeble man can do much\nby his powers of artificial selection, I can see no limit to the amount\nof change, to the beauty and infinite complexity of the coadaptations\nbetween all organic beings, one with another and with their physical\nconditions of life, which may be effected in the long course of time by\nnature’s power of selection.\n\n_Extinction_.—This subject will be more fully discussed in our chapter\non Geology; but it must be here alluded to from being intimately\nconnected with natural selection. Natural selection acts solely through\nthe preservation of variations in some way advantageous, which\nconsequently endure. But as from the high geometrical powers of\nincrease of all organic beings, each area is already fully stocked with\ninhabitants, it follows that as each selected and favoured form\nincreases in number, so will the less favoured forms decrease and\nbecome rare. Rarity, as geology tells us, is the precursor to\nextinction. We can, also, see that any form represented by few\nindividuals will, during fluctuations in the seasons or in the number\nof its enemies, run a good chance of utter extinction. But we may go\nfurther than this; for as new forms are continually and slowly being\nproduced, unless we believe that the number of specific forms goes on\nperpetually and almost indefinitely increasing, numbers inevitably must\nbecome extinct. That the number of specific forms has not indefinitely\nincreased, geology shows us plainly; and indeed we can see reason why\nthey should not have thus increased, for the number of places in the\npolity of nature is not indefinitely great,—not that we\nhave any means of knowing that any one region has as yet got its\nmaximum of species. Probably no region is as yet fully stocked, for at\nthe Cape of Good Hope, where more species of plants are crowded\ntogether than in any other quarter of the world, some foreign plants\nhave become naturalised, without causing, as far as we know, the\nextinction of any natives.\n\nFurthermore, the species which are most numerous in individuals will\nhave the best chance of producing within any given period favourable\nvariations. We have evidence of this, in the facts given in the second\nchapter, showing that it is the common species which afford the\ngreatest number of recorded varieties, or incipient species. Hence,\nrare species will be less quickly modified or improved within any given\nperiod, and they will consequently be beaten in the race for life by\nthe modified descendants of the commoner species.\n\nFrom these several considerations I think it inevitably follows, that\nas new species in the course of time are formed through natural\nselection, others will become rarer and rarer, and finally extinct. The\nforms which stand in closest competition with those undergoing\nmodification and improvement, will naturally suffer most. And we have\nseen in the chapter on the Struggle for Existence that it is the most\nclosely-allied forms,—varieties of the same species, and species of the\nsame genus or of related genera,—which, from having nearly the same\nstructure, constitution, and habits, generally come into the severest\ncompetition with each other. Consequently, each new variety or species,\nduring the progress of its formation, will generally press hardest on\nits nearest kindred, and tend to exterminate them. We see the same\nprocess of extermination amongst our domesticated productions, through\nthe selection of improved forms by man. Many curious\ninstances could be given showing how quickly new breeds of cattle,\nsheep, and other animals, and varieties of flowers, take the place of\nolder and inferior kinds. In Yorkshire, it is historically known that\nthe ancient black cattle were displaced by the long-horns, and that\nthese “were swept away by the short-horns” (I quote the words of an\nagricultural writer) “as if by some murderous pestilence.”\n\n_Divergence of Character_.—The principle, which I have designated by\nthis term, is of high importance on my theory, and explains, as I\nbelieve, several important facts. In the first place, varieties, even\nstrongly-marked ones, though having somewhat of the character of\nspecies—as is shown by the hopeless doubts in many cases how to rank\nthem—yet certainly differ from each other far less than do good and\ndistinct species. Nevertheless, according to my view, varieties are\nspecies in the process of formation, or are, as I have called them,\nincipient species. How, then, does the lesser difference between\nvarieties become augmented into the greater difference between species?\nThat this does habitually happen, we must infer from most of the\ninnumerable species throughout nature presenting well-marked\ndifferences; whereas varieties, the supposed prototypes and parents of\nfuture well-marked species, present slight and ill-defined differences.\nMere chance, as we may call it, might cause one variety to differ in\nsome character from its parents, and the offspring of this variety\nagain to differ from its parent in the very same character and in a\ngreater degree; but this alone would never account for so habitual and\nlarge an amount of difference as that between varieties of the same\nspecies and species of the same genus.\n\nAs has always been my practice, let us seek light on\nthis head from our domestic productions. We shall here find something\nanalogous. A fancier is struck by a pigeon having a slightly shorter\nbeak; another fancier is struck by a pigeon having a rather longer\nbeak; and on the acknowledged principle that “fanciers do not and will\nnot admire a medium standard, but like extremes,” they both go on (as\nhas actually occurred with tumbler-pigeons) choosing and breeding from\nbirds with longer and longer beaks, or with shorter and shorter beaks.\nAgain, we may suppose that at an early period one man preferred swifter\nhorses; another stronger and more bulky horses. The early differences\nwould be very slight; in the course of time, from the continued\nselection of swifter horses by some breeders, and of stronger ones by\nothers, the differences would become greater, and would be noted as\nforming two sub-breeds; finally, after the lapse of centuries, the\nsub-breeds would become converted into two well-established and\ndistinct breeds. As the differences slowly become greater, the inferior\nanimals with intermediate characters, being neither very swift nor very\nstrong, will have been neglected, and will have tended to disappear.\nHere, then, we see in man’s productions the action of what may be\ncalled the principle of divergence, causing differences, at first\nbarely appreciable, steadily to increase, and the breeds to diverge in\ncharacter both from each other and from their common parent.\n\nBut how, it may be asked, can any analogous principle apply in nature?\nI believe it can and does apply most efficiently, from the simple\ncircumstance that the more diversified the descendants from any one\nspecies become in structure, constitution, and habits, by so much will\nthey be better enabled to seize on many and widely diversified places\nin the polity of nature, and so be enabled to increase in numbers.\n\n\nWe can clearly see this in the case of animals with simple habits. Take\nthe case of a carnivorous quadruped, of which the number that can be\nsupported in any country has long ago arrived at its full average. If\nits natural powers of increase be allowed to act, it can succeed in\nincreasing (the country not undergoing any change in its conditions)\nonly by its varying descendants seizing on places at present occupied\nby other animals: some of them, for instance, being enabled to feed on\nnew kinds of prey, either dead or alive; some inhabiting new stations,\nclimbing trees, frequenting water, and some perhaps becoming less\ncarnivorous. The more diversified in habits and structure the\ndescendants of our carnivorous animal became, the more places they\nwould be enabled to occupy. What applies to one animal will apply\nthroughout all time to all animals—that is, if they vary—for otherwise\nnatural selection can do nothing. So it will be with plants. It has\nbeen experimentally proved, that if a plot of ground be sown with one\nspecies of grass, and a similar plot be sown with several distinct\ngenera of grasses, a greater number of plants and a greater weight of\ndry herbage can thus be raised. The same has been found to hold good\nwhen first one variety and then several mixed varieties of wheat have\nbeen sown on equal spaces of ground. Hence, if any one species of grass\nwere to go on varying, and those varieties were continually selected\nwhich differed from each other in at all the same manner as distinct\nspecies and genera of grasses differ from each other, a greater number\nof individual plants of this species of grass, including its modified\ndescendants, would succeed in living on the same piece of ground. And\nwe well know that each species and each variety of grass is annually\nsowing almost countless seeds; and thus, as it may be said, is striving\nits utmost to increase its numbers. Consequently,\nI cannot doubt that in the course of many thousands of generations, the\nmost distinct varieties of any one species of grass would always have\nthe best chance of succeeding and of increasing in numbers, and thus of\nsupplanting the less distinct varieties; and varieties, when rendered\nvery distinct from each other, take the rank of species.\n\nThe truth of the principle, that the greatest amount of life can be\nsupported by great diversification of structure, is seen under many\nnatural circumstances. In an extremely small area, especially if freely\nopen to immigration, and where the contest between individual and\nindividual must be severe, we always find great diversity in its\ninhabitants. For instance, I found that a piece of turf, three feet by\nfour in size, which had been exposed for many years to exactly the same\nconditions, supported twenty species of plants, and these belonged to\neighteen genera and to eight orders, which shows how much these plants\ndiffered from each other. So it is with the plants and insects on small\nand uniform islets; and so in small ponds of fresh water. Farmers find\nthat they can raise most food by a rotation of plants belonging to the\nmost different orders: nature follows what may be called a simultaneous\nrotation. Most of the animals and plants which live close round any\nsmall piece of ground, could live on it (supposing it not to be in any\nway peculiar in its nature), and may be said to be striving to the\nutmost to live there; but, it is seen, that where they come into the\nclosest competition with each other, the advantages of diversification\nof structure, with the accompanying differences of habit and\nconstitution, determine that the inhabitants, which thus jostle each\nother most closely, shall, as a general rule, belong to what we call\ndifferent genera and orders.\n\nThe same principle is seen in the naturalisation of\nplants through man’s agency in foreign lands. It might have been\nexpected that the plants which have succeeded in becoming naturalised\nin any land would generally have been closely allied to the indigenes;\nfor these are commonly looked at as specially created and adapted for\ntheir own country. It might, also, perhaps have been expected that\nnaturalised plants would have belonged to a few groups more especially\nadapted to certain stations in their new homes. But the case is very\ndifferent; and Alph. De Candolle has well remarked in his great and\nadmirable work, that floras gain by naturalisation, proportionally with\nthe number of the native genera and species, far more in new genera\nthan in new species. To give a single instance: in the last edition of\nDr. Asa Gray’s ‘Manual of the Flora of the Northern United States,’ 260\nnaturalised plants are enumerated, and these belong to 162 genera. We\nthus see that these naturalised plants are of a highly diversified\nnature. They differ, moreover, to a large extent from the indigenes,\nfor out of the 162 genera, no less than 100 genera are not there\nindigenous, and thus a large proportional addition is made to the\ngenera of these States.\n\nBy considering the nature of the plants or animals which have struggled\nsuccessfully with the indigenes of any country, and have there become\nnaturalised, we can gain some crude idea in what manner some of the\nnatives would have had to be modified, in order to have gained an\nadvantage over the other natives; and we may, I think, at least safely\ninfer that diversification of structure, amounting to new generic\ndifferences, would have been profitable to them.\n\nThe advantage of diversification in the inhabitants of the same region\nis, in fact, the same as that of the physiological division of labour\nin the organs of the same individual body—a subject so well elucidated\nby\nMilne Edwards. No physiologist doubts that a stomach by being adapted\nto digest vegetable matter alone, or flesh alone, draws most nutriment\nfrom these substances. So in the general economy of any land, the more\nwidely and perfectly the animals and plants are diversified for\ndifferent habits of life, so will a greater number of individuals be\ncapable of there supporting themselves. A set of animals, with their\norganisation but little diversified, could hardly compete with a set\nmore perfectly diversified in structure. It may be doubted, for\ninstance, whether the Australian marsupials, which are divided into\ngroups differing but little from each other, and feebly representing,\nas Mr. Waterhouse and others have remarked, our carnivorous, ruminant,\nand rodent mammals, could successfully compete with these\nwell-pronounced orders. In the Australian mammals, we see the process\nof diversification in an early and incomplete stage of development.\nAfter the foregoing discussion, which ought to have been much\namplified, we may, I think, assume that the modified descendants of any\none species will succeed by so much the better as they become more\ndiversified in structure, and are thus enabled to encroach on places\noccupied by other beings. Now let us see how this principle of great\nbenefit being derived from divergence of character, combined with the\nprinciples of natural selection and of extinction, will tend to act.\n\nThe accompanying diagram will aid us in understanding this rather\nperplexing subject. Let A to L represent the species of a genus large\nin its own country; these species are supposed to resemble each other\nin unequal degrees, as is so generally the case in nature, and as is\nrepresented in the diagram by the letters standing at unequal\ndistances. I have said a large genus, because we have seen in the\nsecond chapter,\nthat on an average more of the species of large genera vary than of\nsmall genera; and the varying species of the large genera present a\ngreater number of varieties. We have, also, seen that the species,\nwhich are the commonest and the most widely-diffused, vary more than\nrare species with restricted ranges. Let (A) be a common,\nwidely-diffused, and varying species, belonging to a genus large in its\nown country. The little fan of diverging dotted lines of unequal\nlengths proceeding from (A), may represent its varying offspring. The\nvariations are supposed to be extremely slight, but of the most\ndiversified nature; they are not supposed all to appear simultaneously,\nbut often after long intervals of time; nor are they all supposed to\nendure for equal periods. Only those variations which are in some way\nprofitable will be preserved or naturally selected. And here the\nimportance of the principle of benefit being derived from divergence of\ncharacter comes in; for this will generally lead to the most different\nor divergent variations (represented by the outer dotted lines) being\npreserved and accumulated by natural selection. When a dotted line\nreaches one of the horizontal lines, and is there marked by a small\nnumbered letter, a sufficient amount of variation is supposed to have\nbeen accumulated to have formed a fairly well-marked variety, such as\nwould be thought worthy of record in a systematic work.\n\nThe intervals between the horizontal lines in the diagram, may\nrepresent each a thousand generations; but it would have been better if\neach had represented ten thousand generations. After a thousand\ngenerations, species (A) is supposed to have produced two fairly\nwell-marked varieties, namely _a_1 and _m_1. These two varieties will\ngenerally continue to be exposed to the same conditions which made\ntheir parents variable,\nand the tendency to variability is in itself hereditary, consequently\nthey will tend to vary, and generally to vary in nearly the same manner\nas their parents varied. Moreover, these two varieties, being only\nslightly modified forms, will tend to inherit those advantages which\nmade their common parent (A) more numerous than most of the other\ninhabitants of the same country; they will likewise partake of those\nmore general advantages which made the genus to which the\nparent-species belonged, a large genus in its own country. And these\ncircumstances we know to be favourable to the production of new\nvarieties.\n\nIf, then, these two varieties be variable, the most divergent of their\nvariations will generally be preserved during the next thousand\ngenerations. And after this interval, variety _a_1 is supposed in the\ndiagram to have produced variety _a_2, which will, owing to the\nprinciple of divergence, differ more from (A) than did variety _a_1.\nVariety _m_1 is supposed to have produced two varieties, namely _m_2\nand _s_2, differing from each other, and more considerably from their\ncommon parent (A). We may continue the process by similar steps for any\nlength of time; some of the varieties, after each thousand generations,\nproducing only a single variety, but in a more and more modified\ncondition, some producing two or three varieties, and some failing to\nproduce any. Thus the varieties or modified descendants, proceeding\nfrom the common parent (A), will generally go on increasing in number\nand diverging in character. In the diagram the process is represented\nup to the ten-thousandth generation, and under a condensed and\nsimplified form up to the fourteen-thousandth generation.\n\nBut I must here remark that I do not suppose that the process ever goes\non so regularly as is represented in the diagram, though in itself made\nsomewhat irregular.\nI am far from thinking that the most divergent varieties will\ninvariably prevail and multiply: a medium form may often long endure,\nand may or may not produce more than one modified descendant; for\nnatural selection will always act according to the nature of the places\nwhich are either unoccupied or not perfectly occupied by other beings;\nand this will depend on infinitely complex relations. But as a general\nrule, the more diversified in structure the descendants from any one\nspecies can be rendered, the more places they will be enabled to seize\non, and the more their modified progeny will be increased. In our\ndiagram the line of succession is broken at regular intervals by small\nnumbered letters marking the successive forms which have become\nsufficiently distinct to be recorded as varieties. But these breaks are\nimaginary, and might have been inserted anywhere, after intervals long\nenough to have allowed the accumulation of a considerable amount of\ndivergent variation.\n\nAs all the modified descendants from a common and widely-diffused\nspecies, belonging to a large genus, will tend to partake of the same\nadvantages which made their parent successful in life, they will\ngenerally go on multiplying in number as well as diverging in\ncharacter: this is represented in the diagram by the several divergent\nbranches proceeding from (A). The modified offspring from the later and\nmore highly improved branches in the lines of descent, will, it is\nprobable, often take the place of, and so destroy, the earlier and less\nimproved branches: this is represented in the diagram by some of the\nlower branches not reaching to the upper horizontal lines. In some\ncases I do not doubt that the process of modification will be confined\nto a single line of descent, and the number of the descendants will not\nbe increased; although the amount\nof divergent modification may have been increased in the successive\ngenerations. This case would be represented in the diagram, if all the\nlines proceeding from (A) were removed, excepting that from _a_1 to\n_a_10. In the same way, for instance, the English race-horse and\nEnglish pointer have apparently both gone on slowly diverging in\ncharacter from their original stocks, without either having given off\nany fresh branches or races.\n\nAfter ten thousand generations, species (A) is supposed to have\nproduced three forms, _a_10, _f_10, and _m_10, which, from having\ndiverged in character during the successive generations, will have come\nto differ largely, but perhaps unequally, from each other and from\ntheir common parent. If we suppose the amount of change between each\nhorizontal line in our diagram to be excessively small, these three\nforms may still be only well-marked varieties; or they may have arrived\nat the doubtful category of sub-species; but we have only to suppose\nthe steps in the process of modification to be more numerous or greater\nin amount, to convert these three forms into well-defined species: thus\nthe diagram illustrates the steps by which the small differences\ndistinguishing varieties are increased into the larger differences\ndistinguishing species. By continuing the same process for a greater\nnumber of generations (as shown in the diagram in a condensed and\nsimplified manner), we get eight species, marked by the letters between\n_a_14 and _m_14, all descended from (A). Thus, as I believe, species\nare multiplied and genera are formed.\n\nIn a large genus it is probable that more than one species would vary.\nIn the diagram I have assumed that a second species (I) has produced,\nby analogous steps, after ten thousand generations, either two\nwell-marked varieties (_w_10 and _z_10) or two species, according to\nthe amount of change supposed to be represented between\nthe horizontal lines. After fourteen thousand generations, six new\nspecies, marked by the letters _n_14 to _z_14, are supposed to have\nbeen produced. In each genus, the species, which are already extremely\ndifferent in character, will generally tend to produce the greatest\nnumber of modified descendants; for these will have the best chance of\nfilling new and widely different places in the polity of nature: hence\nin the diagram I have chosen the extreme species (A), and the nearly\nextreme species (I), as those which have largely varied, and have given\nrise to new varieties and species. The other nine species (marked by\ncapital letters) of our original genus, may for a long period continue\ntransmitting unaltered descendants; and this is shown in the diagram by\nthe dotted lines not prolonged far upwards from want of space.\n\nBut during the process of modification, represented in the diagram,\nanother of our principles, namely that of extinction, will have played\nan important part. As in each fully stocked country natural selection\nnecessarily acts by the selected form having some advantage in the\nstruggle for life over other forms, there will be a constant tendency\nin the improved descendants of any one species to supplant and\nexterminate in each stage of descent their predecessors and their\noriginal parent. For it should be remembered that the competition will\ngenerally be most severe between those forms which are most nearly\nrelated to each other in habits, constitution, and structure. Hence all\nthe intermediate forms between the earlier and later states, that is\nbetween the less and more improved state of a species, as well as the\noriginal parent-species itself, will generally tend to become extinct.\nSo it probably will be with many whole collateral lines of descent,\nwhich will be conquered by later and improved lines of descent. If,\nhowever, the\nmodified offspring of a species get into some distinct country, or\nbecome quickly adapted to some quite new station, in which child and\nparent do not come into competition, both may continue to exist.\n\nIf then our diagram be assumed to represent a considerable amount of\nmodification, species (A) and all the earlier varieties will have\nbecome extinct, having been replaced by eight new species (_a_14 to\n_m_14); and (I) will have been replaced by six (_n_14 to _z_14) new\nspecies.\n\nBut we may go further than this. The original species of our genus were\nsupposed to resemble each other in unequal degrees, as is so generally\nthe case in nature; species (A) being more nearly related to B, C, and\nD, than to the other species; and species (I) more to G, H, K, L, than\nto the others. These two species (A) and (I), were also supposed to be\nvery common and widely diffused species, so that they must originally\nhave had some advantage over most of the other species of the genus.\nTheir modified descendants, fourteen in number at the\nfourteen-thousandth generation, will probably have inherited some of\nthe same advantages: they have also been modified and improved in a\ndiversified manner at each stage of descent, so as to have become\nadapted to many related places in the natural economy of their country.\nIt seems, therefore, to me extremely probable that they will have taken\nthe places of, and thus exterminated, not only their parents (A) and\n(I), but likewise some of the original species which were most nearly\nrelated to their parents. Hence very few of the original species will\nhave transmitted offspring to the fourteen-thousandth generation. We\nmay suppose that only one (F), of the two species which were least\nclosely related to the other nine original species, has transmitted\ndescendants to this late stage of descent.\n\n\nThe new species in our diagram descended from the original eleven\nspecies, will now be fifteen in number. Owing to the divergent tendency\nof natural selection, the extreme amount of difference in character\nbetween species _a_14 and _z_14 will be much greater than that between\nthe most different of the original eleven species. The new species,\nmoreover, will be allied to each other in a widely different manner. Of\nthe eight descendants from (A) the three marked _a_14, _q_14, _p_14,\nwill be nearly related from having recently branched off from _a_10;\n_b_14 and _f_14, from having diverged at an earlier period from a5,\nwill be in some degree distinct from the three first-named species; and\nlastly, _0_14, _e_4, and _m_14, will be nearly related one to the\nother, but from having diverged at the first commencement of the\nprocess of modification, will be widely different from the other five\nspecies, and may constitute a sub-genus or even a distinct genus.\n\nThe six descendants from (I) will form two sub-genera or even genera.\nBut as the original species (I) differed largely from (A), standing\nnearly at the extreme points of the original genus, the six descendants\nfrom (I) will, owing to inheritance, differ considerably from the eight\ndescendants from (A); the two groups, moreover, are supposed to have\ngone on diverging in different directions. The intermediate species,\nalso (and this is a very important consideration), which connected the\noriginal species (A) and (I), have all become, excepting (F), extinct,\nand have left no descendants. Hence the six new species descended from\n(I), and the eight descended from (A), will have to be ranked as very\ndistinct genera, or even as distinct sub-families.\n\nThus it is, as I believe, that two or more genera are produced by\ndescent, with modification, from two or more species of the same genus.\nAnd the two or more\nparent-species are supposed to have descended from some one species of\nan earlier genus. In our diagram, this is indicated by the broken\nlines, beneath the capital letters, converging in sub-branches\ndownwards towards a single point; this point representing a single\nspecies, the supposed single parent of our several new sub-genera and\ngenera.\n\nIt is worth while to reflect for a moment on the character of the new\nspecies F14, which is supposed not to have diverged much in character,\nbut to have retained the form of (F), either unaltered or altered only\nin a slight degree. In this case, its affinities to the other fourteen\nnew species will be of a curious and circuitous nature. Having\ndescended from a form which stood between the two parent-species (A)\nand (I), now supposed to be extinct and unknown, it will be in some\ndegree intermediate in character between the two groups descended from\nthese species. But as these two groups have gone on diverging in\ncharacter from the type of their parents, the new species (F14) will\nnot be directly intermediate between them, but rather between types of\nthe two groups; and every naturalist will be able to bring some such\ncase before his mind.\n\nIn the diagram, each horizontal line has hitherto been supposed to\nrepresent a thousand generations, but each may represent a million or\nhundred million generations, and likewise a section of the successive\nstrata of the earth’s crust including extinct remains. We shall, when\nwe come to our chapter on Geology, have to refer again to this subject,\nand I think we shall then see that the diagram throws light on the\naffinities of extinct beings, which, though generally belonging to the\nsame orders, or families, or genera, with those now living, yet are\noften, in some degree, intermediate in character between existing\ngroups; and we can understand this fact, for\nthe extinct species lived at very ancient epochs when the branching\nlines of descent had diverged less.\n\nI see no reason to limit the process of modification, as now explained,\nto the formation of genera alone. If, in our diagram, we suppose the\namount of change represented by each successive group of diverging\ndotted lines to be very great, the forms marked _a_14 to _p_14, those\nmarked _b_14 and _f_14, and those marked _o_14 to _m_14, will form\nthree very distinct genera. We shall also have two very distinct genera\ndescended from (I) and as these latter two genera, both from continued\ndivergence of character and from inheritance from a different parent,\nwill differ widely from the three genera descended from (A), the two\nlittle groups of genera will form two distinct families, or even\norders, according to the amount of divergent modification supposed to\nbe represented in the diagram. And the two new families, or orders,\nwill have descended from two species of the original genus; and these\ntwo species are supposed to have descended from one species of a still\nmore ancient and unknown genus.\n\nWe have seen that in each country it is the species of the larger\ngenera which oftenest present varieties or incipient species. This,\nindeed, might have been expected; for as natural selection acts through\none form having some advantage over other forms in the struggle for\nexistence, it will chiefly act on those which already have some\nadvantage; and the largeness of any group shows that its species have\ninherited from a common ancestor some advantage in common. Hence, the\nstruggle for the production of new and modified descendants, will\nmainly lie between the larger groups, which are all trying to increase\nin number. One large group will slowly conquer another large group,\nreduce its numbers, and thus lessen its chance of further variation and\nimprovement. Within the same large\ngroup, the later and more highly perfected sub-groups, from branching\nout and seizing on many new places in the polity of Nature, will\nconstantly tend to supplant and destroy the earlier and less improved\nsub-groups. Small and broken groups and sub-groups will finally tend to\ndisappear. Looking to the future, we can predict that the groups of\norganic beings which are now large and triumphant, and which are least\nbroken up, that is, which as yet have suffered least extinction, will\nfor a long period continue to increase. But which groups will\nultimately prevail, no man can predict; for we well know that many\ngroups, formerly most extensively developed, have now become extinct.\nLooking still more remotely to the future, we may predict that, owing\nto the continued and steady increase of the larger groups, a multitude\nof smaller groups will become utterly extinct, and leave no modified\ndescendants; and consequently that of the species living at any one\nperiod, extremely few will transmit descendants to a remote futurity. I\nshall have to return to this subject in the chapter on Classification,\nbut I may add that on this view of extremely few of the more ancient\nspecies having transmitted descendants, and on the view of all the\ndescendants of the same species making a class, we can understand how\nit is that there exist but very few classes in each main division of\nthe animal and vegetable kingdoms. Although extremely few of the most\nancient species may now have living and modified descendants, yet at\nthe most remote geological period, the earth may have been as well\npeopled with many species of many genera, families, orders, and\nclasses, as at the present day.\n\n_Summary of the Chapter_.—If during the long course of ages and under\nvarying conditions of life, organic beings\nvary at all in the several parts of their organisation, and I think\nthis cannot be disputed; if there be, owing to the high geometrical\npowers of increase of each species, at some age, season, or year, a\nsevere struggle for life, and this certainly cannot be disputed; then,\nconsidering the infinite complexity of the relations of all organic\nbeings to each other and to their conditions of existence, causing an\ninfinite diversity in structure, constitution, and habits, to be\nadvantageous to them, I think it would be a most extraordinary fact if\nno variation ever had occurred useful to each being’s own welfare, in\nthe same way as so many variations have occurred useful to man. But if\nvariations useful to any organic being do occur, assuredly individuals\nthus characterised will have the best chance of being preserved in the\nstruggle for life; and from the strong principle of inheritance they\nwill tend to produce offspring similarly characterised. This principle\nof preservation, I have called, for the sake of brevity, Natural\nSelection. Natural selection, on the principle of qualities being\ninherited at corresponding ages, can modify the egg, seed, or young, as\neasily as the adult. Amongst many animals, sexual selection will give\nits aid to ordinary selection, by assuring to the most vigorous and\nbest adapted males the greatest number of offspring. Sexual selection\nwill also give characters useful to the males alone, in their struggles\nwith other males.\n\nWhether natural selection has really thus acted in nature, in modifying\nand adapting the various forms of life to their several conditions and\nstations, must be judged of by the general tenour and balance of\nevidence given in the following chapters. But we already see how it\nentails extinction; and how largely extinction has acted in the world’s\nhistory, geology plainly declares. Natural selection, also, leads to\ndivergence of\ncharacter; for more living beings can be supported on the same area the\nmore they diverge in structure, habits, and constitution, of which we\nsee proof by looking at the inhabitants of any small spot or at\nnaturalised productions. Therefore during the modification of the\ndescendants of any one species, and during the incessant struggle of\nall species to increase in numbers, the more diversified these\ndescendants become, the better will be their chance of succeeding in\nthe battle of life. Thus the small differences distinguishing varieties\nof the same species, will steadily tend to increase till they come to\nequal the greater differences between species of the same genus, or\neven of distinct genera.\n\nWe have seen that it is the common, the widely-diffused, and\nwidely-ranging species, belonging to the larger genera, which vary\nmost; and these will tend to transmit to their modified offspring that\nsuperiority which now makes them dominant in their own countries.\nNatural selection, as has just been remarked, leads to divergence of\ncharacter and to much extinction of the less improved and intermediate\nforms of life. On these principles, I believe, the nature of the\naffinities of all organic beings may be explained. It is a truly\nwonderful fact—the wonder of which we are apt to overlook from\nfamiliarity—that all animals and all plants throughout all time and\nspace should be related to each other in group subordinate to group, in\nthe manner which we everywhere behold—namely, varieties of the same\nspecies most closely related together, species of the same genus less\nclosely and unequally related together, forming sections and\nsub-genera, species of distinct genera much less closely related, and\ngenera related in different degrees, forming sub-families, families,\norders, sub-classes, and classes. The several subordinate groups in any\nclass cannot be\nranked in a single file, but seem rather to be clustered round points,\nand these round other points, and so on in almost endless cycles. On\nthe view that each species has been independently created, I can see no\nexplanation of this great fact in the classification of all organic\nbeings; but, to the best of my judgment, it is explained through\ninheritance and the complex action of natural selection, entailing\nextinction and divergence of character, as we have seen illustrated in\nthe diagram.\n\nThe affinities of all the beings of the same class have sometimes been\nrepresented by a great tree. I believe this simile largely speaks the\ntruth. The green and budding twigs may represent existing species; and\nthose produced during each former year may represent the long\nsuccession of extinct species. At each period of growth all the growing\ntwigs have tried to branch out on all sides, and to overtop and kill\nthe surrounding twigs and branches, in the same manner as species and\ngroups of species have tried to overmaster other species in the great\nbattle for life. The limbs divided into great branches, and these into\nlesser and lesser branches, were themselves once, when the tree was\nsmall, budding twigs; and this connexion of the former and present buds\nby ramifying branches may well represent the classification of all\nextinct and living species in groups subordinate to groups. Of the many\ntwigs which flourished when the tree was a mere bush, only two or\nthree, now grown into great branches, yet survive and bear all the\nother branches; so with the species which lived during long-past\ngeological periods, very few now have living and modified descendants.\nFrom the first growth of the tree, many a limb and branch has decayed\nand dropped off; and these lost branches of various sizes may represent\nthose whole orders, families, and genera which have now no living\nrepresentatives, and\nwhich are known to us only from having been found in a fossil state. As\nwe here and there see a thin straggling branch springing from a fork\nlow down in a tree, and which by some chance has been favoured and is\nstill alive on its summit, so we occasionally see an animal like the\nOrnithorhynchus or Lepidosiren, which in some small degree connects by\nits affinities two large branches of life, and which has apparently\nbeen saved from fatal competition by having inhabited a protected\nstation. As buds give rise by growth to fresh buds, and these, if\nvigorous, branch out and overtop on all sides many a feebler branch, so\nby generation I believe it has been with the great Tree of Life, which\nfills with its dead and broken branches the crust of the earth, and\ncovers the surface with its ever branching and beautiful ramifications.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\nLAWS OF VARIATION.\n\n\nEffects of external conditions. Use and disuse, combined with natural\nselection; organs of flight and of vision. Acclimatisation. Correlation\nof growth. Compensation and economy of growth. False correlations.\nMultiple, rudimentary, and lowly organised structures variable. Parts\ndeveloped in an unusual manner are highly variable: specific characters\nmore variable than generic: secondary sexual characters variable.\nSpecies of the same genus vary in an analogous manner. Reversions to\nlong lost characters. Summary.\n\n\nI have hitherto sometimes spoken as if the variations—so common and\nmultiform in organic beings under domestication, and in a lesser degree\nin those in a state of nature—had been due to chance. This, of course,\nis a wholly incorrect expression, but it serves to acknowledge plainly\nour ignorance of the cause of each particular variation. Some authors\nbelieve it to be as much the function of the reproductive system to\nproduce individual differences, or very slight deviations of structure,\nas to make the child like its parents. But the much greater\nvariability, as well as the greater frequency of monstrosities, under\ndomestication or cultivation, than under nature, leads me to believe\nthat deviations of structure are in some way due to the nature of the\nconditions of life, to which the parents and their more remote\nancestors have been exposed during several generations. I have remarked\nin the first chapter—but a long catalogue of facts which cannot be here\ngiven would be necessary to show the truth of the remark—that the\nreproductive system is eminently susceptible to changes in the\nconditions of life; and to\nthis system being functionally disturbed in the parents, I chiefly\nattribute the varying or plastic condition of the offspring. The male\nand female sexual elements seem to be affected before that union takes\nplace which is to form a new being. In the case of “sporting” plants,\nthe bud, which in its earliest condition does not apparently differ\nessentially from an ovule, is alone affected. But why, because the\nreproductive system is disturbed, this or that part should vary more or\nless, we are profoundly ignorant. Nevertheless, we can here and there\ndimly catch a faint ray of light, and we may feel sure that there must\nbe some cause for each deviation of structure, however slight.\n\nHow much direct effect difference of climate, food, etc., produces on\nany being is extremely doubtful. My impression is, that the effect is\nextremely small in the case of animals, but perhaps rather more in that\nof plants. We may, at least, safely conclude that such influences\ncannot have produced the many striking and complex co-adaptations of\nstructure between one organic being and another, which we see\neverywhere throughout nature. Some little influence may be attributed\nto climate, food, etc.: thus, E. Forbes speaks confidently that shells\nat their southern limit, and when living in shallow water, are more\nbrightly coloured than those of the same species further north or from\ngreater depths. Gould believes that birds of the same species are more\nbrightly coloured under a clear atmosphere, than when living on islands\nor near the coast. So with insects, Wollaston is convinced that\nresidence near the sea affects their colours. Moquin-Tandon gives a\nlist of plants which when growing near the sea-shore have their leaves\nin some degree fleshy, though not elsewhere fleshy. Several other such\ncases could be given.\n\nThe fact of varieties of one species, when they range\ninto the zone of habitation of other species, often acquiring in a very\nslight degree some of the characters of such species, accords with our\nview that species of all kinds are only well-marked and permanent\nvarieties. Thus the species of shells which are confined to tropical\nand shallow seas are generally brighter-coloured than those confined to\ncold and deeper seas. The birds which are confined to continents are,\naccording to Mr. Gould, brighter-coloured than those of islands. The\ninsect-species confined to sea-coasts, as every collector knows, are\noften brassy or lurid. Plants which live exclusively on the sea-side\nare very apt to have fleshy leaves. He who believes in the creation of\neach species, will have to say that this shell, for instance, was\ncreated with bright colours for a warm sea; but that this other shell\nbecame bright-coloured by variation when it ranged into warmer or\nshallower waters.\n\nWhen a variation is of the slightest use to a being, we cannot tell how\nmuch of it to attribute to the accumulative action of natural\nselection, and how much to the conditions of life. Thus, it is well\nknown to furriers that animals of the same species have thicker and\nbetter fur the more severe the climate is under which they have lived;\nbut who can tell how much of this difference may be due to the\nwarmest-clad individuals having been favoured and preserved during many\ngenerations, and how much to the direct action of the severe climate?\nfor it would appear that climate has some direct action on the hair of\nour domestic quadrupeds.\n\nInstances could be given of the same variety being produced under\nconditions of life as different as can well be conceived; and, on the\nother hand, of different varieties being produced from the same species\nunder the same conditions. Such facts show how indirectly into the zone\nof habitation of other species, often acquiring in a very slight degree\nsome of the characters of such species, accords with our view that\nspecies of all kinds are only well-marked and permanent varieties. Thus\nthe species of shells which are confined to tropical and shallow seas\nare generally brighter-coloured than those confined to cold and deeper\nseas. The birds which are confined to continents are, according to Mr.\nGould, brighter-coloured than those of islands. The insect-species\nconfined to sea-coasts, as every collector knows, are often brassy or\nlurid. Plants which live exclusively on the sea-side are very apt to\nhave fleshy leaves. He who believes in the creation of each species,\nwill have to say that this shell, for instance, was created with bright\ncolours for a warm sea; but that this other shell became\nbright-coloured by variation when it ranged into warmer or shallower\nwaters.\nthe conditions of life must act. Again, innumerable instances are known\nto every naturalist of species keeping true, or not varying at all,\nalthough living under the most opposite climates. Such considerations\nas these incline me to lay very little weight on the direct action of\nthe conditions of life. Indirectly, as already remarked, they seem to\nplay an important part in affecting the reproductive system, and in\nthus inducing variability; and natural selection will then accumulate\nall profitable variations, however slight, until they become plainly\ndeveloped and appreciable by us.\n\n_Effects of Use and Disuse_.—From the facts alluded to in the first\nchapter, I think there can be little doubt that use in our domestic\nanimals strengthens and enlarges certain parts, and disuse diminishes\nthem; and that such modifications are inherited. Under free nature, we\ncan have no standard of comparison, by which to judge of the effects of\nlong-continued use or disuse, for we know not the parent-forms; but\nmany animals have structures which can be explained by the effects of\ndisuse. As Professor Owen has remarked, there is no greater anomaly in\nnature than a bird that cannot fly; yet there are several in this\nstate. The logger-headed duck of South America can only flap along the\nsurface of the water, and has its wings in nearly the same condition as\nthe domestic Aylesbury duck. As the larger ground-feeding birds seldom\ntake flight except to escape danger, I believe that the nearly wingless\ncondition of several birds, which now inhabit or have lately inhabited\nseveral oceanic islands, tenanted by no beast of prey, has been caused\nby disuse. The ostrich indeed inhabits continents and is exposed to\ndanger from which it cannot escape by flight, but by kicking it can\ndefend itself from enemies, as well as any of the smaller\nquadrupeds. We may imagine that the early progenitor of the ostrich had\nhabits like those of a bustard, and that as natural selection increased\nin successive generations the size and weight of its body, its legs\nwere used more, and its wings less, until they became incapable of\nflight.\n\nKirby has remarked (and I have observed the same fact) that the\nanterior tarsi, or feet, of many male dung-feeding beetles are very\noften broken off; he examined seventeen specimens in his own\ncollection, and not one had even a relic left. In the Onites apelles\nthe tarsi are so habitually lost, that the insect has been described as\nnot having them. In some other genera they are present, but in a\nrudimentary condition. In the Ateuchus or sacred beetle of the\nEgyptians, they are totally deficient. There is not sufficient evidence\nto induce us to believe that mutilations are ever inherited; and I\nshould prefer explaining the entire absence of the anterior tarsi in\nAteuchus, and their rudimentary condition in some other genera, by the\nlong-continued effects of disuse in their progenitors; for as the tarsi\nare almost always lost in many dung-feeding beetles, they must be lost\nearly in life, and therefore cannot be much used by these insects.\n\nIn some cases we might easily put down to disuse modifications of\nstructure which are wholly, or mainly, due to natural selection. Mr.\nWollaston has discovered the remarkable fact that 200 beetles, out of\nthe 550 species inhabiting Madeira, are so far deficient in wings that\nthey cannot fly; and that of the twenty-nine endemic genera, no less\nthan twenty-three genera have all their species in this condition!\nSeveral facts, namely, that beetles in many parts of the world are very\nfrequently blown to sea and perish; that the beetles in Madeira, as\nobserved by Mr. Wollaston, lie much concealed,\nuntil the wind lulls and the sun shines; that the proportion of\nwingless beetles is larger on the exposed Dezertas than in Madeira\nitself; and especially the extraordinary fact, so strongly insisted on\nby Mr. Wollaston, of the almost entire absence of certain large groups\nof beetles, elsewhere excessively numerous, and which groups have\nhabits of life almost necessitating frequent flight;—these several\nconsiderations have made me believe that the wingless condition of so\nmany Madeira beetles is mainly due to the action of natural selection,\nbut combined probably with disuse. For during thousands of successive\ngenerations each individual beetle which flew least, either from its\nwings having been ever so little less perfectly developed or from\nindolent habit, will have had the best chance of surviving from not\nbeing blown out to sea; and, on the other hand, those beetles which\nmost readily took to flight will oftenest have been blown to sea and\nthus have been destroyed.\n\nThe insects in Madeira which are not ground-feeders, and which, as the\nflower-feeding coleoptera and lepidoptera, must habitually use their\nwings to gain their subsistence, have, as Mr. Wollaston suspects, their\nwings not at all reduced, but even enlarged. This is quite compatible\nwith the action of natural selection. For when a new insect first\narrived on the island, the tendency of natural selection to enlarge or\nto reduce the wings, would depend on whether a greater number of\nindividuals were saved by successfully battling with the winds, or by\ngiving up the attempt and rarely or never flying. As with mariners\nshipwrecked near a coast, it would have been better for the good\nswimmers if they had been able to swim still further, whereas it would\nhave been better for the bad swimmers if they had not been able to swim\nat all and had stuck to the wreck.\n\n\nThe eyes of moles and of some burrowing rodents are rudimentary in\nsize, and in some cases are quite covered up by skin and fur. This\nstate of the eyes is probably due to gradual reduction from disuse, but\naided perhaps by natural selection. In South America, a burrowing\nrodent, the tuco-tuco, or Ctenomys, is even more subterranean in its\nhabits than the mole; and I was assured by a Spaniard, who had often\ncaught them, that they were frequently blind; one which I kept alive\nwas certainly in this condition, the cause, as appeared on dissection,\nhaving been inflammation of the nictitating membrane. As frequent\ninflammation of the eyes must be injurious to any animal, and as eyes\nare certainly not indispensable to animals with subterranean habits, a\nreduction in their size with the adhesion of the eyelids and growth of\nfur over them, might in such case be an advantage; and if so, natural\nselection would constantly aid the effects of disuse.\n\nIt is well known that several animals, belonging to the most different\nclasses, which inhabit the caves of Styria and of Kentucky, are blind.\nIn some of the crabs the foot-stalk for the eye remains, though the eye\nis gone; the stand for the telescope is there, though the telescope\nwith its glasses has been lost. As it is difficult to imagine that\neyes, though useless, could be in any way injurious to animals living\nin darkness, I attribute their loss wholly to disuse. In one of the\nblind animals, namely, the cave-rat, the eyes are of immense size; and\nProfessor Silliman thought that it regained, after living some days in\nthe light, some slight power of vision. In the same manner as in\nMadeira the wings of some of the insects have been enlarged, and the\nwings of others have been reduced by natural selection aided by use and\ndisuse, so in the case of the cave-rat natural selection seems to have\nstruggled with the loss of light and\nto have increased the size of the eyes; whereas with all the other\ninhabitants of the caves, disuse by itself seems to have done its work.\n\nIt is difficult to imagine conditions of life more similar than deep\nlimestone caverns under a nearly similar climate; so that on the common\nview of the blind animals having been separately created for the\nAmerican and European caverns, close similarity in their organisation\nand affinities might have been expected; but, as Schiödte and others\nhave remarked, this is not the case, and the cave-insects of the two\ncontinents are not more closely allied than might have been anticipated\nfrom the general resemblance of the other inhabitants of North America\nand Europe. On my view we must suppose that American animals, having\nordinary powers of vision, slowly migrated by successive generations\nfrom the outer world into the deeper and deeper recesses of the\nKentucky caves, as did European animals into the caves of Europe. We\nhave some evidence of this gradation of habit; for, as Schiödte\nremarks, “animals not far remote from ordinary forms, prepare the\ntransition from light to darkness. Next follow those that are\nconstructed for twilight; and, last of all, those destined for total\ndarkness.” By the time that an animal had reached, after numberless\ngenerations, the deepest recesses, disuse will on this view have more\nor less perfectly obliterated its eyes, and natural selection will\noften have effected other changes, such as an increase in the length of\nthe antennæ or palpi, as a compensation for blindness. Notwithstanding\nsuch modifications, we might expect still to see in the cave-animals of\nAmerica, affinities to the other inhabitants of that continent, and in\nthose of Europe, to the inhabitants of the European continent. And this\nis the case with some of the American cave-animals, as I hear from\nProfessor Dana; and some of the European cave-insects are very closely\nallied to those of the surrounding country. It would be most difficult\nto give any rational explanation of the affinities of the blind\ncave-animals to the other inhabitants of the two continents on the\nordinary view of their independent creation. That several of the\ninhabitants of the caves of the Old and New Worlds should be closely\nrelated, we might expect from the well-known relationship of most of\ntheir other productions. Far from feeling any surprise that some of the\ncave-animals should be very anomalous, as Agassiz has remarked in\nregard to the blind fish, the Amblyopsis, and as is the case with the\nblind Proteus with reference to the reptiles of Europe, I am only\nsurprised that more wrecks of ancient life have not been preserved,\nowing to the less severe competition to which the inhabitants of these\ndark abodes will probably have been exposed.\n\n_Acclimatisation_.—Habit is hereditary with plants, as in the period of\nflowering, in the amount of rain requisite for seeds to germinate, in\nthe time of sleep, etc., and this leads me to say a few words on\nacclimatisation. As it is extremely common for species of the same\ngenus to inhabit very hot and very cold countries, and as I believe\nthat all the species of the same genus have descended from a single\nparent, if this view be correct, acclimatisation must be readily\neffected during long-continued descent. It is notorious that each\nspecies is adapted to the climate of its own home: species from an\narctic or even from a temperate region cannot endure a tropical\nclimate, or conversely. So again, many succulent plants cannot endure a\ndamp climate. But the degree of adaptation of species to the climates\nunder which they live is often overrated.\nWe may infer this from our frequent inability to predict whether or not\nan imported plant will endure our climate, and from the number of\nplants and animals brought from warmer countries which here enjoy good\nhealth. We have reason to believe that species in a state of nature are\nlimited in their ranges by the competition of other organic beings\nquite as much as, or more than, by adaptation to particular climates.\nBut whether or not the adaptation be generally very close, we have\nevidence, in the case of some few plants, of their becoming, to a\ncertain extent, naturally habituated to different temperatures, or\nbecoming acclimatised: thus the pines and rhododendrons, raised from\nseed collected by Dr. Hooker from trees growing at different heights on\nthe Himalaya, were found in this country to possess different\nconstitutional powers of resisting cold. Mr. Thwaites informs me that\nhe has observed similar facts in Ceylon, and analogous observations\nhave been made by Mr. H. C. Watson on European species of plants\nbrought from the Azores to England. In regard to animals, several\nauthentic cases could be given of species within historical times\nhaving largely extended their range from warmer to cooler latitudes,\nand conversely; but we do not positively know that these animals were\nstrictly adapted to their native climate, but in all ordinary cases we\nassume such to be the case; nor do we know that they have subsequently\nbecome acclimatised to their new homes.\n\nAs I believe that our domestic animals were originally chosen by\nuncivilised man because they were useful and bred readily under\nconfinement, and not because they were subsequently found capable of\nfar-extended transportation, I think the common and extraordinary\ncapacity in our domestic animals of not only withstanding the most\ndifferent climates but of being perfectly\nfertile (a far severer test) under them, may be used as an argument\nthat a large proportion of other animals, now in a state of nature,\ncould easily be brought to bear widely different climates. We must not,\nhowever, push the foregoing argument too far, on account of the\nprobable origin of some of our domestic animals from several wild\nstocks: the blood, for instance, of a tropical and arctic wolf or wild\ndog may perhaps be mingled in our domestic breeds. The rat and mouse\ncannot be considered as domestic animals, but they have been\ntransported by man to many parts of the world, and now have a far wider\nrange than any other rodent, living free under the cold climate of\nFaroe in the north and of the Falklands in the south, and on many\nislands in the torrid zones. Hence I am inclined to look at adaptation\nto any special climate as a quality readily grafted on an innate wide\nflexibility of constitution, which is common to most animals. On this\nview, the capacity of enduring the most different climates by man\nhimself and by his domestic animals, and such facts as that former\nspecies of the elephant and rhinoceros were capable of enduring a\nglacial climate, whereas the living species are now all tropical or\nsub-tropical in their habits, ought not to be looked at as anomalies,\nbut merely as examples of a very common flexibility of constitution,\nbrought, under peculiar circumstances, into play.\n\nHow much of the acclimatisation of species to any peculiar climate is\ndue to mere habit, and how much to the natural selection of varieties\nhaving different innate constitutions, and how much to both means\ncombined, is a very obscure question. That habit or custom has some\ninfluence I must believe, both from analogy, and from the incessant\nadvice given in agricultural works, even in the ancient Encyclopædias\nof China, to be very cautious\nin transposing animals from one district to another; for it is not\nlikely that man should have succeeded in selecting so many breeds and\nsub-breeds with constitutions specially fitted for their own districts:\nthe result must, I think, be due to habit. On the other hand, I can see\nno reason to doubt that natural selection will continually tend to\npreserve those individuals which are born with constitutions best\nadapted to their native countries. In treatises on many kinds of\ncultivated plants, certain varieties are said to withstand certain\nclimates better than others: this is very strikingly shown in works on\nfruit trees published in the United States, in which certain varieties\nare habitually recommended for the northern, and others for the\nsouthern States; and as most of these varieties are of recent origin,\nthey cannot owe their constitutional differences to habit. The case of\nthe Jerusalem artichoke, which is never propagated by seed, and of\nwhich consequently new varieties have not been produced, has even been\nadvanced—for it is now as tender as ever it was—as proving that\nacclimatisation cannot be effected! The case, also, of the kidney-bean\nhas been often cited for a similar purpose, and with much greater\nweight; but until some one will sow, during a score of generations, his\nkidney-beans so early that a very large proportion are destroyed by\nfrost, and then collect seed from the few survivors, with care to\nprevent accidental crosses, and then again get seed from these\nseedlings, with the same precautions, the experiment cannot be said to\nhave been even tried. Nor let it be supposed that no differences in the\nconstitution of seedling kidney-beans ever appear, for an account has\nbeen published how much more hardy some seedlings appeared to be than\nothers.\n\nOn the whole, I think we may conclude that habit,\nuse, and disuse, have, in some cases, played a considerable part in the\nmodification of the constitution, and of the structure of various\norgans; but that the effects of use and disuse have often been largely\ncombined with, and sometimes overmastered by, the natural selection of\ninnate differences.\n\n_Correlation of Growth_.—I mean by this expression that the whole\norganisation is so tied together during its growth and development,\nthat when slight variations in any one part occur, and are accumulated\nthrough natural selection, other parts become modified. This is a very\nimportant subject, most imperfectly understood. The most obvious case\nis, that modifications accumulated solely for the good of the young or\nlarva, will, it may safely be concluded, affect the structure of the\nadult; in the same manner as any malconformation affecting the early\nembryo, seriously affects the whole organisation of the adult. The\nseveral parts of the body which are homologous, and which, at an early\nembryonic period, are alike, seem liable to vary in an allied manner:\nwe see this in the right and left sides of the body varying in the same\nmanner; in the front and hind legs, and even in the jaws and limbs,\nvarying together, for the lower jaw is believed to be homologous with\nthe limbs. These tendencies, I do not doubt, may be mastered more or\nless completely by natural selection: thus a family of stags once\nexisted with an antler only on one side; and if this had been of any\ngreat use to the breed it might probably have been rendered permanent\nby natural selection.\n\nHomologous parts, as has been remarked by some authors, tend to cohere;\nthis is often seen in monstrous plants; and nothing is more common than\nthe union of homologous parts in normal structures, as the union of\nthe petals of the corolla into a tube. Hard parts seem to affect the\nform of adjoining soft parts; it is believed by some authors that the\ndiversity in the shape of the pelvis in birds causes the remarkable\ndiversity in the shape of their kidneys. Others believe that the shape\nof the pelvis in the human mother influences by pressure the shape of\nthe head of the child. In snakes, according to Schlegel, the shape of\nthe body and the manner of swallowing determine the position of several\nof the most important viscera.\n\nThe nature of the bond of correlation is very frequently quite obscure.\nM. Is. Geoffroy St. Hilaire has forcibly remarked, that certain\nmalconformations very frequently, and that others rarely coexist,\nwithout our being able to assign any reason. What can be more singular\nthan the relation between blue eyes and deafness in cats, and the\ntortoise-shell colour with the female sex; the feathered feet and skin\nbetween the outer toes in pigeons, and the presence of more or less\ndown on the young birds when first hatched, with the future colour of\ntheir plumage; or, again, the relation between the hair and teeth in\nthe naked Turkish dog, though here probably homology comes into play?\nWith respect to this latter case of correlation, I think it can hardly\nbe accidental, that if we pick out the two orders of mammalia which are\nmost abnormal in their dermal coverings, viz. Cetacea (whales) and\nEdentata (armadilloes, scaly ant-eaters, etc.), that these are likewise\nthe most abnormal in their teeth.\n\nI know of no case better adapted to show the importance of the laws of\ncorrelation in modifying important structures, independently of utility\nand, therefore, of natural selection, than that of the difference\nbetween the outer and inner flowers in some Compositous and\nUmbelliferous plants. Every one knows the\ndifference in the ray and central florets of, for instance, the daisy,\nand this difference is often accompanied with the abortion of parts of\nthe flower. But, in some Compositous plants, the seeds also differ in\nshape and sculpture; and even the ovary itself, with its accessory\nparts, differs, as has been described by Cassini. These differences\nhave been attributed by some authors to pressure, and the shape of the\nseeds in the ray-florets in some Compositæ countenances this idea; but,\nin the case of the corolla of the Umbelliferæ, it is by no means, as\nDr. Hooker informs me, in species with the densest heads that the inner\nand outer flowers most frequently differ. It might have been thought\nthat the development of the ray-petals by drawing nourishment from\ncertain other parts of the flower had caused their abortion; but in\nsome Compositæ there is a difference in the seeds of the outer and\ninner florets without any difference in the corolla. Possibly, these\nseveral differences may be connected with some difference in the flow\nof nutriment towards the central and external flowers: we know, at\nleast, that in irregular flowers, those nearest to the axis are\noftenest subject to peloria, and become regular. I may add, as an\ninstance of this, and of a striking case of correlation, that I have\nrecently observed in some garden pelargoniums, that the central flower\nof the truss often loses the patches of darker colour in the two upper\npetals; and that when this occurs, the adherent nectary is quite\naborted; when the colour is absent from only one of the two upper\npetals, the nectary is only much shortened.\n\nWith respect to the difference in the corolla of the central and\nexterior flowers of a head or umbel, I do not feel at all sure that C.\nC. Sprengel’s idea that the ray-florets serve to attract insects, whose\nagency is highly advantageous in the fertilisation of plants of\nthese two orders, is so far-fetched, as it may at first appear: and if\nit be advantageous, natural selection may have come into play. But in\nregard to the differences both in the internal and external structure\nof the seeds, which are not always correlated with any differences in\nthe flowers, it seems impossible that they can be in any way\nadvantageous to the plant: yet in the Umbelliferæ these differences are\nof such apparent importance—the seeds being in some cases, according to\nTausch, orthospermous in the exterior flowers and coelospermous in the\ncentral flowers,—that the elder De Candolle founded his main divisions\nof the order on analogous differences. Hence we see that modifications\nof structure, viewed by systematists as of high value, may be wholly\ndue to unknown laws of correlated growth, and without being, as far as\nwe can see, of the slightest service to the species.\n\nWe may often falsely attribute to correlation of growth, structures\nwhich are common to whole groups of species, and which in truth are\nsimply due to inheritance; for an ancient progenitor may have acquired\nthrough natural selection some one modification in structure, and,\nafter thousands of generations, some other and independent\nmodification; and these two modifications, having been transmitted to a\nwhole group of descendants with diverse habits, would naturally be\nthought to be correlated in some necessary manner. So, again, I do not\ndoubt that some apparent correlations, occurring throughout whole\norders, are entirely due to the manner alone in which natural selection\ncan act. For instance, Alph. De Candolle has remarked that winged seeds\nare never found in fruits which do not open: I should explain the rule\nby the fact that seeds could not gradually become winged through\nnatural selection, except in fruits which opened; so that the\nindividual plants producing\nseeds which were a little better fitted to be wafted further, might get\nan advantage over those producing seed less fitted for dispersal; and\nthis process could not possibly go on in fruit which did not open.\n\nThe elder Geoffroy and Goethe propounded, at about the same period,\ntheir law of compensation or balancement of growth; or, as Goethe\nexpressed it, “in order to spend on one side, nature is forced to\neconomise on the other side.” I think this holds true to a certain\nextent with our domestic productions: if nourishment flows to one part\nor organ in excess, it rarely flows, at least in excess, to another\npart; thus it is difficult to get a cow to give much milk and to fatten\nreadily. The same varieties of the cabbage do not yield abundant and\nnutritious foliage and a copious supply of oil-bearing seeds. When the\nseeds in our fruits become atrophied, the fruit itself gains largely in\nsize and quality. In our poultry, a large tuft of feathers on the head\nis generally accompanied by a diminished comb, and a large beard by\ndiminished wattles. With species in a state of nature it can hardly be\nmaintained that the law is of universal application; but many good\nobservers, more especially botanists, believe in its truth. I will not,\nhowever, here give any instances, for I see hardly any way of\ndistinguishing between the effects, on the one hand, of a part being\nlargely developed through natural selection and another and adjoining\npart being reduced by this same process or by disuse, and, on the other\nhand, the actual withdrawal of nutriment from one part owing to the\nexcess of growth in another and adjoining part.\n\nI suspect, also, that some of the cases of compensation which have been\nadvanced, and likewise some other facts, may be merged under a more\ngeneral principle, namely, that natural selection is continually trying\nto economise in every part of the organisation. If under\nchanged conditions of life a structure before useful becomes less\nuseful, any diminution, however slight, in its development, will be\nseized on by natural selection, for it will profit the individual not\nto have its nutriment wasted in building up an useless structure. I can\nthus only understand a fact with which I was much struck when examining\ncirripedes, and of which many other instances could be given: namely,\nthat when a cirripede is parasitic within another and is thus\nprotected, it loses more or less completely its own shell or carapace.\nThis is the case with the male Ibla, and in a truly extraordinary\nmanner with the Proteolepas: for the carapace in all other cirripedes\nconsists of the three highly-important anterior segments of the head\nenormously developed, and furnished with great nerves and muscles; but\nin the parasitic and protected Proteolepas, the whole anterior part of\nthe head is reduced to the merest rudiment attached to the bases of the\nprehensile antennæ. Now the saving of a large and complex structure,\nwhen rendered superfluous by the parasitic habits of the Proteolepas,\nthough effected by slow steps, would be a decided advantage to each\nsuccessive individual of the species; for in the struggle for life to\nwhich every animal is exposed, each individual Proteolepas would have a\nbetter chance of supporting itself, by less nutriment being wasted in\ndeveloping a structure now become useless.\n\nThus, as I believe, natural selection will always succeed in the long\nrun in reducing and saving every part of the organisation, as soon as\nit is rendered superfluous, without by any means causing some other\npart to be largely developed in a corresponding degree. And,\nconversely, that natural selection may perfectly well succeed in\nlargely developing any organ, without requiring as a necessary\ncompensation the reduction of some adjoining part.\n\n\nIt seems to be a rule, as remarked by Is. Geoffroy St. Hilaire, both in\nvarieties and in species, that when any part or organ is repeated many\ntimes in the structure of the same individual (as the vertebræ in\nsnakes, and the stamens in polyandrous flowers) the number is variable;\nwhereas the number of the same part or organ, when it occurs in lesser\nnumbers, is constant. The same author and some botanists have further\nremarked that multiple parts are also very liable to variation in\nstructure. Inasmuch as this “vegetative repetition,” to use Professor\nOwen’s expression, seems to be a sign of low organisation; the\nforegoing remark seems connected with the very general opinion of\nnaturalists, that beings low in the scale of nature are more variable\nthan those which are higher. I presume that lowness in this case means\nthat the several parts of the organisation have been but little\nspecialised for particular functions; and as long as the same part has\nto perform diversified work, we can perhaps see why it should remain\nvariable, that is, why natural selection should have preserved or\nrejected each little deviation of form less carefully than when the\npart has to serve for one special purpose alone. In the same way that a\nknife which has to cut all sorts of things may be of almost any shape;\nwhilst a tool for some particular object had better be of some\nparticular shape. Natural selection, it should never be forgotten, can\nact on each part of each being, solely through and for its advantage.\n\nRudimentary parts, it has been stated by some authors, and I believe\nwith truth, are apt to be highly variable. We shall have to recur to\nthe general subject of rudimentary and aborted organs; and I will here\nonly add that their variability seems to be owing to their uselessness,\nand therefore to natural selection having no power to check deviations\nin their structure. Thus\nrudimentary parts are left to the free play of the various laws of\ngrowth, to the effects of long-continued disuse, and to the tendency to\nreversion.\n\n_A part developed in any species in an extraordinary degree or manner,\nin comparison with the same part in allied species, tends to be highly\nvariable_.—Several years ago I was much struck with a remark, nearly to\nthe above effect, published by Mr. Waterhouse. I infer also from an\nobservation made by Professor Owen, with respect to the length of the\narms of the ourang-outang, that he has come to a nearly similar\nconclusion. It is hopeless to attempt to convince any one of the truth\nof this proposition without giving the long array of facts which I have\ncollected, and which cannot possibly be here introduced. I can only\nstate my conviction that it is a rule of high generality. I am aware of\nseveral causes of error, but I hope that I have made due allowance for\nthem. It should be understood that the rule by no means applies to any\npart, however unusually developed, unless it be unusually developed in\ncomparison with the same part in closely allied species. Thus, the\nbat’s wing is a most abnormal structure in the class mammalia; but the\nrule would not here apply, because there is a whole group of bats\nhaving wings; it would apply only if some one species of bat had its\nwings developed in some remarkable manner in comparison with the other\nspecies of the same genus. The rule applies very strongly in the case\nof secondary sexual characters, when displayed in any unusual manner.\nThe term, secondary sexual characters, used by Hunter, applies to\ncharacters which are attached to one sex, but are not directly\nconnected with the act of reproduction. The rule applies to males and\nfemales; but as females more rarely offer remarkable secondary sexual\ncharacters, it applies\nmore rarely to them. The rule being so plainly applicable in the case\nof secondary sexual characters, may be due to the great variability of\nthese characters, whether or not displayed in any unusual manner—of\nwhich fact I think there can be little doubt. But that our rule is not\nconfined to secondary sexual characters is clearly shown in the case of\nhermaphrodite cirripedes; and I may here add, that I particularly\nattended to Mr. Waterhouse’s remark, whilst investigating this Order,\nand I am fully convinced that the rule almost invariably holds good\nwith cirripedes. I shall, in my future work, give a list of the more\nremarkable cases; I will here only briefly give one, as it illustrates\nthe rule in its largest application. The opercular valves of sessile\ncirripedes (rock barnacles) are, in every sense of the word, very\nimportant structures, and they differ extremely little even in\ndifferent genera; but in the several species of one genus, Pyrgoma,\nthese valves present a marvellous amount of diversification: the\nhomologous valves in the different species being sometimes wholly\nunlike in shape; and the amount of variation in the individuals of\nseveral of the species is so great, that it is no exaggeration to state\nthat the varieties differ more from each other in the characters of\nthese important valves than do other species of distinct genera.\n\nAs birds within the same country vary in a remarkably small degree, I\nhave particularly attended to them, and the rule seems to me certainly\nto hold good in this class. I cannot make out that it applies to\nplants, and this would seriously have shaken my belief in its truth,\nhad not the great variability in plants made it particularly difficult\nto compare their relative degrees of variability.\n\nWhen we see any part or organ developed in a remarkable degree or\nmanner in any species, the fair\npresumption is that it is of high importance to that species;\nnevertheless the part in this case is eminently liable to variation.\nWhy should this be so? On the view that each species has been\nindependently created, with all its parts as we now see them, I can see\nno explanation. But on the view that groups of species have descended\nfrom other species, and have been modified through natural selection, I\nthink we can obtain some light. In our domestic animals, if any part,\nor the whole animal, be neglected and no selection be applied, that\npart (for instance, the comb in the Dorking fowl) or the whole breed\nwill cease to have a nearly uniform character. The breed will then be\nsaid to have degenerated. In rudimentary organs, and in those which\nhave been but little specialised for any particular purpose, and\nperhaps in polymorphic groups, we see a nearly parallel natural case;\nfor in such cases natural selection either has not or cannot come into\nfull play, and thus the organisation is left in a fluctuating\ncondition. But what here more especially concerns us is, that in our\ndomestic animals those points, which at the present time are undergoing\nrapid change by continued selection, are also eminently liable to\nvariation. Look at the breeds of the pigeon; see what a prodigious\namount of difference there is in the beak of the different tumblers, in\nthe beak and wattle of the different carriers, in the carriage and tail\nof our fantails, etc., these being the points now mainly attended to by\nEnglish fanciers. Even in the sub-breeds, as in the short-faced\ntumbler, it is notoriously difficult to breed them nearly to\nperfection, and frequently individuals are born which depart widely\nfrom the standard. There may be truly said to be a constant struggle\ngoing on between, on the one hand, the tendency to reversion to a less\nmodified state, as well as an innate tendency to further\nvariability of all kinds, and, on the other hand, the power of steady\nselection to keep the breed true. In the long run selection gains the\nday, and we do not expect to fail so far as to breed a bird as coarse\nas a common tumbler from a good short-faced strain. But as long as\nselection is rapidly going on, there may always be expected to be much\nvariability in the structure undergoing modification. It further\ndeserves notice that these variable characters, produced by man’s\nselection, sometimes become attached, from causes quite unknown to us,\nmore to one sex than to the other, generally to the male sex, as with\nthe wattle of carriers and the enlarged crop of pouters.\n\nNow let us turn to nature. When a part has been developed in an\nextraordinary manner in any one species, compared with the other\nspecies of the same genus, we may conclude that this part has undergone\nan extraordinary amount of modification, since the period when the\nspecies branched off from the common progenitor of the genus. This\nperiod will seldom be remote in any extreme degree, as species very\nrarely endure for more than one geological period. An extraordinary\namount of modification implies an unusually large and long-continued\namount of variability, which has continually been accumulated by\nnatural selection for the benefit of the species. But as the\nvariability of the extraordinarily-developed part or organ has been so\ngreat and long-continued within a period not excessively remote, we\nmight, as a general rule, expect still to find more variability in such\nparts than in other parts of the organisation, which have remained for\na much longer period nearly constant. And this, I am convinced, is the\ncase. That the struggle between natural selection on the one hand, and\nthe tendency to reversion and variability on the other hand, will in\nthe\ncourse of time cease; and that the most abnormally developed organs may\nbe made constant, I can see no reason to doubt. Hence when an organ,\nhowever abnormal it may be, has been transmitted in approximately the\nsame condition to many modified descendants, as in the case of the wing\nof the bat, it must have existed, according to my theory, for an\nimmense period in nearly the same state; and thus it comes to be no\nmore variable than any other structure. It is only in those cases in\nwhich the modification has been comparatively recent and\nextraordinarily great that we ought to find the _generative\nvariability_, as it may be called, still present in a high degree. For\nin this case the variability will seldom as yet have been fixed by the\ncontinued selection of the individuals varying in the required manner\nand degree, and by the continued rejection of those tending to revert\nto a former and less modified condition.\n\nThe principle included in these remarks may be extended. It is\nnotorious that specific characters are more variable than generic. To\nexplain by a simple example what is meant. If some species in a large\ngenus of plants had blue flowers and some had red, the colour would be\nonly a specific character, and no one would be surprised at one of the\nblue species varying into red, or conversely; but if all the species\nhad blue flowers, the colour would become a generic character, and its\nvariation would be a more unusual circumstance. I have chosen this\nexample because an explanation is not in this case applicable, which\nmost naturalists would advance, namely, that specific characters are\nmore variable than generic, because they are taken from parts of less\nphysiological importance than those commonly used for classing genera.\nI believe this explanation is partly, yet only indirectly, true; I\nshall, however, have to return\nto this subject in our chapter on Classification. It would be almost\nsuperfluous to adduce evidence in support of the above statement, that\nspecific characters are more variable than generic; but I have\nrepeatedly noticed in works on natural history, that when an author has\nremarked with surprise that some _important_ organ or part, which is\ngenerally very constant throughout large groups of species, has\n_differed_ considerably in closely-allied species, that it has, also,\nbeen _variable_ in the individuals of some of the species. And this\nfact shows that a character, which is generally of generic value, when\nit sinks in value and becomes only of specific value, often becomes\nvariable, though its physiological importance may remain the same.\nSomething of the same kind applies to monstrosities: at least Is.\nGeoffroy St. Hilaire seems to entertain no doubt, that the more an\norgan normally differs in the different species of the same group, the\nmore subject it is to individual anomalies.\n\nOn the ordinary view of each species having been independently created,\nwhy should that part of the structure, which differs from the same part\nin other independently-created species of the same genus, be more\nvariable than those parts which are closely alike in the several\nspecies? I do not see that any explanation can be given. But on the\nview of species being only strongly marked and fixed varieties, we\nmight surely expect to find them still often continuing to vary in\nthose parts of their structure which have varied within a moderately\nrecent period, and which have thus come to differ. Or to state the case\nin another manner:—the points in which all the species of a genus\nresemble each other, and in which they differ from the species of some\nother genus, are called generic characters; and these characters in\ncommon I attribute to inheritance from a common\nprogenitor, for it can rarely have happened that natural selection will\nhave modified several species, fitted to more or less widely-different\nhabits, in exactly the same manner: and as these so-called generic\ncharacters have been inherited from a remote period, since that period\nwhen the species first branched off from their common progenitor, and\nsubsequently have not varied or come to differ in any degree, or only\nin a slight degree, it is not probable that they should vary at the\npresent day. On the other hand, the points in which species differ from\nother species of the same genus, are called specific characters; and as\nthese specific characters have varied and come to differ within the\nperiod of the branching off of the species from a common progenitor, it\nis probable that they should still often be in some degree variable,—at\nleast more variable than those parts of the organisation which have for\na very long period remained constant.\n\nIn connexion with the present subject, I will make only two other\nremarks. I think it will be admitted, without my entering on details,\nthat secondary sexual characters are very variable; I think it also\nwill be admitted that species of the same group differ from each other\nmore widely in their secondary sexual characters, than in other parts\nof their organisation; compare, for instance, the amount of difference\nbetween the males of gallinaceous birds, in which secondary sexual\ncharacters are strongly displayed, with the amount of difference\nbetween their females; and the truth of this proposition will be\ngranted. The cause of the original variability of secondary sexual\ncharacters is not manifest; but we can see why these characters should\nnot have been rendered as constant and uniform as other parts of the\norganisation; for secondary sexual characters have been accumulated by\nsexual selection, which\nis less rigid in its action than ordinary selection, as it does not\nentail death, but only gives fewer offspring to the less favoured\nmales. Whatever the cause may be of the variability of secondary sexual\ncharacters, as they are highly variable, sexual selection will have had\na wide scope for action, and may thus readily have succeeded in giving\nto the species of the same group a greater amount of difference in\ntheir sexual characters, than in other parts of their structure.\n\nIt is a remarkable fact, that the secondary sexual differences between\nthe two sexes of the same species are generally displayed in the very\nsame parts of the organisation in which the different species of the\nsame genus differ from each other. Of this fact I will give in\nillustration two instances, the first which happen to stand on my list;\nand as the differences in these cases are of a very unusual nature, the\nrelation can hardly be accidental. The same number of joints in the\ntarsi is a character generally common to very large groups of beetles,\nbut in the Engidæ, as Westwood has remarked, the number varies greatly;\nand the number likewise differs in the two sexes of the same species:\nagain in fossorial hymenoptera, the manner of neuration of the wings is\na character of the highest importance, because common to large groups;\nbut in certain genera the neuration differs in the different species,\nand likewise in the two sexes of the same species. This relation has a\nclear meaning on my view of the subject: I look at all the species of\nthe same genus as having as certainly descended from the same\nprogenitor, as have the two sexes of any one of the species.\nConsequently, whatever part of the structure of the common progenitor,\nor of its early descendants, became variable; variations of this part\nwould it is highly probable, be taken advantage of by natural and\nsexual selection, in\norder to fit the several species to their several places in the economy\nof nature, and likewise to fit the two sexes of the same species to\neach other, or to fit the males and females to different habits of\nlife, or the males to struggle with other males for the possession of\nthe females.\n\nFinally, then, I conclude that the greater variability of specific\ncharacters, or those which distinguish species from species, than of\ngeneric characters, or those which the species possess in common;—that\nthe frequent extreme variability of any part which is developed in a\nspecies in an extraordinary manner in comparison with the same part in\nits congeners; and the not great degree of variability in a part,\nhowever extraordinarily it may be developed, if it be common to a whole\ngroup of species;—that the great variability of secondary sexual\ncharacters, and the great amount of difference in these same characters\nbetween closely allied species;—that secondary sexual and ordinary\nspecific differences are generally displayed in the same parts of the\norganisation,—are all principles closely connected together. All being\nmainly due to the species of the same group having descended from a\ncommon progenitor, from whom they have inherited much in common,—to\nparts which have recently and largely varied being more likely still to\ngo on varying than parts which have long been inherited and have not\nvaried,—to natural selection having more or less completely, according\nto the lapse of time, overmastered the tendency to reversion and to\nfurther variability,—to sexual selection being less rigid than ordinary\nselection,—and to variations in the same parts having been accumulated\nby natural and sexual selection, and thus adapted for secondary sexual,\nand for ordinary specific purposes.\n\n\n_Distinct species present analogous variations; and a variety of one\nspecies often assumes some of the characters of an allied species, or\nreverts to some of the characters of an early progenitor_.—These\npropositions will be most readily understood by looking to our domestic\nraces. The most distinct breeds of pigeons, in countries most widely\napart, present sub-varieties with reversed feathers on the head and\nfeathers on the feet,—characters not possessed by the aboriginal\nrock-pigeon; these then are analogous variations in two or more\ndistinct races. The frequent presence of fourteen or even sixteen\ntail-feathers in the pouter, may be considered as a variation\nrepresenting the normal structure of another race, the fantail. I\npresume that no one will doubt that all such analogous variations are\ndue to the several races of the pigeon having inherited from a common\nparent the same constitution and tendency to variation, when acted on\nby similar unknown influences. In the vegetable kingdom we have a case\nof analogous variation, in the enlarged stems, or roots as commonly\ncalled, of the Swedish turnip and Ruta baga, plants which several\nbotanists rank as varieties produced by cultivation from a common\nparent: if this be not so, the case will then be one of analogous\nvariation in two so-called distinct species; and to these a third may\nbe added, namely, the common turnip. According to the ordinary view of\neach species having been independently created, we should have to\nattribute this similarity in the enlarged stems of these three plants,\nnot to the vera causa of community of descent, and a consequent\ntendency to vary in a like manner, but to three separate yet closely\nrelated acts of creation.\n\nWith pigeons, however, we have another case, namely, the occasional\nappearance in all the breeds, of slaty-blue birds with two black bars\non the wings, a white\nrump, a bar at the end of the tail, with the outer feathers externally\nedged near their bases with white. As all these marks are\ncharacteristic of the parent rock-pigeon, I presume that no one will\ndoubt that this is a case of reversion, and not of a new yet analogous\nvariation appearing in the several breeds. We may I think confidently\ncome to this conclusion, because, as we have seen, these coloured marks\nare eminently liable to appear in the crossed offspring of two distinct\nand differently coloured breeds; and in this case there is nothing in\nthe external conditions of life to cause the reappearance of the\nslaty-blue, with the several marks, beyond the influence of the mere\nact of crossing on the laws of inheritance.\n\nNo doubt it is a very surprising fact that characters should reappear\nafter having been lost for many, perhaps for hundreds of generations.\nBut when a breed has been crossed only once by some other breed, the\noffspring occasionally show a tendency to revert in character to the\nforeign breed for many generations—some say, for a dozen or even a\nscore of generations. After twelve generations, the proportion of\nblood, to use a common expression, of any one ancestor, is only 1 in\n2048; and yet, as we see, it is generally believed that a tendency to\nreversion is retained by this very small proportion of foreign blood.\nIn a breed which has not been crossed, but in which _both_ parents have\nlost some character which their progenitor possessed, the tendency,\nwhether strong or weak, to reproduce the lost character might be, as\nwas formerly remarked, for all that we can see to the contrary,\ntransmitted for almost any number of generations. When a character\nwhich has been lost in a breed, reappears after a great number of\ngenerations, the most probable hypothesis is, not that the offspring\nsuddenly takes after an ancestor some hundred generations\ndistant, but that in each successive generation there has been a\ntendency to reproduce the character in question, which at last, under\nunknown favourable conditions, gains an ascendancy. For instance, it is\nprobable that in each generation of the barb-pigeon, which produces\nmost rarely a blue and black-barred bird, there has been a tendency in\neach generation in the plumage to assume this colour. This view is\nhypothetical, but could be supported by some facts; and I can see no\nmore abstract improbability in a tendency to produce any character\nbeing inherited for an endless number of generations, than in quite\nuseless or rudimentary organs being, as we all know them to be, thus\ninherited. Indeed, we may sometimes observe a mere tendency to produce\na rudiment inherited: for instance, in the common snapdragon\n(Antirrhinum) a rudiment of a fifth stamen so often appears, that this\nplant must have an inherited tendency to produce it.\n\nAs all the species of the same genus are supposed, on my theory, to\nhave descended from a common parent, it might be expected that they\nwould occasionally vary in an analogous manner; so that a variety of\none species would resemble in some of its characters another species;\nthis other species being on my view only a well-marked and permanent\nvariety. But characters thus gained would probably be of an unimportant\nnature, for the presence of all important characters will be governed\nby natural selection, in accordance with the diverse habits of the\nspecies, and will not be left to the mutual action of the conditions of\nlife and of a similar inherited constitution. It might further be\nexpected that the species of the same genus would occasionally exhibit\nreversions to lost ancestral characters. As, however, we never know the\nexact character of the common ancestor of a group, we could not\ndistinguish these two\ncases: if, for instance, we did not know that the rock-pigeon was not\nfeather-footed or turn-crowned, we could not have told, whether these\ncharacters in our domestic breeds were reversions or only analogous\nvariations; but we might have inferred that the blueness was a case of\nreversion, from the number of the markings, which are correlated with\nthe blue tint, and which it does not appear probable would all appear\ntogether from simple variation. More especially we might have inferred\nthis, from the blue colour and marks so often appearing when distinct\nbreeds of diverse colours are crossed. Hence, though under nature it\nmust generally be left doubtful, what cases are reversions to an\nanciently existing character, and what are new but analogous\nvariations, yet we ought, on my theory, sometimes to find the varying\noffspring of a species assuming characters (either from reversion or\nfrom analogous variation) which already occur in some other members of\nthe same group. And this undoubtedly is the case in nature.\n\nA considerable part of the difficulty in recognising a variable species\nin our systematic works, is due to its varieties mocking, as it were,\nsome of the other species of the same genus. A considerable catalogue,\nalso, could be given of forms intermediate between two other forms,\nwhich themselves must be doubtfully ranked as either varieties or\nspecies; and this shows, unless all these forms be considered as\nindependently created species, that the one in varying has assumed some\nof the characters of the other, so as to produce the intermediate form.\nBut the best evidence is afforded by parts or organs of an important\nand uniform nature occasionally varying so as to acquire, in some\ndegree, the character of the same part or organ in an allied species. I\nhave collected a long list of such cases; but\nhere, as before, I lie under a great disadvantage in not being able to\ngive them. I can only repeat that such cases certainly do occur, and\nseem to me very remarkable.\n\nI will, however, give one curious and complex case, not indeed as\naffecting any important character, but from occurring in several\nspecies of the same genus, partly under domestication and partly under\nnature. It is a case apparently of reversion. The ass not rarely has\nvery distinct transverse bars on its legs, like those on the legs of a\nzebra: it has been asserted that these are plainest in the foal, and\nfrom inquiries which I have made, I believe this to be true. It has\nalso been asserted that the stripe on each shoulder is sometimes\ndouble. The shoulder stripe is certainly very variable in length and\noutline. A white ass, but _not_ an albino, has been described without\neither spinal or shoulder-stripe; and these stripes are sometimes very\nobscure, or actually quite lost, in dark-coloured asses. The koulan of\nPallas is said to have been seen with a double shoulder-stripe. The\nhemionus has no shoulder-stripe; but traces of it, as stated by Mr.\nBlyth and others, occasionally appear: and I have been informed by\nColonel Poole that the foals of this species are generally striped on\nthe legs, and faintly on the shoulder. The quagga, though so plainly\nbarred like a zebra over the body, is without bars on the legs; but Dr.\nGray has figured one specimen with very distinct zebra-like bars on the\nhocks.\n\nWith respect to the horse, I have collected cases in England of the\nspinal stripe in horses of the most distinct breeds, and of _all_\ncolours; transverse bars on the legs are not rare in duns, mouse-duns,\nand in one instance in a chestnut: a faint shoulder-stripe may\nsometimes be seen in duns, and I have seen a trace in a\nbay horse. My son made a careful examination and sketch for me of a dun\nBelgian cart-horse with a double stripe on each shoulder and with\nleg-stripes; and a man, whom I can implicitly trust, has examined for\nme a small dun Welch pony with _three_ short parallel stripes on each\nshoulder.\n\nIn the north-west part of India the Kattywar breed of horses is so\ngenerally striped, that, as I hear from Colonel Poole, who examined the\nbreed for the Indian Government, a horse without stripes is not\nconsidered as purely-bred. The spine is always striped; the legs are\ngenerally barred; and the shoulder-stripe, which is sometimes double\nand sometimes treble, is common; the side of the face, moreover, is\nsometimes striped. The stripes are plainest in the foal; and sometimes\nquite disappear in old horses. Colonel Poole has seen both gray and bay\nKattywar horses striped when first foaled. I have, also, reason to\nsuspect, from information given me by Mr. W. W. Edwards, that with the\nEnglish race-horse the spinal stripe is much commoner in the foal than\nin the full-grown animal. Without here entering on further details, I\nmay state that I have collected cases of leg and shoulder stripes in\nhorses of very different breeds, in various countries from Britain to\nEastern China; and from Norway in the north to the Malay Archipelago in\nthe south. In all parts of the world these stripes occur far oftenest\nin duns and mouse-duns; by the term dun a large range of colour is\nincluded, from one between brown and black to a close approach to\ncream-colour.\n\nI am aware that Colonel Hamilton Smith, who has written on this\nsubject, believes that the several breeds of the horse have descended\nfrom several aboriginal species—one of which, the dun, was striped; and\nthat the above-described appearances are all due to ancient\ncrosses with the dun stock. But I am not at all satisfied with this\ntheory, and should be loth to apply it to breeds so distinct as the\nheavy Belgian cart-horse, Welch ponies, cobs, the lanky Kattywar race,\netc., inhabiting the most distant parts of the world.\n\nNow let us turn to the effects of crossing the several species of the\nhorse-genus. Rollin asserts, that the common mule from the ass and\nhorse is particularly apt to have bars on its legs. I once saw a mule\nwith its legs so much striped that any one at first would have thought\nthat it must have been the product of a zebra; and Mr. W. C. Martin, in\nhis excellent treatise on the horse, has given a figure of a similar\nmule. In four coloured drawings, which I have seen, of hybrids between\nthe ass and zebra, the legs were much more plainly barred than the rest\nof the body; and in one of them there was a double shoulder-stripe. In\nLord Moreton’s famous hybrid from a chestnut mare and male quagga, the\nhybrid, and even the pure offspring subsequently produced from the mare\nby a black Arabian sire, were much more plainly barred across the legs\nthan is even the pure quagga. Lastly, and this is another most\nremarkable case, a hybrid has been figured by Dr. Gray (and he informs\nme that he knows of a second case) from the ass and the hemionus; and\nthis hybrid, though the ass seldom has stripes on its legs and the\nhemionus has none and has not even a shoulder-stripe, nevertheless had\nall four legs barred, and had three short shoulder-stripes, like those\non the dun Welch pony, and even had some zebra-like stripes on the\nsides of its face. With respect to this last fact, I was so convinced\nthat not even a stripe of colour appears from what would commonly be\ncalled an accident, that I was led solely from the occurrence of the\nface-stripes on this hybrid from the ass and hemionus,\nto ask Colonel Poole whether such face-stripes ever occur in the\neminently striped Kattywar breed of horses, and was, as we have seen,\nanswered in the affirmative.\n\nWhat now are we to say to these several facts? We see several very\ndistinct species of the horse-genus becoming, by simple variation,\nstriped on the legs like a zebra, or striped on the shoulders like an\nass. In the horse we see this tendency strong whenever a dun tint\nappears—a tint which approaches to that of the general colouring of the\nother species of the genus. The appearance of the stripes is not\naccompanied by any change of form or by any other new character. We see\nthis tendency to become striped most strongly displayed in hybrids from\nbetween several of the most distinct species. Now observe the case of\nthe several breeds of pigeons: they are descended from a pigeon\n(including two or three sub-species or geographical races) of a bluish\ncolour, with certain bars and other marks; and when any breed assumes\nby simple variation a bluish tint, these bars and other marks\ninvariably reappear; but without any other change of form or character.\nWhen the oldest and truest breeds of various colours are crossed, we\nsee a strong tendency for the blue tint and bars and marks to reappear\nin the mongrels. I have stated that the most probable hypothesis to\naccount for the reappearance of very ancient characters, is—that there\nis a _tendency_ in the young of each successive generation to produce\nthe long-lost character, and that this tendency, from unknown causes,\nsometimes prevails. And we have just seen that in several species of\nthe horse-genus the stripes are either plainer or appear more commonly\nin the young than in the old. Call the breeds of pigeons, some of which\nhave bred true for centuries, species; and how exactly parallel is the\ncase with that of the species of the horse-genus!\nFor myself, I venture confidently to look back thousands on thousands\nof generations, and I see an animal striped like a zebra, but perhaps\notherwise very differently constructed, the common parent of our\ndomestic horse, whether or not it be descended from one or more wild\nstocks, of the ass, the hemionus, quagga, and zebra.\n\nHe who believes that each equine species was independently created,\nwill, I presume, assert that each species has been created with a\ntendency to vary, both under nature and under domestication, in this\nparticular manner, so as often to become striped like other species of\nthe genus; and that each has been created with a strong tendency, when\ncrossed with species inhabiting distant quarters of the world, to\nproduce hybrids resembling in their stripes, not their own parents, but\nother species of the genus. To admit this view is, as it seems to me,\nto reject a real for an unreal, or at least for an unknown, cause. It\nmakes the works of God a mere mockery and deception; I would almost as\nsoon believe with the old and ignorant cosmogonists, that fossil shells\nhad never lived, but had been created in stone so as to mock the shells\nnow living on the sea-shore.\n\n_Summary_.—Our ignorance of the laws of variation is profound. Not in\none case out of a hundred can we pretend to assign any reason why this\nor that part differs, more or less, from the same part in the parents.\nBut whenever we have the means of instituting a comparison, the same\nlaws appear to have acted in producing the lesser differences between\nvarieties of the same species, and the greater differences between\nspecies of the same genus. The external conditions of life, as climate\nand food, etc., seem to have induced some slight modifications. Habit\nin producing constitutional differences,\nand use in strengthening, and disuse in weakening and diminishing\norgans, seem to have been more potent in their effects. Homologous\nparts tend to vary in the same way, and homologous parts tend to\ncohere. Modifications in hard parts and in external parts sometimes\naffect softer and internal parts. When one part is largely developed,\nperhaps it tends to draw nourishment from the adjoining parts; and\nevery part of the structure which can be saved without detriment to the\nindividual, will be saved. Changes of structure at an early age will\ngenerally affect parts subsequently developed; and there are very many\nother correlations of growth, the nature of which we are utterly unable\nto understand. Multiple parts are variable in number and in structure,\nperhaps arising from such parts not having been closely specialised to\nany particular function, so that their modifications have not been\nclosely checked by natural selection. It is probably from this same\ncause that organic beings low in the scale of nature are more variable\nthan those which have their whole organisation more specialised, and\nare higher in the scale. Rudimentary organs, from being useless, will\nbe disregarded by natural selection, and hence probably are variable.\nSpecific characters—that is, the characters which have come to differ\nsince the several species of the same genus branched off from a common\nparent—are more variable than generic characters, or those which have\nlong been inherited, and have not differed within this same period. In\nthese remarks we have referred to special parts or organs being still\nvariable, because they have recently varied and thus come to differ;\nbut we have also seen in the second Chapter that the same principle\napplies to the whole individual; for in a district where many species\nof any genus are found—that is, where there has been much former\nvariation and differentiation, or where the manufactory of new specific\nforms has been actively at work—there, on an average, we now find most\nvarieties or incipient species. Secondary sexual characters are highly\nvariable, and such characters differ much in the species of the same\ngroup. Variability in the same parts of the organisation has generally\nbeen taken advantage of in giving secondary sexual differences to the\nsexes of the same species, and specific differences to the several\nspecies of the same genus. Any part or organ developed to an\nextraordinary size or in an extraordinary manner, in comparison with\nthe same part or organ in the allied species, must have gone through an\nextraordinary amount of modification since the genus arose; and thus we\ncan understand why it should often still be variable in a much higher\ndegree than other parts; for variation is a long-continued and slow\nprocess, and natural selection will in such cases not as yet have had\ntime to overcome the tendency to further variability and to reversion\nto a less modified state. But when a species with any\nextraordinarily-developed organ has become the parent of many modified\ndescendants—which on my view must be a very slow process, requiring a\nlong lapse of time—in this case, natural selection may readily have\nsucceeded in giving a fixed character to the organ, in however\nextraordinary a manner it may be developed. Species inheriting nearly\nthe same constitution from a common parent and exposed to similar\ninfluences will naturally tend to present analogous variations, and\nthese same species may occasionally revert to some of the characters of\ntheir ancient progenitors. Although new and important modifications may\nnot arise from reversion and analogous variation, such modifications\nwill add to the beautiful and harmonious diversity of nature.\n\n\nWhatever the cause may be of each slight difference in the offspring\nfrom their parents—and a cause for each must exist—it is the steady\naccumulation, through natural selection, of such differences, when\nbeneficial to the individual, that gives rise to all the more important\nmodifications of structure, by which the innumerable beings on the face\nof this earth are enabled to struggle with each other, and the best\nadapted to survive.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\nDIFFICULTIES ON THEORY.\n\n\nDifficulties on the theory of descent with modification. Transitions.\nAbsence or rarity of transitional varieties. Transitions in habits of\nlife. Diversified habits in the same species. Species with habits\nwidely different from those of their allies. Organs of extreme\nperfection. Means of transition. Cases of difficulty. Natura non facit\nsaltum. Organs of small importance. Organs not in all cases absolutely\nperfect. The law of Unity of Type and of the Conditions of Existence\nembraced by the theory of Natural Selection.\n\n\nLong before having arrived at this part of my work, a crowd of\ndifficulties will have occurred to the reader. Some of them are so\ngrave that to this day I can never reflect on them without being\nstaggered; but, to the best of my judgment, the greater number are only\napparent, and those that are real are not, I think, fatal to my theory.\n\nThese difficulties and objections may be classed under the following\nheads:—\n\nFirstly, why, if species have descended from other species by\ninsensibly fine gradations, do we not everywhere see innumerable\ntransitional forms? Why is not all nature in confusion instead of the\nspecies being, as we see them, well defined?\n\nSecondly, is it possible that an animal having, for instance, the\nstructure and habits of a bat, could have been formed by the\nmodification of some animal with wholly different habits? Can we\nbelieve that natural selection could produce, on the one hand, organs\nof trifling importance, such as the tail of a giraffe, which serves as\na fly-flapper, and, on the other hand, organs of\nsuch wonderful structure, as the eye, of which we hardly as yet fully\nunderstand the inimitable perfection?\n\nThirdly, can instincts be acquired and modified through natural\nselection? What shall we say to so marvellous an instinct as that which\nleads the bee to make cells, which have practically anticipated the\ndiscoveries of profound mathematicians?\n\nFourthly, how can we account for species, when crossed, being sterile\nand producing sterile offspring, whereas, when varieties are crossed,\ntheir fertility is unimpaired?\n\nThe two first heads shall be here discussed—Instinct and Hybridism in\nseparate chapters.\n\n_On the absence or rarity of transitional varieties._—As natural\nselection acts solely by the preservation of profitable modifications,\neach new form will tend in a fully-stocked country to take the place\nof, and finally to exterminate, its own less improved parent or other\nless-favoured forms with which it comes into competition. Thus\nextinction and natural selection will, as we have seen, go hand in\nhand. Hence, if we look at each species as descended from some other\nunknown form, both the parent and all the transitional varieties will\ngenerally have been exterminated by the very process of formation and\nperfection of the new form.\n\nBut, as by this theory innumerable transitional forms must have\nexisted, why do we not find them embedded in countless numbers in the\ncrust of the earth? It will be much more convenient to discuss this\nquestion in the chapter on the Imperfection of the geological record;\nand I will here only state that I believe the answer mainly lies in the\nrecord being incomparably less perfect than is generally supposed; the\nimperfection of the record being chiefly due to organic beings not\ninhabiting\nprofound depths of the sea, and to their remains being embedded and\npreserved to a future age only in masses of sediment sufficiently thick\nand extensive to withstand an enormous amount of future degradation;\nand such fossiliferous masses can be accumulated only where much\nsediment is deposited on the shallow bed of the sea, whilst it slowly\nsubsides. These contingencies will concur only rarely, and after\nenormously long intervals. Whilst the bed of the sea is stationary or\nis rising, or when very little sediment is being deposited, there will\nbe blanks in our geological history. The crust of the earth is a vast\nmuseum; but the natural collections have been made only at intervals of\ntime immensely remote.\n\nBut it may be urged that when several closely-allied species inhabit\nthe same territory we surely ought to find at the present time many\ntransitional forms. Let us take a simple case: in travelling from north\nto south over a continent, we generally meet at successive intervals\nwith closely allied or representative species, evidently filling nearly\nthe same place in the natural economy of the land. These representative\nspecies often meet and interlock; and as the one becomes rarer and\nrarer, the other becomes more and more frequent, till the one replaces\nthe other. But if we compare these species where they intermingle, they\nare generally as absolutely distinct from each other in every detail of\nstructure as are specimens taken from the metropolis inhabited by each.\nBy my theory these allied species have descended from a common parent;\nand during the process of modification, each has become adapted to the\nconditions of life of its own region, and has supplanted and\nexterminated its original parent and all the transitional varieties\nbetween its past and present states. Hence we ought not to expect at\nthe\npresent time to meet with numerous transitional varieties in each\nregion, though they must have existed there, and may be embedded there\nin a fossil condition. But in the intermediate region, having\nintermediate conditions of life, why do we not now find closely-linking\nintermediate varieties? This difficulty for a long time quite\nconfounded me. But I think it can be in large part explained.\n\nIn the first place we should be extremely cautious in inferring,\nbecause an area is now continuous, that it has been continuous during a\nlong period. Geology would lead us to believe that almost every\ncontinent has been broken up into islands even during the later\ntertiary periods; and in such islands distinct species might have been\nseparately formed without the possibility of intermediate varieties\nexisting in the intermediate zones. By changes in the form of the land\nand of climate, marine areas now continuous must often have existed\nwithin recent times in a far less continuous and uniform condition than\nat present. But I will pass over this way of escaping from the\ndifficulty; for I believe that many perfectly defined species have been\nformed on strictly continuous areas; though I do not doubt that the\nformerly broken condition of areas now continuous has played an\nimportant part in the formation of new species, more especially with\nfreely-crossing and wandering animals.\n\nIn looking at species as they are now distributed over a wide area, we\ngenerally find them tolerably numerous over a large territory, then\nbecoming somewhat abruptly rarer and rarer on the confines, and finally\ndisappearing. Hence the neutral territory between two representative\nspecies is generally narrow in comparison with the territory proper to\neach. We see the same fact in ascending mountains, and sometimes\nit is quite remarkable how abruptly, as Alph. De Candolle has observed,\na common alpine species disappears. The same fact has been noticed by\nForbes in sounding the depths of the sea with the dredge. To those who\nlook at climate and the physical conditions of life as the\nall-important elements of distribution, these facts ought to cause\nsurprise, as climate and height or depth graduate away insensibly. But\nwhen we bear in mind that almost every species, even in its metropolis,\nwould increase immensely in numbers, were it not for other competing\nspecies; that nearly all either prey on or serve as prey for others; in\nshort, that each organic being is either directly or indirectly related\nin the most important manner to other organic beings, we must see that\nthe range of the inhabitants of any country by no means exclusively\ndepends on insensibly changing physical conditions, but in large part\non the presence of other species, on which it depends, or by which it\nis destroyed, or with which it comes into competition; and as these\nspecies are already defined objects (however they may have become so),\nnot blending one into another by insensible gradations, the range of\nany one species, depending as it does on the range of others, will tend\nto be sharply defined. Moreover, each species on the confines of its\nrange, where it exists in lessened numbers, will, during fluctuations\nin the number of its enemies or of its prey, or in the seasons, be\nextremely liable to utter extermination; and thus its geographical\nrange will come to be still more sharply defined.\n\nIf I am right in believing that allied or representative species, when\ninhabiting a continuous area, are generally so distributed that each\nhas a wide range, with a comparatively narrow neutral territory between\nthem, in which they become rather suddenly rarer and rarer; then, as\nvarieties do not essentially differ from species,\nthe same rule will probably apply to both; and if we in imagination\nadapt a varying species to a very large area, we shall have to adapt\ntwo varieties to two large areas, and a third variety to a narrow\nintermediate zone. The intermediate variety, consequently, will exist\nin lesser numbers from inhabiting a narrow and lesser area; and\npractically, as far as I can make out, this rule holds good with\nvarieties in a state of nature. I have met with striking instances of\nthe rule in the case of varieties intermediate between well-marked\nvarieties in the genus Balanus. And it would appear from information\ngiven me by Mr. Watson, Dr. Asa Gray, and Mr. Wollaston, that generally\nwhen varieties intermediate between two other forms occur, they are\nmuch rarer numerically than the forms which they connect. Now, if we\nmay trust these facts and inferences, and therefore conclude that\nvarieties linking two other varieties together have generally existed\nin lesser numbers than the forms which they connect, then, I think, we\ncan understand why intermediate varieties should not endure for very\nlong periods;—why as a general rule they should be exterminated and\ndisappear, sooner than the forms which they originally linked together.\n\nFor any form existing in lesser numbers would, as already remarked, run\na greater chance of being exterminated than one existing in large\nnumbers; and in this particular case the intermediate form would be\neminently liable to the inroads of closely allied forms existing on\nboth sides of it. But a far more important consideration, as I believe,\nis that, during the process of further modification, by which two\nvarieties are supposed on my theory to be converted and perfected into\ntwo distinct species, the two which exist in larger numbers from\ninhabiting larger areas, will have a great advantage over the\nintermediate variety, which exists\nin smaller numbers in a narrow and intermediate zone. For forms\nexisting in larger numbers will always have a better chance, within any\ngiven period, of presenting further favourable variations for natural\nselection to seize on, than will the rarer forms which exist in lesser\nnumbers. Hence, the more common forms, in the race for life, will tend\nto beat and supplant the less common forms, for these will be more\nslowly modified and improved. It is the same principle which, as I\nbelieve, accounts for the common species in each country, as shown in\nthe second chapter, presenting on an average a greater number of\nwell-marked varieties than do the rarer species. I may illustrate what\nI mean by supposing three varieties of sheep to be kept, one adapted to\nan extensive mountainous region; a second to a comparatively narrow,\nhilly tract; and a third to wide plains at the base; and that the\ninhabitants are all trying with equal steadiness and skill to improve\ntheir stocks by selection; the chances in this case will be strongly in\nfavour of the great holders on the mountains or on the plains improving\ntheir breeds more quickly than the small holders on the intermediate\nnarrow, hilly tract; and consequently the improved mountain or plain\nbreed will soon take the place of the less improved hill breed; and\nthus the two breeds, which originally existed in greater numbers, will\ncome into close contact with each other, without the interposition of\nthe supplanted, intermediate hill-variety.\n\nTo sum up, I believe that species come to be tolerably well-defined\nobjects, and do not at any one period present an inextricable chaos of\nvarying and intermediate links: firstly, because new varieties are very\nslowly formed, for variation is a very slow process, and natural\nselection can do nothing until favourable variations chance to occur,\nand until a place in the natural polity\nof the country can be better filled by some modification of some one or\nmore of its inhabitants. And such new places will depend on slow\nchanges of climate, or on the occasional immigration of new\ninhabitants, and, probably, in a still more important degree, on some\nof the old inhabitants becoming slowly modified, with the new forms\nthus produced and the old ones acting and reacting on each other. So\nthat, in any one region and at any one time, we ought only to see a few\nspecies presenting slight modifications of structure in some degree\npermanent; and this assuredly we do see.\n\nSecondly, areas now continuous must often have existed within the\nrecent period in isolated portions, in which many forms, more\nespecially amongst the classes which unite for each birth and wander\nmuch, may have separately been rendered sufficiently distinct to rank\nas representative species. In this case, intermediate varieties between\nthe several representative species and their common parent, must\nformerly have existed in each broken portion of the land, but these\nlinks will have been supplanted and exterminated during the process of\nnatural selection, so that they will no longer exist in a living state.\n\nThirdly, when two or more varieties have been formed in different\nportions of a strictly continuous area, intermediate varieties will, it\nis probable, at first have been formed in the intermediate zones, but\nthey will generally have had a short duration. For these intermediate\nvarieties will, from reasons already assigned (namely from what we know\nof the actual distribution of closely allied or representative species,\nand likewise of acknowledged varieties), exist in the intermediate\nzones in lesser numbers than the varieties which they tend to connect.\nFrom this cause alone the intermediate\nvarieties will be liable to accidental extermination; and during the\nprocess of further modification through natural selection, they will\nalmost certainly be beaten and supplanted by the forms which they\nconnect; for these from existing in greater numbers will, in the\naggregate, present more variation, and thus be further improved through\nnatural selection and gain further advantages.\n\nLastly, looking not to any one time, but to all time, if my theory be\ntrue, numberless intermediate varieties, linking most closely all the\nspecies of the same group together, must assuredly have existed; but\nthe very process of natural selection constantly tends, as has been so\noften remarked, to exterminate the parent forms and the intermediate\nlinks. Consequently evidence of their former existence could be found\nonly amongst fossil remains, which are preserved, as we shall in a\nfuture chapter attempt to show, in an extremely imperfect and\nintermittent record.\n\n_On the origin and transitions of organic beings with peculiar habits\nand structure_.—It has been asked by the opponents of such views as I\nhold, how, for instance, a land carnivorous animal could have been\nconverted into one with aquatic habits; for how could the animal in its\ntransitional state have subsisted? It would be easy to show that within\nthe same group carnivorous animals exist having every intermediate\ngrade between truly aquatic and strictly terrestrial habits; and as\neach exists by a struggle for life, it is clear that each is well\nadapted in its habits to its place in nature. Look at the Mustela vison\nof North America, which has webbed feet and which resembles an otter in\nits fur, short legs, and form of tail; during summer this animal dives\nfor and preys on fish, but during the long winter\nit leaves the frozen waters, and preys like other polecats on mice and\nland animals. If a different case had been taken, and it had been asked\nhow an insectivorous quadruped could possibly have been converted into\na flying bat, the question would have been far more difficult, and I\ncould have given no answer. Yet I think such difficulties have very\nlittle weight.\n\nHere, as on other occasions, I lie under a heavy disadvantage, for out\nof the many striking cases which I have collected, I can give only one\nor two instances of transitional habits and structures in closely\nallied species of the same genus; and of diversified habits, either\nconstant or occasional, in the same species. And it seems to me that\nnothing less than a long list of such cases is sufficient to lessen the\ndifficulty in any particular case like that of the bat.\n\nLook at the family of squirrels; here we have the finest gradation from\nanimals with their tails only slightly flattened, and from others, as\nSir J. Richardson has remarked, with the posterior part of their bodies\nrather wide and with the skin on their flanks rather full, to the\nso-called flying squirrels; and flying squirrels have their limbs and\neven the base of the tail united by a broad expanse of skin, which\nserves as a parachute and allows them to glide through the air to an\nastonishing distance from tree to tree. We cannot doubt that each\nstructure is of use to each kind of squirrel in its own country, by\nenabling it to escape birds or beasts of prey, or to collect food more\nquickly, or, as there is reason to believe, by lessening the danger\nfrom occasional falls. But it does not follow from this fact that the\nstructure of each squirrel is the best that it is possible to conceive\nunder all natural conditions. Let the climate and vegetation change,\nlet other competing rodents or new beasts of prey immigrate, or old\nones\nbecome modified, and all analogy would lead us to believe that some at\nleast of the squirrels would decrease in numbers or become\nexterminated, unless they also became modified and improved in\nstructure in a corresponding manner. Therefore, I can see no\ndifficulty, more especially under changing conditions of life, in the\ncontinued preservation of individuals with fuller and fuller\nflank-membranes, each modification being useful, each being propagated,\nuntil by the accumulated effects of this process of natural selection,\na perfect so-called flying squirrel was produced.\n\nNow look at the Galeopithecus or flying lemur, which formerly was\nfalsely ranked amongst bats. It has an extremely wide flank-membrane,\nstretching from the corners of the jaw to the tail, and including the\nlimbs and the elongated fingers: the flank membrane is, also, furnished\nwith an extensor muscle. Although no graduated links of structure,\nfitted for gliding through the air, now connect the Galeopithecus with\nthe other Lemuridæ, yet I can see no difficulty in supposing that such\nlinks formerly existed, and that each had been formed by the same steps\nas in the case of the less perfectly gliding squirrels; and that each\ngrade of structure had been useful to its possessor. Nor can I see any\ninsuperable difficulty in further believing it possible that the\nmembrane-connected fingers and fore-arm of the Galeopithecus might be\ngreatly lengthened by natural selection; and this, as far as the organs\nof flight are concerned, would convert it into a bat. In bats which\nhave the wing-membrane extended from the top of the shoulder to the\ntail, including the hind-legs, we perhaps see traces of an apparatus\noriginally constructed for gliding through the air rather than for\nflight.\n\nIf about a dozen genera of birds had become extinct or were unknown,\nwho would have ventured to have\nsurmised that birds might have existed which used their wings solely as\nflappers, like the logger-headed duck (Micropterus of Eyton); as fins\nin the water and front legs on the land, like the penguin; as sails,\nlike the ostrich; and functionally for no purpose, like the Apteryx.\nYet the structure of each of these birds is good for it, under the\nconditions of life to which it is exposed, for each has to live by a\nstruggle; but it is not necessarily the best possible under all\npossible conditions. It must not be inferred from these remarks that\nany of the grades of wing-structure here alluded to, which perhaps may\nall have resulted from disuse, indicate the natural steps by which\nbirds have acquired their perfect power of flight; but they serve, at\nleast, to show what diversified means of transition are possible.\n\nSeeing that a few members of such water-breathing classes as the\nCrustacea and Mollusca are adapted to live on the land, and seeing that\nwe have flying birds and mammals, flying insects of the most\ndiversified types, and formerly had flying reptiles, it is conceivable\nthat flying-fish, which now glide far through the air, slightly rising\nand turning by the aid of their fluttering fins, might have been\nmodified into perfectly winged animals. If this had been effected, who\nwould have ever imagined that in an early transitional state they had\nbeen inhabitants of the open ocean, and had used their incipient organs\nof flight exclusively, as far as we know, to escape being devoured by\nother fish?\n\nWhen we see any structure highly perfected for any particular habit, as\nthe wings of a bird for flight, we should bear in mind that animals\ndisplaying early transitional grades of the structure will seldom\ncontinue to exist to the present day, for they will have been\nsupplanted by the very process of perfection through natural selection.\nFurthermore, we may conclude that transitional\ngrades between structures fitted for very different habits of life will\nrarely have been developed at an early period in great numbers and\nunder many subordinate forms. Thus, to return to our imaginary\nillustration of the flying-fish, it does not seem probable that fishes\ncapable of true flight would have been developed under many subordinate\nforms, for taking prey of many kinds in many ways, on the land and in\nthe water, until their organs of flight had come to a high stage of\nperfection, so as to have given them a decided advantage over other\nanimals in the battle for life. Hence the chance of discovering species\nwith transitional grades of structure in a fossil condition will always\nbe less, from their having existed in lesser numbers, than in the case\nof species with fully developed structures.\n\nI will now give two or three instances of diversified and of changed\nhabits in the individuals of the same species. When either case occurs,\nit would be easy for natural selection to fit the animal, by some\nmodification of its structure, for its changed habits, or exclusively\nfor one of its several different habits. But it is difficult to tell,\nand immaterial for us, whether habits generally change first and\nstructure afterwards; or whether slight modifications of structure lead\nto changed habits; both probably often change almost simultaneously. Of\ncases of changed habits it will suffice merely to allude to that of the\nmany British insects which now feed on exotic plants, or exclusively on\nartificial substances. Of diversified habits innumerable instances\ncould be given: I have often watched a tyrant flycatcher (Saurophagus\nsulphuratus) in South America, hovering over one spot and then\nproceeding to another, like a kestrel, and at other times standing\nstationary on the margin of water, and then dashing like a kingfisher\nat a fish. In our own country the larger titmouse (Parus major) may be\nseen climbing branches, almost like a creeper; it often, like a shrike,\nkills small birds by blows on the head; and I have many times seen and\nheard it hammering the seeds of the yew on a branch, and thus breaking\nthem like a nuthatch. In North America the black bear was seen by\nHearne swimming for hours with widely open mouth, thus catching, like a\nwhale, insects in the water. Even in so extreme a case as this, if the\nsupply of insects were constant, and if better adapted competitors did\nnot already exist in the country, I can see no difficulty in a race of\nbears being rendered, by natural selection, more and more aquatic in\ntheir structure and habits, with larger and larger mouths, till a\ncreature was produced as monstrous as a whale.\n\nAs we sometimes see individuals of a species following habits widely\ndifferent from those both of their own species and of the other species\nof the same genus, we might expect, on my theory, that such individuals\nwould occasionally have given rise to new species, having anomalous\nhabits, and with their structure either slightly or considerably\nmodified from that of their proper type. And such instances do occur in\nnature. Can a more striking instance of adaptation be given than that\nof a woodpecker for climbing trees and for seizing insects in the\nchinks of the bark? Yet in North America there are woodpeckers which\nfeed largely on fruit, and others with elongated wings which chase\ninsects on the wing; and on the plains of La Plata, where not a tree\ngrows, there is a woodpecker, which in every essential part of its\norganisation, even in its colouring, in the harsh tone of its voice,\nand undulatory flight, told me plainly of its close blood-relationship\nto our common species; yet it is a woodpecker which never climbs a\ntree!\n\nPetrels are the most aërial and oceanic of birds, yet in the quiet\nSounds of Tierra del Fuego, the Puffinuria\nberardi, in its general habits, in its astonishing power of diving, its\nmanner of swimming, and of flying when unwillingly it takes flight,\nwould be mistaken by any one for an auk or grebe; nevertheless, it is\nessentially a petrel, but with many parts of its organisation\nprofoundly modified. On the other hand, the acutest observer by\nexamining the dead body of the water-ouzel would never have suspected\nits sub-aquatic habits; yet this anomalous member of the strictly\nterrestrial thrush family wholly subsists by diving,—grasping the\nstones with its feet and using its wings under water.\n\nHe who believes that each being has been created as we now see it, must\noccasionally have felt surprise when he has met with an animal having\nhabits and structure not at all in agreement. What can be plainer than\nthat the webbed feet of ducks and geese are formed for swimming? yet\nthere are upland geese with webbed feet which rarely or never go near\nthe water; and no one except Audubon has seen the frigate-bird, which\nhas all its four toes webbed, alight on the surface of the sea. On the\nother hand, grebes and coots are eminently aquatic, although their toes\nare only bordered by membrane. What seems plainer than that the long\ntoes of grallatores are formed for walking over swamps and floating\nplants, yet the water-hen is nearly as aquatic as the coot; and the\nlandrail nearly as terrestrial as the quail or partridge. In such\ncases, and many others could be given, habits have changed without a\ncorresponding change of structure. The webbed feet of the upland goose\nmay be said to have become rudimentary in function, though not in\nstructure. In the frigate-bird, the deeply-scooped membrane between the\ntoes shows that structure has begun to change.\n\nHe who believes in separate and innumerable acts of creation will say,\nthat in these cases it has pleased the\nCreator to cause a being of one type to take the place of one of\nanother type; but this seems to me only restating the fact in dignified\nlanguage. He who believes in the struggle for existence and in the\nprinciple of natural selection, will acknowledge that every organic\nbeing is constantly endeavouring to increase in numbers; and that if\nany one being vary ever so little, either in habits or structure, and\nthus gain an advantage over some other inhabitant of the country, it\nwill seize on the place of that inhabitant, however different it may be\nfrom its own place. Hence it will cause him no surprise that there\nshould be geese and frigate-birds with webbed feet, either living on\nthe dry land or most rarely alighting on the water; that there should\nbe long-toed corncrakes living in meadows instead of in swamps; that\nthere should be woodpeckers where not a tree grows; that there should\nbe diving thrushes, and petrels with the habits of auks.\n\n_Organs of extreme perfection and complication_.—To suppose that the\neye, with all its inimitable contrivances for adjusting the focus to\ndifferent distances, for admitting different amounts of light, and for\nthe correction of spherical and chromatic aberration, could have been\nformed by natural selection, seems, I freely confess, absurd in the\nhighest possible degree. Yet reason tells me, that if numerous\ngradations from a perfect and complex eye to one very imperfect and\nsimple, each grade being useful to its possessor, can be shown to\nexist; if further, the eye does vary ever so slightly, and the\nvariations be inherited, which is certainly the case; and if any\nvariation or modification in the organ be ever useful to an animal\nunder changing conditions of life, then the difficulty of believing\nthat a perfect and complex eye could be formed by natural\nselection, though insuperable by our imagination, can hardly be\nconsidered real. How a nerve comes to be sensitive to light, hardly\nconcerns us more than how life itself first originated; but I may\nremark that several facts make me suspect that any sensitive nerve may\nbe rendered sensitive to light, and likewise to those coarser\nvibrations of the air which produce sound.\n\nIn looking for the gradations by which an organ in any species has been\nperfected, we ought to look exclusively to its lineal ancestors; but\nthis is scarcely ever possible, and we are forced in each case to look\nto species of the same group, that is to the collateral descendants\nfrom the same original parent-form, in order to see what gradations are\npossible, and for the chance of some gradations having been transmitted\nfrom the earlier stages of descent, in an unaltered or little altered\ncondition. Amongst existing Vertebrata, we find but a small amount of\ngradation in the structure of the eye, and from fossil species we can\nlearn nothing on this head. In this great class we should probably have\nto descend far beneath the lowest known fossiliferous stratum to\ndiscover the earlier stages, by which the eye has been perfected.\n\nIn the Articulata we can commence a series with an optic nerve merely\ncoated with pigment, and without any other mechanism; and from this low\nstage, numerous gradations of structure, branching off in two\nfundamentally different lines, can be shown to exist, until we reach a\nmoderately high stage of perfection. In certain crustaceans, for\ninstance, there is a double cornea, the inner one divided into facets,\nwithin each of which there is a lens-shaped swelling. In other\ncrustaceans the transparent cones which are coated by pigment, and\nwhich properly act only by excluding lateral pencils of light, are\nconvex at their upper ends\nand must act by convergence; and at their lower ends there seems to be\nan imperfect vitreous substance. With these facts, here far too briefly\nand imperfectly given, which show that there is much graduated\ndiversity in the eyes of living crustaceans, and bearing in mind how\nsmall the number of living animals is in proportion to those which have\nbecome extinct, I can see no very great difficulty (not more than in\nthe case of many other structures) in believing that natural selection\nhas converted the simple apparatus of an optic nerve merely coated with\npigment and invested by transparent membrane, into an optical\ninstrument as perfect as is possessed by any member of the great\nArticulate class.\n\nHe who will go thus far, if he find on finishing this treatise that\nlarge bodies of facts, otherwise inexplicable, can be explained by the\ntheory of descent, ought not to hesitate to go further, and to admit\nthat a structure even as perfect as the eye of an eagle might be formed\nby natural selection, although in this case he does not know any of the\ntransitional grades. His reason ought to conquer his imagination;\nthough I have felt the difficulty far too keenly to be surprised at any\ndegree of hesitation in extending the principle of natural selection to\nsuch startling lengths.\n\nIt is scarcely possible to avoid comparing the eye to a telescope. We\nknow that this instrument has been perfected by the long-continued\nefforts of the highest human intellects; and we naturally infer that\nthe eye has been formed by a somewhat analogous process. But may not\nthis inference be presumptuous? Have we any right to assume that the\nCreator works by intellectual powers like those of man? If we must\ncompare the eye to an optical instrument, we ought in imagination to\ntake a thick layer of transparent tissue, with a nerve sensitive to\nlight beneath, and then suppose every\npart of this layer to be continually changing slowly in density, so as\nto separate into layers of different densities and thicknesses, placed\nat different distances from each other, and with the surfaces of each\nlayer slowly changing in form. Further we must suppose that there is a\npower always intently watching each slight accidental alteration in the\ntransparent layers; and carefully selecting each alteration which,\nunder varied circumstances, may in any way, or in any degree, tend to\nproduce a distincter image. We must suppose each new state of the\ninstrument to be multiplied by the million; and each to be preserved\ntill a better be produced, and then the old ones to be destroyed. In\nliving bodies, variation will cause the slight alterations, generation\nwill multiply them almost infinitely, and natural selection will pick\nout with unerring skill each improvement. Let this process go on for\nmillions on millions of years; and during each year on millions of\nindividuals of many kinds; and may we not believe that a living optical\ninstrument might thus be formed as superior to one of glass, as the\nworks of the Creator are to those of man?\n\nIf it could be demonstrated that any complex organ existed, which could\nnot possibly have been formed by numerous, successive, slight\nmodifications, my theory would absolutely break down. But I can find\nout no such case. No doubt many organs exist of which we do not know\nthe transitional grades, more especially if we look to much-isolated\nspecies, round which, according to my theory, there has been much\nextinction. Or again, if we look to an organ common to all the members\nof a large class, for in this latter case the organ must have been\nfirst formed at an extremely remote period, since which all the many\nmembers of the class have been developed; and in order to discover the\nearly transitional grades through which the organ has\npassed, we should have to look to very ancient ancestral forms, long\nsince become extinct.\n\nWe should be extremely cautious in concluding that an organ could not\nhave been formed by transitional gradations of some kind. Numerous\ncases could be given amongst the lower animals of the same organ\nperforming at the same time wholly distinct functions; thus the\nalimentary canal respires, digests, and excretes in the larva of the\ndragon-fly and in the fish Cobites. In the Hydra, the animal may be\nturned inside out, and the exterior surface will then digest and the\nstomach respire. In such cases natural selection might easily\nspecialise, if any advantage were thus gained, a part or organ, which\nhad performed two functions, for one function alone, and thus wholly\nchange its nature by insensible steps. Two distinct organs sometimes\nperform simultaneously the same function in the same individual; to\ngive one instance, there are fish with gills or branchiæ that breathe\nthe air dissolved in the water, at the same time that they breathe free\nair in their swimbladders, this latter organ having a ductus\npneumaticus for its supply, and being divided by highly vascular\npartitions. In these cases, one of the two organs might with ease be\nmodified and perfected so as to perform all the work by itself, being\naided during the process of modification by the other organ; and then\nthis other organ might be modified for some other and quite distinct\npurpose, or be quite obliterated.\n\nThe illustration of the swimbladder in fishes is a good one, because it\nshows us clearly the highly important fact that an organ originally\nconstructed for one purpose, namely flotation, may be converted into\none for a wholly different purpose, namely respiration. The swimbladder\nhas, also, been worked in as an accessory to the auditory organs of\ncertain fish, or, for I do not know which\nview is now generally held, a part of the auditory apparatus has been\nworked in as a complement to the swimbladder. All physiologists admit\nthat the swimbladder is homologous, or “ideally similar,” in position\nand structure with the lungs of the higher vertebrate animals: hence\nthere seems to me to be no great difficulty in believing that natural\nselection has actually converted a swimbladder into a lung, or organ\nused exclusively for respiration.\n\nI can, indeed, hardly doubt that all vertebrate animals having true\nlungs have descended by ordinary generation from an ancient prototype,\nof which we know nothing, furnished with a floating apparatus or\nswimbladder. We can thus, as I infer from Professor Owen’s interesting\ndescription of these parts, understand the strange fact that every\nparticle of food and drink which we swallow has to pass over the\norifice of the trachea, with some risk of falling into the lungs,\nnotwithstanding the beautiful contrivance by which the glottis is\nclosed. In the higher Vertebrata the branchiæ have wholly\ndisappeared—the slits on the sides of the neck and the loop-like course\nof the arteries still marking in the embryo their former position. But\nit is conceivable that the now utterly lost branchiæ might have been\ngradually worked in by natural selection for some quite distinct\npurpose: in the same manner as, on the view entertained by some\nnaturalists that the branchiæ and dorsal scales of Annelids are\nhomologous with the wings and wing-covers of insects, it is probable\nthat organs which at a very ancient period served for respiration have\nbeen actually converted into organs of flight.\n\nIn considering transitions of organs, it is so important to bear in\nmind the probability of conversion from one function to another, that I\nwill give one more instance. Pedunculated cirripedes have two minute\nfolds of skin,\ncalled by me the ovigerous frena, which serve, through the means of a\nsticky secretion, to retain the eggs until they are hatched within the\nsack. These cirripedes have no branchiæ, the whole surface of the body\nand sack, including the small frena, serving for respiration. The\nBalanidæ or sessile cirripedes, on the other hand, have no ovigerous\nfrena, the eggs lying loose at the bottom of the sack, in the\nwell-enclosed shell; but they have large folded branchiæ. Now I think\nno one will dispute that the ovigerous frena in the one family are\nstrictly homologous with the branchiæ of the other family; indeed, they\ngraduate into each other. Therefore I do not doubt that little folds of\nskin, which originally served as ovigerous frena, but which, likewise,\nvery slightly aided the act of respiration, have been gradually\nconverted by natural selection into branchiæ, simply through an\nincrease in their size and the obliteration of their adhesive glands.\nIf all pedunculated cirripedes had become extinct, and they have\nalready suffered far more extinction than have sessile cirripedes, who\nwould ever have imagined that the branchiæ in this latter family had\noriginally existed as organs for preventing the ova from being washed\nout of the sack?\n\nAlthough we must be extremely cautious in concluding that any organ\ncould not possibly have been produced by successive transitional\ngradations, yet, undoubtedly, grave cases of difficulty occur, some of\nwhich will be discussed in my future work.\n\nOne of the gravest is that of neuter insects, which are often very\ndifferently constructed from either the males or fertile females; but\nthis case will be treated of in the next chapter. The electric organs\nof fishes offer another case of special difficulty; it is impossible to\nconceive by what steps these wondrous organs have been produced; but,\nas Owen and others have remarked,\ntheir intimate structure closely resembles that of common muscle; and\nas it has lately been shown that Rays have an organ closely analogous\nto the electric apparatus, and yet do not, as Matteuchi asserts,\ndischarge any electricity, we must own that we are far too ignorant to\nargue that no transition of any kind is possible.\n\nThe electric organs offer another and even more serious difficulty; for\nthey occur in only about a dozen fishes, of which several are widely\nremote in their affinities. Generally when the same organ appears in\nseveral members of the same class, especially if in members having very\ndifferent habits of life, we may attribute its presence to inheritance\nfrom a common ancestor; and its absence in some of the members to its\nloss through disuse or natural selection. But if the electric organs\nhad been inherited from one ancient progenitor thus provided, we might\nhave expected that all electric fishes would have been specially\nrelated to each other. Nor does geology at all lead to the belief that\nformerly most fishes had electric organs, which most of their modified\ndescendants have lost. The presence of luminous organs in a few\ninsects, belonging to different families and orders, offers a parallel\ncase of difficulty. Other cases could be given; for instance in plants,\nthe very curious contrivance of a mass of pollen-grains, borne on a\nfoot-stalk with a sticky gland at the end, is the same in Orchis and\nAsclepias,—genera almost as remote as possible amongst flowering\nplants. In all these cases of two very distinct species furnished with\napparently the same anomalous organ, it should be observed that,\nalthough the general appearance and function of the organ may be the\nsame, yet some fundamental difference can generally be detected. I am\ninclined to believe that in nearly the same way as two men have\nsometimes independently hit on\nthe very same invention, so natural selection, working for the good of\neach being and taking advantage of analogous variations, has sometimes\nmodified in very nearly the same manner two parts in two organic\nbeings, which owe but little of their structure in common to\ninheritance from the same ancestor.\n\nAlthough in many cases it is most difficult to conjecture by what\ntransitions an organ could have arrived at its present state; yet,\nconsidering that the proportion of living and known forms to the\nextinct and unknown is very small, I have been astonished how rarely an\norgan can be named, towards which no transitional grade is known to\nlead. The truth of this remark is indeed shown by that old canon in\nnatural history of “Natura non facit saltum.” We meet with this\nadmission in the writings of almost every experienced naturalist; or,\nas Milne Edwards has well expressed it, nature is prodigal in variety,\nbut niggard in innovation. Why, on the theory of Creation, should this\nbe so? Why should all the parts and organs of many independent beings,\neach supposed to have been separately created for its proper place in\nnature, be so invariably linked together by graduated steps? Why should\nnot Nature have taken a leap from structure to structure? On the theory\nof natural selection, we can clearly understand why she should not; for\nnatural selection can act only by taking advantage of slight successive\nvariations; she can never take a leap, but must advance by the shortest\nand slowest steps.\n\n_Organs of little apparent importance_.—As natural selection acts by\nlife and death,—by the preservation of individuals with any favourable\nvariation, and by the destruction of those with any unfavourable\ndeviation of structure,—I have sometimes felt much difficulty in\nunderstanding the origin of simple parts, of which the importance does\nnot seem sufficient to cause the preservation of successively varying\nindividuals. I have sometimes felt as much difficulty, though of a very\ndifferent kind, on this head, as in the case of an organ as perfect and\ncomplex as the eye.\n\nIn the first place, we are much too ignorant in regard to the whole\neconomy of any one organic being, to say what slight modifications\nwould be of importance or not. In a former chapter I have given\ninstances of most trifling characters, such as the down on fruit and\nthe colour of the flesh, which, from determining the attacks of insects\nor from being correlated with constitutional differences, might\nassuredly be acted on by natural selection. The tail of the giraffe\nlooks like an artificially constructed fly-flapper; and it seems at\nfirst incredible that this could have been adapted for its present\npurpose by successive slight modifications, each better and better, for\nso trifling an object as driving away flies; yet we should pause before\nbeing too positive even in this case, for we know that the distribution\nand existence of cattle and other animals in South America absolutely\ndepends on their power of resisting the attacks of insects: so that\nindividuals which could by any means defend themselves from these small\nenemies, would be able to range into new pastures and thus gain a great\nadvantage. It is not that the larger quadrupeds are actually destroyed\n(except in some rare cases) by the flies, but they are incessantly\nharassed and their strength reduced, so that they are more subject to\ndisease, or not so well enabled in a coming dearth to search for food,\nor to escape from beasts of prey.\n\nOrgans now of trifling importance have probably in some cases been of\nhigh importance to an early progenitor, and, after having been slowly\nperfected at a\nformer period, have been transmitted in nearly the same state, although\nnow become of very slight use; and any actually injurious deviations in\ntheir structure will always have been checked by natural selection.\nSeeing how important an organ of locomotion the tail is in most aquatic\nanimals, its general presence and use for many purposes in so many land\nanimals, which in their lungs or modified swim-bladders betray their\naquatic origin, may perhaps be thus accounted for. A well-developed\ntail having been formed in an aquatic animal, it might subsequently\ncome to be worked in for all sorts of purposes, as a fly-flapper, an\norgan of prehension, or as an aid in turning, as with the dog, though\nthe aid must be slight, for the hare, with hardly any tail, can double\nquickly enough.\n\nIn the second place, we may sometimes attribute importance to\ncharacters which are really of very little importance, and which have\noriginated from quite secondary causes, independently of natural\nselection. We should remember that climate, food, etc., probably have\nsome little direct influence on the organisation; that characters\nreappear from the law of reversion; that correlation of growth will\nhave had a most important influence in modifying various structures;\nand finally, that sexual selection will often have largely modified the\nexternal characters of animals having a will, to give one male an\nadvantage in fighting with another or in charming the females. Moreover\nwhen a modification of structure has primarily arisen from the above or\nother unknown causes, it may at first have been of no advantage to the\nspecies, but may subsequently have been taken advantage of by the\ndescendants of the species under new conditions of life and with newly\nacquired habits.\n\nTo give a few instances to illustrate these latter\nremarks. If green woodpeckers alone had existed, and we did not know\nthat there were many black and pied kinds, I dare say that we should\nhave thought that the green colour was a beautiful adaptation to hide\nthis tree-frequenting bird from its enemies; and consequently that it\nwas a character of importance and might have been acquired through\nnatural selection; as it is, I have no doubt that the colour is due to\nsome quite distinct cause, probably to sexual selection. A trailing\nbamboo in the Malay Archipelago climbs the loftiest trees by the aid of\nexquisitely constructed hooks clustered around the ends of the\nbranches, and this contrivance, no doubt, is of the highest service to\nthe plant; but as we see nearly similar hooks on many trees which are\nnot climbers, the hooks on the bamboo may have arisen from unknown laws\nof growth, and have been subsequently taken advantage of by the plant\nundergoing further modification and becoming a climber. The naked skin\non the head of a vulture is generally looked at as a direct adaptation\nfor wallowing in putridity; and so it may be, or it may possibly be due\nto the direct action of putrid matter; but we should be very cautious\nin drawing any such inference, when we see that the skin on the head of\nthe clean-feeding male turkey is likewise naked. The sutures in the\nskulls of young mammals have been advanced as a beautiful adaptation\nfor aiding parturition, and no doubt they facilitate, or may be\nindispensable for this act; but as sutures occur in the skulls of young\nbirds and reptiles, which have only to escape from a broken egg, we may\ninfer that this structure has arisen from the laws of growth, and has\nbeen taken advantage of in the parturition of the higher animals.\n\nWe are profoundly ignorant of the causes producing slight and\nunimportant variations; and we are immediately\nmade conscious of this by reflecting on the differences in the breeds\nof our domesticated animals in different countries,—more especially in\nthe less civilized countries where there has been but little artificial\nselection. Careful observers are convinced that a damp climate affects\nthe growth of the hair, and that with the hair the horns are\ncorrelated. Mountain breeds always differ from lowland breeds; and a\nmountainous country would probably affect the hind limbs from\nexercising them more, and possibly even the form of the pelvis; and\nthen by the law of homologous variation, the front limbs and even the\nhead would probably be affected. The shape, also, of the pelvis might\naffect by pressure the shape of the head of the young in the womb. The\nlaborious breathing necessary in high regions would, we have some\nreason to believe, increase the size of the chest; and again\ncorrelation would come into play. Animals kept by savages in different\ncountries often have to struggle for their own subsistence, and would\nbe exposed to a certain extent to natural selection, and individuals\nwith slightly different constitutions would succeed best under\ndifferent climates; and there is reason to believe that constitution\nand colour are correlated. A good observer, also, states that in cattle\nsusceptibility to the attacks of flies is correlated with colour, as is\nthe liability to be poisoned by certain plants; so that colour would be\nthus subjected to the action of natural selection. But we are far too\nignorant to speculate on the relative importance of the several known\nand unknown laws of variation; and I have here alluded to them only to\nshow that, if we are unable to account for the characteristic\ndifferences of our domestic breeds, which nevertheless we generally\nadmit to have arisen through ordinary generation, we ought not to lay\ntoo much stress on our\nignorance of the precise cause of the slight analogous differences\nbetween species. I might have adduced for this same purpose the\ndifferences between the races of man, which are so strongly marked; I\nmay add that some little light can apparently be thrown on the origin\nof these differences, chiefly through sexual selection of a particular\nkind, but without here entering on copious details my reasoning would\nappear frivolous.\n\nThe foregoing remarks lead me to say a few words on the protest lately\nmade by some naturalists, against the utilitarian doctrine that every\ndetail of structure has been produced for the good of its possessor.\nThey believe that very many structures have been created for beauty in\nthe eyes of man, or for mere variety. This doctrine, if true, would be\nabsolutely fatal to my theory. Yet I fully admit that many structures\nare of no direct use to their possessors. Physical conditions probably\nhave had some little effect on structure, quite independently of any\ngood thus gained. Correlation of growth has no doubt played a most\nimportant part, and a useful modification of one part will often have\nentailed on other parts diversified changes of no direct use. So again\ncharacters which formerly were useful, or which formerly had arisen\nfrom correlation of growth, or from other unknown cause, may reappear\nfrom the law of reversion, though now of no direct use. The effects of\nsexual selection, when displayed in beauty to charm the females, can be\ncalled useful only in rather a forced sense. But by far the most\nimportant consideration is that the chief part of the organisation of\nevery being is simply due to inheritance; and consequently, though each\nbeing assuredly is well fitted for its place in nature, many structures\nnow have no direct relation to the habits of life of each species.\nThus, we can hardly believe that the webbed feet of the upland\ngoose or of the frigate-bird are of special use to these birds; we\ncannot believe that the same bones in the arm of the monkey, in the\nfore leg of the horse, in the wing of the bat, and in the flipper of\nthe seal, are of special use to these animals. We may safely attribute\nthese structures to inheritance. But to the progenitor of the upland\ngoose and of the frigate-bird, webbed feet no doubt were as useful as\nthey now are to the most aquatic of existing birds. So we may believe\nthat the progenitor of the seal had not a flipper, but a foot with five\ntoes fitted for walking or grasping; and we may further venture to\nbelieve that the several bones in the limbs of the monkey, horse, and\nbat, which have been inherited from a common progenitor, were formerly\nof more special use to that progenitor, or its progenitors, than they\nnow are to these animals having such widely diversified habits.\nTherefore we may infer that these several bones might have been\nacquired through natural selection, subjected formerly, as now, to the\nseveral laws of inheritance, reversion, correlation of growth, etc.\nHence every detail of structure in every living creature (making some\nlittle allowance for the direct action of physical conditions) may be\nviewed, either as having been of special use to some ancestral form, or\nas being now of special use to the descendants of this form—either\ndirectly, or indirectly through the complex laws of growth.\n\nNatural selection cannot possibly produce any modification in any one\nspecies exclusively for the good of another species; though throughout\nnature one species incessantly takes advantage of, and profits by, the\nstructure of another. But natural selection can and does often produce\nstructures for the direct injury of other species, as we see in the\nfang of the adder, and in the ovipositor of the ichneumon, by which its\neggs are deposited\nin the living bodies of other insects. If it could be proved that any\npart of the structure of any one species had been formed for the\nexclusive good of another species, it would annihilate my theory, for\nsuch could not have been produced through natural selection. Although\nmany statements may be found in works on natural history to this\neffect, I cannot find even one which seems to me of any weight. It is\nadmitted that the rattlesnake has a poison-fang for its own defence and\nfor the destruction of its prey; but some authors suppose that at the\nsame time this snake is furnished with a rattle for its own injury,\nnamely, to warn its prey to escape. I would almost as soon believe that\nthe cat curls the end of its tail when preparing to spring, in order to\nwarn the doomed mouse. But I have not space here to enter on this and\nother such cases.\n\nNatural selection will never produce in a being anything injurious to\nitself, for natural selection acts solely by and for the good of each.\nNo organ will be formed, as Paley has remarked, for the purpose of\ncausing pain or for doing an injury to its possessor. If a fair balance\nbe struck between the good and evil caused by each part, each will be\nfound on the whole advantageous. After the lapse of time, under\nchanging conditions of life, if any part comes to be injurious, it will\nbe modified; or if it be not so, the being will become extinct, as\nmyriads have become extinct.\n\nNatural selection tends only to make each organic being as perfect as,\nor slightly more perfect than, the other inhabitants of the same\ncountry with which it has to struggle for existence. And we see that\nthis is the degree of perfection attained under nature. The endemic\nproductions of New Zealand, for instance, are perfect one compared with\nanother; but they are now rapidly yielding before the advancing legions\nof plants\nand animals introduced from Europe. Natural selection will not produce\nabsolute perfection, nor do we always meet, as far as we can judge,\nwith this high standard under nature. The correction for the aberration\nof light is said, on high authority, not to be perfect even in that\nmost perfect organ, the eye. If our reason leads us to admire with\nenthusiasm a multitude of inimitable contrivances in nature, this same\nreason tells us, though we may easily err on both sides, that some\nother contrivances are less perfect. Can we consider the sting of the\nwasp or of the bee as perfect, which, when used against many attacking\nanimals, cannot be withdrawn, owing to the backward serratures, and so\ninevitably causes the death of the insect by tearing out its viscera?\n\nIf we look at the sting of the bee, as having originally existed in a\nremote progenitor as a boring and serrated instrument, like that in so\nmany members of the same great order, and which has been modified but\nnot perfected for its present purpose, with the poison originally\nadapted to cause galls subsequently intensified, we can perhaps\nunderstand how it is that the use of the sting should so often cause\nthe insect’s own death: for if on the whole the power of stinging be\nuseful to the community, it will fulfil all the requirements of natural\nselection, though it may cause the death of some few members. If we\nadmire the truly wonderful power of scent by which the males of many\ninsects find their females, can we admire the production for this\nsingle purpose of thousands of drones, which are utterly useless to the\ncommunity for any other end, and which are ultimately slaughtered by\ntheir industrious and sterile sisters? It may be difficult, but we\nought to admire the savage instinctive hatred of the queen-bee, which\nurges her instantly to destroy the\nyoung queens her daughters as soon as born, or to perish herself in the\ncombat; for undoubtedly this is for the good of the community; and\nmaternal love or maternal hatred, though the latter fortunately is most\nrare, is all the same to the inexorable principle of natural selection.\nIf we admire the several ingenious contrivances, by which the flowers\nof the orchis and of many other plants are fertilised through insect\nagency, can we consider as equally perfect the elaboration by our\nfir-trees of dense clouds of pollen, in order that a few granules may\nbe wafted by a chance breeze on to the ovules?\n\n_Summary of Chapter_.—We have in this chapter discussed some of the\ndifficulties and objections which may be urged against my theory. Many\nof them are very grave; but I think that in the discussion light has\nbeen thrown on several facts, which on the theory of independent acts\nof creation are utterly obscure. We have seen that species at any one\nperiod are not indefinitely variable, and are not linked together by a\nmultitude of intermediate gradations, partly because the process of\nnatural selection will always be very slow, and will act, at any one\ntime, only on a very few forms; and partly because the very process of\nnatural selection almost implies the continual supplanting and\nextinction of preceding and intermediate gradations. Closely allied\nspecies, now living on a continuous area, must often have been formed\nwhen the area was not continuous, and when the conditions of life did\nnot insensibly graduate away from one part to another. When two\nvarieties are formed in two districts of a continuous area, an\nintermediate variety will often be formed, fitted for an intermediate\nzone; but from reasons assigned, the intermediate variety will usually\nexist in lesser numbers than\nthe two forms which it connects; consequently the two latter, during\nthe course of further modification, from existing in greater numbers,\nwill have a great advantage over the less numerous intermediate\nvariety, and will thus generally succeed in supplanting and\nexterminating it.\n\nWe have seen in this chapter how cautious we should be in concluding\nthat the most different habits of life could not graduate into each\nother; that a bat, for instance, could not have been formed by natural\nselection from an animal which at first could only glide through the\nair.\n\nWe have seen that a species may under new conditions of life change its\nhabits, or have diversified habits, with some habits very unlike those\nof its nearest congeners. Hence we can understand, bearing in mind that\neach organic being is trying to live wherever it can live, how it has\narisen that there are upland geese with webbed feet, ground\nwoodpeckers, diving thrushes, and petrels with the habits of auks.\n\nAlthough the belief that an organ so perfect as the eye could have been\nformed by natural selection, is more than enough to stagger any one;\nyet in the case of any organ, if we know of a long series of gradations\nin complexity, each good for its possessor, then, under changing\nconditions of life, there is no logical impossibility in the\nacquirement of any conceivable degree of perfection through natural\nselection. In the cases in which we know of no intermediate or\ntransitional states, we should be very cautious in concluding that none\ncould have existed, for the homologies of many organs and their\nintermediate states show that wonderful metamorphoses in function are\nat least possible. For instance, a swim-bladder has apparently been\nconverted into an air-breathing lung. The same organ having performed\nsimultaneously very different functions, and then having been\nspecialised for one function; and two very distinct organs having\nperformed at the same time the same function, the one having been\nperfected whilst aided by the other, must often have largely\nfacilitated transitions.\n\nWe are far too ignorant, in almost every case, to be enabled to assert\nthat any part or organ is so unimportant for the welfare of a species,\nthat modifications in its structure could not have been slowly\naccumulated by means of natural selection. But we may confidently\nbelieve that many modifications, wholly due to the laws of growth, and\nat first in no way advantageous to a species, have been subsequently\ntaken advantage of by the still further modified descendants of this\nspecies. We may, also, believe that a part formerly of high importance\nhas often been retained (as the tail of an aquatic animal by its\nterrestrial descendants), though it has become of such small importance\nthat it could not, in its present state, have been acquired by natural\nselection,—a power which acts solely by the preservation of profitable\nvariations in the struggle for life.\n\nNatural selection will produce nothing in one species for the exclusive\ngood or injury of another; though it may well produce parts, organs,\nand excretions highly useful or even indispensable, or highly injurious\nto another species, but in all cases at the same time useful to the\nowner. Natural selection in each well-stocked country, must act chiefly\nthrough the competition of the inhabitants one with another, and\nconsequently will produce perfection, or strength in the battle for\nlife, only according to the standard of that country. Hence the\ninhabitants of one country, generally the smaller one, will often\nyield, as we see they do yield, to the inhabitants of another and\ngenerally larger country. For in\nthe larger country there will have existed more individuals, and more\ndiversified forms, and the competition will have been severer, and thus\nthe standard of perfection will have been rendered higher. Natural\nselection will not necessarily produce absolute perfection; nor, as far\nas we can judge by our limited faculties, can absolute perfection be\neverywhere found.\n\nOn the theory of natural selection we can clearly understand the full\nmeaning of that old canon in natural history, “Natura non facit\nsaltum.” This canon, if we look only to the present inhabitants of the\nworld, is not strictly correct, but if we include all those of past\ntimes, it must by my theory be strictly true.\n\nIt is generally acknowledged that all organic beings have been formed\non two great laws—Unity of Type, and the Conditions of Existence. By\nunity of type is meant that fundamental agreement in structure, which\nwe see in organic beings of the same class, and which is quite\nindependent of their habits of life. On my theory, unity of type is\nexplained by unity of descent. The expression of conditions of\nexistence, so often insisted on by the illustrious Cuvier, is fully\nembraced by the principle of natural selection. For natural selection\nacts by either now adapting the varying parts of each being to its\norganic and inorganic conditions of life; or by having adapted them\nduring long-past periods of time: the adaptations being aided in some\ncases by use and disuse, being slightly affected by the direct action\nof the external conditions of life, and being in all cases subjected to\nthe several laws of growth. Hence, in fact, the law of the Conditions\nof Existence is the higher law; as it includes, through the inheritance\nof former adaptations, that of Unity of Type.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\nINSTINCT.\n\n\nInstincts comparable with habits, but different in their origin.\nInstincts graduated. Aphides and ants. Instincts variable. Domestic\ninstincts, their origin. Natural instincts of the cuckoo, ostrich, and\nparasitic bees. Slave-making ants. Hive-bee, its cell-making instinct.\nDifficulties on the theory of the Natural Selection of instincts.\nNeuter or sterile insects. Summary.\n\n\nThe subject of instinct might have been worked into the previous\nchapters; but I have thought that it would be more convenient to treat\nthe subject separately, especially as so wonderful an instinct as that\nof the hive-bee making its cells will probably have occurred to many\nreaders, as a difficulty sufficient to overthrow my whole theory. I\nmust premise, that I have nothing to do with the origin of the primary\nmental powers, any more than I have with that of life itself. We are\nconcerned only with the diversities of instinct and of the other mental\nqualities of animals within the same class.\n\nI will not attempt any definition of instinct. It would be easy to show\nthat several distinct mental actions are commonly embraced by this\nterm; but every one understands what is meant, when it is said that\ninstinct impels the cuckoo to migrate and to lay her eggs in other\nbirds’ nests. An action, which we ourselves should require experience\nto enable us to perform, when performed by an animal, more especially\nby a very young one, without any experience, and when performed by many\nindividuals in the same way, without their knowing for what purpose it\nis performed, is usually said to be instinctive.\nBut I could show that none of these characters of instinct are\nuniversal. A little dose, as Pierre Huber expresses it, of judgment or\nreason, often comes into play, even in animals very low in the scale of\nnature.\n\nFrederick Cuvier and several of the older metaphysicians have compared\ninstinct with habit. This comparison gives, I think, a remarkably\naccurate notion of the frame of mind under which an instinctive action\nis performed, but not of its origin. How unconsciously many habitual\nactions are performed, indeed not rarely in direct opposition to our\nconscious will! yet they may be modified by the will or reason. Habits\neasily become associated with other habits, and with certain periods of\ntime and states of the body. When once acquired, they often remain\nconstant throughout life. Several other points of resemblance between\ninstincts and habits could be pointed out. As in repeating a well-known\nsong, so in instincts, one action follows another by a sort of rhythm;\nif a person be interrupted in a song, or in repeating anything by rote,\nhe is generally forced to go back to recover the habitual train of\nthought: so P. Huber found it was with a caterpillar, which makes a\nvery complicated hammock; for if he took a caterpillar which had\ncompleted its hammock up to, say, the sixth stage of construction, and\nput it into a hammock completed up only to the third stage, the\ncaterpillar simply re-performed the fourth, fifth, and sixth stages of\nconstruction. If, however, a caterpillar were taken out of a hammock\nmade up, for instance, to the third stage, and were put into one\nfinished up to the sixth stage, so that much of its work was already\ndone for it, far from feeling the benefit of this, it was much\nembarrassed, and, in order to complete its hammock, seemed forced to\nstart from the third stage, where it had left off, and thus tried to\ncomplete the already finished work.\n\n\nIf we suppose any habitual action to become inherited—and I think it\ncan be shown that this does sometimes happen—then the resemblance\nbetween what originally was a habit and an instinct becomes so close as\nnot to be distinguished. If Mozart, instead of playing the pianoforte\nat three years old with wonderfully little practice, had played a tune\nwith no practice at all, he might truly be said to have done so\ninstinctively. But it would be the most serious error to suppose that\nthe greater number of instincts have been acquired by habit in one\ngeneration, and then transmitted by inheritance to succeeding\ngenerations. It can be clearly shown that the most wonderful instincts\nwith which we are acquainted, namely, those of the hive-bee and of many\nants, could not possibly have been thus acquired.\n\nIt will be universally admitted that instincts are as important as\ncorporeal structure for the welfare of each species, under its present\nconditions of life. Under changed conditions of life, it is at least\npossible that slight modifications of instinct might be profitable to a\nspecies; and if it can be shown that instincts do vary ever so little,\nthen I can see no difficulty in natural selection preserving and\ncontinually accumulating variations of instinct to any extent that may\nbe profitable. It is thus, as I believe, that all the most complex and\nwonderful instincts have originated. As modifications of corporeal\nstructure arise from, and are increased by, use or habit, and are\ndiminished or lost by disuse, so I do not doubt it has been with\ninstincts. But I believe that the effects of habit are of quite\nsubordinate importance to the effects of the natural selection of what\nmay be called accidental variations of instincts;—that is of variations\nproduced by the same unknown causes which produce slight deviations of\nbodily structure.\n\nNo complex instinct can possibly be produced through\nnatural selection, except by the slow and gradual accumulation of\nnumerous, slight, yet profitable, variations. Hence, as in the case of\ncorporeal structures, we ought to find in nature, not the actual\ntransitional gradations by which each complex instinct has been\nacquired—for these could be found only in the lineal ancestors of each\nspecies—but we ought to find in the collateral lines of descent some\nevidence of such gradations; or we ought at least to be able to show\nthat gradations of some kind are possible; and this we certainly can\ndo. I have been surprised to find, making allowance for the instincts\nof animals having been but little observed except in Europe and North\nAmerica, and for no instinct being known amongst extinct species, how\nvery generally gradations, leading to the most complex instincts, can\nbe discovered. The canon of “Natura non facit saltum” applies with\nalmost equal force to instincts as to bodily organs. Changes of\ninstinct may sometimes be facilitated by the same species having\ndifferent instincts at different periods of life, or at different\nseasons of the year, or when placed under different circumstances,\netc.; in which case either one or the other instinct might be preserved\nby natural selection. And such instances of diversity of instinct in\nthe same species can be shown to occur in nature.\n\nAgain as in the case of corporeal structure, and conformably with my\ntheory, the instinct of each species is good for itself, but has never,\nas far as we can judge, been produced for the exclusive good of others.\nOne of the strongest instances of an animal apparently performing an\naction for the sole good of another, with which I am acquainted, is\nthat of aphides voluntarily yielding their sweet excretion to ants:\nthat they do so voluntarily, the following facts show. I removed all\nthe ants from a group of about a dozen aphides on a dock-plant,\nand prevented their attendance during several hours. After this\ninterval, I felt sure that the aphides would want to excrete. I watched\nthem for some time through a lens, but not one excreted; I then tickled\nand stroked them with a hair in the same manner, as well as I could, as\nthe ants do with their antennæ; but not one excreted. Afterwards I\nallowed an ant to visit them, and it immediately seemed, by its eager\nway of running about, to be well aware what a rich flock it had\ndiscovered; it then began to play with its antennæ on the abdomen first\nof one aphis and then of another; and each aphis, as soon as it felt\nthe antennæ, immediately lifted up its abdomen and excreted a limpid\ndrop of sweet juice, which was eagerly devoured by the ant. Even the\nquite young aphides behaved in this manner, showing that the action was\ninstinctive, and not the result of experience. But as the excretion is\nextremely viscid, it is probably a convenience to the aphides to have\nit removed; and therefore probably the aphides do not instinctively\nexcrete for the sole good of the ants. Although I do not believe that\nany animal in the world performs an action for the exclusive good of\nanother of a distinct species, yet each species tries to take advantage\nof the instincts of others, as each takes advantage of the weaker\nbodily structure of others. So again, in some few cases, certain\ninstincts cannot be considered as absolutely perfect; but as details on\nthis and other such points are not indispensable, they may be here\npassed over.\n\nAs some degree of variation in instincts under a state of nature, and\nthe inheritance of such variations, are indispensable for the action of\nnatural selection, as many instances as possible ought to have been\nhere given; but want of space prevents me. I can only assert, that\ninstincts certainly do vary—for instance,\nthe migratory instinct, both in extent and direction, and in its total\nloss. So it is with the nests of birds, which vary partly in dependence\non the situations chosen, and on the nature and temperature of the\ncountry inhabited, but often from causes wholly unknown to us: Audubon\nhas given several remarkable cases of differences in nests of the same\nspecies in the northern and southern United States. Fear of any\nparticular enemy is certainly an instinctive quality, as may be seen in\nnestling birds, though it is strengthened by experience, and by the\nsight of fear of the same enemy in other animals. But fear of man is\nslowly acquired, as I have elsewhere shown, by various animals\ninhabiting desert islands; and we may see an instance of this, even in\nEngland, in the greater wildness of all our large birds than of our\nsmall birds; for the large birds have been most persecuted by man. We\nmay safely attribute the greater wildness of our large birds to this\ncause; for in uninhabited islands large birds are not more fearful than\nsmall; and the magpie, so wary in England, is tame in Norway, as is the\nhooded crow in Egypt.\n\nThat the general disposition of individuals of the same species, born\nin a state of nature, is extremely diversified, can be shown by a\nmultitude of facts. Several cases also, could be given, of occasional\nand strange habits in certain species, which might, if advantageous to\nthe species, give rise, through natural selection, to quite new\ninstincts. But I am well aware that these general statements, without\nfacts given in detail, can produce but a feeble effect on the reader’s\nmind. I can only repeat my assurance, that I do not speak without good\nevidence.\n\nThe possibility, or even probability, of inherited variations of\ninstinct in a state of nature will be strengthened by briefly\nconsidering a few cases under\ndomestication. We shall thus also be enabled to see the respective\nparts which habit and the selection of so-called accidental variations\nhave played in modifying the mental qualities of our domestic animals.\nA number of curious and authentic instances could be given of the\ninheritance of all shades of disposition and tastes, and likewise of\nthe oddest tricks, associated with certain frames of mind or periods of\ntime. But let us look to the familiar case of the several breeds of\ndogs: it cannot be doubted that young pointers (I have myself seen a\nstriking instance) will sometimes point and even back other dogs the\nvery first time that they are taken out; retrieving is certainly in\nsome degree inherited by retrievers; and a tendency to run round,\ninstead of at, a flock of sheep, by shepherd-dogs. I cannot see that\nthese actions, performed without experience by the young, and in nearly\nthe same manner by each individual, performed with eager delight by\neach breed, and without the end being known,—for the young pointer can\nno more know that he points to aid his master, than the white butterfly\nknows why she lays her eggs on the leaf of the cabbage,—I cannot see\nthat these actions differ essentially from true instincts. If we were\nto see one kind of wolf, when young and without any training, as soon\nas it scented its prey, stand motionless like a statue, and then slowly\ncrawl forward with a peculiar gait; and another kind of wolf rushing\nround, instead of at, a herd of deer, and driving them to a distant\npoint, we should assuredly call these actions instinctive. Domestic\ninstincts, as they may be called, are certainly far less fixed or\ninvariable than natural instincts; but they have been acted on by far\nless rigorous selection, and have been transmitted for an incomparably\nshorter period, under less fixed conditions of life.\n\nHow strongly these domestic instincts, habits, and dispositions\nare inherited, and how curiously they become mingled, is well shown\nwhen different breeds of dogs are crossed. Thus it is known that a\ncross with a bull-dog has affected for many generations the courage and\nobstinacy of greyhounds; and a cross with a greyhound has given to a\nwhole family of shepherd-dogs a tendency to hunt hares. These domestic\ninstincts, when thus tested by crossing, resemble natural instincts,\nwhich in a like manner become curiously blended together, and for a\nlong period exhibit traces of the instincts of either parent: for\nexample, Le Roy describes a dog, whose great-grandfather was a wolf,\nand this dog showed a trace of its wild parentage only in one way, by\nnot coming in a straight line to his master when called.\n\nDomestic instincts are sometimes spoken of as actions which have become\ninherited solely from long-continued and compulsory habit, but this, I\nthink, is not true. No one would ever have thought of teaching, or\nprobably could have taught, the tumbler-pigeon to tumble,—an action\nwhich, as I have witnessed, is performed by young birds, that have\nnever seen a pigeon tumble. We may believe that some one pigeon showed\na slight tendency to this strange habit, and that the long-continued\nselection of the best individuals in successive generations made\ntumblers what they now are; and near Glasgow there are house-tumblers,\nas I hear from Mr. Brent, which cannot fly eighteen inches high without\ngoing head over heels. It may be doubted whether any one would have\nthought of training a dog to point, had not some one dog naturally\nshown a tendency in this line; and this is known occasionally to\nhappen, as I once saw in a pure terrier. When the first tendency was\nonce displayed, methodical selection and the inherited effects of\ncompulsory training in each successive generation would soon complete\nthe work; and unconscious\nselection is still at work, as each man tries to procure, without\nintending to improve the breed, dogs which will stand and hunt best. On\nthe other hand, habit alone in some cases has sufficed; no animal is\nmore difficult to tame than the young of the wild rabbit; scarcely any\nanimal is tamer than the young of the tame rabbit; but I do not suppose\nthat domestic rabbits have ever been selected for tameness; and I\npresume that we must attribute the whole of the inherited change from\nextreme wildness to extreme tameness, simply to habit and\nlong-continued close confinement.\n\nNatural instincts are lost under domestication: a remarkable instance\nof this is seen in those breeds of fowls which very rarely or never\nbecome “broody,” that is, never wish to sit on their eggs. Familiarity\nalone prevents our seeing how universally and largely the minds of our\ndomestic animals have been modified by domestication. It is scarcely\npossible to doubt that the love of man has become instinctive in the\ndog. All wolves, foxes, jackals, and species of the cat genus, when\nkept tame, are most eager to attack poultry, sheep, and pigs; and this\ntendency has been found incurable in dogs which have been brought home\nas puppies from countries, such as Tierra del Fuego and Australia,\nwhere the savages do not keep these domestic animals. How rarely, on\nthe other hand, do our civilised dogs, even when quite young, require\nto be taught not to attack poultry, sheep, and pigs! No doubt they\noccasionally do make an attack, and are then beaten; and if not cured,\nthey are destroyed; so that habit, with some degree of selection, has\nprobably concurred in civilising by inheritance our dogs. On the other\nhand, young chickens have lost, wholly by habit, that fear of the dog\nand cat which no doubt was originally instinctive in them, in the same\nway as it is so plainly instinctive in\nyoung pheasants, though reared under a hen. It is not that chickens\nhave lost all fear, but fear only of dogs and cats, for if the hen\ngives the danger-chuckle, they will run (more especially young turkeys)\nfrom under her, and conceal themselves in the surrounding grass or\nthickets; and this is evidently done for the instinctive purpose of\nallowing, as we see in wild ground-birds, their mother to fly away. But\nthis instinct retained by our chickens has become useless under\ndomestication, for the mother-hen has almost lost by disuse the power\nof flight.\n\nHence, we may conclude, that domestic instincts have been acquired and\nnatural instincts have been lost partly by habit, and partly by man\nselecting and accumulating during successive generations, peculiar\nmental habits and actions, which at first appeared from what we must in\nour ignorance call an accident. In some cases compulsory habit alone\nhas sufficed to produce such inherited mental changes; in other cases\ncompulsory habit has done nothing, and all has been the result of\nselection, pursued both methodically and unconsciously; but in most\ncases, probably, habit and selection have acted together.\n\nWe shall, perhaps, best understand how instincts in a state of nature\nhave become modified by selection, by considering a few cases. I will\nselect only three, out of the several which I shall have to discuss in\nmy future work,—namely, the instinct which leads the cuckoo to lay her\neggs in other birds’ nests; the slave-making instinct of certain ants;\nand the comb-making power of the hive-bee: these two latter instincts\nhave generally, and most justly, been ranked by naturalists as the most\nwonderful of all known instincts.\n\nIt is now commonly admitted that the more immediate and final cause of\nthe cuckoo’s instinct is, that\nshe lays her eggs, not daily, but at intervals of two or three days; so\nthat, if she were to make her own nest and sit on her own eggs, those\nfirst laid would have to be left for some time unincubated, or there\nwould be eggs and young birds of different ages in the same nest. If\nthis were the case, the process of laying and hatching might be\ninconveniently long, more especially as she has to migrate at a very\nearly period; and the first hatched young would probably have to be fed\nby the male alone. But the American cuckoo is in this predicament; for\nshe makes her own nest and has eggs and young successively hatched, all\nat the same time. It has been asserted that the American cuckoo\noccasionally lays her eggs in other birds’ nests; but I hear on the\nhigh authority of Dr. Brewer, that this is a mistake. Nevertheless, I\ncould give several instances of various birds which have been known\noccasionally to lay their eggs in other birds’ nests. Now let us\nsuppose that the ancient progenitor of our European cuckoo had the\nhabits of the American cuckoo; but that occasionally she laid an egg in\nanother bird’s nest. If the old bird profited by this occasional habit,\nor if the young were made more vigorous by advantage having been taken\nof the mistaken maternal instinct of another bird, than by their own\nmother’s care, encumbered as she can hardly fail to be by having eggs\nand young of different ages at the same time; then the old birds or the\nfostered young would gain an advantage. And analogy would lead me to\nbelieve, that the young thus reared would be apt to follow by\ninheritance the occasional and aberrant habit of their mother, and in\ntheir turn would be apt to lay their eggs in other birds’ nests, and\nthus be successful in rearing their young. By a continued process of\nthis nature, I believe that the strange instinct of our cuckoo could\nbe, and has been,\ngenerated. I may add that, according to Dr. Gray and to some other\nobservers, the European cuckoo has not utterly lost all maternal love\nand care for her own offspring.\n\nThe occasional habit of birds laying their eggs in other birds’ nests,\neither of the same or of a distinct species, is not very uncommon with\nthe Gallinaceæ; and this perhaps explains the origin of a singular\ninstinct in the allied group of ostriches. For several hen ostriches,\nat least in the case of the American species, unite and lay first a few\neggs in one nest and then in another; and these are hatched by the\nmales. This instinct may probably be accounted for by the fact of the\nhens laying a large number of eggs; but, as in the case of the cuckoo,\nat intervals of two or three days. This instinct, however, of the\nAmerican ostrich has not as yet been perfected; for a surprising number\nof eggs lie strewed over the plains, so that in one day’s hunting I\npicked up no less than twenty lost and wasted eggs.\n\nMany bees are parasitic, and always lay their eggs in the nests of bees\nof other kinds. This case is more remarkable than that of the cuckoo;\nfor these bees have not only their instincts but their structure\nmodified in accordance with their parasitic habits; for they do not\npossess the pollen-collecting apparatus which would be necessary if\nthey had to store food for their own young. Some species, likewise, of\nSphegidæ (wasp-like insects) are parasitic on other species; and M.\nFabre has lately shown good reason for believing that although the\nTachytes nigra generally makes its own burrow and stores it with\nparalysed prey for its own larvæ to feed on, yet that when this insect\nfinds a burrow already made and stored by another sphex, it takes\nadvantage of the prize, and becomes for the occasion parasitic. In this\ncase, as with the supposed case of the cuckoo, I can\nsee no difficulty in natural selection making an occasional habit\npermanent, if of advantage to the species, and if the insect whose nest\nand stored food are thus feloniously appropriated, be not thus\nexterminated.\n\n_Slave-making instinct_.—This remarkable instinct was first discovered\nin the Formica (Polyerges) rufescens by Pierre Huber, a better observer\neven than his celebrated father. This ant is absolutely dependent on\nits slaves; without their aid, the species would certainly become\nextinct in a single year. The males and fertile females do no work. The\nworkers or sterile females, though most energetic and courageous in\ncapturing slaves, do no other work. They are incapable of making their\nown nests, or of feeding their own larvæ. When the old nest is found\ninconvenient, and they have to migrate, it is the slaves which\ndetermine the migration, and actually carry their masters in their\njaws. So utterly helpless are the masters, that when Huber shut up\nthirty of them without a slave, but with plenty of the food which they\nlike best, and with their larvæ and pupæ to stimulate them to work,\nthey did nothing; they could not even feed themselves, and many\nperished of hunger. Huber then introduced a single slave (F. fusca),\nand she instantly set to work, fed and saved the survivors; made some\ncells and tended the larvæ, and put all to rights. What can be more\nextraordinary than these well-ascertained facts? If we had not known of\nany other slave-making ant, it would have been hopeless to have\nspeculated how so wonderful an instinct could have been perfected.\n\nFormica sanguinea was likewise first discovered by P. Huber to be a\nslave-making ant. This species is found in the southern parts of\nEngland, and its habits have been attended to by Mr. F. Smith, of the\nBritish\nMuseum, to whom I am much indebted for information on this and other\nsubjects. Although fully trusting to the statements of Huber and Mr.\nSmith, I tried to approach the subject in a sceptical frame of mind, as\nany one may well be excused for doubting the truth of so extraordinary\nand odious an instinct as that of making slaves. Hence I will give the\nobservations which I have myself made, in some little detail. I opened\nfourteen nests of F. sanguinea, and found a few slaves in all. Males\nand fertile females of the slave-species are found only in their own\nproper communities, and have never been observed in the nests of F.\nsanguinea. The slaves are black and not above half the size of their\nred masters, so that the contrast in their appearance is very great.\nWhen the nest is slightly disturbed, the slaves occasionally come out,\nand like their masters are much agitated and defend the nest: when the\nnest is much disturbed and the larvæ and pupæ are exposed, the slaves\nwork energetically with their masters in carrying them away to a place\nof safety. Hence, it is clear, that the slaves feel quite at home.\nDuring the months of June and July, on three successive years, I have\nwatched for many hours several nests in Surrey and Sussex, and never\nsaw a slave either leave or enter a nest. As, during these months, the\nslaves are very few in number, I thought that they might behave\ndifferently when more numerous; but Mr. Smith informs me that he has\nwatched the nests at various hours during May, June and August, both in\nSurrey and Hampshire, and has never seen the slaves, though present in\nlarge numbers in August, either leave or enter the nest. Hence he\nconsiders them as strictly household slaves. The masters, on the other\nhand, may be constantly seen bringing in materials for the nest, and\nfood of all kinds. During the present year, however, in the month\nof July, I came across a community with an unusually large stock of\nslaves, and I observed a few slaves mingled with their masters leaving\nthe nest, and marching along the same road to a tall Scotch-fir-tree,\ntwenty-five yards distant, which they ascended together, probably in\nsearch of aphides or cocci. According to Huber, who had ample\nopportunities for observation, in Switzerland the slaves habitually\nwork with their masters in making the nest, and they alone open and\nclose the doors in the morning and evening; and, as Huber expressly\nstates, their principal office is to search for aphides. This\ndifference in the usual habits of the masters and slaves in the two\ncountries, probably depends merely on the slaves being captured in\ngreater numbers in Switzerland than in England.\n\nOne day I fortunately chanced to witness a migration from one nest to\nanother, and it was a most interesting spectacle to behold the masters\ncarefully carrying, as Huber has described, their slaves in their jaws.\nAnother day my attention was struck by about a score of the\nslave-makers haunting the same spot, and evidently not in search of\nfood; they approached and were vigorously repulsed by an independent\ncommunity of the slave species (F. fusca); sometimes as many as three\nof these ants clinging to the legs of the slave-making F. sanguinea.\nThe latter ruthlessly killed their small opponents, and carried their\ndead bodies as food to their nest, twenty-nine yards distant; but they\nwere prevented from getting any pupæ to rear as slaves. I then dug up a\nsmall parcel of the pupæ of F. fusca from another nest, and put them\ndown on a bare spot near the place of combat; they were eagerly seized,\nand carried off by the tyrants, who perhaps fancied that, after all,\nthey had been victorious in their late combat.\n\n\nAt the same time I laid on the same place a small parcel of the pupæ of\nanother species, F. flava, with a few of these little yellow ants still\nclinging to the fragments of the nest. This species is sometimes,\nthough rarely, made into slaves, as has been described by Mr. Smith.\nAlthough so small a species, it is very courageous, and I have seen it\nferociously attack other ants. In one instance I found to my surprise\nan independent community of F. flava under a stone beneath a nest of\nthe slave-making F. sanguinea; and when I had accidentally disturbed\nboth nests, the little ants attacked their big neighbours with\nsurprising courage. Now I was curious to ascertain whether F. sanguinea\ncould distinguish the pupæ of F. fusca, which they habitually make into\nslaves, from those of the little and furious F. flava, which they\nrarely capture, and it was evident that they did at once distinguish\nthem: for we have seen that they eagerly and instantly seized the pupæ\nof F. fusca, whereas they were much terrified when they came across the\npupæ, or even the earth from the nest of F. flava, and quickly ran\naway; but in about a quarter of an hour, shortly after all the little\nyellow ants had crawled away, they took heart and carried off the pupæ.\n\nOne evening I visited another community of F. sanguinea, and found a\nnumber of these ants entering their nest, carrying the dead bodies of\nF. fusca (showing that it was not a migration) and numerous pupæ. I\ntraced the returning file burthened with booty, for about forty yards,\nto a very thick clump of heath, whence I saw the last individual of F.\nsanguinea emerge, carrying a pupa; but I was not able to find the\ndesolated nest in the thick heath. The nest, however, must have been\nclose at hand, for two or three individuals of F. fusca were rushing\nabout in the greatest agitation, and one was\nperched motionless with its own pupa in its mouth on the top of a spray\nof heath over its ravaged home.\n\nSuch are the facts, though they did not need confirmation by me, in\nregard to the wonderful instinct of making slaves. Let it be observed\nwhat a contrast the instinctive habits of F. sanguinea present with\nthose of the F. rufescens. The latter does not build its own nest, does\nnot determine its own migrations, does not collect food for itself or\nits young, and cannot even feed itself: it is absolutely dependent on\nits numerous slaves. Formica sanguinea, on the other hand, possesses\nmuch fewer slaves, and in the early part of the summer extremely few.\nThe masters determine when and where a new nest shall be formed, and\nwhen they migrate, the masters carry the slaves. Both in Switzerland\nand England the slaves seem to have the exclusive care of the larvæ,\nand the masters alone go on slave-making expeditions. In Switzerland\nthe slaves and masters work together, making and bringing materials for\nthe nest: both, but chiefly the slaves, tend, and milk as it may be\ncalled, their aphides; and thus both collect food for the community. In\nEngland the masters alone usually leave the nest to collect building\nmaterials and food for themselves, their slaves and larvæ. So that the\nmasters in this country receive much less service from their slaves\nthan they do in Switzerland.\n\nBy what steps the instinct of F. sanguinea originated I will not\npretend to conjecture. But as ants, which are not slave-makers, will,\nas I have seen, carry off pupæ of other species, if scattered near\ntheir nests, it is possible that pupæ originally stored as food might\nbecome developed; and the ants thus unintentionally reared would then\nfollow their proper instincts, and do what work they could. If their\npresence proved useful to the species which had seized them—if it were\nmore advantageous\nto this species to capture workers than to procreate them—the habit of\ncollecting pupæ originally for food might by natural selection be\nstrengthened and rendered permanent for the very different purpose of\nraising slaves. When the instinct was once acquired, if carried out to\na much less extent even than in our British F. sanguinea, which, as we\nhave seen, is less aided by its slaves than the same species in\nSwitzerland, I can see no difficulty in natural selection increasing\nand modifying the instinct—always supposing each modification to be of\nuse to the species—until an ant was formed as abjectly dependent on its\nslaves as is the Formica rufescens.\n\n_Cell-making instinct of the Hive-Bee_.—I will not here enter on minute\ndetails on this subject, but will merely give an outline of the\nconclusions at which I have arrived. He must be a dull man who can\nexamine the exquisite structure of a comb, so beautifully adapted to\nits end, without enthusiastic admiration. We hear from mathematicians\nthat bees have practically solved a recondite problem, and have made\ntheir cells of the proper shape to hold the greatest possible amount of\nhoney, with the least possible consumption of precious wax in their\nconstruction. It has been remarked that a skilful workman, with fitting\ntools and measures, would find it very difficult to make cells of wax\nof the true form, though this is perfectly effected by a crowd of bees\nworking in a dark hive. Grant whatever instincts you please, and it\nseems at first quite inconceivable how they can make all the necessary\nangles and planes, or even perceive when they are correctly made. But\nthe difficulty is not nearly so great as it at first appears: all this\nbeautiful work can be shown, I think, to follow from a few very simple\ninstincts.\n\n\nI was led to investigate this subject by Mr. Waterhouse, who has shown\nthat the form of the cell stands in close relation to the presence of\nadjoining cells; and the following view may, perhaps, be considered\nonly as a modification of his theory. Let us look to the great\nprinciple of gradation, and see whether Nature does not reveal to us\nher method of work. At one end of a short series we have humble-bees,\nwhich use their old cocoons to hold honey, sometimes adding to them\nshort tubes of wax, and likewise making separate and very irregular\nrounded cells of wax. At the other end of the series we have the cells\nof the hive-bee, placed in a double layer: each cell, as is well known,\nis an hexagonal prism, with the basal edges of its six sides bevelled\nso as to join on to a pyramid, formed of three rhombs. These rhombs\nhave certain angles, and the three which form the pyramidal base of a\nsingle cell on one side of the comb, enter into the composition of the\nbases of three adjoining cells on the opposite side. In the series\nbetween the extreme perfection of the cells of the hive-bee and the\nsimplicity of those of the humble-bee, we have the cells of the Mexican\nMelipona domestica, carefully described and figured by Pierre Huber.\nThe Melipona itself is intermediate in structure between the hive and\nhumble bee, but more nearly related to the latter: it forms a nearly\nregular waxen comb of cylindrical cells, in which the young are\nhatched, and, in addition, some large cells of wax for holding honey.\nThese latter cells are nearly spherical and of nearly equal sizes, and\nare aggregated into an irregular mass. But the important point to\nnotice, is that these cells are always made at that degree of nearness\nto each other, that they would have intersected or broken into each\nother, if the spheres had been completed; but this is never permitted,\nthe bees building perfectly flat walls of wax between the spheres\nwhich thus tend to intersect. Hence each cell consists of an outer\nspherical portion and of two, three, or more perfectly flat surfaces,\naccording as the cell adjoins two, three or more other cells. When one\ncell comes into contact with three other cells, which, from the spheres\nbeing nearly of the same size, is very frequently and necessarily the\ncase, the three flat surfaces are united into a pyramid; and this\npyramid, as Huber has remarked, is manifestly a gross imitation of the\nthree-sided pyramidal basis of the cell of the hive-bee. As in the\ncells of the hive-bee, so here, the three plane surfaces in any one\ncell necessarily enter into the construction of three adjoining cells.\nIt is obvious that the Melipona saves wax by this manner of building;\nfor the flat walls between the adjoining cells are not double, but are\nof the same thickness as the outer spherical portions, and yet each\nflat portion forms a part of two cells.\n\nReflecting on this case, it occurred to me that if the Melipona had\nmade its spheres at some given distance from each other, and had made\nthem of equal sizes and had arranged them symmetrically in a double\nlayer, the resulting structure would probably have been as perfect as\nthe comb of the hive-bee. Accordingly I wrote to Professor Miller, of\nCambridge, and this geometer has kindly read over the following\nstatement, drawn up from his information, and tells me that it is\nstrictly correct:—\n\nIf a number of equal spheres be described with their centres placed in\ntwo parallel layers; with the centre of each sphere at the distance of\nradius x the square root of 2 or radius x 1.41421 (or at some lesser\ndistance), from the centres of the six surrounding spheres in the same\nlayer; and at the same distance from the centres of the adjoining\nspheres in the other and parallel layer; then, if planes of\nintersection between the several spheres in\nboth layers be formed, there will result a double layer of hexagonal\nprisms united together by pyramidal bases formed of three rhombs; and\nthe rhombs and the sides of the hexagonal prisms will have every angle\nidentically the same with the best measurements which have been made of\nthe cells of the hive-bee.\n\nHence we may safely conclude that if we could slightly modify the\ninstincts already possessed by the Melipona, and in themselves not very\nwonderful, this bee would make a structure as wonderfully perfect as\nthat of the hive-bee. We must suppose the Melipona to make her cells\ntruly spherical, and of equal sizes; and this would not be very\nsurprising, seeing that she already does so to a certain extent, and\nseeing what perfectly cylindrical burrows in wood many insects can\nmake, apparently by turning round on a fixed point. We must suppose the\nMelipona to arrange her cells in level layers, as she already does her\ncylindrical cells; and we must further suppose, and this is the\ngreatest difficulty, that she can somehow judge accurately at what\ndistance to stand from her fellow-labourers when several are making\ntheir spheres; but she is already so far enabled to judge of distance,\nthat she always describes her spheres so as to intersect largely; and\nthen she unites the points of intersection by perfectly flat surfaces.\nWe have further to suppose, but this is no difficulty, that after\nhexagonal prisms have been formed by the intersection of adjoining\nspheres in the same layer, she can prolong the hexagon to any length\nrequisite to hold the stock of honey; in the same way as the rude\nhumble-bee adds cylinders of wax to the circular mouths of her old\ncocoons. By such modifications of instincts in themselves not very\nwonderful,—hardly more wonderful than those which guide a bird to make\nits nest,—I believe that the hive-bee\nhas acquired, through natural selection, her inimitable architectural\npowers.\n\nBut this theory can be tested by experiment. Following the example of\nMr. Tegetmeier, I separated two combs, and put between them a long,\nthick, square strip of wax: the bees instantly began to excavate minute\ncircular pits in it; and as they deepened these little pits, they made\nthem wider and wider until they were converted into shallow basins,\nappearing to the eye perfectly true or parts of a sphere, and of about\nthe diameter of a cell. It was most interesting to me to observe that\nwherever several bees had begun to excavate these basins near together,\nthey had begun their work at such a distance from each other, that by\nthe time the basins had acquired the above stated width (_i.e._ about\nthe width of an ordinary cell), and were in depth about one sixth of\nthe diameter of the sphere of which they formed a part, the rims of the\nbasins intersected or broke into each other. As soon as this occurred,\nthe bees ceased to excavate, and began to build up flat walls of wax on\nthe lines of intersection between the basins, so that each hexagonal\nprism was built upon the festooned edge of a smooth basin, instead of\non the straight edges of a three-sided pyramid as in the case of\nordinary cells.\n\nI then put into the hive, instead of a thick, square piece of wax, a\nthin and narrow, knife-edged ridge, coloured with vermilion. The bees\ninstantly began on both sides to excavate little basins near to each\nother, in the same way as before; but the ridge of wax was so thin,\nthat the bottoms of the basins, if they had been excavated to the same\ndepth as in the former experiment, would have broken into each other\nfrom the opposite sides. The bees, however, did not suffer this to\nhappen, and they stopped their excavations in due\ntime; so that the basins, as soon as they had been a little deepened,\ncame to have flat bottoms; and these flat bottoms, formed by thin\nlittle plates of the vermilion wax having been left ungnawed, were\nsituated, as far as the eye could judge, exactly along the planes of\nimaginary intersection between the basins on the opposite sides of the\nridge of wax. In parts, only little bits, in other parts, large\nportions of a rhombic plate had been left between the opposed basins,\nbut the work, from the unnatural state of things, had not been neatly\nperformed. The bees must have worked at very nearly the same rate on\nthe opposite sides of the ridge of vermilion wax, as they circularly\ngnawed away and deepened the basins on both sides, in order to have\nsucceeded in thus leaving flat plates between the basins, by stopping\nwork along the intermediate planes or planes of intersection.\n\nConsidering how flexible thin wax is, I do not see that there is any\ndifficulty in the bees, whilst at work on the two sides of a strip of\nwax, perceiving when they have gnawed the wax away to the proper\nthinness, and then stopping their work. In ordinary combs it has\nappeared to me that the bees do not always succeed in working at\nexactly the same rate from the opposite sides; for I have noticed\nhalf-completed rhombs at the base of a just-commenced cell, which were\nslightly concave on one side, where I suppose that the bees had\nexcavated too quickly, and convex on the opposed side, where the bees\nhad worked less quickly. In one well-marked instance, I put the comb\nback into the hive, and allowed the bees to go on working for a short\ntime, and again examined the cell, and I found that the rhombic plate\nhad been completed, and had become _perfectly flat:_ it was absolutely\nimpossible, from the extreme thinness of the little rhombic plate, that\nthey could have effected\nthis by gnawing away the convex side; and I suspect that the bees in\nsuch cases stand in the opposed cells and push and bend the ductile and\nwarm wax (which as I have tried is easily done) into its proper\nintermediate plane, and thus flatten it.\n\nFrom the experiment of the ridge of vermilion wax, we can clearly see\nthat if the bees were to build for themselves a thin wall of wax, they\ncould make their cells of the proper shape, by standing at the proper\ndistance from each other, by excavating at the same rate, and by\nendeavouring to make equal spherical hollows, but never allowing the\nspheres to break into each other. Now bees, as may be clearly seen by\nexamining the edge of a growing comb, do make a rough, circumferential\nwall or rim all round the comb; and they gnaw into this from the\nopposite sides, always working circularly as they deepen each cell.\nThey do not make the whole three-sided pyramidal base of any one cell\nat the same time, but only the one rhombic plate which stands on the\nextreme growing margin, or the two plates, as the case may be; and they\nnever complete the upper edges of the rhombic plates, until the\nhexagonal walls are commenced. Some of these statements differ from\nthose made by the justly celebrated elder Huber, but I am convinced of\ntheir accuracy; and if I had space, I could show that they are\nconformable with my theory.\n\nHuber’s statement that the very first cell is excavated out of a little\nparallel-sided wall of wax, is not, as far as I have seen, strictly\ncorrect; the first commencement having always been a little hood of\nwax; but I will not here enter on these details. We see how important a\npart excavation plays in the construction of the cells; but it would be\na great error to suppose that the bees cannot build up a rough wall of\nwax in the proper\nposition—that is, along the plane of intersection between two adjoining\nspheres. I have several specimens showing clearly that they can do\nthis. Even in the rude circumferential rim or wall of wax round a\ngrowing comb, flexures may sometimes be observed, corresponding in\nposition to the planes of the rhombic basal plates of future cells. But\nthe rough wall of wax has in every case to be finished off, by being\nlargely gnawed away on both sides. The manner in which the bees build\nis curious; they always make the first rough wall from ten to twenty\ntimes thicker than the excessively thin finished wall of the cell,\nwhich will ultimately be left. We shall understand how they work, by\nsupposing masons first to pile up a broad ridge of cement, and then to\nbegin cutting it away equally on both sides near the ground, till a\nsmooth, very thin wall is left in the middle; the masons always piling\nup the cut-away cement, and adding fresh cement, on the summit of the\nridge. We shall thus have a thin wall steadily growing upward; but\nalways crowned by a gigantic coping. From all the cells, both those\njust commenced and those completed, being thus crowned by a strong\ncoping of wax, the bees can cluster and crawl over the comb without\ninjuring the delicate hexagonal walls, which are only about one\nfour-hundredth of an inch in thickness; the plates of the pyramidal\nbasis being about twice as thick. By this singular manner of building,\nstrength is continually given to the comb, with the utmost ultimate\neconomy of wax.\n\nIt seems at first to add to the difficulty of understanding how the\ncells are made, that a multitude of bees all work together; one bee\nafter working a short time at one cell going to another, so that, as\nHuber has stated, a score of individuals work even at the commencement\nof the first cell. I was able practically to show this fact, by\ncovering the edges of the hexagonal walls\nof a single cell, or the extreme margin of the circumferential rim of a\ngrowing comb, with an extremely thin layer of melted vermilion wax; and\nI invariably found that the colour was most delicately diffused by the\nbees—as delicately as a painter could have done with his brush—by atoms\nof the coloured wax having been taken from the spot on which it had\nbeen placed, and worked into the growing edges of the cells all round.\nThe work of construction seems to be a sort of balance struck between\nmany bees, all instinctively standing at the same relative distance\nfrom each other, all trying to sweep equal spheres, and then building\nup, or leaving ungnawed, the planes of intersection between these\nspheres. It was really curious to note in cases of difficulty, as when\ntwo pieces of comb met at an angle, how often the bees would entirely\npull down and rebuild in different ways the same cell, sometimes\nrecurring to a shape which they had at first rejected.\n\nWhen bees have a place on which they can stand in their proper\npositions for working,—for instance, on a slip of wood, placed directly\nunder the middle of a comb growing downwards so that the comb has to be\nbuilt over one face of the slip—in this case the bees can lay the\nfoundations of one wall of a new hexagon, in its strictly proper place,\nprojecting beyond the other completed cells. It suffices that the bees\nshould be enabled to stand at their proper relative distances from each\nother and from the walls of the last completed cells, and then, by\nstriking imaginary spheres, they can build up a wall intermediate\nbetween two adjoining spheres; but, as far as I have seen, they never\ngnaw away and finish off the angles of a cell till a large part both of\nthat cell and of the adjoining cells has been built. This capacity in\nbees of laying down under certain circumstances a rough wall in its\nproper place between two just-commenced\ncells, is important, as it bears on a fact, which seems at first quite\nsubversive of the foregoing theory; namely, that the cells on the\nextreme margin of wasp-combs are sometimes strictly hexagonal; but I\nhave not space here to enter on this subject. Nor does there seem to me\nany great difficulty in a single insect (as in the case of a\nqueen-wasp) making hexagonal cells, if she work alternately on the\ninside and outside of two or three cells commenced at the same time,\nalways standing at the proper relative distance from the parts of the\ncells just begun, sweeping spheres or cylinders, and building up\nintermediate planes. It is even conceivable that an insect might, by\nfixing on a point at which to commence a cell, and then moving outside,\nfirst to one point, and then to five other points, at the proper\nrelative distances from the central point and from each other, strike\nthe planes of intersection, and so make an isolated hexagon: but I am\nnot aware that any such case has been observed; nor would any good be\nderived from a single hexagon being built, as in its construction more\nmaterials would be required than for a cylinder.\n\nAs natural selection acts only by the accumulation of slight\nmodifications of structure or instinct, each profitable to the\nindividual under its conditions of life, it may reasonably be asked,\nhow a long and graduated succession of modified architectural\ninstincts, all tending towards the present perfect plan of\nconstruction, could have profited the progenitors of the hive-bee? I\nthink the answer is not difficult: it is known that bees are often hard\npressed to get sufficient nectar; and I am informed by Mr. Tegetmeier\nthat it has been experimentally found that no less than from twelve to\nfifteen pounds of dry sugar are consumed by a hive of bees for the\nsecretion of each pound of wax; so that a prodigious quantity of fluid\nnectar must be collected and consumed by the bees in a hive for\nthe secretion of the wax necessary for the construction of their combs.\nMoreover, many bees have to remain idle for many days during the\nprocess of secretion. A large store of honey is indispensable to\nsupport a large stock of bees during the winter; and the security of\nthe hive is known mainly to depend on a large number of bees being\nsupported. Hence the saving of wax by largely saving honey must be a\nmost important element of success in any family of bees. Of course the\nsuccess of any species of bee may be dependent on the number of its\nparasites or other enemies, or on quite distinct causes, and so be\naltogether independent of the quantity of honey which the bees could\ncollect. But let us suppose that this latter circumstance determined,\nas it probably often does determine, the numbers of a humble-bee which\ncould exist in a country; and let us further suppose that the community\nlived throughout the winter, and consequently required a store of\nhoney: there can in this case be no doubt that it would be an advantage\nto our humble-bee, if a slight modification of her instinct led her to\nmake her waxen cells near together, so as to intersect a little; for a\nwall in common even to two adjoining cells, would save some little wax.\nHence it would continually be more and more advantageous to our\nhumble-bee, if she were to make her cells more and more regular, nearer\ntogether, and aggregated into a mass, like the cells of the Melipona;\nfor in this case a large part of the bounding surface of each cell\nwould serve to bound other cells, and much wax would be saved. Again,\nfrom the same cause, it would be advantageous to the Melipona, if she\nwere to make her cells closer together, and more regular in every way\nthan at present; for then, as we have seen, the spherical surfaces\nwould wholly disappear, and would all be replaced by plane surfaces;\nand the Melipona\nwould make a comb as perfect as that of the hive-bee. Beyond this stage\nof perfection in architecture, natural selection could not lead; for\nthe comb of the hive-bee, as far as we can see, is absolutely perfect\nin economising wax.\n\nThus, as I believe, the most wonderful of all known instincts, that of\nthe hive-bee, can be explained by natural selection having taken\nadvantage of numerous, successive, slight modifications of simpler\ninstincts; natural selection having by slow degrees, more and more\nperfectly, led the bees to sweep equal spheres at a given distance from\neach other in a double layer, and to build up and excavate the wax\nalong the planes of intersection. The bees, of course, no more knowing\nthat they swept their spheres at one particular distance from each\nother, than they know what are the several angles of the hexagonal\nprisms and of the basal rhombic plates. The motive power of the process\nof natural selection having been economy of wax; that individual swarm\nwhich wasted least honey in the secretion of wax, having succeeded\nbest, and having transmitted by inheritance its newly acquired\neconomical instinct to new swarms, which in their turn will have had\nthe best chance of succeeding in the struggle for existence.\n\nNo doubt many instincts of very difficult explanation could be opposed\nto the theory of natural selection,—cases, in which we cannot see how\nan instinct could possibly have originated; cases, in which no\nintermediate gradations are known to exist; cases of instinct of\napparently such trifling importance, that they could hardly have been\nacted on by natural selection; cases of instincts almost identically\nthe same in animals so remote in the scale of nature, that we cannot\naccount\nfor their similarity by inheritance from a common parent, and must\ntherefore believe that they have been acquired by independent acts of\nnatural selection. I will not here enter on these several cases, but\nwill confine myself to one special difficulty, which at first appeared\nto me insuperable, and actually fatal to my whole theory. I allude to\nthe neuters or sterile females in insect-communities: for these neuters\noften differ widely in instinct and in structure from both the males\nand fertile females, and yet, from being sterile, they cannot propagate\ntheir kind.\n\nThe subject well deserves to be discussed at great length, but I will\nhere take only a single case, that of working or sterile ants. How the\nworkers have been rendered sterile is a difficulty; but not much\ngreater than that of any other striking modification of structure; for\nit can be shown that some insects and other articulate animals in a\nstate of nature occasionally become sterile; and if such insects had\nbeen social, and it had been profitable to the community that a number\nshould have been annually born capable of work, but incapable of\nprocreation, I can see no very great difficulty in this being effected\nby natural selection. But I must pass over this preliminary difficulty.\nThe great difficulty lies in the working ants differing widely from\nboth the males and the fertile females in structure, as in the shape of\nthe thorax and in being destitute of wings and sometimes of eyes, and\nin instinct. As far as instinct alone is concerned, the prodigious\ndifference in this respect between the workers and the perfect females,\nwould have been far better exemplified by the hive-bee. If a working\nant or other neuter insect had been an animal in the ordinary state, I\nshould have unhesitatingly assumed that all its characters had been\nslowly acquired through natural selection; namely, by an individual\nhaving been born with some slight profitable modification of structure,\nthis being inherited by its offspring, which again varied and were\nagain selected, and so onwards. But with the working ant we have an\ninsect differing greatly from its parents, yet absolutely sterile; so\nthat it could never have transmitted successively acquired\nmodifications of structure or instinct to its progeny. It may well be\nasked how is it possible to reconcile this case with the theory of\nnatural selection?\n\nFirst, let it be remembered that we have innumerable instances, both in\nour domestic productions and in those in a state of nature, of all\nsorts of differences of structure which have become correlated to\ncertain ages, and to either sex. We have differences correlated not\nonly to one sex, but to that short period alone when the reproductive\nsystem is active, as in the nuptial plumage of many birds, and in the\nhooked jaws of the male salmon. We have even slight differences in the\nhorns of different breeds of cattle in relation to an artificially\nimperfect state of the male sex; for oxen of certain breeds have longer\nhorns than in other breeds, in comparison with the horns of the bulls\nor cows of these same breeds. Hence I can see no real difficulty in any\ncharacter having become correlated with the sterile condition of\ncertain members of insect-communities: the difficulty lies in\nunderstanding how such correlated modifications of structure could have\nbeen slowly accumulated by natural selection.\n\nThis difficulty, though appearing insuperable, is lessened, or, as I\nbelieve, disappears, when it is remembered that selection may be\napplied to the family, as well as to the individual, and may thus gain\nthe desired end. Thus, a well-flavoured vegetable is cooked, and the\nindividual is destroyed; but the horticulturist sows seeds of the same\nstock, and confidently expects to\nget nearly the same variety; breeders of cattle wish the flesh and fat\nto be well marbled together; the animal has been slaughtered, but the\nbreeder goes with confidence to the same family. I have such faith in\nthe powers of selection, that I do not doubt that a breed of cattle,\nalways yielding oxen with extraordinarily long horns, could be slowly\nformed by carefully watching which individual bulls and cows, when\nmatched, produced oxen with the longest horns; and yet no one ox could\never have propagated its kind. Thus I believe it has been with social\ninsects: a slight modification of structure, or instinct, correlated\nwith the sterile condition of certain members of the community, has\nbeen advantageous to the community: consequently the fertile males and\nfemales of the same community flourished, and transmitted to their\nfertile offspring a tendency to produce sterile members having the same\nmodification. And I believe that this process has been repeated, until\nthat prodigious amount of difference between the fertile and sterile\nfemales of the same species has been produced, which we see in many\nsocial insects.\n\nBut we have not as yet touched on the climax of the difficulty; namely,\nthe fact that the neuters of several ants differ, not only from the\nfertile females and males, but from each other, sometimes to an almost\nincredible degree, and are thus divided into two or even three castes.\nThe castes, moreover, do not generally graduate into each other, but\nare perfectly well defined; being as distinct from each other, as are\nany two species of the same genus, or rather as any two genera of the\nsame family. Thus in Eciton, there are working and soldier neuters,\nwith jaws and instincts extraordinarily different: in Cryptocerus, the\nworkers of one caste alone carry a wonderful sort of shield on their\nheads, the use of which is quite unknown: in the Mexican Myrmecocystus,\nthe workers of one caste never leave the nest; they are fed by the\nworkers of another caste, and they have an enormously developed abdomen\nwhich secretes a sort of honey, supplying the place of that excreted by\nthe aphides, or the domestic cattle as they may be called, which our\nEuropean ants guard or imprison.\n\nIt will indeed be thought that I have an overweening confidence in the\nprinciple of natural selection, when I do not admit that such wonderful\nand well-established facts at once annihilate my theory. In the simpler\ncase of neuter insects all of one caste or of the same kind, which have\nbeen rendered by natural selection, as I believe to be quite possible,\ndifferent from the fertile males and females,—in this case, we may\nsafely conclude from the analogy of ordinary variations, that each\nsuccessive, slight, profitable modification did not probably at first\nappear in all the individual neuters in the same nest, but in a few\nalone; and that by the long-continued selection of the fertile parents\nwhich produced most neuters with the profitable modification, all the\nneuters ultimately came to have the desired character. On this view we\nought occasionally to find neuter-insects of the same species, in the\nsame nest, presenting gradations of structure; and this we do find,\neven often, considering how few neuter-insects out of Europe have been\ncarefully examined. Mr. F. Smith has shown how surprisingly the neuters\nof several British ants differ from each other in size and sometimes in\ncolour; and that the extreme forms can sometimes be perfectly linked\ntogether by individuals taken out of the same nest: I have myself\ncompared perfect gradations of this kind. It often happens that the\nlarger or the smaller sized workers are the most numerous; or that both\nlarge and small are numerous, with those of an intermediate size scanty\nin numbers. Formica flava has larger and\nsmaller workers, with some of intermediate size; and, in this species,\nas Mr. F. Smith has observed, the larger workers have simple eyes\n(ocelli), which though small can be plainly distinguished, whereas the\nsmaller workers have their ocelli rudimentary. Having carefully\ndissected several specimens of these workers, I can affirm that the\neyes are far more rudimentary in the smaller workers than can be\naccounted for merely by their proportionally lesser size; and I fully\nbelieve, though I dare not assert so positively, that the workers of\nintermediate size have their ocelli in an exactly intermediate\ncondition. So that we here have two bodies of sterile workers in the\nsame nest, differing not only in size, but in their organs of vision,\nyet connected by some few members in an intermediate condition. I may\ndigress by adding, that if the smaller workers had been the most useful\nto the community, and those males and females had been continually\nselected, which produced more and more of the smaller workers, until\nall the workers had come to be in this condition; we should then have\nhad a species of ant with neuters very nearly in the same condition\nwith those of Myrmica. For the workers of Myrmica have not even\nrudiments of ocelli, though the male and female ants of this genus have\nwell-developed ocelli.\n\nI may give one other case: so confidently did I expect to find\ngradations in important points of structure between the different\ncastes of neuters in the same species, that I gladly availed myself of\nMr. F. Smith’s offer of numerous specimens from the same nest of the\ndriver ant (Anomma) of West Africa. The reader will perhaps best\nappreciate the amount of difference in these workers, by my giving not\nthe actual measurements, but a strictly accurate illustration: the\ndifference was the same as if we were to see a set of workmen building\na house of whom many were five feet four inches high, and many sixteen\nfeet high; but we must suppose that the larger workmen had heads four\ninstead of three times as big as those of the smaller men, and jaws\nnearly five times as big. The jaws, moreover, of the working ants of\nthe several sizes differed wonderfully in shape, and in the form and\nnumber of the teeth. But the important fact for us is, that though the\nworkers can be grouped into castes of different sizes, yet they\ngraduate insensibly into each other, as does the widely-different\nstructure of their jaws. I speak confidently on this latter point, as\nMr. Lubbock made drawings for me with the camera lucida of the jaws\nwhich I had dissected from the workers of the several sizes.\n\nWith these facts before me, I believe that natural selection, by acting\non the fertile parents, could form a species which should regularly\nproduce neuters, either all of large size with one form of jaw, or all\nof small size with jaws having a widely different structure; or lastly,\nand this is our climax of difficulty, one set of workers of one size\nand structure, and simultaneously another set of workers of a different\nsize and structure;—a graduated series having been first formed, as in\nthe case of the driver ant, and then the extreme forms, from being the\nmost useful to the community, having been produced in greater and\ngreater numbers through the natural selection of the parents which\ngenerated them; until none with an intermediate structure were\nproduced.\n\nThus, as I believe, the wonderful fact of two distinctly defined castes\nof sterile workers existing in the same nest, both widely different\nfrom each other and from their parents, has originated. We can see how\nuseful their production may have been to a social community of insects,\non the same principle that the division of\nlabour is useful to civilised man. As ants work by inherited instincts\nand by inherited tools or weapons, and not by acquired knowledge and\nmanufactured instruments, a perfect division of labour could be\neffected with them only by the workers being sterile; for had they been\nfertile, they would have intercrossed, and their instincts and\nstructure would have become blended. And nature has, as I believe,\neffected this admirable division of labour in the communities of ants,\nby the means of natural selection. But I am bound to confess, that,\nwith all my faith in this principle, I should never have anticipated\nthat natural selection could have been efficient in so high a degree,\nhad not the case of these neuter insects convinced me of the fact. I\nhave, therefore, discussed this case, at some little but wholly\ninsufficient length, in order to show the power of natural selection,\nand likewise because this is by far the most serious special\ndifficulty, which my theory has encountered. The case, also, is very\ninteresting, as it proves that with animals, as with plants, any amount\nof modification in structure can be effected by the accumulation of\nnumerous, slight, and as we must call them accidental, variations,\nwhich are in any manner profitable, without exercise or habit having\ncome into play. For no amount of exercise, or habit, or volition, in\nthe utterly sterile members of a community could possibly have affected\nthe structure or instincts of the fertile members, which alone leave\ndescendants. I am surprised that no one has advanced this demonstrative\ncase of neuter insects, against the well-known doctrine of Lamarck.\n\n_Summary_.—I have endeavoured briefly in this chapter to show that the\nmental qualities of our domestic animals vary, and that the variations\nare inherited. Still more briefly I have attempted to show that\ninstincts\nvary slightly in a state of nature. No one will dispute that instincts\nare of the highest importance to each animal. Therefore I can see no\ndifficulty, under changing conditions of life, in natural selection\naccumulating slight modifications of instinct to any extent, in any\nuseful direction. In some cases habit or use and disuse have probably\ncome into play. I do not pretend that the facts given in this chapter\nstrengthen in any great degree my theory; but none of the cases of\ndifficulty, to the best of my judgment, annihilate it. On the other\nhand, the fact that instincts are not always absolutely perfect and are\nliable to mistakes;—that no instinct has been produced for the\nexclusive good of other animals, but that each animal takes advantage\nof the instincts of others;—that the canon in natural history, of\n“natura non facit saltum” is applicable to instincts as well as to\ncorporeal structure, and is plainly explicable on the foregoing views,\nbut is otherwise inexplicable,—all tend to corroborate the theory of\nnatural selection.\n\nThis theory is, also, strengthened by some few other facts in regard to\ninstincts; as by that common case of closely allied, but certainly\ndistinct, species, when inhabiting distant parts of the world and\nliving under considerably different conditions of life, yet often\nretaining nearly the same instincts. For instance, we can understand on\nthe principle of inheritance, how it is that the thrush of South\nAmerica lines its nest with mud, in the same peculiar manner as does\nour British thrush: how it is that the male wrens (Troglodytes) of\nNorth America, build “cock-nests,” to roost in, like the males of our\ndistinct Kitty-wrens,—a habit wholly unlike that of any other known\nbird. Finally, it may not be a logical deduction, but to my imagination\nit is far more satisfactory to look at such instincts as the young\ncuckoo ejecting its foster-brothers,—ants making slaves,—the larvæ of\nichneumonidæ feeding within the live bodies of caterpillars,—not as\nspecially endowed or created instincts, but as small consequences of\none general law, leading to the advancement of all organic beings,\nnamely, multiply, vary, let the strongest live and the weakest die.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\nHYBRIDISM.\n\n\nDistinction between the sterility of first crosses and of hybrids.\nSterility various in degree, not universal, affected by close\ninterbreeding, removed by domestication. Laws governing the sterility\nof hybrids. Sterility not a special endowment, but incidental on other\ndifferences. Causes of the sterility of first crosses and of hybrids.\nParallelism between the effects of changed conditions of life and\ncrossing. Fertility of varieties when crossed and of their mongrel\noffspring not universal. Hybrids and mongrels compared independently of\ntheir fertility. Summary.\n\n\nThe view generally entertained by naturalists is that species, when\nintercrossed, have been specially endowed with the quality of\nsterility, in order to prevent the confusion of all organic forms. This\nview certainly seems at first probable, for species within the same\ncountry could hardly have kept distinct had they been capable of\ncrossing freely. The importance of the fact that hybrids are very\ngenerally sterile, has, I think, been much underrated by some late\nwriters. On the theory of natural selection the case is especially\nimportant, inasmuch as the sterility of hybrids could not possibly be\nof any advantage to them, and therefore could not have been acquired by\nthe continued preservation of successive profitable degrees of\nsterility. I hope, however, to be able to show that sterility is not a\nspecially acquired or endowed quality, but is incidental on other\nacquired differences.\n\nIn treating this subject, two classes of facts, to a large extent\nfundamentally different, have generally been confounded together;\nnamely, the sterility of two\nspecies when first crossed, and the sterility of the hybrids produced\nfrom them.\n\nPure species have of course their organs of reproduction in a perfect\ncondition, yet when intercrossed they produce either few or no\noffspring. Hybrids, on the other hand, have their reproductive organs\nfunctionally impotent, as may be clearly seen in the state of the male\nelement in both plants and animals; though the organs themselves are\nperfect in structure, as far as the microscope reveals. In the first\ncase the two sexual elements which go to form the embryo are perfect;\nin the second case they are either not at all developed, or are\nimperfectly developed. This distinction is important, when the cause of\nthe sterility, which is common to the two cases, has to be considered.\nThe distinction has probably been slurred over, owing to the sterility\nin both cases being looked on as a special endowment, beyond the\nprovince of our reasoning powers.\n\nThe fertility of varieties, that is of the forms known or believed to\nhave descended from common parents, when intercrossed, and likewise the\nfertility of their mongrel offspring, is, on my theory, of equal\nimportance with the sterility of species; for it seems to make a broad\nand clear distinction between varieties and species.\n\nFirst, for the sterility of species when crossed and of their hybrid\noffspring. It is impossible to study the several memoirs and works of\nthose two conscientious and admirable observers, Kölreuter and Gärtner,\nwho almost devoted their lives to this subject, without being deeply\nimpressed with the high generality of some degree of sterility.\nKölreuter makes the rule universal; but then he cuts the knot, for in\nten cases in which he found two forms, considered by most authors as\ndistinct species, quite fertile together, he\nunhesitatingly ranks them as varieties. Gärtner, also, makes the rule\nequally universal; and he disputes the entire fertility of Kölreuter’s\nten cases. But in these and in many other cases, Gärtner is obliged\ncarefully to count the seeds, in order to show that there is any degree\nof sterility. He always compares the maximum number of seeds produced\nby two species when crossed and by their hybrid offspring, with the\naverage number produced by both pure parent-species in a state of\nnature. But a serious cause of error seems to me to be here introduced:\na plant to be hybridised must be castrated, and, what is often more\nimportant, must be secluded in order to prevent pollen being brought to\nit by insects from other plants. Nearly all the plants experimentised\non by Gärtner were potted, and apparently were kept in a chamber in his\nhouse. That these processes are often injurious to the fertility of a\nplant cannot be doubted; for Gärtner gives in his table about a score\nof cases of plants which he castrated, and artificially fertilised with\ntheir own pollen, and (excluding all cases such as the Leguminosæ, in\nwhich there is an acknowledged difficulty in the manipulation) half of\nthese twenty plants had their fertility in some degree impaired.\nMoreover, as Gärtner during several years repeatedly crossed the\nprimrose and cowslip, which we have such good reason to believe to be\nvarieties, and only once or twice succeeded in getting fertile seed; as\nhe found the common red and blue pimpernels (Anagallis arvensis and\ncoerulea), which the best botanists rank as varieties, absolutely\nsterile together; and as he came to the same conclusion in several\nother analogous cases; it seems to me that we may well be permitted to\ndoubt whether many other species are really so sterile, when\nintercrossed, as Gärtner believes.\n\n\nIt is certain, on the one hand, that the sterility of various species\nwhen crossed is so different in degree and graduates away so\ninsensibly, and, on the other hand, that the fertility of pure species\nis so easily affected by various circumstances, that for all practical\npurposes it is most difficult to say where perfect fertility ends and\nsterility begins. I think no better evidence of this can be required\nthan that the two most experienced observers who have ever lived,\nnamely, Kölreuter and Gärtner, should have arrived at diametrically\nopposite conclusions in regard to the very same species. It is also\nmost instructive to compare—but I have not space here to enter on\ndetails—the evidence advanced by our best botanists on the question\nwhether certain doubtful forms should be ranked as species or\nvarieties, with the evidence from fertility adduced by different\nhybridisers, or by the same author, from experiments made during\ndifferent years. It can thus be shown that neither sterility nor\nfertility affords any clear distinction between species and varieties;\nbut that the evidence from this source graduates away, and is doubtful\nin the same degree as is the evidence derived from other constitutional\nand structural differences.\n\nIn regard to the sterility of hybrids in successive generations; though\nGärtner was enabled to rear some hybrids, carefully guarding them from\na cross with either pure parent, for six or seven, and in one case for\nten generations, yet he asserts positively that their fertility never\nincreased, but generally greatly decreased. I do not doubt that this is\nusually the case, and that the fertility often suddenly decreases in\nthe first few generations. Nevertheless I believe that in all these\nexperiments the fertility has been diminished by an independent cause,\nnamely, from close interbreeding. I have collected so large a body of\nfacts, showing\nthat close interbreeding lessens fertility, and, on the other hand,\nthat an occasional cross with a distinct individual or variety\nincreases fertility, that I cannot doubt the correctness of this almost\nuniversal belief amongst breeders. Hybrids are seldom raised by\nexperimentalists in great numbers; and as the parent-species, or other\nallied hybrids, generally grow in the same garden, the visits of\ninsects must be carefully prevented during the flowering season: hence\nhybrids will generally be fertilised during each generation by their\nown individual pollen; and I am convinced that this would be injurious\nto their fertility, already lessened by their hybrid origin. I am\nstrengthened in this conviction by a remarkable statement repeatedly\nmade by Gärtner, namely, that if even the less fertile hybrids be\nartificially fertilised with hybrid pollen of the same kind, their\nfertility, notwithstanding the frequent ill effects of manipulation,\nsometimes decidedly increases, and goes on increasing. Now, in\nartificial fertilisation pollen is as often taken by chance (as I know\nfrom my own experience) from the anthers of another flower, as from the\nanthers of the flower itself which is to be fertilised; so that a cross\nbetween two flowers, though probably on the same plant, would be thus\neffected. Moreover, whenever complicated experiments are in progress,\nso careful an observer as Gärtner would have castrated his hybrids, and\nthis would have insured in each generation a cross with the pollen from\na distinct flower, either from the same plant or from another plant of\nthe same hybrid nature. And thus, the strange fact of the increase of\nfertility in the successive generations of _artificially fertilised_\nhybrids may, I believe, be accounted for by close interbreeding having\nbeen avoided.\n\nNow let us turn to the results arrived at by the third most experienced\nhybridiser, namely, the Honourable and\nReverend W. Herbert. He is as emphatic in his conclusion that some\nhybrids are perfectly fertile—as fertile as the pure parent-species—as\nare Kölreuter and Gärtner that some degree of sterility between\ndistinct species is a universal law of nature. He experimentised on\nsome of the very same species as did Gärtner. The difference in their\nresults may, I think, be in part accounted for by Herbert’s great\nhorticultural skill, and by his having hothouses at his command. Of his\nmany important statements I will here give only a single one as an\nexample, namely, that “every ovule in a pod of Crinum capense\nfertilised by C. revolutum produced a plant, which (he says) I never\nsaw to occur in a case of its natural fecundation.” So that we here\nhave perfect, or even more than commonly perfect, fertility in a first\ncross between two distinct species.\n\nThis case of the Crinum leads me to refer to a most singular fact,\nnamely, that there are individual plants, as with certain species of\nLobelia, and with all the species of the genus Hippeastrum, which can\nbe far more easily fertilised by the pollen of another and distinct\nspecies, than by their own pollen. For these plants have been found to\nyield seed to the pollen of a distinct species, though quite sterile\nwith their own pollen, notwithstanding that their own pollen was found\nto be perfectly good, for it fertilised distinct species. So that\ncertain individual plants and all the individuals of certain species\ncan actually be hybridised much more readily than they can be\nself-fertilised! For instance, a bulb of Hippeastrum aulicum produced\nfour flowers; three were fertilised by Herbert with their own pollen,\nand the fourth was subsequently fertilised by the pollen of a compound\nhybrid descended from three other and distinct species: the result was\nthat “the ovaries of the three first flowers soon ceased to grow, and\nafter a\nfew days perished entirely, whereas the pod impregnated by the pollen\nof the hybrid made vigorous growth and rapid progress to maturity, and\nbore good seed, which vegetated freely.” In a letter to me, in 1839,\nMr. Herbert told me that he had then tried the experiment during five\nyears, and he continued to try it during several subsequent years, and\nalways with the same result. This result has, also, been confirmed by\nother observers in the case of Hippeastrum with its sub-genera, and in\nthe case of some other genera, as Lobelia, Passiflora and Verbascum.\nAlthough the plants in these experiments appeared perfectly healthy,\nand although both the ovules and pollen of the same flower were\nperfectly good with respect to other species, yet as they were\nfunctionally imperfect in their mutual self-action, we must infer that\nthe plants were in an unnatural state. Nevertheless these facts show on\nwhat slight and mysterious causes the lesser or greater fertility of\nspecies when crossed, in comparison with the same species when\nself-fertilised, sometimes depends.\n\nThe practical experiments of horticulturists, though not made with\nscientific precision, deserve some notice. It is notorious in how\ncomplicated a manner the species of Pelargonium, Fuchsia, Calceolaria,\nPetunia, Rhododendron, etc., have been crossed, yet many of these\nhybrids seed freely. For instance, Herbert asserts that a hybrid from\nCalceolaria integrifolia and plantaginea, species most widely\ndissimilar in general habit, “reproduced itself as perfectly as if it\nhad been a natural species from the mountains of Chile.” I have taken\nsome pains to ascertain the degree of fertility of some of the complex\ncrosses of Rhododendrons, and I am assured that many of them are\nperfectly fertile. Mr. C. Noble, for instance, informs me that he\nraises stocks for grafting from a hybrid\nbetween Rhododendron Ponticum and Catawbiense, and that this hybrid\n“seeds as freely as it is possible to imagine.” Had hybrids, when\nfairly treated, gone on decreasing in fertility in each successive\ngeneration, as Gärtner believes to be the case, the fact would have\nbeen notorious to nurserymen. Horticulturists raise large beds of the\nsame hybrids, and such alone are fairly treated, for by insect agency\nthe several individuals of the same hybrid variety are allowed to\nfreely cross with each other, and the injurious influence of close\ninterbreeding is thus prevented. Any one may readily convince himself\nof the efficiency of insect-agency by examining the flowers of the more\nsterile kinds of hybrid rhododendrons, which produce no pollen, for he\nwill find on their stigmas plenty of pollen brought from other flowers.\n\nIn regard to animals, much fewer experiments have been carefully tried\nthan with plants. If our systematic arrangements can be trusted, that\nis if the genera of animals are as distinct from each other, as are the\ngenera of plants, then we may infer that animals more widely separated\nin the scale of nature can be more easily crossed than in the case of\nplants; but the hybrids themselves are, I think, more sterile. I doubt\nwhether any case of a perfectly fertile hybrid animal can be considered\nas thoroughly well authenticated. It should, however, be borne in mind\nthat, owing to few animals breeding freely under confinement, few\nexperiments have been fairly tried: for instance, the canary-bird has\nbeen crossed with nine other finches, but as not one of these nine\nspecies breeds freely in confinement, we have no right to expect that\nthe first crosses between them and the canary, or that their hybrids,\nshould be perfectly fertile. Again, with respect to the fertility in\nsuccessive generations of the more fertile\nhybrid animals, I hardly know of an instance in which two families of\nthe same hybrid have been raised at the same time from different\nparents, so as to avoid the ill effects of close interbreeding. On the\ncontrary, brothers and sisters have usually been crossed in each\nsuccessive generation, in opposition to the constantly repeated\nadmonition of every breeder. And in this case, it is not at all\nsurprising that the inherent sterility in the hybrids should have gone\non increasing. If we were to act thus, and pair brothers and sisters in\nthe case of any pure animal, which from any cause had the least\ntendency to sterility, the breed would assuredly be lost in a very few\ngenerations.\n\nAlthough I do not know of any thoroughly well-authenticated cases of\nperfectly fertile hybrid animals, I have some reason to believe that\nthe hybrids from Cervulus vaginalis and Reevesii, and from Phasianus\ncolchicus with P. torquatus and with P. versicolor are perfectly\nfertile. The hybrids from the common and Chinese geese (A. cygnoides),\nspecies which are so different that they are generally ranked in\ndistinct genera, have often bred in this country with either pure\nparent, and in one single instance they have bred _inter se_. This was\neffected by Mr. Eyton, who raised two hybrids from the same parents but\nfrom different hatches; and from these two birds he raised no less than\neight hybrids (grandchildren of the pure geese) from one nest. In\nIndia, however, these cross-bred geese must be far more fertile; for I\nam assured by two eminently capable judges, namely Mr. Blyth and Capt.\nHutton, that whole flocks of these crossed geese are kept in various\nparts of the country; and as they are kept for profit, where neither\npure parent-species exists, they must certainly be highly fertile.\n\nA doctrine which originated with Pallas, has been\nlargely accepted by modern naturalists; namely, that most of our\ndomestic animals have descended from two or more aboriginal species,\nsince commingled by intercrossing. On this view, the aboriginal species\nmust either at first have produced quite fertile hybrids, or the\nhybrids must have become in subsequent generations quite fertile under\ndomestication. This latter alternative seems to me the most probable,\nand I am inclined to believe in its truth, although it rests on no\ndirect evidence. I believe, for instance, that our dogs have descended\nfrom several wild stocks; yet, with perhaps the exception of certain\nindigenous domestic dogs of South America, all are quite fertile\ntogether; and analogy makes me greatly doubt, whether the several\naboriginal species would at first have freely bred together and have\nproduced quite fertile hybrids. So again there is reason to believe\nthat our European and the humped Indian cattle are quite fertile\ntogether; but from facts communicated to me by Mr. Blyth, I think they\nmust be considered as distinct species. On this view of the origin of\nmany of our domestic animals, we must either give up the belief of the\nalmost universal sterility of distinct species of animals when crossed;\nor we must look at sterility, not as an indelible characteristic, but\nas one capable of being removed by domestication.\n\nFinally, looking to all the ascertained facts on the intercrossing of\nplants and animals, it may be concluded that some degree of sterility,\nboth in first crosses and in hybrids,is an extremely general result;\nbut that it cannot, under our present state of knowledge, be considered\nas absolutely universal.\n\n_Laws governing the Sterility of first Crosses and of Hybrids_.—We will\nnow consider a little more in detail the\ncircumstances and rules governing the sterility of first crosses and of\nhybrids. Our chief object will be to see whether or not the rules\nindicate that species have specially been endowed with this quality, in\norder to prevent their crossing and blending together in utter\nconfusion. The following rules and conclusions are chiefly drawn up\nfrom Gärtner’s admirable work on the hybridisation of plants. I have\ntaken much pains to ascertain how far the rules apply to animals, and\nconsidering how scanty our knowledge is in regard to hybrid animals, I\nhave been surprised to find how generally the same rules apply to both\nkingdoms.\n\nIt has been already remarked, that the degree of fertility, both of\nfirst crosses and of hybrids, graduates from zero to perfect fertility.\nIt is surprising in how many curious ways this gradation can be shown\nto exist; but only the barest outline of the facts can here be given.\nWhen pollen from a plant of one family is placed on the stigma of a\nplant of a distinct family, it exerts no more influence than so much\ninorganic dust. From this absolute zero of fertility, the pollen of\ndifferent species of the same genus applied to the stigma of some one\nspecies, yields a perfect gradation in the number of seeds produced, up\nto nearly complete or even quite complete fertility; and, as we have\nseen, in certain abnormal cases, even to an excess of fertility, beyond\nthat which the plant’s own pollen will produce. So in hybrids\nthemselves, there are some which never have produced, and probably\nnever would produce, even with the pollen of either pure parent, a\nsingle fertile seed: but in some of these cases a first trace of\nfertility may be detected, by the pollen of one of the pure\nparent-species causing the flower of the hybrid to wither earlier than\nit otherwise would have done; and the early withering of the flower is\nwell known to be a sign\nof incipient fertilisation. From this extreme degree of sterility we\nhave self-fertilised hybrids producing a greater and greater number of\nseeds up to perfect fertility.\n\nHybrids from two species which are very difficult to cross, and which\nrarely produce any offspring, are generally very sterile; but the\nparallelism between the difficulty of making a first cross, and the\nsterility of the hybrids thus produced—two classes of facts which are\ngenerally confounded together—is by no means strict. There are many\ncases, in which two pure species can be united with unusual facility,\nand produce numerous hybrid-offspring, yet these hybrids are remarkably\nsterile. On the other hand, there are species which can be crossed very\nrarely, or with extreme difficulty, but the hybrids, when at last\nproduced, are very fertile. Even within the limits of the same genus,\nfor instance in Dianthus, these two opposite cases occur.\n\nThe fertility, both of first crosses and of hybrids, is more easily\naffected by unfavourable conditions, than is the fertility of pure\nspecies. But the degree of fertility is likewise innately variable; for\nit is not always the same when the same two species are crossed under\nthe same circumstances, but depends in part upon the constitution of\nthe individuals which happen to have been chosen for the experiment. So\nit is with hybrids, for their degree of fertility is often found to\ndiffer greatly in the several individuals raised from seed out of the\nsame capsule and exposed to exactly the same conditions.\n\nBy the term systematic affinity is meant, the resemblance between\nspecies in structure and in constitution, more especially in the\nstructure of parts which are of high physiological importance and which\ndiffer little in the allied species. Now the fertility of first crosses\nbetween species, and of the hybrids produced from them, is largely\ngoverned by their systematic affinity. This is clearly shown by hybrids\nnever having been raised between species ranked by systematists in\ndistinct families; and on the other hand, by very closely allied\nspecies generally uniting with facility. But the correspondence between\nsystematic affinity and the facility of crossing is by no means strict.\nA multitude of cases could be given of very closely allied species\nwhich will not unite, or only with extreme difficulty; and on the other\nhand of very distinct species which unite with the utmost facility. In\nthe same family there may be a genus, as Dianthus, in which very many\nspecies can most readily be crossed; and another genus, as Silene, in\nwhich the most persevering efforts have failed to produce between\nextremely close species a single hybrid. Even within the limits of the\nsame genus, we meet with this same difference; for instance, the many\nspecies of Nicotiana have been more largely crossed than the species of\nalmost any other genus; but Gärtner found that N. acuminata, which is\nnot a particularly distinct species, obstinately failed to fertilise,\nor to be fertilised by, no less than eight other species of Nicotiana.\nVery many analogous facts could be given.\n\nNo one has been able to point out what kind, or what amount, of\ndifference in any recognisable character is sufficient to prevent two\nspecies crossing. It can be shown that plants most widely different in\nhabit and general appearance, and having strongly marked differences in\nevery part of the flower, even in the pollen, in the fruit, and in the\ncotyledons, can be crossed. Annual and perennial plants, deciduous and\nevergreen trees, plants inhabiting different stations and fitted for\nextremely different climates, can often be crossed with ease.\n\n\nBy a reciprocal cross between two species, I mean the case, for\ninstance, of a stallion-horse being first crossed with a female-ass,\nand then a male-ass with a mare: these two species may then be said to\nhave been reciprocally crossed. There is often the widest possible\ndifference in the facility of making reciprocal crosses. Such cases are\nhighly important, for they prove that the capacity in any two species\nto cross is often completely independent of their systematic affinity,\nor of any recognisable difference in their whole organisation. On the\nother hand, these cases clearly show that the capacity for crossing is\nconnected with constitutional differences imperceptible by us, and\nconfined to the reproductive system. This difference in the result of\nreciprocal crosses between the same two species was long ago observed\nby Kölreuter. To give an instance: Mirabilis jalappa can easily be\nfertilised by the pollen of M. longiflora, and the hybrids thus\nproduced are sufficiently fertile; but Kölreuter tried more than two\nhundred times, during eight following years, to fertilise reciprocally\nM. longiflora with the pollen of M. jalappa, and utterly failed.\nSeveral other equally striking cases could be given. Thuret has\nobserved the same fact with certain sea-weeds or Fuci. Gärtner,\nmoreover, found that this difference of facility in making reciprocal\ncrosses is extremely common in a lesser degree. He has observed it even\nbetween forms so closely related (as Matthiola annua and glabra) that\nmany botanists rank them only as varieties. It is also a remarkable\nfact, that hybrids raised from reciprocal crosses, though of course\ncompounded of the very same two species, the one species having first\nbeen used as the father and then as the mother, generally differ in\nfertility in a small, and occasionally in a high degree.\n\nSeveral other singular rules could be given from\nGärtner: for instance, some species have a remarkable power of crossing\nwith other species; other species of the same genus have a remarkable\npower of impressing their likeness on their hybrid offspring; but these\ntwo powers do not at all necessarily go together. There are certain\nhybrids which instead of having, as is usual, an intermediate character\nbetween their two parents, always closely resemble one of them; and\nsuch hybrids, though externally so like one of their pure\nparent-species, are with rare exceptions extremely sterile. So again\namongst hybrids which are usually intermediate in structure between\ntheir parents, exceptional and abnormal individuals sometimes are born,\nwhich closely resemble one of their pure parents; and these hybrids are\nalmost always utterly sterile, even when the other hybrids raised from\nseed from the same capsule have a considerable degree of fertility.\nThese facts show how completely fertility in the hybrid is independent\nof its external resemblance to either pure parent.\n\nConsidering the several rules now given, which govern the fertility of\nfirst crosses and of hybrids, we see that when forms, which must be\nconsidered as good and distinct species, are united, their fertility\ngraduates from zero to perfect fertility, or even to fertility under\ncertain conditions in excess. That their fertility, besides being\neminently susceptible to favourable and unfavourable conditions, is\ninnately variable. That it is by no means always the same in degree in\nthe first cross and in the hybrids produced from this cross. That the\nfertility of hybrids is not related to the degree in which they\nresemble in external appearance either parent. And lastly, that the\nfacility of making a first cross between any two species is not always\ngoverned by their systematic affinity or\ndegree of resemblance to each other. This latter statement is clearly\nproved by reciprocal crosses between the same two species, for\naccording as the one species or the other is used as the father or the\nmother, there is generally some difference, and occasionally the widest\npossible difference, in the facility of effecting an union. The\nhybrids, moreover, produced from reciprocal crosses often differ in\nfertility.\n\nNow do these complex and singular rules indicate that species have been\nendowed with sterility simply to prevent their becoming confounded in\nnature? I think not. For why should the sterility be so extremely\ndifferent in degree, when various species are crossed, all of which we\nmust suppose it would be equally important to keep from blending\ntogether? Why should the degree of sterility be innately variable in\nthe individuals of the same species? Why should some species cross with\nfacility, and yet produce very sterile hybrids; and other species cross\nwith extreme difficulty, and yet produce fairly fertile hybrids? Why\nshould there often be so great a difference in the result of a\nreciprocal cross between the same two species? Why, it may even be\nasked, has the production of hybrids been permitted? to grant to\nspecies the special power of producing hybrids, and then to stop their\nfurther propagation by different degrees of sterility, not strictly\nrelated to the facility of the first union between their parents, seems\nto be a strange arrangement.\n\nThe foregoing rules and facts, on the other hand, appear to me clearly\nto indicate that the sterility both of first crosses and of hybrids is\nsimply incidental or dependent on unknown differences, chiefly in the\nreproductive systems, of the species which are crossed. The differences\nbeing of so peculiar and limited a nature,\nthat, in reciprocal crosses between two species the male sexual element\nof the one will often freely act on the female sexual element of the\nother, but not in a reversed direction. It will be advisable to explain\na little more fully by an example what I mean by sterility being\nincidental on other differences, and not a specially endowed quality.\nAs the capacity of one plant to be grafted or budded on another is so\nentirely unimportant for its welfare in a state of nature, I presume\nthat no one will suppose that this capacity is a _specially_ endowed\nquality, but will admit that it is incidental on differences in the\nlaws of growth of the two plants. We can sometimes see the reason why\none tree will not take on another, from differences in their rate of\ngrowth, in the hardness of their wood, in the period of the flow or\nnature of their sap, etc.; but in a multitude of cases we can assign no\nreason whatever. Great diversity in the size of two plants, one being\nwoody and the other herbaceous, one being evergreen and the other\ndeciduous, and adaptation to widely different climates, does not always\nprevent the two grafting together. As in hybridisation, so with\ngrafting, the capacity is limited by systematic affinity, for no one\nhas been able to graft trees together belonging to quite distinct\nfamilies; and, on the other hand, closely allied species, and varieties\nof the same species, can usually, but not invariably, be grafted with\nease. But this capacity, as in hybridisation, is by no means absolutely\ngoverned by systematic affinity. Although many distinct genera within\nthe same family have been grafted together, in other cases species of\nthe same genus will not take on each other. The pear can be grafted far\nmore readily on the quince, which is ranked as a distinct genus, than\non the apple, which is a member of the same genus. Even different\nvarieties of the pear take\nwith different degrees of facility on the quince; so do different\nvarieties of the apricot and peach on certain varieties of the plum.\n\nAs Gärtner found that there was sometimes an innate difference in\ndifferent _individuals_ of the same two species in crossing; so Sagaret\nbelieves this to be the case with different individuals of the same two\nspecies in being grafted together. As in reciprocal crosses, the\nfacility of effecting an union is often very far from equal, so it\nsometimes is in grafting; the common gooseberry, for instance, cannot\nbe grafted on the currant, whereas the currant will take, though with\ndifficulty, on the gooseberry.\n\nWe have seen that the sterility of hybrids, which have their\nreproductive organs in an imperfect condition, is a very different case\nfrom the difficulty of uniting two pure species, which have their\nreproductive organs perfect; yet these two distinct cases run to a\ncertain extent parallel. Something analogous occurs in grafting; for\nThouin found that three species of Robinia, which seeded freely on\ntheir own roots, and which could be grafted with no great difficulty on\nanother species, when thus grafted were rendered barren. On the other\nhand, certain species of Sorbus, when grafted on other species, yielded\ntwice as much fruit as when on their own roots. We are reminded by this\nlatter fact of the extraordinary case of Hippeastrum, Lobelia, etc.,\nwhich seeded much more freely when fertilised with the pollen of\ndistinct species, than when self-fertilised with their own pollen.\n\nWe thus see, that although there is a clear and fundamental difference\nbetween the mere adhesion of grafted stocks, and the union of the male\nand female elements in the act of reproduction, yet that there is a\nrude degree of parallelism in the results of grafting and\nof crossing distinct species. And as we must look at the curious and\ncomplex laws governing the facility with which trees can be grafted on\neach other as incidental on unknown differences in their vegetative\nsystems, so I believe that the still more complex laws governing the\nfacility of first crosses, are incidental on unknown differences,\nchiefly in their reproductive systems. These differences, in both\ncases, follow to a certain extent, as might have been expected,\nsystematic affinity, by which every kind of resemblance and\ndissimilarity between organic beings is attempted to be expressed. The\nfacts by no means seem to me to indicate that the greater or lesser\ndifficulty of either grafting or crossing together various species has\nbeen a special endowment; although in the case of crossing, the\ndifficulty is as important for the endurance and stability of specific\nforms, as in the case of grafting it is unimportant for their welfare.\n\n_Causes of the Sterility of first Crosses and of Hybrids_.—We may now\nlook a little closer at the probable causes of the sterility of first\ncrosses and of hybrids. These two cases are fundamentally different,\nfor, as just remarked, in the union of two pure species the male and\nfemale sexual elements are perfect, whereas in hybrids they are\nimperfect. Even in first crosses, the greater or lesser difficulty in\neffecting a union apparently depends on several distinct causes. There\nmust sometimes be a physical impossibility in the male element reaching\nthe ovule, as would be the case with a plant having a pistil too long\nfor the pollen-tubes to reach the ovarium. It has also been observed\nthat when pollen of one species is placed on the stigma of a distantly\nallied species, though the pollen-tubes protrude, they do not penetrate\nthe stigmatic surface. Again, the\nmale element may reach the female element, but be incapable of causing\nan embryo to be developed, as seems to have been the case with some of\nThuret’s experiments on Fuci. No explanation can be given of these\nfacts, any more than why certain trees cannot be grafted on others.\nLastly, an embryo may be developed, and then perish at an early period.\nThis latter alternative has not been sufficiently attended to; but I\nbelieve, from observations communicated to me by Mr. Hewitt, who has\nhad great experience in hybridising gallinaceous birds, that the early\ndeath of the embryo is a very frequent cause of sterility in first\ncrosses. I was at first very unwilling to believe in this view; as\nhybrids, when once born, are generally healthy and long-lived, as we\nsee in the case of the common mule. Hybrids, however, are differently\ncircumstanced before and after birth: when born and living in a country\nwhere their two parents can live, they are generally placed under\nsuitable conditions of life. But a hybrid partakes of only half of the\nnature and constitution of its mother, and therefore before birth, as\nlong as it is nourished within its mother’s womb or within the egg or\nseed produced by the mother, it may be exposed to conditions in some\ndegree unsuitable, and consequently be liable to perish at an early\nperiod; more especially as all very young beings seem eminently\nsensitive to injurious or unnatural conditions of life.\n\nIn regard to the sterility of hybrids, in which the sexual elements are\nimperfectly developed, the case is very different. I have more than\nonce alluded to a large body of facts, which I have collected, showing\nthat when animals and plants are removed from their natural conditions,\nthey are extremely liable to have their reproductive systems seriously\naffected. This, in fact, is\nthe great bar to the domestication of animals. Between the sterility\nthus superinduced and that of hybrids, there are many points of\nsimilarity. In both cases the sterility is independent of general\nhealth, and is often accompanied by excess of size or great luxuriance.\nIn both cases, the sterility occurs in various degrees; in both, the\nmale element is the most liable to be affected; but sometimes the\nfemale more than the male. In both, the tendency goes to a certain\nextent with systematic affinity, for whole groups of animals and plants\nare rendered impotent by the same unnatural conditions; and whole\ngroups of species tend to produce sterile hybrids. On the other hand,\none species in a group will sometimes resist great changes of\nconditions with unimpaired fertility; and certain species in a group\nwill produce unusually fertile hybrids. No one can tell, till he tries,\nwhether any particular animal will breed under confinement or any plant\nseed freely under culture; nor can he tell, till he tries, whether any\ntwo species of a genus will produce more or less sterile hybrids.\nLastly, when organic beings are placed during several generations under\nconditions not natural to them, they are extremely liable to vary,\nwhich is due, as I believe, to their reproductive systems having been\nspecially affected, though in a lesser degree than when sterility\nensues. So it is with hybrids, for hybrids in successive generations\nare eminently liable to vary, as every experimentalist has observed.\n\nThus we see that when organic beings are placed under new and unnatural\nconditions, and when hybrids are produced by the unnatural crossing of\ntwo species, the reproductive system, independently of the general\nstate of health, is affected by sterility in a very similar manner. In\nthe one case, the conditions of life have been disturbed, though often\nin so slight a degree as to\nbe inappreciable by us; in the other case, or that of hybrids, the\nexternal conditions have remained the same, but the organisation has\nbeen disturbed by two different structures and constitutions having\nbeen blended into one. For it is scarcely possible that two\norganisations should be compounded into one, without some disturbance\noccurring in the development, or periodical action, or mutual relation\nof the different parts and organs one to another, or to the conditions\nof life. When hybrids are able to breed _inter se_, they transmit to\ntheir offspring from generation to generation the same compounded\norganisation, and hence we need not be surprised that their sterility,\nthough in some degree variable, rarely diminishes.\n\nIt must, however, be confessed that we cannot understand, excepting on\nvague hypotheses, several facts with respect to the sterility of\nhybrids; for instance, the unequal fertility of hybrids produced from\nreciprocal crosses; or the increased sterility in those hybrids which\noccasionally and exceptionally resemble closely either pure parent. Nor\ndo I pretend that the foregoing remarks go to the root of the matter:\nno explanation is offered why an organism, when placed under unnatural\nconditions, is rendered sterile. All that I have attempted to show, is\nthat in two cases, in some respects allied, sterility is the common\nresult,—in the one case from the conditions of life having been\ndisturbed, in the other case from the organisation having been\ndisturbed by two organisations having been compounded into one.\n\nIt may seem fanciful, but I suspect that a similar parallelism extends\nto an allied yet very different class of facts. It is an old and almost\nuniversal belief, founded, I think, on a considerable body of evidence,\nthat slight changes in the conditions of life are beneficial to all\nliving things. We see this acted on by\nfarmers and gardeners in their frequent exchanges of seed, tubers,\netc., from one soil or climate to another, and back again. During the\nconvalescence of animals, we plainly see that great benefit is derived\nfrom almost any change in the habits of life. Again, both with plants\nand animals, there is abundant evidence, that a cross between very\ndistinct individuals of the same species, that is between members of\ndifferent strains or sub-breeds, gives vigour and fertility to the\noffspring. I believe, indeed, from the facts alluded to in our fourth\nchapter, that a certain amount of crossing is indispensable even with\nhermaphrodites; and that close interbreeding continued during several\ngenerations between the nearest relations, especially if these be kept\nunder the same conditions of life, always induces weakness and\nsterility in the progeny.\n\nHence it seems that, on the one hand, slight changes in the conditions\nof life benefit all organic beings, and on the other hand, that slight\ncrosses, that is crosses between the males and females of the same\nspecies which have varied and become slightly different, give vigour\nand fertility to the offspring. But we have seen that greater changes,\nor changes of a particular nature, often render organic beings in some\ndegree sterile; and that greater crosses, that is crosses between males\nand females which have become widely or specifically different, produce\nhybrids which are generally sterile in some degree. I cannot persuade\nmyself that this parallelism is an accident or an illusion. Both series\nof facts seem to be connected together by some common but unknown bond,\nwhich is essentially related to the principle of life.\n\n_Fertility of Varieties when crossed, and of their Mongrel\noffspring_.—It may be urged, as a most forcible argument,\nthat there must be some essential distinction between species and\nvarieties, and that there must be some error in all the foregoing\nremarks, inasmuch as varieties, however much they may differ from each\nother in external appearance, cross with perfect facility, and yield\nperfectly fertile offspring. I fully admit that this is almost\ninvariably the case. But if we look to varieties produced under nature,\nwe are immediately involved in hopeless difficulties; for if two\nhitherto reputed varieties be found in any degree sterile together,\nthey are at once ranked by most naturalists as species. For instance,\nthe blue and red pimpernel, the primrose and cowslip, which are\nconsidered by many of our best botanists as varieties, are said by\nGärtner not to be quite fertile when crossed, and he consequently ranks\nthem as undoubted species. If we thus argue in a circle, the fertility\nof all varieties produced under nature will assuredly have to be\ngranted.\n\nIf we turn to varieties, produced, or supposed to have been produced,\nunder domestication, we are still involved in doubt. For when it is\nstated, for instance, that the German Spitz dog unites more easily than\nother dogs with foxes, or that certain South American indigenous\ndomestic dogs do not readily cross with European dogs, the explanation\nwhich will occur to everyone, and probably the true one, is that these\ndogs have descended from several aboriginally distinct species.\nNevertheless the perfect fertility of so many domestic varieties,\ndiffering widely from each other in appearance, for instance of the\npigeon or of the cabbage, is a remarkable fact; more especially when we\nreflect how many species there are, which, though resembling each other\nmost closely, are utterly sterile when intercrossed. Several\nconsiderations, however, render the fertility of domestic varieties\nless remarkable than\nat first appears. It can, in the first place, be clearly shown that\nmere external dissimilarity between two species does not determine\ntheir greater or lesser degree of sterility when crossed; and we may\napply the same rule to domestic varieties. In the second place, some\neminent naturalists believe that a long course of domestication tends\nto eliminate sterility in the successive generations of hybrids, which\nwere at first only slightly sterile; and if this be so, we surely ought\nnot to expect to find sterility both appearing and disappearing under\nnearly the same conditions of life. Lastly, and this seems to me by far\nthe most important consideration, new races of animals and plants are\nproduced under domestication by man’s methodical and unconscious power\nof selection, for his own use and pleasure: he neither wishes to\nselect, nor could select, slight differences in the reproductive\nsystem, or other constitutional differences correlated with the\nreproductive system. He supplies his several varieties with the same\nfood; treats them in nearly the same manner, and does not wish to alter\ntheir general habits of life. Nature acts uniformly and slowly during\nvast periods of time on the whole organisation, in any way which may be\nfor each creature’s own good; and thus she may, either directly, or\nmore probably indirectly, through correlation, modify the reproductive\nsystem in the several descendants from any one species. Seeing this\ndifference in the process of selection, as carried on by man and\nnature, we need not be surprised at some difference in the result.\n\nI have as yet spoken as if the varieties of the same species were\ninvariably fertile when intercrossed. But it seems to me impossible to\nresist the evidence of the existence of a certain amount of sterility\nin the few following cases, which I will briefly abstract. The evidence\nis at least as good as that from which we believe\nin the sterility of a multitude of species. The evidence is, also,\nderived from hostile witnesses, who in all other cases consider\nfertility and sterility as safe criterions of specific distinction.\nGärtner kept during several years a dwarf kind of maize with yellow\nseeds, and a tall variety with red seeds, growing near each other in\nhis garden; and although these plants have separated sexes, they never\nnaturally crossed. He then fertilised thirteen flowers of the one with\nthe pollen of the other; but only a single head produced any seed, and\nthis one head produced only five grains. Manipulation in this case\ncould not have been injurious, as the plants have separated sexes. No\none, I believe, has suspected that these varieties of maize are\ndistinct species; and it is important to notice that the hybrid plants\nthus raised were themselves _perfectly_ fertile; so that even Gärtner\ndid not venture to consider the two varieties as specifically distinct.\n\nGirou de Buzareingues crossed three varieties of gourd, which like the\nmaize has separated sexes, and he asserts that their mutual\nfertilisation is by so much the less easy as their differences are\ngreater. How far these experiments may be trusted, I know not; but the\nforms experimentised on, are ranked by Sagaret, who mainly founds his\nclassification by the test of infertility, as varieties.\n\nThe following case is far more remarkable, and seems at first quite\nincredible; but it is the result of an astonishing number of\nexperiments made during many years on nine species of Verbascum, by so\ngood an observer and so hostile a witness, as Gärtner: namely, that\nyellow and white varieties of the same species of Verbascum when\nintercrossed produce less seed, than do either coloured varieties when\nfertilised with pollen from their own coloured flowers. Moreover, he\nasserts that when\nyellow and white varieties of one species are crossed with yellow and\nwhite varieties of a _distinct_ species, more seed is produced by the\ncrosses between the same coloured flowers, than between those which are\ndifferently coloured. Yet these varieties of Verbascum present no other\ndifference besides the mere colour of the flower; and one variety can\nsometimes be raised from the seed of the other.\n\nFrom observations which I have made on certain varieties of hollyhock,\nI am inclined to suspect that they present analogous facts.\n\nKölreuter, whose accuracy has been confirmed by every subsequent\nobserver, has proved the remarkable fact, that one variety of the\ncommon tobacco is more fertile, when crossed with a widely distinct\nspecies, than are the other varieties. He experimentised on five forms,\nwhich are commonly reputed to be varieties, and which he tested by the\nseverest trial, namely, by reciprocal crosses, and he found their\nmongrel offspring perfectly fertile. But one of these five varieties,\nwhen used either as father or mother, and crossed with the Nicotiana\nglutinosa, always yielded hybrids not so sterile as those which were\nproduced from the four other varieties when crossed with N. glutinosa.\nHence the reproductive system of this one variety must have been in\nsome manner and in some degree modified.\n\nFrom these facts; from the great difficulty of ascertaining the\ninfertility of varieties in a state of nature, for a supposed variety\nif infertile in any degree would generally be ranked as species; from\nman selecting only external characters in the production of the most\ndistinct domestic varieties, and from not wishing or being able to\nproduce recondite and functional differences in the reproductive\nsystem; from these several considerations and facts, I do not think\nthat the very general\nfertility of varieties can be proved to be of universal occurrence, or\nto form a fundamental distinction between varieties and species. The\ngeneral fertility of varieties does not seem to me sufficient to\noverthrow the view which I have taken with respect to the very general,\nbut not invariable, sterility of first crosses and of hybrids, namely,\nthat it is not a special endowment, but is incidental on slowly\nacquired modifications, more especially in the reproductive systems of\nthe forms which are crossed.\n\n_Hybrids and Mongrels compared, independently of their\nfertility_.—Independently of the question of fertility, the offspring\nof species when crossed and of varieties when crossed may be compared\nin several other respects. Gärtner, whose strong wish was to draw a\nmarked line of distinction between species and varieties, could find\nvery few and, as it seems to me, quite unimportant differences between\nthe so-called hybrid offspring of species, and the so-called mongrel\noffspring of varieties. And, on the other hand, they agree most closely\nin very many important respects.\n\nI shall here discuss this subject with extreme brevity. The most\nimportant distinction is, that in the first generation mongrels are\nmore variable than hybrids; but Gärtner admits that hybrids from\nspecies which have long been cultivated are often variable in the first\ngeneration; and I have myself seen striking instances of this fact.\nGärtner further admits that hybrids between very closely allied species\nare more variable than those from very distinct species; and this shows\nthat the difference in the degree of variability graduates away. When\nmongrels and the more fertile hybrids are propagated for several\ngenerations an extreme amount of variability in their offspring is\nnotorious;\nbut some few cases both of hybrids and mongrels long retaining\nuniformity of character could be given. The variability, however, in\nthe successive generations of mongrels is, perhaps, greater than in\nhybrids.\n\nThis greater variability of mongrels than of hybrids does not seem to\nme at all surprising. For the parents of mongrels are varieties, and\nmostly domestic varieties (very few experiments having been tried on\nnatural varieties), and this implies in most cases that there has been\nrecent variability; and therefore we might expect that such variability\nwould often continue and be super-added to that arising from the mere\nact of crossing. The slight degree of variability in hybrids from the\nfirst cross or in the first generation, in contrast with their extreme\nvariability in the succeeding generations, is a curious fact and\ndeserves attention. For it bears on and corroborates the view which I\nhave taken on the cause of ordinary variability; namely, that it is due\nto the reproductive system being eminently sensitive to any change in\nthe conditions of life, being thus often rendered either impotent or at\nleast incapable of its proper function of producing offspring identical\nwith the parent-form. Now hybrids in the first generation are descended\nfrom species (excluding those long cultivated) which have not had their\nreproductive systems in any way affected, and they are not variable;\nbut hybrids themselves have their reproductive systems seriously\naffected, and their descendants are highly variable.\n\nBut to return to our comparison of mongrels and hybrids: Gärtner states\nthat mongrels are more liable than hybrids to revert to either\nparent-form; but this, if it be true, is certainly only a difference in\ndegree. Gärtner further insists that when any two species, although\nmost closely allied to each other, are\ncrossed with a third species, the hybrids are widely different from\neach other; whereas if two very distinct varieties of one species are\ncrossed with another species, the hybrids do not differ much. But this\nconclusion, as far as I can make out, is founded on a single\nexperiment; and seems directly opposed to the results of several\nexperiments made by Kölreuter.\n\nThese alone are the unimportant differences, which Gärtner is able to\npoint out, between hybrid and mongrel plants. On the other hand, the\nresemblance in mongrels and in hybrids to their respective parents,\nmore especially in hybrids produced from nearly related species,\nfollows according to Gärtner the same laws. When two species are\ncrossed, one has sometimes a prepotent power of impressing its likeness\non the hybrid; and so I believe it to be with varieties of plants. With\nanimals one variety certainly often has this prepotent power over\nanother variety. Hybrid plants produced from a reciprocal cross,\ngenerally resemble each other closely; and so it is with mongrels from\na reciprocal cross. Both hybrids and mongrels can be reduced to either\npure parent-form, by repeated crosses in successive generations with\neither parent.\n\nThese several remarks are apparently applicable to animals; but the\nsubject is here excessively complicated, partly owing to the existence\nof secondary sexual characters; but more especially owing to prepotency\nin transmitting likeness running more strongly in one sex than in the\nother, both when one species is crossed with another, and when one\nvariety is crossed with another variety. For instance, I think those\nauthors are right, who maintain that the ass has a prepotent power over\nthe horse, so that both the mule and the hinny more resemble the ass\nthan the horse; but that the prepotency runs more strongly in the\nmale-ass than in\nthe female, so that the mule, which is the offspring of the male-ass\nand mare, is more like an ass, than is the hinny, which is the\noffspring of the female-ass and stallion.\n\nMuch stress has been laid by some authors on the supposed fact, that\nmongrel animals alone are born closely like one of their parents; but\nit can be shown that this does sometimes occur with hybrids; yet I\ngrant much less frequently with hybrids than with mongrels. Looking to\nthe cases which I have collected of cross-bred animals closely\nresembling one parent, the resemblances seem chiefly confined to\ncharacters almost monstrous in their nature, and which have suddenly\nappeared—such as albinism, melanism, deficiency of tail or horns, or\nadditional fingers and toes; and do not relate to characters which have\nbeen slowly acquired by selection. Consequently, sudden reversions to\nthe perfect character of either parent would be more likely to occur\nwith mongrels, which are descended from varieties often suddenly\nproduced and semi-monstrous in character, than with hybrids, which are\ndescended from species slowly and naturally produced. On the whole I\nentirely agree with Dr. Prosper Lucas, who, after arranging an enormous\nbody of facts with respect to animals, comes to the conclusion, that\nthe laws of resemblance of the child to its parents are the same,\nwhether the two parents differ much or little from each other, namely\nin the union of individuals of the same variety, or of different\nvarieties, or of distinct species.\n\nLaying aside the question of fertility and sterility, in all other\nrespects there seems to be a general and close similarity in the\noffspring of crossed species, and of crossed varieties. If we look at\nspecies as having been specially created, and at varieties as having\nbeen produced by secondary laws, this similarity would be an\nastonishing fact. But it harmonises perfectly with the view that there\nis no essential distinction between species and varieties.\n\n_Summary of Chapter_.—First crosses between forms sufficiently distinct\nto be ranked as species, and their hybrids, are very generally, but not\nuniversally, sterile. The sterility is of all degrees, and is often so\nslight that the two most careful experimentalists who have ever lived,\nhave come to diametrically opposite conclusions in ranking forms by\nthis test. The sterility is innately variable in individuals of the\nsame species, and is eminently susceptible of favourable and\nunfavourable conditions. The degree of sterility does not strictly\nfollow systematic affinity, but is governed by several curious and\ncomplex laws. It is generally different, and sometimes widely\ndifferent, in reciprocal crosses between the same two species. It is\nnot always equal in degree in a first cross and in the hybrid produced\nfrom this cross.\n\nIn the same manner as in grafting trees, the capacity of one species or\nvariety to take on another, is incidental on generally unknown\ndifferences in their vegetative systems, so in crossing, the greater or\nless facility of one species to unite with another, is incidental on\nunknown differences in their reproductive systems. There is no more\nreason to think that species have been specially endowed with various\ndegrees of sterility to prevent them crossing and blending in nature,\nthan to think that trees have been specially endowed with various and\nsomewhat analogous degrees of difficulty in being grafted together in\norder to prevent them becoming inarched in our forests.\n\nThe sterility of first crosses between pure species, which have their\nreproductive systems perfect, seems\nto depend on several circumstances; in some cases largely on the early\ndeath of the embryo. The sterility of hybrids, which have their\nreproductive systems imperfect, and which have had this system and\ntheir whole organisation disturbed by being compounded of two distinct\nspecies, seems closely allied to that sterility which so frequently\naffects pure species, when their natural conditions of life have been\ndisturbed. This view is supported by a parallelism of another\nkind;—namely, that the crossing of forms only slightly different is\nfavourable to the vigour and fertility of their offspring; and that\nslight changes in the conditions of life are apparently favourable to\nthe vigour and fertility of all organic beings. It is not surprising\nthat the degree of difficulty in uniting two species, and the degree of\nsterility of their hybrid-offspring should generally correspond, though\ndue to distinct causes; for both depend on the amount of difference of\nsome kind between the species which are crossed. Nor is it surprising\nthat the facility of effecting a first cross, the fertility of the\nhybrids produced, and the capacity of being grafted together—though\nthis latter capacity evidently depends on widely different\ncircumstances—should all run, to a certain extent, parallel with the\nsystematic affinity of the forms which are subjected to experiment; for\nsystematic affinity attempts to express all kinds of resemblance\nbetween all species.\n\nFirst crosses between forms known to be varieties, or sufficiently\nalike to be considered as varieties, and their mongrel offspring, are\nvery generally, but not quite universally, fertile. Nor is this nearly\ngeneral and perfect fertility surprising, when we remember how liable\nwe are to argue in a circle with respect to varieties in a state of\nnature; and when we remember that the greater number of varieties have\nbeen produced under domestication\nby the selection of mere external differences, and not of differences\nin the reproductive system. In all other respects, excluding fertility,\nthere is a close general resemblance between hybrids and mongrels.\nFinally, then, the facts briefly given in this chapter do not seem to\nme opposed to, but even rather to support the view, that there is no\nfundamental distinction between species and varieties.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\nON THE IMPERFECTION OF THE GEOLOGICAL RECORD.\n\n\nOn the absence of intermediate varieties at the present day. On the\nnature of extinct intermediate varieties; on their number. On the vast\nlapse of time, as inferred from the rate of deposition and of\ndenudation. On the poorness of our palæontological collections. On the\nintermittence of geological formations. On the absence of intermediate\nvarieties in any one formation. On the sudden appearance of groups of\nspecies. On their sudden appearance in the lowest known fossiliferous\nstrata.\n\n\nIn the sixth chapter I enumerated the chief objections which might be\njustly urged against the views maintained in this volume. Most of them\nhave now been discussed. One, namely the distinctness of specific\nforms, and their not being blended together by innumerable transitional\nlinks, is a very obvious difficulty. I assigned reasons why such links\ndo not commonly occur at the present day, under the circumstances\napparently most favourable for their presence, namely on an extensive\nand continuous area with graduated physical conditions. I endeavoured\nto show, that the life of each species depends in a more important\nmanner on the presence of other already defined organic forms, than on\nclimate; and, therefore, that the really governing conditions of life\ndo not graduate away quite insensibly like heat or moisture. I\nendeavoured, also, to show that intermediate varieties, from existing\nin lesser numbers than the forms which they connect, will generally be\nbeaten out and exterminated during the course of further modification\nand improvement. The main cause, however, of innumerable intermediate\nlinks not now occurring everywhere throughout nature depends\non the very process of natural selection, through which new varieties\ncontinually take the places of and exterminate their parent-forms. But\njust in proportion as this process of extermination has acted on an\nenormous scale, so must the number of intermediate varieties, which\nhave formerly existed on the earth, be truly enormous. Why then is not\nevery geological formation and every stratum full of such intermediate\nlinks? Geology assuredly does not reveal any such finely graduated\norganic chain; and this, perhaps, is the most obvious and gravest\nobjection which can be urged against my theory. The explanation lies,\nas I believe, in the extreme imperfection of the geological record.\n\nIn the first place it should always be borne in mind what sort of\nintermediate forms must, on my theory, have formerly existed. I have\nfound it difficult, when looking at any two species, to avoid picturing\nto myself, forms _directly_ intermediate between them. But this is a\nwholly false view; we should always look for forms intermediate between\neach species and a common but unknown progenitor; and the progenitor\nwill generally have differed in some respects from all its modified\ndescendants. To give a simple illustration: the fantail and pouter\npigeons have both descended from the rock-pigeon; if we possessed all\nthe intermediate varieties which have ever existed, we should have an\nextremely close series between both and the rock-pigeon; but we should\nhave no varieties directly intermediate between the fantail and pouter;\nnone, for instance, combining a tail somewhat expanded with a crop\nsomewhat enlarged, the characteristic features of these two breeds.\nThese two breeds, moreover, have become so much modified, that if we\nhad no historical or indirect evidence regarding their origin, it would\nnot have been possible to have\ndetermined from a mere comparison of their structure with that of the\nrock-pigeon, whether they had descended from this species or from some\nother allied species, such as C. oenas.\n\nSo with natural species, if we look to forms very distinct, for\ninstance to the horse and tapir, we have no reason to suppose that\nlinks ever existed directly intermediate between them, but between each\nand an unknown common parent. The common parent will have had in its\nwhole organisation much general resemblance to the tapir and to the\nhorse; but in some points of structure may have differed considerably\nfrom both, even perhaps more than they differ from each other. Hence in\nall such cases, we should be unable to recognise the parent-form of any\ntwo or more species, even if we closely compared the structure of the\nparent with that of its modified descendants, unless at the same time\nwe had a nearly perfect chain of the intermediate links.\n\nIt is just possible by my theory, that one of two living forms might\nhave descended from the other; for instance, a horse from a tapir; and\nin this case _direct_ intermediate links will have existed between\nthem. But such a case would imply that one form had remained for a very\nlong period unaltered, whilst its descendants had undergone a vast\namount of change; and the principle of competition between organism and\norganism, between child and parent, will render this a very rare event;\nfor in all cases the new and improved forms of life will tend to\nsupplant the old and unimproved forms.\n\nBy the theory of natural selection all living species have been\nconnected with the parent-species of each genus, by differences not\ngreater than we see between the varieties of the same species at the\npresent\nday; and these parent-species, now generally extinct, have in their\nturn been similarly connected with more ancient species; and so on\nbackwards, always converging to the common ancestor of each great\nclass. So that the number of intermediate and transitional links,\nbetween all living and extinct species, must have been inconceivably\ngreat. But assuredly, if this theory be true, such have lived upon this\nearth.\n\n_On the lapse of Time_.—Independently of our not finding fossil remains\nof such infinitely numerous connecting links, it may be objected, that\ntime will not have sufficed for so great an amount of organic change,\nall changes having been effected very slowly through natural selection.\nIt is hardly possible for me even to recall to the reader, who may not\nbe a practical geologist, the facts leading the mind feebly to\ncomprehend the lapse of time. He who can read Sir Charles Lyell’s grand\nwork on the Principles of Geology, which the future historian will\nrecognise as having produced a revolution in natural science, yet does\nnot admit how incomprehensibly vast have been the past periods of time,\nmay at once close this volume. Not that it suffices to study the\nPrinciples of Geology, or to read special treatises by different\nobservers on separate formations, and to mark how each author attempts\nto give an inadequate idea of the duration of each formation or even\neach stratum. A man must for years examine for himself great piles of\nsuperimposed strata, and watch the sea at work grinding down old rocks\nand making fresh sediment, before he can hope to comprehend anything of\nthe lapse of time, the monuments of which we see around us.\n\nIt is good to wander along lines of sea-coast, when formed of\nmoderately hard rocks, and mark the\nprocess of degradation. The tides in most cases reach the cliffs only\nfor a short time twice a day, and the waves eat into them only when\nthey are charged with sand or pebbles; for there is reason to believe\nthat pure water can effect little or nothing in wearing away rock. At\nlast the base of the cliff is undermined, huge fragments fall down, and\nthese remaining fixed, have to be worn away, atom by atom, until\nreduced in size they can be rolled about by the waves, and then are\nmore quickly ground into pebbles, sand, or mud. But how often do we see\nalong the bases of retreating cliffs rounded boulders, all thickly\nclothed by marine productions, showing how little they are abraded and\nhow seldom they are rolled about! Moreover, if we follow for a few\nmiles any line of rocky cliff, which is undergoing degradation, we find\nthat it is only here and there, along a short length or round a\npromontory, that the cliffs are at the present time suffering. The\nappearance of the surface and the vegetation show that elsewhere years\nhave elapsed since the waters washed their base.\n\nHe who most closely studies the action of the sea on our shores, will,\nI believe, be most deeply impressed with the slowness with which rocky\ncoasts are worn away. The observations on this head by Hugh Miller, and\nby that excellent observer Mr. Smith of Jordan Hill, are most\nimpressive. With the mind thus impressed, let any one examine beds of\nconglomerate many thousand feet in thickness, which, though probably\nformed at a quicker rate than many other deposits, yet, from being\nformed of worn and rounded pebbles, each of which bears the stamp of\ntime, are good to show how slowly the mass has been accumulated. Let\nhim remember Lyell’s profound remark, that the thickness and extent of\nsedimentary formations\nare the result and measure of the degradation which the earth’s crust\nhas elsewhere suffered. And what an amount of degradation is implied by\nthe sedimentary deposits of many countries! Professor Ramsay has given\nme the maximum thickness, in most cases from actual measurement, in a\nfew cases from estimate, of each formation in different parts of Great\nBritain; and this is the result:—\n\n Feet\n Palæozoic strata (not including igneous beds)...57,154. Secondary\n strata................................13,190. Tertiary\n strata..................................2,240.\n\n—making altogether 72,584 feet; that is, very nearly thirteen and\nthree-quarters British miles. Some of these formations, which are\nrepresented in England by thin beds, are thousands of feet in thickness\non the Continent. Moreover, between each successive formation, we have,\nin the opinion of most geologists, enormously long blank periods. So\nthat the lofty pile of sedimentary rocks in Britain, gives but an\ninadequate idea of the time which has elapsed during their\naccumulation; yet what time this must have consumed! Good observers\nhave estimated that sediment is deposited by the great Mississippi\nriver at the rate of only 600 feet in a hundred thousand years. This\nestimate may be quite erroneous; yet, considering over what wide spaces\nvery fine sediment is transported by the currents of the sea, the\nprocess of accumulation in any one area must be extremely slow.\n\nBut the amount of denudation which the strata have in many places\nsuffered, independently of the rate of accumulation of the degraded\nmatter, probably offers the best evidence of the lapse of time. I\nremember having been much struck with the evidence of denudation, when\nviewing volcanic islands, which have been\nworn by the waves and pared all round into perpendicular cliffs of one\nor two thousand feet in height; for the gentle slope of the\nlava-streams, due to their formerly liquid state, showed at a glance\nhow far the hard, rocky beds had once extended into the open ocean. The\nsame story is still more plainly told by faults,—those great cracks\nalong which the strata have been upheaved on one side, or thrown down\non the other, to the height or depth of thousands of feet; for since\nthe crust cracked, the surface of the land has been so completely\nplaned down by the action of the sea, that no trace of these vast\ndislocations is externally visible.\n\nThe Craven fault, for instance, extends for upwards of 30 miles, and\nalong this line the vertical displacement of the strata has varied from\n600 to 3000 feet. Professor Ramsay has published an account of a\ndownthrow in Anglesea of 2300 feet; and he informs me that he fully\nbelieves there is one in Merionethshire of 12,000 feet; yet in these\ncases there is nothing on the surface to show such prodigious\nmovements; the pile of rocks on the one or other side having been\nsmoothly swept away. The consideration of these facts impresses my mind\nalmost in the same manner as does the vain endeavour to grapple with\nthe idea of eternity.\n\nI am tempted to give one other case, the well-known one of the\ndenudation of the Weald. Though it must be admitted that the denudation\nof the Weald has been a mere trifle, in comparison with that which has\nremoved masses of our palæozoic strata, in parts ten thousand feet in\nthickness, as shown in Professor Ramsay’s masterly memoir on this\nsubject. Yet it is an admirable lesson to stand on the North Downs and\nto look at the distant South Downs; for, remembering that at no great\ndistance to the west the northern and southern escarpments meet and\nclose, one can safely picture to\noneself the great dome of rocks which must have covered up the Weald\nwithin so limited a period as since the latter part of the Chalk\nformation. The distance from the northern to the southern Downs is\nabout 22 miles, and the thickness of the several formations is on an\naverage about 1100 feet, as I am informed by Professor Ramsay. But if,\nas some geologists suppose, a range of older rocks underlies the Weald,\non the flanks of which the overlying sedimentary deposits might have\naccumulated in thinner masses than elsewhere, the above estimate would\nbe erroneous; but this source of doubt probably would not greatly\naffect the estimate as applied to the western extremity of the\ndistrict. If, then, we knew the rate at which the sea commonly wears\naway a line of cliff of any given height, we could measure the time\nrequisite to have denuded the Weald. This, of course, cannot be done;\nbut we may, in order to form some crude notion on the subject, assume\nthat the sea would eat into cliffs 500 feet in height at the rate of\none inch in a century. This will at first appear much too small an\nallowance; but it is the same as if we were to assume a cliff one yard\nin height to be eaten back along a whole line of coast at the rate of\none yard in nearly every twenty-two years. I doubt whether any rock,\neven as soft as chalk, would yield at this rate excepting on the most\nexposed coasts; though no doubt the degradation of a lofty cliff would\nbe more rapid from the breakage of the fallen fragments. On the other\nhand, I do not believe that any line of coast, ten or twenty miles in\nlength, ever suffers degradation at the same time along its whole\nindented length; and we must remember that almost all strata contain\nharder layers or nodules, which from long resisting attrition form a\nbreakwater at the base. Hence, under ordinary circumstances, I conclude\nthat for a cliff 500 feet in height, a denudation\nof one inch per century for the whole length would be an ample\nallowance. At this rate, on the above data, the denudation of the Weald\nmust have required 306,662,400 years; or say three hundred million\nyears.\n\nThe action of fresh water on the gently inclined Wealden district, when\nupraised, could hardly have been great, but it would somewhat reduce\nthe above estimate. On the other hand, during oscillations of level,\nwhich we know this area has undergone, the surface may have existed for\nmillions of years as land, and thus have escaped the action of the sea:\nwhen deeply submerged for perhaps equally long periods, it would,\nlikewise, have escaped the action of the coast-waves. So that in all\nprobability a far longer period than 300 million years has elapsed\nsince the latter part of the Secondary period.\n\nI have made these few remarks because it is highly important for us to\ngain some notion, however imperfect, of the lapse of years. During each\nof these years, over the whole world, the land and the water has been\npeopled by hosts of living forms. What an infinite number of\ngenerations, which the mind cannot grasp, must have succeeded each\nother in the long roll of years! Now turn to our richest geological\nmuseums, and what a paltry display we behold!\n\n_On the poorness of our Palæontological collections_.—That our\npalæontological collections are very imperfect, is admitted by every\none. The remark of that admirable palæontologist, the late Edward\nForbes, should not be forgotten, namely, that numbers of our fossil\nspecies are known and named from single and often broken specimens, or\nfrom a few specimens collected on some one spot. Only a small portion\nof the surface of the earth has been geologically explored, and no part\nwith\nsufficient care, as the important discoveries made every year in Europe\nprove. No organism wholly soft can be preserved. Shells and bones will\ndecay and disappear when left on the bottom of the sea, where sediment\nis not accumulating. I believe we are continually taking a most\nerroneous view, when we tacitly admit to ourselves that sediment is\nbeing deposited over nearly the whole bed of the sea, at a rate\nsufficiently quick to embed and preserve fossil remains. Throughout an\nenormously large proportion of the ocean, the bright blue tint of the\nwater bespeaks its purity. The many cases on record of a formation\nconformably covered, after an enormous interval of time, by another and\nlater formation, without the underlying bed having suffered in the\ninterval any wear and tear, seem explicable only on the view of the\nbottom of the sea not rarely lying for ages in an unaltered condition.\nThe remains which do become embedded, if in sand or gravel, will when\nthe beds are upraised generally be dissolved by the percolation of\nrain-water. I suspect that but few of the very many animals which live\non the beach between high and low watermark are preserved. For\ninstance, the several species of the Chthamalinæ (a sub-family of\nsessile cirripedes) coat the rocks all over the world in infinite\nnumbers: they are all strictly littoral, with the exception of a single\nMediterranean species, which inhabits deep water and has been found\nfossil in Sicily, whereas not one other species has hitherto been found\nin any tertiary formation: yet it is now known that the genus\nChthamalus existed during the chalk period. The molluscan genus Chiton\noffers a partially analogous case.\n\nWith respect to the terrestrial productions which lived during the\nSecondary and Palæozoic periods, it is superfluous to state that our\nevidence from fossil\nremains is fragmentary in an extreme degree. For instance, not a land\nshell is known belonging to either of these vast periods, with one\nexception discovered by Sir C. Lyell in the carboniferous strata of\nNorth America. In regard to mammiferous remains, a single glance at the\nhistorical table published in the Supplement to Lyell’s Manual, will\nbring home the truth, how accidental and rare is their preservation,\nfar better than pages of detail. Nor is their rarity surprising, when\nwe remember how large a proportion of the bones of tertiary mammals\nhave been discovered either in caves or in lacustrine deposits; and\nthat not a cave or true lacustrine bed is known belonging to the age of\nour secondary or palæozoic formations.\n\nBut the imperfection in the geological record mainly results from\nanother and more important cause than any of the foregoing; namely,\nfrom the several formations being separated from each other by wide\nintervals of time. When we see the formations tabulated in written\nworks, or when we follow them in nature, it is difficult to avoid\nbelieving that they are closely consecutive. But we know, for instance,\nfrom Sir R. Murchison’s great work on Russia, what wide gaps there are\nin that country between the superimposed formations; so it is in North\nAmerica, and in many other parts of the world. The most skilful\ngeologist, if his attention had been exclusively confined to these\nlarge territories, would never have suspected that during the periods\nwhich were blank and barren in his own country, great piles of\nsediment, charged with new and peculiar forms of life, had elsewhere\nbeen accumulated. And if in each separate territory, hardly any idea\ncan be formed of the length of time which has elapsed between the\nconsecutive formations, we may infer that this could nowhere be\nascertained. The frequent\nand great changes in the mineralogical composition of consecutive\nformations, generally implying great changes in the geography of the\nsurrounding lands, whence the sediment has been derived, accords with\nthe belief of vast intervals of time having elapsed between each\nformation.\n\nBut we can, I think, see why the geological formations of each region\nare almost invariably intermittent; that is, have not followed each\nother in close sequence. Scarcely any fact struck me more when\nexamining many hundred miles of the South American coasts, which have\nbeen upraised several hundred feet within the recent period, than the\nabsence of any recent deposits sufficiently extensive to last for even\na short geological period. Along the whole west coast, which is\ninhabited by a peculiar marine fauna, tertiary beds are so scantily\ndeveloped, that no record of several successive and peculiar marine\nfaunas will probably be preserved to a distant age. A little reflection\nwill explain why along the rising coast of the western side of South\nAmerica, no extensive formations with recent or tertiary remains can\nanywhere be found, though the supply of sediment must for ages have\nbeen great, from the enormous degradation of the coast-rocks and from\nmuddy streams entering the sea. The explanation, no doubt, is, that the\nlittoral and sub-littoral deposits are continually worn away, as soon\nas they are brought up by the slow and gradual rising of the land\nwithin the grinding action of the coast-waves.\n\nWe may, I think, safely conclude that sediment must be accumulated in\nextremely thick, solid, or extensive masses, in order to withstand the\nincessant action of the waves, when first upraised and during\nsubsequent oscillations of level. Such thick and extensive\naccumulations of sediment may be formed in two ways; either,\nin profound depths of the sea, in which case, judging from the\nresearches of E. Forbes, we may conclude that the bottom will be\ninhabited by extremely few animals, and the mass when upraised will\ngive a most imperfect record of the forms of life which then existed;\nor, sediment may be accumulated to any thickness and extent over a\nshallow bottom, if it continue slowly to subside. In this latter case,\nas long as the rate of subsidence and supply of sediment nearly balance\neach other, the sea will remain shallow and favourable for life, and\nthus a fossiliferous formation thick enough, when upraised, to resist\nany amount of degradation, may be formed.\n\nI am convinced that all our ancient formations, which are rich in\nfossils, have thus been formed during subsidence. Since publishing my\nviews on this subject in 1845, I have watched the progress of Geology,\nand have been surprised to note how author after author, in treating of\nthis or that great formation, has come to the conclusion that it was\naccumulated during subsidence. I may add, that the only ancient\ntertiary formation on the west coast of South America, which has been\nbulky enough to resist such degradation as it has as yet suffered, but\nwhich will hardly last to a distant geological age, was certainly\ndeposited during a downward oscillation of level, and thus gained\nconsiderable thickness.\n\nAll geological facts tell us plainly that each area has undergone\nnumerous slow oscillations of level, and apparently these oscillations\nhave affected wide spaces. Consequently formations rich in fossils and\nsufficiently thick and extensive to resist subsequent degradation, may\nhave been formed over wide spaces during periods of subsidence, but\nonly where the supply of sediment was sufficient to keep the sea\nshallow and to embed and\npreserve the remains before they had time to decay. On the other hand,\nas long as the bed of the sea remained stationary, _thick_ deposits\ncould not have been accumulated in the shallow parts, which are the\nmost favourable to life. Still less could this have happened during the\nalternate periods of elevation; or, to speak more accurately, the beds\nwhich were then accumulated will have been destroyed by being upraised\nand brought within the limits of the coast-action.\n\nThus the geological record will almost necessarily be rendered\nintermittent. I feel much confidence in the truth of these views, for\nthey are in strict accordance with the general principles inculcated by\nSir C. Lyell; and E. Forbes independently arrived at a similar\nconclusion.\n\nOne remark is here worth a passing notice. During periods of elevation\nthe area of the land and of the adjoining shoal parts of the sea will\nbe increased, and new stations will often be formed;—all circumstances\nmost favourable, as previously explained, for the formation of new\nvarieties and species; but during such periods there will generally be\na blank in the geological record. On the other hand, during subsidence,\nthe inhabited area and number of inhabitants will decrease (excepting\nthe productions on the shores of a continent when first broken up into\nan archipelago), and consequently during subsidence, though there will\nbe much extinction, fewer new varieties or species will be formed; and\nit is during these very periods of subsidence, that our great deposits\nrich in fossils have been accumulated. Nature may almost be said to\nhave guarded against the frequent discovery of her transitional or\nlinking forms.\n\nFrom the foregoing considerations it cannot be doubted that the\ngeological record, viewed as a whole, is extremely imperfect; but if we\nconfine our attention to any one formation, it becomes more difficult\nto understand,\nwhy we do not therein find closely graduated varieties between the\nallied species which lived at its commencement and at its close. Some\ncases are on record of the same species presenting distinct varieties\nin the upper and lower parts of the same formation, but, as they are\nrare, they may be here passed over. Although each formation has\nindisputably required a vast number of years for its deposition, I can\nsee several reasons why each should not include a graduated series of\nlinks between the species which then lived; but I can by no means\npretend to assign due proportional weight to the following\nconsiderations.\n\nAlthough each formation may mark a very long lapse of years, each\nperhaps is short compared with the period requisite to change one\nspecies into another. I am aware that two palæontologists, whose\nopinions are worthy of much deference, namely Bronn and Woodward, have\nconcluded that the average duration of each formation is twice or\nthrice as long as the average duration of specific forms. But\ninsuperable difficulties, as it seems to me, prevent us coming to any\njust conclusion on this head. When we see a species first appearing in\nthe middle of any formation, it would be rash in the extreme to infer\nthat it had not elsewhere previously existed. So again when we find a\nspecies disappearing before the uppermost layers have been deposited,\nit would be equally rash to suppose that it then became wholly extinct.\nWe forget how small the area of Europe is compared with the rest of the\nworld; nor have the several stages of the same formation throughout\nEurope been correlated with perfect accuracy.\n\nWith marine animals of all kinds, we may safely infer a large amount of\nmigration during climatal and other changes; and when we see a species\nfirst appearing in any formation, the probability is that it\nonly then first immigrated into that area. It is well known, for\ninstance, that several species appeared somewhat earlier in the\npalæozoic beds of North America than in those of Europe; time having\napparently been required for their migration from the American to the\nEuropean seas. In examining the latest deposits of various quarters of\nthe world, it has everywhere been noted, that some few still existing\nspecies are common in the deposit, but have become extinct in the\nimmediately surrounding sea; or, conversely, that some are now abundant\nin the neighbouring sea, but are rare or absent in this particular\ndeposit. It is an excellent lesson to reflect on the ascertained amount\nof migration of the inhabitants of Europe during the Glacial period,\nwhich forms only a part of one whole geological period; and likewise to\nreflect on the great changes of level, on the inordinately great change\nof climate, on the prodigious lapse of time, all included within this\nsame glacial period. Yet it may be doubted whether in any quarter of\nthe world, sedimentary deposits, _including fossil remains_, have gone\non accumulating within the same area during the whole of this period.\nIt is not, for instance, probable that sediment was deposited during\nthe whole of the glacial period near the mouth of the Mississippi,\nwithin that limit of depth at which marine animals can flourish; for we\nknow what vast geographical changes occurred in other parts of America\nduring this space of time. When such beds as were deposited in shallow\nwater near the mouth of the Mississippi during some part of the glacial\nperiod shall have been upraised, organic remains will probably first\nappear and disappear at different levels, owing to the migration of\nspecies and to geographical changes. And in the distant future, a\ngeologist examining these beds, might be tempted to conclude that the\naverage duration of life\nof the embedded fossils had been less than that of the glacial period,\ninstead of having been really far greater, that is extending from\nbefore the glacial epoch to the present day.\n\nIn order to get a perfect gradation between two forms in the upper and\nlower parts of the same formation, the deposit must have gone on\naccumulating for a very long period, in order to have given sufficient\ntime for the slow process of variation; hence the deposit will\ngenerally have to be a very thick one; and the species undergoing\nmodification will have had to live on the same area throughout this\nwhole time. But we have seen that a thick fossiliferous formation can\nonly be accumulated during a period of subsidence; and to keep the\ndepth approximately the same, which is necessary in order to enable the\nsame species to live on the same space, the supply of sediment must\nnearly have counterbalanced the amount of subsidence. But this same\nmovement of subsidence will often tend to sink the area whence the\nsediment is derived, and thus diminish the supply whilst the downward\nmovement continues. In fact, this nearly exact balancing between the\nsupply of sediment and the amount of subsidence is probably a rare\ncontingency; for it has been observed by more than one palæontologist,\nthat very thick deposits are usually barren of organic remains, except\nnear their upper or lower limits.\n\nIt would seem that each separate formation, like the whole pile of\nformations in any country, has generally been intermittent in its\naccumulation. When we see, as is so often the case, a formation\ncomposed of beds of different mineralogical composition, we may\nreasonably suspect that the process of deposition has been much\ninterrupted, as a change in the currents of the sea and a supply of\nsediment of a different nature will\ngenerally have been due to geographical changes requiring much time.\nNor will the closest inspection of a formation give any idea of the\ntime which its deposition has consumed. Many instances could be given\nof beds only a few feet in thickness, representing formations,\nelsewhere thousands of feet in thickness, and which must have required\nan enormous period for their accumulation; yet no one ignorant of this\nfact would have suspected the vast lapse of time represented by the\nthinner formation. Many cases could be given of the lower beds of a\nformation having been upraised, denuded, submerged, and then re-covered\nby the upper beds of the same formation,—facts, showing what wide, yet\neasily overlooked, intervals have occurred in its accumulation. In\nother cases we have the plainest evidence in great fossilised trees,\nstill standing upright as they grew, of many long intervals of time and\nchanges of level during the process of deposition, which would never\neven have been suspected, had not the trees chanced to have been\npreserved: thus, Messrs. Lyell and Dawson found carboniferous beds 1400\nfeet thick in Nova Scotia, with ancient root-bearing strata, one above\nthe other, at no less than sixty-eight different levels. Hence, when\nthe same species occur at the bottom, middle, and top of a formation,\nthe probability is that they have not lived on the same spot during the\nwhole period of deposition, but have disappeared and reappeared,\nperhaps many times, during the same geological period. So that if such\nspecies were to undergo a considerable amount of modification during\nany one geological period, a section would not probably include all the\nfine intermediate gradations which must on my theory have existed\nbetween them, but abrupt, though perhaps very slight, changes of form.\n\nIt is all-important to remember that naturalists have\nno golden rule by which to distinguish species and varieties; they\ngrant some little variability to each species, but when they meet with\na somewhat greater amount of difference between any two forms, they\nrank both as species, unless they are enabled to connect them together\nby close intermediate gradations. And this from the reasons just\nassigned we can seldom hope to effect in any one geological section.\nSupposing B and C to be two species, and a third, A, to be found in an\nunderlying bed; even if A were strictly intermediate between B and C,\nit would simply be ranked as a third and distinct species, unless at\nthe same time it could be most closely connected with either one or\nboth forms by intermediate varieties. Nor should it be forgotten, as\nbefore explained, that A might be the actual progenitor of B and C, and\nyet might not at all necessarily be strictly intermediate between them\nin all points of structure. So that we might obtain the parent-species\nand its several modified descendants from the lower and upper beds of a\nformation, and unless we obtained numerous transitional gradations, we\nshould not recognise their relationship, and should consequently be\ncompelled to rank them all as distinct species.\n\nIt is notorious on what excessively slight differences many\npalæontologists have founded their species; and they do this the more\nreadily if the specimens come from different sub-stages of the same\nformation. Some experienced conchologists are now sinking many of the\nvery fine species of D’Orbigny and others into the rank of varieties;\nand on this view we do find the kind of evidence of change which on my\ntheory we ought to find. Moreover, if we look to rather wider\nintervals, namely, to distinct but consecutive stages of the same great\nformation, we find that the embedded fossils, though almost universally\nranked as specifically different,\nyet are far more closely allied to each other than are the species\nfound in more widely separated formations; but to this subject I shall\nhave to return in the following chapter.\n\nOne other consideration is worth notice: with animals and plants that\ncan propagate rapidly and are not highly locomotive, there is reason to\nsuspect, as we have formerly seen, that their varieties are generally\nat first local; and that such local varieties do not spread widely and\nsupplant their parent-forms until they have been modified and perfected\nin some considerable degree. According to this view, the chance of\ndiscovering in a formation in any one country all the early stages of\ntransition between any two forms, is small, for the successive changes\nare supposed to have been local or confined to some one spot. Most\nmarine animals have a wide range; and we have seen that with plants it\nis those which have the widest range, that oftenest present varieties;\nso that with shells and other marine animals, it is probably those\nwhich have had the widest range, far exceeding the limits of the known\ngeological formations of Europe, which have oftenest given rise, first\nto local varieties and ultimately to new species; and this again would\ngreatly lessen the chance of our being able to trace the stages of\ntransition in any one geological formation.\n\nIt should not be forgotten, that at the present day, with perfect\nspecimens for examination, two forms can seldom be connected by\nintermediate varieties and thus proved to be the same species, until\nmany specimens have been collected from many places; and in the case of\nfossil species this could rarely be effected by palæontologists. We\nshall, perhaps, best perceive the improbability of our being enabled to\nconnect species by numerous, fine, intermediate, fossil links, by\nasking\nourselves whether, for instance, geologists at some future period will\nbe able to prove, that our different breeds of cattle, sheep, horses,\nand dogs have descended from a single stock or from several aboriginal\nstocks; or, again, whether certain sea-shells inhabiting the shores of\nNorth America, which are ranked by some conchologists as distinct\nspecies from their European representatives, and by other conchologists\nas only varieties, are really varieties or are, as it is called,\nspecifically distinct. This could be effected only by the future\ngeologist discovering in a fossil state numerous intermediate\ngradations; and such success seems to me improbable in the highest\ndegree.\n\nGeological research, though it has added numerous species to existing\nand extinct genera, and has made the intervals between some few groups\nless wide than they otherwise would have been, yet has done scarcely\nanything in breaking down the distinction between species, by\nconnecting them together by numerous, fine, intermediate varieties; and\nthis not having been effected, is probably the gravest and most obvious\nof all the many objections which may be urged against my views. Hence\nit will be worth while to sum up the foregoing remarks, under an\nimaginary illustration. The Malay Archipelago is of about the size of\nEurope from the North Cape to the Mediterranean, and from Britain to\nRussia; and therefore equals all the geological formations which have\nbeen examined with any accuracy, excepting those of the United States\nof America. I fully agree with Mr. Godwin-Austen, that the present\ncondition of the Malay Archipelago, with its numerous large islands\nseparated by wide and shallow seas, probably represents the former\nstate of Europe, when most of our formations were accumulating. The\nMalay Archipelago is one of the richest regions of the\nwhole world in organic beings; yet if all the species were to be\ncollected which have ever lived there, how imperfectly would they\nrepresent the natural history of the world!\n\nBut we have every reason to believe that the terrestrial productions of\nthe archipelago would be preserved in an excessively imperfect manner\nin the formations which we suppose to be there accumulating. I suspect\nthat not many of the strictly littoral animals, or of those which lived\non naked submarine rocks, would be embedded; and those embedded in\ngravel or sand, would not endure to a distant epoch. Wherever sediment\ndid not accumulate on the bed of the sea, or where it did not\naccumulate at a sufficient rate to protect organic bodies from decay,\nno remains could be preserved.\n\nIn our archipelago, I believe that fossiliferous formations could be\nformed of sufficient thickness to last to an age, as distant in\nfuturity as the secondary formations lie in the past, only during\nperiods of subsidence. These periods of subsidence would be separated\nfrom each other by enormous intervals, during which the area would be\neither stationary or rising; whilst rising, each fossiliferous\nformation would be destroyed, almost as soon as accumulated, by the\nincessant coast-action, as we now see on the shores of South America.\nDuring the periods of subsidence there would probably be much\nextinction of life; during the periods of elevation, there would be\nmuch variation, but the geological record would then be least perfect.\n\nIt may be doubted whether the duration of any one great period of\nsubsidence over the whole or part of the archipelago, together with a\ncontemporaneous accumulation of sediment, would _exceed_ the average\nduration of the same specific forms; and these contingencies are\nindispensable for the preservation of all the transitional gradations\nbetween any two or more species. If such gradations were not fully\npreserved, transitional varieties would merely appear as so many\ndistinct species. It is, also, probable that each great period of\nsubsidence would be interrupted by oscillations of level, and that\nslight climatal changes would intervene during such lengthy periods;\nand in these cases the inhabitants of the archipelago would have to\nmigrate, and no closely consecutive record of their modifications could\nbe preserved in any one formation.\n\nVery many of the marine inhabitants of the archipelago now range\nthousands of miles beyond its confines; and analogy leads me to believe\nthat it would be chiefly these far-ranging species which would oftenest\nproduce new varieties; and the varieties would at first generally be\nlocal or confined to one place, but if possessed of any decided\nadvantage, or when further modified and improved, they would slowly\nspread and supplant their parent-forms. When such varieties returned to\ntheir ancient homes, as they would differ from their former state, in a\nnearly uniform, though perhaps extremely slight degree, they would,\naccording to the principles followed by many palæontologists, be ranked\nas new and distinct species.\n\nIf then, there be some degree of truth in these remarks, we have no\nright to expect to find in our geological formations, an infinite\nnumber of those fine transitional forms, which on my theory assuredly\nhave connected all the past and present species of the same group into\none long and branching chain of life. We ought only to look for a few\nlinks, some more closely, some more distantly related to each other;\nand these links, let them be ever so close, if found in different\nstages of the same formation, would, by most palæontologists,\nbe ranked as distinct species. But I do not pretend that I should ever\nhave suspected how poor a record of the mutations of life, the best\npreserved geological section presented, had not the difficulty of our\nnot discovering innumerable transitional links between the species\nwhich appeared at the commencement and close of each formation, pressed\nso hardly on my theory.\n\n_On the sudden appearance of whole groups of Allied Species_.—The\nabrupt manner in which whole groups of species suddenly appear in\ncertain formations, has been urged by several palæontologists, for\ninstance, by Agassiz, Pictet, and by none more forcibly than by\nProfessor Sedgwick, as a fatal objection to the belief in the\ntransmutation of species. If numerous species, belonging to the same\ngenera or families, have really started into life all at once, the fact\nwould be fatal to the theory of descent with slow modification through\nnatural selection. For the development of a group of forms, all of\nwhich have descended from some one progenitor, must have been an\nextremely slow process; and the progenitors must have lived long ages\nbefore their modified descendants. But we continually over-rate the\nperfection of the geological record, and falsely infer, because certain\ngenera or families have not been found beneath a certain stage, that\nthey did not exist before that stage. We continually forget how large\nthe world is, compared with the area over which our geological\nformations have been carefully examined; we forget that groups of\nspecies may elsewhere have long existed and have slowly multiplied\nbefore they invaded the ancient archipelagoes of Europe and of the\nUnited States. We do not make due allowance for the enormous intervals\nof time, which have\nprobably elapsed between our consecutive formations,—longer perhaps in\nsome cases than the time required for the accumulation of each\nformation. These intervals will have given time for the multiplication\nof species from some one or some few parent-forms; and in the\nsucceeding formation such species will appear as if suddenly created.\n\nI may here recall a remark formerly made, namely that it might require\na long succession of ages to adapt an organism to some new and peculiar\nline of life, for instance to fly through the air; but that when this\nhad been effected, and a few species had thus acquired a great\nadvantage over other organisms, a comparatively short time would be\nnecessary to produce many divergent forms, which would be able to\nspread rapidly and widely throughout the world.\n\nI will now give a few examples to illustrate these remarks; and to show\nhow liable we are to error in supposing that whole groups of species\nhave suddenly been produced. I may recall the well-known fact that in\ngeological treatises, published not many years ago, the great class of\nmammals was always spoken of as having abruptly come in at the\ncommencement of the tertiary series. And now one of the richest known\naccumulations of fossil mammals belongs to the middle of the secondary\nseries; and one true mammal has been discovered in the new red\nsandstone at nearly the commencement of this great series. Cuvier used\nto urge that no monkey occurred in any tertiary stratum; but now\nextinct species have been discovered in India, South America, and in\nEurope even as far back as the eocene stage. The most striking case,\nhowever, is that of the Whale family; as these animals have huge bones,\nare marine, and range over the world, the fact of not a single bone of\na whale having been discovered in\nany secondary formation, seemed fully to justify the belief that this\ngreat and distinct order had been suddenly produced in the interval\nbetween the latest secondary and earliest tertiary formation. But now\nwe may read in the Supplement to Lyell’s ‘Manual,’ published in 1858,\nclear evidence of the existence of whales in the upper greensand, some\ntime before the close of the secondary period.\n\nI may give another instance, which from having passed under my own eyes\nhas much struck me. In a memoir on Fossil Sessile Cirripedes, I have\nstated that, from the number of existing and extinct tertiary species;\nfrom the extraordinary abundance of the individuals of many species all\nover the world, from the Arctic regions to the equator, inhabiting\nvarious zones of depths from the upper tidal limits to 50 fathoms; from\nthe perfect manner in which specimens are preserved in the oldest\ntertiary beds; from the ease with which even a fragment of a valve can\nbe recognised; from all these circumstances, I inferred that had\nsessile cirripedes existed during the secondary periods, they would\ncertainly have been preserved and discovered; and as not one species\nhad been discovered in beds of this age, I concluded that this great\ngroup had been suddenly developed at the commencement of the tertiary\nseries. This was a sore trouble to me, adding as I thought one more\ninstance of the abrupt appearance of a great group of species. But my\nwork had hardly been published, when a skilful palæontologist, M.\nBosquet, sent me a drawing of a perfect specimen of an unmistakeable\nsessile cirripede, which he had himself extracted from the chalk of\nBelgium. And, as if to make the case as striking as possible, this\nsessile cirripede was a Chthamalus, a very common, large, and\nubiquitous genus, of which not one specimen has as yet been found even\nin any tertiary\nstratum. Hence we now positively know that sessile cirripedes existed\nduring the secondary period; and these cirripedes might have been the\nprogenitors of our many tertiary and existing species.\n\nThe case most frequently insisted on by palæontologists of the\napparently sudden appearance of a whole group of species, is that of\nthe teleostean fishes, low down in the Chalk period. This group\nincludes the large majority of existing species. Lately, Professor\nPictet has carried their existence one sub-stage further back; and some\npalæontologists believe that certain much older fishes, of which the\naffinities are as yet imperfectly known, are really teleostean.\nAssuming, however, that the whole of them did appear, as Agassiz\nbelieves, at the commencement of the chalk formation, the fact would\ncertainly be highly remarkable; but I cannot see that it would be an\ninsuperable difficulty on my theory, unless it could likewise be shown\nthat the species of this group appeared suddenly and simultaneously\nthroughout the world at this same period. It is almost superfluous to\nremark that hardly any fossil-fish are known from south of the equator;\nand by running through Pictet’s Palæontology it will be seen that very\nfew species are known from several formations in Europe. Some few\nfamilies of fish now have a confined range; the teleostean fish might\nformerly have had a similarly confined range, and after having been\nlargely developed in some one sea, might have spread widely. Nor have\nwe any right to suppose that the seas of the world have always been so\nfreely open from south to north as they are at present. Even at this\nday, if the Malay Archipelago were converted into land, the tropical\nparts of the Indian Ocean would form a large and perfectly enclosed\nbasin, in which any great group of marine animals might be multiplied;\nand\nhere they would remain confined, until some of the species became\nadapted to a cooler climate, and were enabled to double the southern\ncapes of Africa or Australia, and thus reach other and distant seas.\n\nFrom these and similar considerations, but chiefly from our ignorance\nof the geology of other countries beyond the confines of Europe and the\nUnited States; and from the revolution in our palæontological ideas on\nmany points, which the discoveries of even the last dozen years have\neffected, it seems to me to be about as rash in us to dogmatize on the\nsuccession of organic beings throughout the world, as it would be for a\nnaturalist to land for five minutes on some one barren point in\nAustralia, and then to discuss the number and range of its productions.\n\n_On the sudden appearance of groups of Allied Species in the lowest\nknown fossiliferous strata_.—There is another and allied difficulty,\nwhich is much graver. I allude to the manner in which numbers of\nspecies of the same group, suddenly appear in the lowest known\nfossiliferous rocks. Most of the arguments which have convinced me that\nall the existing species of the same group have descended from one\nprogenitor, apply with nearly equal force to the earliest known\nspecies. For instance, I cannot doubt that all the Silurian trilobites\nhave descended from some one crustacean, which must have lived long\nbefore the Silurian age, and which probably differed greatly from any\nknown animal. Some of the most ancient Silurian animals, as the\nNautilus, Lingula, etc., do not differ much from living species; and it\ncannot on my theory be supposed, that these old species were the\nprogenitors of all the species of the orders to which they belong, for\nthey do not present characters in any degree intermediate between them.\nIf, moreover, they had been the progenitors of these orders, they would\nalmost certainly have been long ago supplanted and exterminated by\ntheir numerous and improved descendants.\n\nConsequently, if my theory be true, it is indisputable that before the\nlowest Silurian stratum was deposited, long periods elapsed, as long\nas, or probably far longer than, the whole interval from the Silurian\nage to the present day; and that during these vast, yet quite unknown,\nperiods of time, the world swarmed with living creatures.\n\nTo the question why we do not find records of these vast primordial\nperiods, I can give no satisfactory answer. Several of the most eminent\ngeologists, with Sir R. Murchison at their head, are convinced that we\nsee in the organic remains of the lowest Silurian stratum the dawn of\nlife on this planet. Other highly competent judges, as Lyell and the\nlate E. Forbes, dispute this conclusion. We should not forget that only\na small portion of the world is known with accuracy. M. Barrande has\nlately added another and lower stage to the Silurian system, abounding\nwith new and peculiar species. Traces of life have been detected in the\nLongmynd beds beneath Barrande’s so-called primordial zone. The\npresence of phosphatic nodules and bituminous matter in some of the\nlowest azoic rocks, probably indicates the former existence of life at\nthese periods. But the difficulty of understanding the absence of vast\npiles of fossiliferous strata, which on my theory no doubt were\nsomewhere accumulated before the Silurian epoch, is very great. If\nthese most ancient beds had been wholly worn away by denudation, or\nobliterated by metamorphic action, we ought to find only small remnants\nof the formations next succeeding them in age, and these ought to be\nvery generally in\na metamorphosed condition. But the descriptions which we now possess of\nthe Silurian deposits over immense territories in Russia and in North\nAmerica, do not support the view, that the older a formation is, the\nmore it has suffered the extremity of denudation and metamorphism.\n\nThe case at present must remain inexplicable; and may be truly urged as\na valid argument against the views here entertained. To show that it\nmay hereafter receive some explanation, I will give the following\nhypothesis. From the nature of the organic remains, which do not appear\nto have inhabited profound depths, in the several formations of Europe\nand of the United States; and from the amount of sediment, miles in\nthickness, of which the formations are composed, we may infer that from\nfirst to last large islands or tracts of land, whence the sediment was\nderived, occurred in the neighbourhood of the existing continents of\nEurope and North America. But we do not know what was the state of\nthings in the intervals between the successive formations; whether\nEurope and the United States during these intervals existed as dry\nland, or as a submarine surface near land, on which sediment was not\ndeposited, or again as the bed of an open and unfathomable sea.\n\nLooking to the existing oceans, which are thrice as extensive as the\nland, we see them studded with many islands; but not one oceanic island\nis as yet known to afford even a remnant of any palæozoic or secondary\nformation. Hence we may perhaps infer, that during the palæozoic and\nsecondary periods, neither continents nor continental islands existed\nwhere our oceans now extend; for had they existed there, palæozoic and\nsecondary formations would in all probability have been accumulated\nfrom sediment derived from their wear and\ntear; and would have been at least partially upheaved by the\noscillations of level, which we may fairly conclude must have\nintervened during these enormously long periods. If then we may infer\nanything from these facts, we may infer that where our oceans now\nextend, oceans have extended from the remotest period of which we have\nany record; and on the other hand, that where continents now exist,\nlarge tracts of land have existed, subjected no doubt to great\noscillations of level, since the earliest silurian period. The coloured\nmap appended to my volume on Coral Reefs, led me to conclude that the\ngreat oceans are still mainly areas of subsidence, the great\narchipelagoes still areas of oscillations of level, and the continents\nareas of elevation. But have we any right to assume that things have\nthus remained from eternity? Our continents seem to have been formed by\na preponderance, during many oscillations of level, of the force of\nelevation; but may not the areas of preponderant movement have changed\nin the lapse of ages? At a period immeasurably antecedent to the\nsilurian epoch, continents may have existed where oceans are now spread\nout; and clear and open oceans may have existed where our continents\nnow stand. Nor should we be justified in assuming that if, for\ninstance, the bed of the Pacific Ocean were now converted into a\ncontinent, we should there find formations older than the silurian\nstrata, supposing such to have been formerly deposited; for it might\nwell happen that strata which had subsided some miles nearer to the\ncentre of the earth, and which had been pressed on by an enormous\nweight of superincumbent water, might have undergone far more\nmetamorphic action than strata which have always remained nearer to the\nsurface. The immense areas in some parts of the world, for instance in\nSouth America, of bare metamorphic rocks, which\nmust have been heated under great pressure, have always seemed to me to\nrequire some special explanation; and we may perhaps believe that we\nsee in these large areas, the many formations long anterior to the\nsilurian epoch in a completely metamorphosed condition.\n\nThe several difficulties here discussed, namely our not finding in the\nsuccessive formations infinitely numerous transitional links between\nthe many species which now exist or have existed; the sudden manner in\nwhich whole groups of species appear in our European formations; the\nalmost entire absence, as at present known, of fossiliferous formations\nbeneath the Silurian strata, are all undoubtedly of the gravest nature.\nWe see this in the plainest manner by the fact that all the most\neminent palæontologists, namely Cuvier, Owen, Agassiz, Barrande,\nFalconer, E. Forbes, etc., and all our greatest geologists, as Lyell,\nMurchison, Sedgwick, etc., have unanimously, often vehemently,\nmaintained the immutability of species. But I have reason to believe\nthat one great authority, Sir Charles Lyell, from further reflexion\nentertains grave doubts on this subject. I feel how rash it is to\ndiffer from these great authorities, to whom, with others, we owe all\nour knowledge. Those who think the natural geological record in any\ndegree perfect, and who do not attach much weight to the facts and\narguments of other kinds given in this volume, will undoubtedly at once\nreject my theory. For my part, following out Lyell’s metaphor, I look\nat the natural geological record, as a history of the world imperfectly\nkept, and written in a changing dialect; of this history we possess the\nlast volume alone, relating only to two or three countries. Of this\nvolume, only here and there a short chapter has\nbeen preserved; and of each page, only here and there a few lines. Each\nword of the slowly-changing language, in which the history is supposed\nto be written, being more or less different in the interrupted\nsuccession of chapters, may represent the apparently abruptly changed\nforms of life, entombed in our consecutive, but widely separated\nformations. On this view, the difficulties above discussed are greatly\ndiminished, or even disappear.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\nON THE GEOLOGICAL SUCCESSION OF ORGANIC BEINGS.\n\n\nOn the slow and successive appearance of new species. On their\ndifferent rates of change. Species once lost do not reappear. Groups of\nspecies follow the same general rules in their appearance and\ndisappearance as do single species. On Extinction. On simultaneous\nchanges in the forms of life throughout the world. On the affinities of\nextinct species to each other and to living species. On the state of\ndevelopment of ancient forms. On the succession of the same types\nwithin the same areas. Summary of preceding and present chapters.\n\n\nLet us now see whether the several facts and rules relating to the\ngeological succession of organic beings, better accord with the common\nview of the immutability of species, or with that of their slow and\ngradual modification, through descent and natural selection.\n\nNew species have appeared very slowly, one after another, both on the\nland and in the waters. Lyell has shown that it is hardly possible to\nresist the evidence on this head in the case of the several tertiary\nstages; and every year tends to fill up the blanks between them, and to\nmake the percentage system of lost and new forms more gradual. In some\nof the most recent beds, though undoubtedly of high antiquity if\nmeasured by years, only one or two species are lost forms, and only one\nor two are new forms, having here appeared for the first time, either\nlocally, or, as far as we know, on the face of the earth. If we may\ntrust the observations of Philippi in Sicily, the successive changes in\nthe marine inhabitants of that island have been many and most gradual.\nThe secondary formations are more broken; but, as Bronn has remarked,\nneither the appearance\nnor disappearance of their many now extinct species has been\nsimultaneous in each separate formation.\n\nSpecies of different genera and classes have not changed at the same\nrate, or in the same degree. In the oldest tertiary beds a few living\nshells may still be found in the midst of a multitude of extinct forms.\nFalconer has given a striking instance of a similar fact, in an\nexisting crocodile associated with many strange and lost mammals and\nreptiles in the sub-Himalayan deposits. The Silurian Lingula differs\nbut little from the living species of this genus; whereas most of the\nother Silurian Molluscs and all the Crustaceans have changed greatly.\nThe productions of the land seem to change at a quicker rate than those\nof the sea, of which a striking instance has lately been observed in\nSwitzerland. There is some reason to believe that organisms, considered\nhigh in the scale of nature, change more quickly than those that are\nlow: though there are exceptions to this rule. The amount of organic\nchange, as Pictet has remarked, does not strictly correspond with the\nsuccession of our geological formations; so that between each two\nconsecutive formations, the forms of life have seldom changed in\nexactly the same degree. Yet if we compare any but the most closely\nrelated formations, all the species will be found to have undergone\nsome change. When a species has once disappeared from the face of the\nearth, we have reason to believe that the same identical form never\nreappears. The strongest apparent exception to this latter rule, is\nthat of the so-called “colonies” of M. Barrande, which intrude for a\nperiod in the midst of an older formation, and then allow the\npre-existing fauna to reappear; but Lyell’s explanation, namely, that\nit is a case of temporary migration from a distinct geographical\nprovince, seems to me satisfactory.\n\n\nThese several facts accord well with my theory. I believe in no fixed\nlaw of development, causing all the inhabitants of a country to change\nabruptly, or simultaneously, or to an equal degree. The process of\nmodification must be extremely slow. The variability of each species is\nquite independent of that of all others. Whether such variability be\ntaken advantage of by natural selection, and whether the variations be\naccumulated to a greater or lesser amount, thus causing a greater or\nlesser amount of modification in the varying species, depends on many\ncomplex contingencies,—on the variability being of a beneficial nature,\non the power of intercrossing, on the rate of breeding, on the slowly\nchanging physical conditions of the country, and more especially on the\nnature of the other inhabitants with which the varying species comes\ninto competition. Hence it is by no means surprising that one species\nshould retain the same identical form much longer than others; or, if\nchanging, that it should change less. We see the same fact in\ngeographical distribution; for instance, in the land-shells and\ncoleopterous insects of Madeira having come to differ considerably from\ntheir nearest allies on the continent of Europe, whereas the marine\nshells and birds have remained unaltered. We can perhaps understand the\napparently quicker rate of change in terrestrial and in more highly\norganised productions compared with marine and lower productions, by\nthe more complex relations of the higher beings to their organic and\ninorganic conditions of life, as explained in a former chapter. When\nmany of the inhabitants of a country have become modified and improved,\nwe can understand, on the principle of competition, and on that of the\nmany all-important relations of organism to organism, that any form\nwhich does not become in some degree modified and improved,\nwill be liable to be exterminated. Hence we can see why all the species\nin the same region do at last, if we look to wide enough intervals of\ntime, become modified; for those which do not change will become\nextinct.\n\nIn members of the same class the average amount of change, during long\nand equal periods of time, may, perhaps, be nearly the same; but as the\naccumulation of long-enduring fossiliferous formations depends on great\nmasses of sediment having been deposited on areas whilst subsiding, our\nformations have been almost necessarily accumulated at wide and\nirregularly intermittent intervals; consequently the amount of organic\nchange exhibited by the fossils embedded in consecutive formations is\nnot equal. Each formation, on this view, does not mark a new and\ncomplete act of creation, but only an occasional scene, taken almost at\nhazard, in a slowly changing drama.\n\nWe can clearly understand why a species when once lost should never\nreappear, even if the very same conditions of life, organic and\ninorganic, should recur. For though the offspring of one species might\nbe adapted (and no doubt this has occurred in innumerable instances) to\nfill the exact place of another species in the economy of nature, and\nthus supplant it; yet the two forms—the old and the new—would not be\nidentically the same; for both would almost certainly inherit different\ncharacters from their distinct progenitors. For instance, it is just\npossible, if our fantail-pigeons were all destroyed, that fanciers, by\nstriving during long ages for the same object, might make a new breed\nhardly distinguishable from our present fantail; but if the parent\nrock-pigeon were also destroyed, and in nature we have every reason to\nbelieve that the parent-form will generally be supplanted and\nexterminated by its improved offspring, it is quite incredible that a\nfantail, identical with the existing breed, could be raised from any\nother species of pigeon, or even from the other well-established races\nof the domestic pigeon, for the newly-formed fantail would be almost\nsure to inherit from its new progenitor some slight characteristic\ndifferences.\n\nGroups of species, that is, genera and families, follow the same\ngeneral rules in their appearance and disappearance as do single\nspecies, changing more or less quickly, and in a greater or lesser\ndegree. A group does not reappear after it has once disappeared; or its\nexistence, as long as it lasts, is continuous. I am aware that there\nare some apparent exceptions to this rule, but the exceptions are\nsurprisingly few, so few, that E. Forbes, Pictet, and Woodward (though\nall strongly opposed to such views as I maintain) admit its truth; and\nthe rule strictly accords with my theory. For as all the species of the\nsame group have descended from some one species, it is clear that as\nlong as any species of the group have appeared in the long succession\nof ages, so long must its members have continuously existed, in order\nto have generated either new and modified or the same old and\nunmodified forms. Species of the genus Lingula, for instance, must have\ncontinuously existed by an unbroken succession of generations, from the\nlowest Silurian stratum to the present day.\n\nWe have seen in the last chapter that the species of a group sometimes\nfalsely appear to have come in abruptly; and I have attempted to give\nan explanation of this fact, which if true would have been fatal to my\nviews. But such cases are certainly exceptional; the general rule being\na gradual increase in number, till the group reaches its maximum, and\nthen, sooner or later, it gradually decreases. If the\nnumber of the species of a genus, or the number of the genera of a\nfamily, be represented by a vertical line of varying thickness,\ncrossing the successive geological formations in which the species are\nfound, the line will sometimes falsely appear to begin at its lower\nend, not in a sharp point, but abruptly; it then gradually thickens\nupwards, sometimes keeping for a space of equal thickness, and\nultimately thins out in the upper beds, marking the decrease and final\nextinction of the species. This gradual increase in number of the\nspecies of a group is strictly conformable with my theory; as the\nspecies of the same genus, and the genera of the same family, can\nincrease only slowly and progressively; for the process of modification\nand the production of a number of allied forms must be slow and\ngradual,—one species giving rise first to two or three varieties, these\nbeing slowly converted into species, which in their turn produce by\nequally slow steps other species, and so on, like the branching of a\ngreat tree from a single stem, till the group becomes large.\n\n_On Extinction_.—We have as yet spoken only incidentally of the\ndisappearance of species and of groups of species. On the theory of\nnatural selection the extinction of old forms and the production of new\nand improved forms are intimately connected together. The old notion of\nall the inhabitants of the earth having been swept away at successive\nperiods by catastrophes, is very generally given up, even by those\ngeologists, as Elie de Beaumont, Murchison, Barrande, etc., whose\ngeneral views would naturally lead them to this conclusion. On the\ncontrary, we have every reason to believe, from the study of the\ntertiary formations, that species and groups of species gradually\ndisappear, one after another, first from one spot, then from another,\nand\nfinally from the world. Both single species and whole groups of species\nlast for very unequal periods; some groups, as we have seen, having\nendured from the earliest known dawn of life to the present day; some\nhaving disappeared before the close of the palæozoic period. No fixed\nlaw seems to determine the length of time during which any single\nspecies or any single genus endures. There is reason to believe that\nthe complete extinction of the species of a group is generally a slower\nprocess than their production: if the appearance and disappearance of a\ngroup of species be represented, as before, by a vertical line of\nvarying thickness, the line is found to taper more gradually at its\nupper end, which marks the progress of extermination, than at its lower\nend, which marks the first appearance and increase in numbers of the\nspecies. In some cases, however, the extermination of whole groups of\nbeings, as of ammonites towards the close of the secondary period, has\nbeen wonderfully sudden.\n\nThe whole subject of the extinction of species has been involved in the\nmost gratuitous mystery. Some authors have even supposed that as the\nindividual has a definite length of life, so have species a definite\nduration. No one I think can have marvelled more at the extinction of\nspecies, than I have done. When I found in La Plata the tooth of a\nhorse embedded with the remains of Mastodon, Megatherium, Toxodon, and\nother extinct monsters, which all co-existed with still living shells\nat a very late geological period, I was filled with astonishment; for\nseeing that the horse, since its introduction by the Spaniards into\nSouth America, has run wild over the whole country and has increased in\nnumbers at an unparalleled rate, I asked myself what could so recently\nhave exterminated the former horse under conditions of life apparently\nso favourable. But\nhow utterly groundless was my astonishment! Professor Owen soon\nperceived that the tooth, though so like that of the existing horse,\nbelonged to an extinct species. Had this horse been still living, but\nin some degree rare, no naturalist would have felt the least surprise\nat its rarity; for rarity is the attribute of a vast number of species\nof all classes, in all countries. If we ask ourselves why this or that\nspecies is rare, we answer that something is unfavourable in its\nconditions of life; but what that something is, we can hardly ever\ntell. On the supposition of the fossil horse still existing as a rare\nspecies, we might have felt certain from the analogy of all other\nmammals, even of the slow-breeding elephant, and from the history of\nthe naturalisation of the domestic horse in South America, that under\nmore favourable conditions it would in a very few years have stocked\nthe whole continent. But we could not have told what the unfavourable\nconditions were which checked its increase, whether some one or several\ncontingencies, and at what period of the horse’s life, and in what\ndegree, they severally acted. If the conditions had gone on, however\nslowly, becoming less and less favourable, we assuredly should not have\nperceived the fact, yet the fossil horse would certainly have become\nrarer and rarer, and finally extinct;—its place being seized on by some\nmore successful competitor.\n\nIt is most difficult always to remember that the increase of every\nliving being is constantly being checked by unperceived injurious\nagencies; and that these same unperceived agencies are amply sufficient\nto cause rarity, and finally extinction. We see in many cases in the\nmore recent tertiary formations, that rarity precedes extinction; and\nwe know that this has been the progress of events with those animals\nwhich have\nbeen exterminated, either locally or wholly, through man’s agency. I\nmay repeat what I published in 1845, namely, that to admit that species\ngenerally become rare before they become extinct—to feel no surprise at\nthe rarity of a species, and yet to marvel greatly when it ceases to\nexist, is much the same as to admit that sickness in the individual is\nthe forerunner of death—to feel no surprise at sickness, but when the\nsick man dies, to wonder and to suspect that he died by some unknown\ndeed of violence.\n\nThe theory of natural selection is grounded on the belief that each new\nvariety, and ultimately each new species, is produced and maintained by\nhaving some advantage over those with which it comes into competition;\nand the consequent extinction of less-favoured forms almost inevitably\nfollows. It is the same with our domestic productions: when a new and\nslightly improved variety has been raised, it at first supplants the\nless improved varieties in the same neighbourhood; when much improved\nit is transported far and near, like our short-horn cattle, and takes\nthe place of other breeds in other countries. Thus the appearance of\nnew forms and the disappearance of old forms, both natural and\nartificial, are bound together. In certain flourishing groups, the\nnumber of new specific forms which have been produced within a given\ntime is probably greater than that of the old forms which have been\nexterminated; but we know that the number of species has not gone on\nindefinitely increasing, at least during the later geological periods,\nso that looking to later times we may believe that the production of\nnew forms has caused the extinction of about the same number of old\nforms.\n\nThe competition will generally be most severe, as formerly explained\nand illustrated by examples, between the forms which are most like each\nother in all respects.\nHence the improved and modified descendants of a species will generally\ncause the extermination of the parent-species; and if many new forms\nhave been developed from any one species, the nearest allies of that\nspecies, _i.e._ the species of the same genus, will be the most liable\nto extermination. Thus, as I believe, a number of new species descended\nfrom one species, that is a new genus, comes to supplant an old genus,\nbelonging to the same family. But it must often have happened that a\nnew species belonging to some one group will have seized on the place\noccupied by a species belonging to a distinct group, and thus caused\nits extermination; and if many allied forms be developed from the\nsuccessful intruder, many will have to yield their places; and it will\ngenerally be allied forms, which will suffer from some inherited\ninferiority in common. But whether it be species belonging to the same\nor to a distinct class, which yield their places to other species which\nhave been modified and improved, a few of the sufferers may often long\nbe preserved, from being fitted to some peculiar line of life, or from\ninhabiting some distant and isolated station, where they have escaped\nsevere competition. For instance, a single species of Trigonia, a great\ngenus of shells in the secondary formations, survives in the Australian\nseas; and a few members of the great and almost extinct group of Ganoid\nfishes still inhabit our fresh waters. Therefore the utter extinction\nof a group is generally, as we have seen, a slower process than its\nproduction.\n\nWith respect to the apparently sudden extermination of whole families\nor orders, as of Trilobites at the close of the palæozoic period and of\nAmmonites at the close of the secondary period, we must remember what\nhas been already said on the probable wide intervals of time\nbetween our consecutive formations; and in these intervals there may\nhave been much slow extermination. Moreover, when by sudden immigration\nor by unusually rapid development, many species of a new group have\ntaken possession of a new area, they will have exterminated in a\ncorrespondingly rapid manner many of the old inhabitants; and the forms\nwhich thus yield their places will commonly be allied, for they will\npartake of some inferiority in common.\n\nThus, as it seems to me, the manner in which single species and whole\ngroups of species become extinct, accords well with the theory of\nnatural selection. We need not marvel at extinction; if we must marvel,\nlet it be at our presumption in imagining for a moment that we\nunderstand the many complex contingencies, on which the existence of\neach species depends. If we forget for an instant, that each species\ntends to increase inordinately, and that some check is always in\naction, yet seldom perceived by us, the whole economy of nature will be\nutterly obscured. Whenever we can precisely say why this species is\nmore abundant in individuals than that; why this species and not\nanother can be naturalised in a given country; then, and not till then,\nwe may justly feel surprise why we cannot account for the extinction of\nthis particular species or group of species.\n\n_On the Forms of Life changing almost simultaneously throughout the\nWorld_.—Scarcely any palæontological discovery is more striking than\nthe fact, that the forms of life change almost simultaneously\nthroughout the world. Thus our European Chalk formation can be\nrecognised in many distant parts of the world, under the most different\nclimates, where not a fragment of the mineral chalk itself can be\nfound; namely, in North\nAmerica, in equatorial South America, in Tierra del Fuego, at the Cape\nof Good Hope, and in the peninsula of India. For at these distant\npoints, the organic remains in certain beds present an unmistakeable\ndegree of resemblance to those of the Chalk. It is not that the same\nspecies are met with; for in some cases not one species is identically\nthe same, but they belong to the same families, genera, and sections of\ngenera, and sometimes are similarly characterised in such trifling\npoints as mere superficial sculpture. Moreover other forms, which are\nnot found in the Chalk of Europe, but which occur in the formations\neither above or below, are similarly absent at these distant points of\nthe world. In the several successive palæozoic formations of Russia,\nWestern Europe and North America, a similar parallelism in the forms of\nlife has been observed by several authors: so it is, according to\nLyell, with the several European and North American tertiary deposits.\nEven if the few fossil species which are common to the Old and New\nWorlds be kept wholly out of view, the general parallelism in the\nsuccessive forms of life, in the stages of the widely separated\npalæozoic and tertiary periods, would still be manifest, and the\nseveral formations could be easily correlated.\n\nThese observations, however, relate to the marine inhabitants of\ndistant parts of the world: we have not sufficient data to judge\nwhether the productions of the land and of fresh water change at\ndistant points in the same parallel manner. We may doubt whether they\nhave thus changed: if the Megatherium, Mylodon, Macrauchenia, and\nToxodon had been brought to Europe from La Plata, without any\ninformation in regard to their geological position, no one would have\nsuspected that they had coexisted with still living sea-shells; but as\nthese anomalous monsters coexisted with the Mastodon\nand Horse, it might at least have been inferred that they had lived\nduring one of the latter tertiary stages.\n\nWhen the marine forms of life are spoken of as having changed\nsimultaneously throughout the world, it must not be supposed that this\nexpression relates to the same thousandth or hundred-thousandth year,\nor even that it has a very strict geological sense; for if all the\nmarine animals which live at the present day in Europe, and all those\nthat lived in Europe during the pleistocene period (an enormously\nremote period as measured by years, including the whole glacial epoch),\nwere to be compared with those now living in South America or in\nAustralia, the most skilful naturalist would hardly be able to say\nwhether the existing or the pleistocene inhabitants of Europe resembled\nmost closely those of the southern hemisphere. So, again, several\nhighly competent observers believe that the existing productions of the\nUnited States are more closely related to those which lived in Europe\nduring certain later tertiary stages, than to those which now live\nhere; and if this be so, it is evident that fossiliferous beds\ndeposited at the present day on the shores of North America would\nhereafter be liable to be classed with somewhat older European beds.\nNevertheless, looking to a remotely future epoch, there can, I think,\nbe little doubt that all the more modern _marine_ formations, namely,\nthe upper pliocene, the pleistocene and strictly modern beds, of\nEurope, North and South America, and Australia, from containing fossil\nremains in some degree allied, and from not including those forms which\nare only found in the older underlying deposits, would be correctly\nranked as simultaneous in a geological sense.\n\nThe fact of the forms of life changing simultaneously, in the above\nlarge sense, at distant parts of the world, has greatly struck those\nadmirable observers, MM.\nde Verneuil and d’Archiac. After referring to the parallelism of the\npalæozoic forms of life in various parts of Europe, they add, “If\nstruck by this strange sequence, we turn our attention to North\nAmerica, and there discover a series of analogous phenomena, it will\nappear certain that all these modifications of species, their\nextinction, and the introduction of new ones, cannot be owing to mere\nchanges in marine currents or other causes more or less local and\ntemporary, but depend on general laws which govern the whole animal\nkingdom.” M. Barrande has made forcible remarks to precisely the same\neffect. It is, indeed, quite futile to look to changes of currents,\nclimate, or other physical conditions, as the cause of these great\nmutations in the forms of life throughout the world, under the most\ndifferent climates. We must, as Barrande has remarked, look to some\nspecial law. We shall see this more clearly when we treat of the\npresent distribution of organic beings, and find how slight is the\nrelation between the physical conditions of various countries, and the\nnature of their inhabitants.\n\nThis great fact of the parallel succession of the forms of life\nthroughout the world, is explicable on the theory of natural selection.\nNew species are formed by new varieties arising, which have some\nadvantage over older forms; and those forms, which are already\ndominant, or have some advantage over the other forms in their own\ncountry, would naturally oftenest give rise to new varieties or\nincipient species; for these latter must be victorious in a still\nhigher degree in order to be preserved and to survive. We have distinct\nevidence on this head, in the plants which are dominant, that is, which\nare commonest in their own homes, and are most widely diffused, having\nproduced the greatest number of new varieties. It is also natural that\nthe dominant,\nvarying, and far-spreading species, which already have invaded to a\ncertain extent the territories of other species, should be those which\nwould have the best chance of spreading still further, and of giving\nrise in new countries to new varieties and species. The process of\ndiffusion may often be very slow, being dependent on climatal and\ngeographical changes, or on strange accidents, but in the long run the\ndominant forms will generally succeed in spreading. The diffusion\nwould, it is probable, be slower with the terrestrial inhabitants of\ndistinct continents than with the marine inhabitants of the continuous\nsea. We might therefore expect to find, as we apparently do find, a\nless strict degree of parallel succession in the productions of the\nland than of the sea.\n\nDominant species spreading from any region might encounter still more\ndominant species, and then their triumphant course, or even their\nexistence, would cease. We know not at all precisely what are all the\nconditions most favourable for the multiplication of new and dominant\nspecies; but we can, I think, clearly see that a number of individuals,\nfrom giving a better chance of the appearance of favourable variations,\nand that severe competition with many already existing forms, would be\nhighly favourable, as would be the power of spreading into new\nterritories. A certain amount of isolation, recurring at long intervals\nof time, would probably be also favourable, as before explained. One\nquarter of the world may have been most favourable for the production\nof new and dominant species on the land, and another for those in the\nwaters of the sea. If two great regions had been for a long period\nfavourably circumstanced in an equal degree, whenever their inhabitants\nmet, the battle would be prolonged and severe; and some from one\nbirthplace and some from the other might be victorious. But in the\ncourse of time, the\nforms dominant in the highest degree, wherever produced, would tend\neverywhere to prevail. As they prevailed, they would cause the\nextinction of other and inferior forms; and as these inferior forms\nwould be allied in groups by inheritance, whole groups would tend\nslowly to disappear; though here and there a single member might long\nbe enabled to survive.\n\nThus, as it seems to me, the parallel, and, taken in a large sense,\nsimultaneous, succession of the same forms of life throughout the\nworld, accords well with the principle of new species having been\nformed by dominant species spreading widely and varying; the new\nspecies thus produced being themselves dominant owing to inheritance,\nand to having already had some advantage over their parents or over\nother species; these again spreading, varying, and producing new\nspecies. The forms which are beaten and which yield their places to the\nnew and victorious forms, will generally be allied in groups, from\ninheriting some inferiority in common; and therefore as new and\nimproved groups spread throughout the world, old groups will disappear\nfrom the world; and the succession of forms in both ways will\neverywhere tend to correspond.\n\nThere is one other remark connected with this subject worth making. I\nhave given my reasons for believing that all our greater fossiliferous\nformations were deposited during periods of subsidence; and that blank\nintervals of vast duration occurred during the periods when the bed of\nthe sea was either stationary or rising, and likewise when sediment was\nnot thrown down quickly enough to embed and preserve organic remains.\nDuring these long and blank intervals I suppose that the inhabitants of\neach region underwent a considerable amount of modification and\nextinction, and that there was much migration from\nother parts of the world. As we have reason to believe that large areas\nare affected by the same movement, it is probable that strictly\ncontemporaneous formations have often been accumulated over very wide\nspaces in the same quarter of the world; but we are far from having any\nright to conclude that this has invariably been the case, and that\nlarge areas have invariably been affected by the same movements. When\ntwo formations have been deposited in two regions during nearly, but\nnot exactly the same period, we should find in both, from the causes\nexplained in the foregoing paragraphs, the same general succession in\nthe forms of life; but the species would not exactly correspond; for\nthere will have been a little more time in the one region than in the\nother for modification, extinction, and immigration.\n\nI suspect that cases of this nature have occurred in Europe. Mr.\nPrestwich, in his admirable Memoirs on the eocene deposits of England\nand France, is able to draw a close general parallelism between the\nsuccessive stages in the two countries; but when he compares certain\nstages in England with those in France, although he finds in both a\ncurious accordance in the numbers of the species belonging to the same\ngenera, yet the species themselves differ in a manner very difficult to\naccount for, considering the proximity of the two areas,—unless,\nindeed, it be assumed that an isthmus separated two seas inhabited by\ndistinct, but contemporaneous, faunas. Lyell has made similar\nobservations on some of the later tertiary formations. Barrande, also,\nshows that there is a striking general parallelism in the successive\nSilurian deposits of Bohemia and Scandinavia; nevertheless he finds a\nsurprising amount of difference in the species. If the several\nformations in these regions have not been deposited during the same\nexact\nperiods,—a formation in one region often corresponding with a blank\ninterval in the other,—and if in both regions the species have gone on\nslowly changing during the accumulation of the several formations and\nduring the long intervals of time between them; in this case, the\nseveral formations in the two regions could be arranged in the same\norder, in accordance with the general succession of the form of life,\nand the order would falsely appear to be strictly parallel;\nnevertheless the species would not all be the same in the apparently\ncorresponding stages in the two regions.\n\n_On the Affinities of extinct Species to each other, and to living\nforms_.—Let us now look to the mutual affinities of extinct and living\nspecies. They all fall into one grand natural system; and this fact is\nat once explained on the principle of descent. The more ancient any\nform is, the more, as a general rule, it differs from living forms.\nBut, as Buckland long ago remarked, all fossils can be classed either\nin still existing groups, or between them. That the extinct forms of\nlife help to fill up the wide intervals between existing genera,\nfamilies, and orders, cannot be disputed. For if we confine our\nattention either to the living or to the extinct alone, the series is\nfar less perfect than if we combine both into one general system. With\nrespect to the Vertebrata, whole pages could be filled with striking\nillustrations from our great palæontologist, Owen, showing how extinct\nanimals fall in between existing groups. Cuvier ranked the Ruminants\nand Pachyderms, as the two most distinct orders of mammals; but Owen\nhas discovered so many fossil links, that he has had to alter the whole\nclassification of these two orders; and has placed certain pachyderms\nin the same sub-order with ruminants: for example, he dissolves by fine\ngradations the apparently\nwide difference between the pig and the camel. In regard to the\nInvertebrata, Barrande, and a higher authority could not be named,\nasserts that he is every day taught that palæozoic animals, though\nbelonging to the same orders, families, or genera with those living at\nthe present day, were not at this early epoch limited in such distinct\ngroups as they now are.\n\nSome writers have objected to any extinct species or group of species\nbeing considered as intermediate between living species or groups. If\nby this term it is meant that an extinct form is directly intermediate\nin all its characters between two living forms, the objection is\nprobably valid. But I apprehend that in a perfectly natural\nclassification many fossil species would have to stand between living\nspecies, and some extinct genera between living genera, even between\ngenera belonging to distinct families. The most common case, especially\nwith respect to very distinct groups, such as fish and reptiles, seems\nto be, that supposing them to be distinguished at the present day from\neach other by a dozen characters, the ancient members of the same two\ngroups would be distinguished by a somewhat lesser number of\ncharacters, so that the two groups, though formerly quite distinct, at\nthat period made some small approach to each other.\n\nIt is a common belief that the more ancient a form is, by so much the\nmore it tends to connect by some of its characters groups now widely\nseparated from each other. This remark no doubt must be restricted to\nthose groups which have undergone much change in the course of\ngeological ages; and it would be difficult to prove the truth of the\nproposition, for every now and then even a living animal, as the\nLepidosiren, is discovered having affinities directed towards very\ndistinct groups. Yet if we compare the older Reptiles and\nBatrachians, the older Fish, the older Cephalopods, and the eocene\nMammals, with the more recent members of the same classes, we must\nadmit that there is some truth in the remark.\n\nLet us see how far these several facts and inferences accord with the\ntheory of descent with modification. As the subject is somewhat\ncomplex, I must request the reader to turn to the diagram in the fourth\nchapter. We may suppose that the numbered letters represent genera, and\nthe dotted lines diverging from them the species in each genus. The\ndiagram is much too simple, too few genera and too few species being\ngiven, but this is unimportant for us. The horizontal lines may\nrepresent successive geological formations, and all the forms beneath\nthe uppermost line may be considered as extinct. The three existing\ngenera, _a_14, _q_14, _p_14, will form a small family; _b_14 and _f_14\na closely allied family or sub-family; and _o_14, _e_14, _m_14, a third\nfamily. These three families, together with the many extinct genera on\nthe several lines of descent diverging from the parent-form A, will\nform an order; for all will have inherited something in common from\ntheir ancient and common progenitor. On the principle of the continued\ntendency to divergence of character, which was formerly illustrated by\nthis diagram, the more recent any form is, the more it will generally\ndiffer from its ancient progenitor. Hence we can understand the rule\nthat the most ancient fossils differ most from existing forms. We must\nnot, however, assume that divergence of character is a necessary\ncontingency; it depends solely on the descendants from a species being\nthus enabled to seize on many and different places in the economy of\nnature. Therefore it is quite possible, as we have seen in the case of\nsome Silurian forms, that a species might go on being slightly\nmodified in relation to its slightly altered conditions of life, and\nyet retain throughout a vast period the same general characteristics.\nThis is represented in the diagram by the letter F14.\n\nAll the many forms, extinct and recent, descended from A, make, as\nbefore remarked, one order; and this order, from the continued effects\nof extinction and divergence of character, has become divided into\nseveral sub-families and families, some of which are supposed to have\nperished at different periods, and some to have endured to the present\nday.\n\nBy looking at the diagram we can see that if many of the extinct forms,\nsupposed to be embedded in the successive formations, were discovered\nat several points low down in the series, the three existing families\non the uppermost line would be rendered less distinct from each other.\nIf, for instance, the genera _a_1, _a_5, _a_10, _f_8, _m_3, _m_6, _m_9\nwere disinterred, these three families would be so closely linked\ntogether that they probably would have to be united into one great\nfamily, in nearly the same manner as has occurred with ruminants and\npachyderms. Yet he who objected to call the extinct genera, which thus\nlinked the living genera of three families together, intermediate in\ncharacter, would be justified, as they are intermediate, not directly,\nbut only by a long and circuitous course through many widely different\nforms. If many extinct forms were to be discovered above one of the\nmiddle horizontal lines or geological formations—for instance, above\nNumber VI.—but none from beneath this line, then only the two families\non the left hand (namely, _a_14, etc., and _b_14, etc.) would have to\nbe united into one family; and the two other families (namely, _a_14 to\n_f_14 now including five genera, and _o_14 to _m_14) would yet remain\ndistinct. These two families, however, would be less distinct from each\nother than they were before the\ndiscovery of the fossils. If, for instance, we suppose the existing\ngenera of the two families to differ from each other by a dozen\ncharacters, in this case the genera, at the early period marked VI.,\nwould differ by a lesser number of characters; for at this early stage\nof descent they have not diverged in character from the common\nprogenitor of the order, nearly so much as they subsequently diverged.\nThus it comes that ancient and extinct genera are often in some slight\ndegree intermediate in character between their modified descendants, or\nbetween their collateral relations.\n\nIn nature the case will be far more complicated than is represented in\nthe diagram; for the groups will have been more numerous, they will\nhave endured for extremely unequal lengths of time, and will have been\nmodified in various degrees. As we possess only the last volume of the\ngeological record, and that in a very broken condition, we have no\nright to expect, except in very rare cases, to fill up wide intervals\nin the natural system, and thus unite distinct families or orders. All\nthat we have a right to expect, is that those groups, which have within\nknown geological periods undergone much modification, should in the\nolder formations make some slight approach to each other; so that the\nolder members should differ less from each other in some of their\ncharacters than do the existing members of the same groups; and this by\nthe concurrent evidence of our best palæontologists seems frequently to\nbe the case.\n\nThus, on the theory of descent with modification, the main facts with\nrespect to the mutual affinities of the extinct forms of life to each\nother and to living forms, seem to me explained in a satisfactory\nmanner. And they are wholly inexplicable on any other view.\n\nOn this same theory, it is evident that the fauna of any great period\nin the earth’s history will be intermediate\nin general character between that which preceded and that which\nsucceeded it. Thus, the species which lived at the sixth great stage of\ndescent in the diagram are the modified offspring of those which lived\nat the fifth stage, and are the parents of those which became still\nmore modified at the seventh stage; hence they could hardly fail to be\nnearly intermediate in character between the forms of life above and\nbelow. We must, however, allow for the entire extinction of some\npreceding forms, and for the coming in of quite new forms by\nimmigration, and for a large amount of modification, during the long\nand blank intervals between the successive formations. Subject to these\nallowances, the fauna of each geological period undoubtedly is\nintermediate in character, between the preceding and succeeding faunas.\nI need give only one instance, namely, the manner in which the fossils\nof the Devonian system, when this system was first discovered, were at\nonce recognised by palæontologists as intermediate in character between\nthose of the overlying carboniferous, and underlying Silurian system.\nBut each fauna is not necessarily exactly intermediate, as unequal\nintervals of time have elapsed between consecutive formations.\n\nIt is no real objection to the truth of the statement, that the fauna\nof each period as a whole is nearly intermediate in character between\nthe preceding and succeeding faunas, that certain genera offer\nexceptions to the rule. For instance, mastodons and elephants, when\narranged by Dr. Falconer in two series, first according to their mutual\naffinities and then according to their periods of existence, do not\naccord in arrangement. The species extreme in character are not the\noldest, or the most recent; nor are those which are intermediate in\ncharacter, intermediate in age. But\nsupposing for an instant, in this and other such cases, that the record\nof the first appearance and disappearance of the species was perfect,\nwe have no reason to believe that forms successively produced\nnecessarily endure for corresponding lengths of time: a very ancient\nform might occasionally last much longer than a form elsewhere\nsubsequently produced, especially in the case of terrestrial\nproductions inhabiting separated districts. To compare small things\nwith great: if the principal living and extinct races of the domestic\npigeon were arranged as well as they could be in serial affinity, this\narrangement would not closely accord with the order in time of their\nproduction, and still less with the order of their disappearance; for\nthe parent rock-pigeon now lives; and many varieties between the\nrock-pigeon and the carrier have become extinct; and carriers which are\nextreme in the important character of length of beak originated earlier\nthan short-beaked tumblers, which are at the opposite end of the series\nin this same respect.\n\nClosely connected with the statement, that the organic remains from an\nintermediate formation are in some degree intermediate in character, is\nthe fact, insisted on by all palæontologists, that fossils from two\nconsecutive formations are far more closely related to each other, than\nare the fossils from two remote formations. Pictet gives as a\nwell-known instance, the general resemblance of the organic remains\nfrom the several stages of the chalk formation, though the species are\ndistinct in each stage. This fact alone, from its generality, seems to\nhave shaken Professor Pictet in his firm belief in the immutability of\nspecies. He who is acquainted with the distribution of existing species\nover the globe, will not attempt to account for the close resemblance\nof the distinct species in closely consecutive\nformations, by the physical conditions of the ancient areas having\nremained nearly the same. Let it be remembered that the forms of life,\nat least those inhabiting the sea, have changed almost simultaneously\nthroughout the world, and therefore under the most different climates\nand conditions. Consider the prodigious vicissitudes of climate during\nthe pleistocene period, which includes the whole glacial period, and\nnote how little the specific forms of the inhabitants of the sea have\nbeen affected.\n\nOn the theory of descent, the full meaning of the fact of fossil\nremains from closely consecutive formations, though ranked as distinct\nspecies, being closely related, is obvious. As the accumulation of each\nformation has often been interrupted, and as long blank intervals have\nintervened between successive formations, we ought not to expect to\nfind, as I attempted to show in the last chapter, in any one or two\nformations all the intermediate varieties between the species which\nappeared at the commencement and close of these periods; but we ought\nto find after intervals, very long as measured by years, but only\nmoderately long as measured geologically, closely allied forms, or, as\nthey have been called by some authors, representative species; and\nthese we assuredly do find. We find, in short, such evidence of the\nslow and scarcely sensible mutation of specific forms, as we have a\njust right to expect to find.\n\n_On the state of Development of Ancient Forms_.—There has been much\ndiscussion whether recent forms are more highly developed than ancient.\nI will not here enter on this subject, for naturalists have not as yet\ndefined to each other’s satisfaction what is meant by high and low\nforms. But in one particular sense the\nmore recent forms must, on my theory, be higher than the more ancient;\nfor each new species is formed by having had some advantage in the\nstruggle for life over other and preceding forms. If under a nearly\nsimilar climate, the eocene inhabitants of one quarter of the world\nwere put into competition with the existing inhabitants of the same or\nsome other quarter, the eocene fauna or flora would certainly be beaten\nand exterminated; as would a secondary fauna by an eocene, and a\npalæozoic fauna by a secondary fauna. I do not doubt that this process\nof improvement has affected in a marked and sensible manner the\norganisation of the more recent and victorious forms of life, in\ncomparison with the ancient and beaten forms; but I can see no way of\ntesting this sort of progress. Crustaceans, for instance, not the\nhighest in their own class, may have beaten the highest molluscs. From\nthe extraordinary manner in which European productions have recently\nspread over New Zealand, and have seized on places which must have been\npreviously occupied, we may believe, if all the animals and plants of\nGreat Britain were set free in New Zealand, that in the course of time\na multitude of British forms would become thoroughly naturalized there,\nand would exterminate many of the natives. On the other hand, from what\nwe see now occurring in New Zealand, and from hardly a single\ninhabitant of the southern hemisphere having become wild in any part of\nEurope, we may doubt, if all the productions of New Zealand were set\nfree in Great Britain, whether any considerable number would be enabled\nto seize on places now occupied by our native plants and animals. Under\nthis point of view, the productions of Great Britain may be said to be\nhigher than those of New Zealand. Yet the most skilful naturalist from\nan examination of the species\nof the two countries could not have foreseen this result.\n\nAgassiz insists that ancient animals resemble to a certain extent the\nembryos of recent animals of the same classes; or that the geological\nsuccession of extinct forms is in some degree parallel to the\nembryological development of recent forms. I must follow Pictet and\nHuxley in thinking that the truth of this doctrine is very far from\nproved. Yet I fully expect to see it hereafter confirmed, at least in\nregard to subordinate groups, which have branched off from each other\nwithin comparatively recent times. For this doctrine of Agassiz accords\nwell with the theory of natural selection. In a future chapter I shall\nattempt to show that the adult differs from its embryo, owing to\nvariations supervening at a not early age, and being inherited at a\ncorresponding age. This process, whilst it leaves the embryo almost\nunaltered, continually adds, in the course of successive generations,\nmore and more difference to the adult.\n\nThus the embryo comes to be left as a sort of picture, preserved by\nnature, of the ancient and less modified condition of each animal. This\nview may be true, and yet it may never be capable of full proof.\nSeeing, for instance, that the oldest known mammals, reptiles, and fish\nstrictly belong to their own proper classes, though some of these old\nforms are in a slight degree less distinct from each other than are the\ntypical members of the same groups at the present day, it would be vain\nto look for animals having the common embryological character of the\nVertebrata, until beds far beneath the lowest Silurian strata are\ndiscovered—a discovery of which the chance is very small.\n\n_On the Succession of the same Types within the same\nareas, during the later tertiary periods_.—Mr. Clift many years ago\nshowed that the fossil mammals from the Australian caves were closely\nallied to the living marsupials of that continent. In South America, a\nsimilar relationship is manifest, even to an uneducated eye, in the\ngigantic pieces of armour like those of the armadillo, found in several\nparts of La Plata; and Professor Owen has shown in the most striking\nmanner that most of the fossil mammals, buried there in such numbers,\nare related to South American types. This relationship is even more\nclearly seen in the wonderful collection of fossil bones made by MM.\nLund and Clausen in the caves of Brazil. I was so much impressed with\nthese facts that I strongly insisted, in 1839 and 1845, on this “law of\nthe succession of types,”—on “this wonderful relationship in the same\ncontinent between the dead and the living.” Professor Owen has\nsubsequently extended the same generalisation to the mammals of the Old\nWorld. We see the same law in this author’s restorations of the extinct\nand gigantic birds of New Zealand. We see it also in the birds of the\ncaves of Brazil. Mr. Woodward has shown that the same law holds good\nwith sea-shells, but from the wide distribution of most genera of\nmolluscs, it is not well displayed by them. Other cases could be added,\nas the relation between the extinct and living land-shells of Madeira;\nand between the extinct and living brackish-water shells of the\nAralo-Caspian Sea.\n\nNow what does this remarkable law of the succession of the same types\nwithin the same areas mean? He would be a bold man, who after comparing\nthe present climate of Australia and of parts of South America under\nthe same latitude, would attempt to account, on the one hand, by\ndissimilar physical conditions for the dissimilarity of the inhabitants\nof these two continents,\nand, on the other hand, by similarity of conditions, for the uniformity\nof the same types in each during the later tertiary periods. Nor can it\nbe pretended that it is an immutable law that marsupials should have\nbeen chiefly or solely produced in Australia; or that Edentata and\nother American types should have been solely produced in South America.\nFor we know that Europe in ancient times was peopled by numerous\nmarsupials; and I have shown in the publications above alluded to, that\nin America the law of distribution of terrestrial mammals was formerly\ndifferent from what it now is. North America formerly partook strongly\nof the present character of the southern half of the continent; and the\nsouthern half was formerly more closely allied, than it is at present,\nto the northern half. In a similar manner we know from Falconer and\nCautley’s discoveries, that northern India was formerly more closely\nrelated in its mammals to Africa than it is at the present time.\nAnalogous facts could be given in relation to the distribution of\nmarine animals.\n\nOn the theory of descent with modification, the great law of the long\nenduring, but not immutable, succession of the same types within the\nsame areas, is at once explained; for the inhabitants of each quarter\nof the world will obviously tend to leave in that quarter, during the\nnext succeeding period of time, closely allied though in some degree\nmodified descendants. If the inhabitants of one continent formerly\ndiffered greatly from those of another continent, so will their\nmodified descendants still differ in nearly the same manner and degree.\nBut after very long intervals of time and after great geographical\nchanges, permitting much inter-migration, the feebler will yield to the\nmore dominant forms, and there will be nothing immutable in the laws of\npast and present distribution.\n\n\nIt may be asked in ridicule, whether I suppose that the megatherium and\nother allied huge monsters have left behind them in South America the\nsloth, armadillo, and anteater, as their degenerate descendants. This\ncannot for an instant be admitted. These huge animals have become\nwholly extinct, and have left no progeny. But in the caves of Brazil,\nthere are many extinct species which are closely allied in size and in\nother characters to the species still living in South America; and some\nof these fossils may be the actual progenitors of living species. It\nmust not be forgotten that, on my theory, all the species of the same\ngenus have descended from some one species; so that if six genera, each\nhaving eight species, be found in one geological formation, and in the\nnext succeeding formation there be six other allied or representative\ngenera with the same number of species, then we may conclude that only\none species of each of the six older genera has left modified\ndescendants, constituting the six new genera. The other seven species\nof the old genera have all died out and have left no progeny. Or, which\nwould probably be a far commoner case, two or three species of two or\nthree alone of the six older genera will have been the parents of the\nsix new genera; the other old species and the other whole genera having\nbecome utterly extinct. In failing orders, with the genera and species\ndecreasing in numbers, as apparently is the case of the Edentata of\nSouth America, still fewer genera and species will have left modified\nblood-descendants.\n\n_Summary of the preceding and present Chapters_.—I have attempted to\nshow that the geological record is extremely imperfect; that only a\nsmall portion of the globe has been geologically explored with care;\nthat only\ncertain classes of organic beings have been largely preserved in a\nfossil state; that the number both of specimens and of species,\npreserved in our museums, is absolutely as nothing compared with the\nincalculable number of generations which must have passed away even\nduring a single formation; that, owing to subsidence being necessary\nfor the accumulation of fossiliferous deposits thick enough to resist\nfuture degradation, enormous intervals of time have elapsed between the\nsuccessive formations; that there has probably been more extinction\nduring the periods of subsidence, and more variation during the periods\nof elevation, and during the latter the record will have been least\nperfectly kept; that each single formation has not been continuously\ndeposited; that the duration of each formation is, perhaps, short\ncompared with the average duration of specific forms; that migration\nhas played an important part in the first appearance of new forms in\nany one area and formation; that widely ranging species are those which\nhave varied most, and have oftenest given rise to new species; and that\nvarieties have at first often been local. All these causes taken\nconjointly, must have tended to make the geological record extremely\nimperfect, and will to a large extent explain why we do not find\ninterminable varieties, connecting together all the extinct and\nexisting forms of life by the finest graduated steps.\n\nHe who rejects these views on the nature of the geological record, will\nrightly reject my whole theory. For he may ask in vain where are the\nnumberless transitional links which must formerly have connected the\nclosely allied or representative species, found in the several stages\nof the same great formation. He may disbelieve in the enormous\nintervals of time which have elapsed between our consecutive\nformations; he\nmay overlook how important a part migration must have played, when the\nformations of any one great region alone, as that of Europe, are\nconsidered; he may urge the apparent, but often falsely apparent,\nsudden coming in of whole groups of species. He may ask where are the\nremains of those infinitely numerous organisms which must have existed\nlong before the first bed of the Silurian system was deposited: I can\nanswer this latter question only hypothetically, by saying that as far\nas we can see, where our oceans now extend they have for an enormous\nperiod extended, and where our oscillating continents now stand they\nhave stood ever since the Silurian epoch; but that long before that\nperiod, the world may have presented a wholly different aspect; and\nthat the older continents, formed of formations older than any known to\nus, may now all be in a metamorphosed condition, or may lie buried\nunder the ocean.\n\nPassing from these difficulties, all the other great leading facts in\npalæontology seem to me simply to follow on the theory of descent with\nmodification through natural selection. We can thus understand how it\nis that new species come in slowly and successively; how species of\ndifferent classes do not necessarily change together, or at the same\nrate, or in the same degree; yet in the long run that all undergo\nmodification to some extent. The extinction of old forms is the almost\ninevitable consequence of the production of new forms. We can\nunderstand why when a species has once disappeared it never reappears.\nGroups of species increase in numbers slowly, and endure for unequal\nperiods of time; for the process of modification is necessarily slow,\nand depends on many complex contingencies. The dominant species of the\nlarger dominant groups tend to leave many modified\ndescendants, and thus new sub-groups and groups are formed. As these\nare formed, the species of the less vigorous groups, from their\ninferiority inherited from a common progenitor, tend to become extinct\ntogether, and to leave no modified offspring on the face of the earth.\nBut the utter extinction of a whole group of species may often be a\nvery slow process, from the survival of a few descendants, lingering in\nprotected and isolated situations. When a group has once wholly\ndisappeared, it does not reappear; for the link of generation has been\nbroken.\n\nWe can understand how the spreading of the dominant forms of life,\nwhich are those that oftenest vary, will in the long run tend to people\nthe world with allied, but modified, descendants; and these will\ngenerally succeed in taking the places of those groups of species which\nare their inferiors in the struggle for existence. Hence, after long\nintervals of time, the productions of the world will appear to have\nchanged simultaneously.\n\nWe can understand how it is that all the forms of life, ancient and\nrecent, make together one grand system; for all are connected by\ngeneration. We can understand, from the continued tendency to\ndivergence of character, why the more ancient a form is, the more it\ngenerally differs from those now living. Why ancient and extinct forms\noften tend to fill up gaps between existing forms, sometimes blending\ntwo groups previously classed as distinct into one; but more commonly\nonly bringing them a little closer together. The more ancient a form\nis, the more often, apparently, it displays characters in some degree\nintermediate between groups now distinct; for the more ancient a form\nis, the more nearly it will be related to, and consequently resemble,\nthe common progenitor of groups, since become\nwidely divergent. Extinct forms are seldom directly intermediate\nbetween existing forms; but are intermediate only by a long and\ncircuitous course through many extinct and very different forms. We can\nclearly see why the organic remains of closely consecutive formations\nare more closely allied to each other, than are those of remote\nformations; for the forms are more closely linked together by\ngeneration: we can clearly see why the remains of an intermediate\nformation are intermediate in character.\n\nThe inhabitants of each successive period in the world’s history have\nbeaten their predecessors in the race for life, and are, in so far,\nhigher in the scale of nature; and this may account for that vague yet\nill-defined sentiment, felt by many palæontologists, that organisation\non the whole has progressed. If it should hereafter be proved that\nancient animals resemble to a certain extent the embryos of more recent\nanimals of the same class, the fact will be intelligible. The\nsuccession of the same types of structure within the same areas during\nthe later geological periods ceases to be mysterious, and is simply\nexplained by inheritance.\n\nIf then the geological record be as imperfect as I believe it to be,\nand it may at least be asserted that the record cannot be proved to be\nmuch more perfect, the main objections to the theory of natural\nselection are greatly diminished or disappear. On the other hand, all\nthe chief laws of palæontology plainly proclaim, as it seems to me,\nthat species have been produced by ordinary generation: old forms\nhaving been supplanted by new and improved forms of life, produced by\nthe laws of variation still acting round us, and preserved by Natural\nSelection.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\nGEOGRAPHICAL DISTRIBUTION.\n\n\nPresent distribution cannot be accounted for by differences in physical\nconditions. Importance of barriers. Affinity of the productions of the\nsame continent. Centres of creation. Means of dispersal, by changes of\nclimate and of the level of the land, and by occasional means.\nDispersal during the Glacial period co-extensive with the world.\n\n\nIn considering the distribution of organic beings over the face of the\nglobe, the first great fact which strikes us is, that neither the\nsimilarity nor the dissimilarity of the inhabitants of various regions\ncan be accounted for by their climatal and other physical conditions.\nOf late, almost every author who has studied the subject has come to\nthis conclusion. The case of America alone would almost suffice to\nprove its truth: for if we exclude the northern parts where the\ncircumpolar land is almost continuous, all authors agree that one of\nthe most fundamental divisions in geographical distribution is that\nbetween the New and Old Worlds; yet if we travel over the vast American\ncontinent, from the central parts of the United States to its extreme\nsouthern point, we meet with the most diversified conditions; the most\nhumid districts, arid deserts, lofty mountains, grassy plains, forests,\nmarshes, lakes, and great rivers, under almost every temperature. There\nis hardly a climate or condition in the Old World which cannot be\nparalleled in the New—at least as closely as the same species generally\nrequire; for it is a most rare case to find a group of organisms\nconfined to any small spot, having conditions peculiar in only a slight\ndegree; for instance, small areas in the Old World could be pointed out\nhotter than any in the New World, yet these are not inhabited by a\npeculiar fauna or flora. Notwithstanding this parallelism in the\nconditions of the Old and New Worlds, how widely different are their\nliving productions!\n\nIn the southern hemisphere, if we compare large tracts of land in\nAustralia, South Africa, and western South America, between latitudes\n25° and 35°, we shall find parts extremely similar in all their\nconditions, yet it would not be possible to point out three faunas and\nfloras more utterly dissimilar. Or again we may compare the productions\nof South America south of lat. 35° with those north of 25°, which\nconsequently inhabit a considerably different climate, and they will be\nfound incomparably more closely related to each other, than they are to\nthe productions of Australia or Africa under nearly the same climate.\nAnalogous facts could be given with respect to the inhabitants of the\nsea.\n\nA second great fact which strikes us in our general review is, that\nbarriers of any kind, or obstacles to free migration, are related in a\nclose and important manner to the differences between the productions\nof various regions. We see this in the great difference of nearly all\nthe terrestrial productions of the New and Old Worlds, excepting in the\nnorthern parts, where the land almost joins, and where, under a\nslightly different climate, there might have been free migration for\nthe northern temperate forms, as there now is for the strictly arctic\nproductions. We see the same fact in the great difference between the\ninhabitants of Australia, Africa, and South America under the same\nlatitude: for these countries are almost as much isolated from each\nother as is possible. On each continent, also, we see the same fact;\nfor on the opposite sides of\nlofty and continuous mountain-ranges, and of great deserts, and\nsometimes even of large rivers, we find different productions; though\nas mountain chains, deserts, etc., are not as impassable, or likely to\nhave endured so long as the oceans separating continents, the\ndifferences are very inferior in degree to those characteristic of\ndistinct continents.\n\nTurning to the sea, we find the same law. No two marine faunas are more\ndistinct, with hardly a fish, shell, or crab in common, than those of\nthe eastern and western shores of South and Central America; yet these\ngreat faunas are separated only by the narrow, but impassable, isthmus\nof Panama. Westward of the shores of America, a wide space of open\nocean extends, with not an island as a halting-place for emigrants;\nhere we have a barrier of another kind, and as soon as this is passed\nwe meet in the eastern islands of the Pacific, with another and totally\ndistinct fauna. So that here three marine faunas range far northward\nand southward, in parallel lines not far from each other, under\ncorresponding climates; but from being separated from each other by\nimpassable barriers, either of land or open sea, they are wholly\ndistinct. On the other hand, proceeding still further westward from the\neastern islands of the tropical parts of the Pacific, we encounter no\nimpassable barriers, and we have innumerable islands as halting-places,\nuntil after travelling over a hemisphere we come to the shores of\nAfrica; and over this vast space we meet with no well-defined and\ndistinct marine faunas. Although hardly one shell, crab or fish is\ncommon to the above-named three approximate faunas of Eastern and\nWestern America and the eastern Pacific islands, yet many fish range\nfrom the Pacific into the Indian Ocean, and many shells are common to\nthe eastern islands of the Pacific\nand the eastern shores of Africa, on almost exactly opposite meridians\nof longitude.\n\nA third great fact, partly included in the foregoing statements, is the\naffinity of the productions of the same continent or sea, though the\nspecies themselves are distinct at different points and stations. It is\na law of the widest generality, and every continent offers innumerable\ninstances. Nevertheless the naturalist in travelling, for instance,\nfrom north to south never fails to be struck by the manner in which\nsuccessive groups of beings, specifically distinct, yet clearly\nrelated, replace each other. He hears from closely allied, yet distinct\nkinds of birds, notes nearly similar, and sees their nests similarly\nconstructed, but not quite alike, with eggs coloured in nearly the same\nmanner. The plains near the Straits of Magellan are inhabited by one\nspecies of Rhea (American ostrich), and northward the plains of La\nPlata by another species of the same genus; and not by a true ostrich\nor emeu, like those found in Africa and Australia under the same\nlatitude. On these same plains of La Plata, we see the agouti and\nbizcacha, animals having nearly the same habits as our hares and\nrabbits and belonging to the same order of Rodents, but they plainly\ndisplay an American type of structure. We ascend the lofty peaks of the\nCordillera and we find an alpine species of bizcacha; we look to the\nwaters, and we do not find the beaver or musk-rat, but the coypu and\ncapybara, rodents of the American type. Innumerable other instances\ncould be given. If we look to the islands off the American shore,\nhowever much they may differ in geological structure, the inhabitants,\nthough they may be all peculiar species, are essentially American. We\nmay look back to past ages, as shown in the last chapter, and we find\nAmerican types then prevalent on\nthe American continent and in the American seas. We see in these facts\nsome deep organic bond, prevailing throughout space and time, over the\nsame areas of land and water, and independent of their physical\nconditions. The naturalist must feel little curiosity, who is not led\nto inquire what this bond is.\n\nThis bond, on my theory, is simply inheritance, that cause which alone,\nas far as we positively know, produces organisms quite like, or, as we\nsee in the case of varieties nearly like each other. The dissimilarity\nof the inhabitants of different regions may be attributed to\nmodification through natural selection, and in a quite subordinate\ndegree to the direct influence of different physical conditions. The\ndegree of dissimilarity will depend on the migration of the more\ndominant forms of life from one region into another having been\neffected with more or less ease, at periods more or less remote;—on the\nnature and number of the former immigrants;—and on their action and\nreaction, in their mutual struggles for life;—the relation of organism\nto organism being, as I have already often remarked, the most important\nof all relations. Thus the high importance of barriers comes into play\nby checking migration; as does time for the slow process of\nmodification through natural selection. Widely-ranging species,\nabounding in individuals, which have already triumphed over many\ncompetitors in their own widely-extended homes will have the best\nchance of seizing on new places, when they spread into new countries.\nIn their new homes they will be exposed to new conditions, and will\nfrequently undergo further modification and improvement; and thus they\nwill become still further victorious, and will produce groups of\nmodified descendants. On this principle of inheritance with\nmodification, we can understand how it is that sections of genera,\nwhole genera,\nand even families are confined to the same areas, as is so commonly and\nnotoriously the case.\n\nI believe, as was remarked in the last chapter, in no law of necessary\ndevelopment. As the variability of each species is an independent\nproperty, and will be taken advantage of by natural selection, only so\nfar as it profits the individual in its complex struggle for life, so\nthe degree of modification in different species will be no uniform\nquantity. If, for instance, a number of species, which stand in direct\ncompetition with each other, migrate in a body into a new and\nafterwards isolated country, they will be little liable to\nmodification; for neither migration nor isolation in themselves can do\nanything. These principles come into play only by bringing organisms\ninto new relations with each other, and in a lesser degree with the\nsurrounding physical conditions. As we have seen in the last chapter\nthat some forms have retained nearly the same character from an\nenormously remote geological period, so certain species have migrated\nover vast spaces, and have not become greatly modified.\n\nOn these views, it is obvious, that the several species of the same\ngenus, though inhabiting the most distant quarters of the world, must\noriginally have proceeded from the same source, as they have descended\nfrom the same progenitor. In the case of those species, which have\nundergone during whole geological periods but little modification,\nthere is not much difficulty in believing that they may have migrated\nfrom the same region; for during the vast geographical and climatal\nchanges which will have supervened since ancient times, almost any\namount of migration is possible. But in many other cases, in which we\nhave reason to believe that the species of a genus have been produced\nwithin comparatively recent times, there is great difficulty on this\nhead. It\nis also obvious that the individuals of the same species, though now\ninhabiting distant and isolated regions, must have proceeded from one\nspot, where their parents were first produced: for, as explained in the\nlast chapter, it is incredible that individuals identically the same\nshould ever have been produced through natural selection from parents\nspecifically distinct.\n\nWe are thus brought to the question which has been largely discussed by\nnaturalists, namely, whether species have been created at one or more\npoints of the earth’s surface. Undoubtedly there are very many cases of\nextreme difficulty, in understanding how the same species could\npossibly have migrated from some one point to the several distant and\nisolated points, where now found. Nevertheless the simplicity of the\nview that each species was first produced within a single region\ncaptivates the mind. He who rejects it, rejects the _vera causa_ of\nordinary generation with subsequent migration, and calls in the agency\nof a miracle. It is universally admitted, that in most cases the area\ninhabited by a species is continuous; and when a plant or animal\ninhabits two points so distant from each other, or with an interval of\nsuch a nature, that the space could not be easily passed over by\nmigration, the fact is given as something remarkable and exceptional.\nThe capacity of migrating across the sea is more distinctly limited in\nterrestrial mammals, than perhaps in any other organic beings; and,\naccordingly, we find no inexplicable cases of the same mammal\ninhabiting distant points of the world. No geologist will feel any\ndifficulty in such cases as Great Britain having been formerly united\nto Europe, and consequently possessing the same quadrupeds. But if the\nsame species can be produced at two separate points, why do we not find\na single mammal common to Europe and Australia or South America? The\nconditions of life are\nnearly the same, so that a multitude of European animals and plants\nhave become naturalised in America and Australia; and some of the\naboriginal plants are identically the same at these distant points of\nthe northern and southern hemispheres? The answer, as I believe, is,\nthat mammals have not been able to migrate, whereas some plants, from\ntheir varied means of dispersal, have migrated across the vast and\nbroken interspace. The great and striking influence which barriers of\nevery kind have had on distribution, is intelligible only on the view\nthat the great majority of species have been produced on one side\nalone, and have not been able to migrate to the other side. Some few\nfamilies, many sub-families, very many genera, and a still greater\nnumber of sections of genera are confined to a single region; and it\nhas been observed by several naturalists, that the most natural genera,\nor those genera in which the species are most closely related to each\nother, are generally local, or confined to one area. What a strange\nanomaly it would be, if, when coming one step lower in the series, to\nthe individuals of the same species, a directly opposite rule\nprevailed; and species were not local, but had been produced in two or\nmore distinct areas!\n\nHence it seems to me, as it has to many other naturalists, that the\nview of each species having been produced in one area alone, and having\nsubsequently migrated from that area as far as its powers of migration\nand subsistence under past and present conditions permitted, is the\nmost probable. Undoubtedly many cases occur, in which we cannot explain\nhow the same species could have passed from one point to the other. But\nthe geographical and climatal changes, which have certainly occurred\nwithin recent geological times, must have interrupted or rendered\ndiscontinuous the formerly continuous range of many species. So that we\nare reduced to consider whether the exceptions to\ncontinuity of range are so numerous and of so grave a nature, that we\nought to give up the belief, rendered probable by general\nconsiderations, that each species has been produced within one area,\nand has migrated thence as far as it could. It would be hopelessly\ntedious to discuss all the exceptional cases of the same species, now\nliving at distant and separated points; nor do I for a moment pretend\nthat any explanation could be offered of many such cases. But after\nsome preliminary remarks, I will discuss a few of the most striking\nclasses of facts; namely, the existence of the same species on the\nsummits of distant mountain-ranges, and at distant points in the arctic\nand antarctic regions; and secondly (in the following chapter), the\nwide distribution of freshwater productions; and thirdly, the\noccurrence of the same terrestrial species on islands and on the\nmainland, though separated by hundreds of miles of open sea. If the\nexistence of the same species at distant and isolated points of the\nearth’s surface, can in many instances be explained on the view of each\nspecies having migrated from a single birthplace; then, considering our\nignorance with respect to former climatal and geographical changes and\nvarious occasional means of transport, the belief that this has been\nthe universal law, seems to me incomparably the safest.\n\nIn discussing this subject, we shall be enabled at the same time to\nconsider a point equally important for us, namely, whether the several\ndistinct species of a genus, which on my theory have all descended from\na common progenitor, can have migrated (undergoing modification during\nsome part of their migration) from the area inhabited by their\nprogenitor. If it can be shown to be almost invariably the case, that a\nregion, of which most of its inhabitants are closely related to, or\nbelong to the same genera with the species of a second region,\nhas probably received at some former period immigrants from this other\nregion, my theory will be strengthened; for we can clearly understand,\non the principle of modification, why the inhabitants of a region\nshould be related to those of another region, whence it has been\nstocked. A volcanic island, for instance, upheaved and formed at the\ndistance of a few hundreds of miles from a continent, would probably\nreceive from it in the course of time a few colonists, and their\ndescendants, though modified, would still be plainly related by\ninheritance to the inhabitants of the continent. Cases of this nature\nare common, and are, as we shall hereafter more fully see, inexplicable\non the theory of independent creation. This view of the relation of\nspecies in one region to those in another, does not differ much (by\nsubstituting the word variety for species) from that lately advanced in\nan ingenious paper by Mr. Wallace, in which he concludes, that “every\nspecies has come into existence coincident both in space and time with\na pre-existing closely allied species.” And I now know from\ncorrespondence, that this coincidence he attributes to generation with\nmodification.\n\nThe previous remarks on “single and multiple centres of creation” do\nnot directly bear on another allied question,—namely whether all the\nindividuals of the same species have descended from\na single pair, or single hermaphrodite, or whether, as some authors\nsuppose, from many individuals simultaneously created. With those\norganic beings which never intercross (if such exist), the species, on\nmy theory, must have descended from a succession of improved varieties,\nwhich will never have blended with other individuals or varieties, but\nwill have supplanted each other; so that, at each successive stage of\nmodification and improvement, all the individuals of each variety will\nhave descended from a single parent. But in the majority of cases,\nnamely, with all organisms which habitually unite for each birth, or\nwhich often intercross, I believe that during the slow process of\nmodification the individuals of the species will have been kept nearly\nuniform by intercrossing; so that many individuals will have gone on\nsimultaneously changing, and the whole amount of modification will not\nhave been due, at each stage, to descent from a single parent. To\nillustrate what I mean: our English racehorses differ slightly from the\nhorses of every other breed; but they do not owe their difference and\nsuperiority to descent from any single pair, but to continued care in\nselecting and training many individuals during many generations.\n\nBefore discussing the three classes of facts, which I have selected as\npresenting the greatest amount of difficulty on the theory of “single\ncentres of creation,” I must say a few words on the means of dispersal.\n\n_Means of Dispersal_.—Sir C. Lyell and other authors have ably treated\nthis subject. I can give here only the briefest abstract of the more\nimportant facts. Change of climate must have had a powerful influence\non migration: a region when its climate was different may have been a\nhigh road for migration, but now be impassable; I shall, however,\npresently have to discuss this branch of the subject in some detail.\nChanges of level in the land must also have been highly influential: a\nnarrow isthmus now separates two marine faunas; submerge it, or let it\nformerly have been submerged, and the two faunas will now blend or may\nformerly have blended: where the sea now extends, land may at a former\nperiod have connected islands or possibly even continents together, and\nthus have allowed terrestrial productions to pass from one to the\nother.\nNo geologist will dispute that great mutations of level have occurred\nwithin the period of existing organisms. Edward Forbes insisted that\nall the islands in the Atlantic must recently have been connected with\nEurope or Africa, and Europe likewise with America. Other authors have\nthus hypothetically bridged over every ocean, and have united almost\nevery island to some mainland. If indeed the arguments used by Forbes\nare to be trusted, it must be admitted that scarcely a single island\nexists which has not recently been united to some continent. This view\ncuts the Gordian knot of the dispersal of the same species to the most\ndistant points, and removes many a difficulty: but to the best of my\njudgment we are not authorized in admitting such enormous geographical\nchanges within the period of existing species. It seems to me that we\nhave abundant evidence of great oscillations of level in our\ncontinents; but not of such vast changes in their position and\nextension, as to have united them within the recent period to each\nother and to the several intervening oceanic islands. I freely admit\nthe former existence of many islands, now buried beneath the sea, which\nmay have served as halting places for plants and for many animals\nduring their migration. In the coral-producing oceans such sunken\nislands are now marked, as I believe, by rings of coral or atolls\nstanding over them. Whenever it is fully admitted, as I believe it will\nsome day be, that each species has proceeded from a single birthplace,\nand when in the course of time we know something definite about the\nmeans of distribution, we shall be enabled to speculate with security\non the former extension of the land. But I do not believe that it will\never be proved that within the recent period continents which are now\nquite separate, have been continuously, or almost continuously, united\nwith each other, and with the many existing oceanic islands. Several\nfacts in distribution,—such as the great difference in the marine\nfaunas on the opposite sides of almost every continent,—the close\nrelation of the tertiary inhabitants of several lands and even seas to\ntheir present inhabitants,—a certain degree of relation (as we shall\nhereafter see) between the distribution of mammals and the depth of the\nsea,—these and other such facts seem to me opposed to the admission of\nsuch prodigious geographical revolutions within the recent period, as\nare necessitated on the view advanced by Forbes and admitted by his\nmany followers. The nature and relative proportions of the inhabitants\nof oceanic islands likewise seem to me opposed to the belief of their\nformer continuity with continents. Nor does their almost universally\nvolcanic composition favour the admission that they are the wrecks of\nsunken continents;—if they had originally existed as mountain-ranges on\nthe land, some at least of the islands would have been formed, like\nother mountain-summits, of granite, metamorphic schists, old\nfossiliferous or other such rocks, instead of consisting of mere piles\nof volcanic matter.\n\nI must now say a few words on what are called accidental means, but\nwhich more properly might be called occasional means of distribution. I\nshall here confine myself to plants. In botanical works, this or that\nplant is stated to be ill adapted for wide dissemination; but for\ntransport across the sea, the greater or less facilities may be said to\nbe almost wholly unknown. Until I tried, with Mr. Berkeley’s aid, a few\nexperiments, it was not even known how far seeds could resist the\ninjurious action of sea-water. To my surprise I found that out of 87\nkinds, 64 germinated after an immersion of 28 days, and a few survived\nan immersion of 137 days.\nFor convenience sake I chiefly tried small seeds, without the capsule\nor fruit; and as all of these sank in a few days, they could not be\nfloated across wide spaces of the sea, whether or not they were injured\nby the salt-water. Afterwards I tried some larger fruits, capsules,\netc., and some of these floated for a long time. It is well known what\na difference there is in the buoyancy of green and seasoned timber; and\nit occurred to me that floods might wash down plants or branches, and\nthat these might be dried on the banks, and then by a fresh rise in the\nstream be washed into the sea. Hence I was led to dry stems and\nbranches of 94 plants with ripe fruit, and to place them on sea water.\nThe majority sank quickly, but some which whilst green floated for a\nvery short time, when dried floated much longer; for instance, ripe\nhazel-nuts sank immediately, but when dried, they floated for 90 days\nand afterwards when planted they germinated; an asparagus plant with\nripe berries floated for 23 days, when dried it floated for 85 days,\nand the seeds afterwards germinated: the ripe seeds of Helosciadium\nsank in two days, when dried they floated for above 90 days, and\nafterwards germinated. Altogether out of the 94 dried plants, 18\nfloated for above 28 days, and some of the 18 floated for a very much\nlonger period. So that as 64/87 seeds germinated after an immersion of\n28 days; and as 18/94 plants with ripe fruit (but not all the same\nspecies as in the foregoing experiment) floated, after being dried, for\nabove 28 days, as far as we may infer anything from these scanty facts,\nwe may conclude that the seeds of 14/100 plants of any country might be\nfloated by sea-currents during 28 days, and would retain their power of\ngermination. In Johnston’s Physical Atlas, the average rate of the\nseveral Atlantic currents is 33 miles per diem (some currents running\nat the rate of 60 miles\nper diem); on this average, the seeds of 14/100 plants belonging to one\ncountry might be floated across 924 miles of sea to another country;\nand when stranded, if blown to a favourable spot by an inland gale,\nthey would germinate.\n\nSubsequently to my experiments, M. Martens tried similar ones, but in a\nmuch better manner, for he placed the seeds in a box in the actual sea,\nso that they were alternately wet and exposed to the air like really\nfloating plants. He tried 98 seeds, mostly different from mine; but he\nchose many large fruits and likewise seeds from plants which live near\nthe sea; and this would have favoured the average length of their\nflotation and of their resistance to the injurious action of the\nsalt-water. On the other hand he did not previously dry the plants or\nbranches with the fruit; and this, as we have seen, would have caused\nsome of them to have floated much longer. The result was that 18/98 of\nhis seeds floated for 42 days, and were then capable of germination.\nBut I do not doubt that plants exposed to the waves would float for a\nless time than those protected from violent movement as in our\nexperiments. Therefore it would perhaps be safer to assume that the\nseeds of about 10/100 plants of a flora, after having been dried, could\nbe floated across a space of sea 900 miles in width, and would then\ngerminate. The fact of the larger fruits often floating longer than the\nsmall, is interesting; as plants with large seeds or fruit could hardly\nbe transported by any other means; and Alph. de Candolle has shown that\nsuch plants generally have restricted ranges.\n\nBut seeds may be occasionally transported in another manner. Drift\ntimber is thrown up on most islands, even on those in the midst of the\nwidest oceans; and the natives of the coral-islands in the Pacific,\nprocure\nstones for their tools, solely from the roots of drifted trees, these\nstones being a valuable royal tax. I find on examination, that when\nirregularly shaped stones are embedded in the roots of trees, small\nparcels of earth are very frequently enclosed in their interstices and\nbehind them,—so perfectly that not a particle could be washed away in\nthe longest transport: out of one small portion of earth thus\n_completely_ enclosed by wood in an oak about 50 years old, three\ndicotyledonous plants germinated: I am certain of the accuracy of this\nobservation. Again, I can show that the carcasses of birds, when\nfloating on the sea, sometimes escape being immediately devoured; and\nseeds of many kinds in the crops of floating birds long retain their\nvitality: peas and vetches, for instance, are killed by even a few\ndays’ immersion in sea-water; but some taken out of the crop of a\npigeon, which had floated on artificial salt-water for 30 days, to my\nsurprise nearly all germinated.\n\nLiving birds can hardly fail to be highly effective agents in the\ntransportation of seeds. I could give many facts showing how frequently\nbirds of many kinds are blown by gales to vast distances across the\nocean. We may I think safely assume that under such circumstances their\nrate of flight would often be 35 miles an hour; and some authors have\ngiven a far higher estimate. I have never seen an instance of\nnutritious seeds passing through the intestines of a bird; but hard\nseeds of fruit will pass uninjured through even the digestive organs of\na turkey. In the course of two months, I picked up in my garden 12\nkinds of seeds, out of the excrement of small birds, and these seemed\nperfect, and some of them, which I tried, germinated. But the following\nfact is more important: the crops of birds do not secrete gastric\njuice, and do not in the\nleast injure, as I know by trial, the germination of seeds; now after a\nbird has found and devoured a large supply of food, it is positively\nasserted that all the grains do not pass into the gizzard for 12 or\neven 18 hours. A bird in this interval might easily be blown to the\ndistance of 500 miles, and hawks are known to look out for tired birds,\nand the contents of their torn crops might thus readily get scattered.\nMr. Brent informs me that a friend of his had to give up flying\ncarrier-pigeons from France to England, as the hawks on the English\ncoast destroyed so many on their arrival. Some hawks and owls bolt\ntheir prey whole, and after an interval of from twelve to twenty hours,\ndisgorge pellets, which, as I know from experiments made in the\nZoological Gardens, include seeds capable of germination. Some seeds of\nthe oat, wheat, millet, canary, hemp, clover, and beet germinated after\nhaving been from twelve to twenty-one hours in the stomachs of\ndifferent birds of prey; and two seeds of beet grew after having been\nthus retained for two days and fourteen hours. Freshwater fish, I find,\neat seeds of many land and water plants: fish are frequently devoured\nby birds, and thus the seeds might be transported from place to place.\nI forced many kinds of seeds into the stomachs of dead fish, and then\ngave their bodies to fishing-eagles, storks, and pelicans; these birds\nafter an interval of many hours, either rejected the seeds in pellets\nor passed them in their excrement; and several of these seeds retained\ntheir power of germination. Certain seeds, however, were always killed\nby this process.\n\nAlthough the beaks and feet of birds are generally quite clean, I can\nshow that earth sometimes adheres to them: in one instance I removed\ntwenty-two grains of dry argillaceous earth from one foot of a\npartridge, and in this earth there was a pebble quite as large as\nthe seed of a vetch. Thus seeds might occasionally be transported to\ngreat distances; for many facts could be given showing that soil almost\neverywhere is charged with seeds. Reflect for a moment on the millions\nof quails which annually cross the Mediterranean; and can we doubt that\nthe earth adhering to their feet would sometimes include a few minute\nseeds? But I shall presently have to recur to this subject.\n\nAs icebergs are known to be sometimes loaded with earth and stones, and\nhave even carried brushwood, bones, and the nest of a land-bird, I can\nhardly doubt that they must occasionally have transported seeds from\none part to another of the arctic and antarctic regions, as suggested\nby Lyell; and during the Glacial period from one part of the now\ntemperate regions to another. In the Azores, from the large number of\nthe species of plants common to Europe, in comparison with the plants\nof other oceanic islands nearer to the mainland, and (as remarked by\nMr. H. C. Watson) from the somewhat northern character of the flora in\ncomparison with the latitude, I suspected that these islands had been\npartly stocked by ice-borne seeds, during the Glacial epoch. At my\nrequest Sir C. Lyell wrote to M. Hartung to inquire whether he had\nobserved erratic boulders on these islands, and he answered that he had\nfound large fragments of granite and other rocks, which do not occur in\nthe archipelago. Hence we may safely infer that icebergs formerly\nlanded their rocky burthens on the shores of these mid-ocean islands,\nand it is at least possible that they may have brought thither the\nseeds of northern plants.\n\nConsidering that the several above means of transport, and that several\nother means, which without doubt remain to be discovered, have been in\naction year after year, for centuries and tens of thousands of\nyears, it would I think be a marvellous fact if many plants had not\nthus become widely transported. These means of transport are sometimes\ncalled accidental, but this is not strictly correct: the currents of\nthe sea are not accidental, nor is the direction of prevalent gales of\nwind. It should be observed that scarcely any means of transport would\ncarry seeds for very great distances; for seeds do not retain their\nvitality when exposed for a great length of time to the action of\nseawater; nor could they be long carried in the crops or intestines of\nbirds. These means, however, would suffice for occasional transport\nacross tracts of sea some hundred miles in breadth, or from island to\nisland, or from a continent to a neighbouring island, but not from one\ndistant continent to another. The floras of distant continents would\nnot by such means become mingled in any great degree; but would remain\nas distinct as we now see them to be. The currents, from their course,\nwould never bring seeds from North America to Britain, though they\nmight and do bring seeds from the West Indies to our western shores,\nwhere, if not killed by so long an immersion in salt-water, they could\nnot endure our climate. Almost every year, one or two land-birds are\nblown across the whole Atlantic Ocean, from North America to the\nwestern shores of Ireland and England; but seeds could be transported\nby these wanderers only by one means, namely, in dirt sticking to their\nfeet, which is in itself a rare accident. Even in this case, how small\nwould the chance be of a seed falling on favourable soil, and coming to\nmaturity! But it would be a great error to argue that because a\nwell-stocked island, like Great Britain, has not, as far as is known\n(and it would be very difficult to prove this), received within the\nlast few centuries, through occasional means\nof transport, immigrants from Europe or any other continent, that a\npoorly-stocked island, though standing more remote from the mainland,\nwould not receive colonists by similar means. I do not doubt that out\nof twenty seeds or animals transported to an island, even if far less\nwell-stocked than Britain, scarcely more than one would be so well\nfitted to its new home, as to become naturalised. But this, as it seems\nto me, is no valid argument against what would be effected by\noccasional means of transport, during the long lapse of geological\ntime, whilst an island was being upheaved and formed, and before it had\nbecome fully stocked with inhabitants. On almost bare land, with few or\nno destructive insects or birds living there, nearly every seed, which\nchanced to arrive, would be sure to germinate and survive.\n\n_Dispersal during the Glacial period_.—The identity of many plants and\nanimals, on mountain-summits, separated from each other by hundreds of\nmiles of lowlands, where the Alpine species could not possibly exist,\nis one of the most striking cases known of the same species living at\ndistant points, without the apparent possibility of their having\nmigrated from one to the other. It is indeed a remarkable fact to see\nso many of the same plants living on the snowy regions of the Alps or\nPyrenees, and in the extreme northern parts of Europe; but it is far\nmore remarkable, that the plants on the White Mountains, in the United\nStates of America, are all the same with those of Labrador, and nearly\nall the same, as we hear from Asa Gray, with those on the loftiest\nmountains of Europe. Even as long ago as 1747, such facts led Gmelin to\nconclude that the same species must have been independently created at\nseveral distinct points; and we might have remained\nin this same belief, had not Agassiz and others called vivid attention\nto the Glacial period, which, as we shall immediately see, affords a\nsimple explanation of these facts. We have evidence of almost every\nconceivable kind, organic and inorganic, that within a very recent\ngeological period, central Europe and North America suffered under an\nArctic climate. The ruins of a house burnt by fire do not tell their\ntale more plainly, than do the mountains of Scotland and Wales, with\ntheir scored flanks, polished surfaces, and perched boulders, of the\nicy streams with which their valleys were lately filled. So greatly has\nthe climate of Europe changed, that in Northern Italy, gigantic\nmoraines, left by old glaciers, are now clothed by the vine and maize.\nThroughout a large part of the United States, erratic boulders, and\nrocks scored by drifted icebergs and coast-ice, plainly reveal a former\ncold period.\n\nThe former influence of the glacial climate on the distribution of the\ninhabitants of Europe, as explained with remarkable clearness by Edward\nForbes, is substantially as follows. But we shall follow the changes\nmore readily, by supposing a new glacial period to come slowly on, and\nthen pass away, as formerly occurred. As the cold came on, and as each\nmore southern zone became fitted for arctic beings and ill-fitted for\ntheir former more temperate inhabitants, the latter would be supplanted\nand arctic productions would take their places. The inhabitants of the\nmore temperate regions would at the same time travel southward, unless\nthey were stopped by barriers, in which case they would perish. The\nmountains would become covered with snow and ice, and their former\nAlpine inhabitants would descend to the plains. By the time that the\ncold had reached its maximum, we should have a uniform arctic fauna and\nflora, covering the central parts of Europe, as far\nsouth as the Alps and Pyrenees, and even stretching into Spain. The now\ntemperate regions of the United States would likewise be covered by\narctic plants and animals, and these would be nearly the same with\nthose of Europe; for the present circumpolar inhabitants, which we\nsuppose to have everywhere travelled southward, are remarkably uniform\nround the world. We may suppose that the Glacial period came on a\nlittle earlier or later in North America than in Europe, so will the\nsouthern migration there have been a little earlier or later; but this\nwill make no difference in the final result.\n\nAs the warmth returned, the arctic forms would retreat northward,\nclosely followed up in their retreat by the productions of the more\ntemperate regions. And as the snow melted from the bases of the\nmountains, the arctic forms would seize on the cleared and thawed\nground, always ascending higher and higher, as the warmth increased,\nwhilst their brethren were pursuing their northern journey. Hence, when\nthe warmth had fully returned, the same arctic species, which had\nlately lived in a body together on the lowlands of the Old and New\nWorlds, would be left isolated on distant mountain-summits (having been\nexterminated on all lesser heights) and in the arctic regions of both\nhemispheres.\n\nThus we can understand the identity of many plants at points so\nimmensely remote as on the mountains of the United States and of\nEurope. We can thus also understand the fact that the Alpine plants of\neach mountain-range are more especially related to the arctic forms\nliving due north or nearly due north of them: for the migration as the\ncold came on, and the re-migration on the returning warmth, will\ngenerally have been due south and north. The Alpine plants, for\nexample, of Scotland, as remarked by Mr. H. C. Watson,\nand those of the Pyrenees, as remarked by Ramond, are more especially\nallied to the plants of northern Scandinavia; those of the United\nStates to Labrador; those of the mountains of Siberia to the arctic\nregions of that country. These views, grounded as they are on the\nperfectly well-ascertained occurrence of a former Glacial period, seem\nto me to explain in so satisfactory a manner the present distribution\nof the Alpine and Arctic productions of Europe and America, that when\nin other regions we find the same species on distant mountain-summits,\nwe may almost conclude without other evidence, that a colder climate\npermitted their former migration across the low intervening tracts,\nsince become too warm for their existence.\n\nIf the climate, since the Glacial period, has ever been in any degree\nwarmer than at present (as some geologists in the United States believe\nto have been the case, chiefly from the distribution of the fossil\nGnathodon), then the arctic and temperate productions will at a very\nlate period have marched a little further north, and subsequently have\nretreated to their present homes; but I have met with no satisfactory\nevidence with respect to this intercalated slightly warmer period,\nsince the Glacial period.\n\nThe arctic forms, during their long southern migration and re-migration\nnorthward, will have been exposed to nearly the same climate, and, as\nis especially to be noticed, they will have kept in a body together;\nconsequently their mutual relations will not have been much disturbed,\nand, in accordance with the principles inculcated in this volume, they\nwill not have been liable to much modification. But with our Alpine\nproductions, left isolated from the moment of the returning warmth,\nfirst at the bases and ultimately on the summits of the mountains, the\ncase will have been somewhat different;\nfor it is not likely that all the same arctic species will have been\nleft on mountain ranges distant from each other, and have survived\nthere ever since; they will, also, in all probability have become\nmingled with ancient Alpine species, which must have existed on the\nmountains before the commencement of the Glacial epoch, and which\nduring its coldest period will have been temporarily driven down to the\nplains; they will, also, have been exposed to somewhat different\nclimatal influences. Their mutual relations will thus have been in some\ndegree disturbed; consequently they will have been liable to\nmodification; and this we find has been the case; for if we compare the\npresent Alpine plants and animals of the several great European\nmountain-ranges, though very many of the species are identically the\nsame, some present varieties, some are ranked as doubtful forms, and\nsome few are distinct yet closely allied or representative species.\n\nIn illustrating what, as I believe, actually took place during the\nGlacial period, I assumed that at its commencement the arctic\nproductions were as uniform round the polar regions as they are at the\npresent day. But the foregoing remarks on distribution apply not only\nto strictly arctic forms, but also to many sub-arctic and to some few\nnorthern temperate forms, for some of these are the same on the lower\nmountains and on the plains of North America and Europe; and it may be\nreasonably asked how I account for the necessary degree of uniformity\nof the sub-arctic and northern temperate forms round the world, at the\ncommencement of the Glacial period. At the present day, the sub-arctic\nand northern temperate productions of the Old and New Worlds are\nseparated from each other by the Atlantic Ocean and by the extreme\nnorthern part of the Pacific. During the Glacial period, when the\ninhabitants\nof the Old and New Worlds lived further southwards than at present,\nthey must have been still more completely separated by wider spaces of\nocean. I believe the above difficulty may be surmounted by looking to\nstill earlier changes of climate of an opposite nature. We have good\nreason to believe that during the newer Pliocene period, before the\nGlacial epoch, and whilst the majority of the inhabitants of the world\nwere specifically the same as now, the climate was warmer than at the\npresent day. Hence we may suppose that the organisms now living under\nthe climate of latitude 60°, during the Pliocene period lived further\nnorth under the Polar Circle, in latitude 66°-67°; and that the\nstrictly arctic productions then lived on the broken land still nearer\nto the pole. Now if we look at a globe, we shall see that under the\nPolar Circle there is almost continuous land from western Europe,\nthrough Siberia, to eastern America. And to this continuity of the\ncircumpolar land, and to the consequent freedom for intermigration\nunder a more favourable climate, I attribute the necessary amount of\nuniformity in the sub-arctic and northern temperate productions of the\nOld and New Worlds, at a period anterior to the Glacial epoch.\n\nBelieving, from reasons before alluded to, that our continents have\nlong remained in nearly the same relative position, though subjected to\nlarge, but partial oscillations of level, I am strongly inclined to\nextend the above view, and to infer that during some earlier and still\nwarmer period, such as the older Pliocene period, a large number of the\nsame plants and animals inhabited the almost continuous circumpolar\nland; and that these plants and animals, both in the Old and New\nWorlds, began slowly to migrate southwards as the climate became less\nwarm, long before the commencement\nof the Glacial period. We now see, as I believe, their descendants,\nmostly in a modified condition, in the central parts of Europe and the\nUnited States. On this view we can understand the relationship, with\nvery little identity, between the productions of North America and\nEurope,—a relationship which is most remarkable, considering the\ndistance of the two areas, and their separation by the Atlantic Ocean.\nWe can further understand the singular fact remarked on by several\nobservers, that the productions of Europe and America during the later\ntertiary stages were more closely related to each other than they are\nat the present time; for during these warmer periods the northern parts\nof the Old and New Worlds will have been almost continuously united by\nland, serving as a bridge, since rendered impassable by cold, for the\ninter-migration of their inhabitants.\n\nDuring the slowly decreasing warmth of the Pliocene period, as soon as\nthe species in common, which inhabited the New and Old Worlds, migrated\nsouth of the Polar Circle, they must have been completely cut off from\neach other. This separation, as far as the more temperate productions\nare concerned, took place long ages ago. And as the plants and animals\nmigrated southward, they will have become mingled in the one great\nregion with the native American productions, and have had to compete\nwith them; and in the other great region, with those of the Old World.\nConsequently we have here everything favourable for much\nmodification,—for far more modification than with the Alpine\nproductions, left isolated, within a much more recent period, on the\nseveral mountain-ranges and on the arctic lands of the two Worlds.\nHence it has come, that when we compare the now living productions of\nthe temperate regions of the New and Old Worlds, we find very few\nidentical\nspecies (though Asa Gray has lately shown that more plants are\nidentical than was formerly supposed), but we find in every great class\nmany forms, which some naturalists rank as geographical races, and\nothers as distinct species; and a host of closely allied or\nrepresentative forms which are ranked by all naturalists as\nspecifically distinct.\n\nAs on the land, so in the waters of the sea, a slow southern migration\nof a marine fauna, which during the Pliocene or even a somewhat earlier\nperiod, was nearly uniform along the continuous shores of the Polar\nCircle, will account, on the theory of modification, for many closely\nallied forms now living in areas completely sundered. Thus, I think, we\ncan understand the presence of many existing and tertiary\nrepresentative forms on the eastern and western shores of temperate\nNorth America; and the still more striking case of many closely allied\ncrustaceans (as described in Dana’s admirable work), of some fish and\nother marine animals, in the Mediterranean and in the seas of\nJapan,—areas now separated by a continent and by nearly a hemisphere of\nequatorial ocean.\n\nThese cases of relationship, without identity, of the inhabitants of\nseas now disjoined, and likewise of the past and present inhabitants of\nthe temperate lands of North America and Europe, are inexplicable on\nthe theory of creation. We cannot say that they have been created\nalike, in correspondence with the nearly similar physical conditions of\nthe areas; for if we compare, for instance, certain parts of South\nAmerica with the southern continents of the Old World, we see countries\nclosely corresponding in all their physical conditions, but with their\ninhabitants utterly dissimilar.\n\nBut we must return to our more immediate subject, the Glacial period. I\nam convinced that Forbes’s view\nmay be largely extended. In Europe we have the plainest evidence of the\ncold period, from the western shores of Britain to the Oural range, and\nsouthward to the Pyrenees. We may infer, from the frozen mammals and\nnature of the mountain vegetation, that Siberia was similarly affected.\nAlong the Himalaya, at points 900 miles apart, glaciers have left the\nmarks of their former low descent; and in Sikkim, Dr. Hooker saw maize\ngrowing on gigantic ancient moraines. South of the equator, we have\nsome direct evidence of former glacial action in New Zealand; and the\nsame plants, found on widely separated mountains in this island, tell\nthe same story. If one account which has been published can be trusted,\nwe have direct evidence of glacial action in the south-eastern corner\nof Australia.\n\nLooking to America; in the northern half, ice-borne fragments of rock\nhave been observed on the eastern side as far south as lat. 36°-37°,\nand on the shores of the Pacific, where the climate is now so\ndifferent, as far south as lat. 46 deg; erratic boulders have, also,\nbeen noticed on the Rocky Mountains. In the Cordillera of Equatorial\nSouth America, glaciers once extended far below their present level. In\ncentral Chile I was astonished at the structure of a vast mound of\ndetritus, about 800 feet in height, crossing a valley of the Andes; and\nthis I now feel convinced was a gigantic moraine, left far below any\nexisting glacier. Further south on both sides of the continent, from\nlat. 41° to the southernmost extremity, we have the clearest evidence\nof former glacial action, in huge boulders transported far from their\nparent source.\n\nWe do not know that the Glacial epoch was strictly simultaneous at\nthese several far distant points on opposite sides of the world. But we\nhave good evidence in almost every case, that the epoch was included\nwithin\nthe latest geological period. We have, also, excellent evidence, that\nit endured for an enormous time, as measured by years, at each point.\nThe cold may have come on, or have ceased, earlier at one point of the\nglobe than at another, but seeing that it endured for long at each, and\nthat it was contemporaneous in a geological sense, it seems to me\nprobable that it was, during a part at least of the period, actually\nsimultaneous throughout the world. Without some distinct evidence to\nthe contrary, we may at least admit as probable that the glacial action\nwas simultaneous on the eastern and western sides of North America, in\nthe Cordillera under the equator and under the warmer temperate zones,\nand on both sides of the southern extremity of the continent. If this\nbe admitted, it is difficult to avoid believing that the temperature of\nthe whole world was at this period simultaneously cooler. But it would\nsuffice for my purpose, if the temperature was at the same time lower\nalong certain broad belts of longitude.\n\nOn this view of the whole world, or at least of broad longitudinal\nbelts, having been simultaneously colder from pole to pole, much light\ncan be thrown on the present distribution of identical and allied\nspecies. In America, Dr. Hooker has shown that between forty and fifty\nof the flowering plants of Tierra del Fuego, forming no inconsiderable\npart of its scanty flora, are common to Europe, enormously remote as\nthese two points are; and there are many closely allied species. On the\nlofty mountains of equatorial America a host of peculiar species\nbelonging to European genera occur. On the highest mountains of Brazil,\nsome few European genera were found by Gardner, which do not exist in\nthe wide intervening hot countries. So on the Silla of Caraccas the\nillustrious Humboldt long ago found species belonging\nto genera characteristic of the Cordillera. On the mountains of\nAbyssinia, several European forms and some few representatives of the\npeculiar flora of the Cape of Good Hope occur. At the Cape of Good Hope\na very few European species, believed not to have been introduced by\nman, and on the mountains, some few representative European forms are\nfound, which have not been discovered in the intertropical parts of\nAfrica. On the Himalaya, and on the isolated mountain-ranges of the\npeninsula of India, on the heights of Ceylon, and on the volcanic cones\nof Java, many plants occur, either identically the same or representing\neach other, and at the same time representing plants of Europe, not\nfound in the intervening hot lowlands. A list of the genera collected\non the loftier peaks of Java raises a picture of a collection made on a\nhill in Europe! Still more striking is the fact that southern\nAustralian forms are clearly represented by plants growing on the\nsummits of the mountains of Borneo. Some of these Australian forms, as\nI hear from Dr. Hooker, extend along the heights of the peninsula of\nMalacca, and are thinly scattered, on the one hand over India and on\nthe other as far north as Japan.\n\nOn the southern mountains of Australia, Dr. F. Müller has discovered\nseveral European species; other species, not introduced by man, occur\non the lowlands; and a long list can be given, as I am informed by Dr.\nHooker, of European genera, found in Australia, but not in the\nintermediate torrid regions. In the admirable ‘Introduction to the\nFlora of New Zealand,’ by Dr. Hooker, analogous and striking facts are\ngiven in regard to the plants of that large island. Hence we see that\nthroughout the world, the plants growing on the more lofty mountains,\nand on the temperate lowlands of the northern and southern hemispheres,\nare sometimes\nidentically the same; but they are much oftener specifically distinct,\nthough related to each other in a most remarkable manner.\n\nThis brief abstract applies to plants alone: some strictly analogous\nfacts could be given on the distribution of terrestrial animals. In\nmarine productions, similar cases occur; as an example, I may quote a\nremark by the highest authority, Professor Dana, that “it is certainly\na wonderful fact that New Zealand should have a closer resemblance in\nits crustacea to Great Britain, its antipode, than to any other part of\nthe world.” Sir J. Richardson, also, speaks of the reappearance on the\nshores of New Zealand, Tasmania, etc., of northern forms of fish. Dr.\nHooker informs me that twenty-five species of Algæ are common to New\nZealand and to Europe, but have not been found in the intermediate\ntropical seas.\n\nIt should be observed that the northern species and forms found in the\nsouthern parts of the southern hemisphere, and on the mountain-ranges\nof the intertropical regions, are not arctic, but belong to the\nnorthern temperate zones. As Mr. H. C. Watson has recently remarked,\n“In receding from polar towards equatorial latitudes, the Alpine or\nmountain floras really become less and less arctic.” Many of the forms\nliving on the mountains of the warmer regions of the earth and in the\nsouthern hemisphere are of doubtful value, being ranked by some\nnaturalists as specifically distinct, by others as varieties; but some\nare certainly identical, and many, though closely related to northern\nforms, must be ranked as distinct species.\n\nNow let us see what light can be thrown on the foregoing facts, on the\nbelief, supported as it is by a large body of geological evidence, that\nthe whole world, or a large part of it, was during the Glacial period\nsimultaneously much\ncolder than at present. The Glacial period, as measured by years, must\nhave been very long; and when we remember over what vast spaces some\nnaturalised plants and animals have spread within a few centuries, this\nperiod will have been ample for any amount of migration. As the cold\ncame slowly on, all the tropical plants and other productions will have\nretreated from both sides towards the equator, followed in the rear by\nthe temperate productions, and these by the arctic; but with the latter\nwe are not now concerned. The tropical plants probably suffered much\nextinction; how much no one can say; perhaps formerly the tropics\nsupported as many species as we see at the present day crowded together\nat the Cape of Good Hope, and in parts of temperate Australia. As we\nknow that many tropical plants and animals can withstand a considerable\namount of cold, many might have escaped extermination during a moderate\nfall of temperature, more especially by escaping into the warmest\nspots. But the great fact to bear in mind is, that all tropical\nproductions will have suffered to a certain extent. On the other hand,\nthe temperate productions, after migrating nearer to the equator,\nthough they will have been placed under somewhat new conditions, will\nhave suffered less. And it is certain that many temperate plants, if\nprotected from the inroads of competitors, can withstand a much warmer\nclimate than their own. Hence, it seems to me possible, bearing in mind\nthat the tropical productions were in a suffering state and could not\nhave presented a firm front against intruders, that a certain number of\nthe more vigorous and dominant temperate forms might have penetrated\nthe native ranks and have reached or even crossed the equator. The\ninvasion would, of course, have been greatly favoured by high land, and\nperhaps\nby a dry climate; for Dr. Falconer informs me that it is the damp with\nthe heat of the tropics which is so destructive to perennial plants\nfrom a temperate climate. On the other hand, the most humid and hottest\ndistricts will have afforded an asylum to the tropical natives. The\nmountain-ranges north-west of the Himalaya, and the long line of the\nCordillera, seem to have afforded two great lines of invasion: and it\nis a striking fact, lately communicated to me by Dr. Hooker, that all\nthe flowering plants, about forty-six in number, common to Tierra del\nFuego and to Europe still exist in North America, which must have lain\non the line of march. But I do not doubt that some temperate\nproductions entered and crossed even the _lowlands_ of the tropics at\nthe period when the cold was most intense,—when arctic forms had\nmigrated some twenty-five degrees of latitude from their native country\nand covered the land at the foot of the Pyrenees. At this period of\nextreme cold, I believe that the climate under the equator at the level\nof the sea was about the same with that now felt there at the height of\nsix or seven thousand feet. During this the coldest period, I suppose\nthat large spaces of the tropical lowlands were clothed with a mingled\ntropical and temperate vegetation, like that now growing with strange\nluxuriance at the base of the Himalaya, as graphically described by\nHooker.\n\nThus, as I believe, a considerable number of plants, a few terrestrial\nanimals, and some marine productions, migrated during the Glacial\nperiod from the northern and southern temperate zones into the\nintertropical regions, and some even crossed the equator. As the warmth\nreturned, these temperate forms would naturally ascend the higher\nmountains, being exterminated on the lowlands; those which had not\nreached the equator, would re-migrate northward or southward towards\ntheir former\nhomes; but the forms, chiefly northern, which had crossed the equator,\nwould travel still further from their homes into the more temperate\nlatitudes of the opposite hemisphere. Although we have reason to\nbelieve from geological evidence that the whole body of arctic shells\nunderwent scarcely any modification during their long southern\nmigration and re-migration northward, the case may have been wholly\ndifferent with those intruding forms which settled themselves on the\nintertropical mountains, and in the southern hemisphere. These being\nsurrounded by strangers will have had to compete with many new forms of\nlife; and it is probable that selected modifications in their\nstructure, habits, and constitutions will have profited them. Thus many\nof these wanderers, though still plainly related by inheritance to\ntheir brethren of the northern or southern hemispheres, now exist in\ntheir new homes as well-marked varieties or as distinct species.\n\nIt is a remarkable fact, strongly insisted on by Hooker in regard to\nAmerica, and by Alph. de Candolle in regard to Australia, that many\nmore identical plants and allied forms have apparently migrated from\nthe north to the south, than in a reversed direction. We see, however,\na few southern vegetable forms on the mountains of Borneo and\nAbyssinia. I suspect that this preponderant migration from north to\nsouth is due to the greater extent of land in the north, and to the\nnorthern forms having existed in their own homes in greater numbers,\nand having consequently been advanced through natural selection and\ncompetition to a higher stage of perfection or dominating power, than\nthe southern forms. And thus, when they became commingled during the\nGlacial period, the northern forms were enabled to beat the less\npowerful southern forms. Just in the same manner as we see at the\npresent day,\nthat very many European productions cover the ground in La Plata, and\nin a lesser degree in Australia, and have to a certain extent beaten\nthe natives; whereas extremely few southern forms have become\nnaturalised in any part of Europe, though hides, wool, and other\nobjects likely to carry seeds have been largely imported into Europe\nduring the last two or three centuries from La Plata, and during the\nlast thirty or forty years from Australia. Something of the same kind\nmust have occurred on the intertropical mountains: no doubt before the\nGlacial period they were stocked with endemic Alpine forms; but these\nhave almost everywhere largely yielded to the more dominant forms,\ngenerated in the larger areas and more efficient workshops of the\nnorth. In many islands the native productions are nearly equalled or\neven outnumbered by the naturalised; and if the natives have not been\nactually exterminated, their numbers have been greatly reduced, and\nthis is the first stage towards extinction. A mountain is an island on\nthe land; and the intertropical mountains before the Glacial period\nmust have been completely isolated; and I believe that the productions\nof these islands on the land yielded to those produced within the\nlarger areas of the north, just in the same way as the productions of\nreal islands have everywhere lately yielded to continental forms,\nnaturalised by man’s agency.\n\nI am far from supposing that all difficulties are removed on the view\nhere given in regard to the range and affinities of the allied species\nwhich live in the northern and southern temperate zones and on the\nmountains of the intertropical regions. Very many difficulties remain\nto be solved. I do not pretend to indicate the exact lines and means of\nmigration, or the reason why certain species and not others have\nmigrated;\nwhy certain species have been modified and have given rise to new\ngroups of forms, and others have remained unaltered. We cannot hope to\nexplain such facts, until we can say why one species and not another\nbecomes naturalised by man’s agency in a foreign land; why one ranges\ntwice or thrice as far, and is twice or thrice as common, as another\nspecies within their own homes.\n\nI have said that many difficulties remain to be solved: some of the\nmost remarkable are stated with admirable clearness by Dr. Hooker in\nhis botanical works on the antarctic regions. These cannot be here\ndiscussed. I will only say that as far as regards the occurrence of\nidentical species at points so enormously remote as Kerguelen Land, New\nZealand, and Fuegia, I believe that towards the close of the Glacial\nperiod, icebergs, as suggested by Lyell, have been largely concerned in\ntheir dispersal. But the existence of several quite distinct species,\nbelonging to genera exclusively confined to the south, at these and\nother distant points of the southern hemisphere, is, on my theory of\ndescent with modification, a far more remarkable case of difficulty.\nFor some of these species are so distinct, that we cannot suppose that\nthere has been time since the commencement of the Glacial period for\ntheir migration, and for their subsequent modification to the necessary\ndegree. The facts seem to me to indicate that peculiar and very\ndistinct species have migrated in radiating lines from some common\ncentre; and I am inclined to look in the southern, as in the northern\nhemisphere, to a former and warmer period, before the commencement of\nthe Glacial period, when the antarctic lands, now covered with ice,\nsupported a highly peculiar and isolated flora. I suspect that before\nthis flora was exterminated by the Glacial epoch, a few forms were\nwidely dispersed to various points of the southern hemisphere by\noccasional means of transport, and by the aid, as halting-places, of\nexisting and now sunken islands, and perhaps at the commencement of the\nGlacial period, by icebergs. By these means, as I believe, the southern\nshores of America, Australia, New Zealand have become slightly tinted\nby the same peculiar forms of vegetable life.\n\nSir C. Lyell in a striking passage has speculated, in language almost\nidentical with mine, on the effects of great alternations of climate on\ngeographical distribution. I believe that the world has recently felt\none of his great cycles of change; and that on this view, combined with\nmodification through natural selection, a multitude of facts in the\npresent distribution both of the same and of allied forms of life can\nbe explained. The living waters may be said to have flowed during one\nshort period from the north and from the south, and to have crossed at\nthe equator; but to have flowed with greater force from the north so as\nto have freely inundated the south. As the tide leaves its drift in\nhorizontal lines, though rising higher on the shores where the tide\nrises highest, so have the living waters left their living drift on our\nmountain-summits, in a line gently rising from the arctic lowlands to a\ngreat height under the equator. The various beings thus left stranded\nmay be compared with savage races of man, driven up and surviving in\nthe mountain-fastnesses of almost every land, which serve as a record,\nfull of interest to us, of the former inhabitants of the surrounding\nlowlands.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\nGEOGRAPHICAL DISTRIBUTION—_continued_.\n\n\nDistribution of fresh-water productions. On the inhabitants of oceanic\nislands. Absence of Batrachians and of terrestrial Mammals. On the\nrelation of the inhabitants of islands to those of the nearest\nmainland. On colonisation from the nearest source with subsequent\nmodification. Summary of the last and present chapters.\n\n\nAs lakes and river-systems are separated from each other by barriers of\nland, it might have been thought that fresh-water productions would not\nhave ranged widely within the same country, and as the sea is\napparently a still more impassable barrier, that they never would have\nextended to distant countries. But the case is exactly the reverse. Not\nonly have many fresh-water species, belonging to quite different\nclasses, an enormous range, but allied species prevail in a remarkable\nmanner throughout the world. I well remember, when first collecting in\nthe fresh waters of Brazil, feeling much surprise at the similarity of\nthe fresh-water insects, shells, etc., and at the dissimilarity of the\nsurrounding terrestrial beings, compared with those of Britain.\n\nBut this power in fresh-water productions of ranging widely, though so\nunexpected, can, I think, in most cases be explained by their having\nbecome fitted, in a manner highly useful to them, for short and\nfrequent migrations from pond to pond, or from stream to stream; and\nliability to wide dispersal would follow from this capacity as an\nalmost necessary consequence. We can here consider only a few cases. In\nregard to\nfish, I believe that the same species never occur in the fresh waters\nof distant continents. But on the same continent the species often\nrange widely and almost capriciously; for two river-systems will have\nsome fish in common and some different. A few facts seem to favour the\npossibility of their occasional transport by accidental means; like\nthat of the live fish not rarely dropped by whirlwinds in India, and\nthe vitality of their ova when removed from the water. But I am\ninclined to attribute the dispersal of fresh-water fish mainly to\nslight changes within the recent period in the level of the land,\nhaving caused rivers to flow into each other. Instances, also, could be\ngiven of this having occurred during floods, without any change of\nlevel. We have evidence in the loess of the Rhine of considerable\nchanges of level in the land within a very recent geological period,\nand when the surface was peopled by existing land and fresh-water\nshells. The wide difference of the fish on opposite sides of continuous\nmountain-ranges, which from an early period must have parted\nriver-systems and completely prevented their inosculation, seems to\nlead to this same conclusion. With respect to allied fresh-water fish\noccurring at very distant points of the world, no doubt there are many\ncases which cannot at present be explained: but some fresh-water fish\nbelong to very ancient forms, and in such cases there will have been\nample time for great geographical changes, and consequently time and\nmeans for much migration. In the second place, salt-water fish can with\ncare be slowly accustomed to live in fresh water; and, according to\nValenciennes, there is hardly a single group of fishes confined\nexclusively to fresh water, so that we may imagine that a marine member\nof a fresh-water group might travel far along the shores of the sea,\nand subsequently\nbecome modified and adapted to the fresh waters of a distant land.\n\nSome species of fresh-water shells have a very wide range, and allied\nspecies, which, on my theory, are descended from a common parent and\nmust have proceeded from a single source, prevail throughout the world.\nTheir distribution at first perplexed me much, as their ova are not\nlikely to be transported by birds, and they are immediately killed by\nsea water, as are the adults. I could not even understand how some\nnaturalised species have rapidly spread throughout the same country.\nBut two facts, which I have observed—and no doubt many others remain to\nbe observed—throw some light on this subject. When a duck suddenly\nemerges from a pond covered with duck-weed, I have twice seen these\nlittle plants adhering to its back; and it has happened to me, in\nremoving a little duck-weed from one aquarium to another, that I have\nquite unintentionally stocked the one with fresh-water shells from the\nother. But another agency is perhaps more effectual: I suspended a\nduck’s feet, which might represent those of a bird sleeping in a\nnatural pond, in an aquarium, where many ova of fresh-water shells were\nhatching; and I found that numbers of the extremely minute and just\nhatched shells crawled on the feet, and clung to them so firmly that\nwhen taken out of the water they could not be jarred off, though at a\nsomewhat more advanced age they would voluntarily drop off. These just\nhatched molluscs, though aquatic in their nature, survived on the\nduck’s feet, in damp air, from twelve to twenty hours; and in this\nlength of time a duck or heron might fly at least six or seven hundred\nmiles, and would be sure to alight on a pool or rivulet, if blown\nacross sea to an oceanic island or to any other distant point. Sir\nCharles Lyell also\ninforms me that a Dyticus has been caught with an Ancylus (a\nfresh-water shell like a limpet) firmly adhering to it; and a\nwater-beetle of the same family, a Colymbetes, once flew on board the\n‘Beagle,’ when forty-five miles distant from the nearest land: how much\nfarther it might have flown with a favouring gale no one can tell.\n\nWith respect to plants, it has long been known what enormous ranges\nmany fresh-water and even marsh-species have, both over continents and\nto the most remote oceanic islands. This is strikingly shown, as\nremarked by Alph. de Candolle, in large groups of terrestrial plants,\nwhich have only a very few aquatic members; for these latter seem\nimmediately to acquire, as if in consequence, a very wide range. I\nthink favourable means of dispersal explain this fact. I have before\nmentioned that earth occasionally, though rarely, adheres in some\nquantity to the feet and beaks of birds. Wading birds, which frequent\nthe muddy edges of ponds, if suddenly flushed, would be the most likely\nto have muddy feet. Birds of this order I can show are the greatest\nwanderers, and are occasionally found on the most remote and barren\nislands in the open ocean; they would not be likely to alight on the\nsurface of the sea, so that the dirt would not be washed off their\nfeet; when making land, they would be sure to fly to their natural\nfresh-water haunts. I do not believe that botanists are aware how\ncharged the mud of ponds is with seeds: I have tried several little\nexperiments, but will here give only the most striking case: I took in\nFebruary three table-spoonfuls of mud from three different points,\nbeneath water, on the edge of a little pond; this mud when dry weighed\nonly 6 3/4 ounces; I kept it covered up in my study for six months,\npulling up and counting each plant as it grew; the plants were\nof many kinds, and were altogether 537 in number; and yet the viscid\nmud was all contained in a breakfast cup! Considering these facts, I\nthink it would be an inexplicable circumstance if water-birds did not\ntransport the seeds of fresh-water plants to vast distances, and if\nconsequently the range of these plants was not very great. The same\nagency may have come into play with the eggs of some of the smaller\nfresh-water animals.\n\nOther and unknown agencies probably have also played a part. I have\nstated that fresh-water fish eat some kinds of seeds, though they\nreject many other kinds after having swallowed them; even small fish\nswallow seeds of moderate size, as of the yellow water-lily and\nPotamogeton. Herons and other birds, century after century, have gone\non daily devouring fish; they then take flight and go to other waters,\nor are blown across the sea; and we have seen that seeds retain their\npower of germination, when rejected in pellets or in excrement, many\nhours afterwards. When I saw the great size of the seeds of that fine\nwater-lily, the Nelumbium, and remembered Alph. de Candolle’s remarks\non this plant, I thought that its distribution must remain quite\ninexplicable; but Audubon states that he found the seeds of the great\nsouthern water-lily (probably, according to Dr. Hooker, the Nelumbium\nluteum) in a heron’s stomach; although I do not know the fact, yet\nanalogy makes me believe that a heron flying to another pond and\ngetting a hearty meal of fish, would probably reject from its stomach a\npellet containing the seeds of the Nelumbium undigested; or the seeds\nmight be dropped by the bird whilst feeding its young, in the same way\nas fish are known sometimes to be dropped.\n\nIn considering these several means of distribution,\nit should be remembered that when a pond or stream is first formed, for\ninstance, on a rising islet, it will be unoccupied; and a single seed\nor egg will have a good chance of succeeding. Although there will\nalways be a struggle for life between the individuals of the species,\nhowever few, already occupying any pond, yet as the number of kinds is\nsmall, compared with those on the land, the competition will probably\nbe less severe between aquatic than between terrestrial species;\nconsequently an intruder from the waters of a foreign country, would\nhave a better chance of seizing on a place, than in the case of\nterrestrial colonists. We should, also, remember that some, perhaps\nmany, fresh-water productions are low in the scale of nature, and that\nwe have reason to believe that such low beings change or become\nmodified less quickly than the high; and this will give longer time\nthan the average for the migration of the same aquatic species. We\nshould not forget the probability of many species having formerly\nranged as continuously as fresh-water productions ever can range, over\nimmense areas, and having subsequently become extinct in intermediate\nregions. But the wide distribution of fresh-water plants and of the\nlower animals, whether retaining the same identical form or in some\ndegree modified, I believe mainly depends on the wide dispersal of\ntheir seeds and eggs by animals, more especially by fresh-water birds,\nwhich have large powers of flight, and naturally travel from one to\nanother and often distant piece of water. Nature, like a careful\ngardener, thus takes her seeds from a bed of a particular nature, and\ndrops them in another equally well fitted for them.\n\n_On the Inhabitants of Oceanic Islands_.—We now come to the last of the\nthree classes of facts, which I\nhave selected as presenting the greatest amount of difficulty, on the\nview that all the individuals both of the same and of allied species\nhave descended from a single parent; and therefore have all proceeded\nfrom a common birthplace, notwithstanding that in the course of time\nthey have come to inhabit distant points of the globe. I have already\nstated that I cannot honestly admit Forbes’s view on continental\nextensions, which, if legitimately followed out, would lead to the\nbelief that within the recent period all existing islands have been\nnearly or quite joined to some continent. This view would remove many\ndifficulties, but it would not, I think, explain all the facts in\nregard to insular productions. In the following remarks I shall not\nconfine myself to the mere question of dispersal; but shall consider\nsome other facts, which bear on the truth of the two theories of\nindependent creation and of descent with modification.\n\nThe species of all kinds which inhabit oceanic islands are few in\nnumber compared with those on equal continental areas: Alph. de\nCandolle admits this for plants, and Wollaston for insects. If we look\nto the large size and varied stations of New Zealand, extending over\n780 miles of latitude, and compare its flowering plants, only 750 in\nnumber, with those on an equal area at the Cape of Good Hope or in\nAustralia, we must, I think, admit that something quite independently\nof any difference in physical conditions has caused so great a\ndifference in number. Even the uniform county of Cambridge has 847\nplants, and the little island of Anglesea 764, but a few ferns and a\nfew introduced plants are included in these numbers, and the comparison\nin some other respects is not quite fair. We have evidence that the\nbarren island of Ascension aboriginally possessed under half-a-dozen\nflowering\nplants; yet many have become naturalised on it, as they have on New\nZealand and on every other oceanic island which can be named. In St.\nHelena there is reason to believe that the naturalised plants and\nanimals have nearly or quite exterminated many native productions. He\nwho admits the doctrine of the creation of each separate species, will\nhave to admit, that a sufficient number of the best adapted plants and\nanimals have not been created on oceanic islands; for man has\nunintentionally stocked them from various sources far more fully and\nperfectly than has nature.\n\nAlthough in oceanic islands the number of kinds of inhabitants is\nscanty, the proportion of endemic species (_i.e._ those found nowhere\nelse in the world) is often extremely large. If we compare, for\ninstance, the number of the endemic land-shells in Madeira, or of the\nendemic birds in the Galapagos Archipelago, with the number found on\nany continent, and then compare the area of the islands with that of\nthe continent, we shall see that this is true. This fact might have\nbeen expected on my theory, for, as already explained, species\noccasionally arriving after long intervals in a new and isolated\ndistrict, and having to compete with new associates, will be eminently\nliable to modification, and will often produce groups of modified\ndescendants. But it by no means follows, that, because in an island\nnearly all the species of one class are peculiar, those of another\nclass, or of another section of the same class, are peculiar; and this\ndifference seems to depend on the species which do not become modified\nhaving immigrated with facility and in a body, so that their mutual\nrelations have not been much disturbed. Thus in the Galapagos Islands\nnearly every land-bird, but only two out of the eleven marine birds,\nare peculiar; and it is obvious that\nmarine birds could arrive at these islands more easily than land-birds.\nBermuda, on the other hand, which lies at about the same distance from\nNorth America as the Galapagos Islands do from South America, and which\nhas a very peculiar soil, does not possess one endemic land bird; and\nwe know from Mr. J. M. Jones’s admirable account of Bermuda, that very\nmany North American birds, during their great annual migrations, visit\neither periodically or occasionally this island. Madeira does not\npossess one peculiar bird, and many European and African birds are\nalmost every year blown there, as I am informed by Mr. E. V. Harcourt.\nSo that these two islands of Bermuda and Madeira have been stocked by\nbirds, which for long ages have struggled together in their former\nhomes, and have become mutually adapted to each other; and when settled\nin their new homes, each kind will have been kept by the others to\ntheir proper places and habits, and will consequently have been little\nliable to modification. Madeira, again, is inhabited by a wonderful\nnumber of peculiar land-shells, whereas not one species of sea-shell is\nconfined to its shores: now, though we do not know how seashells are\ndispersed, yet we can see that their eggs or larvæ, perhaps attached to\nseaweed or floating timber, or to the feet of wading-birds, might be\ntransported far more easily than land-shells, across three or four\nhundred miles of open sea. The different orders of insects in Madeira\napparently present analogous facts.\n\nOceanic islands are sometimes deficient in certain classes, and their\nplaces are apparently occupied by the other inhabitants; in the\nGalapagos Islands reptiles, and in New Zealand gigantic wingless birds,\ntake the place of mammals. In the plants of the Galapagos Islands, Dr.\nHooker has shown that the proportional numbers of the different orders\nare very different from\nwhat they are elsewhere. Such cases are generally accounted for by the\nphysical conditions of the islands; but this explanation seems to me\nnot a little doubtful. Facility of immigration, I believe, has been at\nleast as important as the nature of the conditions.\n\nMany remarkable little facts could be given with respect to the\ninhabitants of remote islands. For instance, in certain islands not\ntenanted by mammals, some of the endemic plants have beautifully hooked\nseeds; yet few relations are more striking than the adaptation of\nhooked seeds for transportal by the wool and fur of quadrupeds. This\ncase presents no difficulty on my view, for a hooked seed might be\ntransported to an island by some other means; and the plant then\nbecoming slightly modified, but still retaining its hooked seeds, would\nform an endemic species, having as useless an appendage as any\nrudimentary organ,—for instance, as the shrivelled wings under the\nsoldered elytra of many insular beetles. Again, islands often possess\ntrees or bushes belonging to orders which elsewhere include only\nherbaceous species; now trees, as Alph. de Candolle has shown,\ngenerally have, whatever the cause may be, confined ranges. Hence trees\nwould be little likely to reach distant oceanic islands; and an\nherbaceous plant, though it would have no chance of successfully\ncompeting in stature with a fully developed tree, when established on\nan island and having to compete with herbaceous plants alone, might\nreadily gain an advantage by growing taller and taller and overtopping\nthe other plants. If so, natural selection would often tend to add to\nthe stature of herbaceous plants when growing on an island, to whatever\norder they belonged, and thus convert them first into bushes and\nultimately into trees.\n\nWith respect to the absence of whole orders on\noceanic islands, Bory St. Vincent long ago remarked that Batrachians\n(frogs, toads, newts) have never been found on any of the many islands\nwith which the great oceans are studded. I have taken pains to verify\nthis assertion, and I have found it strictly true. I have, however,\nbeen assured that a frog exists on the mountains of the great island of\nNew Zealand; but I suspect that this exception (if the information be\ncorrect) may be explained through glacial agency. This general absence\nof frogs, toads, and newts on so many oceanic islands cannot be\naccounted for by their physical conditions; indeed it seems that\nislands are peculiarly well fitted for these animals; for frogs have\nbeen introduced into Madeira, the Azores, and Mauritius, and have\nmultiplied so as to become a nuisance. But as these animals and their\nspawn are known to be immediately killed by sea-water, on my view we\ncan see that there would be great difficulty in their transportal\nacross the sea, and therefore why they do not exist on any oceanic\nisland. But why, on the theory of creation, they should not have been\ncreated there, it would be very difficult to explain.\n\nMammals offer another and similar case. I have carefully searched the\noldest voyages, but have not finished my search; as yet I have not\nfound a single instance, free from doubt, of a terrestrial mammal\n(excluding domesticated animals kept by the natives) inhabiting an\nisland situated above 300 miles from a continent or great continental\nisland; and many islands situated at a much less distance are equally\nbarren. The Falkland Islands, which are inhabited by a wolf-like fox,\ncome nearest to an exception; but this group cannot be considered as\noceanic, as it lies on a bank connected with the mainland; moreover,\nicebergs formerly brought boulders to its western shores, and they may\nhave formerly transported foxes, as so frequently now happens in the\narctic regions. Yet it cannot be said that small islands will not\nsupport small mammals, for they occur in many parts of the world on\nvery small islands, if close to a continent; and hardly an island can\nbe named on which our smaller quadrupeds have not become naturalised\nand greatly multiplied. It cannot be said, on the ordinary view of\ncreation, that there has not been time for the creation of mammals;\nmany volcanic islands are sufficiently ancient, as shown by the\nstupendous degradation which they have suffered and by their tertiary\nstrata: there has also been time for the production of endemic species\nbelonging to other classes; and on continents it is thought that\nmammals appear and disappear at a quicker rate than other and lower\nanimals. Though terrestrial mammals do not occur on oceanic islands,\nærial mammals do occur on almost every island. New Zealand possesses\ntwo bats found nowhere else in the world: Norfolk Island, the Viti\nArchipelago, the Bonin Islands, the Caroline and Marianne\nArchipelagoes, and Mauritius, all possess their peculiar bats. Why, it\nmay be asked, has the supposed creative force produced bats and no\nother mammals on remote islands? On my view this question can easily be\nanswered; for no terrestrial mammal can be transported across a wide\nspace of sea, but bats can fly across. Bats have been seen wandering by\nday far over the Atlantic Ocean; and two North American species either\nregularly or occasionally visit Bermuda, at the distance of 600 miles\nfrom the mainland. I hear from Mr. Tomes, who has specially studied\nthis family, that many of the same species have enormous ranges, and\nare found on continents and on far distant islands. Hence we have only\nto suppose that such wandering species have been modified\nthrough natural selection in their new homes in relation to their new\nposition, and we can understand the presence of endemic bats on\nislands, with the absence of all terrestrial mammals.\n\nBesides the absence of terrestrial mammals in relation to the\nremoteness of islands from continents, there is also a relation, to a\ncertain extent independent of distance, between the depth of the sea\nseparating an island from the neighbouring mainland, and the presence\nin both of the same mammiferous species or of allied species in a more\nor less modified condition. Mr. Windsor Earl has made some striking\nobservations on this head in regard to the great Malay Archipelago,\nwhich is traversed near Celebes by a space of deep ocean; and this\nspace separates two widely distinct mammalian faunas. On either side\nthe islands are situated on moderately deep submarine banks, and they\nare inhabited by closely allied or identical quadrupeds. No doubt some\nfew anomalies occur in this great archipelago, and there is much\ndifficulty in forming a judgment in some cases owing to the probable\nnaturalisation of certain mammals through man’s agency; but we shall\nsoon have much light thrown on the natural history of this archipelago\nby the admirable zeal and researches of Mr. Wallace. I have not as yet\nhad time to follow up this subject in all other quarters of the world;\nbut as far as I have gone, the relation generally holds good. We see\nBritain separated by a shallow channel from Europe, and the mammals are\nthe same on both sides; we meet with analogous facts on many islands\nseparated by similar channels from Australia. The West Indian Islands\nstand on a deeply submerged bank, nearly 1000 fathoms in depth, and\nhere we find American forms, but the species and even the genera are\ndistinct. As the amount of modification in all cases depends to\na certain degree on the lapse of time, and as during changes of level\nit is obvious that islands separated by shallow channels are more\nlikely to have been continuously united within a recent period to the\nmainland than islands separated by deeper channels, we can understand\nthe frequent relation between the depth of the sea and the degree of\naffinity of the mammalian inhabitants of islands with those of a\nneighbouring continent,—an inexplicable relation on the view of\nindependent acts of creation.\n\nAll the foregoing remarks on the inhabitants of oceanic\nislands,—namely, the scarcity of kinds—the richness in endemic forms in\nparticular classes or sections of classes,—the absence of whole groups,\nas of batrachians, and of terrestrial mammals notwithstanding the\npresence of ærial bats,—the singular proportions of certain orders of\nplants,—herbaceous forms having been developed into trees, etc.,—seem\nto me to accord better with the view of occasional means of transport\nhaving been largely efficient in the long course of time, than with the\nview of all our oceanic islands having been formerly connected by\ncontinuous land with the nearest continent; for on this latter view the\nmigration would probably have been more complete; and if modification\nbe admitted, all the forms of life would have been more equally\nmodified, in accordance with the paramount importance of the relation\nof organism to organism.\n\nI do not deny that there are many and grave difficulties in\nunderstanding how several of the inhabitants of the more remote\nislands, whether still retaining the same specific form or modified\nsince their arrival, could have reached their present homes. But the\nprobability of many islands having existed as halting-places, of which\nnot a wreck now remains, must not be overlooked.\nI will here give a single instance of one of the cases of difficulty.\nAlmost all oceanic islands, even the most isolated and smallest, are\ninhabited by land-shells, generally by endemic species, but sometimes\nby species found elsewhere. Dr. Aug. A. Gould has given several\ninteresting cases in regard to the land-shells of the islands of the\nPacific. Now it is notorious that land-shells are very easily killed by\nsalt; their eggs, at least such as I have tried, sink in sea-water and\nare killed by it. Yet there must be, on my view, some unknown, but\nhighly efficient means for their transportal. Would the just-hatched\nyoung occasionally crawl on and adhere to the feet of birds roosting on\nthe ground, and thus get transported? It occurred to me that\nland-shells, when hybernating and having a membranous diaphragm over\nthe mouth of the shell, might be floated in chinks of drifted timber\nacross moderately wide arms of the sea. And I found that several\nspecies did in this state withstand uninjured an immersion in sea-water\nduring seven days: one of these shells was the Helix pomatia, and after\nit had again hybernated I put it in sea-water for twenty days, and it\nperfectly recovered. As this species has a thick calcareous operculum,\nI removed it, and when it had formed a new membranous one, I immersed\nit for fourteen days in sea-water, and it recovered and crawled away:\nbut more experiments are wanted on this head.\n\nThe most striking and important fact for us in regard to the\ninhabitants of islands, is their affinity to those of the nearest\nmainland, without being actually the same species. Numerous instances\ncould be given of this fact. I will give only one, that of the\nGalapagos Archipelago, situated under the equator, between 500 and 600\nmiles from the shores of South America. Here\nalmost every product of the land and water bears the unmistakeable\nstamp of the American continent. There are twenty-six land birds, and\ntwenty-five of these are ranked by Mr. Gould as distinct species,\nsupposed to have been created here; yet the close affinity of most of\nthese birds to American species in every character, in their habits,\ngestures, and tones of voice, was manifest. So it is with the other\nanimals, and with nearly all the plants, as shown by Dr. Hooker in his\nadmirable memoir on the Flora of this archipelago. The naturalist,\nlooking at the inhabitants of these volcanic islands in the Pacific,\ndistant several hundred miles from the continent, yet feels that he is\nstanding on American land. Why should this be so? why should the\nspecies which are supposed to have been created in the Galapagos\nArchipelago, and nowhere else, bear so plain a stamp of affinity to\nthose created in America? There is nothing in the conditions of life,\nin the geological nature of the islands, in their height or climate, or\nin the proportions in which the several classes are associated\ntogether, which resembles closely the conditions of the South American\ncoast: in fact there is a considerable dissimilarity in all these\nrespects. On the other hand, there is a considerable degree of\nresemblance in the volcanic nature of the soil, in climate, height, and\nsize of the islands, between the Galapagos and Cape de Verde\nArchipelagos: but what an entire and absolute difference in their\ninhabitants! The inhabitants of the Cape de Verde Islands are related\nto those of Africa, like those of the Galapagos to America. I believe\nthis grand fact can receive no sort of explanation on the ordinary view\nof independent creation; whereas on the view here maintained, it is\nobvious that the Galapagos Islands would be likely to receive\ncolonists, whether by occasional means of transport or\nby formerly continuous land, from America; and the Cape de Verde\nIslands from Africa; and that such colonists would be liable to\nmodification;—the principle of inheritance still betraying their\noriginal birthplace.\n\nMany analogous facts could be given: indeed it is an almost universal\nrule that the endemic productions of islands are related to those of\nthe nearest continent, or of other near islands. The exceptions are\nfew, and most of them can be explained. Thus the plants of Kerguelen\nLand, though standing nearer to Africa than to America, are related,\nand that very closely, as we know from Dr. Hooker’s account, to those\nof America: but on the view that this island has been mainly stocked by\nseeds brought with earth and stones on icebergs, drifted by the\nprevailing currents, this anomaly disappears. New Zealand in its\nendemic plants is much more closely related to Australia, the nearest\nmainland, than to any other region: and this is what might have been\nexpected; but it is also plainly related to South America, which,\nalthough the next nearest continent, is so enormously remote, that the\nfact becomes an anomaly. But this difficulty almost disappears on the\nview that both New Zealand, South America, and other southern lands\nwere long ago partially stocked from a nearly intermediate though\ndistant point, namely from the antarctic islands, when they were\nclothed with vegetation, before the commencement of the Glacial period.\nThe affinity, which, though feeble, I am assured by Dr. Hooker is real,\nbetween the flora of the south-western corner of Australia and of the\nCape of Good Hope, is a far more remarkable case, and is at present\ninexplicable: but this affinity is confined to the plants, and will, I\ndo not doubt, be some day explained.\n\nThe law which causes the inhabitants of an archipelago,\nthough specifically distinct, to be closely allied to those of the\nnearest continent, we sometimes see displayed on a small scale, yet in\na most interesting manner, within the limits of the same archipelago.\nThus the several islands of the Galapagos Archipelago are tenanted, as\nI have elsewhere shown, in a quite marvellous manner, by very closely\nrelated species; so that the inhabitants of each separate island,\nthough mostly distinct, are related in an incomparably closer degree to\neach other than to the inhabitants of any other part of the world. And\nthis is just what might have been expected on my view, for the islands\nare situated so near each other that they would almost certainly\nreceive immigrants from the same original source, or from each other.\nBut this dissimilarity between the endemic inhabitants of the islands\nmay be used as an argument against my views; for it may be asked, how\nhas it happened in the several islands situated within sight of each\nother, having the same geological nature, the same height, climate,\netc., that many of the immigrants should have been differently\nmodified, though only in a small degree. This long appeared to me a\ngreat difficulty: but it arises in chief part from the deeply-seated\nerror of considering the physical conditions of a country as the most\nimportant for its inhabitants; whereas it cannot, I think, be disputed\nthat the nature of the other inhabitants, with which each has to\ncompete, is at least as important, and generally a far more important\nelement of success. Now if we look to those inhabitants of the\nGalapagos Archipelago which are found in other parts of the world\n(laying on one side for the moment the endemic species, which cannot be\nhere fairly included, as we are considering how they have come to be\nmodified since their arrival), we find a considerable amount\nof difference in the several islands. This difference might indeed have\nbeen expected on the view of the islands having been stocked by\noccasional means of transport—a seed, for instance, of one plant having\nbeen brought to one island, and that of another plant to another\nisland. Hence when in former times an immigrant settled on any one or\nmore of the islands, or when it subsequently spread from one island to\nanother, it would undoubtedly be exposed to different conditions of\nlife in the different islands, for it would have to compete with\ndifferent sets of organisms: a plant, for instance, would find the\nbest-fitted ground more perfectly occupied by distinct plants in one\nisland than in another, and it would be exposed to the attacks of\nsomewhat different enemies. If then it varied, natural selection would\nprobably favour different varieties in the different islands. Some\nspecies, however, might spread and yet retain the same character\nthroughout the group, just as we see on continents some species\nspreading widely and remaining the same.\n\nThe really surprising fact in this case of the Galapagos Archipelago,\nand in a lesser degree in some analogous instances, is that the new\nspecies formed in the separate islands have not quickly spread to the\nother islands. But the islands, though in sight of each other, are\nseparated by deep arms of the sea, in most cases wider than the British\nChannel, and there is no reason to suppose that they have at any former\nperiod been continuously united. The currents of the sea are rapid and\nsweep across the archipelago, and gales of wind are extraordinarily\nrare; so that the islands are far more effectually separated from each\nother than they appear to be on a map. Nevertheless a good many\nspecies, both those found in other parts of the world and those\nconfined to the archipelago, are common to\nthe several islands, and we may infer from certain facts that these\nhave probably spread from some one island to the others. But we often\ntake, I think, an erroneous view of the probability of closely allied\nspecies invading each other’s territory, when put into free\nintercommunication. Undoubtedly if one species has any advantage\nwhatever over another, it will in a very brief time wholly or in part\nsupplant it; but if both are equally well fitted for their own places\nin nature, both probably will hold their own places and keep separate\nfor almost any length of time. Being familiar with the fact that many\nspecies, naturalised through man’s agency, have spread with astonishing\nrapidity over new countries, we are apt to infer that most species\nwould thus spread; but we should remember that the forms which become\nnaturalised in new countries are not generally closely allied to the\naboriginal inhabitants, but are very distinct species, belonging in a\nlarge proportion of cases, as shown by Alph. de Candolle, to distinct\ngenera. In the Galapagos Archipelago, many even of the birds, though so\nwell adapted for flying from island to island, are distinct on each;\nthus there are three closely-allied species of mocking-thrush, each\nconfined to its own island. Now let us suppose the mocking-thrush of\nChatham Island to be blown to Charles Island, which has its own\nmocking-thrush: why should it succeed in establishing itself there? We\nmay safely infer that Charles Island is well stocked with its own\nspecies, for annually more eggs are laid there than can possibly be\nreared; and we may infer that the mocking-thrush peculiar to Charles\nIsland is at least as well fitted for its home as is the species\npeculiar to Chatham Island. Sir C. Lyell and Mr. Wollaston have\ncommunicated to me a remarkable fact bearing on this subject; namely,\nthat Madeira and the adjoining islet of\nPorto Santo possess many distinct but representative land-shells, some\nof which live in crevices of stone; and although large quantities of\nstone are annually transported from Porto Santo to Madeira, yet this\nlatter island has not become colonised by the Porto Santo species:\nnevertheless both islands have been colonised by some European\nland-shells, which no doubt had some advantage over the indigenous\nspecies. From these considerations I think we need not greatly marvel\nat the endemic and representative species, which inhabit the several\nislands of the Galapagos Archipelago, not having universally spread\nfrom island to island. In many other instances, as in the several\ndistricts of the same continent, pre-occupation has probably played an\nimportant part in checking the commingling of species under the same\nconditions of life. Thus, the south-east and south-west corners of\nAustralia have nearly the same physical conditions, and are united by\ncontinuous land, yet they are inhabited by a vast number of distinct\nmammals, birds, and plants.\n\nThe principle which determines the general character of the fauna and\nflora of oceanic islands, namely, that the inhabitants, when not\nidentically the same, yet are plainly related to the inhabitants of\nthat region whence colonists could most readily have been derived,—the\ncolonists having been subsequently modified and better fitted to their\nnew homes,—is of the widest application throughout nature. We see this\non every mountain, in every lake and marsh. For Alpine species,\nexcepting in so far as the same forms, chiefly of plants, have spread\nwidely throughout the world during the recent Glacial epoch, are\nrelated to those of the surrounding lowlands;—thus we have in South\nAmerica, Alpine humming-birds, Alpine rodents, Alpine plants, etc., all\nof strictly American forms, and it is obvious\nthat a mountain, as it became slowly upheaved, would naturally be\ncolonised from the surrounding lowlands. So it is with the inhabitants\nof lakes and marshes, excepting in so far as great facility of\ntransport has given the same general forms to the whole world. We see\nthis same principle in the blind animals inhabiting the caves of\nAmerica and of Europe. Other analogous facts could be given. And it\nwill, I believe, be universally found to be true, that wherever in two\nregions, let them be ever so distant, many closely allied or\nrepresentative species occur, there will likewise be found some\nidentical species, showing, in accordance with the foregoing view, that\nat some former period there has been intercommunication or migration\nbetween the two regions. And wherever many closely-allied species\noccur, there will be found many forms which some naturalists rank as\ndistinct species, and some as varieties; these doubtful forms showing\nus the steps in the process of modification.\n\nThis relation between the power and extent of migration of a species,\neither at the present time or at some former period under different\nphysical conditions, and the existence at remote points of the world of\nother species allied to it, is shown in another and more general way.\nMr. Gould remarked to me long ago, that in those genera of birds which\nrange over the world, many of the species have very wide ranges. I can\nhardly doubt that this rule is generally true, though it would be\ndifficult to prove it. Amongst mammals, we see it strikingly displayed\nin Bats, and in a lesser degree in the Felidæ and Canidæ. We see it, if\nwe compare the distribution of butterflies and beetles. So it is with\nmost fresh-water productions, in which so many genera range over the\nworld, and many individual species have enormous ranges. It is not\nmeant that in world-ranging\ngenera all the species have a wide range, or even that they have on an\n_average_ a wide range; but only that some of the species range very\nwidely; for the facility with which widely-ranging species vary and\ngive rise to new forms will largely determine their average range. For\ninstance, two varieties of the same species inhabit America and Europe,\nand the species thus has an immense range; but, if the variation had\nbeen a little greater, the two varieties would have been ranked as\ndistinct species, and the common range would have been greatly reduced.\nStill less is it meant, that a species which apparently has the\ncapacity of crossing barriers and ranging widely, as in the case of\ncertain powerfully-winged birds, will necessarily range widely; for we\nshould never forget that to range widely implies not only the power of\ncrossing barriers, but the more important power of being victorious in\ndistant lands in the struggle for life with foreign associates. But on\nthe view of all the species of a genus having descended from a single\nparent, though now distributed to the most remote points of the world,\nwe ought to find, and I believe as a general rule we do find, that some\nat least of the species range very widely; for it is necessary that the\nunmodified parent should range widely, undergoing modification during\nits diffusion, and should place itself under diverse conditions\nfavourable for the conversion of its offspring, firstly into new\nvarieties and ultimately into new species.\n\nIn considering the wide distribution of certain genera, we should bear\nin mind that some are extremely ancient, and must have branched off\nfrom a common parent at a remote epoch; so that in such cases there\nwill have been ample time for great climatal and geographical changes\nand for accidents of transport; and consequently for the migration of\nsome of the species into all\nquarters of the world, where they may have become slightly modified in\nrelation to their new conditions. There is, also, some reason to\nbelieve from geological evidence that organisms low in the scale within\neach great class, generally change at a slower rate than the higher\nforms; and consequently the lower forms will have had a better chance\nof ranging widely and of still retaining the same specific character.\nThis fact, together with the seeds and eggs of many low forms being\nvery minute and better fitted for distant transportation, probably\naccounts for a law which has long been observed, and which has lately\nbeen admirably discussed by Alph. de Candolle in regard to plants,\nnamely, that the lower any group of organisms is, the more widely it is\napt to range.\n\nThe relations just discussed,—namely, low and slowly-changing organisms\nranging more widely than the high,—some of the species of\nwidely-ranging genera themselves ranging widely,—such facts, as alpine,\nlacustrine, and marsh productions being related (with the exceptions\nbefore specified) to those on the surrounding low lands and dry lands,\nthough these stations are so different—the very close relation of the\ndistinct species which inhabit the islets of the same archipelago,—and\nespecially the striking relation of the inhabitants of each whole\narchipelago or island to those of the nearest mainland,—are, I think,\nutterly inexplicable on the ordinary view of the independent creation\nof each species, but are explicable on the view of colonisation from\nthe nearest and readiest source, together with the subsequent\nmodification and better adaptation of the colonists to their new homes.\n\n_Summary of last and present Chapters_.—In these chapters I have\nendeavoured to show, that if we make due allowance for our ignorance of\nthe full effects of all\nthe changes of climate and of the level of the land, which have\ncertainly occurred within the recent period, and of other similar\nchanges which may have occurred within the same period; if we remember\nhow profoundly ignorant we are with respect to the many and curious\nmeans of occasional transport,—a subject which has hardly ever been\nproperly experimentised on; if we bear in mind how often a species may\nhave ranged continuously over a wide area, and then have become extinct\nin the intermediate tracts, I think the difficulties in believing that\nall the individuals of the same species, wherever located, have\ndescended from the same parents, are not insuperable. And we are led to\nthis conclusion, which has been arrived at by many naturalists under\nthe designation of single centres of creation, by some general\nconsiderations, more especially from the importance of barriers and\nfrom the analogical distribution of sub-genera, genera, and families.\n\nWith respect to the distinct species of the same genus, which on my\ntheory must have spread from one parent-source; if we make the same\nallowances as before for our ignorance, and remember that some forms of\nlife change most slowly, enormous periods of time being thus granted\nfor their migration, I do not think that the difficulties are\ninsuperable; though they often are in this case, and in that of the\nindividuals of the same species, extremely grave.\n\nAs exemplifying the effects of climatal changes on distribution, I have\nattempted to show how important has been the influence of the modern\nGlacial period, which I am fully convinced simultaneously affected the\nwhole world, or at least great meridional belts. As showing how\ndiversified are the means of occasional transport, I have discussed at\nsome little length the means of dispersal of fresh-water productions.\n\n\nIf the difficulties be not insuperable in admitting that in the long\ncourse of time the individuals of the same species, and likewise of\nallied species, have proceeded from some one source; then I think all\nthe grand leading facts of geographical distribution are explicable on\nthe theory of migration (generally of the more dominant forms of life),\ntogether with subsequent modification and the multiplication of new\nforms. We can thus understand the high importance of barriers, whether\nof land or water, which separate our several zoological and botanical\nprovinces. We can thus understand the localisation of sub-genera,\ngenera, and families; and how it is that under different latitudes, for\ninstance in South America, the inhabitants of the plains and mountains,\nof the forests, marshes, and deserts, are in so mysterious a manner\nlinked together by affinity, and are likewise linked to the extinct\nbeings which formerly inhabited the same continent. Bearing in mind\nthat the mutual relations of organism to organism are of the highest\nimportance, we can see why two areas having nearly the same physical\nconditions should often be inhabited by very different forms of life;\nfor according to the length of time which has elapsed since new\ninhabitants entered one region; according to the nature of the\ncommunication which allowed certain forms and not others to enter,\neither in greater or lesser numbers; according or not, as those which\nentered happened to come in more or less direct competition with each\nother and with the aborigines; and according as the immigrants were\ncapable of varying more or less rapidly, there would ensue in different\nregions, independently of their physical conditions, infinitely\ndiversified conditions of life,—there would be an almost endless amount\nof organic action and reaction,—and we should find, as we do find, some\ngroups of beings greatly, and some only slightly modified,—some\ndeveloped\nin great force, some existing in scanty numbers—in the different great\ngeographical provinces of the world.\n\nOn these same principles, we can understand, as I have endeavoured to\nshow, why oceanic islands should have few inhabitants, but of these a\ngreat number should be endemic or peculiar; and why, in relation to the\nmeans of migration, one group of beings, even within the same class,\nshould have all its species endemic, and another group should have all\nits species common to other quarters of the world. We can see why whole\ngroups of organisms, as batrachians and terrestrial mammals, should be\nabsent from oceanic islands, whilst the most isolated islands possess\ntheir own peculiar species of ærial mammals or bats. We can see why\nthere should be some relation between the presence of mammals, in a\nmore or less modified condition, and the depth of the sea between an\nisland and the mainland. We can clearly see why all the inhabitants of\nan archipelago, though specifically distinct on the several islets,\nshould be closely related to each other, and likewise be related, but\nless closely, to those of the nearest continent or other source whence\nimmigrants were probably derived. We can see why in two areas, however\ndistant from each other, there should be a correlation, in the presence\nof identical species, of varieties, of doubtful species, and of\ndistinct but representative species.\n\nAs the late Edward Forbes often insisted, there is a striking\nparallelism in the laws of life throughout time and space: the laws\ngoverning the succession of forms in past times being nearly the same\nwith those governing at the present time the differences in different\nareas. We see this in many facts. The endurance of each species and\ngroup of species is continuous in time; for the exceptions to the rule\nare so few, that they may\nfairly be attributed to our not having as yet discovered in an\nintermediate deposit the forms which are therein absent, but which\noccur above and below: so in space, it certainly is the general rule\nthat the area inhabited by a single species, or by a group of species,\nis continuous; and the exceptions, which are not rare, may, as I have\nattempted to show, be accounted for by migration at some former period\nunder different conditions or by occasional means of transport, and by\nthe species having become extinct in the intermediate tracts. Both in\ntime and space, species and groups of species have their points of\nmaximum development. Groups of species, belonging either to a certain\nperiod of time, or to a certain area, are often characterised by\ntrifling characters in common, as of sculpture or colour. In looking to\nthe long succession of ages, as in now looking to distant provinces\nthroughout the world, we find that some organisms differ little, whilst\nothers belonging to a different class, or to a different order, or even\nonly to a different family of the same order, differ greatly. In both\ntime and space the lower members of each class generally change less\nthan the higher; but there are in both cases marked exceptions to the\nrule. On my theory these several relations throughout time and space\nare intelligible; for whether we look to the forms of life which have\nchanged during successive ages within the same quarter of the world, or\nto those which have changed after having migrated into distant\nquarters, in both cases the forms within each class have been connected\nby the same bond of ordinary generation; and the more nearly any two\nforms are related in blood, the nearer they will generally stand to\neach other in time and space; in both cases the laws of variation have\nbeen the same, and modifications have been accumulated by the same\npower of natural selection.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\nMUTUAL AFFINITIES OF ORGANIC BEINGS: MORPHOLOGY: EMBRYOLOGY:\nRUDIMENTARY ORGANS.\n\n\nCLASSIFICATION, groups subordinate to groups. Natural system. Rules and\ndifficulties in classification, explained on the theory of descent with\nmodification. Classification of varieties. Descent always used in\nclassification. Analogical or adaptive characters. Affinities, general,\ncomplex and radiating. Extinction separates and defines groups.\nMORPHOLOGY, between members of the same class, between parts of the\nsame individual. EMBRYOLOGY, laws of, explained by variations not\nsupervening at an early age, and being inherited at a corresponding\nage. RUDIMENTARY ORGANS; their origin explained. Summary.\n\n\nFrom the first dawn of life, all organic beings are found to resemble\neach other in descending degrees, so that they can be classed in groups\nunder groups. This classification is evidently not arbitrary like the\ngrouping of the stars in constellations. The existence of groups would\nhave been of simple signification, if one group had been exclusively\nfitted to inhabit the land, and another the water; one to feed on\nflesh, another on vegetable matter, and so on; but the case is widely\ndifferent in nature; for it is notorious how commonly members of even\nthe same subgroup have different habits. In our second and fourth\nchapters, on Variation and on Natural Selection, I have attempted to\nshow that it is the widely ranging, the much diffused and common, that\nis the dominant species belonging to the larger genera, which vary\nmost. The varieties, or incipient species, thus produced ultimately\nbecome converted, as I believe, into new and distinct species; and\nthese, on the principle of inheritance, tend to produce other new and\ndominant\nspecies. Consequently the groups which are now large, and which\ngenerally include many dominant species, tend to go on increasing\nindefinitely in size. I further attempted to show that from the varying\ndescendants of each species trying to occupy as many and as different\nplaces as possible in the economy of nature, there is a constant\ntendency in their characters to diverge. This conclusion was supported\nby looking at the great diversity of the forms of life which, in any\nsmall area, come into the closest competition, and by looking to\ncertain facts in naturalisation.\n\nI attempted also to show that there is a constant tendency in the forms\nwhich are increasing in number and diverging in character, to supplant\nand exterminate the less divergent, the less improved, and preceding\nforms. I request the reader to turn to the diagram illustrating the\naction, as formerly explained, of these several principles; and he will\nsee that the inevitable result is that the modified descendants\nproceeding from one progenitor become broken up into groups subordinate\nto groups. In the diagram each letter on the uppermost line may\nrepresent a genus including several species; and all the genera on this\nline form together one class, for all have descended from one ancient\nbut unseen parent, and, consequently, have inherited something in\ncommon. But the three genera on the left hand have, on this same\nprinciple, much in common, and form a sub-family, distinct from that\nincluding the next two genera on the right hand, which diverged from a\ncommon parent at the fifth stage of descent. These five genera have\nalso much, though less, in common; and they form a family distinct from\nthat including the three genera still further to the right hand, which\ndiverged at a still earlier period. And all these genera, descended\nfrom (A), form an order distinct from the\ngenera descended from (I). So that we here have many species descended\nfrom a single progenitor grouped into genera; and the genera are\nincluded in, or subordinate to, sub-families, families, and orders, all\nunited into one class. Thus, the grand fact in natural history of the\nsubordination of group under group, which, from its familiarity, does\nnot always sufficiently strike us, is in my judgment fully explained.\n\nNaturalists try to arrange the species, genera, and families in each\nclass, on what is called the Natural System. But what is meant by this\nsystem? Some authors look at it merely as a scheme for arranging\ntogether those living objects which are most alike, and for separating\nthose which are most unlike; or as an artificial means for enunciating,\nas briefly as possible, general propositions,—that is, by one sentence\nto give the characters common, for instance, to all mammals, by another\nthose common to all carnivora, by another those common to the\ndog-genus, and then by adding a single sentence, a full description is\ngiven of each kind of dog. The ingenuity and utility of this system are\nindisputable. But many naturalists think that something more is meant\nby the Natural System; they believe that it reveals the plan of the\nCreator; but unless it be specified whether order in time or space, or\nwhat else is meant by the plan of the Creator, it seems to me that\nnothing is thus added to our knowledge. Such expressions as that famous\none of Linnæus, and which we often meet with in a more or less\nconcealed form, that the characters do not make the genus, but that the\ngenus gives the characters, seem to imply that something more is\nincluded in our classification, than mere resemblance. I believe that\nsomething more is included; and that propinquity of descent,—the only\nknown cause of the similarity of organic beings,—is the bond, hidden as\nit is by various degrees of modification,\nwhich is partially revealed to us by our classifications.\n\nLet us now consider the rules followed in classification, and the\ndifficulties which are encountered on the view that classification\neither gives some unknown plan of creation, or is simply a scheme for\nenunciating general propositions and of placing together the forms most\nlike each other. It might have been thought (and was in ancient times\nthought) that those parts of the structure which determined the habits\nof life, and the general place of each being in the economy of nature,\nwould be of very high importance in classification. Nothing can be more\nfalse. No one regards the external similarity of a mouse to a shrew, of\na dugong to a whale, of a whale to a fish, as of any importance. These\nresemblances, though so intimately connected with the whole life of the\nbeing, are ranked as merely “adaptive or analogical characters;” but to\nthe consideration of these resemblances we shall have to recur. It may\neven be given as a general rule, that the less any part of the\norganisation is concerned with special habits, the more important it\nbecomes for classification. As an instance: Owen, in speaking of the\ndugong, says, “The generative organs being those which are most\nremotely related to the habits and food of an animal, I have always\nregarded as affording very clear indications of its true affinities. We\nare least likely in the modifications of these organs to mistake a\nmerely adaptive for an essential character.” So with plants, how\nremarkable it is that the organs of vegetation, on which their whole\nlife depends, are of little signification, excepting in the first main\ndivisions; whereas the organs of reproduction, with their product the\nseed, are of paramount importance!\n\nWe must not, therefore, in classifying, trust to resemblances in parts\nof the organisation, however important\nthey may be for the welfare of the being in relation to the outer\nworld. Perhaps from this cause it has partly arisen, that almost all\nnaturalists lay the greatest stress on resemblances in organs of high\nvital or physiological importance. No doubt this view of the\nclassificatory importance of organs which are important is generally,\nbut by no means always, true. But their importance for classification,\nI believe, depends on their greater constancy throughout large groups\nof species; and this constancy depends on such organs having generally\nbeen subjected to less change in the adaptation of the species to their\nconditions of life. That the mere physiological importance of an organ\ndoes not determine its classificatory value, is almost shown by the one\nfact, that in allied groups, in which the same organ, as we have every\nreason to suppose, has nearly the same physiological value, its\nclassificatory value is widely different. No naturalist can have worked\nat any group without being struck with this fact; and it has been most\nfully acknowledged in the writings of almost every author. It will\nsuffice to quote the highest authority, Robert Brown, who in speaking\nof certain organs in the Proteaceæ, says their generic importance,\n“like that of all their parts, not only in this but, as I apprehend, in\nevery natural family, is very unequal, and in some cases seems to be\nentirely lost.” Again in another work he says, the genera of the\nConnaraceæ “differ in having one or more ovaria, in the existence or\nabsence of albumen, in the imbricate or valvular æstivation. Any one of\nthese characters singly is frequently of more than generic importance,\nthough here even when all taken together they appear insufficient to\nseparate Cnestis from Connarus.” To give an example amongst insects, in\none great division of the Hymenoptera, the antennæ, as Westwood has\nremarked, are most constant in structure;\nin another division they differ much, and the differences are of quite\nsubordinate value in classification; yet no one probably will say that\nthe antennæ in these two divisions of the same order are of unequal\nphysiological importance. Any number of instances could be given of the\nvarying importance for classification of the same important organ\nwithin the same group of beings.\n\nAgain, no one will say that rudimentary or atrophied organs are of high\nphysiological or vital importance; yet, undoubtedly, organs in this\ncondition are often of high value in classification. No one will\ndispute that the rudimentary teeth in the upper jaws of young\nruminants, and certain rudimentary bones of the leg, are highly\nserviceable in exhibiting the close affinity between Ruminants and\nPachyderms. Robert Brown has strongly insisted on the fact that the\nrudimentary florets are of the highest importance in the classification\nof the Grasses.\n\nNumerous instances could be given of characters derived from parts\nwhich must be considered of very trifling physiological importance, but\nwhich are universally admitted as highly serviceable in the definition\nof whole groups. For instance, whether or not there is an open passage\nfrom the nostrils to the mouth, the only character, according to Owen,\nwhich absolutely distinguishes fishes and reptiles—the inflection of\nthe angle of the jaws in Marsupials—the manner in which the wings of\ninsects are folded—mere colour in certain Algæ—mere pubescence on parts\nof the flower in grasses—the nature of the dermal covering, as hair or\nfeathers, in the Vertebrata. If the Ornithorhynchus had been covered\nwith feathers instead of hair, this external and trifling character\nwould, I think, have been considered by naturalists as important an aid\nin determining the degree of affinity of this strange creature to\nbirds and reptiles, as an approach in structure in any one internal and\nimportant organ.\n\nThe importance, for classification, of trifling characters, mainly\ndepends on their being correlated with several other characters of more\nor less importance. The value indeed of an aggregate of characters is\nvery evident in natural history. Hence, as has often been remarked, a\nspecies may depart from its allies in several characters, both of high\nphysiological importance and of almost universal prevalence, and yet\nleave us in no doubt where it should be ranked. Hence, also, it has\nbeen found, that a classification founded on any single character,\nhowever important that may be, has always failed; for no part of the\norganisation is universally constant. The importance of an aggregate of\ncharacters, even when none are important, alone explains, I think, that\nsaying of Linnæus, that the characters do not give the genus, but the\ngenus gives the characters; for this saying seems founded on an\nappreciation of many trifling points of resemblance, too slight to be\ndefined. Certain plants, belonging to the Malpighiaceæ, bear perfect\nand degraded flowers; in the latter, as A. de Jussieu has remarked,\n“the greater number of the characters proper to the species, to the\ngenus, to the family, to the class, disappear, and thus laugh at our\nclassification.” But when Aspicarpa produced in France, during several\nyears, only degraded flowers, departing so wonderfully in a number of\nthe most important points of structure from the proper type of the\norder, yet M. Richard sagaciously saw, as Jussieu observes, that this\ngenus should still be retained amongst the Malpighiaceæ. This case\nseems to me well to illustrate the spirit with which our\nclassifications are sometimes necessarily founded.\n\nPractically when naturalists are at work, they do\nnot trouble themselves about the physiological value of the characters\nwhich they use in defining a group, or in allocating any particular\nspecies. If they find a character nearly uniform, and common to a great\nnumber of forms, and not common to others, they use it as one of high\nvalue; if common to some lesser number, they use it as of subordinate\nvalue. This principle has been broadly confessed by some naturalists to\nbe the true one; and by none more clearly than by that excellent\nbotanist, Aug. St. Hilaire. If certain characters are always found\ncorrelated with others, though no apparent bond of connexion can be\ndiscovered between them, especial value is set on them. As in most\ngroups of animals, important organs, such as those for propelling the\nblood, or for ærating it, or those for propagating the race, are found\nnearly uniform, they are considered as highly serviceable in\nclassification; but in some groups of animals all these, the most\nimportant vital organs, are found to offer characters of quite\nsubordinate value.\n\nWe can see why characters derived from the embryo should be of equal\nimportance with those derived from the adult, for our classifications\nof course include all ages of each species. But it is by no means\nobvious, on the ordinary view, why the structure of the embryo should\nbe more important for this purpose than that of the adult, which alone\nplays its full part in the economy of nature. Yet it has been strongly\nurged by those great naturalists, Milne Edwards and Agassiz, that\nembryonic characters are the most important of any in the\nclassification of animals; and this doctrine has very generally been\nadmitted as true. The same fact holds good with flowering plants, of\nwhich the two main divisions have been founded on characters derived\nfrom the embryo,—on the number and position of the embryonic\nleaves or cotyledons, and on the mode of development of the plumule and\nradicle. In our discussion on embryology, we shall see why such\ncharacters are so valuable, on the view of classification tacitly\nincluding the idea of descent.\n\nOur classifications are often plainly influenced by chains of\naffinities. Nothing can be easier than to define a number of characters\ncommon to all birds; but in the case of crustaceans, such definition\nhas hitherto been found impossible. There are crustaceans at the\nopposite ends of the series, which have hardly a character in common;\nyet the species at both ends, from being plainly allied to others, and\nthese to others, and so onwards, can be recognised as unequivocally\nbelonging to this, and to no other class of the Articulata.\n\nGeographical distribution has often been used, though perhaps not quite\nlogically, in classification, more especially in very large groups of\nclosely allied forms. Temminck insists on the utility or even necessity\nof this practice in certain groups of birds; and it has been followed\nby several entomologists and botanists.\n\nFinally, with respect to the comparative value of the various groups of\nspecies, such as orders, sub-orders, families, sub-families, and\ngenera, they seem to be, at least at present, almost arbitrary. Several\nof the best botanists, such as Mr. Bentham and others, have strongly\ninsisted on their arbitrary value. Instances could be given amongst\nplants and insects, of a group of forms, first ranked by practised\nnaturalists as only a genus, and then raised to the rank of a\nsub-family or family; and this has been done, not because further\nresearch has detected important structural differences, at first\noverlooked, but because numerous allied species, with slightly\ndifferent grades of difference, have been subsequently discovered.\n\n\nAll the foregoing rules and aids and difficulties in classification are\nexplained, if I do not greatly deceive myself, on the view that the\nnatural system is founded on descent with modification; that the\ncharacters which naturalists consider as showing true affinity between\nany two or more species, are those which have been inherited from a\ncommon parent, and, in so far, all true classification is genealogical;\nthat community of descent is the hidden bond which naturalists have\nbeen unconsciously seeking, and not some unknown plan of creation, or\nthe enunciation of general propositions, and the mere putting together\nand separating objects more or less alike.\n\nBut I must explain my meaning more fully. I believe that the\n_arrangement_ of the groups within each class, in due subordination and\nrelation to the other groups, must be strictly genealogical in order to\nbe natural; but that the _amount_ of difference in the several branches\nor groups, though allied in the same degree in blood to their common\nprogenitor, may differ greatly, being due to the different degrees of\nmodification which they have undergone; and this is expressed by the\nforms being ranked under different genera, families, sections, or\norders. The reader will best understand what is meant, if he will take\nthe trouble of referring to the diagram in the fourth chapter. We will\nsuppose the letters A to L to represent allied genera, which lived\nduring the Silurian epoch, and these have descended from a species\nwhich existed at an unknown anterior period. Species of three of these\ngenera (A, F, and I) have transmitted modified descendants to the\npresent day, represented by the fifteen genera (_a_14 to _z_14) on the\nuppermost horizontal line. Now all these modified descendants from a\nsingle species, are represented as related in blood or descent to the\nsame\ndegree; they may metaphorically be called cousins to the same millionth\ndegree; yet they differ widely and in different degrees from each\nother. The forms descended from A, now broken up into two or three\nfamilies, constitute a distinct order from those descended from I, also\nbroken up into two families. Nor can the existing species, descended\nfrom A, be ranked in the same genus with the parent A; or those from I,\nwith the parent I. But the existing genus F14 may be supposed to have\nbeen but slightly modified; and it will then rank with the parent-genus\nF; just as some few still living organic beings belong to Silurian\ngenera. So that the amount or value of the differences between organic\nbeings all related to each other in the same degree in blood, has come\nto be widely different. Nevertheless their genealogical _arrangement_\nremains strictly true, not only at the present time, but at each\nsuccessive period of descent. All the modified descendants from A will\nhave inherited something in common from their common parent, as will\nall the descendants from I; so will it be with each subordinate branch\nof descendants, at each successive period. If, however, we choose to\nsuppose that any of the descendants of A or of I have been so much\nmodified as to have more or less completely lost traces of their\nparentage, in this case, their places in a natural classification will\nhave been more or less completely lost,—as sometimes seems to have\noccurred with existing organisms. All the descendants of the genus F,\nalong its whole line of descent, are supposed to have been but little\nmodified, and they yet form a single genus. But this genus, though much\nisolated, will still occupy its proper intermediate position; for F\noriginally was intermediate in character between A and I, and the\nseveral genera descended from these two genera will\nhave inherited to a certain extent their characters. This natural\narrangement is shown, as far as is possible on paper, in the diagram,\nbut in much too simple a manner. If a branching diagram had not been\nused, and only the names of the groups had been written in a linear\nseries, it would have been still less possible to have given a natural\narrangement; and it is notoriously not possible to represent in a\nseries, on a flat surface, the affinities which we discover in nature\namongst the beings of the same group. Thus, on the view which I hold,\nthe natural system is genealogical in its arrangement, like a pedigree;\nbut the degrees of modification which the different groups have\nundergone, have to be expressed by ranking them under different\nso-called genera, sub-families, families, sections, orders, and\nclasses.\n\nIt may be worth while to illustrate this view of classification, by\ntaking the case of languages. If we possessed a perfect pedigree of\nmankind, a genealogical arrangement of the races of man would afford\nthe best classification of the various languages now spoken throughout\nthe world; and if all extinct languages, and all intermediate and\nslowly changing dialects, had to be included, such an arrangement\nwould, I think, be the only possible one. Yet it might be that some\nvery ancient language had altered little, and had given rise to few new\nlanguages, whilst others (owing to the spreading and subsequent\nisolation and states of civilisation of the several races, descended\nfrom a common race) had altered much, and had given rise to many new\nlanguages and dialects. The various degrees of difference in the\nlanguages from the same stock, would have to be expressed by groups\nsubordinate to groups; but the proper or even only possible arrangement\nwould still be genealogical; and this would be strictly natural, as\nit would connect together all languages, extinct and modern, by the\nclosest affinities, and would give the filiation and origin of each\ntongue.\n\nIn confirmation of this view, let us glance at the classification of\nvarieties, which are believed or known to have descended from one\nspecies. These are grouped under species, with sub-varieties under\nvarieties; and with our domestic productions, several other grades of\ndifference are requisite, as we have seen with pigeons. The origin of\nthe existence of groups subordinate to groups, is the same with\nvarieties as with species, namely, closeness of descent with various\ndegrees of modification. Nearly the same rules are followed in\nclassifying varieties, as with species. Authors have insisted on the\nnecessity of classing varieties on a natural instead of an artificial\nsystem; we are cautioned, for instance, not to class two varieties of\nthe pine-apple together, merely because their fruit, though the most\nimportant part, happens to be nearly identical; no one puts the swedish\nand common turnips together, though the esculent and thickened stems\nare so similar. Whatever part is found to be most constant, is used in\nclassing varieties: thus the great agriculturist Marshall says the\nhorns are very useful for this purpose with cattle, because they are\nless variable than the shape or colour of the body, etc.; whereas with\nsheep the horns are much less serviceable, because less constant. In\nclassing varieties, I apprehend if we had a real pedigree, a\ngenealogical classification would be universally preferred; and it has\nbeen attempted by some authors. For we might feel sure, whether there\nhad been more or less modification, the principle of inheritance would\nkeep the forms together which were allied in the greatest number of\npoints. In tumbler pigeons, though some sub-varieties differ from the\nothers\nin the important character of having a longer beak, yet all are kept\ntogether from having the common habit of tumbling; but the short-faced\nbreed has nearly or quite lost this habit; nevertheless, without any\nreasoning or thinking on the subject, these tumblers are kept in the\nsame group, because allied in blood and alike in some other respects.\nIf it could be proved that the Hottentot had descended from the Negro,\nI think he would be classed under the Negro group, however much he\nmight differ in colour and other important characters from negroes.\n\nWith species in a state of nature, every naturalist has in fact brought\ndescent into his classification; for he includes in his lowest grade,\nor that of a species, the two sexes; and how enormously these sometimes\ndiffer in the most important characters, is known to every naturalist:\nscarcely a single fact can be predicated in common of the males and\nhermaphrodites of certain cirripedes, when adult, and yet no one dreams\nof separating them. The naturalist includes as one species the several\nlarval stages of the same individual, however much they may differ from\neach other and from the adult; as he likewise includes the so-called\nalternate generations of Steenstrup, which can only in a technical\nsense be considered as the same individual. He includes monsters; he\nincludes varieties, not solely because they closely resemble the\nparent-form, but because they are descended from it. He who believes\nthat the cowslip is descended from the primrose, or conversely, ranks\nthem together as a single species, and gives a single definition. As\nsoon as three Orchidean forms (Monochanthus, Myanthus, and Catasetum),\nwhich had previously been ranked as three distinct genera, were known\nto be sometimes produced on the same spike, they were immediately\nincluded as a single species.\nBut it may be asked, what ought we to do, if it could be proved that\none species of kangaroo had been produced, by a long course of\nmodification, from a bear? Ought we to rank this one species with\nbears, and what should we do with the other species? The supposition is\nof course preposterous; and I might answer by the _argumentum ad\nhominem_, and ask what should be done if a perfect kangaroo were seen\nto come out of the womb of a bear? According to all analogy, it would\nbe ranked with bears; but then assuredly all the other species of the\nkangaroo family would have to be classed under the bear genus. The\nwhole case is preposterous; for where there has been close descent in\ncommon, there will certainly be close resemblance or affinity.\n\nAs descent has universally been used in classing together the\nindividuals of the same species, though the males and females and larvæ\nare sometimes extremely different; and as it has been used in classing\nvarieties which have undergone a certain, and sometimes a considerable\namount of modification, may not this same element of descent have been\nunconsciously used in grouping species under genera, and genera under\nhigher groups, though in these cases the modification has been greater\nin degree, and has taken a longer time to complete? I believe it has\nthus been unconsciously used; and only thus can I understand the\nseveral rules and guides which have been followed by our best\nsystematists. We have no written pedigrees; we have to make out\ncommunity of descent by resemblances of any kind. Therefore we choose\nthose characters which, as far as we can judge, are the least likely to\nhave been modified in relation to the conditions of life to which each\nspecies has been recently exposed. Rudimentary structures on this view\nare as good as, or even sometimes better than, other parts of the\norganisation. We\ncare not how trifling a character may be—let it be the mere inflection\nof the angle of the jaw, the manner in which an insect’s wing is\nfolded, whether the skin be covered by hair or feathers—if it prevail\nthroughout many and different species, especially those having very\ndifferent habits of life, it assumes high value; for we can account for\nits presence in so many forms with such different habits, only by its\ninheritance from a common parent. We may err in this respect in regard\nto single points of structure, but when several characters, let them be\never so trifling, occur together throughout a large group of beings\nhaving different habits, we may feel almost sure, on the theory of\ndescent, that these characters have been inherited from a common\nancestor. And we know that such correlated or aggregated characters\nhave especial value in classification.\n\nWe can understand why a species or a group of species may depart, in\nseveral of its most important characteristics, from its allies, and yet\nbe safely classed with them. This may be safely done, and is often\ndone, as long as a sufficient number of characters, let them be ever so\nunimportant, betrays the hidden bond of community of descent. Let two\nforms have not a single character in common, yet if these extreme forms\nare connected together by a chain of intermediate groups, we may at\nonce infer their community of descent, and we put them all into the\nsame class. As we find organs of high physiological importance—those\nwhich serve to preserve life under the most diverse conditions of\nexistence—are generally the most constant, we attach especial value to\nthem; but if these same organs, in another group or section of a group,\nare found to differ much, we at once value them less in our\nclassification. We shall hereafter, I think, clearly see why\nembryological characters are of such high classificatory importance.\nGeographical distribution may sometimes be brought usefully into play\nin classing large and widely-distributed genera, because all the\nspecies of the same genus, inhabiting any distinct and isolated region,\nhave in all probability descended from the same parents.\n\nWe can understand, on these views, the very important distinction\nbetween real affinities and analogical or adaptive resemblances.\nLamarck first called attention to this distinction, and he has been\nably followed by Macleay and others. The resemblance, in the shape of\nthe body and in the fin-like anterior limbs, between the dugong, which\nis a pachydermatous animal, and the whale, and between both these\nmammals and fishes, is analogical. Amongst insects there are\ninnumerable instances: thus Linnæus, misled by external appearances,\nactually classed an homopterous insect as a moth. We see something of\nthe same kind even in our domestic varieties, as in the thickened stems\nof the common and swedish turnip. The resemblance of the greyhound and\nracehorse is hardly more fanciful than the analogies which have been\ndrawn by some authors between very distinct animals. On my view of\ncharacters being of real importance for classification, only in so far\nas they reveal descent, we can clearly understand why analogical or\nadaptive character, although of the utmost importance to the welfare of\nthe being, are almost valueless to the systematist. For animals,\nbelonging to two most distinct lines of descent, may readily become\nadapted to similar conditions, and thus assume a close external\nresemblance; but such resemblances will not reveal—will rather tend to\nconceal their blood-relationship to their proper lines of descent. We\ncan also understand the apparent paradox, that the very same characters\nare analogical when one class or order is compared with another, but\ngive true affinities when the members of\nthe same class or order are compared one with another: thus the shape\nof the body and fin-like limbs are only analogical when whales are\ncompared with fishes, being adaptations in both classes for swimming\nthrough the water; but the shape of the body and fin-like limbs serve\nas characters exhibiting true affinity between the several members of\nthe whale family; for these cetaceans agree in so many characters,\ngreat and small, that we cannot doubt that they have inherited their\ngeneral shape of body and structure of limbs from a common ancestor. So\nit is with fishes.\n\nAs members of distinct classes have often been adapted by successive\nslight modifications to live under nearly similar circumstances,—to\ninhabit for instance the three elements of land, air, and water,—we can\nperhaps understand how it is that a numerical parallelism has sometimes\nbeen observed between the sub-groups in distinct classes. A naturalist,\nstruck by a parallelism of this nature in any one class, by arbitrarily\nraising or sinking the value of the groups in other classes (and all\nour experience shows that this valuation has hitherto been arbitrary),\ncould easily extend the parallelism over a wide range; and thus the\nseptenary, quinary, quaternary, and ternary classifications have\nprobably arisen.\n\nAs the modified descendants of dominant species, belonging to the\nlarger genera, tend to inherit the advantages, which made the groups to\nwhich they belong large and their parents dominant, they are almost\nsure to spread widely, and to seize on more and more places in the\neconomy of nature. The larger and more dominant groups thus tend to go\non increasing in size; and they consequently supplant many smaller and\nfeebler groups. Thus we can account for the fact that all organisms,\nrecent and extinct, are included under a few great\norders, under still fewer classes, and all in one great natural system.\nAs showing how few the higher groups are in number, and how widely\nspread they are throughout the world, the fact is striking, that the\ndiscovery of Australia has not added a single insect belonging to a new\norder; and that in the vegetable kingdom, as I learn from Dr. Hooker,\nit has added only two or three orders of small size.\n\nIn the chapter on geological succession I attempted to show, on the\nprinciple of each group having generally diverged much in character\nduring the long-continued process of modification, how it is that the\nmore ancient forms of life often present characters in some slight\ndegree intermediate between existing groups. A few old and intermediate\nparent-forms having occasionally transmitted to the present day\ndescendants but little modified, will give to us our so-called osculant\nor aberrant groups. The more aberrant any form is, the greater must be\nthe number of connecting forms which on my theory have been\nexterminated and utterly lost. And we have some evidence of aberrant\nforms having suffered severely from extinction, for they are generally\nrepresented by extremely few species; and such species as do occur are\ngenerally very distinct from each other, which again implies\nextinction. The genera Ornithorhynchus and Lepidosiren, for example,\nwould not have been less aberrant had each been represented by a dozen\nspecies instead of by a single one; but such richness in species, as I\nfind after some investigation, does not commonly fall to the lot of\naberrant genera. We can, I think, account for this fact only by looking\nat aberrant forms as failing groups conquered by more successful\ncompetitors, with a few members preserved by some unusual coincidence\nof favourable circumstances.\n\nMr. Waterhouse has remarked that, when a member\nbelonging to one group of animals exhibits an affinity to a quite\ndistinct group, this affinity in most cases is general and not special:\nthus, according to Mr. Waterhouse, of all Rodents, the bizcacha is most\nnearly related to Marsupials; but in the points in which it approaches\nthis order, its relations are general, and not to any one marsupial\nspecies more than to another. As the points of affinity of the bizcacha\nto Marsupials are believed to be real and not merely adaptive, they are\ndue on my theory to inheritance in common. Therefore we must suppose\neither that all Rodents, including the bizcacha, branched off from some\nvery ancient Marsupial, which will have had a character in some degree\nintermediate with respect to all existing Marsupials; or that both\nRodents and Marsupials branched off from a common progenitor, and that\nboth groups have since undergone much modification in divergent\ndirections. On either view we may suppose that the bizcacha has\nretained, by inheritance, more of the character of its ancient\nprogenitor than have other Rodents; and therefore it will not be\nspecially related to any one existing Marsupial, but indirectly to all\nor nearly all Marsupials, from having partially retained the character\nof their common progenitor, or of an early member of the group. On the\nother hand, of all Marsupials, as Mr. Waterhouse has remarked, the\nphascolomys resembles most nearly, not any one species, but the general\norder of Rodents. In this case, however, it may be strongly suspected\nthat the resemblance is only analogical, owing to the phascolomys\nhaving become adapted to habits like those of a Rodent. The elder De\nCandolle has made nearly similar observations on the general nature of\nthe affinities of distinct orders of plants.\n\nOn the principle of the multiplication and gradual divergence in\ncharacter of the species descended from\na common parent, together with their retention by inheritance of some\ncharacters in common, we can understand the excessively complex and\nradiating affinities by which all the members of the same family or\nhigher group are connected together. For the common parent of a whole\nfamily of species, now broken up by extinction into distinct groups and\nsub-groups, will have transmitted some of its characters, modified in\nvarious ways and degrees, to all; and the several species will\nconsequently be related to each other by circuitous lines of affinity\nof various lengths (as may be seen in the diagram so often referred\nto), mounting up through many predecessors. As it is difficult to show\nthe blood-relationship between the numerous kindred of any ancient and\nnoble family, even by the aid of a genealogical tree, and almost\nimpossible to do this without this aid, we can understand the\nextraordinary difficulty which naturalists have experienced in\ndescribing, without the aid of a diagram, the various affinities which\nthey perceive between the many living and extinct members of the same\ngreat natural class.\n\nExtinction, as we have seen in the fourth chapter, has played an\nimportant part in defining and widening the intervals between the\nseveral groups in each class. We may thus account even for the\ndistinctness of whole classes from each other—for instance, of birds\nfrom all other vertebrate animals—by the belief that many ancient forms\nof life have been utterly lost, through which the early progenitors of\nbirds were formerly connected with the early progenitors of the other\nvertebrate classes. There has been less entire extinction of the forms\nof life which once connected fishes with batrachians. There has been\nstill less in some other classes, as in that of the Crustacea, for here\nthe most wonderfully diverse forms are still tied\ntogether by a long, but broken, chain of affinities. Extinction has\nonly separated groups: it has by no means made them; for if every form\nwhich has ever lived on this earth were suddenly to reappear, though it\nwould be quite impossible to give definitions by which each group could\nbe distinguished from other groups, as all would blend together by\nsteps as fine as those between the finest existing varieties,\nnevertheless a natural classification, or at least a natural\narrangement, would be possible. We shall see this by turning to the\ndiagram: the letters, A to L, may represent eleven Silurian genera,\nsome of which have produced large groups of modified descendants. Every\nintermediate link between these eleven genera and their primordial\nparent, and every intermediate link in each branch and sub-branch of\ntheir descendants, may be supposed to be still alive; and the links to\nbe as fine as those between the finest varieties. In this case it would\nbe quite impossible to give any definition by which the several members\nof the several groups could be distinguished from their more immediate\nparents; or these parents from their ancient and unknown progenitor.\nYet the natural arrangement in the diagram would still hold good; and,\non the principle of inheritance, all the forms descended from A, or\nfrom I, would have something in common. In a tree we can specify this\nor that branch, though at the actual fork the two unite and blend\ntogether. We could not, as I have said, define the several groups; but\nwe could pick out types, or forms, representing most of the characters\nof each group, whether large or small, and thus give a general idea of\nthe value of the differences between them. This is what we should be\ndriven to, if we were ever to succeed in collecting all the forms in\nany class which have lived throughout all time and space. We shall\ncertainly never succeed in making\nso perfect a collection: nevertheless, in certain classes, we are\ntending in this direction; and Milne Edwards has lately insisted, in an\nable paper, on the high importance of looking to types, whether or not\nwe can separate and define the groups to which such types belong.\n\nFinally, we have seen that natural selection, which results from the\nstruggle for existence, and which almost inevitably induces extinction\nand divergence of character in the many descendants from one dominant\nparent-species, explains that great and universal feature in the\naffinities of all organic beings, namely, their subordination in group\nunder group. We use the element of descent in classing the individuals\nof both sexes and of all ages, although having few characters in\ncommon, under one species; we use descent in classing acknowledged\nvarieties, however different they may be from their parent; and I\nbelieve this element of descent is the hidden bond of connexion which\nnaturalists have sought under the term of the Natural System. On this\nidea of the natural system being, in so far as it has been perfected,\ngenealogical in its arrangement, with the grades of difference between\nthe descendants from a common parent, expressed by the terms genera,\nfamilies, orders, etc., we can understand the rules which we are\ncompelled to follow in our classification. We can understand why we\nvalue certain resemblances far more than others; why we are permitted\nto use rudimentary and useless organs, or others of trifling\nphysiological importance; why, in comparing one group with a distinct\ngroup, we summarily reject analogical or adaptive characters, and yet\nuse these same characters within the limits of the same group. We can\nclearly see how it is that all living and extinct forms can be grouped\ntogether in one great system; and how the several members of each class\nare connected together by the most complex and radiating\nlines of affinities. We shall never, probably, disentangle the\ninextricable web of affinities between the members of any one class;\nbut when we have a distinct object in view, and do not look to some\nunknown plan of creation, we may hope to make sure but slow progress.\n\n_Morphology_.—We have seen that the members of the same class,\nindependently of their habits of life, resemble each other in the\ngeneral plan of their organisation. This resemblance is often expressed\nby the term “unity of type;” or by saying that the several parts and\norgans in the different species of the class are homologous. The whole\nsubject is included under the general name of Morphology. This is the\nmost interesting department of natural history, and may be said to be\nits very soul. What can be more curious than that the hand of a man,\nformed for grasping, that of a mole for digging, the leg of the horse,\nthe paddle of the porpoise, and the wing of the bat, should all be\nconstructed on the same pattern, and should include the same bones, in\nthe same relative positions? Geoffroy St. Hilaire has insisted strongly\non the high importance of relative connexion in homologous organs: the\nparts may change to almost any extent in form and size, and yet they\nalways remain connected together in the same order. We never find, for\ninstance, the bones of the arm and forearm, or of the thigh and leg,\ntransposed. Hence the same names can be given to the homologous bones\nin widely different animals. We see the same great law in the\nconstruction of the mouths of insects: what can be more different than\nthe immensely long spiral proboscis of a sphinx-moth, the curious\nfolded one of a bee or bug, and the great jaws of a beetle?—yet all\nthese organs, serving for such different\npurposes, are formed by infinitely numerous modifications of an upper\nlip, mandibles, and two pairs of maxillæ. Analogous laws govern the\nconstruction of the mouths and limbs of crustaceans. So it is with the\nflowers of plants.\n\nNothing can be more hopeless than to attempt to explain this similarity\nof pattern in members of the same class, by utility or by the doctrine\nof final causes. The hopelessness of the attempt has been expressly\nadmitted by Owen in his most interesting work on the ‘Nature of Limbs.’\nOn the ordinary view of the independent creation of each being, we can\nonly say that so it is;—that it has so pleased the Creator to construct\neach animal and plant.\n\nThe explanation is manifest on the theory of the natural selection of\nsuccessive slight modifications,—each modification being profitable in\nsome way to the modified form, but often affecting by correlation of\ngrowth other parts of the organisation. In changes of this nature,\nthere will be little or no tendency to modify the original pattern, or\nto transpose parts. The bones of a limb might be shortened and widened\nto any extent, and become gradually enveloped in thick membrane, so as\nto serve as a fin; or a webbed foot might have all its bones, or\ncertain bones, lengthened to any extent, and the membrane connecting\nthem increased to any extent, so as to serve as a wing: yet in all this\ngreat amount of modification there will be no tendency to alter the\nframework of bones or the relative connexion of the several parts. If\nwe suppose that the ancient progenitor, the archetype as it may be\ncalled, of all mammals, had its limbs constructed on the existing\ngeneral pattern, for whatever purpose they served, we can at once\nperceive the plain signification of the homologous construction of the\nlimbs throughout the whole class. So with the mouths of insects, we\nhave only to\nsuppose that their common progenitor had an upper lip, mandibles, and\ntwo pair of maxillæ, these parts being perhaps very simple in form; and\nthen natural selection will account for the infinite diversity in\nstructure and function of the mouths of insects. Nevertheless, it is\nconceivable that the general pattern of an organ might become so much\nobscured as to be finally lost, by the atrophy and ultimately by the\ncomplete abortion of certain parts, by the soldering together of other\nparts, and by the doubling or multiplication of others,—variations\nwhich we know to be within the limits of possibility. In the paddles of\nthe extinct gigantic sea-lizards, and in the mouths of certain\nsuctorial crustaceans, the general pattern seems to have been thus to a\ncertain extent obscured.\n\nThere is another and equally curious branch of the present subject;\nnamely, the comparison not of the same part in different members of a\nclass, but of the different parts or organs in the same individual.\nMost physiologists believe that the bones of the skull are homologous\nwith—that is correspond in number and in relative connexion with—the\nelemental parts of a certain number of vertebræ. The anterior and\nposterior limbs in each member of the vertebrate and articulate classes\nare plainly homologous. We see the same law in comparing the\nwonderfully complex jaws and legs in crustaceans. It is familiar to\nalmost every one, that in a flower the relative position of the sepals,\npetals, stamens, and pistils, as well as their intimate structure, are\nintelligible on the view that they consist of metamorphosed leaves,\narranged in a spire. In monstrous plants, we often get direct evidence\nof the possibility of one organ being transformed into another; and we\ncan actually see in embryonic crustaceans and in many other animals,\nand in flowers, that organs, which when mature\nbecome extremely different, are at an early stage of growth exactly\nalike.\n\nHow inexplicable are these facts on the ordinary view of creation! Why\nshould the brain be enclosed in a box composed of such numerous and\nsuch extraordinarily shaped pieces of bone? As Owen has remarked, the\nbenefit derived from the yielding of the separate pieces in the act of\nparturition of mammals, will by no means explain the same construction\nin the skulls of birds. Why should similar bones have been created in\nthe formation of the wing and leg of a bat, used as they are for such\ntotally different purposes? Why should one crustacean, which has an\nextremely complex mouth formed of many parts, consequently always have\nfewer legs; or conversely, those with many legs have simpler mouths?\nWhy should the sepals, petals, stamens, and pistils in any individual\nflower, though fitted for such widely different purposes, be all\nconstructed on the same pattern?\n\nOn the theory of natural selection, we can satisfactorily answer these\nquestions. In the vertebrata, we see a series of internal vertebræ\nbearing certain processes and appendages; in the articulata, we see the\nbody divided into a series of segments, bearing external appendages;\nand in flowering plants, we see a series of successive spiral whorls of\nleaves. An indefinite repetition of the same part or organ is the\ncommon characteristic (as Owen has observed) of all low or\nlittle-modified forms; therefore we may readily believe that the\nunknown progenitor of the vertebrata possessed many vertebræ; the\nunknown progenitor of the articulata, many segments; and the unknown\nprogenitor of flowering plants, many spiral whorls of leaves. We have\nformerly seen that parts many times repeated are eminently liable to\nvary in number and structure; consequently it is quite probable that\nnatural selection, during a long-continued course of modification,\nshould have seized on a certain number of the primordially similar\nelements, many times repeated, and have adapted them to the most\ndiverse purposes. And as the whole amount of modification will have\nbeen effected by slight successive steps, we need not wonder at\ndiscovering in such parts or organs, a certain degree of fundamental\nresemblance, retained by the strong principle of inheritance.\n\nIn the great class of molluscs, though we can homologise the parts of\none species with those of another and distinct species, we can indicate\nbut few serial homologies; that is, we are seldom enabled to say that\none part or organ is homologous with another in the same individual.\nAnd we can understand this fact; for in molluscs, even in the lowest\nmembers of the class, we do not find nearly so much indefinite\nrepetition of any one part, as we find in the other great classes of\nthe animal and vegetable kingdoms.\n\nNaturalists frequently speak of the skull as formed of metamorphosed\nvertebræ: the jaws of crabs as metamorphosed legs; the stamens and\npistils of flowers as metamorphosed leaves; but it would in these cases\nprobably be more correct, as Professor Huxley has remarked, to speak of\nboth skull and vertebræ, both jaws and legs, etc.,—as having been\nmetamorphosed, not one from the other, but from some common element.\nNaturalists, however, use such language only in a metaphorical sense:\nthey are far from meaning that during a long course of descent,\nprimordial organs of any kind—vertebræ in the one case and legs in the\nother—have actually been modified into skulls or jaws. Yet so strong is\nthe appearance of a modification of this nature having occurred, that\nnaturalists can hardly avoid employing language having this plain\nsignification. On my view\nthese terms may be used literally; and the wonderful fact of the jaws,\nfor instance, of a crab retaining numerous characters, which they would\nprobably have retained through inheritance, if they had really been\nmetamorphosed during a long course of descent from true legs, or from\nsome simple appendage, is explained.\n\n_Embryology_.—It has already been casually remarked that certain organs\nin the individual, which when mature become widely different and serve\nfor different purposes, are in the embryo exactly alike. The embryos,\nalso, of distinct animals within the same class are often strikingly\nsimilar: a better proof of this cannot be given, than a circumstance\nmentioned by Agassiz, namely, that having forgotten to ticket the\nembryo of some vertebrate animal, he cannot now tell whether it be that\nof a mammal, bird, or reptile. The vermiform larvæ of moths, flies,\nbeetles, etc., resemble each other much more closely than do the mature\ninsects; but in the case of larvæ, the embryos are active, and have\nbeen adapted for special lines of life. A trace of the law of embryonic\nresemblance, sometimes lasts till a rather late age: thus birds of the\nsame genus, and of closely allied genera, often resemble each other in\ntheir first and second plumage; as we see in the spotted feathers in\nthe thrush group. In the cat tribe, most of the species are striped or\nspotted in lines; and stripes can be plainly distinguished in the whelp\nof the lion. We occasionally though rarely see something of this kind\nin plants: thus the embryonic leaves of the ulex or furze, and the\nfirst leaves of the phyllodineous acaceas, are pinnate or divided like\nthe ordinary leaves of the leguminosæ.\n\nThe points of structure, in which the embryos of widely different\nanimals of the same class resemble each other, often have no direct\nrelation to their conditions\nof existence. We cannot, for instance, suppose that in the embryos of\nthe vertebrata the peculiar loop-like course of the arteries near the\nbranchial slits are related to similar conditions,—in the young mammal\nwhich is nourished in the womb of its mother, in the egg of the bird\nwhich is hatched in a nest, and in the spawn of a frog under water. We\nhave no more reason to believe in such a relation, than we have to\nbelieve that the same bones in the hand of a man, wing of a bat, and\nfin of a porpoise, are related to similar conditions of life. No one\nwill suppose that the stripes on the whelp of a lion, or the spots on\nthe young blackbird, are of any use to these animals, or are related to\nthe conditions to which they are exposed.\n\nThe case, however, is different when an animal during any part of its\nembryonic career is active, and has to provide for itself. The period\nof activity may come on earlier or later in life; but whenever it comes\non, the adaptation of the larva to its conditions of life is just as\nperfect and as beautiful as in the adult animal. From such special\nadaptations, the similarity of the larvæ or active embryos of allied\nanimals is sometimes much obscured; and cases could be given of the\nlarvæ of two species, or of two groups of species, differing quite as\nmuch, or even more, from each other than do their adult parents. In\nmost cases, however, the larvæ, though active, still obey more or less\nclosely the law of common embryonic resemblance. Cirripedes afford a\ngood instance of this: even the illustrious Cuvier did not perceive\nthat a barnacle was, as it certainly is, a crustacean; but a glance at\nthe larva shows this to be the case in an unmistakeable manner. So\nagain the two main divisions of cirripedes, the pedunculated and\nsessile, which differ widely in external appearance, have larvæ in all\ntheir several stages barely distinguishable.\n\n\nThe embryo in the course of development generally rises in\norganisation: I use this expression, though I am aware that it is\nhardly possible to define clearly what is meant by the organisation\nbeing higher or lower. But no one probably will dispute that the\nbutterfly is higher than the caterpillar. In some cases, however, the\nmature animal is generally considered as lower in the scale than the\nlarva, as with certain parasitic crustaceans. To refer once again to\ncirripedes: the larvæ in the first stage have three pairs of legs, a\nvery simple single eye, and a probosciformed mouth, with which they\nfeed largely, for they increase much in size. In the second stage,\nanswering to the chrysalis stage of butterflies, they have six pairs of\nbeautifully constructed natatory legs, a pair of magnificent compound\neyes, and extremely complex antennæ; but they have a closed and\nimperfect mouth, and cannot feed: their function at this stage is, to\nsearch by their well-developed organs of sense, and to reach by their\nactive powers of swimming, a proper place on which to become attached\nand to undergo their final metamorphosis. When this is completed they\nare fixed for life: their legs are now converted into prehensile\norgans; they again obtain a well-constructed mouth; but they have no\nantennæ, and their two eyes are now reconverted into a minute, single,\nand very simple eye-spot. In this last and complete state, cirripedes\nmay be considered as either more highly or more lowly organised than\nthey were in the larval condition. But in some genera the larvæ become\ndeveloped either into hermaphrodites having the ordinary structure, or\ninto what I have called complemental males: and in the latter, the\ndevelopment has assuredly been retrograde; for the male is a mere sack,\nwhich lives for a short time, and is destitute of mouth, stomach, or\nother organ of importance, excepting for reproduction.\n\n\nWe are so much accustomed to see differences in structure between the\nembryo and the adult, and likewise a close similarity in the embryos of\nwidely different animals within the same class, that we might be led to\nlook at these facts as necessarily contingent in some manner on growth.\nBut there is no obvious reason why, for instance, the wing of a bat, or\nthe fin of a porpoise, should not have been sketched out with all the\nparts in proper proportion, as soon as any structure became visible in\nthe embryo. And in some whole groups of animals and in certain members\nof other groups, the embryo does not at any period differ widely from\nthe adult: thus Owen has remarked in regard to cuttle-fish, “there is\nno metamorphosis; the cephalopodic character is manifested long before\nthe parts of the embryo are completed;” and again in spiders, “there is\nnothing worthy to be called a metamorphosis.” The larvæ of insects,\nwhether adapted to the most diverse and active habits, or quite\ninactive, being fed by their parents or placed in the midst of proper\nnutriment, yet nearly all pass through a similar worm-like stage of\ndevelopment; but in some few cases, as in that of Aphis, if we look to\nthe admirable drawings by Professor Huxley of the development of this\ninsect, we see no trace of the vermiform stage.\n\nHow, then, can we explain these several facts in embryology,—namely the\nvery general, but not universal difference in structure between the\nembryo and the adult;—of parts in the same individual embryo, which\nultimately become very unlike and serve for diverse purposes, being at\nthis early period of growth alike;—of embryos of different species\nwithin the same class, generally, but not universally, resembling each\nother;—of the structure of the embryo not being closely related to its\nconditions of existence, except when the\nembryo becomes at any period of life active and has to provide for\nitself;—of the embryo apparently having sometimes a higher organisation\nthan the mature animal, into which it is developed. I believe that all\nthese facts can be explained, as follows, on the view of descent with\nmodification.\n\nIt is commonly assumed, perhaps from monstrosities often affecting the\nembryo at a very early period, that slight variations necessarily\nappear at an equally early period. But we have little evidence on this\nhead—indeed the evidence rather points the other way; for it is\nnotorious that breeders of cattle, horses, and various fancy animals,\ncannot positively tell, until some time after the animal has been born,\nwhat its merits or form will ultimately turn out. We see this plainly\nin our own children; we cannot always tell whether the child will be\ntall or short, or what its precise features will be. The question is\nnot, at what period of life any variation has been caused, but at what\nperiod it is fully displayed. The cause may have acted, and I believe\ngenerally has acted, even before the embryo is formed; and the\nvariation may be due to the male and female sexual elements having been\naffected by the conditions to which either parent, or their ancestors,\nhave been exposed. Nevertheless an effect thus caused at a very early\nperiod, even before the formation of the embryo, may appear late in\nlife; as when an hereditary disease, which appears in old age alone,\nhas been communicated to the offspring from the reproductive element of\none parent. Or again, as when the horns of cross-bred cattle have been\naffected by the shape of the horns of either parent. For the welfare of\na very young animal, as long as it remains in its mother’s womb, or in\nthe egg, or as long as it is nourished and protected by its parent, it\nmust be quite unimportant whether most of its characters are fully\nacquired a little earlier or later in life. It would not signify, for\ninstance, to a bird which obtained its food best by having a long beak,\nwhether or not it assumed a beak of this particular length, as long as\nit was fed by its parents. Hence, I conclude, that it is quite\npossible, that each of the many successive modifications, by which each\nspecies has acquired its present structure, may have supervened at a\nnot very early period of life; and some direct evidence from our\ndomestic animals supports this view. But in other cases it is quite\npossible that each successive modification, or most of them, may have\nappeared at an extremely early period.\n\nI have stated in the first chapter, that there is some evidence to\nrender it probable, that at whatever age any variation first appears in\nthe parent, it tends to reappear at a corresponding age in the\noffspring. Certain variations can only appear at corresponding ages,\nfor instance, peculiarities in the caterpillar, cocoon, or imago states\nof the silk-moth; or, again, in the horns of almost full-grown cattle.\nBut further than this, variations which, for all that we can see, might\nhave appeared earlier or later in life, tend to appear at a\ncorresponding age in the offspring and parent. I am far from meaning\nthat this is invariably the case; and I could give a good many cases of\nvariations (taking the word in the largest sense) which have supervened\nat an earlier age in the child than in the parent.\n\nThese two principles, if their truth be admitted, will, I believe,\nexplain all the above specified leading facts in embryology. But first\nlet us look at a few analogous cases in domestic varieties. Some\nauthors who have written on Dogs, maintain that the greyhound and\nbulldog, though appearing so different, are really varieties most\nclosely allied, and have probably descended from\nthe same wild stock; hence I was curious to see how far their puppies\ndiffered from each other: I was told by breeders that they differed\njust as much as their parents, and this, judging by the eye, seemed\nalmost to be the case; but on actually measuring the old dogs and their\nsix-days old puppies, I found that the puppies had not nearly acquired\ntheir full amount of proportional difference. So, again, I was told\nthat the foals of cart and race-horses differed as much as the\nfull-grown animals; and this surprised me greatly, as I think it\nprobable that the difference between these two breeds has been wholly\ncaused by selection under domestication; but having had careful\nmeasurements made of the dam and of a three-days old colt of a race and\nheavy cart-horse, I find that the colts have by no means acquired their\nfull amount of proportional difference.\n\nAs the evidence appears to me conclusive, that the several domestic\nbreeds of Pigeon have descended from one wild species, I compared young\npigeons of various breeds, within twelve hours after being hatched; I\ncarefully measured the proportions (but will not here give details) of\nthe beak, width of mouth, length of nostril and of eyelid, size of feet\nand length of leg, in the wild stock, in pouters, fantails, runts,\nbarbs, dragons, carriers, and tumblers. Now some of these birds, when\nmature, differ so extraordinarily in length and form of beak, that they\nwould, I cannot doubt, be ranked in distinct genera, had they been\nnatural productions. But when the nestling birds of these several\nbreeds were placed in a row, though most of them could be distinguished\nfrom each other, yet their proportional differences in the above\nspecified several points were incomparably less than in the full-grown\nbirds. Some characteristic points of difference—for instance, that of\nthe width of mouth—could hardly be detected in the young.\nBut there was one remarkable exception to this rule, for the young of\nthe short-faced tumbler differed from the young of the wild rock-pigeon\nand of the other breeds, in all its proportions, almost exactly as much\nas in the adult state.\n\nThe two principles above given seem to me to explain these facts in\nregard to the later embryonic stages of our domestic varieties.\nFanciers select their horses, dogs, and pigeons, for breeding, when\nthey are nearly grown up: they are indifferent whether the desired\nqualities and structures have been acquired earlier or later in life,\nif the full-grown animal possesses them. And the cases just given, more\nespecially that of pigeons, seem to show that the characteristic\ndifferences which give value to each breed, and which have been\naccumulated by man’s selection, have not generally first appeared at an\nearly period of life, and have been inherited by the offspring at a\ncorresponding not early period. But the case of the short-faced\ntumbler, which when twelve hours old had acquired its proper\nproportions, proves that this is not the universal rule; for here the\ncharacteristic differences must either have appeared at an earlier\nperiod than usual, or, if not so, the differences must have been\ninherited, not at the corresponding, but at an earlier age.\n\nNow let us apply these facts and the above two principles—which latter,\nthough not proved true, can be shown to be in some degree probable—to\nspecies in a state of nature. Let us take a genus of birds, descended\non my theory from some one parent-species, and of which the several new\nspecies have become modified through natural selection in accordance\nwith their diverse habits. Then, from the many slight successive steps\nof variation having supervened at a rather late age, and having been\ninherited at a corresponding\nage, the young of the new species of our supposed genus will manifestly\ntend to resemble each other much more closely than do the adults, just\nas we have seen in the case of pigeons. We may extend this view to\nwhole families or even classes. The fore-limbs, for instance, which\nserved as legs in the parent-species, may become, by a long course of\nmodification, adapted in one descendant to act as hands, in another as\npaddles, in another as wings; and on the above two principles—namely of\neach successive modification supervening at a rather late age, and\nbeing inherited at a corresponding late age—the fore-limbs in the\nembryos of the several descendants of the parent-species will still\nresemble each other closely, for they will not have been modified. But\nin each individual new species, the embryonic fore-limbs will differ\ngreatly from the fore-limbs in the mature animal; the limbs in the\nlatter having undergone much modification at a rather late period of\nlife, and having thus been converted into hands, or paddles, or wings.\nWhatever influence long-continued exercise or use on the one hand, and\ndisuse on the other, may have in modifying an organ, such influence\nwill mainly affect the mature animal, which has come to its full powers\nof activity and has to gain its own living; and the effects thus\nproduced will be inherited at a corresponding mature age. Whereas the\nyoung will remain unmodified, or be modified in a lesser degree, by the\neffects of use and disuse.\n\nIn certain cases the successive steps of variation might supervene,\nfrom causes of which we are wholly ignorant, at a very early period of\nlife, or each step might be inherited at an earlier period than that at\nwhich it first appeared. In either case (as with the short-faced\ntumbler) the young or embryo would closely\nresemble the mature parent-form. We have seen that this is the rule of\ndevelopment in certain whole groups of animals, as with cuttle-fish and\nspiders, and with a few members of the great class of insects, as with\nAphis. With respect to the final cause of the young in these cases not\nundergoing any metamorphosis, or closely resembling their parents from\ntheir earliest age, we can see that this would result from the two\nfollowing contingencies; firstly, from the young, during a course of\nmodification carried on for many generations, having to provide for\ntheir own wants at a very early stage of development, and secondly,\nfrom their following exactly the same habits of life with their\nparents; for in this case, it would be indispensable for the existence\nof the species, that the child should be modified at a very early age\nin the same manner with its parents, in accordance with their similar\nhabits. Some further explanation, however, of the embryo not undergoing\nany metamorphosis is perhaps requisite. If, on the other hand, it\nprofited the young to follow habits of life in any degree different\nfrom those of their parent, and consequently to be constructed in a\nslightly different manner, then, on the principle of inheritance at\ncorresponding ages, the active young or larvæ might easily be rendered\nby natural selection different to any conceivable extent from their\nparents. Such differences might, also, become correlated with\nsuccessive stages of development; so that the larvæ, in the first\nstage, might differ greatly from the larvæ in the second stage, as we\nhave seen to be the case with cirripedes. The adult might become fitted\nfor sites or habits, in which organs of locomotion or of the senses,\netc., would be useless; and in this case the final metamorphosis would\nbe said to be retrograde.\n\nAs all the organic beings, extinct and recent, which\nhave ever lived on this earth have to be classed together, and as all\nhave been connected by the finest gradations, the best, or indeed, if\nour collections were nearly perfect, the only possible arrangement,\nwould be genealogical. Descent being on my view the hidden bond of\nconnexion which naturalists have been seeking under the term of the\nnatural system. On this view we can understand how it is that, in the\neyes of most naturalists, the structure of the embryo is even more\nimportant for classification than that of the adult. For the embryo is\nthe animal in its less modified state; and in so far it reveals the\nstructure of its progenitor. In two groups of animal, however much they\nmay at present differ from each other in structure and habits, if they\npass through the same or similar embryonic stages, we may feel assured\nthat they have both descended from the same or nearly similar parents,\nand are therefore in that degree closely related. Thus, community in\nembryonic structure reveals community of descent. It will reveal this\ncommunity of descent, however much the structure of the adult may have\nbeen modified and obscured; we have seen, for instance, that cirripedes\ncan at once be recognised by their larvæ as belonging to the great\nclass of crustaceans. As the embryonic state of each species and group\nof species partially shows us the structure of their less modified\nancient progenitors, we can clearly see why ancient and extinct forms\nof life should resemble the embryos of their descendants,—our existing\nspecies. Agassiz believes this to be a law of nature; but I am bound to\nconfess that I only hope to see the law hereafter proved true. It can\nbe proved true in those cases alone in which the ancient state, now\nsupposed to be represented in many embryos, has not been obliterated,\neither by the successive variations in a long course of modification\nhaving supervened\nat a very early age, or by the variations having been inherited at an\nearlier period than that at which they first appeared. It should also\nbe borne in mind, that the supposed law of resemblance of ancient forms\nof life to the embryonic stages of recent forms, may be true, but yet,\nowing to the geological record not extending far enough back in time,\nmay remain for a long period, or for ever, incapable of demonstration.\n\nThus, as it seems to me, the leading facts in embryology, which are\nsecond in importance to none in natural history, are explained on the\nprinciple of slight modifications not appearing, in the many\ndescendants from some one ancient progenitor, at a very early period in\nthe life of each, though perhaps caused at the earliest, and being\ninherited at a corresponding not early period. Embryology rises greatly\nin interest, when we thus look at the embryo as a picture, more or less\nobscured, of the common parent-form of each great class of animals.\n\n_Rudimentary, atrophied, or aborted organs_.—Organs or parts in this\nstrange condition, bearing the stamp of inutility, are extremely common\nthroughout nature. For instance, rudimentary mammæ are very general in\nthe males of mammals: I presume that the “bastard-wing” in birds may be\nsafely considered as a digit in a rudimentary state: in very many\nsnakes one lobe of the lungs is rudimentary; in other snakes there are\nrudiments of the pelvis and hind limbs. Some of the cases of\nrudimentary organs are extremely curious; for instance, the presence of\nteeth in foetal whales, which when grown up have not a tooth in their\nheads; and the presence of teeth, which never cut through the gums, in\nthe upper jaws of our unborn calves. It has even been stated on good\nauthority that rudiments of teeth can be detected\nin the beaks of certain embryonic birds. Nothing can be plainer than\nthat wings are formed for flight, yet in how many insects do we see\nwings so reduced in size as to be utterly incapable of flight, and not\nrarely lying under wing-cases, firmly soldered together!\n\nThe meaning of rudimentary organs is often quite unmistakeable: for\ninstance there are beetles of the same genus (and even of the same\nspecies) resembling each other most closely in all respects, one of\nwhich will have full-sized wings, and another mere rudiments of\nmembrane; and here it is impossible to doubt, that the rudiments\nrepresent wings. Rudimentary organs sometimes retain their\npotentiality, and are merely not developed: this seems to be the case\nwith the mammæ of male mammals, for many instances are on record of\nthese organs having become well developed in full-grown males, and\nhaving secreted milk. So again there are normally four developed and\ntwo rudimentary teats in the udders of the genus Bos, but in our\ndomestic cows the two sometimes become developed and give milk. In\nindividual plants of the same species the petals sometimes occur as\nmere rudiments, and sometimes in a well-developed state. In plants with\nseparated sexes, the male flowers often have a rudiment of a pistil;\nand Kölreuter found that by crossing such male plants with an\nhermaphrodite species, the rudiment of the pistil in the hybrid\noffspring was much increased in size; and this shows that the rudiment\nand the perfect pistil are essentially alike in nature.\n\nAn organ serving for two purposes, may become rudimentary or utterly\naborted for one, even the more important purpose; and remain perfectly\nefficient for the other. Thus in plants, the office of the pistil is to\nallow the pollen-tubes to reach the ovules protected in the ovarium at\nits base. The pistil consists of a stigma\nsupported on the style; but in some Compositæ, the male florets, which\nof course cannot be fecundated, have a pistil, which is in a\nrudimentary state, for it is not crowned with a stigma; but the style\nremains well developed, and is clothed with hairs as in other\ncompositæ, for the purpose of brushing the pollen out of the\nsurrounding anthers. Again, an organ may become rudimentary for its\nproper purpose, and be used for a distinct object: in certain fish the\nswim-bladder seems to be rudimentary for its proper function of giving\nbuoyancy, but has become converted into a nascent breathing organ or\nlung. Other similar instances could be given.\n\nRudimentary organs in the individuals of the same species are very\nliable to vary in degree of development and in other respects.\nMoreover, in closely allied species, the degree to which the same organ\nhas been rendered rudimentary occasionally differs much. This latter\nfact is well exemplified in the state of the wings of the female moths\nin certain groups. Rudimentary organs may be utterly aborted; and this\nimplies, that we find in an animal or plant no trace of an organ, which\nanalogy would lead us to expect to find, and which is occasionally\nfound in monstrous individuals of the species. Thus in the snapdragon\n(antirrhinum) we generally do not find a rudiment of a fifth stamen;\nbut this may sometimes be seen. In tracing the homologies of the same\npart in different members of a class, nothing is more common, or more\nnecessary, than the use and discovery of rudiments. This is well shown\nin the drawings given by Owen of the bones of the leg of the horse, ox,\nand rhinoceros.\n\nIt is an important fact that rudimentary organs, such as teeth in the\nupper jaws of whales and ruminants, can often be detected in the\nembryo, but afterwards wholly disappear. It is also, I believe, a\nuniversal\nrule, that a rudimentary part or organ is of greater size relatively to\nthe adjoining parts in the embryo, than in the adult; so that the organ\nat this early age is less rudimentary, or even cannot be said to be in\nany degree rudimentary. Hence, also, a rudimentary organ in the adult,\nis often said to have retained its embryonic condition.\n\nI have now given the leading facts with respect to rudimentary organs.\nIn reflecting on them, every one must be struck with astonishment: for\nthe same reasoning power which tells us plainly that most parts and\norgans are exquisitely adapted for certain purposes, tells us with\nequal plainness that these rudimentary or atrophied organs, are\nimperfect and useless. In works on natural history rudimentary organs\nare generally said to have been created “for the sake of symmetry,” or\nin order “to complete the scheme of nature;” but this seems to me no\nexplanation, merely a restatement of the fact. Would it be thought\nsufficient to say that because planets revolve in elliptic courses\nround the sun, satellites follow the same course round the planets, for\nthe sake of symmetry, and to complete the scheme of nature? An eminent\nphysiologist accounts for the presence of rudimentary organs, by\nsupposing that they serve to excrete matter in excess, or injurious to\nthe system; but can we suppose that the minute papilla, which often\nrepresents the pistil in male flowers, and which is formed merely of\ncellular tissue, can thus act? Can we suppose that the formation of\nrudimentary teeth which are subsequently absorbed, can be of any\nservice to the rapidly growing embryonic calf by the excretion of\nprecious phosphate of lime? When a man’s fingers have been amputated,\nimperfect nails sometimes appear on the stumps: I could as soon believe\nthat these vestiges of nails have appeared, not from unknown laws\nof growth, but in order to excrete horny matter, as that the\nrudimentary nails on the fin of the manatee were formed for this\npurpose.\n\nOn my view of descent with modification, the origin of rudimentary\norgans is simple. We have plenty of cases of rudimentary organs in our\ndomestic productions,—as the stump of a tail in tailless breeds,—the\nvestige of an ear in earless breeds,—the reappearance of minute\ndangling horns in hornless breeds of cattle, more especially, according\nto Youatt, in young animals,—and the state of the whole flower in the\ncauliflower. We often see rudiments of various parts in monsters. But I\ndoubt whether any of these cases throw light on the origin of\nrudimentary organs in a state of nature, further than by showing that\nrudiments can be produced; for I doubt whether species under nature\never undergo abrupt changes. I believe that disuse has been the main\nagency; that it has led in successive generations to the gradual\nreduction of various organs, until they have become rudimentary,—as in\nthe case of the eyes of animals inhabiting dark caverns, and of the\nwings of birds inhabiting oceanic islands, which have seldom been\nforced to take flight, and have ultimately lost the power of flying.\nAgain, an organ useful under certain conditions, might become injurious\nunder others, as with the wings of beetles living on small and exposed\nislands; and in this case natural selection would continue slowly to\nreduce the organ, until it was rendered harmless and rudimentary.\n\nAny change in function, which can be effected by insensibly small\nsteps, is within the power of natural selection; so that an organ\nrendered, during changed habits of life, useless or injurious for one\npurpose, might easily be modified and used for another purpose. Or an\norgan might be retained for one alone of its\nformer functions. An organ, when rendered useless, may well be\nvariable, for its variations cannot be checked by natural selection. At\nwhatever period of life disuse or selection reduces an organ, and this\nwill generally be when the being has come to maturity and to its full\npowers of action, the principle of inheritance at corresponding ages\nwill reproduce the organ in its reduced state at the same age, and\nconsequently will seldom affect or reduce it in the embryo. Thus we can\nunderstand the greater relative size of rudimentary organs in the\nembryo, and their lesser relative size in the adult. But if each step\nof the process of reduction were to be inherited, not at the\ncorresponding age, but at an extremely early period of life (as we have\ngood reason to believe to be possible) the rudimentary part would tend\nto be wholly lost, and we should have a case of complete abortion. The\nprinciple, also, of economy, explained in a former chapter, by which\nthe materials forming any part or structure, if not useful to the\npossessor, will be saved as far as is possible, will probably often\ncome into play; and this will tend to cause the entire obliteration of\na rudimentary organ.\n\nAs the presence of rudimentary organs is thus due to the tendency in\nevery part of the organisation, which has long existed, to be\ninherited—we can understand, on the genealogical view of\nclassification, how it is that systematists have found rudimentary\nparts as useful as, or even sometimes more useful than, parts of high\nphysiological importance. Rudimentary organs may be compared with the\nletters in a word, still retained in the spelling, but become useless\nin the pronunciation, but which serve as a clue in seeking for its\nderivation. On the view of descent with modification, we may conclude\nthat the existence of organs in a rudimentary, imperfect, and useless\ncondition, or quite aborted, far\nfrom presenting a strange difficulty, as they assuredly do on the\nordinary doctrine of creation, might even have been anticipated, and\ncan be accounted for by the laws of inheritance.\n\n_Summary_.—In this chapter I have attempted to show, that the\nsubordination of group to group in all organisms throughout all time;\nthat the nature of the relationship, by which all living and extinct\nbeings are united by complex, radiating, and circuitous lines of\naffinities into one grand system; the rules followed and the\ndifficulties encountered by naturalists in their classifications; the\nvalue set upon characters, if constant and prevalent, whether of high\nvital importance, or of the most trifling importance, or, as in\nrudimentary organs, of no importance; the wide opposition in value\nbetween analogical or adaptive characters, and characters of true\naffinity; and other such rules;—all naturally follow on the view of the\ncommon parentage of those forms which are considered by naturalists as\nallied, together with their modification through natural selection,\nwith its contingencies of extinction and divergence of character. In\nconsidering this view of classification, it should be borne in mind\nthat the element of descent has been universally used in ranking\ntogether the sexes, ages, and acknowledged varieties of the same\nspecies, however different they may be in structure. If we extend the\nuse of this element of descent,—the only certainly known cause of\nsimilarity in organic beings,—we shall understand what is meant by the\nnatural system: it is genealogical in its attempted arrangement, with\nthe grades of acquired difference marked by the terms varieties,\nspecies, genera, families, orders, and classes.\n\nOn this same view of descent with modification, all the great facts in\nMorphology become intelligible,—whether\nwe look to the same pattern displayed in the homologous organs, to\nwhatever purpose applied, of the different species of a class; or to\nthe homologous parts constructed on the same pattern in each individual\nanimal and plant.\n\nOn the principle of successive slight variations, not necessarily or\ngenerally supervening at a very early period of life, and being\ninherited at a corresponding period, we can understand the great\nleading facts in Embryology; namely, the resemblance in an individual\nembryo of the homologous parts, which when matured will become widely\ndifferent from each other in structure and function; and the\nresemblance in different species of a class of the homologous parts or\norgans, though fitted in the adult members for purposes as different as\npossible. Larvæ are active embryos, which have become specially\nmodified in relation to their habits of life, through the principle of\nmodifications being inherited at corresponding ages. On this same\nprinciple—and bearing in mind, that when organs are reduced in size,\neither from disuse or selection, it will generally be at that period of\nlife when the being has to provide for its own wants, and bearing in\nmind how strong is the principle of inheritance—the occurrence of\nrudimentary organs and their final abortion, present to us no\ninexplicable difficulties; on the contrary, their presence might have\nbeen even anticipated. The importance of embryological characters and\nof rudimentary organs in classification is intelligible, on the view\nthat an arrangement is only so far natural as it is genealogical.\n\nFinally, the several classes of facts which have been considered in\nthis chapter, seem to me to proclaim so plainly, that the innumerable\nspecies, genera, and families of organic beings, with which this world\nis\npeopled, have all descended, each within its own class or group, from\ncommon parents, and have all been modified in the course of descent,\nthat I should without hesitation adopt this view, even if it were\nunsupported by other facts or arguments.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\nRECAPITULATION AND CONCLUSION.\n\n\nRecapitulation of the difficulties on the theory of Natural Selection.\nRecapitulation of the general and special circumstances in its favour.\nCauses of the general belief in the immutability of species. How far\nthe theory of natural selection may be extended. Effects of its\nadoption on the study of Natural history. Concluding remarks.\n\n\nAs this whole volume is one long argument, it may be convenient to the\nreader to have the leading facts and inferences briefly recapitulated.\n\nThat many and grave objections may be advanced against the theory of\ndescent with modification through natural selection, I do not deny. I\nhave endeavoured to give to them their full force. Nothing at first can\nappear more difficult to believe than that the more complex organs and\ninstincts should have been perfected, not by means superior to, though\nanalogous with, human reason, but by the accumulation of innumerable\nslight variations, each good for the individual possessor.\nNevertheless, this difficulty, though appearing to our imagination\ninsuperably great, cannot be considered real if we admit the following\npropositions, namely,—that gradations in the perfection of any organ or\ninstinct, which we may consider, either do now exist or could have\nexisted, each good of its kind,—that all organs and instincts are, in\never so slight a degree, variable,—and, lastly, that there is a\nstruggle for existence leading to the preservation of each profitable\ndeviation of structure or instinct. The truth of these propositions\ncannot, I think, be disputed.\n\n\nIt is, no doubt, extremely difficult even to conjecture by what\ngradations many structures have been perfected, more especially amongst\nbroken and failing groups of organic beings; but we see so many strange\ngradations in nature, as is proclaimed by the canon, “Natura non facit\nsaltum,” that we ought to be extremely cautious in saying that any\norgan or instinct, or any whole being, could not have arrived at its\npresent state by many graduated steps. There are, it must be admitted,\ncases of special difficulty on the theory of natural selection; and one\nof the most curious of these is the existence of two or three defined\ncastes of workers or sterile females in the same community of ants; but\nI have attempted to show how this difficulty can be mastered.\n\nWith respect to the almost universal sterility of species when first\ncrossed, which forms so remarkable a contrast with the almost universal\nfertility of varieties when crossed, I must refer the reader to the\nrecapitulation of the facts given at the end of the eighth chapter,\nwhich seem to me conclusively to show that this sterility is no more a\nspecial endowment than is the incapacity of two trees to be grafted\ntogether, but that it is incidental on constitutional differences in\nthe reproductive systems of the intercrossed species. We see the truth\nof this conclusion in the vast difference in the result, when the same\ntwo species are crossed reciprocally; that is, when one species is\nfirst used as the father and then as the mother.\n\nThe fertility of varieties when intercrossed and of their mongrel\noffspring cannot be considered as universal; nor is their very general\nfertility surprising when we remember that it is not likely that either\ntheir constitutions or their reproductive systems should have been\nprofoundly modified. Moreover, most of the\nvarieties which have been experimentised on have been produced under\ndomestication; and as domestication apparently tends to eliminate\nsterility, we ought not to expect it also to produce sterility.\n\nThe sterility of hybrids is a very different case from that of first\ncrosses, for their reproductive organs are more or less functionally\nimpotent; whereas in first crosses the organs on both sides are in a\nperfect condition. As we continually see that organisms of all kinds\nare rendered in some degree sterile from their constitutions having\nbeen disturbed by slightly different and new conditions of life, we\nneed not feel surprise at hybrids being in some degree sterile, for\ntheir constitutions can hardly fail to have been disturbed from being\ncompounded of two distinct organisations. This parallelism is supported\nby another parallel, but directly opposite, class of facts; namely,\nthat the vigour and fertility of all organic beings are increased by\nslight changes in their conditions of life, and that the offspring of\nslightly modified forms or varieties acquire from being crossed\nincreased vigour and fertility. So that, on the one hand, considerable\nchanges in the conditions of life and crosses between greatly modified\nforms, lessen fertility; and on the other hand, lesser changes in the\nconditions of life and crosses between less modified forms, increase\nfertility.\n\nTurning to geographical distribution, the difficulties encountered on\nthe theory of descent with modification are grave enough. All the\nindividuals of the same species, and all the species of the same genus,\nor even higher group, must have descended from common parents; and\ntherefore, in however distant and isolated parts of the world they are\nnow found, they must in the course of successive generations have\npassed from some one part to the others. We are often wholly unable\neven to conjecture how this could have been effected. Yet, as we have\nreason to believe that some species have retained the same specific\nform for very long periods, enormously long as measured by years, too\nmuch stress ought not to be laid on the occasional wide diffusion of\nthe same species; for during very long periods of time there will\nalways be a good chance for wide migration by many means. A broken or\ninterrupted range may often be accounted for by the extinction of the\nspecies in the intermediate regions. It cannot be denied that we are as\nyet very ignorant of the full extent of the various climatal and\ngeographical changes which have affected the earth during modern\nperiods; and such changes will obviously have greatly facilitated\nmigration. As an example, I have attempted to show how potent has been\nthe influence of the Glacial period on the distribution both of the\nsame and of representative species throughout the world. We are as yet\nprofoundly ignorant of the many occasional means of transport. With\nrespect to distinct species of the same genus inhabiting very distant\nand isolated regions, as the process of modification has necessarily\nbeen slow, all the means of migration will have been possible during a\nvery long period; and consequently the difficulty of the wide diffusion\nof species of the same genus is in some degree lessened.\n\nAs on the theory of natural selection an interminable number of\nintermediate forms must have existed, linking together all the species\nin each group by gradations as fine as our present varieties, it may be\nasked, Why do we not see these linking forms all around us? Why are not\nall organic beings blended together in an inextricable chaos? With\nrespect to existing forms, we should remember that we have no right to\nexpect (excepting in rare cases) to discover _directly_ connecting\nlinks between them, but only between each and some extinct and\nsupplanted form. Even on a wide area, which has during a long period\nremained continuous, and of which the climate and other conditions of\nlife change insensibly in going from a district occupied by one species\ninto another district occupied by a closely allied species, we have no\njust right to expect often to find intermediate varieties in the\nintermediate zone. For we have reason to believe that only a few\nspecies are undergoing change at any one period; and all changes are\nslowly effected. I have also shown that the intermediate varieties\nwhich will at first probably exist in the intermediate zones, will be\nliable to be supplanted by the allied forms on either hand; and the\nlatter, from existing in greater numbers, will generally be modified\nand improved at a quicker rate than the intermediate varieties, which\nexist in lesser numbers; so that the intermediate varieties will, in\nthe long run, be supplanted and exterminated.\n\nOn this doctrine of the extermination of an infinitude of connecting\nlinks, between the living and extinct inhabitants of the world, and at\neach successive period between the extinct and still older species, why\nis not every geological formation charged with such links? Why does not\nevery collection of fossil remains afford plain evidence of the\ngradation and mutation of the forms of life? We meet with no such\nevidence, and this is the most obvious and forcible of the many\nobjections which may be urged against my theory. Why, again, do whole\ngroups of allied species appear, though certainly they often falsely\nappear, to have come in suddenly on the several geological stages? Why\ndo we not find great piles of strata beneath the Silurian system,\nstored with the remains of the progenitors of the Silurian groups of\nfossils? For certainly on my theory such\nstrata must somewhere have been deposited at these ancient and utterly\nunknown epochs in the world’s history.\n\nI can answer these questions and grave objections only on the\nsupposition that the geological record is far more imperfect than most\ngeologists believe. It cannot be objected that there has not been time\nsufficient for any amount of organic change; for the lapse of time has\nbeen so great as to be utterly inappreciable by the human intellect.\nThe number of specimens in all our museums is absolutely as nothing\ncompared with the countless generations of countless species which\ncertainly have existed. We should not be able to recognise a species as\nthe parent of any one or more species if we were to examine them ever\nso closely, unless we likewise possessed many of the intermediate links\nbetween their past or parent and present states; and these many links\nwe could hardly ever expect to discover, owing to the imperfection of\nthe geological record. Numerous existing doubtful forms could be named\nwhich are probably varieties; but who will pretend that in future ages\nso many fossil links will be discovered, that naturalists will be able\nto decide, on the common view, whether or not these doubtful forms are\nvarieties? As long as most of the links between any two species are\nunknown, if any one link or intermediate variety be discovered, it will\nsimply be classed as another and distinct species. Only a small portion\nof the world has been geologically explored. Only organic beings of\ncertain classes can be preserved in a fossil condition, at least in any\ngreat number. Widely ranging species vary most, and varieties are often\nat first local,—both causes rendering the discovery of intermediate\nlinks less likely. Local varieties will not spread into other and\ndistant regions until they are considerably modified and improved;\nand when they do spread, if discovered in a geological formation, they\nwill appear as if suddenly created there, and will be simply classed as\nnew species. Most formations have been intermittent in their\naccumulation; and their duration, I am inclined to believe, has been\nshorter than the average duration of specific forms. Successive\nformations are separated from each other by enormous blank intervals of\ntime; for fossiliferous formations, thick enough to resist future\ndegradation, can be accumulated only where much sediment is deposited\non the subsiding bed of the sea. During the alternate periods of\nelevation and of stationary level the record will be blank. During\nthese latter periods there will probably be more variability in the\nforms of life; during periods of subsidence, more extinction.\n\nWith respect to the absence of fossiliferous formations beneath the\nlowest Silurian strata, I can only recur to the hypothesis given in the\nninth chapter. That the geological record is imperfect all will admit;\nbut that it is imperfect to the degree which I require, few will be\ninclined to admit. If we look to long enough intervals of time, geology\nplainly declares that all species have changed; and they have changed\nin the manner which my theory requires, for they have changed slowly\nand in a graduated manner. We clearly see this in the fossil remains\nfrom consecutive formations invariably being much more closely related\nto each other, than are the fossils from formations distant from each\nother in time.\n\nSuch is the sum of the several chief objections and difficulties which\nmay justly be urged against my theory; and I have now briefly\nrecapitulated the answers and explanations which can be given to them.\nI have felt these difficulties far too heavily during many years to\ndoubt their weight. But it deserves especial notice that the more\nimportant objections relate to questions on which we are confessedly\nignorant; nor do we know how ignorant we are. We do not know all the\npossible transitional gradations between the simplest and the most\nperfect organs; it cannot be pretended that we know all the varied\nmeans of Distribution during the long lapse of years, or that we know\nhow imperfect the Geological Record is. Grave as these several\ndifficulties are, in my judgment they do not overthrow the theory of\ndescent with modification.\n\nNow let us turn to the other side of the argument. Under domestication\nwe see much variability. This seems to be mainly due to the\nreproductive system being eminently susceptible to changes in the\nconditions of life; so that this system, when not rendered impotent,\nfails to reproduce offspring exactly like the parent-form. Variability\nis governed by many complex laws,—by correlation of growth, by use and\ndisuse, and by the direct action of the physical conditions of life.\nThere is much difficulty in ascertaining how much modification our\ndomestic productions have undergone; but we may safely infer that the\namount has been large, and that modifications can be inherited for long\nperiods. As long as the conditions of life remain the same, we have\nreason to believe that a modification, which has already been inherited\nfor many generations, may continue to be inherited for an almost\ninfinite number of generations. On the other hand we have evidence that\nvariability, when it has once come into play, does not wholly cease;\nfor new varieties are still occasionally produced by our most anciently\ndomesticated productions.\n\nMan does not actually produce variability; he only\nunintentionally exposes organic beings to new conditions of life, and\nthen nature acts on the organisation, and causes variability. But man\ncan and does select the variations given to him by nature, and thus\naccumulate them in any desired manner. He thus adapts animals and\nplants for his own benefit or pleasure. He may do this methodically, or\nhe may do it unconsciously by preserving the individuals most useful to\nhim at the time, without any thought of altering the breed. It is\ncertain that he can largely influence the character of a breed by\nselecting, in each successive generation, individual differences so\nslight as to be quite inappreciable by an uneducated eye. This process\nof selection has been the great agency in the production of the most\ndistinct and useful domestic breeds. That many of the breeds produced\nby man have to a large extent the character of natural species, is\nshown by the inextricable doubts whether very many of them are\nvarieties or aboriginal species.\n\nThere is no obvious reason why the principles which have acted so\nefficiently under domestication should not have acted under nature. In\nthe preservation of favoured individuals and races, during the\nconstantly-recurrent Struggle for Existence, we see the most powerful\nand ever-acting means of selection. The struggle for existence\ninevitably follows from the high geometrical ratio of increase which is\ncommon to all organic beings. This high rate of increase is proved by\ncalculation, by the effects of a succession of peculiar seasons, and by\nthe results of naturalisation, as explained in the third chapter. More\nindividuals are born than can possibly survive. A grain in the balance\nwill determine which individual shall live and which shall die,—which\nvariety or species shall increase in number, and which shall decrease,\nor finally become extinct. As the individuals\nof the same species come in all respects into the closest competition\nwith each other, the struggle will generally be most severe between\nthem; it will be almost equally severe between the varieties of the\nsame species, and next in severity between the species of the same\ngenus. But the struggle will often be very severe between beings most\nremote in the scale of nature. The slightest advantage in one being, at\nany age or during any season, over those with which it comes into\ncompetition, or better adaptation in however slight a degree to the\nsurrounding physical conditions, will turn the balance.\n\nWith animals having separated sexes there will in most cases be a\nstruggle between the males for possession of the females. The most\nvigorous individuals, or those which have most successfully struggled\nwith their conditions of life, will generally leave most progeny. But\nsuccess will often depend on having special weapons or means of\ndefence, or on the charms of the males; and the slightest advantage\nwill lead to victory.\n\nAs geology plainly proclaims that each land has undergone great\nphysical changes, we might have expected that organic beings would have\nvaried under nature, in the same way as they generally have varied\nunder the changed conditions of domestication. And if there be any\nvariability under nature, it would be an unaccountable fact if natural\nselection had not come into play. It has often been asserted, but the\nassertion is quite incapable of proof, that the amount of variation\nunder nature is a strictly limited quantity. Man, though acting on\nexternal characters alone and often capriciously, can produce within a\nshort period a great result by adding up mere individual differences in\nhis domestic productions; and every one admits that there are at least\nindividual differences in species under nature. But, besides such\ndifferences, all naturalists\nhave admitted the existence of varieties, which they think sufficiently\ndistinct to be worthy of record in systematic works. No one can draw\nany clear distinction between individual differences and slight\nvarieties; or between more plainly marked varieties and sub-species,\nand species. Let it be observed how naturalists differ in the rank\nwhich they assign to the many representative forms in Europe and North\nAmerica.\n\nIf then we have under nature variability and a powerful agent always\nready to act and select, why should we doubt that variations in any way\nuseful to beings, under their excessively complex relations of life,\nwould be preserved, accumulated, and inherited? Why, if man can by\npatience select variations most useful to himself, should nature fail\nin selecting variations useful, under changing conditions of life, to\nher living products? What limit can be put to this power, acting during\nlong ages and rigidly scrutinising the whole constitution, structure,\nand habits of each creature,—favouring the good and rejecting the bad?\nI can see no limit to this power, in slowly and beautifully adapting\neach form to the most complex relations of life. The theory of natural\nselection, even if we looked no further than this, seems to me to be in\nitself probable. I have already recapitulated, as fairly as I could,\nthe opposed difficulties and objections: now let us turn to the special\nfacts and arguments in favour of the theory.\n\nOn the view that species are only strongly marked and permanent\nvarieties, and that each species first existed as a variety, we can see\nwhy it is that no line of demarcation can be drawn between species,\ncommonly supposed to have been produced by special acts of creation,\nand varieties which are acknowledged to have been produced by secondary\nlaws. On this same view we can understand how it is that in each region\nwhere many species of a genus have been produced, and where they now\nflourish, these same species should present many varieties; for where\nthe manufactory of species has been active, we might expect, as a\ngeneral rule, to find it still in action; and this is the case if\nvarieties be incipient species. Moreover, the species of the larger\ngenera, which afford the greater number of varieties or incipient\nspecies, retain to a certain degree the character of varieties; for\nthey differ from each other by a less amount of difference than do the\nspecies of smaller genera. The closely allied species also of the\nlarger genera apparently have restricted ranges, and they are clustered\nin little groups round other species—in which respects they resemble\nvarieties. These are strange relations on the view of each species\nhaving been independently created, but are intelligible if all species\nfirst existed as varieties.\n\nAs each species tends by its geometrical ratio of reproduction to\nincrease inordinately in number; and as the modified descendants of\neach species will be enabled to increase by so much the more as they\nbecome more diversified in habits and structure, so as to be enabled to\nseize on many and widely different places in the economy of nature,\nthere will be a constant tendency in natural selection to preserve the\nmost divergent offspring of any one species. Hence during a\nlong-continued course of modification, the slight differences,\ncharacteristic of varieties of the same species, tend to be augmented\ninto the greater differences characteristic of species of the same\ngenus. New and improved varieties will inevitably supplant and\nexterminate the older, less improved and intermediate varieties; and\nthus species are rendered to a large extent defined and distinct\nobjects. Dominant species belonging to the larger groups tend to give\nbirth to new and dominant\nforms; so that each large group tends to become still larger, and at\nthe same time more divergent in character. But as all groups cannot\nthus succeed in increasing in size, for the world would not hold them,\nthe more dominant groups beat the less dominant. This tendency in the\nlarge groups to go on increasing in size and diverging in character,\ntogether with the almost inevitable contingency of much extinction,\nexplains the arrangement of all the forms of life, in groups\nsubordinate to groups, all within a few great classes, which we now see\neverywhere around us, and which has prevailed throughout all time. This\ngrand fact of the grouping of all organic beings seems to me utterly\ninexplicable on the theory of creation.\n\nAs natural selection acts solely by accumulating slight, successive,\nfavourable variations, it can produce no great or sudden modification;\nit can act only by very short and slow steps. Hence the canon of\n“Natura non facit saltum,” which every fresh addition to our knowledge\ntends to make more strictly correct, is on this theory simply\nintelligible. We can plainly see why nature is prodigal in variety,\nthough niggard in innovation. But why this should be a law of nature if\neach species has been independently created, no man can explain.\n\nMany other facts are, as it seems to me, explicable on this theory. How\nstrange it is that a bird, under the form of woodpecker, should have\nbeen created to prey on insects on the ground; that upland geese, which\nnever or rarely swim, should have been created with webbed feet; that a\nthrush should have been created to dive and feed on sub-aquatic\ninsects; and that a petrel should have been created with habits and\nstructure fitting it for the life of an auk or grebe! and so on in\nendless other cases. But on the view of each\nspecies constantly trying to increase in number, with natural selection\nalways ready to adapt the slowly varying descendants of each to any\nunoccupied or ill-occupied place in nature, these facts cease to be\nstrange, or perhaps might even have been anticipated.\n\nAs natural selection acts by competition, it adapts the inhabitants of\neach country only in relation to the degree of perfection of their\nassociates; so that we need feel no surprise at the inhabitants of any\none country, although on the ordinary view supposed to have been\nspecially created and adapted for that country, being beaten and\nsupplanted by the naturalised productions from another land. Nor ought\nwe to marvel if all the contrivances in nature be not, as far as we can\njudge, absolutely perfect; and if some of them be abhorrent to our\nideas of fitness. We need not marvel at the sting of the bee causing\nthe bee’s own death; at drones being produced in such vast numbers for\none single act, and being then slaughtered by their sterile sisters; at\nthe astonishing waste of pollen by our fir-trees; at the instinctive\nhatred of the queen bee for her own fertile daughters; at ichneumonidæ\nfeeding within the live bodies of caterpillars; and at other such\ncases. The wonder indeed is, on the theory of natural selection, that\nmore cases of the want of absolute perfection have not been observed.\n\nThe complex and little known laws governing variation are the same, as\nfar as we can see, with the laws which have governed the production of\nso-called specific forms. In both cases physical conditions seem to\nhave produced but little direct effect; yet when varieties enter any\nzone, they occasionally assume some of the characters of the species\nproper to that zone. In both varieties and species, use and disuse seem\nto have produced some effect; for it is difficult to resist this\nconclusion\nwhen we look, for instance, at the logger-headed duck, which has wings\nincapable of flight, in nearly the same condition as in the domestic\nduck; or when we look at the burrowing tucutucu, which is occasionally\nblind, and then at certain moles, which are habitually blind and have\ntheir eyes covered with skin; or when we look at the blind animals\ninhabiting the dark caves of America and Europe. In both varieties and\nspecies correlation of growth seems to have played a most important\npart, so that when one part has been modified other parts are\nnecessarily modified. In both varieties and species reversions to\nlong-lost characters occur. How inexplicable on the theory of creation\nis the occasional appearance of stripes on the shoulder and legs of the\nseveral species of the horse-genus and in their hybrids! How simply is\nthis fact explained if we believe that these species have descended\nfrom a striped progenitor, in the same manner as the several domestic\nbreeds of pigeon have descended from the blue and barred rock-pigeon!\n\nOn the ordinary view of each species having been independently created,\nwhy should the specific characters, or those by which the species of\nthe same genus differ from each other, be more variable than the\ngeneric characters in which they all agree? Why, for instance, should\nthe colour of a flower be more likely to vary in any one species of a\ngenus, if the other species, supposed to have been created\nindependently, have differently coloured flowers, than if all the\nspecies of the genus have the same coloured flowers? If species are\nonly well-marked varieties, of which the characters have become in a\nhigh degree permanent, we can understand this fact; for they have\nalready varied since they branched off from a common progenitor in\ncertain characters, by which they have come to be specifically distinct\nfrom each other;\nand therefore these same characters would be more likely still to be\nvariable than the generic characters which have been inherited without\nchange for an enormous period. It is inexplicable on the theory of\ncreation why a part developed in a very unusual manner in any one\nspecies of a genus, and therefore, as we may naturally infer, of great\nimportance to the species, should be eminently liable to variation;\nbut, on my view, this part has undergone, since the several species\nbranched off from a common progenitor, an unusual amount of variability\nand modification, and therefore we might expect this part generally to\nbe still variable. But a part may be developed in the most unusual\nmanner, like the wing of a bat, and yet not be more variable than any\nother structure, if the part be common to many subordinate forms, that\nis, if it has been inherited for a very long period; for in this case\nit will have been rendered constant by long-continued natural\nselection.\n\nGlancing at instincts, marvellous as some are, they offer no greater\ndifficulty than does corporeal structure on the theory of the natural\nselection of successive, slight, but profitable modifications. We can\nthus understand why nature moves by graduated steps in endowing\ndifferent animals of the same class with their several instincts. I\nhave attempted to show how much light the principle of gradation throws\non the admirable architectural powers of the hive-bee. Habit no doubt\nsometimes comes into play in modifying instincts; but it certainly is\nnot indispensable, as we see, in the case of neuter insects, which\nleave no progeny to inherit the effects of long-continued habit. On the\nview of all the species of the same genus having descended from a\ncommon parent, and having inherited much in common, we can understand\nhow it is that allied species, when placed under considerably different\nconditions of life,\nyet should follow nearly the same instincts; why the thrush of South\nAmerica, for instance, lines her nest with mud like our British\nspecies. On the view of instincts having been slowly acquired through\nnatural selection we need not marvel at some instincts being apparently\nnot perfect and liable to mistakes, and at many instincts causing other\nanimals to suffer.\n\nIf species be only well-marked and permanent varieties, we can at once\nsee why their crossed offspring should follow the same complex laws in\ntheir degrees and kinds of resemblance to their parents,—in being\nabsorbed into each other by successive crosses, and in other such\npoints,—as do the crossed offspring of acknowledged varieties. On the\nother hand, these would be strange facts if species have been\nindependently created, and varieties have been produced by secondary\nlaws.\n\nIf we admit that the geological record is imperfect in an extreme\ndegree, then such facts as the record gives, support the theory of\ndescent with modification. New species have come on the stage slowly\nand at successive intervals; and the amount of change, after equal\nintervals of time, is widely different in different groups. The\nextinction of species and of whole groups of species, which has played\nso conspicuous a part in the history of the organic world, almost\ninevitably follows on the principle of natural selection; for old forms\nwill be supplanted by new and improved forms. Neither single species\nnor groups of species reappear when the chain of ordinary generation\nhas once been broken. The gradual diffusion of dominant forms, with the\nslow modification of their descendants, causes the forms of life, after\nlong intervals of time, to appear as if they had changed simultaneously\nthroughout the world. The fact of the fossil remains of each formation\nbeing in some degree intermediate in character between the\nfossils in the formations above and below, is simply explained by their\nintermediate position in the chain of descent. The grand fact that all\nextinct organic beings belong to the same system with recent beings,\nfalling either into the same or into intermediate groups, follows from\nthe living and the extinct being the offspring of common parents. As\nthe groups which have descended from an ancient progenitor have\ngenerally diverged in character, the progenitor with its early\ndescendants will often be intermediate in character in comparison with\nits later descendants; and thus we can see why the more ancient a\nfossil is, the oftener it stands in some degree intermediate between\nexisting and allied groups. Recent forms are generally looked at as\nbeing, in some vague sense, higher than ancient and extinct forms; and\nthey are in so far higher as the later and more improved forms have\nconquered the older and less improved organic beings in the struggle\nfor life. Lastly, the law of the long endurance of allied forms on the\nsame continent,—of marsupials in Australia, of edentata in America, and\nother such cases,—is intelligible, for within a confined country, the\nrecent and the extinct will naturally be allied by descent.\n\nLooking to geographical distribution, if we admit that there has been\nduring the long course of ages much migration from one part of the\nworld to another, owing to former climatal and geographical changes and\nto the many occasional and unknown means of dispersal, then we can\nunderstand, on the theory of descent with modification, most of the\ngreat leading facts in Distribution. We can see why there should be so\nstriking a parallelism in the distribution of organic beings throughout\nspace, and in their geological succession throughout time; for in both\ncases the beings have been connected by the bond of ordinary\ngeneration, and the means of\nmodification have been the same. We see the full meaning of the\nwonderful fact, which must have struck every traveller, namely, that on\nthe same continent, under the most diverse conditions, under heat and\ncold, on mountain and lowland, on deserts and marshes, most of the\ninhabitants within each great class are plainly related; for they will\ngenerally be descendants of the same progenitors and early colonists.\nOn this same principle of former migration, combined in most cases with\nmodification, we can understand, by the aid of the Glacial period, the\nidentity of some few plants, and the close alliance of many others, on\nthe most distant mountains, under the most different climates; and\nlikewise the close alliance of some of the inhabitants of the sea in\nthe northern and southern temperate zones, though separated by the\nwhole intertropical ocean. Although two areas may present the same\nphysical conditions of life, we need feel no surprise at their\ninhabitants being widely different, if they have been for a long period\ncompletely separated from each other; for as the relation of organism\nto organism is the most important of all relations, and as the two\nareas will have received colonists from some third source or from each\nother, at various periods and in different proportions, the course of\nmodification in the two areas will inevitably be different.\n\nOn this view of migration, with subsequent modification, we can see why\noceanic islands should be inhabited by few species, but of these, that\nmany should be peculiar. We can clearly see why those animals which\ncannot cross wide spaces of ocean, as frogs and terrestrial mammals,\nshould not inhabit oceanic islands; and why, on the other hand, new and\npeculiar species of bats, which can traverse the ocean, should so often\nbe found on islands far distant from any continent. Such facts\nas the presence of peculiar species of bats, and the absence of all\nother mammals, on oceanic islands, are utterly inexplicable on the\ntheory of independent acts of creation.\n\nThe existence of closely allied or representative species in any two\nareas, implies, on the theory of descent with modification, that the\nsame parents formerly inhabited both areas; and we almost invariably\nfind that wherever many closely allied species inhabit two areas, some\nidentical species common to both still exist. Wherever many closely\nallied yet distinct species occur, many doubtful forms and varieties of\nthe same species likewise occur. It is a rule of high generality that\nthe inhabitants of each area are related to the inhabitants of the\nnearest source whence immigrants might have been derived. We see this\nin nearly all the plants and animals of the Galapagos archipelago, of\nJuan Fernandez, and of the other American islands being related in the\nmost striking manner to the plants and animals of the neighbouring\nAmerican mainland; and those of the Cape de Verde archipelago and other\nAfrican islands to the African mainland. It must be admitted that these\nfacts receive no explanation on the theory of creation.\n\nThe fact, as we have seen, that all past and present organic beings\nconstitute one grand natural system, with group subordinate to group,\nand with extinct groups often falling in between recent groups, is\nintelligible on the theory of natural selection with its contingencies\nof extinction and divergence of character. On these same principles we\nsee how it is, that the mutual affinities of the species and genera\nwithin each class are so complex and circuitous. We see why certain\ncharacters are far more serviceable than others for classification;—why\nadaptive characters, though of paramount importance to the being, are\nof hardly any\nimportance in classification; why characters derived from rudimentary\nparts, though of no service to the being, are often of high\nclassificatory value; and why embryological characters are the most\nvaluable of all. The real affinities of all organic beings are due to\ninheritance or community of descent. The natural system is a\ngenealogical arrangement, in which we have to discover the lines of\ndescent by the most permanent characters, however slight their vital\nimportance may be.\n\nThe framework of bones being the same in the hand of a man, wing of a\nbat, fin of the porpoise, and leg of the horse,—the same number of\nvertebræ forming the neck of the giraffe and of the elephant,—and\ninnumerable other such facts, at once explain themselves on the theory\nof descent with slow and slight successive modifications. The\nsimilarity of pattern in the wing and leg of a bat, though used for\nsuch different purpose,—in the jaws and legs of a crab,—in the petals,\nstamens, and pistils of a flower, is likewise intelligible on the view\nof the gradual modification of parts or organs, which were alike in the\nearly progenitor of each class. On the principle of successive\nvariations not always supervening at an early age, and being inherited\nat a corresponding not early period of life, we can clearly see why the\nembryos of mammals, birds, reptiles, and fishes should be so closely\nalike, and should be so unlike the adult forms. We may cease marvelling\nat the embryo of an air-breathing mammal or bird having branchial slits\nand arteries running in loops, like those in a fish which has to\nbreathe the air dissolved in water, by the aid of well-developed\nbranchiæ.\n\nDisuse, aided sometimes by natural selection, will often tend to reduce\nan organ, when it has become useless by changed habits or under changed\nconditions\nof life; and we can clearly understand on this view the meaning of\nrudimentary organs. But disuse and selection will generally act on each\ncreature, when it has come to maturity and has to play its full part in\nthe struggle for existence, and will thus have little power of acting\non an organ during early life; hence the organ will not be much reduced\nor rendered rudimentary at this early age. The calf, for instance, has\ninherited teeth, which never cut through the gums of the upper jaw,\nfrom an early progenitor having well-developed teeth; and we may\nbelieve, that the teeth in the mature animal were reduced, during\nsuccessive generations, by disuse or by the tongue and palate having\nbeen fitted by natural selection to browse without their aid; whereas\nin the calf, the teeth have been left untouched by selection or disuse,\nand on the principle of inheritance at corresponding ages have been\ninherited from a remote period to the present day. On the view of each\norganic being and each separate organ having been specially created,\nhow utterly inexplicable it is that parts, like the teeth in the\nembryonic calf or like the shrivelled wings under the soldered\nwing-covers of some beetles, should thus so frequently bear the plain\nstamp of inutility! Nature may be said to have taken pains to reveal,\nby rudimentary organs and by homologous structures, her scheme of\nmodification, which it seems that we wilfully will not understand.\n\nI have now recapitulated the chief facts and considerations which have\nthoroughly convinced me that species have changed, and are still slowly\nchanging by the preservation and accumulation of successive slight\nfavourable variations. Why, it may be asked, have all the most eminent\nliving naturalists and geologists rejected this view of the mutability\nof species? It cannot be\nasserted that organic beings in a state of nature are subject to no\nvariation; it cannot be proved that the amount of variation in the\ncourse of long ages is a limited quantity; no clear distinction has\nbeen, or can be, drawn between species and well-marked varieties. It\ncannot be maintained that species when intercrossed are invariably\nsterile, and varieties invariably fertile; or that sterility is a\nspecial endowment and sign of creation. The belief that species were\nimmutable productions was almost unavoidable as long as the history of\nthe world was thought to be of short duration; and now that we have\nacquired some idea of the lapse of time, we are too apt to assume,\nwithout proof, that the geological record is so perfect that it would\nhave afforded us plain evidence of the mutation of species, if they had\nundergone mutation.\n\nBut the chief cause of our natural unwillingness to admit that one\nspecies has given birth to other and distinct species, is that we are\nalways slow in admitting any great change of which we do not see the\nintermediate steps. The difficulty is the same as that felt by so many\ngeologists, when Lyell first insisted that long lines of inland cliffs\nhad been formed, and great valleys excavated, by the slow action of the\ncoast-waves. The mind cannot possibly grasp the full meaning of the\nterm of a hundred million years; it cannot add up and perceive the full\neffects of many slight variations, accumulated during an almost\ninfinite number of generations.\n\nAlthough I am fully convinced of the truth of the views given in this\nvolume under the form of an abstract, I by no means expect to convince\nexperienced naturalists whose minds are stocked with a multitude of\nfacts all viewed, during a long course of years, from a point of view\ndirectly opposite to mine. It is so easy\nto hide our ignorance under such expressions as the “plan of creation,”\n“unity of design,” etc., and to think that we give an explanation when\nwe only restate a fact. Any one whose disposition leads him to attach\nmore weight to unexplained difficulties than to the explanation of a\ncertain number of facts will certainly reject my theory. A few\nnaturalists, endowed with much flexibility of mind, and who have\nalready begun to doubt on the immutability of species, may be\ninfluenced by this volume; but I look with confidence to the future, to\nyoung and rising naturalists, who will be able to view both sides of\nthe question with impartiality. Whoever is led to believe that species\nare mutable will do good service by conscientiously expressing his\nconviction; for only thus can the load of prejudice by which this\nsubject is overwhelmed be removed.\n\nSeveral eminent naturalists have of late published their belief that a\nmultitude of reputed species in each genus are not real species; but\nthat other species are real, that is, have been independently created.\nThis seems to me a strange conclusion to arrive at. They admit that a\nmultitude of forms, which till lately they themselves thought were\nspecial creations, and which are still thus looked at by the majority\nof naturalists, and which consequently have every external\ncharacteristic feature of true species,—they admit that these have been\nproduced by variation, but they refuse to extend the same view to other\nand very slightly different forms. Nevertheless they do not pretend\nthat they can define, or even conjecture, which are the created forms\nof life, and which are those produced by secondary laws. They admit\nvariation as a _vera causa_ in one case, they arbitrarily reject it in\nanother, without assigning any distinction in the two cases. The day\nwill come when this will be given as a curious illustration of\nthe blindness of preconceived opinion. These authors seem no more\nstartled at a miraculous act of creation than at an ordinary birth. But\ndo they really believe that at innumerable periods in the earth’s\nhistory certain elemental atoms have been commanded suddenly to flash\ninto living tissues? Do they believe that at each supposed act of\ncreation one individual or many were produced? Were all the infinitely\nnumerous kinds of animals and plants created as eggs or seed, or as\nfull grown? and in the case of mammals, were they created bearing the\nfalse marks of nourishment from the mother’s womb? Although naturalists\nvery properly demand a full explanation of every difficulty from those\nwho believe in the mutability of species, on their own side they ignore\nthe whole subject of the first appearance of species in what they\nconsider reverent silence.\n\nIt may be asked how far I extend the doctrine of the modification of\nspecies. The question is difficult to answer, because the more distinct\nthe forms are which we may consider, by so much the arguments fall away\nin force. But some arguments of the greatest weight extend very far.\nAll the members of whole classes can be connected together by chains of\naffinities, and all can be classified on the same principle, in groups\nsubordinate to groups. Fossil remains sometimes tend to fill up very\nwide intervals between existing orders. Organs in a rudimentary\ncondition plainly show that an early progenitor had the organ in a\nfully developed state; and this in some instances necessarily implies\nan enormous amount of modification in the descendants. Throughout whole\nclasses various structures are formed on the same pattern, and at an\nembryonic age the species closely resemble each other. Therefore I\ncannot doubt that the theory of descent with modification\nembraces all the members of the same class. I believe that animals have\ndescended from at most only four or five progenitors, and plants from\nan equal or lesser number.\n\nAnalogy would lead me one step further, namely, to the belief that all\nanimals and plants have descended from some one prototype. But analogy\nmay be a deceitful guide. Nevertheless all living things have much in\ncommon, in their chemical composition, their germinal vesicles, their\ncellular structure, and their laws of growth and reproduction. We see\nthis even in so trifling a circumstance as that the same poison often\nsimilarly affects plants and animals; or that the poison secreted by\nthe gall-fly produces monstrous growths on the wild rose or oak-tree.\nTherefore I should infer from analogy that probably all the organic\nbeings which have ever lived on this earth have descended from some one\nprimordial form, into which life was first breathed.\n\nWhen the views entertained in this volume on the origin of species, or\nwhen analogous views are generally admitted, we can dimly foresee that\nthere will be a considerable revolution in natural history.\nSystematists will be able to pursue their labours as at present; but\nthey will not be incessantly haunted by the shadowy doubt whether this\nor that form be in essence a species. This I feel sure, and I speak\nafter experience, will be no slight relief. The endless disputes\nwhether or not some fifty species of British brambles are true species\nwill cease. Systematists will have only to decide (not that this will\nbe easy) whether any form be sufficiently constant and distinct from\nother forms, to be capable of definition; and if definable, whether the\ndifferences be sufficiently important to deserve a specific name. This\nlatter point will become a far more essential consideration\nthan it is at present; for differences, however slight, between any two\nforms, if not blended by intermediate gradations, are looked at by most\nnaturalists as sufficient to raise both forms to the rank of species.\nHereafter we shall be compelled to acknowledge that the only\ndistinction between species and well-marked varieties is, that the\nlatter are known, or believed, to be connected at the present day by\nintermediate gradations, whereas species were formerly thus connected.\nHence, without quite rejecting the consideration of the present\nexistence of intermediate gradations between any two forms, we shall be\nled to weigh more carefully and to value higher the actual amount of\ndifference between them. It is quite possible that forms now generally\nacknowledged to be merely varieties may hereafter be thought worthy of\nspecific names, as with the primrose and cowslip; and in this case\nscientific and common language will come into accordance. In short, we\nshall have to treat species in the same manner as those naturalists\ntreat genera, who admit that genera are merely artificial combinations\nmade for convenience. This may not be a cheering prospect; but we shall\nat least be freed from the vain search for the undiscovered and\nundiscoverable essence of the term species.\n\nThe other and more general departments of natural history will rise\ngreatly in interest. The terms used by naturalists of affinity,\nrelationship, community of type, paternity, morphology, adaptive\ncharacters, rudimentary and aborted organs, etc., will cease to be\nmetaphorical, and will have a plain signification. When we no longer\nlook at an organic being as a savage looks at a ship, as at something\nwholly beyond his comprehension; when we regard every production of\nnature as one which has had a history; when we contemplate every\ncomplex structure\nand instinct as the summing up of many contrivances, each useful to the\npossessor, nearly in the same way as when we look at any great\nmechanical invention as the summing up of the labour, the experience,\nthe reason, and even the blunders of numerous workmen; when we thus\nview each organic being, how far more interesting, I speak from\nexperience, will the study of natural history become!\n\nA grand and almost untrodden field of inquiry will be opened, on the\ncauses and laws of variation, on correlation of growth, on the effects\nof use and disuse, on the direct action of external conditions, and so\nforth. The study of domestic productions will rise immensely in value.\nA new variety raised by man will be a far more important and\ninteresting subject for study than one more species added to the\ninfinitude of already recorded species. Our classifications will come\nto be, as far as they can be so made, genealogies; and will then truly\ngive what may be called the plan of creation. The rules for classifying\nwill no doubt become simpler when we have a definite object in view. We\npossess no pedigrees or armorial bearings; and we have to discover and\ntrace the many diverging lines of descent in our natural genealogies,\nby characters of any kind which have long been inherited. Rudimentary\norgans will speak infallibly with respect to the nature of long-lost\nstructures. Species and groups of species, which are called aberrant,\nand which may fancifully be called living fossils, will aid us in\nforming a picture of the ancient forms of life. Embryology will reveal\nto us the structure, in some degree obscured, of the prototypes of each\ngreat class.\n\nWhen we can feel assured that all the individuals of the same species,\nand all the closely allied species of most genera, have within a not\nvery remote period descended\nfrom one parent, and have migrated from some one birthplace; and when\nwe better know the many means of migration, then, by the light which\ngeology now throws, and will continue to throw, on former changes of\nclimate and of the level of the land, we shall surely be enabled to\ntrace in an admirable manner the former migrations of the inhabitants\nof the whole world. Even at present, by comparing the differences of\nthe inhabitants of the sea on the opposite sides of a continent, and\nthe nature of the various inhabitants of that continent in relation to\ntheir apparent means of immigration, some light can be thrown on\nancient geography.\n\nThe noble science of Geology loses glory from the extreme imperfection\nof the record. The crust of the earth with its embedded remains must\nnot be looked at as a well-filled museum, but as a poor collection made\nat hazard and at rare intervals. The accumulation of each great\nfossiliferous formation will be recognised as having depended on an\nunusual concurrence of circumstances, and the blank intervals between\nthe successive stages as having been of vast duration. But we shall be\nable to gauge with some security the duration of these intervals by a\ncomparison of the preceding and succeeding organic forms. We must be\ncautious in attempting to correlate as strictly contemporaneous two\nformations, which include few identical species, by the general\nsuccession of their forms of life. As species are produced and\nexterminated by slowly acting and still existing causes, and not by\nmiraculous acts of creation and by catastrophes; and as the most\nimportant of all causes of organic change is one which is almost\nindependent of altered and perhaps suddenly altered physical\nconditions, namely, the mutual relation of organism to organism,—the\nimprovement of one being entailing the improvement or the extermination\nof\nothers; it follows, that the amount of organic change in the fossils of\nconsecutive formations probably serves as a fair measure of the lapse\nof actual time. A number of species, however, keeping in a body might\nremain for a long period unchanged, whilst within this same period,\nseveral of these species, by migrating into new countries and coming\ninto competition with foreign associates, might become modified; so\nthat we must not overrate the accuracy of organic change as a measure\nof time. During early periods of the earth’s history, when the forms of\nlife were probably fewer and simpler, the rate of change was probably\nslower; and at the first dawn of life, when very few forms of the\nsimplest structure existed, the rate of change may have been slow in an\nextreme degree. The whole history of the world, as at present known,\nalthough of a length quite incomprehensible by us, will hereafter be\nrecognised as a mere fragment of time, compared with the ages which\nhave elapsed since the first creature, the progenitor of innumerable\nextinct and living descendants, was created.\n\nIn the distant future I see open fields for far more important\nresearches. Psychology will be based on a new foundation, that of the\nnecessary acquirement of each mental power and capacity by gradation.\nLight will be thrown on the origin of man and his history.\n\nAuthors of the highest eminence seem to be fully satisfied with the\nview that each species has been independently created. To my mind it\naccords better with what we know of the laws impressed on matter by the\nCreator, that the production and extinction of the past and present\ninhabitants of the world should have been due to secondary causes, like\nthose determining the birth and death of the individual. When I view\nall beings not as special creations, but as the lineal descendants of\nsome few beings which lived long before the\nfirst bed of the Silurian system was deposited, they seem to me to\nbecome ennobled. Judging from the past, we may safely infer that not\none living species will transmit its unaltered likeness to a distant\nfuturity. And of the species now living very few will transmit progeny\nof any kind to a far distant futurity; for the manner in which all\norganic beings are grouped, shows that the greater number of species of\neach genus, and all the species of many genera, have left no\ndescendants, but have become utterly extinct. We can so far take a\nprophetic glance into futurity as to foretel that it will be the common\nand widely-spread species, belonging to the larger and dominant groups,\nwhich will ultimately prevail and procreate new and dominant species.\nAs all the living forms of life are the lineal descendants of those\nwhich lived long before the Silurian epoch, we may feel certain that\nthe ordinary succession by generation has never once been broken, and\nthat no cataclysm has desolated the whole world. Hence we may look with\nsome confidence to a secure future of equally inappreciable length. And\nas natural selection works solely by and for the good of each being,\nall corporeal and mental endowments will tend to progress towards\nperfection.\n\nIt is interesting to contemplate an entangled bank, clothed with many\nplants of many kinds, with birds singing on the bushes, with various\ninsects flitting about, and with worms crawling through the damp earth,\nand to reflect that these elaborately constructed forms, so different\nfrom each other, and dependent on each other in so complex a manner,\nhave all been produced by laws acting around us. These laws, taken in\nthe largest sense, being Growth with Reproduction; Inheritance which is\nalmost implied by reproduction; Variability from the indirect and\ndirect action of the external conditions\nof life, and from use and disuse; a Ratio of Increase so high as to\nlead to a Struggle for Life, and as a consequence to Natural Selection,\nentailing Divergence of Character and the Extinction of less-improved\nforms. Thus, from the war of nature, from famine and death, the most\nexalted object which we are capable of conceiving, namely, the\nproduction of the higher animals, directly follows. There is grandeur\nin this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally\nbreathed into a few forms or into one; and that, whilst this planet has\ngone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a\nbeginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been,\nand are being, evolved.\n\n\n\n\nINDEX.\n\n\nAberrant groups, 429.\n\nAbyssinia, plants of, 375.\n\nAcclimatisation, 139.\n\nAffinities:\nof extinct species, 329.\nof organic beings, 411.\n\nAgassiz:\non Amblyopsis, 139.\non groups of species suddenly appearing, 302, 305.\non embryological succession, 338.\non the glacial period, 366.\non embryological characters, 418.\non the embryos of vertebrata, 439.\non parallelism of embryological development and geological succession,\n449.\n\nAlgæ of New Zealand, 376.\n\nAlligators, males, fighting, 88.\n\nAmblyopsis, blind fish, 139.\n\nAmerica, North:\nproductions allied to those of Europe, 371.\nboulders and glaciers of, 373.\nSouth, no modern formations on west coast, 290.\n\nAmmonites, sudden extinction of, 321.\n\nAnagallis, sterility of, 247.\n\nAnalogy of variations, 159.\n\nAncylus, 386.\n\nAnimals:\nnot domesticated from being variable, 17.\ndomestic, descended from several stocks, 19.\nacclimatisation of, 141.\nof Australia, 116.\nwith thicker fur in cold climates, 133.\nblind, in caves, 137.\nextinct, of Australia, 339.\n\nAnomma, 240.\n\nAntarctic islands, ancient flora of, 399.\n\nAntirrhinum, 161.\n\nAnts:\nattending aphides, 211.\nslave-making instinct, 219.\n\nAnts, neuter, structure of, 236.\n\nAphides attended by ants, 211.\n\nAphis, development of, 442.\n\nApteryx, 182.\n\nArab horses, 35.\n\nAralo-Caspian Sea, 339.\n\nArchiac, M. de, on the succession of species, 325.\n\nArtichoke, Jerusalem, 142.\n\nAscension, plants of, 389.\n\nAsclepias, pollen of, 193.\n\nAsparagus, 359.\n\nAspicarpa, 417.\n\nAsses, striped, 163.\n\nAteuchus, 135.\n\nAudubon:\non habits of frigate-bird, 185.\non variation in birds’-nests, 212.\non heron eating seeds, 387.\n\nAustralia:\nanimals of, 116.\ndogs of, 215.\nextinct animals of, 339.\nEuropean plants in, 375.\n\nAzara on flies destroying cattle, 72.\n\nAzores, flora of, 363.\n\nBabington, Mr., on British plants, 48.\n\nBalancement of growth, 147.\n\nBamboo with hooks, 197.\n\nBarberry, flowers of, 98.\n\nBarrande, M.:\non Silurian colonies, 313.\non the succession of species, 325.\non parallelism of palæozoic formations, 328.\non affinities of ancient species, 330.\n\nBarriers, importance of, 347.\n\nBatrachians on islands, 393.\n\nBats:\nhow structure acquired, 180.\ndistribution of, 394.\n\nBear, catching water-insects, 184.\n\nBee:\nsting of, 202.\nqueen, killing rivals, 202.\n\nBees fertilising flowers, 73.\n\nBees:\nhive, not sucking the red clover, 95.\ncell-making instinct, 224.\nhumble, cells of, 225.\nparasitic, 218.\n\nBeetles:\nwingless, in Madeira, 135.\nwith deficient tarsi, 135.\n\nBentham, Mr.:\non British plants, 48.\non classification, 419.\n\nBerkeley, Mr., on seeds in salt-water, 358.\n\nBermuda, birds of, 391.\n\nBirds:\nacquiring fear, 212.\nannually cross the Atlantic, 364.\ncolour of, on continents, 132.\nfossil, in caves of Brazil, 339.\nof Madeira, Bermuda, and Galapagos, 390.\nsong of males, 89.\ntransporting seeds, 361.\nwaders, 386.\nwingless, 134, 182.\nwith traces of embryonic teeth, 451.\n\nBizcacha, 349.\naffinities of, 429.\n\nBladder for swimming in fish, 190.\n\nBlindness of cave animals, 137,\n\nBlyth, Mr.:\non distinctness of Indian cattle, 18.\non striped Hemionus, 163.\non crossed geese, 253.\n\nBoar, shoulder-pad of, 88.\n\nBorrow, Mr., on the Spanish pointer, 35.\n\nBory St. Vincent on Batrachians, 393.\n\nBosquet, M., on fossil Chthamalus, 304.\n\nBoulders, erratic, on the Azores, 363.\n\nBranchiæ, 190.\n\nBrent, Mr.:\non house-tumblers, 214.\non hawks killing pigeons, 362.\n\nBrewer, Dr., on American cuckoo, 217.\n\nBritain, mammals of, 395.\n\nBronn on duration of specific forms, 293.\n\nBrown, Robert, on classification, 414.\n\nBuckman on variation in plants, 10.\n\nBuzareingues on sterility of varieties, 270.\n\nCabbage, varieties of, crossed, 99.\n\nCalceolaria, 251.\n\nCanary-birds, sterility of hybrids, 252.\n\nCape de Verde islands, 398.\n\nCape of Good Hope, plants of, 110, 375.\n\nCarrier-pigeons killed by hawks, 362.\n\nCassini on flowers of compositæ, 145.\n\nCatasetum, 424.\n\nCats:\nwith blue eyes, deaf, 12.\nvariation in habits of, 91.\ncurling tail when going to spring, 201.\n\nCattle:\ndestroying fir-trees, 71.\ndestroyed by flies in La Plata, 72.\nbreeds of, locally extinct, 111.\nfertility of Indian and European breeds, 254.\n\nCave, inhabitants of, blind, 137.\n\nCentres of creation, 352.\n\nCephalopodæ, development of, 442.\n\nCervulus, 253.\n\nCetacea, teeth and hair, 144.\n\nCeylon, plants of, 375.\n\nChalk formation, 322.\n\nCharacters:\ndivergence of, 111.\nsexual, variable, 156.\nadaptive or analogical, 427.\n\nCharlock, 76.\n\nChecks:\nto increase, 67.\nmutual, 71.\n\nChickens, instinctive tameness of, 216.\n\nChthamalinæ, 288.\n\nChthamalus, cretacean species of, 304.\n\nCircumstances favourable:\nto selection of domestic products, 40.\nto natural selection, 101.\n\nCirripedes:\ncapable of crossing, 101.\ncarapace aborted, 148.\ntheir ovigerous frena, 192.\nfossil, 304.\nlarvæ of, 440.\n\nClassification, 413.\n\nClift, Mr., on the succession of types, 339.\n\nClimate:\neffects of, in checking increase of beings, 68.\nadaptation of, to organisms, 139.\n\nCobites, intestine of, 190.\n\nCockroach, 76.\n\nCollections, palæontological, poor, 287.\n\nColour:\ninfluenced by climate, 132.\nin relation to attacks by flies, 198.\n\nColumba livia, parent of domestic pigeons, 23.\n\nColymbetes, 386.\n\nCompensation of growth, 147.\n\nCompositæ:\nouter and inner florets of, 144.\nmale flowers of, 451.\n\nConclusion, general, 480.\n\nConditions, slight changes in, favourable to fertility, 267.\n\nCoot, 185.\n\nCoral:\nislands, seeds drifted to, 360.\nreefs, indicating movements of earth, 309.\n\nCorn-crake, 185.\n\nCorrelation:\nof growth in domestic productions, 11.\nof growth, 143, 198.\n\nCowslip, 49.\n\nCreation, single centres of, 352.\n\nCrinum, 250.\n\nCrosses, reciprocal, 258.\n\nCrossing:\nof domestic animals, importance in altering breeds, 20.\nadvantages of, 96.\nunfavourable to selection, 102.\n\nCrustacea of New Zealand, 376.\n\nCrustacean, blind, 137.\n\nCryptocerus, 238.\n\nCtenomys, blind, 137.\n\nCuckoo, instinct of, 216.\n\nCurrants, grafts of, 262.\n\nCurrents of sea, rate of, 359.\n\nCuvier:\non conditions of existence, 206.\non fossil monkeys, 303.\n\nCuvier, Fred., on instinct, 208.\n\nDana, Professor:\non blind cave-animals, 139.\non relations of crustaceans of Japan, 372.\non crustaceans of New Zealand, 376.\n\nDe Candolle:\non struggle for existence, 62.\non umbelliferæ, 146.\non general affinities, 430.\n\nDe Candolle, Alph.:\non low plants, widely dispersed, 406.\non widely-ranging plants being variable, 53.\non naturalisation, 115.\non winged seeds, 146.\non Alpine species suddenly becoming rare, 175.\non distribution of plants with large seeds, 360.\non vegetation of Australia, 379.\non fresh-water plants, 386.\non insular plants, 389.\n\nDegradation of coast-rocks, 282.\n\nDenudation:\nrate of, 285.\nof oldest rocks, 308.\n\nDevelopment of ancient forms, 336.\n\nDevonian system, 334.\n\nDianthus, fertility of crosses, 256.\n\nDirt on feet of birds, 362.\n\nDispersal:\nmeans of, 356.\nduring glacial period, 365.\n\nDistribution:\ngeographical, 346.\nmeans of, 356.\n\nDisuse, effects of, under nature, 134.\n\nDivergence of character, 111.\n\nDivision, physiological, of labour, 115.\n\nDogs:\nhairless, with imperfect teeth, 12.\ndescended from several wild stocks, 18.\ndomestic instincts of, 213.\ninherited civilisation of, 215.\nfertility of breeds together, 254.\nof crosses, 268.\nproportions of, when young, 444.\n\nDomestication, variation under, 7.\n\nDowning, Mr., on fruit-trees in America, 85.\n\nDowns, North and South, 285.\n\nDragon-flies, intestines of, 190.\n\nDrift-timber, 360.\n\nDriver-ant, 240.\n\nDrones killed by other bees, 202.\n\nDuck:\ndomestic, wings of, reduced, 11.\nlogger-headed, 182.\n\nDuckweed, 385.\n\nDugong, affinities of, 414.\n\nDung-beetles with deficient tarsi, 135.\n\nDyticus, 386.\n\nEarl, Mr. W., on the Malay Archipelago, 395.\n\nEars:\ndrooping, in domestic animals, 11.\nrudimentary, 454.\n\nEarth, seeds in roots of trees, 361.\n\nEciton, 238.\n\nEconomy of organisation, 147.\n\nEdentata:\nteeth and hair, 144.\nfossil species of, 339.\n\nEdwards, Milne:\non physiological divisions of labour, 115.\non gradations of structure, 194.\non embryological characters, 418.\n\nEggs, young birds escaping from, 87.\n\nElectric organs, 192.\n\nElephant:\nrate of increase, 64.\nof glacial period, 141.\n\nEmbryology, 439.\n\nExistence:\nstruggle for, 60.\nconditions of, 206.\n\nExtinction:\nas bearing on natural selection, 109.\nof domestic varieties, 111.\n317.\n\nEye:\nstructure of, 187.\ncorrection for aberration, 202.\n\nEyes reduced in moles, 137.\n\nFabre, M., on parasitic sphex, 218.\n\nFalconer, Dr.:\non naturalization of plants in India, 65.\non fossil crocodile, 313.\non elephants and mastodons, 334.\nand Cautley on mammals of sub-Himalayan beds, 340.\n\nFalkland Island, wolf of, 393.\n\nFaults, 285.\n\nFaunas, marine, 348.\n\nFear, instinctive, in birds, 212.\n\nFeet of birds, young molluscs adhering to, 385.\n\nFertility:\nof hybrids, 249.\nfrom slight changes in conditions, 267.\nof crossed varieties, 267.\n\nFir-trees:\ndestroyed by cattle, 71.\npollen of, 203.\n\nFish:\nflying, 182.\nteleostean, sudden appearance of, 305.\neating seeds, 362, 387.\nfresh-water, distribution of, 384.\n\nFishes:\nganoid, now confined to fresh water, 107.\nelectric organs of, 192.\nganoid, living in fresh water, 321.\nof southern hemisphere, 376.\n\nFlight, powers of, how acquired, 182.\n\nFlowers:\nstructure of, in relation to crossing, 97.\nof compositæ and umbelliferæ, 144.\n\nForbes, E.:\non colours of shells, 132.\non abrupt range of shells in depth, 175.\non poorness of palæontological collections, 287.\non continuous succession of genera, 316.\non continental extensions, 357.\non distribution during glacial period, 366\non parallelism in time and space, 409.\n\nForests, changes in, in America, 74.\n\nFormation, Devonian, 334.\n\nFormations:\nthickness of, in Britain, 284.\nintermittent, 290.\n\nFormica rufescens, 219.\n\nFormica sanguinea, 219.\n\nFormica flava, neuter of, 239.\n\nFrena, ovigerous, of cirripedes, 192.\n\nFresh-water productions, dispersal of, 383.\n\nFries on species in large genera being closely allied to other species,\n57.\n\nFrigate-bird, 185.\n\nFrogs on islands, 393.\n\nFruit-trees:\ngradual improvement of, 37.\nin United States, 85.\nvarieties of, acclimatised in United States, 142.\n\nFuci, crossed, 258.\n\nFur, thicker in cold climates, 133.\n\nFurze, 439.\n\nGalapagos Archipelago:\nbirds of, 390.\nproductions of, 398, 400.\n\nGaleopithecus, 181.\n\nGame, increase of, checked by vermin, 68.\n\nGärtner:\non sterility of hybrids, 247, 255.\non reciprocal crosses, 258.\non crossed maize and verbascum, 270.\non comparison of hybrids and mongrels, 272.\n\nGeese:\nfertility when crossed, 253.\nupland, 185.\n\nGenealogy important in classification, 425.\n\nGeoffrey St. Hilaire:\non balancement, 147.\non homologous organs, 434.\n\nGeoffrey St. Hilaire, Isidore:\non variability of repeated parts, 149.\non correlation in monstrosities, 11.\non correlation, 144.\non variable parts being often monstrous, 155.\n\nGeographical distribution, 346.\n\nGeography, ancient, 487.\n\nGeology:\nfuture progress of, 487.\nimperfection of the record, 279.\n\nGiraffe, tail of, 195.\n\nGlacial period, 365.\n\nGmelin on distribution, 365.\n\nGnathodon, fossil, 368.\n\nGodwin-Austen, Mr., on the Malay Archipelago, 299.\n\nGoethe on compensation of growth, 147.\n\nGooseberry, grafts of, 262.\n\nGould, Dr. A., on land-shells, 397.\n\nGould, Mr.:\non colours of birds, 132.\non birds of the Galapagos, 398.\non distribution of genera of birds, 404.\n\nGourds, crossed, 270.\n\nGrafts, capacity of, 261.\n\nGrasses, varieties of, 113.\n\nGray, Dr. Asa:\non trees of United States, 100.\non naturalised plants in the United States, 115.\non rarity of intermediate varieties, 176.\non Alpine plants, 365.\n\nGray, Dr. J. E., on striped mule, 165.\n\nGrebe, 185.\n\nGroups, aberrant, 429.\n\nGrouse:\ncolours of, 84.\nred, a doubtful species, 49.\n\nGrowth:\ncompensation of, 147.\ncorrelation of, in domestic products, 11.\ncorrelation of, 143.\n\nHabit:\neffect of, under domestication, 11.\neffect of, under nature, 134.\ndiversified, of same species, 183.\n\nHair and teeth, correlated, 144.\n\nHarcourt, Mr. E. V., on the birds of Madeira, 391.\n\nHartung, M., on boulders in the Azores, 363.\n\nHazel-nuts, 359.\n\nHearne on habits of bears, 184.\n\nHeath, changes in vegetation, 72,\n\nHeer, O., on plants of Madeira, 107.\n\nHelix pomatia, 397.\n\nHelosciadium, 359.\n\nHemionus, striped, 163.\n\nHerbert, W.:\non struggle for existence, 62.\non sterility of hybrids, 249.\n\nHermaphrodites crossing, 96.\n\nHeron eating seed, 387.\n\nHeron, Sir R., on peacocks, 89.\n\nHeusinger on white animals not poisoned by certain plants, 12.\n\nHewitt, Mr., on sterility of first crosses, 264.\n\nHimalaya:\nglaciers of, 373.\nplants of, 375.\n\nHippeastrum, 250.\n\nHolly-trees, sexes of, 93.\n\nHollyhock, varieties of, crossed, 271.\n\nHooker, Dr., on trees of New Zealand, 100.\n\nHooker, Dr.:\non acclimatisation of Himalayan trees, 140.\non flowers of umbelliferæ, 145.\non glaciers of Himalaya, 373.\non algæ of New Zealand, 376.\non vegetation at the base of the Himalaya, 378.\non plants of Tierra del Fuego, 374, 378.\non Australian plants, 375, 399.\non relations of flora of South America, 379.\non flora of the Antarctic lands, 381, 399.\non the plants of the Galapagos, 391, 398.\n\nHooks:\non bamboos, 197.\nto seeds on islands, 392.\n\nHorner, Mr., on the antiquity of Egyptians, 18.\n\nHorns, rudimentary, 454.\n\nHorse, fossil, in La Plata, 318.\n\nHorses:\ndestroyed by flies in La Plata, 72.\nstriped, 163.\nproportions of, when young, 445.\n\nHorticulturists, selection applied by, 32.\n\nHuber on cells of bees, 230.\n\nHuber, P.:\non reason blended with instinct, 208.\non habitual nature of instincts, 208.\non slave making ants, 219.\non Melipona domestica, 225.\n\nHumble-bees, cells of, 225.\n\nHunter, J., on secondary sexual characters, 150.\n\nHutton, Captain, on crossed geese, 253.\n\nHuxley, Professor:\non structure of hermaphrodites, 101.\non embryological succession, 338.\non homologous organs, 438.\non the development of aphis, 442.\n\nHybrids and mongrels compared, 272.\n\nHybridism, 245.\n\nHydra, structure of, 190.\n\nIbla, 148.\n\nIcebergs transporting seeds, 363.\n\nIncrease, rate of, 63.\n\nIndividuals:\nnumbers favourable to selection, 102.\nmany, whether simultaneously created, 356.\n\nInheritance:\nlaws of, 12.\nat corresponding ages, 14, 86.\n\nInsects:\ncolour of, fitted for habitations, 84.\nsea-side, colours of, 132.\nblind, in caves, 138.\nluminous, 193.\nneuter, 236.\n\nInstinct, 207.\n\nInstincts, domestic, 213.\n\nIntercrossing, advantages of, 96.\n\nIslands, oceanic, 388.\n\nIsolation favourable to selection, 104.\n\nJapan, productions of, 372.\n\nJava, plants of, 375.\n\nJones, Mr. J. M., on the birds of Bermuda, 391.\n\nJussieu on classification, 417.\n\nKentucky, caves of, 137.\n\nKerguelen-land, flora of, 381, 399.\n\nKidney-bean, acclimatisation of, 142.\n\nKidneys of birds, 144.\n\nKirby on tarsi deficient in beetles, 135.\n\nKnight, Andrew, on cause of variation, 7.\n\nKölreuter:\non the barberry, 98.\non sterility of hybrids, 247.\non reciprocal crosses, 258.\non crossed varieties of nicotiana, 271.\non crossing male and hermaphrodite flowers, 451.\n\nLamarck on adaptive characters, 427.\n\nLand-shells:\ndistribution of, 397.\nof Madeira, naturalised, 402.\n\nLanguages, classification of, 422.\n\nLapse, great, of time, 282.\n\nLarvæ, 440.\n\nLaurel, nectar secreted by the leaves, 92.\n\nLaws of variation, 131.\n\nLeech, varieties of, 76.\n\nLeguminosæ, nectar secreted by glands, 92.\n\nLepidosiren, 107, 330.\n\nLife, struggle for, 60.\n\nLingula, Silurian, 306.\n\nLinnæus, aphorism of, 413.\n\nLion:\nmane of, 88.\nyoung of, striped, 439.\n\nLobelia fulgens, 73, 98.\n\nLobelia, sterility of crosses, 250.\n\nLoess of the Rhine, 384.\n\nLowness of structure connected with variability, 149.\n\nLowness, related to wide distribution, 406.\n\nLubbock, Mr., on the nerves of coccus, 46.\n\nLucas, Dr. P.:\non inheritance, 12.\non resemblance of child to parent, 275.\n\nLund and Clausen on fossils of Brazil, 339.\n\nLyell, Sir C.:\non the struggle for existence, 62.\non modern changes of the earth, 95.\non measure of denudation, 283.\non a carboniferous land-shell, 289.\non fossil whales, 303.\non strata beneath Silurian system, 307.\non the imperfection of the geological record, 310.\non the appearance of species, 312.\non Barrande’s colonies, 313.\non tertiary formations of Europe and North America, 323.\non parallelism of tertiary formations, 328.\non transport of seeds by icebergs, 363.\non great alternations of climate, 382.\non the distribution of fresh-water shells, 385.\non land-shells of Madeira, 402.\n\nLyell and Dawson on fossilized trees in Nova Scotia, 296.\n\nMacleay on analogical characters, 427.\n\nMadeira:\nplants of, 107.\nbeetles of, wingless, 135.\nfossil land-shells of, 339.\nbirds of, 390.\n\nMagpie tame in Norway, 212.\n\nMaize, crossed, 270.\n\nMalay Archipelago:\ncompared with Europe, 299.\nmammals of, 395.\n\nMalpighiaceæ, 417.\n\nMammæ, rudimentary, 451.\n\nMammals:\nfossil, in secondary formation, 303.\ninsular, 393.\n\nMan, origin of races of, 199.\n\nManatee, rudimentary nails of, 454.\n\nMarsupials:\nof Australia, 116.\nfossil species of, 339.\n\nMartens, M., experiment on seeds, 360.\n\nMartin, Mr. W. C., on striped mules, 165.\n\nMatteuchi on the electric organs of rays, 193.\n\nMatthiola, reciprocal crosses of, 258.\n\nMeans of dispersal, 356.\n\nMelipona domestica, 225.\n\nMetamorphism of oldest rocks, 308.\n\nMice:\ndestroying bees, 74.\nacclimatisation of, 141.\n\nMigration, bears on first appearance of fossils, 296.\n\nMiller, Professor, on the cells of bees, 226.\n\nMirabilis, crosses of, 258.\n\nMissel-thrush, 76.\n\nMisseltoe, complex relations of, 3.\n\nMississippi, rate of deposition at mouth, 284.\n\nMocking-thrush of the Galapagos, 402.\n\nModification of species, how far applicable, 483.\n\nMoles, blind, 137.\n\nMongrels:\nfertility and sterility of, 267.\nand hybrids compared, 272.\n\nMonkeys, fossil, 303,\n\nMonocanthus, 424.\n\nMons, Van, on the origin of fruit-trees, 29, 39.\n\nMoquin-Tandon on sea-side plants, 132.\n\nMorphology, 434.\n\nMozart, musical powers of, 209.\n\nMud, seeds in, 386.\n\nMules, striped, 165.\n\nMüller, Dr. F., on Alpine Australian plants, 375.\n\nMurchison, Sir R.:\non the formations of Russia, 289.\non azoic formations, 307.\non extinction, 317.\n\nMustela vison, 179.\n\nMyanthus, 424.\n\nMyrmecocystus, 238.\n\nMyrmica, eyes of, 240.\n\nNails, rudimentary, 453.\n\nNatural history:\nfuture progress of, 484.\nselection, 80.\nsystem, 413.\n\nNaturalisation:\nof forms distinct from the indigenous species, 115.\nin New Zealand, 201.\n\nNautilus, Silurian, 306.\n\nNectar of plants, 92.\n\nNectaries, how formed, 92.\n\nNelumbium luteum, 387.\n\nNests, variation in, 212.\n\nNeuter insects, 236.\n\nNewman, Mr., on humble-bees, 74.\n\nNew Zealand:\nproductions of, not perfect, 201.\nnaturalised products of, 337.\nfossil birds of, 339.\nglacial action in, 373.\ncrustaceans of, 376.\nalgæ of, 376.\nnumber of plants of, 389.\nflora of, 399.\n\nNicotiana:\ncrossed varieties of, 271.\ncertain species very sterile, 257.\n\nNoble, Mr., on fertility of Rhododendron, 251.\n\nNodules, phosphatic, in azoic rocks, 307.\n\nOak, varieties of, 50.\n\nOnites apelles, 135.\n\nOrchis, pollen of, 193.\n\nOrgans:\nof extreme perfection, 186.\nelectric, of fishes, 192.\nof little importance, 194.\nhomologous, 434.\nrudiments of, 450.\n\nOrnithorhynchus, 107, 416.\n\nOstrich:\nnot capable of flight, 134.\nhabit of laying eggs together, 218.\nAmerican, two species of, 349.\n\nOtter, habits of, how acquired, 179.\n\nOuzel, water, 185.\n\nOwen, Professor:\non birds not flying, 134.\non vegetative repetition, 149.\non variable length of arms in ourang-outang, 150.\non the swim-bladder of fishes, 191.\non electric organs, 192.\non fossil horse of La Plata, 319.\non relations of ruminants and pachyderms, 329.\non fossil birds of New Zealand, 339.\non succession of types, 339.\non affinities of the dugong, 414.\non homologous organs, 435.\non the metamorphosis of cephalopods and spiders, 442.\n\nPacific Ocean, faunas of, 348.\n\nPaley on no organ formed to give pain, 201.\n\nPallas on the fertility of the wild stocks of domestic animals, 253.\n\nParaguay, cattle destroyed by flies, 72.\n\nParasites, 217.\n\nPartridge, dirt on feet, 362.\n\nParts:\ngreatly developed, variable, 150.\ndegrees of utility of, 201.\n\nParus major, 183.\n\nPassiflora, 251.\n\nPeaches in United States, 85.\n\nPear, grafts of, 261.\n\nPelargonium:\nflowers of, 145.\nsterility of, 251.\n\nPelvis of women, 144.\n\nPeloria, 145.\n\nPeriod, glacial, 365.\n\nPetrels, habits of, 184.\n\nPhasianus, fertility of hybrids, 253.\n\nPheasant, young, wild, 216.\n\nPhilippi on tertiary species in Sicily, 312.\n\nPictet, Professor:\non groups of species suddenly appearing, 302, 305.\non rate of organic change, 313.\non continuous succession of genera, 316.\non close alliance of fossils in consecutive formations, 335.\non embryological succession, 338.\n\nPierce, Mr., on varieties of wolves, 91.\n\nPigeons:\nwith feathered feet and skin between toes, 12.\nbreeds described, and origin of, 20.\nbreeds of, how produced, 39, 42.\ntumbler, not being able to get out of egg, 87.\nreverting to blue colour, 160.\ninstinct of tumbling, 214.\ncarriers, killed by hawks, 362.\nyoung of, 445.\n\nPistil, rudimentary, 451.\n\nPlants:\npoisonous, not affecting certain coloured animals, 12.\nselection applied to, 32.\ngradual improvement of, 37.\nnot improved in barbarous countries, 38.\ndestroyed by insects, 67.\nin midst of range, have to struggle with other plants, 77.\nnectar of, 92.\nfleshy, on sea-shores, 132.\nfresh-water, distribution of, 386.\nlow in scale, widely distributed, 406.\n\nPlumage, laws of change in sexes of birds, 89.\n\nPlums in the United States, 85.\n\nPointer dog:\norigin of, 35.\nhabits of, 213.\n\nPoison not affecting certain coloured animals, 12.\n\nPoison, similar effect of, on animals and plants, 484.\n\nPollen of fir-trees, 203,\n\nPoole, Col., on striped hemionus, 163.\n\nPotamogeton, 387.\n\nPrestwich, Mr., on English and French eocene formations, 328.\n\nPrimrose, 49.\nsterility of, 247.\n\nPrimula, varieties of, 49.\n\nProteolepas, 148.\n\nProteus, 139.\n\nPsychology, future progress of, 488.\n\nQuagga, striped, 165.\n\nQuince, grafts of, 261.\n\nRabbit, disposition of young, 215.\n\nRaces, domestic, characters of, 16.\n\nRace-horses:\nArab, 35.\nEnglish, 356.\n\nRamond on plants of Pyrenees, 368.\n\nRamsay, Professor:\non thickness of the British formations, 284.\non faults, 285.\n\nRatio of increase, 63.\n\nRats:\nsupplanting each other, 76.\nacclimatisation of, 141.\nblind in cave, 137.\n\nRattle-snake, 201.\n\nReason and instinct, 208.\n\nRecapitulation, general, 459.\n\nReciprocity of crosses, 258.\n\nRecord, geological, imperfect, 279.\n\nRengger on flies destroying cattle, 72.\n\nReproduction, rate of, 63.\n\nResemblance to parents in mongrels and hybrids, 273.\n\nReversion:\nlaw of inheritance, 14.\nin pigeons to blue colour, 160.\n\nRhododendron, sterility of, 251.\n\nRichard, Professor, on Aspicarpa, 417.\n\nRichardson, Sir J.:\non structure of squirrels, 180.\non fishes of the southern hemisphere, 376.\n\nRobinia, grafts of, 262.\n\nRodents, blind, 137.\n\nRudimentary organs, 450.\n\nRudiments important for classification, 416.\n\nSageret on grafts, 262.\n\nSalmons, males fighting, and hooked jaws of, 88.\n\nSalt-water, how far injurious to seeds, 358.\n\nSaurophagus sulphuratus, 183.\n\nSchiödte on blind insects, 138.\n\nSchlegel on snakes, 144.\n\nSea-water, how far injurious to seeds, 358.\n\nSebright, Sir J.:\non crossed animals, 20.\non selection of pigeons, 31.\n\nSedgwick, Professor, on groups of species suddenly appearing, 302.\n\nSeedlings destroyed by insects, 67.\n\nSeeds:\nnutriment in, 77.\nwinged, 146.\npower of resisting salt-water, 358.\nin crops and intestines of birds, 361.\neaten by fish, 362, 387.\nin mud, 386.\nhooked, on islands, 392.\n\nSelection:\nof domestic products, 29.\nprinciple not of recent origin, 33.\nunconscious, 34.\nnatural, 80.\nsexual, 87.\nnatural, circumstances favourable to, 101.\n\nSexes, relations of, 87.\n\nSexual:\ncharacters variable, 156.\nselection, 87.\n\nSheep:\nMerino, their selection, 31.\ntwo sub-breeds unintentionally produced, 36.\nmountain, varieties of, 76.\n\nShells:\ncolours of, 132.\nlittoral, seldom embedded, 288.\nfresh-water, dispersal of, 385.\nof Madeira, 391.\nland, distribution of, 397.\n\nSilene, fertility of crosses, 257.\n\nSilliman, Professor, on blind rat, 137.\n\nSkulls of young mammals, 197, 437.\n\nSlave-making instinct, 219.\n\nSmith, Col. Hamilton, on striped horses, 164.\n\nSmith, Mr. Fred.:\non slave-making ants, 219.\non neuter ants, 239.\n\nSmith, Mr., of Jordan Hill, on the degradation of coast-rocks, 283.\n\nSnap-dragon, 161.\n\nSomerville, Lord, on selection of sheep, 31.\n\nSorbus, grafts of, 262.\n\nSpaniel, King Charles’s breed, 35.\n\nSpecies:\npolymorphic, 46.\ncommon, variable, 53.\nin large genera variable, 54.\ngroups of, suddenly appearing, 302, 306.\nbeneath Silurian formations, 306.\nsuccessively appearing, 312.\nchanging simultaneously throughout the world, 322.\n\nSpencer, Lord, on increase in size of cattle, 35.\n\nSphex, parasitic, 218.\n\nSpiders, development of, 442.\n\nSpitz-dog crossed with fox, 268.\n\nSports in plants, 9.\n\nSprengel, C. C.:\non crossing, 98.\non ray-florets, 145.\n\nSquirrels, gradations in structure, 180.\n\nStaffordshire, heath, changes in, 72.\n\nStag-beetles, fighting, 88.\n\nSterility:\nfrom changed conditions of life, 9.\nof hybrids, 246.\nlaws of, 254.\ncauses of, 263.\nfrom unfavourable conditions, 265.\nof certain varieties, 269.\n\nSt. Helena, productions of, 389.\n\nSt. Hilaire, Aug., on classification, 418.\n\nSt. John, Mr., on habits of cats, 91.\n\nSting of bee, 202.\n\nStocks, aboriginal, of domestic animals, 18,\n\nStrata, thickness of, in Britain, 284.\n\nStripes on horses, 163.\n\nStructure, degrees of utility of, 201.\n\nStruggle for existence, 60.\n\nSuccession, geological, 312.\n\nSuccession of types in same areas, 338.\n\nSwallow, one species supplanting another, 76.\n\nSwim-bladder, 190.\n\nSystem, natural, 413.\n\nTail:\nof giraffe, 195.\nof aquatic animals, 196.\nrudimentary, 454.\n\nTarsi deficient, 135.\n\nTausch on umbelliferous flowers, 146.\n\nTeeth and hair:\ncorrelated, 144.\nembryonic, traces of, in birds, 451.\nrudimentary, in embryonic calf, 450, 480.\n\nTegetmeier, Mr., on cells of bees, 228, 233.\n\nTemminck on distribution aiding classification, 419.\n\nThouin on grafts, 262.\n\nThrush:\naquatic species of, 185.\nmocking, of the Galapagos, 402.\nyoung of, spotted, 439.\nnest of, 243.\n\nThuret, >M., on crossed fuci, 258.\n\nThwaites, Mr., on acclimatisation, 140.\n\nTierra del Fuego:\ndogs of, 215.\nplants of, 374, 378.\n\nTimber-drift, 360.\n\nTime, lapse of, 282.\n\nTitmouse, 183.\n\nToads on islands, 393.\n\nTobacco, crossed varieties of, 271.\n\nTomes, Mr., on the distribution of bats, 394.\n\nTransitions in varieties rare, 172.\n\nTrees:\non islands belong to peculiar orders, 392.\nwith separated sexes, 99.\n\nTrifolium pratense, 73, 94.\n\nTrifolium incarnatum, 94.\n\nTrigonia, 321.\n\nTrilobites, 306.\nsudden extinction of, 321.\n\nTroglodytes, 243.\n\nTucutucu, blind, 137.\n\nTumbler pigeons:\nhabits of, hereditary, 214.\nyoung of, 446.\n\nTurkey-cock, brush of hair on breast, 90.\n\nTurkey:\nnaked skin on head, 197.\nyoung, wild, 216.\n\nTurnip and cabbage, analogous variations of, 159.\n\nType, unity of, 206.\n\nTypes, succession of, in same areas, 338.\n\nUdders:\nenlarged by use, 11.\nrudimentary, 451.\n\nUlex, young leaves of, 439.\n\nUmbelliferæ, outer and inner florets of, 144.\n\nUnity of type, 206.\n\nUse:\neffects of, under domestication, 11.\neffects of, in a state of nature, 134.\n\nUtility, how far important in the construction of each part, 199.\n\nValenciennes on fresh-water fish, 384.\n\nVariability of mongrels and hybrids, 274.\n\nVariation:\nunder domestication, 7.\ncaused by reproductive system being affected by conditions of life, 8.\nunder nature, 44.\nlaws of, 131.\n\nVariations:\nappear at corresponding ages, 14, 86.\nanalogous in distinct species, 159.\n\nVarieties:\nnatural, 44.\nstruggle between, 75.\ndomestic, extinction of, 111.\ntransitional, rarity of, 172.\nwhen crossed, fertile, 267.\nwhen crossed, sterile, 269.\nclassification of, 423.\n\nVerbascum:\nsterility of, 251.\nvarieties of, crossed, 270.\n\nVerneuil, M. de, on the succession of species, 325.\n\nViola tricolor, 73.\n\nVolcanic islands, denudation of, 284.\n\nVulture, naked skin on head, 197.\n\nWading-birds, 386.\n\nWallace, Mr.:\non origin of species, 2.\non law of geographical distribution, 355.\non the Malay Archipelago, 395.\n\nWasp, sting of, 202.\n\nWater, fresh, productions of, 383.\n\nWater-hen, 185.\n\nWaterhouse, Mr.:\non Australian marsupials, 116.\non greatly developed parts being variable, 150.\non the cells of bees, 225.\non general affinities, 429.\n\nWater-ouzel, 185.\n\nWatson, Mr. H. C.:\non range of varieties of British plants, 58.\non acclimatisation, 140.\non flora of Azores, 363.\non Alpine plants, 367, 376.\non rarity of intermediate varieties, 176.\n\nWeald, denudation of, 285.\n\nWeb of feet in water-birds, 185.\n\nWest Indian islands, mammals of, 395.\n\nWestwood:\non species in large genera being closely allied to others, 57.\non the tarsi of Engidæ, 157.\non the antennæ of hymenopterous insects, 416.\n\nWhales, fossil, 303.\n\nWheat, varieties of, 113.\n\nWhite Mountains, flora of, 365.\n\nWings, reduction of size, 134.\n\nWings:\nof insects homologous with branchiæ, 191.\nrudimentary, in insects, 451.\n\nWolf:\ncrossed with dog, 214.\nof Falkland Isles, 393.\n\nWollaston, Mr.:\non varieties of insects, 48.\non fossil varieties of land-shells in Madeira, 52.\non colours of insects on sea-shore, 132.\non wingless beetles, 135.\non rarity of intermediate varieties, 176.\non insular insects, 389.\non land-shells of Madeira, naturalised, 402.\n\nWolves, varieties of, 90.\n\nWoodpecker:\nhabits of, 184.\ngreen colour of, 197.\n\nWoodward, Mr.:\non the duration of specific forms, 293.\non the continuous succession of genera, 316.\non the succession of types, 339.\n\nWorld, species changing simultaneously throughout, 322.\n\nWrens, nest of, 243.\n\nYouatt, Mr.:\non selection, 31.\non sub-breeds of sheep, 36.\non rudimentary horns in young cattle, 454.\n\nZebra, stripes on, 163.'
Bar graphs¶
In [1]:
import matplotlib.pyplot as plt
In [17]:
colors = ['red','blue','green','yellooooooooooooooooo','orange','purple','white']
data = [1,4,3,0,0,1,1]
locs = [1,2,3,4,5,6,7]
plt.bar(locs,data,color='r')
plt.xticks(locs,colors,rotation=75)
plt.yticks([0,1,2,3,4],[0,1,2,3,4])
plt.title('Favorite Colors')
plt.show()
Requests library¶
In [18]:
import requests
In [19]:
url='https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/13334/pg13334.txt'
In [20]:
r = requests.get(url)
In [24]:
Bierce = r.text
Bierce
Out[24]:
'\ufeffThe Project Gutenberg eBook of The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce, Volume 02\r\n \r\nThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\r\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\r\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\r\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online\r\nat www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,\r\nyou will have to check the laws of the country where you are located\r\nbefore using this eBook.\r\n\r\nTitle: The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce, Volume 02\r\n\r\nAuthor: Ambrose Bierce\r\n\r\nRelease date: August 30, 2004 [eBook #13334]\r\n Most recently updated: December 18, 2020\r\n\r\nLanguage: English\r\n\r\nCredits: Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Carol David and PG Distributed Proofreaders\r\n\r\n\r\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COLLECTED WORKS OF AMBROSE BIERCE, VOLUME 02 ***\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nProduced by Jonathan Ingram, Carol David and PG Distributed Proofreaders\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE COLLECTED\r\nWORKS OF\r\nAMBROSE BIERCE\r\n\r\nVOLUME II\r\n\r\n\r\nIN THE MIDST OF LIFE\r\n\r\nTALES OF SOLDIERS AND CIVILIANS\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nOriginally Published 1909\r\n\r\n\r\nPREFACE\r\nTO THE FIRST EDITION\r\n\r\n\r\nDenied existence by the chief publishing houses of the country, this\r\nbook owes itself to Mr. E.L.G. Steele, merchant, of this city. In\r\nattesting Mr. Steele\'s faith in his judgment and his friend, it will\r\nserve its author\'s main and best ambition.\r\n\r\nA.B.\r\n\r\nSAN FRANCISCO, Sept. 4, 1891.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCONTENTS\r\n\r\n\r\nA HORSEMAN IN THE SKY 15\r\nAN OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK BRIDGE 27\r\nCHICKAMAUGA 46\r\nA SON OF THE GODS 58\r\nONE OF THE MISSING 71\r\nKILLED AT RESACA 93\r\nTHE AFFAIR AT COULTER\'S NOTCH 105\r\nTHE COUP DE GRÂCE 122\r\nPARKER ADDERSON, PHILOSOPHER 133\r\nAN AFFAIR OF OUTPOSTS 146\r\nTHE STORY OF A CONSCIENCE 165\r\nONE KIND OF OFFICER 178\r\nONE OFFICER, ONE MAN 197\r\nGEORGE THURSTON 209\r\nTHE MOCKING-BIRD 218\r\n\r\nCIVILIANS\r\n\r\nTHE MAN OUT OF THE NOSE 233\r\nAN ADVENTURE AT BROWNVILLE 247\r\nTHE FAMOUS GILSON BEQUEST 266\r\nTHE APPLICANT 281\r\nA WATCHER BY THE DEAD 290\r\nTHE MAN AND THE SNAKE 311\r\nA HOLY TERROR 324\r\nTHE SUITABLE SURROUNDINGS 350\r\nTHE BOARDED WINDOW 364\r\nA LADY FROM RED HORSE 373\r\nTHE EYES OF THE PANTHER 385\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSOLDIERS\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA HORSEMAN IN THE SKY\r\n\r\nI\r\n\r\nOne sunny afternoon in the autumn of the year 1861 a soldier lay in a\r\nclump of laurel by the side of a road in western Virginia. He lay at\r\nfull length upon his stomach, his feet resting upon the toes, his head\r\nupon the left forearm. His extended right hand loosely grasped his\r\nrifle. But for the somewhat methodical disposition of his limbs and a\r\nslight rhythmic movement of the cartridge-box at the back of his belt he\r\nmight have been thought to be dead. He was asleep at his post of duty.\r\nBut if detected he would be dead shortly afterward, death being the just\r\nand legal penalty of his crime.\r\n\r\nThe clump of laurel in which the criminal lay was in the angle of a road\r\nwhich after ascending southward a steep acclivity to that point turned\r\nsharply to the west, running along the summit for perhaps one hundred\r\nyards. There it turned southward again and went zigzagging downward\r\nthrough the forest. At the salient of that second angle was a large flat\r\nrock, jutting out northward, overlooking the deep valley from which the\r\nroad ascended. The rock capped a high cliff; a stone dropped from its\r\nouter edge would have fallen sheer downward one thousand feet to the\r\ntops of the pines. The angle where the soldier lay was on another spur\r\nof the same cliff. Had he been awake he would have commanded a view, not\r\nonly of the short arm of the road and the jutting rock, but of the\r\nentire profile of the cliff below it. It might well have made him giddy\r\nto look.\r\n\r\nThe country was wooded everywhere except at the bottom of the valley to\r\nthe northward, where there was a small natural meadow, through which\r\nflowed a stream scarcely visible from the valley\'s rim. This open ground\r\nlooked hardly larger than an ordinary door-yard, but was really several\r\nacres in extent. Its green was more vivid than that of the inclosing\r\nforest. Away beyond it rose a line of giant cliffs similar to those upon\r\nwhich we are supposed to stand in our survey of the savage scene, and\r\nthrough which the road had somehow made its climb to the summit. The\r\nconfiguration of the valley, indeed, was such that from this point of\r\nobservation it seemed entirely shut in, and one could but have wondered\r\nhow the road which found a way out of it had found a way into it, and\r\nwhence came and whither went the waters of the stream that parted the\r\nmeadow more than a thousand feet below.\r\n\r\nNo country is so wild and difficult but men will make it a theatre of\r\nwar; concealed in the forest at the bottom of that military rat-trap, in\r\nwhich half a hundred men in possession of the exits might have starved\r\nan army to submission, lay five regiments of Federal infantry. They had\r\nmarched all the previous day and night and were resting. At nightfall\r\nthey would take to the road again, climb to the place where their\r\nunfaithful sentinel now slept, and descending the other slope of the\r\nridge fall upon a camp of the enemy at about midnight. Their hope was to\r\nsurprise it, for the road led to the rear of it. In case of failure,\r\ntheir position would be perilous in the extreme; and fail they surely\r\nwould should accident or vigilance apprise the enemy of the movement.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nThe sleeping sentinel in the clump of laurel was a young Virginian named\r\nCarter Druse. He was the son of wealthy parents, an only child, and had\r\nknown such ease and cultivation and high living as wealth and taste were\r\nable to command in the mountain country of western Virginia. His home\r\nwas but a few miles from where he now lay. One morning he had risen from\r\nthe breakfast-table and said, quietly but gravely: "Father, a Union\r\nregiment has arrived at Grafton. I am going to join it."\r\n\r\nThe father lifted his leonine head, looked at the son a moment in\r\nsilence, and replied: "Well, go, sir, and whatever may occur do what you\r\nconceive to be your duty. Virginia, to which you are a traitor, must get\r\non without you. Should we both live to the end of the war, we will speak\r\nfurther of the matter. Your mother, as the physician has informed you,\r\nis in a most critical condition; at the best she cannot be with us\r\nlonger than a few weeks, but that time is precious. It would be better\r\nnot to disturb her."\r\n\r\nSo Carter Druse, bowing reverently to his father, who returned the\r\nsalute with a stately courtesy that masked a breaking heart, left the\r\nhome of his childhood to go soldiering. By conscience and courage, by\r\ndeeds of devotion and daring, he soon commended himself to his fellows\r\nand his officers; and it was to these qualities and to some knowledge of\r\nthe country that he owed his selection for his present perilous duty at\r\nthe extreme outpost. Nevertheless, fatigue had been stronger than\r\nresolution and he had fallen asleep. What good or bad angel came in a\r\ndream to rouse him from his state of crime, who shall say? Without a\r\nmovement, without a sound, in the profound silence and the languor of\r\nthe late afternoon, some invisible messenger of fate touched with\r\nunsealing finger the eyes of his consciousness--whispered into the ear\r\nof his spirit the mysterious awakening word which no human lips ever\r\nhave spoken, no human memory ever has recalled. He quietly raised his\r\nforehead from his arm and looked between the masking stems of the\r\nlaurels, instinctively closing his right hand about the stock of his\r\nrifle.\r\n\r\nHis first feeling was a keen artistic delight. On a colossal pedestal,\r\nthe cliff,--motionless at the extreme edge of the capping rock and\r\nsharply outlined against the sky,--was an equestrian statue of\r\nimpressive dignity. The figure of the man sat the figure of the horse,\r\nstraight and soldierly, but with the repose of a Grecian god carved in\r\nthe marble which limits the suggestion of activity. The gray costume\r\nharmonized with its aërial background; the metal of accoutrement and\r\ncaparison was softened and subdued by the shadow; the animal\'s skin had\r\nno points of high light. A carbine strikingly foreshortened lay across\r\nthe pommel of the saddle, kept in place by the right hand grasping it at\r\nthe "grip"; the left hand, holding the bridle rein, was invisible. In\r\nsilhouette against the sky the profile of the horse was cut with the\r\nsharpness of a cameo; it looked across the heights of air to the\r\nconfronting cliffs beyond. The face of the rider, turned slightly away,\r\nshowed only an outline of temple and beard; he was looking downward to\r\nthe bottom of the valley. Magnified by its lift against the sky and by\r\nthe soldier\'s testifying sense of the formidableness of a near enemy the\r\ngroup appeared of heroic, almost colossal, size.\r\n\r\nFor an instant Druse had a strange, half-defined feeling that he had\r\nslept to the end of the war and was looking upon a noble work of art\r\nreared upon that eminence to commemorate the deeds of an heroic past of\r\nwhich he had been an inglorious part. The feeling was dispelled by a\r\nslight movement of the group: the horse, without moving its feet, had\r\ndrawn its body slightly backward from the verge; the man remained\r\nimmobile as before. Broad awake and keenly alive to the significance of\r\nthe situation, Druse now brought the butt of his rifle against his cheek\r\nby cautiously pushing the barrel forward through the bushes, cocked the\r\npiece, and glancing through the sights covered a vital spot of the\r\nhorseman\'s breast. A touch upon the trigger and all would have been well\r\nwith Carter Druse. At that instant the horseman turned his head and\r\nlooked in the direction of his concealed foeman--seemed to look into his\r\nvery face, into his eyes, into his brave, compassionate heart.\r\n\r\nIs it then so terrible to kill an enemy in war--an enemy who has\r\nsurprised a secret vital to the safety of one\'s self and comrades--an\r\nenemy more formidable for his knowledge than all his army for its\r\nnumbers? Carter Druse grew pale; he shook in every limb, turned faint,\r\nand saw the statuesque group before him as black figures, rising,\r\nfalling, moving unsteadily in arcs of circles in a fiery sky. His hand\r\nfell away from his weapon, his head slowly dropped until his face rested\r\non the leaves in which he lay. This courageous gentleman and hardy\r\nsoldier was near swooning from intensity of emotion.\r\n\r\nIt was not for long; in another moment his face was raised from earth,\r\nhis hands resumed their places on the rifle, his forefinger sought the\r\ntrigger; mind, heart, and eyes were clear, conscience and reason sound.\r\nHe could not hope to capture that enemy; to alarm him would but send him\r\ndashing to his camp with his fatal news. The duty of the soldier was\r\nplain: the man must be shot dead from ambush--without warning, without a\r\nmoment\'s spiritual preparation, with never so much as an unspoken\r\nprayer, he must be sent to his account. But no--there is a hope; he may\r\nhave discovered nothing--perhaps he is but admiring the sublimity of the\r\nlandscape. If permitted, he may turn and ride carelessly away in the\r\ndirection whence he came. Surely it will be possible to judge at the\r\ninstant of his withdrawing whether he knows. It may well be that his\r\nfixity of attention--Druse turned his head and looked through the deeps\r\nof air downward, as from the surface to the bottom of a translucent sea.\r\nHe saw creeping across the green meadow a sinuous line of figures of men\r\nand horses--some foolish commander was permitting the soldiers of his\r\nescort to water their beasts in the open, in plain view from a dozen\r\nsummits!\r\n\r\nDruse withdrew his eyes from the valley and fixed them again upon the\r\ngroup of man and horse in the sky, and again it was through the sights\r\nof his rifle. But this time his aim was at the horse. In his memory, as\r\nif they were a divine mandate, rang the words of his father at their\r\nparting: "Whatever may occur, do what you conceive to be your duty." He\r\nwas calm now. His teeth were firmly but not rigidly closed; his nerves\r\nwere as tranquil as a sleeping babe\'s--not a tremor affected any muscle\r\nof his body; his breathing, until suspended in the act of taking aim,\r\nwas regular and slow. Duty had conquered; the spirit had said to the\r\nbody: "Peace, be still." He fired.\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nAn officer of the Federal force, who in a spirit of adventure or in\r\nquest of knowledge had left the hidden _bivouac_ in the valley, and with\r\naimless feet had made his way to the lower edge of a small open space\r\nnear the foot of the cliff, was considering what he had to gain by\r\npushing his exploration further. At a distance of a quarter-mile before\r\nhim, but apparently at a stone\'s throw, rose from its fringe of pines\r\nthe gigantic face of rock, towering to so great a height above him that\r\nit made him giddy to look up to where its edge cut a sharp, rugged line\r\nagainst the sky. It presented a clean, vertical profile against a\r\nbackground of blue sky to a point half the way down, and of distant\r\nhills, hardly less blue, thence to the tops of the trees at its base.\r\nLifting his eyes to the dizzy altitude of its summit the officer saw an\r\nastonishing sight--a man on horseback riding down into the valley\r\nthrough the air!\r\n\r\nStraight upright sat the rider, in military fashion, with a firm seat in\r\nthe saddle, a strong clutch upon the rein to hold his charger from too\r\nimpetuous a plunge. From his bare head his long hair streamed upward,\r\nwaving like a plume. His hands were concealed in the cloud of the\r\nhorse\'s lifted mane. The animal\'s body was as level as if every\r\nhoof-stroke encountered the resistant earth. Its motions were those of a\r\nwild gallop, but even as the officer looked they ceased, with all the\r\nlegs thrown sharply forward as in the act of alighting from a leap. But\r\nthis was a flight!\r\n\r\nFilled with amazement and terror by this apparition of a horseman in the\r\nsky--half believing himself the chosen scribe of some new Apocalypse,\r\nthe officer was overcome by the intensity of his emotions; his legs\r\nfailed him and he fell. Almost at the same instant he heard a crashing\r\nsound in the trees--a sound that died without an echo--and all was\r\nstill.\r\n\r\nThe officer rose to his feet, trembling. The familiar sensation of an\r\nabraded shin recalled his dazed faculties. Pulling himself together he\r\nran rapidly obliquely away from the cliff to a point distant from its\r\nfoot; thereabout he expected to find his man; and thereabout he\r\nnaturally failed. In the fleeting instant of his vision his imagination\r\nhad been so wrought upon by the apparent grace and ease and intention of\r\nthe marvelous performance that it did not occur to him that the line of\r\nmarch of aërial cavalry is directly downward, and that he could find the\r\nobjects of his search at the very foot of the cliff. A half-hour later\r\nhe returned to camp.\r\n\r\nThis officer was a wise man; he knew better than to tell an incredible\r\ntruth. He said nothing of what he had seen. But when the commander asked\r\nhim if in his scout he had learned anything of advantage to the\r\nexpedition he answered:\r\n\r\n"Yes, sir; there is no road leading down into this valley from the\r\nsouthward."\r\n\r\nThe commander, knowing better, smiled.\r\n\r\nIV\r\n\r\nAfter firing his shot, Private Carter Druse reloaded his rifle and\r\nresumed his watch. Ten minutes had hardly passed when a Federal sergeant\r\ncrept cautiously to him on hands and knees. Druse neither turned his\r\nhead nor looked at him, but lay without motion or sign of recognition.\r\n\r\n"Did you fire?" the sergeant whispered.\r\n\r\n"Yes."\r\n\r\n"At what?"\r\n\r\n"A horse. It was standing on yonder rock--pretty far out. You see it is\r\nno longer there. It went over the cliff."\r\n\r\nThe man\'s face was white, but he showed no other sign of emotion. Having\r\nanswered, he turned away his eyes and said no more. The sergeant did not\r\nunderstand.\r\n\r\n"See here, Druse," he said, after a moment\'s silence, "it\'s no use\r\nmaking a mystery. I order you to report. Was there anybody on the\r\nhorse?"\r\n\r\n"Yes."\r\n\r\n"Well?"\r\n\r\n"My father."\r\n\r\nThe sergeant rose to his feet and walked away. "Good God!" he said.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAN OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK BRIDGE\r\n\r\nI\r\n\r\nA man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down\r\ninto the swift water twenty feet below. The man\'s hands were behind his\r\nback, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck.\r\nIt was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack\r\nfell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the sleepers\r\nsupporting the metals of the railway supplied a footing for him and his\r\nexecutioners--two private soldiers of the Federal army, directed by a\r\nsergeant who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short\r\nremove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform of\r\nhis rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge\r\nstood with his rifle in the position known as "support," that is to say,\r\nvertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the\r\nforearm thrown straight across the chest--a formal and unnatural\r\nposition, enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not appear to\r\nbe the duty of these two men to know what was occurring at the centre of\r\nthe bridge; they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot planking that\r\ntraversed it.\r\n\r\nBeyond one of the sentinels nobody was in sight; the railroad ran\r\nstraight away into a forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was lost\r\nto view. Doubtless there was an outpost farther along. The other bank of\r\nthe stream was open ground--a gentle acclivity topped with a stockade of\r\nvertical tree trunks, loop-holed for rifles, with a single embrasure\r\nthrough which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the\r\nbridge. Mid-way of the slope between bridge and fort were the\r\nspectators--a single company of infantry in line, at "parade rest," the\r\nbutts of the rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly\r\nbackward against the right shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A\r\nlieutenant stood at the right of the line, the point of his sword upon\r\nthe ground, his left hand resting upon his right. Excepting the group of\r\nfour at the centre of the bridge, not a man moved. The company faced the\r\nbridge, staring stonily, motionless. The sentinels, facing the banks of\r\nthe stream, might have been statues to adorn the bridge. The captain\r\nstood with folded arms, silent, observing the work of his subordinates,\r\nbut making no sign. Death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is\r\nto be received with formal manifestations of respect, even by those most\r\nfamiliar with him. In the code of military etiquette silence and fixity\r\nare forms of deference.\r\n\r\nThe man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five\r\nyears of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit,\r\nwhich was that of a planter. His features were good--a straight nose,\r\nfirm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed\r\nstraight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well-fitting\r\nfrock-coat. He wore a mustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his\r\neyes were large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one\r\nwould hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently\r\nthis was no vulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision\r\nfor hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.\r\n\r\nThe preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside\r\nand each drew away the plank upon which he had been standing. The\r\nsergeant turned to the captain, saluted and placed himself immediately\r\nbehind that officer, who in turn moved apart one pace. These movements\r\nleft the condemned man and the sergeant standing on the two ends of the\r\nsame plank, which spanned three of the cross-ties of the bridge. The end\r\nupon which the civilian stood almost, but not quite, reached a fourth.\r\nThis plank had been held in place by the weight of the captain; it was\r\nnow held by that of the sergeant. At a signal from the former the latter\r\nwould step aside, the plank would tilt and the condemned man go down\r\nbetween two ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judgment as\r\nsimple and effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyes\r\nbandaged. He looked a moment at his "unsteadfast footing," then let his\r\ngaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his\r\nfeet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes\r\nfollowed it down the current. How slowly it appeared to move! What a\r\nsluggish stream!\r\n\r\nHe closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and\r\nchildren. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding\r\nmists under the banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the\r\nsoldiers, the piece of drift--all had distracted him. And now he became\r\nconscious of a new disturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear\r\nones was a sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp,\r\ndistinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith\'s hammer\r\nupon the anvil; it had the same ringing quality. He wondered what it\r\nwas, and whether immeasurably distant or near by--it seemed both. Its\r\nrecurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death knell. He\r\nawaited each stroke with impatience and--he knew not why--apprehension.\r\nThe intervals of silence grew progressively longer; the delays became\r\nmaddening. With their greater infrequency the sounds increased in\r\nstrength and sharpness. They hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife; he\r\nfeared he would shriek. What he heard was the ticking of his watch.\r\n\r\nHe unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. "If I could free\r\nmy hands," he thought, "I might throw off the noose and spring into the\r\nstream. By diving I could evade the bullets and, swimming vigorously,\r\nreach the bank, take to the woods and get away home. My home, thank God,\r\nis as yet outside their lines; my wife and little ones are still beyond\r\nthe invader\'s farthest advance."\r\n\r\nAs these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed\r\ninto the doomed man\'s brain rather than evolved from it the captain\r\nnodded to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nPeyton Farquhar was a well-to-do planter, of an old and highly respected\r\nAlabama family. Being a slave owner and like other slave owners a\r\npolitician he was naturally an original secessionist and ardently\r\ndevoted to the Southern cause. Circumstances of an imperious nature,\r\nwhich it is unnecessary to relate here, had prevented him from taking\r\nservice with the gallant army that had fought the disastrous campaigns\r\nending with the fall of Corinth, and he chafed under the inglorious\r\nrestraint, longing for the release of his energies, the larger life of\r\nthe soldier, the opportunity for distinction. That opportunity, he felt,\r\nwould come, as it comes to all in war time. Meanwhile he did what he\r\ncould. No service was too humble for him to perform in aid of the South,\r\nno adventure too perilous for him to undertake if consistent with the\r\ncharacter of a civilian who was at heart a soldier, and who in good\r\nfaith and without too much qualification assented to at least a part of\r\nthe frankly villainous dictum that all is fair in love and war.\r\n\r\nOne evening while Farquhar and his wife were sitting on a rustic bench\r\nnear the entrance to his grounds, a gray-clad soldier rode up to the\r\ngate and asked for a drink of water. Mrs. Farquhar was only too happy to\r\nserve him with her own white hands. While she was fetching the water her\r\nhusband approached the dusty horseman and inquired eagerly for news from\r\nthe front.\r\n\r\n"The Yanks are repairing the railroads," said the man, "and are getting\r\nready for another advance. They have reached the Owl Creek bridge, put\r\nit in order and built a stockade on the north bank. The commandant has\r\nissued an order, which is posted everywhere, declaring that any civilian\r\ncaught interfering with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels or trains\r\nwill be summarily hanged. I saw the order."\r\n\r\n"How far is it to the Owl Creek bridge?" Farquhar asked.\r\n\r\n"About thirty miles."\r\n\r\n"Is there no force on this side the creek?"\r\n\r\n"Only a picket post half a mile out, on the railroad, and a single\r\nsentinel at this end of the bridge."\r\n\r\n"Suppose a man--a civilian and student of hanging--should elude the\r\npicket post and perhaps get the better of the sentinel," said Farquhar,\r\nsmiling, "what could he accomplish?"\r\n\r\nThe soldier reflected. "I was there a month ago," he replied. "I\r\nobserved that the flood of last winter had lodged a great quantity of\r\ndriftwood against the wooden pier at this end of the bridge. It is now\r\ndry and would burn like tow."\r\n\r\nThe lady had now brought the water, which the soldier drank. He thanked\r\nher ceremoniously, bowed to her husband and rode away. An hour later,\r\nafter nightfall, he repassed the plantation, going northward in the\r\ndirection from which he had come. He was a Federal scout.\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nAs Peyton Farquhar fell straight downward through the bridge he lost\r\nconsciousness and was as one already dead. From this state he was\r\nawakened--ages later, it seemed to him--by the pain of a sharp pressure\r\nupon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. Keen, poignant\r\nagonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward through every fibre of\r\nhis body and limbs. These pains appeared to flash along well-defined\r\nlines of ramification and to beat with an inconceivably rapid\r\nperiodicity. They seemed like streams of pulsating fire heating him to\r\nan intolerable temperature. As to his head, he was conscious of nothing\r\nbut a feeling of fulness--of congestion. These sensations were\r\nunaccompanied by thought. The intellectual part of his nature was\r\nalready effaced; he had power only to feel, and feeling was torment. He\r\nwas conscious of motion. Encompassed in a luminous cloud, of which he\r\nwas now merely the fiery heart, without material substance, he swung\r\nthrough unthinkable arcs of oscillation, like a vast pendulum. Then all\r\nat once, with terrible suddenness, the light about him shot upward with\r\nthe noise of a loud plash; a frightful roaring was in his ears, and all\r\nwas cold and dark. The power of thought was restored; he knew that the\r\nrope had broken and he had fallen into the stream. There was no\r\nadditional strangulation; the noose about his neck was already\r\nsuffocating him and kept the water from his lungs. To die of hanging at\r\nthe bottom of a river!--the idea seemed to him ludicrous. He opened his\r\neyes in the darkness and saw above him a gleam of light, but how\r\ndistant, how inaccessible! He was still sinking, for the light became\r\nfainter and fainter until it was a mere glimmer. Then it began to grow\r\nand brighten, and he knew that he was rising toward the surface--knew it\r\nwith reluctance, for he was now very comfortable. "To be hanged and\r\ndrowned," he thought, "that is not so bad; but I do not wish to be shot.\r\nNo; I will not be shot; that is not fair."\r\n\r\nHe was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his wrist\r\napprised him that he was trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle\r\nhis attention, as an idler might observe the feat of a juggler, without\r\ninterest in the outcome. What splendid effort!--what magnificent, what\r\nsuperhuman strength! Ah, that was a fine endeavor! Bravo! The cord fell\r\naway; his arms parted and floated upward, the hands dimly seen on each\r\nside in the growing light. He watched them with a new interest as first\r\none and then the other pounced upon the noose at his neck. They tore it\r\naway and thrust it fiercely aside, its undulations resembling those of a\r\nwater-snake. "Put it back, put it back!" He thought he shouted these\r\nwords to his hands, for the undoing of the noose had been succeeded by\r\nthe direst pang that he had yet experienced. His neck ached horribly;\r\nhis brain was on fire; his heart, which had been fluttering faintly,\r\ngave a great leap, trying to force itself out at his mouth. His whole\r\nbody was racked and wrenched with an insupportable anguish! But his\r\ndisobedient hands gave no heed to the command. They beat the water\r\nvigorously with quick, downward strokes, forcing him to the surface. He\r\nfelt his head emerge; his eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest\r\nexpanded convulsively, and with a supreme and crowning agony his lungs\r\nengulfed a great draught of air, which instantly he expelled in a\r\nshriek!\r\n\r\nHe was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were, indeed,\r\npreternaturally keen and alert. Something in the awful disturbance of\r\nhis organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record\r\nof things never before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and\r\nheard their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on\r\nthe bank of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the\r\nveining of each leaf--saw the very insects upon them: the locusts, the\r\nbrilliant-bodied flies, the gray spiders stretching their webs from twig\r\nto twig. He noted the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a\r\nmillion blades of grass. The humming of the gnats that danced above the\r\neddies of the stream, the beating of the dragon-flies\' wings, the\r\nstrokes of the water-spiders\' legs, like oars which had lifted their\r\nboat--all these made audible music. A fish slid along beneath his eyes\r\nand he heard the rush of its body parting the water.\r\n\r\nHe had come to the surface facing down the stream; in a moment the\r\nvisible world seemed to wheel slowly round, himself the pivotal point,\r\nand he saw the bridge, the fort, the soldiers upon the bridge, the\r\ncaptain, the sergeant, the two privates, his executioners. They were in\r\nsilhouette against the blue sky. They shouted and gesticulated, pointing\r\nat him. The captain had drawn his pistol, but did not fire; the others\r\nwere unarmed. Their movements were grotesque and horrible, their forms\r\ngigantic.\r\n\r\nSuddenly he heard a sharp report and something struck the water smartly\r\nwithin a few inches of his head, spattering his face with spray. He\r\nheard a second report, and saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at\r\nhis shoulder, a light cloud of blue smoke rising from the muzzle. The\r\nman in the water saw the eye of the man on the bridge gazing into his\r\nown through the sights of the rifle. He observed that it was a gray eye\r\nand remembered having read that gray eyes were keenest, and that all\r\nfamous markmen had them. Nevertheless, this one had missed.\r\n\r\nA counter-swirl had caught Farquhar and turned him half round; he was\r\nagain looking into the forest on the bank opposite the fort. The sound\r\nof a clear, high voice in a monotonous singsong now rang out behind him\r\nand came across the water with a distinctness that pierced and subdued\r\nall other sounds, even the beating of the ripples in his ears. Although\r\nno soldier, he had frequented camps enough to know the dread\r\nsignificance of that deliberate, drawling, aspirated chant; the\r\nlieutenant on shore was taking a part in the morning\'s work. How coldly\r\nand pitilessly--with what an even, calm intonation, presaging, and\r\nenforcing tranquillity in the men--with what accurately measured\r\nintervals fell those cruel words:\r\n\r\n"Attention, company!... Shoulder arms!... Ready!... Aim!... Fire!"\r\n\r\nFarquhar dived--dived as deeply as he could. The water roared in his\r\nears like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dulled thunder of the\r\nvolley and, rising again toward the surface, met shining bits of metal,\r\nsingularly flattened, oscillating slowly downward. Some of them touched\r\nhim on the face and hands, then fell away, continuing their descent. One\r\nlodged between his collar and neck; it was uncomfortably warm and he\r\nsnatched it out.\r\n\r\nAs he rose to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that he had been a\r\nlong time under water; he was perceptibly farther down stream--nearer to\r\nsafety. The soldiers had almost finished reloading; the metal ramrods\r\nflashed all at once in the sunshine as they were drawn from the barrels,\r\nturned in the air, and thrust into their sockets. The two sentinels\r\nfired again, independently and ineffectually.\r\n\r\nThe hunted man saw all this over his shoulder; he was now swimming\r\nvigorously with the current. His brain was as energetic as his arms and\r\nlegs; he thought with the rapidity of lightning.\r\n\r\n"The officer," he reasoned, "will not make that martinet\'s error a\r\nsecond time. It is as easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. He has\r\nprobably already given the command to fire at will. God help me, I\r\ncannot dodge them all!"\r\n\r\nAn appalling plash within two yards of him was followed by a loud,\r\nrushing sound, _diminuendo_, which seemed to travel back through the air\r\nto the fort and died in an explosion which stirred the very river to its\r\ndeeps! A rising sheet of water curved over him, fell down upon him,\r\nblinded him, strangled him! The cannon had taken a hand in the game. As\r\nhe shook his head free from the commotion of the smitten water he heard\r\nthe deflected shot humming through the air ahead, and in an instant it\r\nwas cracking and smashing the branches in the forest beyond.\r\n\r\n"They will not do that again," he thought; "the next time they will use\r\na charge of grape. I must keep my eye upon the gun; the smoke will\r\napprise me--the report arrives too late; it lags behind the missile.\r\nThat is a good gun."\r\n\r\nSuddenly he felt himself whirled round and round--spinning like a top.\r\nThe water, the banks, the forests, the now distant bridge, fort and men\r\n--all were commingled and blurred. Objects were represented by their\r\ncolors only; circular horizontal streaks of color--that was all he saw.\r\nHe had been caught in a vortex and was being whirled on with a velocity\r\nof advance and gyration that made him giddy and sick. In a few moments\r\nhe was flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of the stream\r\n--the southern bank--and behind a projecting point which concealed him\r\nfrom his enemies. The sudden arrest of his motion, the abrasion of one\r\nof his hands on the gravel, restored him, and he wept with delight. He\r\ndug his fingers into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls and\r\naudibly blessed it. It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; he could\r\nthink of nothing beautiful which it did not resemble. The trees upon the\r\nbank were giant garden plants; he noted a definite order in their\r\narrangement, inhaled the fragrance of their blooms. A strange, roseate\r\nlight shone through the spaces among their trunks and the wind made in\r\ntheir branches the music of æolian harps. He had no wish to perfect his\r\nescape--was content to remain in that enchanting spot until retaken.\r\n\r\nA whiz and rattle of grapeshot among the branches high above his head\r\nroused him from his dream. The baffled cannoneer had fired him a random\r\nfarewell. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and plunged\r\ninto the forest.\r\n\r\nAll that day he traveled, laying his course by the rounding sun. The\r\nforest seemed interminable; nowhere did he discover a break in it, not\r\neven a woodman\'s road. He had not known that he lived in so wild a\r\nregion. There was something uncanny in the revelation.\r\n\r\nBy nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famishing. The thought of his\r\nwife and children urged him on. At last he found a road which led him in\r\nwhat he knew to be the right direction. It was as wide and straight as a\r\ncity street, yet it seemed untraveled. No fields bordered it, no\r\ndwelling anywhere. Not so much as the barking of a dog suggested human\r\nhabitation. The black bodies of the trees formed a straight wall on both\r\nsides, terminating on the horizon in a point, like a diagram in a lesson\r\nin perspective. Over-head, as he looked up through this rift in the\r\nwood, shone great golden stars looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange\r\nconstellations. He was sure they were arranged in some order which had a\r\nsecret and malign significance. The wood on either side was full of\r\nsingular noises, among which--once, twice, and again--he distinctly\r\nheard whispers in an unknown tongue.\r\n\r\nHis neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it he found it horribly\r\nswollen. He knew that it had a circle of black where the rope had\r\nbruised it. His eyes felt congested; he could no longer close them. His\r\ntongue was swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting it\r\nforward from between his teeth into the cold air. How softly the turf\r\nhad carpeted the untraveled avenue--he could no longer feel the roadway\r\nbeneath his feet!\r\n\r\nDoubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking,\r\nfor now he sees another scene--perhaps he has merely recovered from a\r\ndelirium. He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left it,\r\nand all bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine. He must have\r\ntraveled the entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes up the\r\nwide white walk, he sees a flutter of female garments; his wife, looking\r\nfresh and cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to meet him. At\r\nthe bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with a smile of ineffable\r\njoy, an attitude of matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she\r\nis! He springs forward with extended arms. As he is about to clasp her\r\nhe feels a stunning blow upon the back of the neck; a blinding white\r\nlight blazes all about him with a sound like the shock of a cannon--then\r\nall is darkness and silence!\r\n\r\nPeyton Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently\r\nfrom side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek bridge.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHICKAMAUGA\r\n\r\nOne sunny autumn afternoon a child strayed away from its rude home in a\r\nsmall field and entered a forest unobserved. It was happy in a new sense\r\nof freedom from control, happy in the opportunity of exploration and\r\nadventure; for this child\'s spirit, in bodies of its ancestors, had for\r\nthousands of years been trained to memorable feats of discovery and\r\nconquest--victories in battles whose critical moments were centuries,\r\nwhose victors\' camps were cities of hewn stone. From the cradle of its\r\nrace it had conquered its way through two continents and passing a great\r\nsea had penetrated a third, there to be born to war and dominion as a\r\nheritage.\r\n\r\nThe child was a boy aged about six years, the son of a poor planter. In\r\nhis younger manhood the father had been a soldier, had fought against\r\nnaked savages and followed the flag of his country into the capital of a\r\ncivilized race to the far South. In the peaceful life of a planter the\r\nwarrior-fire survived; once kindled, it is never extinguished. The man\r\nloved military books and pictures and the boy had understood enough to\r\nmake himself a wooden sword, though even the eye of his father would\r\nhardly have known it for what it was. This weapon he now bore bravely,\r\nas became the son of an heroic race, and pausing now and again in the\r\nsunny space of the forest assumed, with some exaggeration, the postures\r\nof aggression and defense that he had been taught by the engraver\'s art.\r\nMade reckless by the ease with which he overcame invisible foes\r\nattempting to stay his advance, he committed the common enough military\r\nerror of pushing the pursuit to a dangerous extreme, until he found\r\nhimself upon the margin of a wide but shallow brook, whose rapid waters\r\nbarred his direct advance against the flying foe that had crossed with\r\nillogical ease. But the intrepid victor was not to be baffled; the\r\nspirit of the race which had passed the great sea burned unconquerable\r\nin that small breast and would not be denied. Finding a place where some\r\nbowlders in the bed of the stream lay but a step or a leap apart, he\r\nmade his way across and fell again upon the rear-guard of his imaginary\r\nfoe, putting all to the sword.\r\n\r\nNow that the battle had been won, prudence required that he withdraw to\r\nhis base of operations. Alas; like many a mightier conqueror, and like\r\none, the mightiest, he could not\r\n\r\n curb the lust for war,\r\n Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.\r\n\r\nAdvancing from the bank of the creek he suddenly found himself\r\nconfronted with a new and more formidable enemy: in the path that he was\r\nfollowing, sat, bolt upright, with ears erect and paws suspended before\r\nit, a rabbit! With a startled cry the child turned and fled, he knew not\r\nin what direction, calling with inarticulate cries for his mother,\r\nweeping, stumbling, his tender skin cruelly torn by brambles, his little\r\nheart beating hard with terror--breathless, blind with tears--lost in\r\nthe forest! Then, for more than an hour, he wandered with erring feet\r\nthrough the tangled undergrowth, till at last, overcome by fatigue, he\r\nlay down in a narrow space between two rocks, within a few yards of the\r\nstream and still grasping his toy sword, no longer a weapon but a\r\ncompanion, sobbed himself to sleep. The wood birds sang merrily above\r\nhis head; the squirrels, whisking their bravery of tail, ran barking\r\nfrom tree to tree, unconscious of the pity of it, and somewhere far away\r\nwas a strange, muffled thunder, as if the partridges were drumming in\r\ncelebration of nature\'s victory over the son of her immemorial\r\nenslavers. And back at the little plantation, where white men and black\r\nwere hastily searching the fields and hedges in alarm, a mother\'s heart\r\nwas breaking for her missing child.\r\n\r\nHours passed, and then the little sleeper rose to his feet. The chill of\r\nthe evening was in his limbs, the fear of the gloom in his heart. But he\r\nhad rested, and he no longer wept. With some blind instinct which\r\nimpelled to action he struggled through the undergrowth about him and\r\ncame to a more open ground--on his right the brook, to the left a\r\ngentle acclivity studded with infrequent trees; over all, the gathering\r\ngloom of twilight. A thin, ghostly mist rose along the water. It\r\nfrightened and repelled him; instead of recrossing, in the direction\r\nwhence he had come, he turned his back upon it, and went forward toward\r\nthe dark inclosing wood. Suddenly he saw before him a strange moving\r\nobject which he took to be some large animal--a dog, a pig--he could not\r\nname it; perhaps it was a bear. He had seen pictures of bears, but knew\r\nof nothing to their discredit and had vaguely wished to meet one. But\r\nsomething in form or movement of this object--something in the\r\nawkwardness of its approach--told him that it was not a bear, and\r\ncuriosity was stayed by fear. He stood still and as it came slowly on\r\ngained courage every moment, for he saw that at least it had not the\r\nlong, menacing ears of the rabbit. Possibly his impressionable mind was\r\nhalf conscious of something familiar in its shambling, awkward gait.\r\nBefore it had approached near enough to resolve his doubts he saw that\r\nit was followed by another and another. To right and to left were many\r\nmore; the whole open space about him was alive with them--all moving\r\ntoward the brook.\r\n\r\nThey were men. They crept upon their hands and knees. They used their\r\nhands only, dragging their legs. They used their knees only, their arms\r\nhanging idle at their sides. They strove to rise to their feet, but fell\r\nprone in the attempt. They did nothing naturally, and nothing alike,\r\nsave only to advance foot by foot in the same direction. Singly, in\r\npairs and in little groups, they came on through the gloom, some halting\r\nnow and again while others crept slowly past them, then resuming their\r\nmovement. They came by dozens and by hundreds; as far on either hand as\r\none could see in the deepening gloom they extended and the black wood\r\nbehind them appeared to be inexhaustible. The very ground seemed in\r\nmotion toward the creek. Occasionally one who had paused did not again\r\ngo on, but lay motionless. He was dead. Some, pausing, made strange\r\ngestures with their hands, erected their arms and lowered them again,\r\nclasped their heads; spread their palms upward, as men are sometimes\r\nseen to do in public prayer.\r\n\r\nNot all of this did the child note; it is what would have been noted by\r\nan elder observer; he saw little but that these were men, yet crept like\r\nbabes. Being men, they were not terrible, though unfamiliarly clad. He\r\nmoved among them freely, going from one to another and peering into\r\ntheir faces with childish curiosity. All their faces were singularly\r\nwhite and many were streaked and gouted with red. Something in this--\r\nsomething too, perhaps, in their grotesque attitudes and movements--\r\nreminded him of the painted clown whom he had seen last summer in the\r\ncircus, and he laughed as he watched them. But on and ever on they\r\ncrept, these maimed and bleeding men, as heedless as he of the dramatic\r\ncontrast between his laughter and their own ghastly gravity. To him it\r\nwas a merry spectacle. He had seen his father\'s negroes creep upon their\r\nhands and knees for his amusement--had ridden them so, "making believe"\r\nthey were his horses. He now approached one of these crawling figures\r\nfrom behind and with an agile movement mounted it astride. The man sank\r\nupon his breast, recovered, flung the small boy fiercely to the ground\r\nas an unbroken colt might have done, then turned upon him a face that\r\nlacked a lower jaw--from the upper teeth to the throat was a great red\r\ngap fringed with hanging shreds of flesh and splinters of bone. The\r\nunnatural prominence of nose, the absence of chin, the fierce eyes, gave\r\nthis man the appearance of a great bird of prey crimsoned in throat and\r\nbreast by the blood of its quarry. The man rose to his knees, the child\r\nto his feet. The man shook his fist at the child; the child, terrified\r\nat last, ran to a tree near by, got upon the farther side of it and took\r\na more serious view of the situation. And so the clumsy multitude\r\ndragged itself slowly and painfully along in hideous pantomime--moved\r\nforward down the slope like a swarm of great black beetles, with never a\r\nsound of going--in silence profound, absolute.\r\n\r\nInstead of darkening, the haunted landscape began to brighten. Through\r\nthe belt of trees beyond the brook shone a strange red light, the trunks\r\nand branches of the trees making a black lacework against it. It struck\r\nthe creeping figures and gave them monstrous shadows, which caricatured\r\ntheir movements on the lit grass. It fell upon their faces, touching\r\ntheir whiteness with a ruddy tinge, accentuating the stains with which\r\nso many of them were freaked and maculated. It sparkled on buttons and\r\nbits of metal in their clothing. Instinctively the child turned toward\r\nthe growing splendor and moved down the slope with his horrible\r\ncompanions; in a few moments had passed the foremost of the throng--not\r\nmuch of a feat, considering his advantages. He placed himself in the\r\nlead, his wooden sword still in hand, and solemnly directed the march,\r\nconforming his pace to theirs and occasionally turning as if to see that\r\nhis forces did not straggle. Surely such a leader never before had such\r\na following.\r\n\r\nScattered about upon the ground now slowly narrowing by the encroachment\r\nof this awful march to water, were certain articles to which, in the\r\nleader\'s mind, were coupled no significant associations: an occasional\r\nblanket, tightly rolled lengthwise, doubled and the ends bound together\r\nwith a string; a heavy knapsack here, and there a broken rifle--such\r\nthings, in short, as are found in the rear of retreating troops, the\r\n"spoor" of men flying from their hunters. Everywhere near the creek,\r\nwhich here had a margin of lowland, the earth was trodden into mud by\r\nthe feet of men and horses. An observer of better experience in the use\r\nof his eyes would have noticed that these footprints pointed in both\r\ndirections; the ground had been twice passed over--in advance and in\r\nretreat. A few hours before, these desperate, stricken men, with their\r\nmore fortunate and now distant comrades, had penetrated the forest in\r\nthousands. Their successive battalions, breaking into swarms and\r\nre-forming in lines, had passed the child on every side--had almost\r\ntrodden on him as he slept. The rustle and murmur of their march had not\r\nawakened him. Almost within a stone\'s throw of where he lay they had\r\nfought a battle; but all unheard by him were the roar of the musketry,\r\nthe shock of the cannon, "the thunder of the captains and the shouting."\r\nHe had slept through it all, grasping his little wooden sword with\r\nperhaps a tighter clutch in unconscious sympathy with his martial\r\nenvironment, but as heedless of the grandeur of the struggle as the dead\r\nwho had died to make the glory.\r\n\r\nThe fire beyond the belt of woods on the farther side of the creek,\r\nreflected to earth from the canopy of its own smoke, was now suffusing\r\nthe whole landscape. It transformed the sinuous line of mist to the\r\nvapor of gold. The water gleamed with dashes of red, and red, too, were\r\nmany of the stones protruding above the surface. But that was blood; the\r\nless desperately wounded had stained them in crossing. On them, too, the\r\nchild now crossed with eager steps; he was going to the fire. As he\r\nstood upon the farther bank he turned about to look at the companions of\r\nhis march. The advance was arriving at the creek. The stronger had\r\nalready drawn themselves to the brink and plunged their faces into the\r\nflood. Three or four who lay without motion appeared to have no heads.\r\nAt this the child\'s eyes expanded with wonder; even his hospitable\r\nunderstanding could not accept a phenomenon implying such vitality as\r\nthat. After slaking their thirst these men had not had the strength to\r\nback away from the water, nor to keep their heads above it. They were\r\ndrowned. In rear of these, the open spaces of the forest showed the\r\nleader as many formless figures of his grim command as at first; but not\r\nnearly so many were in motion. He waved his cap for their encouragement\r\nand smilingly pointed with his weapon in the direction of the guiding\r\nlight--a pillar of fire to this strange exodus.\r\n\r\nConfident of the fidelity of his forces, he now entered the belt of\r\nwoods, passed through it easily in the red illumination, climbed a\r\nfence, ran across a field, turning now and again to coquet with his\r\nresponsive shadow, and so approached the blazing ruin of a dwelling.\r\nDesolation everywhere! In all the wide glare not a living thing was\r\nvisible. He cared nothing for that; the spectacle pleased, and he danced\r\nwith glee in imitation of the wavering flames. He ran about, collecting\r\nfuel, but every object that he found was too heavy for him to cast in\r\nfrom the distance to which the heat limited his approach. In despair he\r\nflung in his sword--a surrender to the superior forces of nature. His\r\nmilitary career was at an end.\r\n\r\nShifting his position, his eyes fell upon some outbuildings which had an\r\noddly familiar appearance, as if he had dreamed of them. He stood\r\nconsidering them with wonder, when suddenly the entire plantation, with\r\nits inclosing forest, seemed to turn as if upon a pivot. His little\r\nworld swung half around; the points of the compass were reversed. He\r\nrecognized the blazing building as his own home!\r\n\r\nFor a moment he stood stupefied by the power of the revelation, then ran\r\nwith stumbling feet, making a half-circuit of the ruin. There,\r\nconspicuous in the light of the conflagration, lay the dead body of a\r\nwoman--the white face turned upward, the hands thrown out and clutched\r\nfull of grass, the clothing deranged, the long dark hair in tangles and\r\nfull of clotted blood. The greater part of the forehead was torn away,\r\nand from the jagged hole the brain protruded, overflowing the temple, a\r\nfrothy mass of gray, crowned with clusters of crimson bubbles--the work\r\nof a shell.\r\n\r\nThe child moved his little hands, making wild, uncertain gestures. He\r\nuttered a series of inarticulate and indescribable cries--something\r\nbetween the chattering of an ape and the gobbling of a turkey--a\r\nstartling, soulless, unholy sound, the language of a devil. The child\r\nwas a deaf mute.\r\n\r\nThen he stood motionless, with quivering lips, looking down upon the\r\nwreck.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA SON OF THE GODS\r\n\r\nA STUDY IN THE PRESENT TENSE\r\n\r\nA breezy day and a sunny landscape. An open country to right and left\r\nand forward; behind, a wood. In the edge of this wood, facing the open\r\nbut not venturing into it, long lines of troops, halted. The wood is\r\nalive with them, and full of confused noises--the occasional rattle of\r\nwheels as a battery of artillery goes into position to cover the\r\nadvance; the hum and murmur of the soldiers talking; a sound of\r\ninnumerable feet in the dry leaves that strew the interspaces among the\r\ntrees; hoarse commands of officers. Detached groups of horsemen are well\r\nin front--not altogether exposed--many of them intently regarding the\r\ncrest of a hill a mile away in the direction of the interrupted advance.\r\nFor this powerful army, moving in battle order through a forest, has met\r\nwith a formidable obstacle--the open country. The crest of that gentle\r\nhill a mile away has a sinister look; it says, Beware! Along it runs a\r\nstone wall extending to left and right a great distance. Behind the wall\r\nis a hedge; behind the hedge are seen the tops of trees in rather\r\nstraggling order. Among the trees--what? It is necessary to know.\r\n\r\nYesterday, and for many days and nights previously, we were fighting\r\nsomewhere; always there was cannonading, with occasional keen rattlings\r\nof musketry, mingled with cheers, our own or the enemy\'s, we seldom\r\nknew, attesting some temporary advantage. This morning at daybreak the\r\nenemy was gone. We have moved forward across his earthworks, across\r\nwhich we have so often vainly attempted to move before, through the\r\ndebris of his abandoned camps, among the graves of his fallen, into the\r\nwoods beyond.\r\n\r\nHow curiously we had regarded everything! how odd it all had seemed!\r\nNothing had appeared quite familiar; the most commonplace objects--an\r\nold saddle, a splintered wheel, a forgotten canteen--everything had\r\nrelated something of the mysterious personality of those strange men who\r\nhad been killing us. The soldier never becomes wholly familiar with the\r\nconception of his foes as men like himself; he cannot divest himself of\r\nthe feeling that they are another order of beings, differently\r\nconditioned, in an environment not altogether of the earth. The smallest\r\nvestiges of them rivet his attention and engage his interest. He thinks\r\nof them as inaccessible; and, catching an unexpected glimpse of them,\r\nthey appear farther away, and therefore larger, than they really are--\r\nlike objects in a fog. He is somewhat in awe of them.\r\n\r\nFrom the edge of the wood leading up the acclivity are the tracks of\r\nhorses and wheels--the wheels of cannon. The yellow grass is beaten down\r\nby the feet of infantry. Clearly they have passed this way in thousands;\r\nthey have not withdrawn by the country roads. This is significant--it is\r\nthe difference between retiring and retreating.\r\n\r\nThat group of horsemen is our commander, his staff and escort. He is\r\nfacing the distant crest, holding his field-glass against his eyes with\r\nboth hands, his elbows needlessly elevated. It is a fashion; it seems to\r\ndignify the act; we are all addicted to it. Suddenly he lowers the glass\r\nand says a few words to those about him. Two or three aides detach\r\nthemselves from the group and canter away into the woods, along the\r\nlines in each direction. We did not hear his words, but we know them:\r\n"Tell General X. to send forward the skirmish line." Those of us who\r\nhave been out of place resume our positions; the men resting at ease\r\nstraighten themselves and the ranks are re-formed without a command.\r\nSome of us staff officers dismount and look at our saddle girths; those\r\nalready on the ground remount.\r\n\r\nGalloping rapidly along in the edge of the open ground comes a young\r\nofficer on a snow-white horse. His saddle blanket is scarlet. What a\r\nfool! No one who has ever been in action but remembers how naturally\r\nevery rifle turns toward the man on a white horse; no one but has\r\nobserved how a bit of red enrages the bull of battle. That such colors\r\nare fashionable in military life must be accepted as the most\r\nastonishing of all the phenomena of human vanity. They would seem to\r\nhave been devised to increase the death-rate.\r\n\r\nThis young officer is in full uniform, as if on parade. He is all agleam\r\nwith bullion--a blue-and-gold edition of the Poetry of War. A wave of\r\nderisive laughter runs abreast of him all along the line. But how\r\nhandsome he is!--with what careless grace he sits his horse!\r\n\r\nHe reins up within a respectful distance of the corps commander and\r\nsalutes. The old soldier nods familiarly; he evidently knows him. A\r\nbrief colloquy between them is going on; the young man seems to be\r\npreferring some request which the elder one is indisposed to grant. Let\r\nus ride a little nearer. Ah! too late--it is ended. The young officer\r\nsalutes again, wheels his horse, and rides straight toward the crest of\r\nthe hill!\r\n\r\nA thin line of skirmishers, the men deployed at six paces or so apart,\r\nnow pushes from the wood into the open. The commander speaks to his\r\nbugler, who claps his instrument to his lips. _Tra-la-la! Tra-la-la!_\r\nThe skirmishers halt in their tracks.\r\n\r\nMeantime the young horseman has advanced a hundred yards. He is riding\r\nat a walk, straight up the long slope, with never a turn of the head.\r\nHow glorious! Gods! what would we not give to be in his place--with his\r\nsoul! He does not draw his sabre; his right hand hangs easily at his\r\nside. The breeze catches the plume in his hat and flutters it smartly.\r\nThe sunshine rests upon his shoulder-straps, lovingly, like a visible\r\nbenediction. Straight on he rides. Ten thousand pairs of eyes are fixed\r\nupon him with an intensity that he can hardly fail to feel; ten thousand\r\nhearts keep quick time to the inaudible hoof-beats of his snowy steed.\r\nHe is not alone--he draws all souls after him. But we remember that we\r\nlaughed! On and on, straight for the hedge-lined wall, he rides. Not a\r\nlook backward. O, if he would but turn--if he could but see the love,\r\nthe adoration, the atonement!\r\n\r\nNot a word is spoken; the populous depths of the forest still murmur\r\nwith their unseen and unseeing swarm, but all along the fringe is\r\nsilence. The burly commander is an equestrian statue of himself. The\r\nmounted staff officers, their field glasses up, are motionless all. The\r\nline of battle in the edge of the wood stands at a new kind of\r\n"attention," each man in the attitude in which he was caught by the\r\nconsciousness of what is going on. All these hardened and impenitent\r\nman-killers, to whom death in its awfulest forms is a fact familiar to\r\ntheir every-day observation; who sleep on hills trembling with the\r\nthunder of great guns, dine in the midst of streaming missiles, and play\r\nat cards among the dead faces of their dearest friends--all are watching\r\nwith suspended breath and beating hearts the outcome of an act involving\r\nthe life of one man. Such is the magnetism of courage and devotion.\r\n\r\nIf now you should turn your head you would see a simultaneous movement\r\namong the spectators--a start, as if they had received an electric\r\nshock--and looking forward again to the now distant horseman you would\r\nsee that he has in that instant altered his direction and is riding at\r\nan angle to his former course. The spectators suppose the sudden\r\ndeflection to be caused by a shot, perhaps a wound; but take this\r\nfield-glass and you will observe that he is riding toward a break in the\r\nwall and hedge. He means, if not killed, to ride through and overlook\r\nthe country beyond.\r\n\r\nYou are not to forget the nature of this man\'s act; it is not permitted\r\nto you to think of it as an instance of bravado, nor, on the other hand,\r\na needless sacrifice of self. If the enemy has not retreated he is in\r\nforce on that ridge. The investigator will encounter nothing less than a\r\nline-of-battle; there is no need of pickets, videttes, skirmishers, to\r\ngive warning of our approach; our attacking lines will be visible,\r\nconspicuous, exposed to an artillery fire that will shave the ground the\r\nmoment they break from cover, and for half the distance to a sheet of\r\nrifle bullets in which nothing can live. In short, if the enemy is\r\nthere, it would be madness to attack him in front; he must be manoeuvred\r\nout by the immemorial plan of threatening his line of communication, as\r\nnecessary to his existence as to the diver at the bottom of the sea his\r\nair tube. But how ascertain if the enemy is there? There is but one\r\nway,--somebody must go and see. The natural and customary thing to do is\r\nto send forward a line of skirmishers. But in this case they will answer\r\nin the affirmative with all their lives; the enemy, crouching in double\r\nranks behind the stone wall and in cover of the hedge, will wait until\r\nit is possible to count each assailant\'s teeth. At the first volley a\r\nhalf of the questioning line will fall, the other half before it can\r\naccomplish the predestined retreat. What a price to pay for gratified\r\ncuriosity! At what a dear rate an army must sometimes purchase\r\nknowledge! "Let me pay all," says this gallant man--this military\r\nChrist!\r\n\r\nThere is no hope except the hope against hope that the crest is clear.\r\nTrue, he might prefer capture to death. So long as he advances, the line\r\nwill not fire--why should it? He can safely ride into the hostile ranks\r\nand become a prisoner of war. But this would defeat his object. It would\r\nnot answer our question; it is necessary either that he return unharmed\r\nor be shot to death before our eyes. Only so shall we know how to act.\r\nIf captured--why, that might have been done by a half-dozen stragglers.\r\n\r\nNow begins an extraordinary contest of intellect between a man and an\r\narmy. Our horseman, now within a quarter of a mile of the crest,\r\nsuddenly wheels to the left and gallops in a direction parallel to it.\r\nHe has caught sight of his antagonist; he knows all. Some slight\r\nadvantage of ground has enabled him to overlook a part of the line. If\r\nhe were here he could tell us in words. But that is now hopeless; he\r\nmust make the best use of the few minutes of life remaining to him, by\r\ncompelling the enemy himself to tell us as much and as plainly as\r\npossible--which, naturally, that discreet power is reluctant to do. Not\r\na rifleman in those crouching ranks, not a cannoneer at those masked and\r\nshotted guns, but knows the needs of the situation, the imperative duty\r\nof forbearance. Besides, there has been time enough to forbid them all\r\nto fire. True, a single rifle-shot might drop him and be no great\r\ndisclosure. But firing is infectious--and see how rapidly he moves, with\r\nnever a pause except as he whirls his horse about to take a new\r\ndirection, never directly backward toward us, never directly forward\r\ntoward his executioners. All this is visible through the glass; it seems\r\noccurring within pistol-shot; we see all but the enemy, whose presence,\r\nwhose thoughts, whose motives we infer. To the unaided eye there is\r\nnothing but a black figure on a white horse, tracing slow zigzags\r\nagainst the slope of a distant hill--so slowly they seem almost to\r\ncreep.\r\n\r\nNow--the glass again--he has tired of his failure, or sees his error, or\r\nhas gone mad; he is dashing directly forward at the wall, as if to take\r\nit at a leap, hedge and all! One moment only and he wheels right about\r\nand is speeding like the wind straight down the slope--toward his\r\nfriends, toward his death! Instantly the wall is topped with a fierce\r\nroll of smoke for a distance of hundreds of yards to right and left.\r\nThis is as instantly dissipated by the wind, and before the rattle of\r\nthe rifles reaches us he is down. No, he recovers his seat; he has but\r\npulled his horse upon its haunches. They are up and away! A tremendous\r\ncheer bursts from our ranks, relieving the insupportable tension of our\r\nfeelings. And the horse and its rider? Yes, they are up and away. Away,\r\nindeed--they are making directly to our left, parallel to the now\r\nsteadily blazing and smoking wall. The rattle of the musketry is\r\ncontinuous, and every bullet\'s target is that courageous heart.\r\n\r\nSuddenly a great bank of white smoke pushes upward from behind the wall.\r\nAnother and another--a dozen roll up before the thunder of the\r\nexplosions and the humming of the missiles reach our ears and the\r\nmissiles themselves come bounding through clouds of dust into our\r\ncovert, knocking over here and there a man and causing a temporary\r\ndistraction, a passing thought of self.\r\n\r\nThe dust drifts away. Incredible!--that enchanted horse and rider have\r\npassed a ravine and are climbing another slope to unveil another\r\nconspiracy of silence, to thwart the will of another armed host. Another\r\nmoment and that crest too is in eruption. The horse rears and strikes\r\nthe air with its forefeet. They are down at last. But look again--the\r\nman has detached himself from the dead animal. He stands erect,\r\nmotionless, holding his sabre in his right hand straight above his head.\r\nHis face is toward us. Now he lowers his hand to a level with his face\r\nand moves it outward, the blade of the sabre describing a downward\r\ncurve. It is a sign to us, to the world, to posterity. It is a hero\'s\r\nsalute to death and history.\r\n\r\nAgain the spell is broken; our men attempt to cheer; they are choking\r\nwith emotion; they utter hoarse, discordant cries; they clutch their\r\nweapons and press tumultuously forward into the open. The skirmishers,\r\nwithout orders, against orders, are going forward at a keen run, like\r\nhounds unleashed. Our cannon speak and the enemy\'s now open in full\r\nchorus; to right and left as far as we can see, the distant crest,\r\nseeming now so near, erects its towers of cloud and the great shot pitch\r\nroaring down among our moving masses. Flag after flag of ours emerges\r\nfrom the wood, line after line sweeps forth, catching the sunlight on\r\nits burnished arms. The rear battalions alone are in obedience; they\r\npreserve their proper distance from the insurgent front.\r\n\r\nThe commander has not moved. He now removes his field-glass from his\r\neyes and glances to the right and left. He sees the human current\r\nflowing on either side of him and his huddled escort, like tide waves\r\nparted by a rock. Not a sign of feeling in his face; he is thinking.\r\nAgain he directs his eyes forward; they slowly traverse that malign and\r\nawful crest. He addresses a calm word to his bugler. _Tra-la-la!\r\nTra-la-la!_ The injunction has an imperiousness which enforces it. It is\r\nrepeated by all the bugles of all the sub-ordinate commanders; the sharp\r\nmetallic notes assert themselves above the hum of the advance and\r\npenetrate the sound of the cannon. To halt is to withdraw. The colors\r\nmove slowly back; the lines face about and sullenly follow, bearing\r\ntheir wounded; the skirmishers return, gathering up the dead.\r\n\r\nAh, those many, many needless dead! That great soul whose beautiful body\r\nis lying over yonder, so conspicuous against the sere hillside--could it\r\nnot have been spared the bitter consciousness of a vain devotion? Would\r\none exception have marred too much the pitiless perfection of the\r\ndivine, eternal plan?\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nONE OF THE MISSING\r\n\r\nJerome Searing, a private soldier of General Sherman\'s army, then\r\nconfronting the enemy at and about Kennesaw Mountain, Georgia, turned\r\nhis back upon a small group of officers with whom he had been talking in\r\nlow tones, stepped across a light line of earthworks, and disappeared in\r\na forest. None of the men in line behind the works had said a word to\r\nhim, nor had he so much as nodded to them in passing, but all who saw\r\nunderstood that this brave man had been intrusted with some perilous\r\nduty. Jerome Searing, though a private, did not serve in the ranks; he\r\nwas detailed for service at division headquarters, being borne upon the\r\nrolls as an orderly. "Orderly" is a word covering a multitude of duties.\r\nAn orderly may be a messenger, a clerk, an officer\'s servant--anything.\r\nHe may perform services for which no provision is made in orders and\r\narmy regulations. Their nature may depend upon his aptitude, upon favor,\r\nupon accident. Private Searing, an incomparable marksman, young, hardy,\r\nintelligent and insensible to fear, was a scout. The general commanding\r\nhis division was not content to obey orders blindly without knowing what\r\nwas in his front, even when his command was not on detached service, but\r\nformed a fraction of the line of the army; nor was he satisfied to\r\nreceive his knowledge of his _vis-à-vis_ through the customary channels;\r\nhe wanted to know more than he was apprised of by the corps commander\r\nand the collisions of pickets and skirmishers. Hence Jerome Searing,\r\nwith his extraordinary daring, his woodcraft, his sharp eyes, and\r\ntruthful tongue. On this occasion his instructions were simple: to get\r\nas near the enemy\'s lines as possible and learn all that he could.\r\n\r\nIn a few moments he had arrived at the picket-line, the men on duty\r\nthere lying in groups of two and four behind little banks of earth\r\nscooped out of the slight depression in which they lay, their rifles\r\nprotruding from the green boughs with which they had masked their small\r\ndefenses. The forest extended without a break toward the front, so\r\nsolemn and silent that only by an effort of the imagination could it be\r\nconceived as populous with armed men, alert and vigilant--a forest\r\nformidable with possibilities of battle. Pausing a moment in one of\r\nthese rifle-pits to apprise the men of his intention Searing crept\r\nstealthily forward on his hands and knees and was soon lost to view in a\r\ndense thicket of underbrush.\r\n\r\n"That is the last of him," said one of the men; "I wish I had his rifle;\r\nthose fellows will hurt some of us with it."\r\n\r\nSearing crept on, taking advantage of every accident of ground and\r\ngrowth to give himself better cover. His eyes penetrated everywhere, his\r\nears took note of every sound. He stilled his breathing, and at the\r\ncracking of a twig beneath his knee stopped his progress and hugged the\r\nearth. It was slow work, but not tedious; the danger made it exciting,\r\nbut by no physical signs was the excitement manifest. His pulse was as\r\nregular, his nerves were as steady as if he were trying to trap a\r\nsparrow.\r\n\r\n"It seems a long time," he thought, "but I cannot have come very far; I\r\nam still alive."\r\n\r\nHe smiled at his own method of estimating distance, and crept forward. A\r\nmoment later he suddenly flattened himself upon the earth and lay\r\nmotionless, minute after minute. Through a narrow opening in the bushes\r\nhe had caught sight of a small mound of yellow clay--one of the enemy\'s\r\nrifle-pits. After some little time he cautiously raised his head, inch\r\nby inch, then his body upon his hands, spread out on each side of him,\r\nall the while intently regarding the hillock of clay. In another moment\r\nhe was upon his feet, rifle in hand, striding rapidly forward with\r\nlittle attempt at concealment. He had rightly interpreted the signs,\r\nwhatever they were; the enemy was gone.\r\n\r\nTo assure himself beyond a doubt before going back to report upon so\r\nimportant a matter, Searing pushed forward across the line of abandoned\r\npits, running from cover to cover in the more open forest, his eyes\r\nvigilant to discover possible stragglers. He came to the edge of a\r\nplantation--one of those forlorn, deserted homesteads of the last years\r\nof the war, upgrown with brambles, ugly with broken fences and desolate\r\nwith vacant buildings having blank apertures in place of doors and\r\nwindows. After a keen reconnoissance from the safe seclusion of a clump\r\nof young pines Searing ran lightly across a field and through an orchard\r\nto a small structure which stood apart from the other farm buildings, on\r\na slight elevation. This he thought would enable him to overlook a large\r\nscope of country in the direction that he supposed the enemy to have\r\ntaken in withdrawing. This building, which had originally consisted of a\r\nsingle room elevated upon four posts about ten feet high, was now little\r\nmore than a roof; the floor had fallen away, the joists and planks\r\nloosely piled on the ground below or resting on end at various angles,\r\nnot wholly torn from their fastenings above. The supporting posts were\r\nthemselves no longer vertical. It looked as if the whole edifice would\r\ngo down at the touch of a finger.\r\n\r\nConcealing himself in the debris of joists and flooring Searing looked\r\nacross the open ground between his point of view and a spur of Kennesaw\r\nMountain, a half-mile away. A road leading up and across this spur was\r\ncrowded with troops--the rear-guard of the retiring enemy, their\r\ngun-barrels gleaming in the morning sunlight.\r\n\r\nSearing had now learned all that he could hope to know. It was his duty\r\nto return to his own command with all possible speed and report his\r\ndiscovery. But the gray column of Confederates toiling up the mountain\r\nroad was singularly tempting. His rifle--an ordinary "Springfield," but\r\nfitted with a globe sight and hair-trigger--would easily send its ounce\r\nand a quarter of lead hissing into their midst. That would probably not\r\naffect the duration and result of the war, but it is the business of a\r\nsoldier to kill. It is also his habit if he is a good soldier. Searing\r\ncocked his rifle and "set" the trigger.\r\n\r\nBut it was decreed from the beginning of time that Private Searing was\r\nnot to murder anybody that bright summer morning, nor was the\r\nConfederate retreat to be announced by him. For countless ages events\r\nhad been so matching themselves together in that wondrous mosaic to some\r\nparts of which, dimly discernible, we give the name of history, that the\r\nacts which he had in will would have marred the harmony of the pattern.\r\nSome twenty-five years previously the Power charged with the execution\r\nof the work according to the design had provided against that mischance\r\nby causing the birth of a certain male child in a little village at the\r\nfoot of the Carpathian Mountains, had carefully reared it, supervised\r\nits education, directed its desires into a military channel, and in due\r\ntime made it an officer of artillery. By the concurrence of an infinite\r\nnumber of favoring influences and their preponderance over an infinite\r\nnumber of opposing ones, this officer of artillery had been made to\r\ncommit a breach of discipline and flee from his native country to avoid\r\npunishment. He had been directed to New Orleans (instead of New York),\r\nwhere a recruiting officer awaited him on the wharf. He was enlisted and\r\npromoted, and things were so ordered that he now commanded a Confederate\r\nbattery some two miles along the line from where Jerome Searing, the\r\nFederal scout, stood cocking his rifle. Nothing had been neglected--at\r\nevery step in the progress of both these men\'s lives, and in the lives\r\nof their contemporaries and ancestors, and in the lives of the\r\ncontemporaries of their ancestors, the right thing had been done to\r\nbring about the desired result. Had anything in all this vast\r\nconcatenation been overlooked Private Searing might have fired on the\r\nretreating Confederates that morning, and would perhaps have missed. As\r\nit fell out, a Confederate captain of artillery, having nothing better\r\nto do while awaiting his turn to pull out and be off, amused himself by\r\nsighting a field-piece obliquely to his right at what he mistook for\r\nsome Federal officers on the crest of a hill, and discharged it. The\r\nshot flew high of its mark.\r\n\r\nAs Jerome Searing drew back the hammer of his rifle and with his eyes\r\nupon the distant Confederates considered where he could plant his shot\r\nwith the best hope of making a widow or an orphan or a childless\r\nmother,--perhaps all three, for Private Searing, although he had\r\nrepeatedly refused promotion, was not without a certain kind of\r\nambition,--he heard a rushing sound in the air, like that made by the\r\nwings of a great bird swooping down upon its prey. More quickly than he\r\ncould apprehend the gradation, it increased to a hoarse and horrible\r\nroar, as the missile that made it sprang at him out of the sky, striking\r\nwith a deafening impact one of the posts supporting the confusion of\r\ntimbers above him, smashing it into matchwood, and bringing down the\r\ncrazy edifice with a loud clatter, in clouds of blinding dust!\r\n\r\nWhen Jerome Searing recovered consciousness he did not at once\r\nunderstand what had occurred. It was, indeed, some time before he opened\r\nhis eyes. For a while he believed that he had died and been buried, and\r\nhe tried to recall some portions of the burial service. He thought that\r\nhis wife was kneeling upon his grave, adding her weight to that of the\r\nearth upon his breast. The two of them, widow and earth, had crushed his\r\ncoffin. Unless the children should persuade her to go home he would not\r\nmuch longer be able to breathe. He felt a sense of wrong. "I cannot\r\nspeak to her," he thought; "the dead have no voice; and if I open my\r\neyes I shall get them full of earth."\r\n\r\nHe opened his eyes. A great expanse of blue sky, rising from a fringe of\r\nthe tops of trees. In the foreground, shutting out some of the trees, a\r\nhigh, dun mound, angular in outline and crossed by an intricate,\r\npatternless system of straight lines; the whole an immeasurable distance\r\naway--a distance so inconceivably great that it fatigued him, and he\r\nclosed his eyes. The moment that he did so he was conscious of an\r\ninsufferable light. A sound was in his ears like the low, rhythmic\r\nthunder of a distant sea breaking in successive waves upon the beach,\r\nand out of this noise, seeming a part of it, or possibly coming from\r\nbeyond it, and intermingled with its ceaseless undertone, came the\r\narticulate words: "Jerome Searing, you are caught like a rat in a trap--\r\nin a trap, trap, trap."\r\n\r\nSuddenly there fell a great silence, a black darkness, an infinite\r\ntranquillity, and Jerome Searing, perfectly conscious of his rathood,\r\nand well assured of the trap that he was in, remembering all and nowise\r\nalarmed, again opened his eyes to reconnoitre, to note the strength of\r\nhis enemy, to plan his defense.\r\n\r\nHe was caught in a reclining posture, his back firmly supported by a\r\nsolid beam. Another lay across his breast, but he had been able to\r\nshrink a little away from it so that it no longer oppressed him, though\r\nit was immovable. A brace joining it at an angle had wedged him against\r\na pile of boards on his left, fastening the arm on that side. His legs,\r\nslightly parted and straight along the ground, were covered upward to\r\nthe knees with a mass of debris which towered above his narrow horizon.\r\nHis head was as rigidly fixed as in a vise; he could move his eyes, his\r\nchin--no more. Only his right arm was partly free. "You must help us out\r\nof this," he said to it. But he could not get it from under the heavy\r\ntimber athwart his chest, nor move it outward more than six inches at\r\nthe elbow.\r\n\r\nSearing was not seriously injured, nor did he suffer pain. A smart rap\r\non the head from a flying fragment of the splintered post, incurred\r\nsimultaneously with the frightfully sudden shock to the nervous system,\r\nhad momentarily dazed him. His term of unconsciousness, including the\r\nperiod of recovery, during which he had had the strange fancies, had\r\nprobably not exceeded a few seconds, for the dust of the wreck had not\r\nwholly cleared away as he began an intelligent survey of the situation.\r\n\r\nWith his partly free right hand he now tried to get hold of the beam\r\nthat lay across, but not quite against, his breast. In no way could he\r\ndo so. He was unable to depress the shoulder so as to push the elbow\r\nbeyond that edge of the timber which was nearest his knees; failing in\r\nthat, he could not raise the forearm and hand to grasp the beam. The\r\nbrace that made an angle with it downward and backward prevented him\r\nfrom doing anything in that direction, and between it and his body the\r\nspace was not half so wide as the length of his forearm. Obviously he\r\ncould not get his hand under the beam nor over it; the hand could not,\r\nin fact, touch it at all. Having demonstrated his inability, he\r\ndesisted, and began to think whether he could reach any of the débris\r\npiled upon his legs.\r\n\r\nIn surveying the mass with a view to determining that point, his\r\nattention was arrested by what seemed to be a ring of shining metal\r\nimmediately in front of his eyes. It appeared to him at first to\r\nsurround some perfectly black substance, and it was somewhat more than a\r\nhalf-inch in diameter. It suddenly occurred to his mind that the\r\nblackness was simply shadow and that the ring was in fact the muzzle of\r\nhis rifle protruding from the pile of débris. He was not long in\r\nsatisfying himself that this was so--if it was a satisfaction. By\r\nclosing either eye he could look a little way along the barrel--to the\r\npoint where it was hidden by the rubbish that held it. He could see the\r\none side, with the corresponding eye, at apparently the same angle as\r\nthe other side with the other eye. Looking with the right eye, the\r\nweapon seemed to be directed at a point to the left of his head, and\r\n_vice-versa._ He was unable to see the upper surface of the barrel, but\r\ncould see the under surface of the stock at a slight angle. The piece\r\nwas, in fact, aimed at the exact centre of his forehead.\r\n\r\nIn the perception of this circumstance, in the recollection that just\r\npreviously to the mischance of which this uncomfortable situation was\r\nthe result he had cocked the rifle and set the trigger so that a touch\r\nwould discharge it, Private Searing was affected with a feeling of\r\nuneasiness. But that was as far as possible from fear; he was a brave\r\nman, somewhat familiar with the aspect of rifles from that point of\r\nview, and of cannon too. And now he recalled, with something like\r\namusement, an incident of his experience at the storming of Missionary\r\nRidge, where, walking up to one of the enemy\'s embrasures from which he\r\nhad seen a heavy gun throw charge after charge of grape among the\r\nassailants he had thought for a moment that the piece had been\r\nwithdrawn; he could see nothing in the opening but a brazen circle. What\r\nthat was he had understood just in time to step aside as it pitched\r\nanother peck of iron down that swarming slope. To face firearms is one\r\nof the commonest incidents in a soldier\'s life--firearms, too, with\r\nmalevolent eyes blazing behind them. That is what a soldier is for.\r\nStill, Private Searing did not altogether relish the situation, and\r\nturned away his eyes.\r\n\r\nAfter groping, aimless, with his right hand for a time he made an\r\nineffectual attempt to release his left. Then he tried to disengage his\r\nhead, the fixity of which was the more annoying from his ignorance of\r\nwhat held it. Next he tried to free his feet, but while exerting the\r\npowerful muscles of his legs for that purpose it occurred to him that a\r\ndisturbance of the rubbish which held them might discharge the rifle;\r\nhow it could have endured what had already befallen it he could not\r\nunderstand, although memory assisted him with several instances in\r\npoint. One in particular he recalled, in which in a moment of mental\r\nabstraction he had clubbed his rifle and beaten out another gentleman\'s\r\nbrains, observing afterward that the weapon which he had been diligently\r\nswinging by the muzzle was loaded, capped, and at full cock--knowledge\r\nof which circumstance would doubtless have cheered his antagonist to\r\nlonger endurance. He had always smiled in recalling that blunder of his\r\n"green and salad days" as a soldier, but now he did not smile. He turned\r\nhis eyes again to the muzzle of the rifle and for a moment fancied that\r\nit had moved; it seemed somewhat nearer.\r\n\r\nAgain he looked away. The tops of the distant trees beyond the bounds of\r\nthe plantation interested him: he had not before observed how light and\r\nfeathery they were, nor how darkly blue the sky was, even among their\r\nbranches, where they somewhat paled it with their green; above him it\r\nappeared almost black. "It will be uncomfortably hot here," he thought,\r\n"as the day advances. I wonder which way I am looking."\r\n\r\nJudging by such shadows as he could see, he decided that his face was\r\ndue north; he would at least not have the sun in his eyes, and north--\r\nwell, that was toward his wife and children.\r\n\r\n"Bah!" he exclaimed aloud, "what have they to do with it?"\r\n\r\nHe closed his eyes. "As I can\'t get out I may as well go to sleep. The\r\nrebels are gone and some of our fellows are sure to stray out here\r\nforaging. They\'ll find me."\r\n\r\nBut he did not sleep. Gradually he became sensible of a pain in his\r\nforehead--a dull ache, hardly perceptible at first, but growing more and\r\nmore uncomfortable. He opened his eyes and it was gone--closed them and\r\nit returned. "The devil!" he said, irrelevantly, and stared again at the\r\nsky. He heard the singing of birds, the strange metallic note of the\r\nmeadow lark, suggesting the clash of vibrant blades. He fell into\r\npleasant memories of his childhood, played again with his brother and\r\nsister, raced across the fields, shouting to alarm the sedentary larks,\r\nentered the sombre forest beyond and with timid steps followed the faint\r\npath to Ghost Rock, standing at last with audible heart-throbs before\r\nthe Dead Man\'s Cave and seeking to penetrate its awful mystery. For the\r\nfirst time he observed that the opening of the haunted cavern was\r\nencircled by a ring of metal. Then all else vanished and left him gazing\r\ninto the barrel of his rifle as before. But whereas before it had seemed\r\nnearer, it now seemed an inconceivable distance away, and all the more\r\nsinister for that. He cried out and, startled by something in his own\r\nvoice--the note of fear--lied to himself in denial: "If I don\'t sing out\r\nI may stay here till I die."\r\n\r\nHe now made no further attempt to evade the menacing stare of the gun\r\nbarrel. If he turned away his eyes an instant it was to look for\r\nassistance (although he could not see the ground on either side the\r\nruin), and he permitted them to return, obedient to the imperative\r\nfascination. If he closed them it was from weariness, and instantly the\r\npoignant pain in his forehead--the prophecy and menace of the bullet--\r\nforced him to reopen them.\r\n\r\nThe tension of nerve and brain was too severe; nature came to his relief\r\nwith intervals of unconsciousness. Reviving from one of these he became\r\nsensible of a sharp, smarting pain in his right hand, and when he worked\r\nhis fingers together, or rubbed his palm with them, he could feel that\r\nthey were wet and slippery. He could not see the hand, but he knew the\r\nsensation; it was running blood. In his delirium he had beaten it\r\nagainst the jagged fragments of the wreck, had clutched it full of\r\nsplinters. He resolved that he would meet his fate more manly. He was a\r\nplain, common soldier, had no religion and not much philosophy; he could\r\nnot die like a hero, with great and wise last words, even if there had\r\nbeen some one to hear them, but he could die "game," and he would. But\r\nif he could only know when to expect the shot!\r\n\r\nSome rats which had probably inhabited the shed came sneaking and\r\nscampering about. One of them mounted the pile of débris that held the\r\nrifle; another followed and another. Searing regarded them at first with\r\nindifference, then with friendly interest; then, as the thought flashed\r\ninto his bewildered mind that they might touch the trigger of his rifle,\r\nhe cursed them and ordered them to go away. "It is no business of\r\nyours," he cried.\r\n\r\nThe creatures went away; they would return later, attack his face, gnaw\r\naway his nose, cut his throat--he knew that, but he hoped by that time\r\nto be dead.\r\n\r\nNothing could now unfix his gaze from the little ring of metal with its\r\nblack interior. The pain in his forehead was fierce and incessant. He\r\nfelt it gradually penetrating the brain more and more deeply, until at\r\nlast its progress was arrested by the wood at the back of his head. It\r\ngrew momentarily more insufferable: he began wantonly beating his\r\nlacerated hand against the splinters again to counteract that horrible\r\nache. It seemed to throb with a slow, regular recurrence, each pulsation\r\nsharper than the preceding, and sometimes he cried out, thinking he felt\r\nthe fatal bullet. No thoughts of home, of wife and children, of country,\r\nof glory. The whole record of memory was effaced. The world had passed\r\naway--not a vestige remained. Here in this confusion of timbers and\r\nboards is the sole universe. Here is immortality in time--each pain an\r\neverlasting life. The throbs tick off eternities.\r\n\r\nJerome Searing, the man of courage, the formidable enemy, the strong,\r\nresolute warrior, was as pale as a ghost. His jaw was fallen; his eyes\r\nprotruded; he trembled in every fibre; a cold sweat bathed his entire\r\nbody; he screamed with fear. He was not insane--he was terrified.\r\n\r\nIn groping about with his torn and bleeding hand he seized at last a\r\nstrip of board, and, pulling, felt it give way. It lay parallel with his\r\nbody, and by bending his elbow as much as the contracted space would\r\npermit, he could draw it a few inches at a time. Finally it was\r\naltogether loosened from the wreckage covering his legs; he could lift\r\nit clear of the ground its whole length. A great hope came into his\r\nmind: perhaps he could work it upward, that is to say backward, far\r\nenough to lift the end and push aside the rifle; or, if that were too\r\ntightly wedged, so place the strip of board as to deflect the bullet.\r\nWith this object he passed it backward inch by inch, hardly daring to\r\nbreathe lest that act somehow defeat his intent, and more than ever\r\nunable to remove his eyes from the rifle, which might perhaps now hasten\r\nto improve its waning opportunity. Something at least had been gained:\r\nin the occupation of his mind in this attempt at self-defense he was\r\nless sensible of the pain in his head and had ceased to wince. But he\r\nwas still dreadfully frightened and his teeth rattled like castanets.\r\n\r\nThe strip of board ceased to move to the suasion of his hand. He tugged\r\nat it with all his strength, changed the direction of its length all he\r\ncould, but it had met some extended obstruction behind him and the end\r\nin front was still too far away to clear the pile of débris and reach\r\nthe muzzle of the gun. It extended, indeed, nearly as far as the trigger\r\nguard, which, uncovered by the rubbish, he could imperfectly see with\r\nhis right eye. He tried to break the strip with his hand, but had no\r\nleverage. In his defeat, all his terror returned, augmented tenfold. The\r\nblack aperture of the rifle appeared to threaten a sharper and more\r\nimminent death in punishment of his rebellion. The track of the bullet\r\nthrough his head ached with an intenser anguish. He began to tremble\r\nagain.\r\n\r\nSuddenly he became composed. His tremor subsided. He clenched his teeth\r\nand drew down his eyebrows. He had not exhausted his means of defense; a\r\nnew design had shaped itself in his mind--another plan of battle.\r\nRaising the front end of the strip of board, he carefully pushed it\r\nforward through the wreckage at the side of the rifle until it pressed\r\nagainst the trigger guard. Then he moved the end slowly outward until he\r\ncould feel that it had cleared it, then, closing his eyes, thrust it\r\nagainst the trigger with all his strength! There was no explosion; the\r\nrifle had been discharged as it dropped from his hand when the building\r\nfell. But it did its work.\r\n\r\n * * * * *\r\n\r\nLieutenant Adrian Searing, in command of the picket-guard on that part\r\nof the line through which his brother Jerome had passed on his mission,\r\nsat with attentive ears in his breastwork behind the line. Not the\r\nfaintest sound escaped him; the cry of a bird, the barking of a\r\nsquirrel, the noise of the wind among the pines--all were anxiously\r\nnoted by his overstrained sense. Suddenly, directly in front of his\r\nline, he heard a faint, confused rumble, like the clatter of a falling\r\nbuilding translated by distance. The lieutenant mechanically looked at\r\nhis watch. Six o\'clock and eighteen minutes. At the same moment an\r\nofficer approached him on foot from the rear and saluted.\r\n\r\n"Lieutenant," said the officer, "the colonel directs you to move forward\r\nyour line and feel the enemy if you find him. If not, continue the\r\nadvance until directed to halt. There is reason to think that the enemy\r\nhas retreated."\r\n\r\nThe lieutenant nodded and said nothing; the other officer retired. In a\r\nmoment the men, apprised of their duty by the non-commissioned officers\r\nin low tones, had deployed from their rifle-pits and were moving forward\r\nin skirmishing order, with set teeth and beating hearts.\r\n\r\nThis line of skirmishers sweeps across the plantation toward the\r\nmountain. They pass on both sides of the wrecked building, observing\r\nnothing. At a short distance in their rear their commander comes. He\r\ncasts his eyes curiously upon the ruin and sees a dead body half buried\r\nin boards and timbers. It is so covered with dust that its clothing is\r\nConfederate gray. Its face is yellowish white; the cheeks are fallen in,\r\nthe temples sunken, too, with sharp ridges about them, making the\r\nforehead forbiddingly narrow; the upper lip, slightly lifted, shows the\r\nwhite teeth, rigidly clenched. The hair is heavy with moisture, the face\r\nas wet as the dewy grass all about. From his point of view the officer\r\ndoes not observe the rifle; the man was apparently killed by the fall of\r\nthe building.\r\n\r\n"Dead a week," said the officer curtly, moving on and absently pulling\r\nout his watch as if to verify his estimate of time. Six o\'clock and\r\nforty minutes.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nKILLED AT RESACA\r\n\r\nThe best soldier of our staff was Lieutenant Herman Brayle, one of the\r\ntwo aides-de-camp. I don\'t remember where the general picked him up;\r\nfrom some Ohio regiment, I think; none of us had previously known him,\r\nand it would have been strange if we had, for no two of us came from the\r\nsame State, nor even from adjoining States. The general seemed to think\r\nthat a position on his staff was a distinction that should be so\r\njudiciously conferred as not to beget any sectional jealousies and\r\nimperil the integrity of that part of the country which was still an\r\ninteger. He would not even choose officers from his own command, but by\r\nsome jugglery at department headquarters obtained them from other\r\nbrigades. Under such circumstances, a man\'s services had to be very\r\ndistinguished indeed to be heard of by his family and the friends of his\r\nyouth; and "the speaking trump of fame" was a trifle hoarse from\r\nloquacity, anyhow.\r\n\r\nLieutenant Brayle was more than six feet in height and of splendid\r\nproportions, with the light hair and gray-blue eyes which men so gifted\r\nusually find associated with a high order of courage. As he was commonly\r\nin full uniform, especially in action, when most officers are content to\r\nbe less flamboyantly attired, he was a very striking and conspicuous\r\nfigure. As to the rest, he had a gentleman\'s manners, a scholar\'s head,\r\nand a lion\'s heart. His age was about thirty.\r\n\r\nWe all soon came to like Brayle as much as we admired him, and it was\r\nwith sincere concern that in the engagement at Stone\'s River--our first\r\naction after he joined us--we observed that he had one most\r\nobjectionable and unsoldierly quality: he was vain of his courage.\r\nDuring all the vicissitudes and mutations of that hideous encounter,\r\nwhether our troops were fighting in the open cotton fields, in the cedar\r\nthickets, or behind the railway embankment, he did not once take cover,\r\nexcept when sternly commanded to do so by the general, who usually had\r\nother things to think of than the lives of his staff officers--or those\r\nof his men, for that matter.\r\n\r\nIn every later engagement while Brayle was with us it was the same way.\r\nHe would sit his horse like an equestrian statue, in a storm of bullets\r\nand grape, in the most exposed places--wherever, in fact, duty,\r\nrequiring him to go, permitted him to remain--when, without trouble and\r\nwith distinct advantage to his reputation for common sense, he might\r\nhave been in such security as is possible on a battlefield in the brief\r\nintervals of personal inaction.\r\n\r\nOn foot, from necessity or in deference to his dismounted commander or\r\nassociates, his conduct was the same. He would stand like a rock in the\r\nopen when officers and men alike had taken to cover; while men older in\r\nservice and years, higher in rank and of unquestionable intrepidity,\r\nwere loyally preserving behind the crest of a hill lives infinitely\r\nprecious to their country, this fellow would stand, equally idle, on the\r\nridge, facing in the direction of the sharpest fire.\r\n\r\nWhen battles are going on in open ground it frequently occurs that the\r\nopposing lines, confronting each other within a stone\'s throw for hours,\r\nhug the earth as closely as if they loved it. The line officers in their\r\nproper places flatten themselves no less, and the field officers, their\r\nhorses all killed or sent to the rear, crouch beneath the infernal\r\ncanopy of hissing lead and screaming iron without a thought of personal\r\ndignity.\r\n\r\nIn such circumstances the life of a staff officer of a brigade is\r\ndistinctly "not a happy one," mainly because of its precarious tenure\r\nand the unnerving alternations of emotion to which he is exposed. From a\r\nposition of that comparative security from which a civilian would\r\nascribe his escape to a "miracle," he may be despatched with an order to\r\nsome commander of a prone regiment in the front line--a person for the\r\nmoment inconspicuous and not always easy to find without a deal of\r\nsearch among men somewhat preoccupied, and in a din in which question\r\nand answer alike must be imparted in the sign language. It is customary\r\nin such cases to duck the head and scuttle away on a keen run, an object\r\nof lively interest to some thousands of admiring marksmen. In returning\r\n--well, it is not customary to return.\r\n\r\nBrayle\'s practice was different. He would consign his horse to the care\r\nof an orderly,--he loved his horse,--and walk quietly away on his\r\nperilous errand with never a stoop of the back, his splendid figure,\r\naccentuated by his uniform, holding the eye with a strange fascination.\r\nWe watched him with suspended breath, our hearts in our mouths. On one\r\noccasion of this kind, indeed, one of our number, an impetuous\r\nstammerer, was so possessed by his emotion that he shouted at me:\r\n\r\n"I\'ll b-b-bet you t-two d-d-dollars they d-drop him b-b-before he g-gets\r\nto that d-d-ditch!"\r\n\r\nI did not accept the brutal wager; I thought they would.\r\n\r\nLet me do justice to a brave man\'s memory; in all these needless\r\nexposures of life there was no visible bravado nor subsequent narration.\r\nIn the few instances when some of us had ventured to remonstrate, Brayle\r\nhad smiled pleasantly and made some light reply, which, however, had not\r\nencouraged a further pursuit of the subject. Once he said:\r\n\r\n"Captain, if ever I come to grief by forgetting your advice, I hope my\r\nlast moments will be cheered by the sound of your beloved voice\r\nbreathing into my ear the blessed words, \'I told you so.\'"\r\n\r\nWe laughed at the captain--just why we could probably not have\r\nexplained--and that afternoon when he was shot to rags from an ambuscade\r\nBrayle remained by the body for some time, adjusting the limbs with\r\nneedless care--there in the middle of a road swept by gusts of grape and\r\ncanister! It is easy to condemn this kind of thing, and not very\r\ndifficult to refrain from imitation, but it is impossible not to\r\nrespect, and Brayle was liked none the less for the weakness which had\r\nso heroic an expression. We wished he were not a fool, but he went on\r\nthat way to the end, sometimes hard hit, but always returning to duty\r\nabout as good as new.\r\n\r\nOf course, it came at last; he who ignores the law of probabilities\r\nchallenges an adversary that is seldom beaten. It was at Resaca, in\r\nGeorgia, during the movement that resulted in the taking of Atlanta. In\r\nfront of our brigade the enemy\'s line of earthworks ran through open\r\nfields along a slight crest. At each end of this open ground we were\r\nclose up to him in the woods, but the clear ground we could not hope to\r\noccupy until night, when darkness would enable us to burrow like moles\r\nand throw up earth. At this point our line was a quarter-mile away in\r\nthe edge of a wood. Roughly, we formed a semicircle, the enemy\'s\r\nfortified line being the chord of the arc.\r\n\r\n"Lieutenant, go tell Colonel Ward to work up as close as he can get\r\ncover, and not to waste much ammunition in unnecessary firing. You may\r\nleave your horse."\r\n\r\nWhen the general gave this direction we were in the fringe of the\r\nforest, near the right extremity of the arc. Colonel Ward was at the\r\nleft. The suggestion to leave the horse obviously enough meant that\r\nBrayle was to take the longer line, through the woods and among the men.\r\nIndeed, the suggestion was needless; to go by the short route meant\r\nabsolutely certain failure to deliver the message. Before anybody could\r\ninterpose, Brayle had cantered lightly into the field and the enemy\'s\r\nworks were in crackling conflagration.\r\n\r\n"Stop that damned fool!" shouted the general.\r\n\r\nA private of the escort, with more ambition than brains, spurred forward\r\nto obey, and within ten yards left himself and his horse dead on the\r\nfield of honor.\r\n\r\nBrayle was beyond recall, galloping easily along, parallel to the enemy\r\nand less than two hundred yards distant. He was a picture to see! His\r\nhat had been blown or shot from his head, and his long, blond hair rose\r\nand fell with the motion of his horse. He sat erect in the saddle,\r\nholding the reins lightly in his left hand, his right hanging carelessly\r\nat his side. An occasional glimpse of his handsome profile as he turned\r\nhis head one way or the other proved that the interest which he took in\r\nwhat was going on was natural and without affectation.\r\n\r\nThe picture was intensely dramatic, but in no degree theatrical.\r\nSuccessive scores of rifles spat at him viciously as he came within\r\nrange, and our own line in the edge of the timber broke out in visible\r\nand audible defense. No longer regardful of themselves or their orders,\r\nour fellows sprang to their feet, and swarming into the open sent broad\r\nsheets of bullets against the blazing crest of the offending works,\r\nwhich poured an answering fire into their unprotected groups with deadly\r\neffect. The artillery on both sides joined the battle, punctuating the\r\nrattle and roar with deep, earth-shaking explosions and tearing the air\r\nwith storms of screaming grape, which from the enemy\'s side splintered\r\nthe trees and spattered them with blood, and from ours defiled the smoke\r\nof his arms with banks and clouds of dust from his parapet.\r\n\r\nMy attention had been for a moment drawn to the general combat, but now,\r\nglancing down the unobscured avenue between these two thunderclouds, I\r\nsaw Brayle, the cause of the carnage. Invisible now from either side,\r\nand equally doomed by friend and foe, he stood in the shot-swept space,\r\nmotionless, his face toward the enemy. At some little distance lay his\r\nhorse. I instantly saw what had stopped him.\r\n\r\nAs topographical engineer I had, early in the day, made a hasty\r\nexamination of the ground, and now remembered that at that point was a\r\ndeep and sinuous gully, crossing half the field from the enemy\'s line,\r\nits general course at right angles to it. From where we now were it was\r\ninvisible, and Brayle had evidently not known about it. Clearly, it was\r\nimpassable. Its salient angles would have afforded him absolute security\r\nif he had chosen to be satisfied with the miracle already wrought in his\r\nfavor and leapt into it. He could not go forward, he would not turn\r\nback; he stood awaiting death. It did not keep him long waiting.\r\n\r\nBy some mysterious coincidence, almost instantaneously as he fell, the\r\nfiring ceased, a few desultory shots at long intervals serving rather to\r\naccentuate than break the silence. It was as if both sides had suddenly\r\nrepented of their profitless crime. Four stretcher-bearers of ours,\r\nfollowing a sergeant with a white flag, soon afterward moved unmolested\r\ninto the field, and made straight for Brayle\'s body. Several Confederate\r\nofficers and men came out to meet them, and with uncovered heads\r\nassisted them to take up their sacred burden. As it was borne toward us\r\nwe heard beyond the hostile works fifes and a muffled drum--a dirge. A\r\ngenerous enemy honored the fallen brave.\r\n\r\nAmongst the dead man\'s effects was a soiled Russia-leather pocketbook.\r\nIn the distribution of mementoes of our friend, which the general, as\r\nadministrator, decreed, this fell to me.\r\n\r\nA year after the close of the war, on my way to California, I opened and\r\nidly inspected it. Out of an overlooked compartment fell a letter\r\nwithout envelope or address. It was in a woman\'s handwriting, and began\r\nwith words of endearment, but no name.\r\n\r\nIt had the following date line: "San Francisco, Cal., July 9, 1862." The\r\nsignature was "Darling," in marks of quotation. Incidentally, in the\r\nbody of the text, the writer\'s full name was given--Marian Mendenhall.\r\n\r\nThe letter showed evidence of cultivation and good breeding, but it was\r\nan ordinary love letter, if a love letter can be ordinary. There was not\r\nmuch in it, but there was something. It was this:\r\n\r\n"Mr. Winters, whom I shall always hate for it, has been telling that at\r\nsome battle in Virginia, where he got his hurt, you were seen crouching\r\nbehind a tree. I think he wants to injure you in my regard, which he\r\nknows the story would do if I believed it. I could bear to hear of my\r\nsoldier lover\'s death, but not of his cowardice."\r\n\r\nThese were the words which on that sunny afternoon, in a distant region,\r\nhad slain a hundred men. Is woman weak?\r\n\r\nOne evening I called on Miss Mendenhall to return the letter to her. I\r\nintended, also, to tell her what she had done--but not that she did it.\r\nI found her in a handsome dwelling on Rincon Hill. She was beautiful,\r\nwell bred--in a word, charming.\r\n\r\n"You knew Lieutenant Herman Brayle," I said, rather abruptly. "You know,\r\ndoubtless, that he fell in battle. Among his effects was found this\r\nletter from you. My errand here is to place it in your hands."\r\n\r\nShe mechanically took the letter, glanced through it with deepening\r\ncolor, and then, looking at me with a smile, said:\r\n\r\n"It is very good of you, though I am sure it was hardly worth while."\r\nShe started suddenly and changed color. "This stain," she said, "is it--\r\nsurely it is not--"\r\n\r\n"Madam," I said, "pardon me, but that is the blood of the truest and\r\nbravest heart that ever beat."\r\n\r\nShe hastily flung the letter on the blazing coals. "Uh! I cannot bear\r\nthe sight of blood!" she said. "How did he die?"\r\n\r\nI had involuntarily risen to rescue that scrap of paper, sacred even to\r\nme, and now stood partly behind her. As she asked the question she\r\nturned her face about and slightly upward. The light of the burning\r\nletter was reflected in her eyes and touched her cheek with a tinge of\r\ncrimson like the stain upon its page. I had never seen anything so\r\nbeautiful as this detestable creature.\r\n\r\n"He was bitten by a snake," I replied.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE AFFAIR AT COULTER\'S NOTCH\r\n\r\n"Do you think, Colonel, that your brave Coulter would like to put one of\r\nhis guns in here?" the general asked.\r\n\r\nHe was apparently not altogether serious; it certainly did not seem a\r\nplace where any artillerist, however brave, would like to put a gun. The\r\ncolonel thought that possibly his division commander meant\r\ngood-humoredly to intimate that in a recent conversation between them\r\nCaptain Coulter\'s courage had been too highly extolled.\r\n\r\n"General," he replied warmly, "Coulter would like to put a gun anywhere\r\nwithin reach of those people," with a motion of his hand in the\r\ndirection of the enemy.\r\n\r\n"It is the only place," said the general. He was serious, then.\r\n\r\nThe place was a depression, a "notch," in the sharp crest of a hill. It\r\nwas a pass, and through it ran a turnpike, which reaching this highest\r\npoint in its course by a sinuous ascent through a thin forest made a\r\nsimilar, though less steep, descent toward the enemy. For a mile to the\r\nleft and a mile to the right, the ridge, though occupied by Federal\r\ninfantry lying close behind the sharp crest and appearing as if held in\r\nplace by atmospheric pressure, was inaccessible to artillery. There was\r\nno place but the bottom of the notch, and that was barely wide enough\r\nfor the roadbed. From the Confederate side this point was commanded by\r\ntwo batteries posted on a slightly lower elevation beyond a creek, and a\r\nhalf-mile away. All the guns but one were masked by the trees of an\r\norchard; that one--it seemed a bit of impudence--was on an open lawn\r\ndirectly in front of a rather grandiose building, the planter\'s\r\ndwelling. The gun was safe enough in its exposure--but only because the\r\nFederal infantry had been forbidden to fire. Coulter\'s Notch--it came to\r\nbe called so--was not, that pleasant summer afternoon, a place where one\r\nwould "like to put a gun."\r\n\r\nThree or four dead horses lay there sprawling in the road, three or four\r\ndead men in a trim row at one side of it, and a little back, down the\r\nhill. All but one were cavalrymen belonging to the Federal advance. One\r\nwas a quartermaster. The general commanding the division and the colonel\r\ncommanding the brigade, with their staffs and escorts, had ridden into\r\nthe notch to have a look at the enemy\'s guns--which had straightway\r\nobscured themselves in towering clouds of smoke. It was hardly\r\nprofitable to be curious about guns which had the trick of the\r\ncuttle-fish, and the season of observation had been brief. At its\r\nconclusion--a short remove backward from where it began--occurred the\r\nconversation already partly reported. "It is the only place," the\r\ngeneral repeated thoughtfully, "to get at them."\r\n\r\nThe colonel looked at him gravely. "There is room for only one gun,\r\nGeneral--one against twelve."\r\n\r\n"That is true--for only one at a time," said the commander with\r\nsomething like, yet not altogether like, a smile. "But then, your brave\r\nCoulter--a whole battery in himself."\r\n\r\nThe tone of irony was now unmistakable. It angered the colonel, but he\r\ndid not know what to say. The spirit of military subordination is not\r\nfavorable to retort, nor even to deprecation.\r\n\r\nAt this moment a young officer of artillery came riding slowly up the\r\nroad attended by his bugler. It was Captain Coulter. He could not have\r\nbeen more than twenty-three years of age. He was of medium height, but\r\nvery slender and lithe, and sat his horse with something of the air of a\r\ncivilian. In face he was of a type singularly unlike the men about him;\r\nthin, high-nosed, gray-eyed, with a slight blond mustache, and long,\r\nrather straggling hair of the same color. There was an apparent\r\nnegligence in his attire. His cap was worn with the visor a trifle\r\naskew; his coat was buttoned only at the sword-belt, showing a\r\nconsiderable expanse of white shirt, tolerably clean for that stage of\r\nthe campaign. But the negligence was all in his dress and bearing; in\r\nhis face was a look of intense interest in his surroundings. His gray\r\neyes, which seemed occasionally to strike right and left across the\r\nlandscape, like search-lights, were for the most part fixed upon the sky\r\nbeyond the Notch; until he should arrive at the summit of the road there\r\nwas nothing else in that direction to see. As he came opposite his\r\ndivision and brigade commanders at the road-side he saluted mechanically\r\nand was about to pass on. The colonel signed to him to halt.\r\n\r\n"Captain Coulter," he said, "the enemy has twelve pieces over there on\r\nthe next ridge. If I rightly understand the general, he directs that you\r\nbring up a gun and engage them."\r\n\r\nThere was a blank silence; the general looked stolidly at a distant\r\nregiment swarming slowly up the hill through rough undergrowth, like a\r\ntorn and draggled cloud of blue smoke; the captain appeared not to have\r\nobserved him. Presently the captain spoke, slowly and with apparent\r\neffort:\r\n\r\n"On the next ridge, did you say, sir? Are the guns near the house?"\r\n\r\n"Ah, you have been over this road before. Directly at the house."\r\n\r\n"And it is--necessary--to engage them? The order is imperative?"\r\n\r\nHis voice was husky and broken. He was visibly paler. The colonel was\r\nastonished and mortified. He stole a glance at the commander. In that\r\nset, immobile face was no sign; it was as hard as bronze. A moment later\r\nthe general rode away, followed by his staff and escort. The colonel,\r\nhumiliated and indignant, was about to order Captain Coulter in arrest,\r\nwhen the latter spoke a few words in a low tone to his bugler, saluted,\r\nand rode straight forward into the Notch, where, presently, at the\r\nsummit of the road, his field-glass at his eyes, he showed against the\r\nsky, he and his horse, sharply defined and statuesque. The bugler had\r\ndashed down the speed and disappeared behind a wood. Presently his bugle\r\nwas heard singing in the cedars, and in an incredibly short time a\r\nsingle gun with its caisson, each drawn by six horses and manned by its\r\nfull complement of gunners, came bounding and banging up the grade in a\r\nstorm of dust, unlimbered under cover, and was run forward by hand to\r\nthe fatal crest among the dead horses. A gesture of the captain\'s arm,\r\nsome strangely agile movements of the men in loading, and almost before\r\nthe troops along the way had ceased to hear the rattle of the wheels, a\r\ngreat white cloud sprang forward down the slope, and with a deafening\r\nreport the affair at Coulter\'s Notch had begun.\r\n\r\nIt is not intended to relate in detail the progress and incidents of\r\nthat ghastly contest--a contest without vicissitudes, its alternations\r\nonly different degrees of despair. Almost at the instant when Captain\r\nCoulter\'s gun blew its challenging cloud twelve answering clouds rolled\r\nupward from among the trees about the plantation house, a deep multiple\r\nreport roared back like a broken echo, and thenceforth to the end the\r\nFederal cannoneers fought their hopeless battle in an atmosphere of\r\nliving iron whose thoughts were lightnings and whose deeds were death.\r\n\r\nUnwilling to see the efforts which he could not aid and the slaughter\r\nwhich he could not stay, the colonel ascended the ridge at a point a\r\nquarter of a mile to the left, whence the Notch, itself invisible, but\r\npushing up successive masses of smoke, seemed the crater of a volcano in\r\nthundering eruption. With his glass he watched the enemy\'s guns, noting\r\nas he could the effects of Coulter\'s fire--if Coulter still lived to\r\ndirect it. He saw that the Federal gunners, ignoring those of the\r\nenemy\'s pieces whose positions could be determined by their smoke only,\r\ngave their whole attention to the one that maintained its place in the\r\nopen--the lawn in front of the house. Over and about that hardy piece\r\nthe shells exploded at intervals of a few seconds. Some exploded in the\r\nhouse, as could be seen by thin ascensions of smoke from the breached\r\nroof. Figures of prostrate men and horses were plainly visible.\r\n\r\n"If our fellows are doing so good work with a single gun," said the\r\ncolonel to an aide who happened to be nearest, "they must be suffering\r\nlike the devil from twelve. Go down and present the commander of that\r\npiece with my congratulations on the accuracy of his fire."\r\n\r\nTurning to his adjutant-general he said, "Did you observe Coulter\'s\r\ndamned reluctance to obey orders?"\r\n\r\n"Yes, sir, I did."\r\n\r\n"Well, say nothing about it, please. I don\'t think the general will care\r\nto make any accusations. He will probably have enough to do in\r\nexplaining his own connection with this uncommon way of amusing the\r\nrear-guard of a retreating enemy."\r\n\r\nA young officer approached from below, climbing breathless up the\r\nacclivity. Almost before he had saluted, he gasped out:\r\n\r\n"Colonel, I am directed by Colonel Harmon to say that the enemy\'s guns\r\nare within easy reach of our rifles, and most of them visible from\r\nseveral points along the ridge."\r\n\r\nThe brigade commander looked at him without a trace of interest in his\r\nexpression. "I know it," he said quietly.\r\n\r\nThe young adjutant was visibly embarrassed. "Colonel Harmon would like\r\nto have permission to silence those guns," he stammered.\r\n\r\n"So should I," the colonel said in the same tone. "Present my\r\ncompliments to Colonel Harmon and say to him that the general\'s orders\r\nfor the infantry not to fire are still in force."\r\n\r\nThe adjutant saluted and retired. The colonel ground his heel into the\r\nearth and turned to look again at the enemy\'s guns.\r\n\r\n"Colonel," said the adjutant-general, "I don\'t know that I ought to say\r\nanything, but there is something wrong in all this. Do you happen to\r\nknow that Captain Coulter is from the South?"\r\n\r\n"No; _was_ he, indeed?"\r\n\r\n"I heard that last summer the division which the general then commanded\r\nwas in the vicinity of Coulter\'s home--camped there for weeks, and--"\r\n\r\n"Listen!" said the colonel, interrupting with an upward gesture. "Do you\r\nhear _that_?"\r\n\r\n"That" was the silence of the Federal gun. The staff, the orderlies, the\r\nlines of infantry behind the crest--all had "heard," and were looking\r\ncuriously in the direction of the crater, whence no smoke now ascended\r\nexcept desultory cloudlets from the enemy\'s shells. Then came the blare\r\nof a bugle, a faint rattle of wheels; a minute later the sharp reports\r\nrecommenced with double activity. The demolished gun had been replaced\r\nwith a sound one.\r\n\r\n"Yes," said the adjutant-general, resuming his narrative, "the general\r\nmade the acquaintance of Coulter\'s family. There was trouble--I don\'t\r\nknow the exact nature of it--something about Coulter\'s wife. She is a\r\nred-hot Secessionist, as they all are, except Coulter himself, but she\r\nis a good wife and high-bred lady. There was a complaint to army\r\nheadquarters. The general was transferred to this division. It is odd\r\nthat Coulter\'s battery should afterward have been assigned to it."\r\n\r\nThe colonel had risen from the rock upon which they had been sitting.\r\nHis eyes were blazing with a generous indignation.\r\n\r\n"See here, Morrison," said he, looking his gossiping staff officer\r\nstraight in the face, "did you get that story from a gentleman or a\r\nliar?"\r\n\r\n"I don\'t want to say how I got it, Colonel, unless it is necessary"--he\r\nwas blushing a trifle--"but I\'ll stake my life upon its truth in the\r\nmain."\r\n\r\nThe colonel turned toward a small knot of officers some distance away.\r\n"Lieutenant Williams!" he shouted.\r\n\r\nOne of the officers detached himself from the group and coming forward\r\nsaluted, saying: "Pardon me, Colonel, I thought you had been informed.\r\nWilliams is dead down there by the gun. What can I do, sir?"\r\n\r\nLieutenant Williams was the aide who had had the pleasure of conveying\r\nto the officer in charge of the gun his brigade commander\'s\r\ncongratulations.\r\n\r\n"Go," said the colonel, "and direct the withdrawal of that gun\r\ninstantly. No--I\'ll go myself."\r\n\r\nHe strode down the declivity toward the rear of the Notch at a\r\nbreak-neck pace, over rocks and through brambles, followed by his little\r\nretinue in tumultuous disorder. At the foot of the declivity they\r\nmounted their waiting animals and took to the road at a lively trot,\r\nround a bend and into the Notch. The spectacle which they encountered\r\nthere was appalling!\r\n\r\nWithin that defile, barely broad enough for a single gun, were piled the\r\nwrecks of no fewer than four. They had noted the silencing of only the\r\nlast one disabled--there had been a lack of men to replace it quickly\r\nwith another. The débris lay on both sides of the road; the men had\r\nmanaged to keep an open way between, through which the fifth piece was\r\nnow firing. The men?--they looked like demons of the pit! All were\r\nhatless, all stripped to the waist, their reeking skins black with\r\nblotches of powder and spattered with gouts of blood. They worked like\r\nmadmen, with rammer and cartridge, lever and lanyard. They set their\r\nswollen shoulders and bleeding hands against the wheels at each recoil\r\nand heaved the heavy gun back to its place. There were no commands; in\r\nthat awful environment of whooping shot, exploding shells, shrieking\r\nfragments of iron, and flying splinters of wood, none could have been\r\nheard. Officers, if officers there were, were indistinguishable; all\r\nworked together--each while he lasted--governed by the eye. When the gun\r\nwas sponged, it was loaded; when loaded, aimed and fired. The colonel\r\nobserved something new to his military experience--something horrible\r\nand unnatural: the gun was bleeding at the mouth! In temporary default\r\nof water, the man sponging had dipped his sponge into a pool of\r\ncomrade\'s blood. In all this work there was no clashing; the duty of the\r\ninstant was obvious. When one fell, another, looking a trifle cleaner,\r\nseemed to rise from the earth in the dead man\'s tracks, to fall in his\r\nturn.\r\n\r\nWith the ruined guns lay the ruined men--alongside the wreckage, under\r\nit and atop of it; and back down the road--a ghastly procession!--crept\r\non hands and knees such of the wounded as were able to move. The\r\ncolonel--he had compassionately sent his cavalcade to the right about--\r\nhad to ride over those who were entirely dead in order not to crush\r\nthose who were partly alive. Into that hell he tranquilly held his way,\r\nrode up alongside the gun, and, in the obscurity of the last discharge,\r\ntapped upon the cheek the man holding the rammer--who straightway fell,\r\nthinking himself killed. A fiend seven times damned sprang out of the\r\nsmoke to take his place, but paused and gazed up at the mounted officer\r\nwith an unearthly regard, his teeth flashing between his black lips, his\r\neyes, fierce and expanded, burning like coals beneath his bloody brow.\r\nThe colonel made an authoritative gesture and pointed to the rear. The\r\nfiend bowed in token of obedience. It was Captain Coulter.\r\n\r\nSimultaneously with the colonel\'s arresting sign, silence fell upon the\r\nwhole field of action. The procession of missiles no longer streamed\r\ninto that defile of death, for the enemy also had ceased firing. His\r\narmy had been gone for hours, and the commander of his rear-guard, who\r\nhad held his position perilously long in hope to silence the Federal\r\nfire, at that strange moment had silenced his own. "I was not aware of\r\nthe breadth of my authority," said the colonel to anybody, riding\r\nforward to the crest to see what had really happened. An hour later his\r\nbrigade was in bivouac on the enemy\'s ground, and its idlers were\r\nexamining, with something of awe, as the faithful inspect a saint\'s\r\nrelics, a score of straddling dead horses and three disabled guns, all\r\nspiked. The fallen men had been carried away; their torn and broken\r\nbodies would have given too great satisfaction.\r\n\r\nNaturally, the colonel established himself and his military family in\r\nthe plantation house. It was somewhat shattered, but it was better than\r\nthe open air. The furniture was greatly deranged and broken. Walls and\r\nceilings were knocked away here and there, and a lingering odor of\r\npowder smoke was everywhere. The beds, the closets of women\'s clothing,\r\nthe cupboards were not greatly damaged. The new tenants for a night\r\nmade themselves comfortable, and the virtual effacement of Coulter\'s\r\nbattery supplied them with an interesting topic.\r\n\r\nDuring supper an orderly of the escort showed himself into the\r\ndining-room and asked permission to speak to the colonel.\r\n\r\n"What is it, Barbour?" said that officer pleasantly, having overheard\r\nthe request.\r\n\r\n"Colonel, there is something wrong in the cellar; I don\'t know what--\r\nsomebody there. I was down there rummaging about."\r\n\r\n"I will go down and see," said a staff officer, rising.\r\n\r\n"So will I," the colonel said; "let the others remain. Lead on,\r\norderly."\r\n\r\nThey took a candle from the table and descended the cellar stairs, the\r\norderly in visible trepidation. The candle made but a feeble light, but\r\npresently, as they advanced, its narrow circle of illumination revealed\r\na human figure seated on the ground against the black stone wall which\r\nthey were skirting, its knees elevated, its head bowed sharply forward.\r\nThe face, which should have been seen in profile, was invisible, for the\r\nman was bent so far forward that his long hair concealed it; and,\r\nstrange to relate, the beard, of a much darker hue, fell in a great\r\ntangled mass and lay along the ground at his side. They involuntarily\r\npaused; then the colonel, taking the candle from the orderly\'s shaking\r\nhand, approached the man and attentively considered him. The long dark\r\nbeard was the hair of a woman--dead. The dead woman clasped in her arms\r\na dead babe. Both were clasped in the arms of the man, pressed against\r\nhis breast, against his lips. There was blood in the hair of the woman;\r\nthere was blood in the hair of the man. A yard away, near an irregular\r\ndepression in the beaten earth which formed the cellar\'s floor--fresh\r\nexcavation with a convex bit of iron, having jagged edges, visible in\r\none of the sides--lay an infant\'s foot. The colonel held the light as\r\nhigh as he could. The floor of the room above was broken through, the\r\nsplinters pointing at all angles downward. "This casemate is not\r\nbomb-proof," said the colonel gravely. It did not occur to him that his\r\nsumming up of the matter had any levity in it.\r\n\r\nThey stood about the group awhile in silence; the staff officer was\r\nthinking of his unfinished supper, the orderly of what might possibly be\r\nin one of the casks on the other side of the cellar. Suddenly the man\r\nwhom they had thought dead raised his head and gazed tranquilly into\r\ntheir faces. His complexion was coal black; the cheeks were apparently\r\ntattooed in irregular sinuous lines from the eyes downward. The lips,\r\ntoo, were white, like those of a stage negro. There was blood upon his\r\nforehead.\r\n\r\nThe staff officer drew back a pace, the orderly two paces.\r\n\r\n"What are you doing here, my man?" said the colonel, unmoved.\r\n\r\n"This house belongs to me, sir," was the reply, civilly delivered.\r\n\r\n"To you? Ah, I see! And these?"\r\n\r\n"My wife and child. I am Captain Coulter."\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE COUP DE GRÂCE\r\n\r\nThe fighting had been hard and continuous; that was attested by all the\r\nsenses. The very taste of battle was in the air. All was now over; it\r\nremained only to succor the wounded and bury the dead--to "tidy up a\r\nbit," as the humorist of a burial squad put it. A good deal of "tidying\r\nup" was required. As far as one could see through the forests, among the\r\nsplintered trees, lay wrecks of men and horses. Among them moved the\r\nstretcher-bearers, gathering and carrying away the few who showed signs\r\nof life. Most of the wounded had died of neglect while the right to\r\nminister to their wants was in dispute. It is an army regulation that\r\nthe wounded must wait; the best way to care for them is to win the\r\nbattle. It must be confessed that victory is a distinct advantage to a\r\nman requiring attention, but many do not live to avail themselves of it.\r\n\r\nThe dead were collected in groups of a dozen or a score and laid side by\r\nside in rows while the trenches were dug to receive them.\r\n\r\nSome, found at too great a distance from these rallying points, were\r\nburied where they lay. There was little attempt at identification,\r\nthough in most cases, the burial parties being detailed to glean the\r\nsame ground which they had assisted to reap, the names of the victorious\r\ndead were known and listed. The enemy\'s fallen had to be content with\r\ncounting. But of that they got enough: many of them were counted several\r\ntimes, and the total, as given afterward in the official report of the\r\nvictorious commander, denoted rather a hope than a result.\r\n\r\nAt some little distance from the spot where one of the burial parties\r\nhad established its "bivouac of the dead," a man in the uniform of a\r\nFederal officer stood leaning against a tree. From his feet upward to\r\nhis neck his attitude was that of weariness reposing; but he turned his\r\nhead uneasily from side to side; his mind was apparently not at rest. He\r\nwas perhaps uncertain in which direction to go; he was not likely to\r\nremain long where he was, for already the level rays of the setting sun\r\nstraggled redly through the open spaces of the wood and the weary\r\nsoldiers were quitting their task for the day. He would hardly make a\r\nnight of it alone there among the dead.\r\n\r\nNine men in ten whom you meet after a battle inquire the way to some\r\nfraction of the army--as if any one could know. Doubtless this officer\r\nwas lost. After resting himself a moment he would presumably follow one\r\nof the retiring burial squads.\r\n\r\nWhen all were gone he walked straight away into the forest toward the\r\nred west, its light staining his face like blood. The air of confidence\r\nwith which he now strode along showed that he was on familiar ground; he\r\nhad recovered his bearings. The dead on his right and on his left were\r\nunregarded as he passed. An occasional low moan from some\r\nsorely-stricken wretch whom the relief-parties had not reached, and who\r\nwould have to pass a comfortless night beneath the stars with his thirst\r\nto keep him company, was equally unheeded. What, indeed, could the\r\nofficer have done, being no surgeon and having no water?\r\n\r\nAt the head of a shallow ravine, a mere depression of the ground, lay a\r\nsmall group of bodies. He saw, and swerving suddenly from his course\r\nwalked rapidly toward them. Scanning each one sharply as he passed, he\r\nstopped at last above one which lay at a slight remove from the others,\r\nnear a clump of small trees. He looked at it narrowly. It seemed to\r\nstir. He stooped and laid his hand upon its face. It screamed.\r\n\r\n * * * * *\r\n\r\nThe officer was Captain Downing Madwell, of a Massachusetts regiment of\r\ninfantry, a daring and intelligent soldier, an honorable man.\r\n\r\nIn the regiment were two brothers named Halcrow--Caffal and Creede\r\nHalcrow. Caffal Halcrow was a sergeant in Captain Madwell\'s company, and\r\nthese two men, the sergeant and the captain, were devoted friends. In so\r\nfar as disparity of rank, difference in duties and considerations of\r\nmilitary discipline would permit they were commonly together. They had,\r\nindeed, grown up together from childhood. A habit of the heart is not\r\neasily broken off. Caffal Halcrow had nothing military in his taste nor\r\ndisposition, but the thought of separation from his friend was\r\ndisagreeable; he enlisted in the company in which Madwell was\r\nsecond-lieutenant. Each had taken two steps upward in rank, but between\r\nthe highest non-commissioned and the lowest commissioned officer the\r\ngulf is deep and wide and the old relation was maintained with\r\ndifficulty and a difference.\r\n\r\nCreede Halcrow, the brother of Caffal, was the major of the regiment--a\r\ncynical, saturnine man, between whom and Captain Madwell there was a\r\nnatural antipathy which circumstances had nourished and strengthened to\r\nan active animosity. But for the restraining influence of their mutual\r\nrelation to Caffal these two patriots would doubtless have endeavored to\r\ndeprive their country of each other\'s services.\r\n\r\nAt the opening of the battle that morning the regiment was performing\r\noutpost duty a mile away from the main army. It was attacked and nearly\r\nsurrounded in the forest, but stubbornly held its ground. During a lull\r\nin the fighting, Major Halcrow came to Captain Madwell. The two\r\nexchanged formal salutes, and the major said: "Captain, the colonel\r\ndirects that you push your company to the head of this ravine and hold\r\nyour place there until recalled. I need hardly apprise you of the\r\ndangerous character of the movement, but if you wish, you can, I\r\nsuppose, turn over the command to your first-lieutenant. I was not,\r\nhowever, directed to authorize the substitution; it is merely a\r\nsuggestion of my own, unofficially made."\r\n\r\nTo this deadly insult Captain Madwell coolly replied:\r\n\r\n"Sir, I invite you to accompany the movement. A mounted officer would be\r\na conspicuous mark, and I have long held the opinion that it would be\r\nbetter if you were dead."\r\n\r\nThe art of repartee was cultivated in military circles as early as 1862.\r\n\r\nA half-hour later Captain Madwell\'s company was driven from its position\r\nat the head of the ravine, with a loss of one-third its number. Among\r\nthe fallen was Sergeant Halcrow. The regiment was soon afterward forced\r\nback to the main line, and at the close of the battle was miles away.\r\nThe captain was now standing at the side of his subordinate and friend.\r\n\r\nSergeant Halcrow was mortally hurt. His clothing was deranged; it seemed\r\nto have been violently torn apart, exposing the abdomen. Some of the\r\nbuttons of his jacket had been pulled off and lay on the ground beside\r\nhim and fragments of his other garments were strewn about. His leather\r\nbelt was parted and had apparently been dragged from beneath him as he\r\nlay. There had been no great effusion of blood. The only visible wound\r\nwas a wide, ragged opening in the abdomen.\r\n\r\nIt was defiled with earth and dead leaves. Protruding from it was a loop\r\nof small intestine. In all his experience Captain Madwell had not seen a\r\nwound like this. He could neither conjecture how it was made nor explain\r\nthe attendant circumstances--the strangely torn clothing, the parted\r\nbelt, the besmirching of the white skin. He knelt and made a closer\r\nexamination. When he rose to his feet, he turned his eyes in different\r\ndirections as if looking for an enemy. Fifty yards away, on the crest of\r\na low, thinly wooded hill, he saw several dark objects moving about\r\namong the fallen men--a herd of swine. One stood with its back to him,\r\nits shoulders sharply elevated. Its forefeet were upon a human body, its\r\nhead was depressed and invisible. The bristly ridge of its chine showed\r\nblack against the red west. Captain Madwell drew away his eyes and fixed\r\nthem again upon the thing which had been his friend.\r\n\r\nThe man who had suffered these monstrous mutilations was alive. At\r\nintervals he moved his limbs; he moaned at every breath. He stared\r\nblankly into the face of his friend and if touched screamed. In his\r\ngiant agony he had torn up the ground on which he lay; his clenched\r\nhands were full of leaves and twigs and earth. Articulate speech was\r\nbeyond his power; it was impossible to know if he were sensible to\r\nanything but pain. The expression of his face was an appeal; his eyes\r\nwere full of prayer. For what?\r\n\r\nThere was no misreading that look; the captain had too frequently seen\r\nit in eyes of those whose lips had still the power to formulate it by an\r\nentreaty for death. Consciously or unconsciously, this writhing fragment\r\nof humanity, this type and example of acute sensation, this handiwork of\r\nman and beast, this humble, unheroic Prometheus, was imploring\r\neverything, all, the whole non-ego, for the boon of oblivion. To the\r\nearth and the sky alike, to the trees, to the man, to whatever took form\r\nin sense or consciousness, this incarnate suffering addressed that\r\nsilent plea.\r\n\r\nFor what, indeed? For that which we accord to even the meanest creature\r\nwithout sense to demand it, denying it only to the wretched of our own\r\nrace: for the blessed release, the rite of uttermost compassion, the\r\n_coup de grâce_.\r\n\r\nCaptain Madwell spoke the name of his friend. He repeated it over and\r\nover without effect until emotion choked his utterance.\r\n\r\nHis tears plashed upon the livid face beneath his own and blinded\r\nhimself. He saw nothing but a blurred and moving object, but the moans\r\nwere more distinct than ever, interrupted at briefer intervals by\r\nsharper shrieks. He turned away, struck his hand upon his forehead, and\r\nstrode from the spot. The swine, catching sight of him, threw up their\r\ncrimson muzzles, regarding him suspiciously a second, and then with a\r\ngruff, concerted grunt, raced away out of sight. A horse, its foreleg\r\nsplintered by a cannon-shot, lifted its head sidewise from the ground\r\nand neighed piteously. Madwell stepped forward, drew his revolver and\r\nshot the poor beast between the eyes, narrowly observing its\r\ndeath-struggle, which, contrary to his expectation, was violent and\r\nlong; but at last it lay still. The tense muscles of its lips, which had\r\nuncovered the teeth in a horrible grin, relaxed; the sharp, clean-cut\r\nprofile took on a look of profound peace and rest.\r\n\r\nAlong the distant, thinly wooded crest to westward the fringe of sunset\r\nfire had now nearly burned itself out. The light upon the trunks of the\r\ntrees had faded to a tender gray; shadows were in their tops, like great\r\ndark birds aperch. Night was coming and there were miles of haunted\r\nforest between Captain Madwell and camp. Yet he stood there at the side\r\nof the dead animal, apparently lost to all sense of his surroundings.\r\nHis eyes were bent upon the earth at his feet; his left hand hung\r\nloosely at his side, his right still held the pistol. Presently he\r\nlifted his face, turned it toward his dying friend and walked rapidly\r\nback to his side. He knelt upon one knee, cocked the weapon, placed the\r\nmuzzle against the man\'s forehead, and turning away his eyes pulled the\r\ntrigger. There was no report. He had used his last cartridge for the\r\nhorse.\r\n\r\nThe sufferer moaned and his lips moved convulsively. The froth that ran\r\nfrom them had a tinge of blood.\r\n\r\nCaptain Madwell rose to his feet and drew his sword from the scabbard.\r\nHe passed the fingers of his left hand along the edge from hilt to\r\npoint. He held it out straight before him, as if to test his nerves.\r\nThere was no visible tremor of the blade; the ray of bleak skylight that\r\nit reflected was steady and true. He stooped and with his left hand tore\r\naway the dying man\'s shirt, rose and placed the point of the sword just\r\nover the heart. This time he did not withdraw his eyes. Grasping the\r\nhilt with both hands, he thrust downward with all his strength and\r\nweight. The blade sank into the man\'s body--through his body into the\r\nearth; Captain Madwell came near falling forward upon his work. The\r\ndying man drew up his knees and at the same time threw his right arm\r\nacross his breast and grasped the steel so tightly that the knuckles of\r\nthe hand visibly whitened. By a violent but vain effort to withdraw the\r\nblade the wound was enlarged; a rill of blood escaped, running sinuously\r\ndown into the deranged clothing. At that moment three men stepped\r\nsilently forward from behind the clump of young trees which had\r\nconcealed their approach. Two were hospital attendants and carried a\r\nstretcher.\r\n\r\nThe third was Major Creede Halcrow.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nPARKER ADDERSON, PHILOSOPHER\r\n\r\n"Prisoner, what is your name?"\r\n\r\n"As I am to lose it at daylight to-morrow morning it is hardly worth\r\nwhile concealing it. Parker Adderson."\r\n\r\n"Your rank?"\r\n\r\n"A somewhat humble one; commissioned officers are too precious to be\r\nrisked in the perilous business of a spy. I am a sergeant."\r\n\r\n"Of what regiment?"\r\n\r\n"You must excuse me; my answer might, for anything I know, give you an\r\nidea of whose forces are in your front. Such knowledge as that is what I\r\ncame into your lines to obtain, not to impart."\r\n\r\n"You are not without wit."\r\n\r\n"If you have the patience to wait you will find me dull enough\r\nto-morrow."\r\n\r\n"How do you know that you are to die to-morrow morning?"\r\n\r\n"Among spies captured by night that is the custom. It is one of the nice\r\nobservances of the profession."\r\n\r\nThe general so far laid aside the dignity appropriate to a Confederate\r\nofficer of high rank and wide renown as to smile. But no one in his\r\npower and out of his favor would have drawn any happy augury from that\r\noutward and visible sign of approval. It was neither genial nor\r\ninfectious; it did not communicate itself to the other persons exposed\r\nto it--the caught spy who had provoked it and the armed guard who had\r\nbrought him into the tent and now stood a little apart, watching his\r\nprisoner in the yellow candle-light. It was no part of that warrior\'s\r\nduty to smile; he had been detailed for another purpose. The\r\nconversation was resumed; it was in character a trial for a capital\r\noffense.\r\n\r\n"You admit, then, that you are a spy--that you came into my camp,\r\ndisguised as you are in the uniform of a Confederate soldier, to obtain\r\ninformation secretly regarding the numbers and disposition of my\r\ntroops."\r\n\r\n"Regarding, particularly, their numbers. Their disposition I already\r\nknew. It is morose."\r\n\r\nThe general brightened again; the guard, with a severer sense of his\r\nresponsibility, accentuated the austerity of his expression and stood a\r\ntrifle more erect than before. Twirling his gray slouch hat round and\r\nround upon his forefinger, the spy took a leisurely survey of his\r\nsurroundings. They were simple enough. The tent was a common "wall\r\ntent," about eight feet by ten in dimensions, lighted by a single tallow\r\ncandle stuck into the haft of a bayonet, which was itself stuck into a\r\npine table at which the general sat, now busily writing and apparently\r\nforgetful of his unwilling guest. An old rag carpet covered the earthen\r\nfloor; an older leather trunk, a second chair and a roll of blankets\r\nwere about all else that the tent contained; in General Clavering\'s\r\ncommand Confederate simplicity and penury of "pomp and circumstance" had\r\nattained their highest development. On a large nail driven into the tent\r\npole at the entrance was suspended a sword-belt supporting a long sabre,\r\na pistol in its holster and, absurdly enough, a bowie-knife. Of that\r\nmost unmilitary weapon it was the general\'s habit to explain that it was\r\na souvenir of the peaceful days when he was a civilian.\r\n\r\nIt was a stormy night. The rain cascaded upon the canvas in torrents,\r\nwith the dull, drum-like sound familiar to dwellers in tents. As the\r\nwhooping blasts charged upon it the frail structure shook and swayed and\r\nstrained at its confining stakes and ropes.\r\n\r\nThe general finished writing, folded the half-sheet of paper and spoke\r\nto the soldier guarding Adderson: "Here, Tassman, take that to the\r\nadjutant-general; then return."\r\n\r\n"And the prisoner, General?" said the soldier, saluting, with an\r\ninquiring glance in the direction of that unfortunate.\r\n\r\n"Do as I said," replied the officer, curtly.\r\n\r\nThe soldier took the note and ducked himself out of the tent. General\r\nClavering turned his handsome face toward the Federal spy, looked him in\r\nthe eyes, not unkindly, and said: "It is a bad night, my man."\r\n\r\n"For me, yes."\r\n\r\n"Do you guess what I have written?"\r\n\r\n"Something worth reading, I dare say. And--perhaps it is my vanity--I\r\nventure to suppose that I am mentioned in it."\r\n\r\n"Yes; it is a memorandum for an order to be read to the troops at\r\n_reveille_ concerning your execution. Also some notes for the guidance\r\nof the provost-marshal in arranging the details of that event."\r\n\r\n"I hope, General, the spectacle will be intelligently arranged, for I\r\nshall attend it myself."\r\n\r\n"Have you any arrangements of your own that you wish to make? Do you\r\nwish to see a chaplain, for example?"\r\n\r\n"I could hardly secure a longer rest for myself by depriving him of some\r\nof his."\r\n\r\n"Good God, man! do you mean to go to your death with nothing but jokes\r\nupon your lips? Do you know that this is a serious matter?"\r\n\r\n"How can I know that? I have never been dead in all my life. I have\r\nheard that death is a serious matter, but never from any of those who\r\nhave experienced it."\r\n\r\nThe general was silent for a moment; the man interested, perhaps amused\r\nhim--a type not previously encountered.\r\n\r\n"Death," he said, "is at least a loss--a loss of such happiness as we\r\nhave, and of opportunities for more."\r\n\r\n"A loss of which we shall never be conscious can be borne with composure\r\nand therefore expected without apprehension. You must have observed,\r\nGeneral, that of all the dead men with whom it is your soldierly\r\npleasure to strew your path none shows signs of regret."\r\n\r\n"If the being dead is not a regrettable condition, yet the becoming so--\r\nthe act of dying--appears to be distinctly disagreeable to one who has\r\nnot lost the power to feel."\r\n\r\n"Pain is disagreeable, no doubt. I never suffer it without more or less\r\ndiscomfort. But he who lives longest is most exposed to it. What you\r\ncall dying is simply the last pain--there is really no such thing as\r\ndying. Suppose, for illustration, that I attempt to escape. You lift the\r\nrevolver that you are courteously concealing in your lap, and--"\r\n\r\nThe general blushed like a girl, then laughed softly, disclosing his\r\nbrilliant teeth, made a slight inclination of his handsome head and said\r\nnothing. The spy continued: "You fire, and I have in my stomach what I\r\ndid not swallow. I fall, but am not dead. After a half-hour of agony I\r\nam dead. But at any given instant of that half-hour I was either alive\r\nor dead. There is no transition period.\r\n\r\n"When I am hanged to-morrow morning it will be quite the same; while\r\nconscious I shall be living; when dead, unconscious. Nature appears to\r\nhave ordered the matter quite in my interest--the way that I should have\r\nordered it myself. It is so simple," he added with a smile, "that it\r\nseems hardly worth while to be hanged at all."\r\n\r\nAt the finish of his remarks there was a long silence. The general sat\r\nimpassive, looking into the man\'s face, but apparently not attentive to\r\nwhat had been said. It was as if his eyes had mounted guard over the\r\nprisoner while his mind concerned itself with other matters. Presently\r\nhe drew a long, deep breath, shuddered, as one awakened from a dreadful\r\ndream, and exclaimed almost inaudibly: "Death is horrible!"--this man of\r\ndeath.\r\n\r\n"It was horrible to our savage ancestors," said the spy, gravely,\r\n"because they had not enough intelligence to dissociate the idea of\r\nconsciousness from the idea of the physical forms in which it is\r\nmanifested--as an even lower order of intelligence, that of the monkey,\r\nfor example, may be unable to imagine a house without inhabitants, and\r\nseeing a ruined hut fancies a suffering occupant. To us it is horrible\r\nbecause we have inherited the tendency to think it so, accounting for\r\nthe notion by wild and fanciful theories of another world--as names of\r\nplaces give rise to legends explaining them and reasonless conduct to\r\nphilosophies in justification. You can hang me, General, but there your\r\npower of evil ends; you cannot condemn me to heaven."\r\n\r\nThe general appeared not to have heard; the spy\'s talk had merely turned\r\nhis thoughts into an unfamiliar channel, but there they pursued their\r\nwill independently to conclusions of their own. The storm had ceased,\r\nand something of the solemn spirit of the night had imparted itself to\r\nhis reflections, giving them the sombre tinge of a supernatural dread.\r\nPerhaps there was an element of prescience in it. "I should not like to\r\ndie," he said--"not to-night."\r\n\r\nHe was interrupted--if, indeed, he had intended to speak further--by the\r\nentrance of an officer of his staff, Captain Hasterlick, the\r\nprovost-marshal. This recalled him to himself; the absent look passed\r\naway from his face.\r\n\r\n"Captain," he said, acknowledging the officer\'s salute, "this man is a\r\nYankee spy captured inside our lines with incriminating papers on him.\r\nHe has confessed. How is the weather?"\r\n\r\n"The storm is over, sir, and the moon shining."\r\n\r\n"Good; take a file of men, conduct him at once to the parade ground, and\r\nshoot him."\r\n\r\nA sharp cry broke from the spy\'s lips. He threw himself forward, thrust\r\nout his neck, expanded his eyes, clenched his hands.\r\n\r\n"Good God!" he cried hoarsely, almost inarticulately; "you do not mean\r\nthat! You forget--I am not to die until morning."\r\n\r\n"I have said nothing of morning," replied the general, coldly; "that was\r\nan assumption of your own. You die now."\r\n\r\n"But, General, I beg--I implore you to remember; I am to hang! It will\r\ntake some time to erect the gallows--two hours--an hour. Spies are\r\nhanged; I have rights under military law. For Heaven\'s sake, General,\r\nconsider how short--"\r\n\r\n"Captain, observe my directions."\r\n\r\nThe officer drew his sword and fixing his eyes upon the prisoner pointed\r\nsilently to the opening of the tent. The prisoner hesitated; the officer\r\ngrasped him by the collar and pushed him gently forward. As he\r\napproached the tent pole the frantic man sprang to it and with cat-like\r\nagility seized the handle of the bowie-knife, plucked the weapon from\r\nthe scabbard and thrusting the captain aside leaped upon the general\r\nwith the fury of a madman, hurling him to the ground and falling\r\nheadlong upon him as he lay. The table was overturned, the candle\r\nextinguished and they fought blindly in the darkness. The\r\nprovost-marshal sprang to the assistance of his Superior officer and was\r\nhimself prostrated upon the struggling forms. Curses and inarticulate\r\ncries of rage and pain came from the welter of limbs and bodies; the\r\ntent came down upon them and beneath its hampering and enveloping folds\r\nthe struggle went on. Private Tassman, returning from his errand and\r\ndimly conjecturing the situation, threw down his rifle and laying hold\r\nof the flouncing canvas at random vainly tried to drag it off the men\r\nunder it; and the sentinel who paced up and down in front, not daring to\r\nleave his beat though the skies should fall, discharged his rifle. The\r\nreport alarmed the camp; drums beat the long roll and bugles sounded the\r\nassembly, bringing swarms of half-clad men into the moonlight, dressing\r\nas they ran, and falling into line at the sharp commands of their\r\nofficers. This was well; being in line the men were under control; they\r\nstood at arms while the general\'s staff and the men of his escort\r\nbrought order out of confusion by lifting off the fallen tent and\r\npulling apart the breathless and bleeding actors in that strange\r\ncontention.\r\n\r\nBreathless, indeed, was one: the captain was dead; the handle of the\r\nbowie-knife, protruding from his throat, was pressed back beneath his\r\nchin until the end had caught in the angle of the jaw and the hand that\r\ndelivered the blow had been unable to remove the weapon. In the dead\r\nman\'s hand was his sword, clenched with a grip that defied the strength\r\nof the living. Its blade was streaked with red to the hilt.\r\n\r\nLifted to his feet, the general sank back to the earth with a moan and\r\nfainted. Besides his bruises he had two sword-thrusts--one through the\r\nthigh, the other through the shoulder.\r\n\r\nThe spy had suffered the least damage. Apart from a broken right arm,\r\nhis wounds were such only as might have been incurred in an ordinary\r\ncombat with nature\'s weapons. But he was dazed and seemed hardly to know\r\nwhat had occurred. He shrank away from those attending him, cowered upon\r\nthe ground and uttered unintelligible remonstrances. His face, swollen\r\nby blows and stained with gouts of blood, nevertheless showed white\r\nbeneath his disheveled hair--as white as that of a corpse.\r\n\r\n"The man is not insane," said the surgeon, preparing bandages and\r\nreplying to a question; "he is suffering from fright. Who and what is\r\nhe?"\r\n\r\nPrivate Tassman began to explain. It was the opportunity of his life; he\r\nomitted nothing that could in any way accentuate the importance of his\r\nown relation to the night\'s events. When he had finished his story and\r\nwas ready to begin it again nobody gave him any attention.\r\n\r\nThe general had now recovered consciousness. He raised himself upon his\r\nelbow, looked about him, and, seeing the spy crouching by a camp-fire,\r\nguarded, said simply:\r\n\r\n"Take that man to the parade ground and shoot him."\r\n\r\n"The general\'s mind wanders," said an officer standing near.\r\n\r\n"His mind does _not_ wander," the adjutant-general said. "I have a\r\nmemorandum from him about this business; he had given that same order to\r\nHasterlick"--with a motion of the hand toward the dead provost-marshal--\r\n"and, by God! it shall be executed."\r\n\r\nTen minutes later Sergeant Parker Adderson, of the Federal army,\r\nphilosopher and wit, kneeling in the moonlight and begging incoherently\r\nfor his life, was shot to death by twenty men. As the volley rang out\r\nupon the keen air of the midnight, General Clavering, lying white and\r\nstill in the red glow of the camp-fire, opened his big blue eyes, looked\r\npleasantly upon those about him and said: "How silent it all is!"\r\n\r\nThe surgeon looked at the adjutant-general, gravely and significantly.\r\nThe patient\'s eyes slowly closed, and thus he lay for a few moments;\r\nthen, his face suffused with a smile of ineffable sweetness, he said,\r\nfaintly: "I suppose this must be death," and so passed away.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAN AFFAIR OF OUTPOSTS\r\n\r\nI\r\n\r\nCONCERNING THE WISH TO BE DEAD\r\n\r\nTwo men sat in conversation. One was the Governor of the State. The year\r\nwas 1861; the war was on and the Governor already famous for the\r\nintelligence and zeal with which he directed all the powers and\r\nresources of his State to the service of the Union.\r\n\r\n"What! _you_?" the Governor was saying in evident surprise--"you too\r\nwant a military commission? Really, the fifing and drumming must have\r\neffected a profound alteration in your convictions. In my character of\r\nrecruiting sergeant I suppose I ought not to be fastidious, but"--there\r\nwas a touch of irony in his manner--"well, have you forgotten that an\r\noath of allegiance is required?"\r\n\r\n"I have altered neither my convictions nor my sympathies," said the\r\nother, tranquilly. "While my sympathies are with the South, as you do me\r\nthe honor to recollect, I have never doubted that the North was in the\r\nright. I am a Southerner in fact and in feeling, but it is my habit in\r\nmatters of importance to act as I think, not as I feel."\r\n\r\nThe Governor was absently tapping his desk with a pencil; he did not\r\nimmediately reply. After a while he said: "I have heard that there are\r\nall kinds of men in the world, so I suppose there are some like that,\r\nand doubtless you think yourself one. I\'ve known you a long time and--\r\npardon me--I don\'t think so."\r\n\r\n"Then I am to understand that my application is denied?"\r\n\r\n"Unless you can remove my belief that your Southern sympathies are in\r\nsome degree a disqualification, yes. I do not doubt your good faith, and\r\nI know you to be abundantly fitted by intelligence and special training\r\nfor the duties of an officer. Your convictions, you say, favor the Union\r\ncause, but I prefer a man with his heart in it. The heart is what men\r\nfight with."\r\n\r\n"Look here, Governor," said the younger man, with a smile that had more\r\nlight than warmth: "I have something up my sleeve--a qualification which\r\nI had hoped it would not be necessary to mention. A great military\r\nauthority has given a simple recipe for being a good soldier: \'Try\r\nalways to get yourself killed.\' It is with that purpose that I wish to\r\nenter the service. I am not, perhaps, much of a patriot, but I wish to\r\nbe dead."\r\n\r\nThe Governor looked at him rather sharply, then a little coldly. "There\r\nis a simpler and franker way," he said.\r\n\r\n"In my family, sir," was the reply, "we do not do that--no Armisted has\r\never done that."\r\n\r\nA long silence ensued and neither man looked at the other. Presently the\r\nGovernor lifted his eyes from the pencil, which had resumed its tapping,\r\nand said:\r\n\r\n"Who is she?"\r\n\r\n"My wife."\r\n\r\nThe Governor tossed the pencil into the desk, rose and walked two or\r\nthree times across the room. Then he turned to Armisted, who also had\r\nrisen, looked at him more coldly than before and said: "But the man--\r\nwould it not be better that he--could not the country spare him better\r\nthan it can spare you? Or are the Armisteds opposed to \'the unwritten\r\nlaw\'?"\r\n\r\nThe Armisteds, apparently, could feel an insult: the face of the younger\r\nman flushed, then paled, but he subdued himself to the service of his\r\npurpose.\r\n\r\n"The man\'s identity is unknown to me," he said, calmly enough.\r\n\r\n"Pardon me," said the Governor, with even less of visible contrition\r\nthan commonly underlies those words. After a moment\'s reflection he\r\nadded: "I shall send you to-morrow a captain\'s commission in the Tenth\r\nInfantry, now at Nashville, Tennessee. Good night."\r\n\r\n"Good night, sir. I thank you."\r\n\r\nLeft alone, the Governor remained for a time motionless, leaning against\r\nhis desk. Presently he shrugged his shoulders as if throwing off a\r\nburden. "This is a bad business," he said.\r\n\r\nSeating himself at a reading-table before the fire, he took up the book\r\nnearest his hand, absently opening it. His eyes fell upon this sentence:\r\n\r\n"When God made it necessary for an unfaithful wife to lie about her\r\nhusband in justification of her own sins He had the tenderness to endow\r\nmen with the folly to believe her."\r\n\r\nHe looked at the title of the book; it was, _His Excellency the Fool_.\r\n\r\nHe flung the volume into the fire.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nHOW TO SAY WHAT IS WORTH HEARING\r\n\r\nThe enemy, defeated in two days of battle at Pittsburg Landing, had\r\nsullenly retired to Corinth, whence he had come. For manifest\r\nincompetence Grant, whose beaten army had been saved from destruction\r\nand capture by Buell\'s soldierly activity and skill, had been relieved\r\nof his command, which nevertheless had not been given to Buell, but to\r\nHalleck, a man of unproved powers, a theorist, sluggish, irresolute.\r\nFoot by foot his troops, always deployed in line-of-battle to resist the\r\nenemy\'s bickering skirmishers, always entrenching against the columns\r\nthat never came, advanced across the thirty miles of forest and swamp\r\ntoward an antagonist prepared to vanish at contact, like a ghost at\r\ncock-crow. It was a campaign of "excursions and alarums," of\r\nreconnoissances and counter-marches, of cross-purposes and countermanded\r\norders. For weeks the solemn farce held attention, luring distinguished\r\ncivilians from fields of political ambition to see what they safely\r\ncould of the horrors of war. Among these was our friend the Governor. At\r\nthe headquarters of the army and in the camps of the troops from his\r\nState he was a familiar figure, attended by the several members of his\r\npersonal staff, showily horsed, faultlessly betailored and bravely\r\nsilk-hatted. Things of charm they were, rich in suggestions of peaceful\r\nlands beyond a sea of strife. The bedraggled soldier looked up from his\r\ntrench as they passed, leaned upon his spade and audibly damned them to\r\nsignify his sense of their ornamental irrelevance to the austerities of\r\nhis trade.\r\n\r\n"I think, Governor," said General Masterson one day, going into informal\r\nsession atop of his horse and throwing one leg across the pommel of his\r\nsaddle, his favorite posture--"I think I would not ride any farther in\r\nthat direction if I were you. We\'ve nothing out there but a line of\r\nskirmishers. That, I presume, is why I was directed to put these siege\r\nguns here: if the skirmishers are driven in the enemy will die of\r\ndejection at being unable to haul them away--they\'re a trifle heavy."\r\n\r\nThere is reason to fear that the unstrained quality of this military\r\nhumor dropped not as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath\r\nthe civilian\'s silk hat. Anyhow he abated none of his dignity in\r\nrecognition.\r\n\r\n"I understand," he said, gravely, "that some of my men are out there--a\r\ncompany of the Tenth, commanded by Captain Armisted. I should like to\r\nmeet him if you do not mind."\r\n\r\n"He is worth meeting. But there\'s a bad bit of jungle out there, and I\r\nshould advise that you leave your horse and"--with a look at the\r\nGovernor\'s retinue--"your other impedimenta."\r\n\r\nThe Governor went forward alone and on foot. In a half-hour he had\r\npushed through a tangled undergrowth covering a boggy soil and entered\r\nupon firm and more open ground. Here he found a half-company of infantry\r\nlounging behind a line of stacked rifles. The men wore their\r\naccoutrements--their belts, cartridge-boxes, haversacks and canteens.\r\nSome lying at full length on the dry leaves were fast asleep: others in\r\nsmall groups gossiped idly of this and that; a few played at cards; none\r\nwas far from the line of stacked arms. To the civilian\'s eye the scene\r\nwas one of carelessness, confusion, indifference; a soldier would have\r\nobserved expectancy and readiness.\r\n\r\nAt a little distance apart an officer in fatigue uniform, armed, sat on\r\na fallen tree noting the approach of the visitor, to whom a sergeant,\r\nrising from one of the groups, now came forward.\r\n\r\n"I wish to see Captain Armisted," said the Governor.\r\n\r\nThe sergeant eyed him narrowly, saying nothing, pointed to the officer,\r\nand taking a rifle from one of the stacks, accompanied him.\r\n\r\n"This man wants to see you, sir," said the sergeant, saluting. The\r\nofficer rose.\r\n\r\nIt would have been a sharp eye that would have recognized him. His hair,\r\nwhich but a few months before had been brown, was streaked with gray.\r\nHis face, tanned by exposure, was seamed as with age. A long livid scar\r\nacross the forehead marked the stroke of a sabre; one cheek was drawn\r\nand puckered by the work of a bullet. Only a woman of the loyal North\r\nwould have thought the man handsome.\r\n\r\n"Armisted--Captain," said the Governor, extending his hand, "do you not\r\nknow me?"\r\n\r\n"I know you, sir, and I salute you--as the Governor of my State."\r\n\r\nLifting his right hand to the level of his eyes he threw it outward and\r\ndownward. In the code of military etiquette there is no provision for\r\nshaking hands. That of the civilian was withdrawn. If he felt either\r\nsurprise or chagrin his face did not betray it.\r\n\r\n"It is the hand that signed your commission," he said.\r\n\r\n"And it is the hand--"\r\n\r\nThe sentence remains unfinished. The sharp report of a rifle came from\r\nthe front, followed by another and another. A bullet hissed through the\r\nforest and struck a tree near by. The men sprang from the ground and\r\neven before the captain\'s high, clear voice was done intoning the\r\ncommand "At-ten-tion!" had fallen into line in rear of the stacked arms.\r\nAgain--and now through the din of a crackling fusillade--sounded the\r\nstrong, deliberate sing-song of authority: "Take... arms!" followed by\r\nthe rattle of unlocking bayonets.\r\n\r\nBullets from the unseen enemy were now flying thick and fast, though\r\nmostly well spent and emitting the humming sound which signified\r\ninterference by twigs and rotation in the plane of flight. Two or three\r\nof the men in the line were already struck and down. A few wounded men\r\ncame limping awkwardly out of the undergrowth from the skirmish line in\r\nfront; most of them did not pause, but held their way with white faces\r\nand set teeth to the rear.\r\n\r\nSuddenly there was a deep, jarring report in front, followed by the\r\nstartling rush of a shell, which passing overhead exploded in the edge\r\nof a thicket, setting afire the fallen leaves. Penetrating the din--\r\nseeming to float above it like the melody of a soaring bird--rang the\r\nslow, aspirated monotones of the captain\'s several commands, without\r\nemphasis, without accent, musical and restful as an evensong under the\r\nharvest moon. Familiar with this tranquilizing chant in moments of\r\nimminent peril, these raw soldiers of less than a year\'s training\r\nyielded themselves to the spell, executing its mandates with the\r\ncomposure and precision of veterans. Even the distinguished civilian\r\nbehind his tree, hesitating between pride and terror, was accessible to\r\nits charm and suasion. He was conscious of a fortified resolution and\r\nran away only when the skirmishers, under orders to rally on the\r\nreserve, came out of the woods like hunted hares and formed on the left\r\nof the stiff little line, breathing hard and thankful for the boon of\r\nbreath.\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nTHE FIGHTING OF ONE WHOSE HEART WAS NOT IN THE QUARREL\r\n\r\nGuided in his retreat by that of the fugitive wounded, the Governor\r\nstruggled bravely to the rear through the "bad bit of jungle." He was\r\nwell winded and a trifle confused. Excepting a single rifle-shot now and\r\nagain, there was no sound of strife behind him; the enemy was pulling\r\nhimself together for a new onset against an antagonist of whose numbers\r\nand tactical disposition he was in doubt. The fugitive felt that he\r\nwould probably be spared to his country, and only commended the\r\narrangements of Providence to that end, but in leaping a small brook in\r\nmore open ground one of the arrangements incurred the mischance of a\r\ndisabling sprain at the ankle. He was unable to continue his flight, for\r\nhe was too fat to hop, and after several vain attempts, causing\r\nintolerable pain, seated himself on the earth to nurse his ignoble\r\ndisability and deprecate the military situation.\r\n\r\nA brisk renewal of the firing broke out and stray bullets came flitting\r\nand droning by. Then came the crash of two clean, definite volleys,\r\nfollowed by a continuous rattle, through which he heard the yells and\r\ncheers of the combatants, punctuated by thunderclaps of cannon. All this\r\ntold him that Armisted\'s little command was bitterly beset and fighting\r\nat close quarters. The wounded men whom he had distanced began to\r\nstraggle by on either hand, their numbers visibly augmented by new\r\nlevies from the line. Singly and by twos and threes, some supporting\r\ncomrades more desperately hurt than themselves, but all deaf to his\r\nappeals for assistance, they sifted through the underbrush and\r\ndisappeared. The firing was increasingly louder and more distinct, and\r\npresently the ailing fugitives were succeeded by men who strode with a\r\nfirmer tread, occasionally facing about and discharging their pieces,\r\nthen doggedly resuming their retreat, reloading as they walked. Two or\r\nthree fell as he looked, and lay motionless. One had enough of life left\r\nin him to make a pitiful attempt to drag himself to cover. A passing\r\ncomrade paused beside him long enough to fire, appraised the poor\r\ndevil\'s disability with a look and moved sullenly on, inserting a\r\ncartridge in his weapon.\r\n\r\nIn all this was none of the pomp of war--no hint of glory. Even in his\r\ndistress and peril the helpless civilian could not forbear to contrast\r\nit with the gorgeous parades and reviews held in honor of himself--with\r\nthe brilliant uniforms, the music, the banners, and the marching. It was\r\nan ugly and sickening business: to all that was artistic in his nature,\r\nrevolting, brutal, in bad taste.\r\n\r\n"Ugh!" he grunted, shuddering--"this is beastly! Where is the charm of\r\nit all? Where are the elevated sentiments, the devotion, the heroism,\r\nthe--"\r\n\r\nFrom a point somewhere near, in the direction of the pursuing enemy,\r\nrose the clear, deliberate sing-song of Captain Armisted.\r\n\r\n"Stead-y, men--stead-y. Halt! Com-mence fir-ing."\r\n\r\nThe rattle of fewer than a score of rifles could be distinguished\r\nthrough the general uproar, and again that penetrating falsetto:\r\n\r\n"Cease fir-ing. In re-treat... maaarch!"\r\n\r\nIn a few moments this remnant had drifted slowly past the Governor, all\r\nto the right of him as they faced in retiring, the men deployed at\r\nintervals of a half-dozen paces. At the extreme left and a few yards\r\nbehind came the captain. The civilian called out his name, but he did\r\nnot hear. A swarm of men in gray now broke out of cover in pursuit,\r\nmaking directly for the spot where the Governor lay--some accident of\r\nthe ground had caused them to converge upon that point: their line had\r\nbecome a crowd. In a last struggle for life and liberty the Governor\r\nattempted to rise, and looking back the captain saw him. Promptly, but\r\nwith the same slow precision as before, he sang his commands:\r\n\r\n"Skirm-ish-ers, halt!" The men stopped and according to rule turned to\r\nface the enemy.\r\n\r\n"Ral-ly on the right!"--and they came in at a run, fixing bayonets and\r\nforming loosely on the man at that end of the line.\r\n\r\n"Forward... to save the Gov-ern-or of your State... doub-le quick...\r\nmaaarch!"\r\n\r\nOnly one man disobeyed this astonishing command! He was dead. With a\r\ncheer they sprang forward over the twenty or thirty paces between them\r\nand their task. The captain having a shorter distance to go arrived\r\nfirst--simultaneously with the enemy. A half-dozen hasty shots were\r\nfired at him, and the foremost man--a fellow of heroic stature, hatless\r\nand bare-breasted--made a vicious sweep at his head with a clubbed\r\nrifle. The officer parried the blow at the cost of a broken arm and\r\ndrove his sword to the hilt into the giant\'s breast. As the body fell\r\nthe weapon was wrenched from his hand and before he could pluck his\r\nrevolver from the scabbard at his belt another man leaped upon him like\r\na tiger, fastening both hands upon his throat and bearing him backward\r\nupon the prostrate Governor, still struggling to rise. This man was\r\npromptly spitted upon the bayonet of a Federal sergeant and his\r\ndeath-gripe on the captain\'s throat loosened by a kick upon each wrist.\r\nWhen the captain had risen he was at the rear of his men, who had all\r\npassed over and around him and were thrusting fiercely at their more\r\nnumerous but less coherent antagonists. Nearly all the rifles on both\r\nsides were empty and in the crush there was neither time nor room to\r\nreload. The Confederates were at a disadvantage in that most of them\r\nlacked bayonets; they fought by bludgeoning--and a clubbed rifle is a\r\nformidable arm. The sound of the conflict was a clatter like that of the\r\ninterlocking horns of battling bulls--now and then the pash of a crushed\r\nskull, an oath, or a grunt caused by the impact of a rifle\'s muzzle\r\nagainst the abdomen transfixed by its bayonet. Through an opening made\r\nby the fall of one of his men Captain Armisted sprang, with his dangling\r\nleft arm; in his right hand a full-charged revolver, which he fired with\r\nrapidity and terrible effect into the thick of the gray crowd: but\r\nacross the bodies of the slain the survivors in the front were pushed\r\nforward by their comrades in the rear till again they breasted the\r\ntireless bayonets. There were fewer bayonets now to breast--a beggarly\r\nhalf-dozen, all told. A few minutes more of this rough work--a little\r\nfighting back to back--and all would be over.\r\n\r\nSuddenly a lively firing was heard on the right and the left: a fresh\r\nline of Federal skirmishers came forward at a run, driving before them\r\nthose parts of the Confederate line that had been separated by staying\r\nthe advance of the centre. And behind these new and noisy combatants, at\r\na distance of two or three hundred yards, could be seen, indistinct\r\namong the trees a line-of-battle!\r\n\r\nInstinctively before retiring, the crowd in gray made a tremendous rush\r\nupon its handful of antagonists, overwhelming them by mere momentum and,\r\nunable to use weapons in the crush, trampled them, stamped savagely on\r\ntheir limbs, their bodies, their necks, their faces; then retiring with\r\nbloody feet across its own dead it joined the general rout and the\r\nincident was at an end.\r\n\r\nIV\r\n\r\nTHE GREAT HONOR THE GREAT\r\n\r\nThe Governor, who had been unconscious, opened his eyes and stared about\r\nhim, slowly recalling the day\'s events. A man in the uniform of a major\r\nwas kneeling beside him; he was a surgeon. Grouped about were the\r\ncivilian members of the Governor\'s staff, their faces expressing a\r\nnatural solicitude regarding their offices. A little apart stood General\r\nMasterson addressing another officer and gesticulating with a cigar. He\r\nwas saying: "It was the beautifulest fight ever made--by God, sir, it\r\nwas great!"\r\n\r\nThe beauty and greatness were attested by a row of dead, trimly\r\ndisposed, and another of wounded, less formally placed, restless,\r\nhalf-naked, but bravely bebandaged.\r\n\r\n"How do you feel, sir?" said the surgeon. "I find no wound."\r\n\r\n"I think I am all right," the patient replied, sitting up. "It is that\r\nankle."\r\n\r\nThe surgeon transferred his attention to the ankle, cutting away the\r\nboot. All eyes followed the knife.\r\n\r\nIn moving the leg a folded paper was uncovered. The patient picked it up\r\nand carelessly opened it. It was a letter three months old, signed\r\n"Julia." Catching sight of his name in it he read it. It was nothing\r\nvery remarkable--merely a weak woman\'s confession of unprofitable sin--\r\nthe penitence of a faithless wife deserted by her betrayer. The letter\r\nhad fallen from the pocket of Captain Armisted; the reader quietly\r\ntransferred it to his own.\r\n\r\nAn aide-de-camp rode up and dismounted. Advancing to the Governor he\r\nsaluted.\r\n\r\n"Sir," he said, "I am sorry to find you wounded--the Commanding General\r\nhas not been informed. He presents his compliments and I am directed to\r\nsay that he has ordered for to-morrow a grand review of the reserve\r\ncorps in your honor. I venture to add that the General\'s carriage is at\r\nyour service if you are able to attend."\r\n\r\n"Be pleased to say to the Commanding General that I am deeply touched by\r\nhis kindness. If you have the patience to wait a few moments you shall\r\nconvey a more definite reply."\r\n\r\nHe smiled brightly and glancing at the surgeon and his assistants added:\r\n"At present--if you will permit an allusion to the horrors of peace--I\r\nam \'in the hands of my friends.\'"\r\n\r\nThe humor of the great is infectious; all laughed who heard.\r\n\r\n"Where is Captain Armisted?" the Governor asked, not altogether\r\ncarelessly.\r\n\r\nThe surgeon looked up from his work, pointing silently to the nearest\r\nbody in the row of dead, the features discreetly covered with a\r\nhandkerchief. It was so near that the great man could have laid his hand\r\nupon it, but he did not. He may have feared that it would bleed.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE STORY OF A CONSCIENCE\r\n\r\nI\r\n\r\nCaptain Parrol Hartroy stood at the advanced post of his picket-guard,\r\ntalking in low tones with the sentinel. This post was on a turnpike\r\nwhich bisected the captain\'s camp, a half-mile in rear, though the camp\r\nwas not in sight from that point. The officer was apparently giving the\r\nsoldier certain instructions--was perhaps merely inquiring if all were\r\nquiet in front. As the two stood talking a man approached them from the\r\ndirection of the camp, carelessly whistling, and was promptly halted by\r\nthe soldier. He was evidently a civilian--a tall person, coarsely clad\r\nin the home-made stuff of yellow gray, called "butternut," which was\r\nmen\'s only wear in the latter days of the Confederacy. On his head was a\r\nslouch felt hat, once white, from beneath which hung masses of uneven\r\nhair, seemingly unacquainted with either scissors or comb. The man\'s\r\nface was rather striking; a broad forehead, high nose, and thin cheeks,\r\nthe mouth invisible in the full dark beard, which seemed as neglected as\r\nthe hair. The eyes were large and had that steadiness and fixity of\r\nattention which so frequently mark a considering intelligence and a will\r\nnot easily turned from its purpose--so say those physiognomists who have\r\nthat kind of eyes. On the whole, this was a man whom one would be likely\r\nto observe and be observed by. He carried a walking-stick freshly cut\r\nfrom the forest and his ailing cowskin boots were white with dust.\r\n\r\n"Show your pass," said the Federal soldier, a trifle more imperiously\r\nperhaps than he would have thought necessary if he had not been under\r\nthe eye of his commander, who with folded arms looked on from the\r\nroadside.\r\n\r\n"\'Lowed you\'d rec\'lect me, Gineral," said the wayfarer tranquilly, while\r\nproducing the paper from the pocket of his coat. There was something in\r\nhis tone--perhaps a faint suggestion of irony--which made his elevation\r\nof his obstructor to exalted rank less agreeable to that worthy warrior\r\nthan promotion is commonly found to be. "You-all have to be purty\r\npertickler, I reckon," he added, in a more conciliatory tone, as if in\r\nhalf-apology for being halted.\r\n\r\nHaving read the pass, with his rifle resting on the ground, the soldier\r\nhanded the document back without a word, shouldered his weapon, and\r\nreturned to his commander. The civilian passed on in the middle of the\r\nroad, and when he had penetrated the circumjacent Confederacy a few\r\nyards resumed his whistling and was soon out of sight beyond an angle in\r\nthe road, which at that point entered a thin forest. Suddenly the\r\nofficer undid his arms from his breast, drew a revolver from his belt\r\nand sprang forward at a run in the same direction, leaving his sentinel\r\nin gaping astonishment at his post. After making to the various visible\r\nforms of nature a solemn promise to be damned, that gentleman resumed\r\nthe air of stolidity which is supposed to be appropriate to a state of\r\nalert military attention.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nCaptain Hartroy held an independent command. His force consisted of a\r\ncompany of infantry, a squadron of cavalry, and a section of artillery,\r\ndetached from the army to which they belonged, to defend an important\r\ndefile in the Cumberland Mountains in Tennessee. It was a field\r\nofficer\'s command held by a line officer promoted from the ranks, where\r\nhe had quietly served until "discovered." His post was one of\r\nexceptional peril; its defense entailed a heavy responsibility and he\r\nhad wisely been given corresponding discretionary powers, all the more\r\nnecessary because of his distance from the main army, the precarious\r\nnature of his communications and the lawless character of the enemy\'s\r\nirregular troops infesting that region. He had strongly fortified his\r\nlittle camp, which embraced a village of a half-dozen dwellings and a\r\ncountry store, and had collected a considerable quantity of supplies. To\r\na few resident civilians of known loyalty, with whom it was desirable to\r\ntrade, and of whose services in various ways he sometimes availed\r\nhimself, he had given written passes admitting them within his lines. It\r\nis easy to understand that an abuse of this privilege in the interest of\r\nthe enemy might entail serious consequences. Captain Hartroy had made an\r\norder to the effect that any one so abusing it would be summarily shot.\r\n\r\nWhile the sentinel had been examining the civilian\'s pass the captain\r\nhad eyed the latter narrowly. He thought his appearance familiar and had\r\nat first no doubt of having given him the pass which had satisfied the\r\nsentinel. It was not until the man had got out of sight and hearing that\r\nhis identity was disclosed by a revealing light from memory. With\r\nsoldierly promptness of decision the officer had acted on the\r\nrevelation.\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nTo any but a singularly self-possessed man the apparition of an officer\r\nof the military forces, formidably clad, bearing in one hand a sheathed\r\nsword and in the other a cocked revolver, and rushing in furious\r\npursuit, is no doubt disquieting to a high degree; upon the man to whom\r\nthe pursuit was in this instance directed it appeared to have no other\r\neffect than somewhat to intensify his tranquillity. He might easily\r\nenough have escaped into the forest to the right or the left, but chose\r\nanother course of action--turned and quietly faced the captain, saying\r\nas he came up: "I reckon ye must have something to say to me, which ye\r\ndisremembered. What mout it be, neighbor?"\r\n\r\nBut the "neighbor" did not answer, being engaged in the unneighborly act\r\nof covering him with a cocked pistol.\r\n\r\n"Surrender," said the captain as calmly as a slight breathlessness from\r\nexertion would permit, "or you die."\r\n\r\nThere was no menace in the manner of this demand; that was all in the\r\nmatter and in the means of enforcing it. There was, too, something not\r\naltogether reassuring in the cold gray eyes that glanced along the\r\nbarrel of the weapon. For a moment the two men stood looking at each\r\nother in silence; then the civilian, with no appearance of fear--with as\r\ngreat apparent unconcern as when complying with the less austere demand\r\nof the sentinel--slowly pulled from his pocket the paper which had\r\nsatisfied that humble functionary and held it out, saying:\r\n\r\n"I reckon this \'ere parss from Mister Hartroy is--"\r\n\r\n"The pass is a forgery," the officer said, interrupting. "I am Captain\r\nHartroy--and you are Dramer Brune."\r\n\r\nIt would have required a sharp eye to observe the slight pallor of the\r\ncivilian\'s face at these words, and the only other manifestation\r\nattesting their significance was a voluntary relaxation of the thumb and\r\nfingers holding the dishonored paper, which, falling to the road,\r\nunheeded, was rolled by a gentle wind and then lay still, with a coating\r\nof dust, as in humiliation for the lie that it bore. A moment later the\r\ncivilian, still looking unmoved into the barrel of the pistol, said:\r\n\r\n"Yes, I am Dramer Brune, a Confederate spy, and your prisoner. I have on\r\nmy person, as you will soon discover, a plan of your fort and its\r\narmament, a statement of the distribution of your men and their number,\r\na map of the approaches, showing the positions of all your outposts. My\r\nlife is fairly yours, but if you wish it taken in a more formal way than\r\nby your own hand, and if you are willing to spare me the indignity of\r\nmarching into camp at the muzzle of your pistol, I promise you that I\r\nwill neither resist, escape, nor remonstrate, but will submit to\r\nwhatever penalty may be imposed."\r\n\r\nThe officer lowered his pistol, uncocked it, and thrust it into its\r\nplace in his belt. Brune advanced a step, extending his right hand.\r\n\r\n"It is the hand of a traitor and a spy," said the officer coldly, and\r\ndid not take it. The other bowed.\r\n\r\n"Come," said the captain, "let us go to camp; you shall not die until\r\nto-morrow morning."\r\n\r\nHe turned his back upon his prisoner, and these two enigmatical men\r\nretraced their steps and soon passed the sentinel, who expressed his\r\ngeneral sense of things by a needless and exaggerated salute to his\r\ncommander.\r\n\r\nIV\r\n\r\nEarly on the morning after these events the two men, captor and captive,\r\nsat in the tent of the former. A table was between them on which lay,\r\namong a number of letters, official and private, which the captain had\r\nwritten during the night, the incriminating papers found upon the spy.\r\nThat gentleman had slept through the night in an adjoining tent,\r\nunguarded. Both, having breakfasted, were now smoking.\r\n\r\n"Mr. Brune," said Captain Hartroy, "you probably do not understand why I\r\nrecognized you in your disguise, nor how I was aware of your name."\r\n\r\n"I have not sought to learn, Captain," the prisoner said with quiet\r\ndignity.\r\n\r\n"Nevertheless I should like you to know--if the story will not offend.\r\nYou will perceive that my knowledge of you goes back to the autumn of\r\n1861. At that time you were a private in an Ohio regiment--a brave and\r\ntrusted soldier. To the surprise and grief of your officers and comrades\r\nyou deserted and went over to the enemy. Soon afterward you were\r\ncaptured in a skirmish, recognized, tried by court-martial and sentenced\r\nto be shot. Awaiting the execution of the sentence you were confined,\r\nunfettered, in a freight car standing on a side track of a railway."\r\n\r\n"At Grafton, Virginia," said Brune, pushing the ashes from his cigar\r\nwith the little finger of the hand holding it, and without looking up.\r\n\r\n"At Grafton, Virginia," the captain repeated. "One dark and stormy night\r\na soldier who had just returned from a long, fatiguing march was put on\r\nguard over you. He sat on a cracker box inside the car, near the door,\r\nhis rifle loaded and the bayonet fixed. You sat in a corner and his\r\norders were to kill you if you attempted to rise."\r\n\r\n"But if I _asked_ to rise he might call the corporal of the guard."\r\n\r\n"Yes. As the long silent hours wore away the soldier yielded to the\r\ndemands of nature: he himself incurred the death penalty by sleeping at\r\nhis post of duty."\r\n\r\n"You did."\r\n\r\n"What! you recognize me? you have known me all along?"\r\n\r\nThe captain had risen and was walking the floor of his tent, visibly\r\nexcited. His face was flushed, the gray eyes had lost the cold, pitiless\r\nlook which they had shown when Brune had seen them over the pistol\r\nbarrel; they had softened wonderfully.\r\n\r\n"I knew you," said the spy, with his customary tranquillity, "the moment\r\nyou faced me, demanding my surrender. In the circumstances it would have\r\nbeen hardly becoming in me to recall these matters. I am perhaps a\r\ntraitor, certainly a spy; but I should not wish to seem a suppliant."\r\n\r\nThe captain had paused in his walk and was facing his prisoner. There\r\nwas a singular huskiness in his voice as he spoke again.\r\n\r\n"Mr. Brune, whatever your conscience may permit you to be, you saved my\r\nlife at what you must have believed the cost of your own. Until I saw\r\nyou yesterday when halted by my sentinel I believed you dead--thought\r\nthat you had suffered the fate which through my own crime you might\r\neasily have escaped. You had only to step from the car and leave me to\r\ntake your place before the firing-squad. You had a divine compassion.\r\nYou pitied my fatigue. You let me sleep, watched over me, and as the\r\ntime drew near for the relief-guard to come and detect me in my crime,\r\nyou gently waked me. Ah, Brune, Brune, that was well done--that was\r\ngreat--that--"\r\n\r\nThe captain\'s voice failed him; the tears were running down his face and\r\nsparkled upon his beard and his breast. Resuming his seat at the table,\r\nhe buried his face in his arms and sobbed. All else was silence.\r\n\r\nSuddenly the clear warble of a bugle was heard sounding the "assembly."\r\nThe captain started and raised his wet face from his arms; it had turned\r\nghastly pale. Outside, in the sunlight, were heard the stir of the men\r\nfalling into line; the voices of the sergeants calling the roll; the\r\ntapping of the drummers as they braced their drums. The captain spoke\r\nagain:\r\n\r\n"I ought to have confessed my fault in order to relate the story of your\r\nmagnanimity; it might have procured you a pardon. A hundred times I\r\nresolved to do so, but shame prevented. Besides, your sentence was just\r\nand righteous. Well, Heaven forgive me! I said nothing, and my regiment\r\nwas soon afterward ordered to Tennessee and I never heard about you."\r\n\r\n"It was all right, sir," said Brune, without visible emotion; "I escaped\r\nand returned to my colors--the Confederate colors. I should like to add\r\nthat before deserting from the Federal service I had earnestly asked a\r\ndischarge, on the ground of altered convictions. I was answered by\r\npunishment."\r\n\r\n"Ah, but if I had suffered the penalty of my crime--if you had not\r\ngenerously given me the life that I accepted without gratitude you would\r\nnot be again in the shadow and imminence of death."\r\n\r\nThe prisoner started slightly and a look of anxiety came into his face.\r\nOne would have said, too, that he was surprised. At that moment a\r\nlieutenant, the adjutant, appeared at the opening of the tent and\r\nsaluted. "Captain," he said, "the battalion is formed."\r\n\r\nCaptain Hartroy had recovered his composure. He turned to the officer\r\nand said: "Lieutenant, go to Captain Graham and say that I direct him to\r\nassume command of the battalion and parade it outside the parapet. This\r\ngentleman is a deserter and a spy; he is to be shot to death in the\r\npresence of the troops. He will accompany you, unbound and unguarded."\r\n\r\nWhile the adjutant waited at the door the two men inside the tent rose\r\nand exchanged ceremonious bows, Brune immediately retiring.\r\n\r\nHalf an hour later an old negro cook, the only person left in camp\r\nexcept the commander, was so startled by the sound of a volley of\r\nmusketry that he dropped the kettle that he was lifting from a fire. But\r\nfor his consternation and the hissing which the contents of the kettle\r\nmade among the embers, he might also have heard, nearer at hand, the\r\nsingle pistol shot with which Captain Hartroy renounced the life which\r\nin conscience he could no longer keep.\r\n\r\nIn compliance with the terms of a note that he left for the officer who\r\nsucceeded him in command, he was buried, like the deserter and spy,\r\nwithout military honors; and in the solemn shadow of the mountain which\r\nknows no more of war the two sleep well in long-forgotten graves.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nONE KIND OF OFFICER\r\n\r\nI\r\n\r\nOF THE USES OF CIVILITY\r\n\r\n"Captain Ransome, it is not permitted to you to know _anything_. It is\r\nsufficient that you obey my order--which permit me to repeat. If you\r\nperceive any movement of troops in your front you are to open fire, and\r\nif attacked hold this position as long as you can. Do I make myself\r\nunderstood, sir?"\r\n\r\n"Nothing could be plainer. Lieutenant Price,"--this to an officer of his\r\nown battery, who had ridden up in time to hear the order--"the general\'s\r\nmeaning is clear, is it not?"\r\n\r\n"Perfectly."\r\n\r\nThe lieutenant passed on to his post. For a moment General Cameron and\r\nthe commander of the battery sat in their saddles, looking at each other\r\nin silence. There was no more to say; apparently too much had already\r\nbeen said. Then the superior officer nodded coldly and turned his horse\r\nto ride away. The artillerist saluted slowly, gravely, and with extreme\r\nformality. One acquainted with the niceties of military etiquette would\r\nhave said that by his manner he attested a sense of the rebuke that he\r\nhad incurred. It is one of the important uses of civility to signify\r\nresentment.\r\n\r\nWhen the general had joined his staff and escort, awaiting him at a\r\nlittle distance, the whole cavalcade moved off toward the right of the\r\nguns and vanished in the fog. Captain Ransome was alone, silent,\r\nmotionless as an equestrian statue. The gray fog, thickening every\r\nmoment, closed in about him like a visible doom.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nUNDER WHAT CIRCUMSTANCES MEN DO NOT WISH TO BE SHOT\r\n\r\nThe fighting of the day before had been desultory and indecisive. At the\r\npoints of collision the smoke of battle had hung in blue sheets among\r\nthe branches of the trees till beaten into nothing by the falling rain.\r\nIn the softened earth the wheels of cannon and ammunition wagons cut\r\ndeep, ragged furrows, and movements of infantry seemed impeded by the\r\nmud that clung to the soldiers\' feet as, with soaken garments and rifles\r\nimperfectly protected by capes of overcoats they went dragging in\r\nsinuous lines hither and thither through dripping forest and flooded\r\nfield. Mounted officers, their heads protruding from rubber ponchos that\r\nglittered like black armor, picked their way, singly and in loose\r\ngroups, among the men, coming and going with apparent aimlessness and\r\ncommanding attention from nobody but one another. Here and there a dead\r\nman, his clothing defiled with earth, his face covered with a blanket or\r\nshowing yellow and claylike in the rain, added his dispiriting influence\r\nto that of the other dismal features of the scene and augmented the\r\ngeneral discomfort with a particular dejection. Very repulsive these\r\nwrecks looked--not at all heroic, and nobody was accessible to the\r\ninfection of their patriotic example. Dead upon the field of honor, yes;\r\nbut the field of honor was so very wet! It makes a difference.\r\n\r\nThe general engagement that all expected did not occur, none of the\r\nsmall advantages accruing, now to this side and now to that, in isolated\r\nand accidental collisions being followed up. Half-hearted attacks\r\nprovoked a sullen resistance which was satisfied with mere repulse.\r\nOrders were obeyed with mechanical fidelity; no one did any more than\r\nhis duty.\r\n\r\n"The army is cowardly to-day," said General Cameron, the commander of a\r\nFederal brigade, to his adjutant-general.\r\n\r\n"The army is cold," replied the officer addressed, "and--yes, it doesn\'t\r\nwish to be like that."\r\n\r\nHe pointed to one of the dead bodies, lying in a thin pool of yellow\r\nwater, its face and clothing bespattered with mud from hoof and wheel.\r\n\r\nThe army\'s weapons seemed to share its military delinquency. The rattle\r\nof rifles sounded flat and contemptible. It had no meaning and scarcely\r\nroused to attention and expectancy the unengaged parts of the\r\nline-of-battle and the waiting reserves. Heard at a little distance, the\r\nreports of cannon were feeble in volume and _timbre_: they lacked sting\r\nand resonance. The guns seemed to be fired with light charges,\r\nunshotted. And so the futile day wore on to its dreary close, and then\r\nto a night of discomfort succeeded a day of apprehension.\r\n\r\nAn army has a personality. Beneath the individual thoughts and emotions\r\nof its component parts it thinks and feels as a unit. And in this large,\r\ninclusive sense of things lies a wiser wisdom than the mere sum of all\r\nthat it knows. On that dismal morning this great brute force, groping at\r\nthe bottom of a white ocean of fog among trees that seemed as sea weeds,\r\nhad a dumb consciousness that all was not well; that a day\'s manoeuvring\r\nhad resulted in a faulty disposition of its parts, a blind diffusion of\r\nits strength. The men felt insecure and talked among themselves of such\r\ntactical errors as with their meager military vocabulary they were able\r\nto name. Field and line officers gathered in groups and spoke more\r\nlearnedly of what they apprehended with no greater clearness. Commanders\r\nof brigades and divisions looked anxiously to their connections on the\r\nright and on the left, sent staff officers on errands of inquiry and\r\npushed skirmish lines silently and cautiously forward into the dubious\r\nregion between the known and the unknown. At some points on the line the\r\ntroops, apparently of their own volition, constructed such defenses as\r\nthey could without the silent spade and the noisy ax.\r\n\r\nOne of these points was held by Captain Ransome\'s battery of six guns.\r\nProvided always with intrenching tools, his men had labored with\r\ndiligence during the night, and now his guns thrust their black muzzles\r\nthrough the embrasures of a really formidable earthwork. It crowned a\r\nslight acclivity devoid of undergrowth and providing an unobstructed\r\nfire that would sweep the ground for an unknown distance in front. The\r\nposition could hardly have been better chosen. It had this peculiarity,\r\nwhich Captain Ransome, who was greatly addicted to the use of the\r\ncompass, had not failed to observe: it faced northward, whereas he knew\r\nthat the general line of the army must face eastward. In fact, that part\r\nof the line was "refused"--that is to say, bent backward, away from the\r\nenemy. This implied that Captain Ransome\'s battery was somewhere near\r\nthe left flank of the army; for an army in line of battle retires its\r\nflanks if the nature of the ground will permit, they being its\r\nvulnerable points. Actually, Captain Ransome appeared to hold the\r\nextreme left of the line, no troops being visible in that direction\r\nbeyond his own. Immediately in rear of his guns occurred that\r\nconversation between him and his brigade commander, the concluding and\r\nmore picturesque part of which is reported above.\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nHOW TO PLAY THE CANNON WITHOUT NOTES\r\n\r\nCaptain Ransome sat motionless and silent on horseback. A few yards away\r\nhis men were standing at their guns. Somewhere--everywhere within a few\r\nmiles--were a hundred thousand men, friends and enemies. Yet he was\r\nalone. The mist had isolated him as completely as if he had been in the\r\nheart of a desert. His world was a few square yards of wet and trampled\r\nearth about the feet of his horse. His comrades in that ghostly domain\r\nwere invisible and inaudible. These were conditions favorable to\r\nthought, and he was thinking. Of the nature of his thoughts his\r\nclear-cut handsome features yielded no attesting sign. His face was as\r\ninscrutable as that of the sphinx. Why should it have made a record\r\nwhich there was none to observe? At the sound of a footstep he merely\r\nturned his eyes in the direction whence it came; one of his sergeants,\r\nlooking a giant in stature in the false perspective of the fog,\r\napproached, and when clearly defined and reduced to his true dimensions\r\nby propinquity, saluted and stood at attention.\r\n\r\n"Well, Morris," said the officer, returning his subordinate\'s salute.\r\n\r\n"Lieutenant Price directed me to tell you, sir, that most of the\r\ninfantry has been withdrawn. We have not sufficient support."\r\n\r\n"Yes, I know."\r\n\r\n"I am to say that some of our men have been out over the works a hundred\r\nyards and report that our front is not picketed."\r\n\r\n"Yes."\r\n\r\n"They were so far forward that they heard the enemy."\r\n\r\n"Yes."\r\n\r\n"They heard the rattle of the wheels of artillery and the commands of\r\nofficers."\r\n\r\n"Yes."\r\n\r\n"The enemy is moving toward our works."\r\n\r\nCaptain Ransome, who had been facing to the rear of his line--toward the\r\npoint where the brigade commander and his cavalcade had been swallowed\r\nup by the fog--reined his horse about and faced the other way. Then he\r\nsat motionless as before.\r\n\r\n"Who are the men who made that statement?" he inquired, without looking\r\nat the sergeant; his eyes were directed straight into the fog over the\r\nhead of his horse.\r\n\r\n"Corporal Hassman and Gunner Manning."\r\n\r\nCaptain Ransome was a moment silent. A slight pallor came into his face,\r\na slight compression affected the lines of his lips, but it would have\r\nrequired a closer observer than Sergeant Morris to note the change.\r\nThere was none in the voice.\r\n\r\n"Sergeant, present my compliments to Lieutenant Price and direct him to\r\nopen fire with all the guns. Grape."\r\n\r\nThe sergeant saluted and vanished in the fog.\r\n\r\nIV.\r\n\r\nTO INTRODUCE GENERAL MASTERSON\r\n\r\nSearching for his division commander,\r\nGeneral Cameron and his escort had followed the line of battle for\r\nnearly a mile to the right of Ransome\'s battery, and there learned that\r\nthe division commander had gone in search of the corps commander. It\r\nseemed that everybody was looking for his immediate superior--an ominous\r\ncircumstance. It meant that nobody was quite at ease. So General Cameron\r\nrode on for another half-mile, where by good luck he met General\r\nMasterson, the division commander, returning.\r\n\r\n"Ah, Cameron," said the higher officer, reining up, and throwing his\r\nright leg across the pommel of his saddle in a most unmilitary way--\r\n"anything up? Found a good position for your battery, I hope--if one\r\nplace is better than another in a fog."\r\n\r\n"Yes, general," said the other, with the greater dignity appropriate to\r\nhis less exalted rank, "my battery is very well placed. I wish I could\r\nsay that it is as well commanded."\r\n\r\n"Eh, what\'s that? Ransome? I think him a fine fellow. In the army we\r\nshould be proud of him."\r\n\r\nIt was customary for officers of the regular army to speak of it as "the\r\narmy." As the greatest cities are most provincial, so the\r\nself-complacency of aristocracies is most frankly plebeian.\r\n\r\n"He is too fond of his opinion. By the way, in order to occupy the hill\r\nthat he holds I had to extend my line dangerously. The hill is on my\r\nleft--that is to say the left flank of the army."\r\n\r\n"Oh, no, Hart\'s brigade is beyond. It was ordered up from Drytown during\r\nthe night and directed to hook on to you. Better go and--"\r\n\r\nThe sentence was unfinished: a lively cannonade had broken out on the\r\nleft, and both officers, followed by their retinues of aides and\r\norderlies making a great jingle and clank, rode rapidly toward the spot.\r\nBut they were soon impeded, for they were compelled by the fog to keep\r\nwithin sight of the line-of-battle, behind which were swarms of men, all\r\nin motion across their way. Everywhere the line was assuming a sharper\r\nand harder definition, as the men sprang to arms and the officers, with\r\ndrawn swords, "dressed" the ranks. Color-bearers unfurled the flags,\r\nbuglers blew the "assembly," hospital attendants appeared with\r\nstretchers. Field officers mounted and sent their impedimenta to the\r\nrear in care of negro servants. Back in the ghostly spaces of the forest\r\ncould be heard the rustle and murmur of the reserves, pulling themselves\r\ntogether.\r\n\r\nNor was all this preparation vain, for scarcely five minutes had passed\r\nsince Captain Ransome\'s guns had broken the truce of doubt before the\r\nwhole region was aroar: the enemy had attacked nearly everywhere.\r\n\r\nV\r\n\r\nHOW SOUNDS CAN FIGHT SHADOWS\r\n\r\nCaptain Ransome walked up and down behind his guns, which were firing\r\nrapidly but with steadiness. The gunners worked alertly, but without\r\nhaste or apparent excitement. There was really no reason for excitement;\r\nit is not much to point a cannon into a fog and fire it. Anybody can do\r\nas much as that.\r\n\r\nThe men smiled at their noisy work, performing it with a lessening\r\nalacrity. They cast curious regards upon their captain, who had now\r\nmounted the banquette of the fortification and was looking across the\r\nparapet as if observing the effect of his fire. But the only visible\r\neffect was the substitution of wide, low-lying sheets of smoke for their\r\nbulk of fog. Suddenly out of the obscurity burst a great sound of\r\ncheering, which filled the intervals between the reports of the guns\r\nwith startling distinctness! To the few with leisure and opportunity to\r\nobserve, the sound was inexpressibly strange--so loud, so near, so\r\nmenacing, yet nothing seen! The men who had smiled at their work smiled\r\nno more, but performed it with a serious and feverish activity.\r\n\r\nFrom his station at the parapet Captain Ransome now saw a great\r\nmultitude of dim gray figures taking shape in the mist below him and\r\nswarming up the slope. But the work of the guns was now fast and\r\nfurious. They swept the populous declivity with gusts of grape and\r\ncanister, the whirring of which could be heard through the thunder of\r\nthe explosions. In this awful tempest of iron the assailants struggled\r\nforward foot by foot across their dead, firing into the embrasures,\r\nreloading, firing again, and at last falling in their turn, a little in\r\nadvance of those who had fallen before. Soon the smoke was dense enough\r\nto cover all. It settled down upon the attack and, drifting back,\r\ninvolved the defense. The gunners could hardly see to serve their\r\npieces, and when occasional figures of the enemy appeared upon the\r\nparapet--having had the good luck to get near enough to it, between two\r\nembrasures, to be protected from the guns--they looked so unsubstantial\r\nthat it seemed hardly worth while for the few infantrymen to go to work\r\nupon them with the bayonet and tumble them back into the ditch.\r\n\r\nAs the commander of a battery in action can find something better to do\r\nthan cracking individual skulls, Captain Ransome had retired from the\r\nparapet to his proper post in rear of his guns, where he stood with\r\nfolded arms, his bugler beside him. Here, during the hottest of the\r\nfight, he was approached by Lieutenant Price, who had just sabred a\r\ndaring assailant inside the work. A spirited colloquy ensued between the\r\ntwo officers--spirited, at least, on the part of the lieutenant, who\r\ngesticulated with energy and shouted again and again into his\r\ncommander\'s ear in the attempt to make himself heard above the infernal\r\ndin of the guns. His gestures, if coolly noted by an actor, would have\r\nbeen pronounced to be those of protestation: one would have said that he\r\nwas opposed to the proceedings. Did he wish to surrender?\r\n\r\nCaptain Ransome listened without a change of countenance or attitude,\r\nand when the other man had finished his harangue, looked him coldly in\r\nthe eyes and during a seasonable abatement of the uproar said:\r\n\r\n"Lieutenant Price, it is not permitted to you to know _anything_. It is\r\nsufficient that you obey my orders."\r\n\r\nThe lieutenant went to his post, and the parapet being now apparently\r\nclear Captain Ransome returned to it to have a look over. As he mounted\r\nthe banquette a man sprang upon the crest, waving a great brilliant\r\nflag. The captain drew a pistol from his belt and shot him dead. The\r\nbody, pitching forward, hung over the inner edge of the embankment, the\r\narms straight downward, both hands still grasping the flag. The man\'s\r\nfew followers turned and fled down the slope. Looking over the parapet,\r\nthe captain saw no living thing. He observed also that no bullets were\r\ncoming into the work.\r\n\r\nHe made a sign to the bugler, who sounded the command to cease firing.\r\nAt all other points the action had already ended with a repulse of the\r\nConfederate attack; with the cessation of this cannonade the silence was\r\nabsolute.\r\n\r\nVI\r\n\r\nWHY, BEING AFFRONTED BY A, IT IS NOT BEST TO AFFRONT B\r\n\r\nGeneral Masterson rode into the redoubt. The men, gathered in groups,\r\nwere talking loudly and gesticulating. They pointed at the dead, running\r\nfrom one body to another. They neglected their foul and heated guns and\r\nforgot to resume their outer clothing. They ran to the parapet and\r\nlooked over, some of them leaping down into the ditch. A score were\r\ngathered about a flag rigidly held by a dead man.\r\n\r\n"Well, my men," said the general cheerily, "you have had a pretty fight\r\nof it."\r\n\r\nThey stared; nobody replied; the presence of the great man seemed to\r\nembarrass and alarm.\r\n\r\nGetting no response to his pleasant condescension, the easy-mannered\r\nofficer whistled a bar or two of a popular air, and riding forward to\r\nthe parapet, looked over at the dead. In an instant he had whirled his\r\nhorse about and was spurring along in rear of the guns, his eyes\r\neverywhere at once. An officer sat on the trail of one of the guns,\r\nsmoking a cigar. As the general dashed up he rose and tranquilly\r\nsaluted.\r\n\r\n"Captain Ransome!"--the words fell sharp and harsh, like the clash of\r\nsteel blades--"you have been fighting our own men--our own men, sir; do\r\nyou hear? Hart\'s brigade!"\r\n\r\n"General, I know that."\r\n\r\n"You know it--you know that, and you sit here smoking? Oh, damn it,\r\nHamilton, I\'m losing my temper,"--this to his provost-marshal. "Sir--\r\nCaptain Ransome, be good enough to say--to say why you fought our own\r\nmen."\r\n\r\n"That I am unable to say. In my orders that information was withheld."\r\n\r\nApparently the general did not comprehend.\r\n\r\n"Who was the aggressor in this affair, you or General Hart?" he asked.\r\n\r\n"I was."\r\n\r\n"And could you not have known--could you not see, sir, that you were\r\nattacking our own men?"\r\n\r\nThe reply was astounding!\r\n\r\n"I knew that, general. It appeared to be none of my business."\r\n\r\nThen, breaking the dead silence that followed his answer, he said:\r\n\r\n"I must refer you to General Cameron."\r\n\r\n"General Cameron is dead, sir--as dead as he can be--as dead as any man\r\nin this army. He lies back yonder under a tree. Do you mean to say that\r\nhe had anything to do with this horrible business?"\r\n\r\nCaptain Ransome did not reply. Observing the altercation his men had\r\ngathered about to watch the outcome. They were greatly excited. The fog,\r\nwhich had been partly dissipated by the firing, had again closed in so\r\ndarkly about them that they drew more closely together till the judge on\r\nhorseback and the accused standing calmly before him had but a narrow\r\nspace free from intrusion. It was the most informal of courts-martial,\r\nbut all felt that the formal one to follow would but affirm its\r\njudgment. It had no jurisdiction, but it had the significance of\r\nprophecy.\r\n\r\n"Captain Ransome," the general cried impetuously, but with something in\r\nhis voice that was almost entreaty, "if you can say anything to put a\r\nbetter light upon your incomprehensible conduct I beg you will do so."\r\n\r\nHaving recovered his temper this generous soldier sought for something\r\nto justify his naturally sympathetic attitude toward a brave man in the\r\nimminence of a dishonorable death.\r\n\r\n"Where is Lieutenant Price?" the captain said.\r\n\r\nThat officer stood forward, his dark saturnine face looking somewhat\r\nforbidding under a bloody handkerchief bound about his brow. He\r\nunderstood the summons and needed no invitation to speak. He did not\r\nlook at the captain, but addressed the general:\r\n\r\n"During the engagement I discovered the state of affairs, and apprised\r\nthe commander of the battery. I ventured to urge that the firing cease.\r\nI was insulted and ordered to my post."\r\n\r\n"Do you know anything of the orders under which I was acting?" asked the\r\ncaptain.\r\n\r\n"Of any orders under which the commander of the battery was acting," the\r\nlieutenant continued, still addressing the general, "I know nothing."\r\n\r\nCaptain Ransome felt his world sink away from his feet. In those cruel\r\nwords he heard the murmur of the centuries breaking upon the shore of\r\neternity. He heard the voice of doom; it said, in cold, mechanical, and\r\nmeasured tones: "Ready, aim, fire!" and he felt the bullets tear his\r\nheart to shreds. He heard the sound of the earth upon his coffin and (if\r\nthe good God was so merciful) the song of a bird above his forgotten\r\ngrave. Quietly detaching his sabre from its supports, he handed it up to\r\nthe provost-marshal.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nONE OFFICER, ONE MAN\r\n\r\nCaptain Graffenreid stood at the head of his company. The regiment was\r\nnot engaged. It formed a part of the front line-of-battle, which\r\nstretched away to the right with a visible length of nearly two miles\r\nthrough the open ground. The left flank was veiled by woods; to the\r\nright also the line was lost to sight, but it extended many miles. A\r\nhundred yards in rear was a second line; behind this, the reserve\r\nbrigades and divisions in column. Batteries of artillery occupied the\r\nspaces between and crowned the low hills. Groups of horsemen--generals\r\nwith their staffs and escorts, and field officers of regiments behind\r\nthe colors--broke the regularity of the lines and columns. Numbers of\r\nthese figures of interest had field-glasses at their eyes and sat\r\nmotionless, stolidly scanning the country in front; others came\r\nand went at a slow canter, bearing orders. There were squads of\r\nstretcher-bearers, ambulances, wagon-trains with ammunition, and\r\nofficers\' servants in rear of all--of all that was visible--for still in\r\nrear of these, along the roads, extended for many miles all that vast\r\nmultitude of non-combatants who with their various _impedimenta_ are\r\nassigned to the inglorious but important duty of supplying the fighters\'\r\nmany needs.\r\n\r\nAn army in line-of-battle awaiting attack, or prepared to deliver it,\r\npresents strange contrasts. At the front are precision, formality,\r\nfixity, and silence. Toward the rear these characteristics are less and\r\nless conspicuous, and finally, in point of space, are lost altogether in\r\nconfusion, motion and noise. The homogeneous becomes heterogeneous.\r\nDefinition is lacking; repose is replaced by an apparently purposeless\r\nactivity; harmony vanishes in hubbub, form in disorder. Commotion\r\neverywhere and ceaseless unrest. The men who do not fight are never\r\nready.\r\n\r\nFrom his position at the right of his company in the front rank, Captain\r\nGraffenreid had an unobstructed outlook toward the enemy. A half-mile of\r\nopen and nearly level ground lay before him, and beyond it an irregular\r\nwood, covering a slight acclivity; not a human being anywhere visible.\r\nHe could imagine nothing more peaceful than the appearance of that\r\npleasant landscape with its long stretches of brown fields over which\r\nthe atmosphere was beginning to quiver in the heat of the morning sun.\r\nNot a sound came from forest or field--not even the barking of a dog or\r\nthe crowing of a cock at the half-seen plantation house on the crest\r\namong the trees. Yet every man in those miles of men knew that he and\r\ndeath were face to face.\r\n\r\nCaptain Graffenreid had never in his life seen an armed enemy, and the\r\nwar in which his regiment was one of the first to take the field was two\r\nyears old. He had had the rare advantage of a military education, and\r\nwhen his comrades had marched to the front he had been detached for\r\nadministrative service at the capital of his State, where it was thought\r\nthat he could be most useful. Like a bad soldier he protested, and like\r\na good one obeyed. In close official and personal relations with the\r\ngovernor of his State, and enjoying his confidence and favor, he had\r\nfirmly refused promotion and seen his juniors elevated above him. Death\r\nhad been busy in his distant regiment; vacancies among the field\r\nofficers had occurred again and again; but from a chivalrous feeling\r\nthat war\'s rewards belonged of right to those who bore the storm and\r\nstress of battle he had held his humble rank and generously advanced the\r\nfortunes of others. His silent devotion to principle had conquered at\r\nlast: he had been relieved of his hateful duties and ordered to the\r\nfront, and now, untried by fire, stood in the van of battle in command\r\nof a company of hardy veterans, to whom he had been only a name, and\r\nthat name a by-word. By none--not even by those of his brother officers\r\nin whose favor he had waived his rights--was his devotion to duty\r\nunderstood. They were too busy to be just; he was looked upon as one who\r\nhad shirked his duty, until forced unwillingly into the field. Too proud\r\nto explain, yet not too insensible to feel, he could only endure and\r\nhope.\r\n\r\nOf all the Federal Army on that summer morning none had accepted battle\r\nmore joyously than Anderton Graffenreid. His spirit was buoyant, his\r\nfaculties were riotous. He was in a state of mental exaltation and\r\nscarcely could endure the enemy\'s tardiness in advancing to the attack.\r\nTo him this was opportunity--for the result he cared nothing. Victory or\r\ndefeat, as God might will; in one or in the other he should prove\r\nhimself a soldier and a hero; he should vindicate his right to the\r\nrespect of his men and the companionship of his brother officers--to the\r\nconsideration of his superiors. How his heart leaped in his breast as\r\nthe bugle sounded the stirring notes of the "assembly"! With what a\r\nlight tread, scarcely conscious of the earth beneath his feet, he strode\r\nforward at the head of his company, and how exultingly he noted the\r\ntactical dispositions which placed his regiment in the front line! And\r\nif perchance some memory came to him of a pair of dark eyes that might\r\ntake on a tenderer light in reading the account of that day\'s doings,\r\nwho shall blame him for the unmartial thought or count it a debasement\r\nof soldierly ardor?\r\n\r\nSuddenly, from the forest a half-mile in front--apparently from among\r\nthe upper branches of the trees, but really from the ridge beyond--rose\r\na tall column of white smoke. A moment later came a deep, jarring\r\nexplosion, followed--almost attended--by a hideous rushing sound that\r\nseemed to leap forward across the intervening space with inconceivable\r\nrapidity, rising from whisper to roar with too quick a gradation for\r\nattention to note the successive stages of its horrible progression! A\r\nvisible tremor ran along the lines of men; all were startled into\r\nmotion. Captain Graffenreid dodged and threw up his hands to one side of\r\nhis head, palms outward.\r\n\r\nAs he did so he heard a keen, ringing report, and saw on a hillside\r\nbehind the line a fierce roll of smoke and dust--the shell\'s explosion.\r\nIt had passed a hundred feet to his left! He heard, or fancied he heard,\r\na low, mocking laugh and turning in the direction whence it came saw the\r\neyes of his first lieutenant fixed upon him with an unmistakable look of\r\namusement. He looked along the line of faces in the front ranks. The men\r\nwere laughing. At him? The thought restored the color to his bloodless\r\nface--restored too much of it. His cheeks burned with a fever of shame.\r\n\r\nThe enemy\'s shot was not answered: the officer in command at that\r\nexposed part of the line had evidently no desire to provoke a cannonade.\r\nFor the forbearance Captain Graffenreid was conscious of a sense of\r\ngratitude. He had not known that the flight of a projectile was a\r\nphenomenon of so appalling character. His conception of war had already\r\nundergone a profound change, and he was conscious that his new feeling\r\nwas manifesting itself in visible perturbation. His blood was boiling in\r\nhis veins; he had a choking sensation and felt that if he had a command\r\nto give it would be inaudible, or at least unintelligible. The hand in\r\nwhich he held his sword trembled; the other moved automatically,\r\nclutching at various parts of his clothing. He found a difficulty in\r\nstanding still and fancied that his men observed it. Was it fear? He\r\nfeared it was.\r\n\r\nFrom somewhere away to the right came, as the wind served, a low,\r\nintermittent murmur like that of ocean in a storm--like that of a\r\ndistant railway train--like that of wind among the pines--three sounds\r\nso nearly alike that the ear, unaided by the judgment, cannot\r\ndistinguish them one from another. The eyes of the troops were drawn in\r\nthat direction; the mounted officers turned their field-glasses that\r\nway. Mingled with the sound was an irregular throbbing. He thought it,\r\nat first, the beating of his fevered blood in his ears; next, the\r\ndistant tapping of a bass drum.\r\n\r\n"The ball is opened on the right flank," said an officer.\r\n\r\nCaptain Graffenreid understood: the sounds were musketry and artillery.\r\nHe nodded and tried to smile. There was apparently nothing infectious in\r\nthe smile.\r\n\r\nPresently a light line of blue smoke-puffs broke out along the edge of\r\nthe wood in front, succeeded by a crackle of rifles. There were keen,\r\nsharp hissings in the air, terminating abruptly with a thump near by.\r\nThe man at Captain Graffenreid\'s side dropped his rifle; his knees gave\r\nway and he pitched awkwardly forward, falling upon his face. Somebody\r\nshouted "Lie down!" and the dead man was hardly distinguishable from the\r\nliving. It looked as if those few rifle-shots had slain ten thousand\r\nmen. Only the field officers remained erect; their concession to the\r\nemergency consisted in dismounting and sending their horses to the\r\nshelter of the low hills immediately in rear.\r\n\r\nCaptain Graffenreid lay alongside the dead man, from beneath whose\r\nbreast flowed a little rill of blood. It had a faint, sweetish odor that\r\nsickened him. The face was crushed into the earth and flattened. It\r\nlooked yellow already, and was repulsive. Nothing suggested the glory of\r\na soldier\'s death nor mitigated the loathsomeness of the incident. He\r\ncould not turn his back upon the body without facing away from his\r\ncompany.\r\n\r\nHe fixed his eyes upon the forest, where all again was silent. He tried\r\nto imagine what was going on there--the lines of troops forming to\r\nattack, the guns being pushed forward by hand to the edge of the open.\r\nHe fancied he could see their black muzzles protruding from the\r\nundergrowth, ready to deliver their storm of missiles--such missiles as\r\nthe one whose shriek had so unsettled his nerves. The distension of his\r\neyes became painful; a mist seemed to gather before them; he could no\r\nlonger see across the field, yet would not withdraw his gaze lest he see\r\nthe dead man at his side.\r\n\r\nThe fire of battle was not now burning very brightly in this warrior\'s\r\nsoul. From inaction had come introspection. He sought rather to analyze\r\nhis feelings than distinguish himself by courage and devotion. The\r\nresult was profoundly disappointing. He covered his face with his hands\r\nand groaned aloud.\r\n\r\nThe hoarse murmur of battle grew more and more distinct upon the right;\r\nthe murmur had, indeed, become a roar, the throbbing, a thunder. The\r\nsounds had worked round obliquely to the front; evidently the enemy\'s\r\nleft was being driven back, and the propitious moment to move against\r\nthe salient angle of his line would soon arrive. The silence and mystery\r\nin front were ominous; all felt that they boded evil to the assailants.\r\n\r\nBehind the prostrate lines sounded the hoofbeats of galloping horses;\r\nthe men turned to look. A dozen staff officers were riding to the\r\nvarious brigade and regimental commanders, who had remounted. A moment\r\nmore and there was a chorus of voices, all uttering out of time the same\r\nwords--"Attention, battalion!" The men sprang to their feet and were\r\naligned by the company commanders. They awaited the word "forward"--\r\nawaited, too, with beating hearts and set teeth the gusts of lead and\r\niron that were to smite them at their first movement in obedience to\r\nthat word. The word was not given; the tempest did not break out. The\r\ndelay was hideous, maddening! It unnerved like a respite at the\r\nguillotine.\r\n\r\nCaptain Graffenreid stood at the head of his company, the dead man at\r\nhis feet. He heard the battle on the right--rattle and crash of\r\nmusketry, ceaseless thunder of cannon, desultory cheers of invisible\r\ncombatants. He marked ascending clouds of smoke from distant forests. He\r\nnoted the sinister silence of the forest in front. These contrasting\r\nextremes affected the whole range of his sensibilities. The strain upon\r\nhis nervous organization was insupportable. He grew hot and cold by\r\nturns. He panted like a dog, and then forgot to breathe until reminded\r\nby vertigo.\r\n\r\nSuddenly he grew calm. Glancing downward, his eyes had fallen upon his\r\nnaked sword, as he held it, point to earth. Foreshortened to his view,\r\nit resembled somewhat, he thought, the short heavy blade of the ancient\r\nRoman. The fancy was full of suggestion, malign, fateful, heroic!\r\n\r\nThe sergeant in the rear rank, immediately behind Captain Graffenreid,\r\nnow observed a strange sight. His attention drawn by an uncommon\r\nmovement made by the captain--a sudden reaching forward of the hands and\r\ntheir energetic withdrawal, throwing the elbows out, as in pulling an\r\noar--he saw spring from between the officer\'s shoulders a bright point\r\nof metal which prolonged itself outward, nearly a half-arm\'s length--a\r\nblade! It was faintly streaked with crimson, and its point approached so\r\nnear to the sergeant\'s breast, and with so quick a movement, that he\r\nshrank backward in alarm. That moment Captain Graffenreid pitched\r\nheavily forward upon the dead man and died.\r\n\r\nA week later the major-general commanding the left corps of the Federal\r\nArmy submitted the following official report:\r\n\r\n"SIR: I have the honor to report, with regard to the action of the 19th\r\ninst, that owing to the enemy\'s withdrawal from my front to reinforce\r\nhis beaten left, my command was not seriously engaged. My loss was as\r\nfollows: Killed, one officer, one man."\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nGEORGE THURSTON\r\n\r\nTHREE INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF A MAN\r\n\r\nGeorge Thurston was a first lieutenant and aide-de-camp on the staff of\r\nColonel Brough, commanding a Federal brigade. Colonel Brough was only\r\ntemporarily in command, as senior colonel, the brigadier-general having\r\nbeen severely wounded and granted a leave of absence to recover.\r\nLieutenant Thurston was, I believe, of Colonel Brough\'s regiment, to\r\nwhich, with his chief, he would naturally have been relegated had he\r\nlived till our brigade commander\'s recovery. The aide whose place\r\nThurston took had been killed in battle; Thurston\'s advent among us was\r\nthe only change in the _personnel_ of our staff consequent upon the\r\nchange in commanders. We did not like him; he was unsocial. This,\r\nhowever, was more observed by others than by me. Whether in camp or on\r\nthe march, in barracks, in tents, or _en bivouac_, my duties as\r\ntopographical engineer kept me working like a beaver--all day in the\r\nsaddle and half the night at my drawing-table, platting my surveys. It\r\nwas hazardous work; the nearer to the enemy\'s lines I could penetrate,\r\nthe more valuable were my field notes and the resulting maps. It was a\r\nbusiness in which the lives of men counted as nothing against the chance\r\nof defining a road or sketching a bridge. Whole squadrons of cavalry\r\nescort had sometimes to be sent thundering against a powerful infantry\r\noutpost in order that the brief time between the charge and the\r\ninevitable retreat might be utilized in sounding a ford or determining\r\nthe point of intersection of two roads.\r\n\r\nIn some of the dark corners of England and Wales they have an immemorial\r\ncustom of "beating the bounds" of the parish. On a certain day of the\r\nyear the whole population turns out and travels in procession from one\r\nlandmark to another on the boundary line. At the most important points\r\nlads are soundly beaten with rods to make them remember the place in\r\nafter life. They become authorities. Our frequent engagements with the\r\nConfederate outposts, patrols, and scouting parties had, incidentally,\r\nthe same educating value; they fixed in my memory a vivid and apparently\r\nimperishable picture of the locality--a picture serving instead of\r\naccurate field notes, which, indeed, it was not always convenient to\r\ntake, with carbines cracking, sabers clashing, and horses plunging all\r\nabout. These spirited encounters were observations entered in red.\r\n\r\nOne morning as I set out at the head of my escort on an expedition of\r\nmore than the usual hazard Lieutenant Thurston rode up alongside and\r\nasked if I had any objection to his accompanying me, the colonel\r\ncommanding having given him permission.\r\n\r\n"None whatever," I replied rather gruffly; "but in what capacity will\r\nyou go? You are not a topographical engineer, and Captain Burling\r\ncommands my escort."\r\n\r\n"I will go as a spectator," he said. Removing his sword-belt and taking\r\nthe pistols from his holsters he handed them to his servant, who took\r\nthem back to headquarters. I realized the brutality of my remark, but\r\nnot clearly seeing my way to an apology, said nothing.\r\n\r\nThat afternoon we encountered a whole regiment of the enemy\'s cavalry in\r\nline and a field-piece that dominated a straight mile of the turnpike by\r\nwhich we had approached. My escort fought deployed in the woods on both\r\nsides, but Thurston remained in the center of the road, which at\r\nintervals of a few seconds was swept by gusts of grape and canister that\r\ntore the air wide open as they passed. He had dropped the rein on the\r\nneck of his horse and sat bolt upright in the saddle, with folded arms.\r\nSoon he was down, his horse torn to pieces. From the side of the road,\r\nmy pencil and field book idle, my duty forgotten, I watched him slowly\r\ndisengaging himself from the wreck and rising. At that instant, the\r\ncannon having ceased firing, a burly Confederate trooper on a spirited\r\nhorse dashed like a thunderbolt down the road with drawn saber. Thurston\r\nsaw him coming, drew himself up to his full height, and again folded his\r\narms. He was too brave to retreat before the word, and my uncivil words\r\nhad disarmed him. He was a spectator. Another moment and he would have\r\nbeen split like a mackerel, but a blessed bullet tumbled his assailant\r\ninto the dusty road so near that the impetus sent the body rolling to\r\nThurston\'s feet. That evening, while platting my hasty survey, I found\r\ntime to frame an apology, which I think took the rude, primitive form of\r\na confession that I had spoken like a malicious idiot.\r\n\r\nA few weeks later a part of our army made an assault upon the enemy\'s\r\nleft. The attack, which was made upon an unknown position and across\r\nunfamiliar ground, was led by our brigade. The ground was so broken and\r\nthe underbrush so thick that all mounted officers and men were compelled\r\nto fight on foot--the brigade commander and his staff included. In the\r\n_mêlée_ Thurston was parted from the rest of us, and we found him,\r\nhorribly wounded, only when we had taken the enemy\'s last defense. He\r\nwas some months in hospital at Nashville, Tennessee, but finally\r\nrejoined us. He said little about his misadventure, except that he had\r\nbeen bewildered and had strayed into the enemy\'s lines and been shot\r\ndown; but from one of his captors, whom we in turn had captured, we\r\nlearned the particulars. "He came walking right upon us as we lay in\r\nline," said this man. "A whole company of us instantly sprang up and\r\nleveled our rifles at his breast, some of them almost touching him.\r\n\'Throw down that sword and surrender, you damned Yank!\' shouted some one\r\nin authority. The fellow ran his eyes along the line of rifle barrels,\r\nfolded his arms across his breast, his right hand still clutching his\r\nsword, and deliberately replied, \'I will not.\' If we had all fired he\r\nwould have been torn to shreds. Some of us didn\'t. I didn\'t, for one;\r\nnothing could have induced me."\r\n\r\nWhen one is tranquilly looking death in the eye and refusing him any\r\nconcession one naturally has a good opinion of one\'s self. I don\'t know\r\nif it was this feeling that in Thurston found expression in a stiffish\r\nattitude and folded arms; at the mess table one day, in his absence,\r\nanother explanation was suggested by our quartermaster, an irreclaimable\r\nstammerer when the wine was in: "It\'s h--is w--ay of m-m-mastering a\r\nc-c-consti-t-tu-tional t-tendency to r--un aw--ay."\r\n\r\n"What!" I flamed out, indignantly rising; "you intimate that Thurston is\r\na coward--and in his absence?"\r\n\r\n"If he w--ere a cow--wow-ard h--e w--wouldn\'t t-try to m-m-master it;\r\nand if he w--ere p-present I w--wouldn\'t d-d-dare to d-d-discuss it,"\r\nwas the mollifying reply.\r\n\r\nThis intrepid man, George Thurston, died an ignoble death. The brigade\r\nwas in camp, with headquarters in a grove of immense trees. To an upper\r\nbranch of one of these a venturesome climber had attached the two ends\r\nof a long rope and made a swing with a length of not less than one\r\nhundred feet. Plunging downward from a height of fifty feet, along the\r\narc of a circle with such a radius, soaring to an equal altitude,\r\npausing for one breathless instant, then sweeping dizzily backward--no\r\none who has not tried it can conceive the terrors of such sport to the\r\nnovice. Thurston came out of his tent one day and asked for instruction\r\nin the mystery of propelling the swing--the art of rising and sitting,\r\nwhich every boy has mastered. In a few moments he had acquired the trick\r\nand was swinging higher than the most experienced of us had dared. We\r\nshuddered to look at his fearful flights.\r\n\r\n"St-t-top him," said the quartermaster, snailing lazily along from the\r\nmess-tent, where he had been lunching; "h--e d-doesn\'t know that if h--e\r\ng-g-goes c-clear over h--e\'ll w--ind up the sw--ing."\r\n\r\nWith such energy was that strong man cannonading himself through the air\r\nthat at each extremity of his increasing arc his body, standing in the\r\nswing, was almost horizontal. Should he once pass above the level of the\r\nrope\'s attachment he would be lost; the rope would slacken and he would\r\nfall vertically to a point as far below as he had gone above, and then\r\nthe sudden tension of the rope would wrest it from his hands. All saw\r\nthe peril--all cried out to him to desist, and gesticulated at him as,\r\nindistinct and with a noise like the rush of a cannon shot in flight, he\r\nswept past us through the lower reaches of his hideous oscillation. A\r\nwoman standing at a little distance away fainted and fell unobserved.\r\nMen from the camp of a regiment near by ran in crowds to see, all\r\nshouting. Suddenly, as Thurston was on his upward curve, the shouts all\r\nceased.\r\n\r\nThurston and the swing had parted--that is all that can be known; both\r\nhands at once had released the rope. The impetus of the light swing\r\nexhausted, it was falling back; the man\'s momentum was carrying him,\r\nalmost erect, upward and forward, no longer in his arc, but with an\r\noutward curve. It could have been but an instant, yet it seemed an age.\r\nI cried out, or thought I cried out: "My God! will he never stop going\r\nup?" He passed close to the branch of a tree. I remember a feeling of\r\ndelight as I thought he would clutch it and save himself. I speculated\r\non the possibility of it sustaining his weight. He passed above it, and\r\nfrom my point of view was sharply outlined against the blue. At this\r\ndistance of many years I can distinctly recall that image of a man in\r\nthe sky, its head erect, its feet close together, its hands--I do not\r\nsee its hands. All at once, with astonishing suddenness and rapidity, it\r\nturns clear over and pitches downward. There is another cry from the\r\ncrowd, which has rushed instinctively forward. The man has become merely\r\na whirling object, mostly legs. Then there is an indescribable sound--\r\nthe sound of an impact that shakes the earth, and these men, familiar\r\nwith death in its most awful aspects, turn sick. Many walk unsteadily\r\naway from the spot; others support themselves against the trunks of\r\ntrees or sit at the roots. Death has taken an unfair advantage; he has\r\nstruck with an unfamiliar weapon; he has executed a new and disquieting\r\nstratagem. We did not know that he had so ghastly resources,\r\npossibilities of terror so dismal.\r\n\r\nThurston\'s body lay on its back. One leg, bent beneath, was broken above\r\nthe knee and the bone driven into the earth. The abdomen had burst; the\r\nbowels protruded. The neck was broken.\r\n\r\nThe arms were folded tightly across the breast.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE MOCKING-BIRD\r\n\r\nThe time, a pleasant Sunday afternoon in the early autumn of 1861. The\r\nplace, a forest\'s heart in the mountain region of southwestern Virginia.\r\nPrivate Grayrock of the Federal Army is discovered seated comfortably at\r\nthe root of a great pine tree, against which he leans, his legs extended\r\nstraight along the ground, his rifle lying across his thighs, his hands\r\n(clasped in order that they may not fall away to his sides) resting upon\r\nthe barrel of the weapon. The contact of the back of his head with the\r\ntree has pushed his cap downward over his eyes, almost concealing them;\r\none seeing him would say that he slept.\r\n\r\nPrivate Grayrock did not sleep; to have done so would have imperiled the\r\ninterests of the United States, for he was a long way outside the lines\r\nand subject to capture or death at the hands of the enemy. Moreover, he\r\nwas in a frame of mind unfavorable to repose. The cause of his\r\nperturbation of spirit was this: during the previous night he had served\r\non the picket-guard, and had been posted as a sentinel in this very\r\nforest. The night was clear, though moonless, but in the gloom of the\r\nwood the darkness was deep. Grayrock\'s post was at a considerable\r\ndistance from those to right and left, for the pickets had been thrown\r\nout a needless distance from the camp, making the line too long for the\r\nforce detailed to occupy it. The war was young, and military camps\r\nentertained the error that while sleeping they were better protected by\r\nthin lines a long way out toward the enemy than by thicker ones close\r\nin. And surely they needed as long notice as possible of an enemy\'s\r\napproach, for they were at that time addicted to the practice of\r\nundressing--than which nothing could be more unsoldierly. On the morning\r\nof the memorable 6th of April, at Shiloh, many of Grant\'s men when\r\nspitted on Confederate bayonets were as naked as civilians; but it\r\nshould be allowed that this was not because of any defect in their\r\npicket line. Their error was of another sort: they had no pickets. This\r\nis perhaps a vain digression. I should not care to undertake to interest\r\nthe reader in the fate of an army; what we have here to consider is that\r\nof Private Grayrock.\r\n\r\nFor two hours after he had been left at his lonely post that Saturday\r\nnight he stood stock-still, leaning against the trunk of a large tree,\r\nstaring into the darkness in his front and trying to recognize known\r\nobjects; for he had been posted at the same spot during the day. But all\r\nwas now different; he saw nothing in detail, but only groups of things,\r\nwhose shapes, not observed when there was something more of them to\r\nobserve, were now unfamiliar. They seemed not to have been there before.\r\nA landscape that is all trees and undergrowth, moreover, lacks\r\ndefinition, is confused and without accentuated points upon which\r\nattention can gain a foothold. Add the gloom of a moonless night, and\r\nsomething more than great natural intelligence and a city education is\r\nrequired to preserve one\'s knowledge of direction. And that is how it\r\noccurred that Private Grayrock, after vigilantly watching the spaces in\r\nhis front and then imprudently executing a circumspection of his whole\r\ndimly visible environment (silently walking around his tree to\r\naccomplish it) lost his bearings and seriously impaired his usefulness\r\nas a sentinel. Lost at his post--unable to say in which direction to\r\nlook for an enemy\'s approach, and in which lay the sleeping camp for\r\nwhose security he was accountable with his life--conscious, too, of many\r\nanother awkward feature of the situation and of considerations affecting\r\nhis own safety, Private Grayrock was profoundly disquieted. Nor was he\r\ngiven time to recover his tranquillity, for almost at the moment that he\r\nrealized his awkward predicament he heard a stir of leaves and a snap of\r\nfallen twigs, and turning with a stilled heart in the direction whence\r\nit came, saw in the gloom the indistinct outlines of a human figure.\r\n\r\n"Halt!" shouted Private Grayrock, peremptorily as in duty bound, backing\r\nup the command with the sharp metallic snap of his cocking rifle--"who\r\ngoes there?"\r\n\r\nThere was no answer; at least there was an instant\'s hesitation, and the\r\nanswer, if it came, was lost in the report of the sentinel\'s rifle. In\r\nthe silence of the night and the forest the sound was deafening, and\r\nhardly had it died away when it was repeated by the pieces of the\r\npickets to right and left, a sympathetic fusillade. For two hours every\r\nunconverted civilian of them had been evolving enemies from his\r\nimagination, and peopling the woods in his front with them, and\r\nGrayrock\'s shot had started the whole encroaching host into visible\r\nexistence. Having fired, all retreated, breathless, to the reserves--all\r\nbut Grayrock, who did not know in what direction to retreat. When, no\r\nenemy appearing, the roused camp two miles away had undressed and got\r\nitself into bed again, and the picket line was cautiously\r\nre-established, he was discovered bravely holding his ground, and was\r\ncomplimented by the officer of the guard as the one soldier of that\r\ndevoted band who could rightly be considered the moral equivalent of\r\nthat uncommon unit of value, "a whoop in hell."\r\n\r\nIn the mean time, however, Grayrock had made a close but unavailing\r\nsearch for the mortal part of the intruder at whom he had fired, and\r\nwhom he had a marksman\'s intuitive sense of having hit; for he was one\r\nof those born experts who shoot without aim by an instinctive sense of\r\ndirection, and are nearly as dangerous by night as by day. During a full\r\nhalf of his twenty-four years he had been a terror to the targets of all\r\nthe shooting-galleries in three cities. Unable now to produce his dead\r\ngame he had the discretion to hold his tongue, and was glad to observe\r\nin his officer and comrades the natural assumption that not having run\r\naway he had seen nothing hostile. His "honorable mention" had been\r\nearned by not running away anyhow.\r\n\r\nNevertheless, Private Grayrock was far from satisfied with the night\'s\r\nadventure, and when the next day he made some fair enough pretext to\r\napply for a pass to go outside the lines, and the general commanding\r\npromptly granted it in recognition of his bravery the night before, he\r\npassed out at the point where that had been displayed. Telling the\r\nsentinel then on duty there that he had lost something,--which was true\r\nenough--he renewed the search for the person whom he supposed himself to\r\nhave shot, and whom if only wounded he hoped to trail by the blood. He\r\nwas no more successful by daylight than he had been in the darkness, and\r\nafter covering a wide area and boldly penetrating a long distance into\r\n"the Confederacy" he gave up the search, somewhat fatigued, seated\r\nhimself at the root of the great pine tree, where we have seen him, and\r\nindulged his disappointment.\r\n\r\nIt is not to be inferred that Grayrock\'s was the chagrin of a cruel\r\nnature balked of its bloody deed. In the clear large eyes, finely\r\nwrought lips, and broad forehead of that young man one could read quite\r\nanother story, and in point of fact his character was a singularly\r\nfelicitous compound of boldness and sensibility, courage and conscience.\r\n\r\n"I find myself disappointed," he said to himself, sitting there at the\r\nbottom of the golden haze submerging the forest like a subtler sea--\r\n"disappointed in failing to discover a fellow-man dead by my hand! Do I\r\nthen really wish that I had taken life in the performance of a duty as\r\nwell performed without? What more could I wish? If any danger\r\nthreatened, my shot averted it; that is what I was there to do. No, I am\r\nglad indeed if no human life was needlessly extinguished by me. But I am\r\nin a false position. I have suffered myself to be complimented by my\r\nofficers and envied by my comrades. The camp is ringing with praise of\r\nmy courage. That is not just; I know myself courageous, but this praise\r\nis for specific acts which I did not perform, or performed--otherwise.\r\nIt is believed that I remained at my post bravely, without firing,\r\nwhereas it was I who began the fusillade, and I did not retreat in the\r\ngeneral alarm because bewildered. What, then, shall I do? Explain that I\r\nsaw an enemy and fired? They have all said that of themselves, yet none\r\nbelieves it. Shall I tell a truth which, discrediting my courage, will\r\nhave the effect of a lie? Ugh! it is an ugly business altogether. I wish\r\nto God I could find my man!"\r\n\r\nAnd so wishing, Private Grayrock, overcome at last by the languor of the\r\nafternoon and lulled by the stilly sounds of insects droning and prosing\r\nin certain fragrant shrubs, so far forgot the interests of the United\r\nStates as to fall asleep and expose himself to capture. And sleeping he\r\ndreamed.\r\n\r\nHe thought himself a boy, living in a far, fair land by the border of a\r\ngreat river upon which the tall steamboats moved grandly up and down\r\nbeneath their towering evolutions of black smoke, which announced them\r\nlong before they had rounded the bends and marked their movements when\r\nmiles out of sight. With him always, at his side as he watched them, was\r\none to whom he gave his heart and soul in love--a twin brother. Together\r\nthey strolled along the banks of the stream; together explored the\r\nfields lying farther away from it, and gathered pungent mints and sticks\r\nof fragrant sassafras in the hills overlooking all--beyond which lay the\r\nRealm of Conjecture, and from which, looking southward across the great\r\nriver, they caught glimpses of the Enchanted Land. Hand in hand and\r\nheart in heart they two, the only children of a widowed mother, walked\r\nin paths of light through valleys of peace, seeing new things under a\r\nnew sun. And through all the golden days floated one unceasing sound--\r\nthe rich, thrilling melody of a mocking-bird in a cage by the cottage\r\ndoor. It pervaded and possessed all the spiritual intervals of the\r\ndream, like a musical benediction. The joyous bird was always in song;\r\nits infinitely various notes seemed to flow from its throat, effortless,\r\nin bubbles and rills at each heart-beat, like the waters of a pulsing\r\nspring. That fresh, clear melody seemed, indeed, the spirit of the\r\nscene, the meaning and interpretation to sense of the mysteries of life\r\nand love.\r\n\r\nBut there came a time when the days of the dream grew dark with sorrow\r\nin a rain of tears. The good mother was dead, the meadowside home by the\r\ngreat river was broken up, and the brothers were parted between two of\r\ntheir kinsmen. William (the dreamer) went to live in a populous city in\r\nthe Realm of Conjecture, and John, crossing the river into the Enchanted\r\nLand, was taken to a distant region whose people in their lives and ways\r\nwere said to be strange and wicked. To him, in the distribution of the\r\ndead mother\'s estate, had fallen all that they deemed of value--the\r\nmocking-bird. They could be divided, but it could not, so it was carried\r\naway into the strange country, and the world of William knew it no more\r\nforever. Yet still through the aftertime of his loneliness its song\r\nfilled all the dream, and seemed always sounding in his ear and in his\r\nheart.\r\n\r\nThe kinsmen who had adopted the boys were enemies, holding no\r\ncommunication. For a time letters full of boyish bravado and boastful\r\nnarratives of the new and larger experience--grotesque descriptions of\r\ntheir widening lives and the new worlds they had conquered--passed\r\nbetween them; but these gradually became less frequent, and with\r\nWilliam\'s removal to another and greater city ceased altogether. But\r\never through it all ran the song of the mocking-bird, and when the\r\ndreamer opened his eyes and stared through the vistas of the pine forest\r\nthe cessation of its music first apprised him that he was awake.\r\n\r\nThe sun was low and red in the west; the level rays projected from the\r\ntrunk of each giant pine a wall of shadow traversing the golden haze to\r\neastward until light and shade were blended in undistinguishable blue.\r\n\r\nPrivate Grayrock rose to his feet, looked cautiously about him,\r\nshouldered his rifle and set off toward camp. He had gone perhaps a\r\nhalf-mile, and was passing a thicket of laurel, when a bird rose from\r\nthe midst of it and perching on the branch of a tree above, poured from\r\nits joyous breast so inexhaustible floods of song as but one of all\r\nGod\'s creatures can utter in His praise. There was little in that--it\r\nwas only to open the bill and breathe; yet the man stopped as if struck\r\n--stopped and let fall his rifle, looked upward at the bird, covered his\r\neyes with his hands and wept like a child! For the moment he was,\r\nindeed, a child, in spirit and in memory, dwelling again by the great\r\nriver, over-against the Enchanted Land! Then with an effort of the will\r\nhe pulled himself together, picked up his weapon and audibly damning\r\nhimself for an idiot strode on. Passing an opening that reached into the\r\nheart of the little thicket he looked in, and there, supine upon the\r\nearth, its arms all abroad, its gray uniform stained with a single spot\r\nof blood upon the breast, its white face turned sharply upward and\r\nbackward, lay the image of himself!--the body of John Grayrock, dead of\r\na gunshot wound, and still warm! He had found his man.\r\n\r\nAs the unfortunate soldier knelt beside that masterwork of civil war the\r\nshrilling bird upon the bough overhead stilled her song and, flushed\r\nwith sunset\'s crimson glory, glided silently away through the solemn\r\nspaces of the wood. At roll-call that evening in the Federal camp the\r\nname William Grayrock brought no response, nor ever again there-after.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCIVILIANS\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE MAN OUT OF THE NOSE\r\n\r\nAt the intersection of two certain streets in that part of San Francisco\r\nknown by the rather loosely applied name of North Beach, is a vacant\r\nlot, which is rather more nearly level than is usually the case with\r\nlots, vacant or otherwise, in that region. Immediately at the back of\r\nit, to the south, however, the ground slopes steeply upward, the\r\nacclivity broken by three terraces cut into the soft rock. It is a place\r\nfor goats and poor persons, several families of each class having\r\noccupied it jointly and amicably "from the foundation of the city." One\r\nof the humble habitations of the lowest terrace is noticeable for its\r\nrude resemblance to the human face, or rather to such a simulacrum of it\r\nas a boy might cut out of a hollowed pumpkin, meaning no offense to his\r\nrace. The eyes are two circular windows, the nose is a door, the mouth\r\nan aperture caused by removal of a board below. There are no doorsteps.\r\nAs a face, this house is too large; as a dwelling, too small. The blank,\r\nunmeaning stare of its lidless and browless eyes is uncanny.\r\n\r\nSometimes a man steps out of the nose, turns, passes the place where the\r\nright ear should be and making his way through the throng of children\r\nand goats obstructing the narrow walk between his neighbors\' doors and\r\nthe edge of the terrace gains the street by descending a flight of\r\nrickety stairs. Here he pauses to consult his watch and the stranger who\r\nhappens to pass wonders why such a man as that can care what is the\r\nhour. Longer observations would show that the time of day is an\r\nimportant element in the man\'s movements, for it is at precisely two\r\no\'clock in the afternoon that he comes forth 365 times in every year.\r\n\r\nHaving satisfied himself that he has made no mistake in the hour he\r\nreplaces the watch and walks rapidly southward up the street two\r\nsquares, turns to the right and as he approaches the next corner fixes\r\nhis eyes on an upper window in a three-story building across the way.\r\nThis is a somewhat dingy structure, originally of red brick and now\r\ngray. It shows the touch of age and dust. Built for a dwelling, it is\r\nnow a factory. I do not know what is made there; the things that are\r\ncommonly made in a factory, I suppose. I only know that at two o\'clock\r\nin the afternoon of every day but Sunday it is full of activity and\r\nclatter; pulsations of some great engine shake it and there are\r\nrecurrent screams of wood tormented by the saw. At the window on which\r\nthe man fixes an intensely expectant gaze nothing ever appears; the\r\nglass, in truth, has such a coating of dust that it has long ceased to\r\nbe transparent. The man looks at it without stopping; he merely keeps\r\nturning his head more and more backward as he leaves the building\r\nbehind. Passing along to the next corner, he turns to the left, goes\r\nround the block, and comes back till he reaches the point diagonally\r\nacross the street from the factory--point on his former course, which he\r\nthen retraces, looking frequently backward over his right shoulder at\r\nthe window while it is in sight. For many years he has not been known to\r\nvary his route nor to introduce a single innovation into his action. In\r\na quarter of an hour he is again at the mouth of his dwelling, and a\r\nwoman, who has for some time been standing in the nose, assists him to\r\nenter. He is seen no more until two o\'clock the next day. The woman is\r\nhis wife. She supports herself and him by washing for the poor people\r\namong whom they live, at rates which destroy Chinese and domestic\r\ncompetition.\r\n\r\nThis man is about fifty-seven years of age, though he looks greatly\r\nolder. His hair is dead white. He wears no beard, and is always newly\r\nshaven. His hands are clean, his nails well kept. In the matter of dress\r\nhe is distinctly superior to his position, as indicated by his\r\nsurroundings and the business of his wife. He is, indeed, very neatly,\r\nif not quite fashionably, clad. His silk hat has a date no earlier than\r\nthe year before the last, and his boots, scrupulously polished, are\r\ninnocent of patches. I am told that the suit which he wears during his\r\ndaily excursions of fifteen minutes is not the one that he wears at\r\nhome. Like everything else that he has, this is provided and kept in\r\nrepair by the wife, and is renewed as frequently as her scanty means\r\npermit.\r\n\r\nThirty years ago John Hardshaw and his wife lived on Rincon Hill in one\r\nof the finest residences of that once aristocratic quarter. He had once\r\nbeen a physician, but having inherited a considerable estate from his\r\nfather concerned himself no more about the ailments of his\r\nfellow-creatures and found as much work as he cared for in managing his\r\nown affairs. Both he and his wife were highly cultivated persons, and\r\ntheir house was frequented by a small set of such men and women as\r\npersons of their tastes would think worth knowing. So far as these knew,\r\nMr. and Mrs. Hardshaw lived happily together; certainly the wife was\r\ndevoted to her handsome and accomplished husband and exceedingly proud\r\nof him.\r\n\r\nAmong their acquaintances were the Barwells--man, wife and two young\r\nchildren--of Sacramento. Mr. Barwell was a civil and mining engineer,\r\nwhose duties took him much from home and frequently to San Francisco. On\r\nthese occasions his wife commonly accompanied him and passed much of her\r\ntime at the house of her friend, Mrs. Hardshaw, always with her two\r\nchildren, of whom Mrs. Hardshaw, childless herself, grew fond.\r\nUnluckily, her husband grew equally fond of their mother--a good deal\r\nfonder. Still more unluckily, that attractive lady was less wise than\r\nweak.\r\n\r\nAt about three o\'clock one autumn morning Officer No. 13 of the\r\nSacramento police saw a man stealthily leaving the rear entrance of a\r\ngentleman\'s residence and promptly arrested him. The man--who wore a\r\nslouch hat and shaggy overcoat--offered the policeman one hundred, then\r\nfive hundred, then one thousand dollars to be released. As he had less\r\nthan the first mentioned sum on his person the officer treated his\r\nproposal with virtuous contempt. Before reaching the station the\r\nprisoner agreed to give him a check for ten thousand dollars and remain\r\nironed in the willows along the river bank until it should be paid. As\r\nthis only provoked new derision he would say no more, merely giving an\r\nobviously fictitious name. When he was searched at the station nothing\r\nof value was found on him but a miniature portrait of Mrs. Barwell--the\r\nlady of the house at which he was caught. The case was set with costly\r\ndiamonds; and something in the quality of the man\'s linen sent a pang of\r\nunavailing regret through the severely incorruptible bosom of Officer\r\nNo. 13. There was nothing about the prisoner\'s clothing nor person to\r\nidentify him and he was booked for burglary under the name that he had\r\ngiven, the honorable name of John K. Smith. The K. was an inspiration\r\nupon which, doubtless, he greatly prided himself.\r\n\r\nIn the mean time the mysterious disappearance of John Hardshaw was\r\nagitating the gossips of Rincon Hill in San Francisco, and was even\r\nmentioned in one of the newspapers. It did not occur to the lady whom\r\nthat journal considerately described as his "widow," to look for him in\r\nthe city prison at Sacramento--a town which he was not known ever to\r\nhave visited. As John K. Smith he was arraigned and, waiving\r\nexamination, committed for trial.\r\n\r\nAbout two weeks before the trial, Mrs. Hardshaw, accidentally learning\r\nthat her husband was held in Sacramento under an assumed name on a\r\ncharge of burglary, hastened to that city without daring to mention the\r\nmatter to any one and presented herself at the prison, asking for an\r\ninterview with her husband, John K. Smith. Haggard and ill with anxiety,\r\nwearing a plain traveling wrap which covered her from neck to foot, and\r\nin which she had passed the night on the steamboat, too anxious to\r\nsleep, she hardly showed for what she was, but her manner pleaded for\r\nher more strongly than anything that she chose to say in evidence of her\r\nright to admittance. She was permitted to see him alone.\r\n\r\nWhat occurred during that distressing interview has never transpired;\r\nbut later events prove that Hardshaw had found means to subdue her will\r\nto his own. She left the prison, a broken-hearted woman, refusing to\r\nanswer a single question, and returning to her desolate home renewed, in\r\na half-hearted way, her inquiries for her missing husband. A week later\r\nshe was herself missing: she had "gone back to the States"--nobody knew\r\nany more than that.\r\n\r\nOn his trial the prisoner pleaded guilty--"by advice of his counsel," so\r\nhis counsel said. Nevertheless, the judge, in whose mind several unusual\r\ncircumstances had created a doubt, insisted on the district attorney\r\nplacing Officer No. 13 on the stand, and the deposition of Mrs. Barwell,\r\nwho was too ill to attend, was read to the jury. It was very brief: she\r\nknew nothing of the matter except that the likeness of herself was her\r\nproperty, and had, she thought, been left on the parlor table when she\r\nhad retired on the night of the arrest. She had intended it as a present\r\nto her husband, then and still absent in Europe on business for a mining\r\ncompany.\r\n\r\nThis witness\'s manner when making the deposition at her residence was\r\nafterward described by the district attorney as most extraordinary.\r\nTwice she had refused to testify, and once, when the deposition lacked\r\nnothing but her signature, she had caught it from the clerk\'s hands and\r\ntorn it in pieces. She had called her children to the bedside and\r\nembraced them with streaming eyes, then suddenly sending them from the\r\nroom, she verified her statement by oath and signature, and fainted--\r\n"slick away," said the district attorney. It was at that time that her\r\nphysician, arriving upon the scene, took in the situation at a glance\r\nand grasping the representative of the law by the collar chucked him\r\ninto the street and kicked his assistant after him. The insulted majesty\r\nof the law was not vindicated; the victim of the indignity did not even\r\nmention anything of all this in court. He was ambitious to win his case,\r\nand the circumstances of the taking of that deposition were not such as\r\nwould give it weight if related; and after all, the man on trial had\r\ncommitted an offense against the law\'s majesty only less heinous than\r\nthat of the irascible physician.\r\n\r\nBy suggestion of the judge the jury rendered a verdict of guilty; there\r\nwas nothing else to do, and the prisoner was sentenced to the\r\npenitentiary for three years. His counsel, who had objected to nothing\r\nand had made no plea for lenity--had, in fact, hardly said a word--wrung\r\nhis client\'s hand and left the room. It was obvious to the whole bar\r\nthat he had been engaged only to prevent the court from appointing\r\ncounsel who might possibly insist on making a defense.\r\n\r\nJohn Hardshaw served out his term at San Quentin, and when discharged\r\nwas met at the prison gates by his wife, who had returned from "the\r\nStates" to receive him. It is thought they went straight to Europe;\r\nanyhow, a general power-of-attorney to a lawyer still living among us--\r\nfrom whom I have many of the facts of this simple history--was executed\r\nin Paris. This lawyer in a short time sold everything that Hardshaw\r\nowned in California, and for years nothing was heard of the unfortunate\r\ncouple; though many to whose ears had come vague and inaccurate\r\nintimations of their strange story, and who had known them, recalled\r\ntheir personality with tenderness and their misfortunes with compassion.\r\n\r\nSome years later they returned, both broken in fortune and spirits and\r\nhe in health. The purpose of their return I have not been able to\r\nascertain. For some time they lived, under the name of Johnson, in a\r\nrespectable enough quarter south of Market Street, pretty well put, and\r\nwere never seen away from the vicinity of their dwelling. They must have\r\nhad a little money left, for it is not known that the man had any\r\noccupation, the state of his health probably not permitting. The woman\'s\r\ndevotion to her invalid husband was matter of remark among their\r\nneighbors; she seemed never absent from his side and always supporting\r\nand cheering him. They would sit for hours on one of the benches in a\r\nlittle public park, she reading to him, his hand in hers, her light\r\ntouch occasionally visiting his pale brow, her still beautiful eyes\r\nfrequently lifted from the book to look into his as she made some\r\ncomment on the text, or closed the volume to beguile his mood with talk\r\nof--what? Nobody ever overheard a conversation between these two. The\r\nreader who has had the patience to follow their history to this point\r\nmay possibly find a pleasure in conjecture: there was probably something\r\nto be avoided. The bearing of the man was one of profound dejection;\r\nindeed, the unsympathetic youth of the neighborhood, with that keen\r\nsense for visible characteristics which ever distinguishes the young\r\nmale of our species, sometimes mentioned him among themselves by the\r\nname of Spoony Glum.\r\n\r\nIt occurred one day that John Hardshaw was possessed by the spirit of\r\nunrest. God knows what led him whither he went, but he crossed Market\r\nStreet and held his way northward over the hills, and downward into the\r\nregion known as North Beach. Turning aimlessly to the left he followed\r\nhis toes along an unfamiliar street until he was opposite what for that\r\nperiod was a rather grand dwelling, and for this is a rather shabby\r\nfactory. Casting his eyes casually upward he saw at an open window what\r\nit had been better that he had not seen--the face and figure of Elvira\r\nBarwell. Their eyes met. With a sharp exclamation, like the cry of a\r\nstartled bird, the lady sprang to her feet and thrust her body half out\r\nof the window, clutching the casing on each side. Arrested by the cry,\r\nthe people in the street below looked up. Hardshaw stood motionless,\r\nspeechless, his eyes two flames. "Take care!" shouted some one in the\r\ncrowd, as the woman strained further and further forward, defying the\r\nsilent, implacable law of gravitation, as once she had defied that other\r\nlaw which God thundered from Sinai. The suddenness of her movements had\r\ntumbled a torrent of dark hair down her shoulders, and now it was blown\r\nabout her cheeks, almost concealing her face. A moment so, and then--! A\r\nfearful cry rang through the street, as, losing her balance, she pitched\r\nheadlong from the window, a confused and whirling mass of skirts, limbs,\r\nhair, and white face, and struck the pavement with a horrible sound and\r\na force of impact that was felt a hundred feet away. For a moment all\r\neyes refused their office and turned from the sickening spectacle on the\r\nsidewalk. Drawn again to that horror, they saw it strangely augmented. A\r\nman, hatless, seated flat upon the paving stones, held the broken,\r\nbleeding body against his breast, kissing the mangled cheeks and\r\nstreaming mouth through tangles of wet hair, his own features\r\nindistinguishably crimson with the blood that half-strangled him and ran\r\nin rills from his soaken beard.\r\n\r\nThe reporter\'s task is nearly finished. The Barwells had that very\r\nmorning returned from a two years\' absence in Peru. A week later the\r\nwidower, now doubly desolate, since there could be no missing the\r\nsignificance of Hardshaw\'s horrible demonstration, had sailed for I know\r\nnot what distant port; he has never come back to stay. Hardshaw--as\r\nJohnson no longer--passed a year in the Stockton asylum for the insane,\r\nwhere also, through the influence of pitying friends, his wife was\r\nadmitted to care for him. When he was discharged, not cured but\r\nharmless, they returned to the city; it would seem ever to have had some\r\ndreadful fascination for them. For a time they lived near the Mission\r\nDolores, in poverty only less abject than that which is their present\r\nlot; but it was too far away from the objective point of the man\'s daily\r\npilgrimage. They could not afford car fare. So that poor devil of an\r\nangel from Heaven--wife to this convict and lunatic--obtained, at a fair\r\nenough rental, the blank-faced shanty on the lower terrace of Goat Hill.\r\nThence to the structure that was a dwelling and is a factory the\r\ndistance is not so great; it is, in fact, an agreeable walk, judging\r\nfrom the man\'s eager and cheerful look as he takes it. The return\r\njourney appears to be a trifle wearisome.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAN ADVENTURE AT BROWNVILLE[1]\r\n\r\n[1] This story was written in collaboration with Miss Ina Lillian\r\nPeterson, to whom is rightly due the credit for whatever merit it may\r\nhave.\r\n\r\nI taught a little country school near Brownville, which, as every one\r\nknows who has had the good luck to live there, is the capital of a\r\nconsiderable expanse of the finest scenery in California. The town is\r\nsomewhat frequented in summer by a class of persons whom it is the habit\r\nof the local journal to call "pleasure seekers," but who by a juster\r\nclassification would be known as "the sick and those in adversity."\r\nBrownville itself might rightly enough be described, indeed, as a summer\r\nplace of last resort. It is fairly well endowed with boarding-houses, at\r\nthe least pernicious of which I performed twice a day (lunching at the\r\nschoolhouse) the humble rite of cementing the alliance between soul and\r\nbody. From this "hostelry" (as the local journal preferred to call it\r\nwhen it did not call it a "caravanserai") to the schoolhouse the\r\ndistance by the wagon road was about a mile and a half; but there was a\r\ntrail, very little used, which led over an intervening range of low,\r\nheavily wooded hills, considerably shortening the distance. By this\r\ntrail I was returning one evening later than usual. It was the last day\r\nof the term and I had been detained at the schoolhouse until almost\r\ndark, preparing an account of my stewardship for the trustees--two of\r\nwhom, I proudly reflected, would be able to read it, and the third (an\r\ninstance of the dominion of mind over matter) would be overruled in his\r\ncustomary antagonism to the schoolmaster of his own creation.\r\n\r\nI had gone not more than a quarter of the way when, finding an interest\r\nin the antics of a family of lizards which dwelt thereabout and seemed\r\nfull of reptilian joy for their immunity from the ills incident to life\r\nat the Brownville House, I sat upon a fallen tree to observe them. As I\r\nleaned wearily against a branch of the gnarled old trunk the twilight\r\ndeepened in the somber woods and the faint new moon began casting\r\nvisible shadows and gilding the leaves of the trees with a tender but\r\nghostly light.\r\n\r\nI heard the sound of voices--a woman\'s, angry, impetuous, rising against\r\ndeep masculine tones, rich and musical. I strained my eyes, peering\r\nthrough the dusky shadows of the wood, hoping to get a view of the\r\nintruders on my solitude, but could see no one. For some yards in each\r\ndirection I had an uninterrupted view of the trail, and knowing of no\r\nother within a half mile thought the persons heard must be approaching\r\nfrom the wood at one side. There was no sound but that of the voices,\r\nwhich were now so distinct that I could catch the words. That of the man\r\ngave me an impression of anger, abundantly confirmed by the matter\r\nspoken.\r\n\r\n"I will have no threats; you are powerless, as you very well know. Let\r\nthings remain as they are or, by God! you shall both suffer for it."\r\n\r\n"What do you mean?"--this was the voice of the woman, a cultivated\r\nvoice, the voice of a lady. "You would not--murder us."\r\n\r\nThere was no reply, at least none that was audible to me. During the\r\nsilence I peered into the wood in hope to get a glimpse of the speakers,\r\nfor I felt sure that this was an affair of gravity in which ordinary\r\nscruples ought not to count. It seemed to me that the woman was in\r\nperil; at any rate the man had not disavowed a willingness to murder.\r\nWhen a man is enacting the rôle of potential assassin he has not the\r\nright to choose his audience.\r\n\r\nAfter some little time I saw them, indistinct in the moonlight among the\r\ntrees. The man, tall and slender, seemed clothed in black; the woman\r\nwore, as nearly as I could make out, a gown of gray stuff. Evidently\r\nthey were still unaware of my presence in the shadow, though for some\r\nreason when they renewed their conversation they spoke in lower tones\r\nand I could no longer understand. As I looked the woman seemed to sink\r\nto the ground and raise her hands in supplication, as is frequently done\r\non the stage and never, so far as I knew, anywhere else, and I am now\r\nnot altogether sure that it was done in this instance. The man fixed his\r\neyes upon her; they seemed to glitter bleakly in the moonlight with an\r\nexpression that made me apprehensive that he would turn them upon me. I\r\ndo not know by what impulse I was moved, but I sprang to my feet out of\r\nthe shadow. At that instant the figures vanished. I peered in vain\r\nthrough the spaces among the trees and clumps of undergrowth. The night\r\nwind rustled the leaves; the lizards had retired early, reptiles of\r\nexemplary habits. The little moon was already slipping behind a black\r\nhill in the west.\r\n\r\nI went home, somewhat disturbed in mind, half doubting that I had heard\r\nor seen any living thing excepting the lizards. It all seemed a trifle\r\nodd and uncanny. It was as if among the several phenomena, objective and\r\nsubjective, that made the sum total of the incident there had been an\r\nuncertain element which had diffused its dubious character over all--had\r\nleavened the whole mass with unreality. I did not like it.\r\n\r\nAt the breakfast table the next morning there was a new face; opposite\r\nme sat a young woman at whom I merely glanced as I took my seat. In\r\nspeaking to the high and mighty female personage who condescended to\r\nseem to wait upon us, this girl soon invited my attention by the sound\r\nof her voice, which was like, yet not altogether like, the one still\r\nmurmuring in my memory of the previous evening\'s adventure. A moment\r\nlater another girl, a few years older, entered the room and sat at the\r\nleft of the other, speaking to her a gentle "good morning." By _her_\r\nvoice I was startled: it was without doubt the one of which the first\r\ngirl\'s had reminded me. Here was the lady of the sylvan incident sitting\r\nbodily before me, "in her habit as she lived."\r\n\r\nEvidently enough the two were sisters.\r\n\r\nWith a nebulous kind of apprehension that I might be recognized as the\r\nmute inglorious hero of an adventure which had in my consciousness and\r\nconscience something of the character of eavesdropping, I allowed myself\r\nonly a hasty cup of the lukewarm coffee thoughtfully provided by the\r\nprescient waitress for the emergency, and left the table. As I passed\r\nout of the house into the grounds I heard a rich, strong male voice\r\nsinging an aria from "Rigoletto." I am bound to say that it was\r\nexquisitely sung, too, but there was something in the performance that\r\ndispleased me, I could say neither what nor why, and I walked rapidly\r\naway.\r\n\r\nReturning later in the day I saw the elder of the two young women\r\nstanding on the porch and near her a tall man in black clothing--the man\r\nwhom I had expected to see. All day the desire to know something of\r\nthese persons had been uppermost in my mind and I now resolved to learn\r\nwhat I could of them in any way that was neither dishonorable nor low.\r\n\r\nThe man was talking easily and affably to his companion, but at the\r\nsound of my footsteps on the gravel walk he ceased, and turning about\r\nlooked me full in the face. He was apparently of middle age, dark and\r\nuncommonly handsome. His attire was faultless, his bearing easy and\r\ngraceful, the look which he turned upon me open, free, and devoid of any\r\nsuggestion of rudeness. Nevertheless it affected me with a distinct\r\nemotion which on subsequent analysis in memory appeared to be compounded\r\nof hatred and dread--I am unwilling to call it fear. A second later the\r\nman and woman had disappeared. They seemed to have a trick of\r\ndisappearing. On entering the house, however, I saw them through the\r\nopen doorway of the parlor as I passed; they had merely stepped through\r\na window which opened down to the floor.\r\n\r\nCautiously "approached" on the subject of her new guests my landlady\r\nproved not ungracious. Restated with, I hope, some small reverence for\r\nEnglish grammar the facts were these: the two girls were Pauline and Eva\r\nMaynard of San Francisco; the elder was Pauline. The man was Richard\r\nBenning, their guardian, who had been the most intimate friend of their\r\nfather, now deceased. Mr. Benning had brought them to Brownville in the\r\nhope that the mountain climate might benefit Eva, who was thought to be\r\nin danger of consumption.\r\n\r\nUpon these short and simple annals the landlady wrought an embroidery of\r\neulogium which abundantly attested her faith in Mr. Benning\'s will and\r\nability to pay for the best that her house afforded. That he had a good\r\nheart was evident to her from his devotion to his two beautiful wards\r\nand his really touching solicitude for their comfort. The evidence\r\nimpressed me as insufficient and I silently found the Scotch verdict,\r\n"Not proven."\r\n\r\nCertainly Mr. Benning was most attentive to his wards. In my strolls\r\nabout the country I frequently encountered them--sometimes in company\r\nwith other guests of the hotel--exploring the gulches, fishing, rifle\r\nshooting, and otherwise wiling away the monotony of country life; and\r\nalthough I watched them as closely as good manners would permit I saw\r\nnothing that would in any way explain the strange words that I had\r\noverheard in the wood. I had grown tolerably well acquainted with the\r\nyoung ladies and could exchange looks and even greetings with their\r\nguardian without actual repugnance.\r\n\r\nA month went by and I had almost ceased to interest myself in their\r\naffairs when one night our entire little community was thrown into\r\nexcitement by an event which vividly recalled my experience in the\r\nforest.\r\n\r\nThis was the death of the elder girl, Pauline.\r\n\r\nThe sisters had occupied the same bedroom on the third floor of the\r\nhouse. Waking in the gray of the morning Eva had found Pauline dead\r\nbeside her. Later, when the poor girl was weeping beside the body amid a\r\nthrong of sympathetic if not very considerate persons, Mr. Benning\r\nentered the room and appeared to be about to take her hand. She drew\r\naway from the side of the dead and moved slowly toward the door.\r\n\r\n"It is you," she said--"you who have done this. You--you--you!"\r\n\r\n"She is raving," he said in a low voice. He followed her, step by step,\r\nas she retreated, his eyes fixed upon hers with a steady gaze in which\r\nthere was nothing of tenderness nor of compassion. She stopped; the hand\r\nthat she had raised in accusation fell to her side, her dilated eyes\r\ncontracted visibly, the lids slowly dropped over them, veiling their\r\nstrange wild beauty, and she stood motionless and almost as white as the\r\ndead girl lying near. The man took her hand and put his arm gently about\r\nher shoulders, as if to support her. Suddenly she burst into a passion\r\nof tears and clung to him as a child to its mother. He smiled with a\r\nsmile that affected me most disagreeably--perhaps any kind of smile\r\nwould have done so--and led her silently out of the room.\r\n\r\nThere was an inquest--and the customary verdict: the deceased, it\r\nappeared, came to her death through "heart disease." It was before the\r\ninvention of heart _failure_, though the heart of poor Pauline had\r\nindubitably failed. The body was embalmed and taken to San Francisco by\r\nsome one summoned thence for the purpose, neither Eva nor Benning\r\naccompanying it. Some of the hotel gossips ventured to think that very\r\nstrange, and a few hardy spirits went so far as to think it very strange\r\nindeed; but the good landlady generously threw herself into the breach,\r\nsaying it was owing to the precarious nature of the girl\'s health. It is\r\nnot of record that either of the two persons most affected and\r\napparently least concerned made any explanation.\r\n\r\nOne evening about a week after the death I went out upon the veranda of\r\nthe hotel to get a book that I had left there. Under some vines shutting\r\nout the moonlight from a part of the space I saw Richard Benning, for\r\nwhose apparition I was prepared by having previously heard the low,\r\nsweet voice of Eva Maynard, whom also I now discerned, standing before\r\nhim with one hand raised to his shoulder and her eyes, as nearly as I\r\ncould judge, gazing upward into his. He held her disengaged hand and his\r\nhead was bent with a singular dignity and grace. Their attitude was that\r\nof lovers, and as I stood in deep shadow to observe I felt even guiltier\r\nthan on that memorable night in the wood. I was about to retire, when\r\nthe girl spoke, and the contrast between her words and her attitude was\r\nso surprising that I remained, because I had merely forgotten to go\r\naway.\r\n\r\n"You will take my life," she said, "as you did Pauline\'s. I know your\r\nintention as well as I know your power, and I ask nothing, only that you\r\nfinish your work without needless delay and let me be at peace."\r\n\r\nHe made no reply--merely let go the hand that he was holding, removed\r\nthe other from his shoulder, and turning away descended the steps\r\nleading to the garden and disappeared in the shrubbery. But a moment\r\nlater I heard, seemingly from a great distance, his fine clear voice in\r\na barbaric chant, which as I listened brought before some inner\r\nspiritual sense a consciousness of some far, strange land peopled with\r\nbeings having forbidden powers. The song held me in a kind of spell, but\r\nwhen it had died away I recovered and instantly perceived what I thought\r\nan opportunity. I walked out of my shadow to where the girl stood. She\r\nturned and stared at me with something of the look, it seemed to me, of\r\na hunted hare. Possibly my intrusion had frightened her.\r\n\r\n"Miss Maynard," I said, "I beg you to tell me who that man is and the\r\nnature of his power over you. Perhaps this is rude in me, but it is not\r\na matter for idle civilities. When a woman is in danger any man has a\r\nright to act."\r\n\r\nShe listened without visible emotion--almost I thought without interest,\r\nand when I had finished she closed her big blue eyes as if unspeakably\r\nweary.\r\n\r\n"You can do nothing," she said.\r\n\r\nI took hold of her arm, gently shaking her as one shakes a person\r\nfalling into a dangerous sleep.\r\n\r\n"You must rouse yourself," I said; "something must be done and you must\r\ngive me leave to act. You have said that that man killed your sister,\r\nand I believe it--that he will kill you, and I believe that."\r\n\r\nShe merely raised her eyes to mine.\r\n\r\n"Will you not tell me all?" I added.\r\n\r\n"There is nothing to be done, I tell you--nothing. And if I could do\r\nanything I would not. It does not matter in the least. We shall be here\r\nonly two days more; we go away then, oh, so far! If you have observed\r\nanything, I beg you to be silent."\r\n\r\n"But this is madness, girl." I was trying by rough speech to break the\r\ndeadly repose of her manner. "You have accused him of murder. Unless you\r\nexplain these things to me I shall lay the matter before the\r\nauthorities."\r\n\r\nThis roused her, but in a way that I did not like. She lifted her head\r\nproudly and said: "Do not meddle, sir, in what does not concern you.\r\nThis is my affair, Mr. Moran, not yours."\r\n\r\n"It concerns every person in the country--in the world," I answered,\r\nwith equal coldness. "If you had no love for your sister I, at least, am\r\nconcerned for you."\r\n\r\n"Listen," she interrupted, leaning toward me. "I loved her, yes, God\r\nknows! But more than that--beyond all, beyond expression, I love _him_.\r\nYou have overheard a secret, but you shall not make use of it to harm\r\nhim. I shall deny all. Your word against mine--it will be that. Do you\r\nthink your \'authorities\' will believe you?"\r\n\r\nShe was now smiling like an angel and, God help me! I was heels over\r\nhead in love with her! Did she, by some of the many methods of\r\ndivination known to her sex, read my feelings? Her whole manner had\r\naltered.\r\n\r\n"Come," she said, almost coaxingly, "promise that you will not be\r\nimpolite again." She took my arm in the most friendly way. "Come, I will\r\nwalk with you. He will not know--he will remain away all night."\r\n\r\nUp and down the veranda we paced in the moonlight, she seemingly\r\nforgetting her recent bereavement, cooing and murmuring girl-wise of\r\nevery kind of nothing in all Brownville; I silent, consciously awkward\r\nand with something of the feeling of being concerned in an intrigue. It\r\nwas a revelation--this most charming and apparently blameless creature\r\ncoolly and confessedly deceiving the man for whom a moment before she\r\nhad acknowledged and shown the supreme love which finds even death an\r\nacceptable endearment.\r\n\r\n"Truly," I thought in my inexperience, "here is something new under the\r\nmoon."\r\n\r\nAnd the moon must have smiled.\r\n\r\nBefore we parted I had exacted a promise that she would walk with me the\r\nnext afternoon--before going away forever--to the Old Mill, one of\r\nBrownville\'s revered antiquities, erected in 1860.\r\n\r\n"If he is not about," she added gravely, as I let go the hand she had\r\ngiven me at parting, and of which, may the good saints forgive me, I\r\nstrove vainly to repossess myself when she had said it--so charming, as\r\nthe wise Frenchman has pointed out, do we find woman\'s infidelity when\r\nwe are its objects, not its victims. In apportioning his benefactions\r\nthat night the Angel of Sleep overlooked me.\r\n\r\nThe Brownville House dined early, and after dinner the next day Miss\r\nMaynard, who had not been at table, came to me on the veranda, attired\r\nin the demurest of walking costumes, saying not a word. "He" was\r\nevidently "not about." We went slowly up the road that led to the Old\r\nMill. She was apparently not strong and at times took my arm,\r\nrelinquishing it and taking it again rather capriciously, I thought. Her\r\nmood, or rather her succession of moods, was as mutable as skylight in a\r\nrippling sea. She jested as if she had never heard of such a thing as\r\ndeath, and laughed on the lightest incitement, and directly afterward\r\nwould sing a few bars of some grave melody with such tenderness of\r\nexpression that I had to turn away my eyes lest she should see the\r\nevidence of her success in art, if art it was, not artlessness, as then\r\nI was compelled to think it. And she said the oddest things in the most\r\nunconventional way, skirting sometimes unfathomable abysms of thought,\r\nwhere I had hardly the courage to set foot. In short, she was\r\nfascinating in a thousand and fifty different ways, and at every step I\r\nexecuted a new and profounder emotional folly, a hardier spiritual\r\nindiscretion, incurring fresh liability to arrest by the constabulary of\r\nconscience for infractions of my own peace.\r\n\r\nArriving at the mill, she made no pretense of stopping, but turned into\r\na trail leading through a field of stubble toward a creek. Crossing by a\r\nrustic bridge we continued on the trail, which now led uphill to one of\r\nthe most picturesque spots in the country. The Eagle\'s Nest, it was\r\ncalled--the summit of a cliff that rose sheer into the air to a height\r\nof hundreds of feet above the forest at its base. From this elevated\r\npoint we had a noble view of another valley and of the opposite hills\r\nflushed with the last rays of the setting sun.\r\n\r\nAs we watched the light escaping to higher and higher planes from the\r\nencroaching flood of shadow filling the valley we heard footsteps, and\r\nin another moment were joined by Richard Benning.\r\n\r\n"I saw you from the road," he said carelessly; "so I came up."\r\n\r\nBeing a fool, I neglected to take him by the throat and pitch him into\r\nthe treetops below, but muttered some polite lie instead. On the girl\r\nthe effect of his coming was immediate and unmistakable. Her face was\r\nsuffused with the glory of love\'s transfiguration: the red light of the\r\nsunset had not been more obvious in her eyes than was now the lovelight\r\nthat replaced it.\r\n\r\n"I am so glad you came!" she said, giving him both her hands; and, God\r\nhelp me! it was manifestly true.\r\n\r\nSeating himself upon the ground he began a lively dissertation upon the\r\nwild flowers of the region, a number of which he had with him. In the\r\nmiddle of a facetious sentence he suddenly ceased speaking and fixed his\r\neyes upon Eva, who leaned against the stump of a tree, absently plaiting\r\ngrasses. She lifted her eyes in a startled way to his, as if she had\r\n_felt_ his look. She then rose, cast away her grasses, and moved slowly\r\naway from him. He also rose, continuing to look at her. He had still in\r\nhis hand the bunch of flowers. The girl turned, as if to speak, but said\r\nnothing. I recall clearly now something of which I was but\r\nhalf-conscious then--the dreadful contrast between the smile upon her\r\nlips and the terrified expression in her eyes as she met his steady and\r\nimperative gaze. I know nothing of how it happened, nor how it was that\r\nI did not sooner understand; I only know that with the smile of an angel\r\nupon her lips and that look of terror in her beautiful eyes Eva Maynard\r\nsprang from the cliff and shot crashing into the tops of the pines\r\nbelow!\r\n\r\nHow and how long afterward I reached the place I cannot say, but Richard\r\nBenning was already there, kneeling beside the dreadful thing that had\r\nbeen a woman.\r\n\r\n"She is dead--quite dead," he said coldly. "I will go to town for\r\nassistance. Please do me the favor to remain."\r\n\r\nHe rose to his feet and moved away, but in a moment had stopped and\r\nturned about.\r\n\r\n"You have doubtless observed, my friend," he said, "that this was\r\nentirely her own act. I did not rise in time to prevent it, and you, not\r\nknowing her mental condition--you could not, of course, have suspected."\r\n\r\nHis manner maddened me.\r\n\r\n"You are as much her assassin," I said, "as if your damnable hands had\r\ncut her throat." He shrugged his shoulders without reply and, turning,\r\nwalked away. A moment later I heard, through the deepening shadows of\r\nthe wood into which he had disappeared, a rich, strong, baritone voice\r\nsinging "_La donna e mobile_," from "Rigoletto."\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE FAMOUS GILSON BEQUEST\r\n\r\nIt was rough on Gilson. Such was the terse, cold, but not altogether\r\nunsympathetic judgment of the better public opinion at Mammon Hill--the\r\ndictum of respectability. The verdict of the opposite, or rather the\r\nopposing, element--the element that lurked red-eyed and restless about\r\nMoll Gurney\'s "deadfall," while respectability took it with sugar at Mr.\r\nJo. Bentley\'s gorgeous "saloon"--was to pretty much the same general\r\neffect, though somewhat more ornately expressed by the use of\r\npicturesque expletives, which it is needless to quote. Virtually, Mammon\r\nHill was a unit on the Gilson question. And it must be confessed that in\r\na merely temporal sense all was not well with Mr. Gilson. He had that\r\nmorning been led into town by Mr. Brentshaw and publicly charged with\r\nhorse stealing; the sheriff meantime busying himself about The Tree with\r\na new manila rope and Carpenter Pete being actively employed between\r\ndrinks upon a pine box about the length and breadth of Mr. Gilson.\r\nSociety having rendered its verdict, there remained between Gilson and\r\neternity only the decent formality of a trial.\r\n\r\nThese are the short and simple annals of the prisoner: He had recently\r\nbeen a resident of New Jerusalem, on the north fork of the Little Stony,\r\nbut had come to the newly discovered placers of Mammon Hill immediately\r\nbefore the "rush" by which the former place was depopulated. The\r\ndiscovery of the new diggings had occurred opportunely for Mr. Gilson,\r\nfor it had only just before been intimated to him by a New Jerusalem\r\nvigilance committee that it would better his prospects in, and for, life\r\nto go somewhere; and the list of places to which he could safely go did\r\nnot include any of the older camps; so he naturally established himself\r\nat Mammon Hill. Being eventually followed thither by all his judges, he\r\nordered his conduct with considerable circumspection, but as he had\r\nnever been known to do an honest day\'s work at any industry sanctioned\r\nby the stern local code of morality except draw poker he was still an\r\nobject of suspicion. Indeed, it was conjectured that he was the author\r\nof the many daring depredations that had recently been committed with\r\npan and brush on the sluice boxes.\r\n\r\nProminent among those in whom this suspicion had ripened into a\r\nsteadfast conviction was Mr. Brentshaw. At all seasonable and\r\nunseasonable times Mr. Brentshaw avowed his belief in Mr. Gilson\'s\r\nconnection with these unholy midnight enterprises, and his own\r\nwillingness to prepare a way for the solar beams through the body of any\r\none who might think it expedient to utter a different opinion--which, in\r\nhis presence, no one was more careful not to do than the peace-loving\r\nperson most concerned. Whatever may have been the truth of the matter,\r\nit is certain that Gilson frequently lost more "clean dust" at Jo.\r\nBentley\'s faro table than it was recorded in local history that he had\r\never honestly earned at draw poker in all the days of the camp\'s\r\nexistence. But at last Mr. Bentley--fearing, it may be, to lose the more\r\nprofitable patronage of Mr. Brentshaw--peremptorily refused to let\r\nGilson copper the queen, intimating at the same time, in his frank,\r\nforthright way, that the privilege of losing money at "this bank" was a\r\nblessing appertaining to, proceeding logically from, and coterminous\r\nwith, a condition of notorious commercial righteousness and social good\r\nrepute.\r\n\r\nThe Hill thought it high time to look after a person whom its most\r\nhonored citizen had felt it his duty to rebuke at a considerable\r\npersonal sacrifice. The New Jerusalem contingent, particularly, began to\r\nabate something of the toleration begotten of amusement at their own\r\nblunder in exiling an objectionable neighbor from the place which they\r\nhad left to the place whither they had come. Mammon Hill was at last of\r\none mind. Not much was said, but that Gilson must hang was "in the air."\r\nBut at this critical juncture in his affairs he showed signs of an\r\naltered life if not a changed heart. Perhaps it was only that "the bank"\r\nbeing closed against him he had no further use for gold dust. Anyhow the\r\nsluice boxes were molested no more forever. But it was impossible to\r\nrepress the abounding energies of such a nature as his, and he\r\ncontinued, possibly from habit, the tortuous courses which he had\r\npursued for profit of Mr. Bentley. After a few tentative and resultless\r\nundertakings in the way of highway robbery--if one may venture to\r\ndesignate road-agency by so harsh a name--he made one or two modest\r\nessays in horse-herding, and it was in the midst of a promising\r\nenterprise of this character, and just as he had taken the tide in his\r\naffairs at its flood, that he made shipwreck. For on a misty, moonlight\r\nnight Mr. Brentshaw rode up alongside a person who was evidently leaving\r\nthat part of the country, laid a hand upon the halter connecting Mr.\r\nGilson\'s wrist with Mr. Harper\'s bay mare, tapped him familiarly on the\r\ncheek with the barrel of a navy revolver and requested the pleasure of\r\nhis company in a direction opposite to that in which he was traveling.\r\n\r\nIt was indeed rough on Gilson.\r\n\r\nOn the morning after his arrest he was tried, convicted, and sentenced.\r\nIt only remains, so far as concerns his earthly career, to hang him,\r\nreserving for more particular mention his last will and testament,\r\nwhich, with great labor, he contrived in prison, and in which, probably\r\nfrom some confused and imperfect notion of the rights of captors, he\r\nbequeathed everything he owned to his "lawfle execketer," Mr. Brentshaw.\r\nThe bequest, however, was made conditional on the legatee taking the\r\ntestator\'s body from The Tree and "planting it white."\r\n\r\nSo Mr. Gilson was--I was about to say "swung off," but I fear there has\r\nbeen already something too much of slang in this straightforward\r\nstatement of facts; besides, the manner in which the law took its course\r\nis more accurately described in the terms employed by the judge in\r\npassing sentence: Mr. Gilson was "strung up."\r\n\r\nIn due season Mr. Brentshaw, somewhat touched, it may well be, by the\r\nempty compliment of the bequest, repaired to The Tree to pluck the fruit\r\nthereof. When taken down the body was found to have in its waistcoat\r\npocket a duly attested codicil to the will already noted. The nature of\r\nits provisions accounted for the manner in which it had been withheld,\r\nfor had Mr. Brentshaw previously been made aware of the conditions under\r\nwhich he was to succeed to the Gilson estate he would indubitably have\r\ndeclined the responsibility. Briefly stated, the purport of the codicil\r\nwas as follows:\r\n\r\nWhereas, at divers times and in sundry places, certain persons had\r\nasserted that during his life the testator had robbed their sluice\r\nboxes; therefore, if during the five years next succeeding the date of\r\nthis instrument any one should make proof of such assertion before a\r\ncourt of law, such person was to receive as reparation the entire\r\npersonal and real estate of which the testator died seized and\r\npossessed, minus the expenses of court and a stated compensation to the\r\nexecutor, Henry Clay Brentshaw; provided, that if more than one person\r\nmade such proof the estate was to be equally divided between or among\r\nthem. But in case none should succeed in so establishing the testator\'s\r\nguilt, then the whole property, minus court expenses, as aforesaid,\r\nshould go to the said Henry Clay Brentshaw for his own use, as stated in\r\nthe will.\r\n\r\nThe syntax of this remarkable document was perhaps open to critical\r\nobjection, but that was clearly enough the meaning of it. The\r\northography conformed to no recognized system, but being mainly phonetic\r\nit was not ambiguous. As the probate judge remarked, it would take five\r\naces to beat it. Mr. Brentshaw smiled good-humoredly, and after\r\nperforming the last sad rites with amusing ostentation, had himself duly\r\nsworn as executor and conditional legatee under the provisions of a law\r\nhastily passed (at the instance of the member from the Mammon Hill\r\ndistrict) by a facetious legislature; which law was afterward discovered\r\nto have created also three or four lucrative offices and authorized the\r\nexpenditure of a considerable sum of public money for the construction\r\nof a certain railway bridge that with greater advantage might perhaps\r\nhave been erected on the line of some actual railway.\r\n\r\nOf course Mr. Brentshaw expected neither profit from the will nor\r\nlitigation in consequence of its unusual provisions; Gilson, although\r\nfrequently "flush," had been a man whom assessors and tax collectors\r\nwere well satisfied to lose no money by. But a careless and merely\r\nformal search among his papers revealed title deeds to valuable estates\r\nin the East and certificates of deposit for incredible sums in banks\r\nless severely scrupulous than that of Mr. Jo. Bentley.\r\n\r\nThe astounding news got abroad directly, throwing the Hill into a fever\r\nof excitement. The Mammon Hill _Patriot_, whose editor had been a\r\nleading spirit in the proceedings that resulted in Gilson\'s departure\r\nfrom New Jerusalem, published a most complimentary obituary notice of\r\nthe deceased, and was good enough to call attention to the fact that his\r\ndegraded contemporary, the Squaw Gulch _Clarion_, was bringing virtue\r\ninto contempt by beslavering with flattery the memory of one who in life\r\nhad spurned the vile sheet as a nuisance from his door. Undeterred by\r\nthe press, however, claimants under the will were not slow in presenting\r\nthemselves with their evidence; and great as was the Gilson estate it\r\nappeared conspicuously paltry considering the vast number of sluice\r\nboxes from which it was averred to have been obtained. The country rose\r\nas one man!\r\n\r\nMr. Brentshaw was equal to the emergency. With a shrewd application of\r\nhumble auxiliary devices, he at once erected above the bones of his\r\nbenefactor a costly monument, overtopping every rough headboard in the\r\ncemetery, and on this he judiciously caused to be inscribed an epitaph\r\nof his own composing, eulogizing the honesty, public spirit and cognate\r\nvirtues of him who slept beneath, "a victim to the unjust aspersions of\r\nSlander\'s viper brood."\r\n\r\nMoreover, he employed the best legal talent in the Territory to defend\r\nthe memory of his departed friend, and for five long years the\r\nTerritorial courts were occupied with litigation growing out of the\r\nGilson bequest. To fine forensic abilities Mr. Brentshaw opposed\r\nabilities more finely forensic; in bidding for purchasable favors he\r\noffered prices which utterly deranged the market; the judges found at\r\nhis hospitable board entertainment for man and beast, the like of which\r\nhad never been spread in the Territory; with mendacious witnesses he\r\nconfronted witnesses of superior mendacity.\r\n\r\nNor was the battle confined to the temple of the blind goddess--it\r\ninvaded the press, the pulpit, the drawing-room. It raged in the mart,\r\nthe exchange, the school; in the gulches, and on the street corners. And\r\nupon the last day of the memorable period to which legal action under\r\nthe Gilson will was limited, the sun went down upon a region in which\r\nthe moral sense was dead, the social conscience callous, the\r\nintellectual capacity dwarfed, enfeebled, and confused! But Mr.\r\nBrentshaw was victorious all along the line.\r\n\r\nOn that night it so happened that the cemetery in one corner of which\r\nlay the now honored ashes of the late Milton Gilson, Esq., was partly\r\nunder water. Swollen by incessant rains, Cat Creek had spilled over its\r\nbanks an angry flood which, after scooping out unsightly hollows\r\nwherever the soil had been disturbed, had partly subsided, as if ashamed\r\nof the sacrilege, leaving exposed much that had been piously concealed.\r\nEven the famous Gilson monument, the pride and glory of Mammon Hill, was\r\nno longer a standing rebuke to the "viper brood"; succumbing to the\r\nsapping current it had toppled prone to earth. The ghoulish flood had\r\nexhumed the poor, decayed pine coffin, which now lay half-exposed, in\r\npitiful contrast to the pompous monolith which, like a giant note of\r\nadmiration, emphasized the disclosure.\r\n\r\nTo this depressing spot, drawn by some subtle influence he had sought\r\nneither to resist nor analyze, came Mr. Brentshaw. An altered man was\r\nMr. Brentshaw. Five years of toil, anxiety, and wakefulness had dashed\r\nhis black locks with streaks and patches of gray, bowed his fine figure,\r\ndrawn sharp and angular his face, and debased his walk to a doddering\r\nshuffle. Nor had this lustrum of fierce contention wrought less upon his\r\nheart and intellect. The careless good humor that had prompted him to\r\naccept the trust of the dead man had given place to a fixed habit of\r\nmelancholy. The firm, vigorous intellect had overripened into the mental\r\nmellowness of second childhood. His broad understanding had narrowed to\r\nthe accommodation of a single idea; and in place of the quiet, cynical\r\nincredulity of former days, there was in him a haunting faith in the\r\nsupernatural, that flitted and fluttered about his soul, shadowy,\r\nbatlike, ominous of insanity. Unsettled in all else, his understanding\r\nclung to one conviction with the tenacity of a wrecked intellect. That\r\nwas an unshaken belief in the entire blamelessness of the dead Gilson.\r\nHe had so often sworn to this in court and asserted it in private\r\nconversation--had so frequently and so triumphantly established it by\r\ntestimony that had come expensive to him (for that very day he had paid\r\nthe last dollar of the Gilson estate to Mr. Jo. Bentley, the last\r\nwitness to the Gilson good character)--that it had become to him a sort\r\nof religious faith. It seemed to him the one great central and basic\r\ntruth of life--the sole serene verity in a world of lies.\r\n\r\nOn that night, as he seated himself pensively upon the prostrate\r\nmonument, trying by the uncertain moonlight to spell out the epitaph\r\nwhich five years before he had composed with a chuckle that memory had\r\nnot recorded, tears of remorse came into his eyes as he remembered that\r\nhe had been mainly instrumental in compassing by a false accusation this\r\ngood man\'s death; for during some of the legal proceedings, Mr. Harper,\r\nfor a consideration (forgotten) had come forward and sworn that in the\r\nlittle transaction with his bay mare the deceased had acted in strict\r\naccordance with the Harperian wishes, confidentially communicated to the\r\ndeceased and by him faithfully concealed at the cost of his life. All\r\nthat Mr. Brentshaw had since done for the dead man\'s memory seemed\r\npitifully inadequate--most mean, paltry, and debased with selfishness!\r\n\r\nAs he sat there, torturing himself with futile regrets, a faint shadow\r\nfell across his eyes. Looking toward the moon, hanging low in the west,\r\nhe saw what seemed a vague, watery cloud obscuring her; but as it moved\r\nso that her beams lit up one side of it he perceived the clear, sharp\r\noutline of a human figure. The apparition became momentarily more\r\ndistinct, and grew, visibly; it was drawing near. Dazed as were his\r\nsenses, half locked up with terror and confounded with dreadful\r\nimaginings, Mr. Brentshaw yet could but perceive, or think he perceived,\r\nin this unearthly shape a strange similitude to the mortal part of the\r\nlate Milton Gilson, as that person had looked when taken from The Tree\r\nfive years before. The likeness was indeed complete, even to the full,\r\nstony eyes, and a certain shadowy circle about the neck. It was without\r\ncoat or hat, precisely as Gilson had been when laid in his poor, cheap\r\ncasket by the not ungentle hands of Carpenter Pete--for whom some one\r\nhad long since performed the same neighborly office. The spectre, if\r\nsuch it was, seemed to bear something in its hands which Mr. Brentshaw\r\ncould not clearly make out. It drew nearer, and paused at last beside\r\nthe coffin containing the ashes of the late Mr. Gilson, the lid of which\r\nwas awry, half disclosing the uncertain interior. Bending over this, the\r\nphantom seemed to shake into it from a basin some dark substance of\r\ndubious consistency, then glided stealthily back to the lowest part of\r\nthe cemetery. Here the retiring flood had stranded a number of open\r\ncoffins, about and among which it gurgled with low sobbings and stilly\r\nwhispers. Stooping over one of these, the apparition carefully brushed\r\nits contents into the basin, then returning to its own casket, emptied\r\nthe vessel into that, as before. This mysterious operation was repeated\r\nat every exposed coffin, the ghost sometimes dipping its laden basin\r\ninto the running water, and gently agitating it to free it of the baser\r\nclay, always hoarding the residuum in its own private box. In short, the\r\nimmortal part of the late Milton Gilson was cleaning up the dust of its\r\nneighbors and providently adding the same to its own.\r\n\r\nPerhaps it was a phantasm of a disordered mind in a fevered body.\r\nPerhaps it was a solemn farce enacted by pranking existences that throng\r\nthe shadows lying along the border of another world. God knows; to us is\r\npermitted only the knowledge that when the sun of another day touched\r\nwith a grace of gold the ruined cemetery of Mammon Hill his kindliest\r\nbeam fell upon the white, still face of Henry Brentshaw, dead among the\r\ndead.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE APPLICANT\r\n\r\nPushing his adventurous shins through the deep snow that had fallen\r\novernight, and encouraged by the glee of his little sister, following in\r\nthe open way that he made, a sturdy small boy, the son of Grayville\'s\r\nmost distinguished citizen, struck his foot against something of which\r\nthere was no visible sign on the surface of the snow. It is the purpose\r\nof this narrative to explain how it came to be there.\r\n\r\nNo one who has had the advantage of passing through Grayville by day can\r\nhave failed to observe the large stone building crowning the low hill to\r\nthe north of the railway station--that is to say, to the right in going\r\ntoward Great Mowbray. It is a somewhat dull-looking edifice, of the\r\nEarly Comatose order, and appears to have been designed by an architect\r\nwho shrank from publicity, and although unable to conceal his work--even\r\ncompelled, in this instance, to set it on an eminence in the sight of\r\nmen--did what he honestly could to insure it against a second look. So\r\nfar as concerns its outer and visible aspect, the Abersush Home for Old\r\nMen is unquestionably inhospitable to human attention. But it is a\r\nbuilding of great magnitude, and cost its benevolent founder the profit\r\nof many a cargo of the teas and silks and spices that his ships brought\r\nup from the under-world when he was in trade in Boston; though the main\r\nexpense was its endowment. Altogether, this reckless person had robbed\r\nhis heirs-at-law of no less a sum than half a million dollars and flung\r\nit away in riotous giving. Possibly it was with a view to get out of\r\nsight of the silent big witness to his extravagance that he shortly\r\nafterward disposed of all his Grayville property that remained to him,\r\nturned his back upon the scene of his prodigality and went off across\r\nthe sea in one of his own ships. But the gossips who got their\r\ninspiration most directly from Heaven declared that he went in search of\r\na wife--a theory not easily reconciled with that of the village\r\nhumorist, who solemnly averred that the bachelor philanthropist had\r\ndeparted this life (left Grayville, to wit) because the marriageable\r\nmaidens had made it too hot to hold him. However this may have been, he\r\nhad not returned, and although at long intervals there had come to\r\nGrayville, in a desultory way, vague rumors of his wanderings in strange\r\nlands, no one seemed certainly to know about him, and to the new\r\ngeneration he was no more than a name. But from above the portal of the\r\nHome for Old Men the name shouted in stone.\r\n\r\nDespite its unpromising exterior, the Home is a fairly commodious place\r\nof retreat from the ills that its inmates have incurred by being poor\r\nand old and men. At the time embraced in this brief chronicle they were\r\nin number about a score, but in acerbity, querulousness, and general\r\ningratitude they could hardly be reckoned at fewer than a hundred; at\r\nleast that was the estimate of the superintendent, Mr. Silas Tilbody. It\r\nwas Mr. Tilbody\'s steadfast conviction that always, in admitting new old\r\nmen to replace those who had gone to another and a better Home, the\r\ntrustees had distinctly in will the infraction of his peace, and the\r\ntrial of his patience. In truth, the longer the institution was\r\nconnected with him, the stronger was his feeling that the founder\'s\r\nscheme of benevolence was sadly impaired by providing any inmates at\r\nall. He had not much imagination, but with what he had he was addicted\r\nto the reconstruction of the Home for Old Men into a kind of "castle in\r\nSpain," with himself as castellan, hospitably entertaining about a score\r\nof sleek and prosperous middle-aged gentlemen, consummately good-humored\r\nand civilly willing to pay for their board and lodging. In this revised\r\nproject of philanthropy the trustees, to whom he was indebted for his\r\noffice and responsible for his conduct, had not the happiness to appear.\r\nAs to them, it was held by the village humorist aforementioned that in\r\ntheir management of the great charity Providence had thoughtfully\r\nsupplied an incentive to thrift. With the inference which he expected to\r\nbe drawn from that view we have nothing to do; it had neither support\r\nnor denial from the inmates, who certainly were most concerned. They\r\nlived out their little remnant of life, crept into graves neatly\r\nnumbered, and were succeeded by other old men as like them as could be\r\ndesired by the Adversary of Peace. If the Home was a place of punishment\r\nfor the sin of unthrift the veteran offenders sought justice with a\r\npersistence that attested the sincerity of their penitence. It is to one\r\nof these that the reader\'s attention is now invited.\r\n\r\nIn the matter of attire this person was not altogether engaging. But for\r\nthis season, which was midwinter, a careless observer might have looked\r\nupon him as a clever device of the husbandman indisposed to share the\r\nfruits of his toil with the crows that toil not, neither spin--an error\r\nthat might not have been dispelled without longer and closer observation\r\nthan he seemed to court; for his progress up Abersush Street, toward the\r\nHome in the gloom of the winter evening, was not visibly faster than\r\nwhat might have been expected of a scarecrow blessed with youth, health,\r\nand discontent. The man was indisputably ill-clad, yet not without a\r\ncertain fitness and good taste, withal; for he was obviously an\r\napplicant for admittance to the Home, where poverty was a qualification.\r\nIn the army of indigence the uniform is rags; they serve to distinguish\r\nthe rank and file from the recruiting officers.\r\n\r\nAs the old man, entering the gate of the grounds, shuffled up the broad\r\nwalk, already white with the fast-falling snow, which from time to time\r\nhe feebly shook from its various coigns of vantage on his person, he\r\ncame under inspection of the large globe lamp that burned always by\r\nnight over the great door of the building. As if unwilling to incur its\r\nrevealing beams, he turned to the left and, passing a considerable\r\ndistance along the face of the building, rang at a smaller door emitting\r\na dimmer ray that came from within, through the fanlight, and expended\r\nitself incuriously overhead. The door was opened by no less a personage\r\nthan the great Mr. Tilbody himself. Observing his visitor, who at once\r\nuncovered, and somewhat shortened the radius of the permanent curvature\r\nof his back, the great man gave visible token of neither surprise nor\r\ndispleasure. Mr. Tilbody was, indeed, in an uncommonly good humor, a\r\nphenomenon ascribable doubtless to the cheerful influence of the season;\r\nfor this was Christmas Eve, and the morrow would be that blessed 365th\r\npart of the year that all Christian souls set apart for mighty feats of\r\ngoodness and joy. Mr. Tilbody was so full of the spirit of the season\r\nthat his fat face and pale blue eyes, whose ineffectual fire served to\r\ndistinguish it from an untimely summer squash, effused so genial a glow\r\nthat it seemed a pity that he could not have lain down in it, basking in\r\nthe consciousness of his own identity. He was hatted, booted,\r\novercoated, and umbrellaed, as became a person who was about to expose\r\nhimself to the night and the storm on an errand of charity; for Mr.\r\nTilbody had just parted from his wife and children to go "down town" and\r\npurchase the wherewithal to confirm the annual falsehood about the\r\nhunch-bellied saint who frequents the chimneys to reward little boys and\r\ngirls who are good, and especially truthful. So he did not invite the\r\nold man in, but saluted him cheerily:\r\n\r\n"Hello! just in time; a moment later and you would have missed me. Come,\r\nI have no time to waste; we\'ll walk a little way together."\r\n\r\n"Thank you," said the old man, upon whose thin and white but not ignoble\r\nface the light from the open door showed an expression that was perhaps\r\ndisappointment; "but if the trustees--if my application--"\r\n\r\n"The trustees," Mr. Tilbody said, closing more doors than one, and\r\ncutting off two kinds of light, "have agreed that your application\r\ndisagrees with them."\r\n\r\nCertain sentiments are inappropriate to Christmastide, but Humor, like\r\nDeath, has all seasons for his own.\r\n\r\n"Oh, my God!" cried the old man, in so thin and husky a tone that the\r\ninvocation was anything but impressive, and to at least one of his two\r\nauditors sounded, indeed, somewhat ludicrous. To the Other--but that is\r\na matter which laymen are devoid of the light to expound.\r\n\r\n"Yes," continued Mr. Tilbody, accommodating his gait to that of his\r\ncompanion, who was mechanically, and not very successfully, retracing\r\nthe track that he had made through the snow; "they have decided that,\r\nunder the circumstances--under the very peculiar circumstances, you\r\nunderstand--it would be inexpedient to admit you. As superintendent and\r\n_ex officio_ secretary of the honorable board"--as Mr. Tilbody "read his\r\ntitle clear" the magnitude of the big building, seen through its veil of\r\nfalling snow, appeared to suffer somewhat in comparison--"it is my duty\r\nto inform you that, in the words of Deacon Byram, the chairman, your\r\npresence in the Home would--under the circumstances--be peculiarly\r\nembarrassing. I felt it my duty to submit to the honorable board the\r\nstatement that you made to me yesterday of your needs, your physical\r\ncondition, and the trials which it has pleased Providence to send upon\r\nyou in your very proper effort to present your claims in person; but,\r\nafter careful, and I may say prayerful, consideration of your case--with\r\nsomething too, I trust, of the large charitableness appropriate to the\r\nseason--it was decided that we would not be justified in doing anything\r\nlikely to impair the usefulness of the institution intrusted (under\r\nProvidence) to our care."\r\n\r\nThey had now passed out of the grounds; the street lamp opposite the\r\ngate was dimly visible through the snow. Already the old man\'s former\r\ntrack was obliterated, and he seemed uncertain as to which way he should\r\ngo. Mr. Tilbody had drawn a little away from him, but paused and turned\r\nhalf toward him, apparently reluctant to forego the continuing\r\nopportunity.\r\n\r\n"Under the circumstances," he resumed, "the decision--"\r\n\r\nBut the old man was inaccessible to the suasion of his verbosity; he had\r\ncrossed the street into a vacant lot and was going forward, rather\r\ndeviously toward nowhere in particular--which, he having nowhere in\r\nparticular to go to, was not so reasonless a proceeding as it looked.\r\n\r\nAnd that is how it happened that the next morning, when the church bells\r\nof all Grayville were ringing with an added unction appropriate to the\r\nday, the sturdy little son of Deacon Byram, breaking a way through the\r\nsnow to the place of worship, struck his foot against the body of Amasa\r\nAbersush, philanthropist.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA WATCHER BY THE DEAD\r\n\r\nI\r\n\r\nIn an upper room of an unoccupied dwelling in the part of San Francisco\r\nknown as North Beach lay the body of a man, under a sheet. The hour was\r\nnear nine in the evening; the room was dimly lighted by a single candle.\r\nAlthough the weather was warm, the two windows, contrary to the custom\r\nwhich gives the dead plenty of air, were closed and the blinds drawn\r\ndown. The furniture of the room consisted of but three pieces--an\r\narm-chair, a small reading-stand supporting the candle, and a long\r\nkitchen table, supporting the body of the man. All these, as also the\r\ncorpse, seemed to have been recently brought in, for an observer, had\r\nthere been one, would have seen that all were free from dust, whereas\r\neverything else in the room was pretty thickly coated with it, and there\r\nwere cobwebs in the angles of the walls.\r\n\r\nUnder the sheet the outlines of the body could be traced, even the\r\nfeatures, these having that unnaturally sharp definition which seems to\r\nbelong to faces of the dead, but is really characteristic of those only\r\nthat have been wasted by disease. From the silence of the room one would\r\nrightly have inferred that it was not in the front of the house, facing\r\na street. It really faced nothing but a high breast of rock, the rear of\r\nthe building being set into a hill.\r\n\r\nAs a neighboring church clock was striking nine with an indolence which\r\nseemed to imply such an indifference to the flight of time that one\r\ncould hardly help wondering why it took the trouble to strike at all,\r\nthe single door of the room was opened and a man entered, advancing\r\ntoward the body. As he did so the door closed, apparently of its own\r\nvolition; there was a grating, as of a key turned with difficulty, and\r\nthe snap of the lock bolt as it shot into its socket. A sound of\r\nretiring footsteps in the passage outside ensued, and the man was to all\r\nappearance a prisoner. Advancing to the table, he stood a moment looking\r\ndown at the body; then with a slight shrug of the shoulders walked over\r\nto one of the windows and hoisted the blind. The darkness outside was\r\nabsolute, the panes were covered with dust, but by wiping this away he\r\ncould see that the window was fortified with strong iron bars crossing\r\nit within a few inches of the glass and imbedded in the masonry on each\r\nside. He examined the other window. It was the same. He manifested no\r\ngreat curiosity in the matter, did not even so much as raise the sash.\r\nIf he was a prisoner he was apparently a tractable one. Having completed\r\nhis examination of the room, he seated himself in the arm-chair, took a\r\nbook from his pocket, drew the stand with its candle alongside and began\r\nto read.\r\n\r\nThe man was young--not more than thirty--dark in complexion,\r\nsmooth-shaven, with brown hair. His face was thin and high-nosed, with a\r\nbroad forehead and a "firmness" of the chin and jaw which is said by\r\nthose having it to denote resolution. The eyes were gray and steadfast,\r\nnot moving except with definitive purpose. They were now for the greater\r\npart of the time fixed upon his book, but he occasionally withdrew them\r\nand turned them to the body on the table, not, apparently, from any\r\ndismal fascination which under such circumstances it might be supposed\r\nto exercise upon even a courageous person, nor with a conscious\r\nrebellion against the contrary influence which might dominate a timid\r\none. He looked at it as if in his reading he had come upon something\r\nrecalling him to a sense of his surroundings. Clearly this watcher by\r\nthe dead was discharging his trust with intelligence and composure, as\r\nbecame him.\r\n\r\nAfter reading for perhaps a half-hour he seemed to come to the end of a\r\nchapter and quietly laid away the book. He then rose and taking the\r\nreading-stand from the floor carried it into a corner of the room near\r\none of the windows, lifted the candle from it and returned to the empty\r\nfireplace before which he had been sitting.\r\n\r\nA moment later he walked over to the body on the table, lifted the sheet\r\nand turned it back from the head, exposing a mass of dark hair and a\r\nthin face-cloth, beneath which the features showed with even sharper\r\ndefinition than before. Shading his eyes by interposing his free hand\r\nbetween them and the candle, he stood looking at his motionless\r\ncompanion with a serious and tranquil regard. Satisfied with his\r\ninspection, he pulled the sheet over the face again and returning to the\r\nchair, took some matches off the candlestick, put them in the side\r\npocket of his sack-coat and sat down. He then lifted the candle from its\r\nsocket and looked at it critically, as if calculating how long it would\r\nlast. It was barely two inches long; in another hour he would be in\r\ndarkness. He replaced it in the candlestick and blew it out.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nIn a physician\'s office in Kearny Street three men sat about a table,\r\ndrinking punch and smoking. It was late in the evening, almost midnight,\r\nindeed, and there had been no lack of punch. The gravest of the three,\r\nDr. Helberson, was the host--it was in his rooms they sat. He was about\r\nthirty years of age; the others were even younger; all were physicians.\r\n\r\n"The superstitious awe with which the living regard the dead," said Dr.\r\nHelberson, "is hereditary and incurable. One needs no more be ashamed of\r\nit than of the fact that he inherits, for example, an incapacity for\r\nmathematics, or a tendency to lie."\r\n\r\nThe others laughed. "Oughtn\'t a man to be ashamed to lie?" asked the\r\nyoungest of the three, who was in fact a medical student not yet\r\ngraduated.\r\n\r\n"My dear Harper, I said nothing about that. The tendency to lie is one\r\nthing; lying is another."\r\n\r\n"But do you think," said the third man, "that this superstitious\r\nfeeling, this fear of the dead, reasonless as we know it to be, is\r\nuniversal? I am myself not conscious of it."\r\n\r\n"Oh, but it is \'in your system\' for all that," replied Helberson; "it\r\nneeds only the right conditions--what Shakespeare calls the \'confederate\r\nseason\'--to manifest itself in some very disagreeable way that will open\r\nyour eyes. Physicians and soldiers are of course more nearly free from\r\nit than others."\r\n\r\n"Physicians and soldiers!--why don\'t you add hangmen and headsmen? Let\r\nus have in all the assassin classes."\r\n\r\n"No, my dear Mancher; the juries will not let the public executioners\r\nacquire sufficient familiarity with death to be altogether unmoved by\r\nit."\r\n\r\nYoung Harper, who had been helping himself to a fresh cigar at the\r\nsideboard, resumed his seat. "What would you consider conditions under\r\nwhich any man of woman born would become insupportably conscious of his\r\nshare of our common weakness in this regard?" he asked, rather\r\nverbosely.\r\n\r\n"Well, I should say that if a man were locked up all night with a\r\ncorpse--alone--in a dark room--of a vacant house--with no bed covers to\r\npull over his head--and lived through it without going altogether mad,\r\nhe might justly boast himself not of woman born, nor yet, like Macduff,\r\na product of Cæsarean section."\r\n\r\n"I thought you never would finish piling up conditions," said Harper,\r\n"but I know a man who is neither a physician nor a soldier who will\r\naccept them all, for any stake you like to name."\r\n\r\n"Who is he?"\r\n\r\n"His name is Jarette--a stranger here; comes from my town in New York. I\r\nhave no money to back him, but he will back himself with loads of it."\r\n\r\n"How do you know that?"\r\n\r\n"He would rather bet than eat. As for fear--I dare say he thinks it some\r\ncutaneous disorder, or possibly a particular kind of religious heresy."\r\n\r\n"What does he look like?" Helberson was evidently becoming interested.\r\n\r\n"Like Mancher, here--might be his twin brother."\r\n\r\n"I accept the challenge," said Helberson, promptly.\r\n\r\n"Awfully obliged to you for the compliment, I\'m sure," drawled Mancher,\r\nwho was growing sleepy. "Can\'t I get into this?"\r\n\r\n"Not against me," Helberson said. "I don\'t want _your_ money."\r\n\r\n"All right," said Mancher; "I\'ll be the corpse."\r\n\r\nThe others laughed.\r\n\r\nThe outcome of this crazy conversation we have seen.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nIn extinguishing his meagre allowance of candle Mr. Jarette\'s object was\r\nto preserve it against some unforeseen need. He may have thought, too,\r\nor half thought, that the darkness would be no worse at one time than\r\nanother, and if the situation became insupportable it would be better to\r\nhave a means of relief, or even release. At any rate it was wise to have\r\na little reserve of light, even if only to enable him to look at his\r\nwatch.\r\n\r\nNo sooner had he blown out the candle and set it on the floor at his\r\nside than he settled himself comfortably in the arm-chair, leaned back\r\nand closed his eyes, hoping and expecting to sleep. In this he was\r\ndisappointed; he had never in his life felt less sleepy, and in a few\r\nminutes he gave up the attempt. But what could he do? He could not go\r\ngroping about in absolute darkness at the risk of bruising himself--at\r\nthe risk, too, of blundering against the table and rudely disturbing the\r\ndead. We all recognize their right to lie at rest, with immunity from\r\nall that is harsh and violent. Jarette almost succeeded in making\r\nhimself believe that considerations of this kind restrained him from\r\nrisking the collision and fixed him to the chair.\r\n\r\nWhile thinking of this matter he fancied that he heard a faint sound in\r\nthe direction of the table--what kind of sound he could hardly have\r\nexplained. He did not turn his head. Why should he--in the darkness? But\r\nhe listened--why should he not? And listening he grew giddy and grasped\r\nthe arms of the chair for support. There was a strange ringing in his\r\nears; his head seemed bursting; his chest was oppressed by the\r\nconstriction of his clothing. He wondered why it was so, and whether\r\nthese were symptoms of fear. Then, with a long and strong expiration,\r\nhis chest appeared to collapse, and with the great gasp with which he\r\nrefilled his exhausted lungs the vertigo left him and he knew that so\r\nintently had he listened that he had held his breath almost to\r\nsuffocation. The revelation was vexatious; he arose, pushed away the\r\nchair with his foot and strode to the centre of the room. But one does\r\nnot stride far in darkness; he began to grope, and finding the wall\r\nfollowed it to an angle, turned, followed it past the two windows and\r\nthere in another corner came into violent contact with the\r\nreading-stand, overturning it. It made a clatter that startled him. He\r\nwas annoyed. "How the devil could I have forgotten where it was?" he\r\nmuttered, and groped his way along the third wall to the fireplace. "I\r\nmust put things to rights," said he, feeling the floor for the candle.\r\n\r\nHaving recovered that, he lighted it and instantly turned his eyes to\r\nthe table, where, naturally, nothing had undergone any change. The\r\nreading-stand lay unobserved upon the floor: he had forgotten to "put it\r\nto rights." He looked all about the room, dispersing the deeper shadows\r\nby movements of the candle in his hand, and crossing over to the door\r\ntested it by turning and pulling the knob with all his strength. It did\r\nnot yield and this seemed to afford him a certain satisfaction; indeed,\r\nhe secured it more firmly by a bolt which he had not before observed.\r\nReturning to his chair, he looked at his watch; it was half-past nine.\r\nWith a start of surprise he held the watch at his ear. It had not\r\nstopped. The candle was now visibly shorter. He again extinguished it,\r\nplacing it on the floor at his side as before.\r\n\r\nMr. Jarette was not at his ease; he was distinctly dissatisfied with his\r\nsurroundings, and with himself for being so. "What have I to fear?" he\r\nthought. "This is ridiculous and disgraceful; I will not be so great a\r\nfool." But courage does not come of saying, "I will be courageous," nor\r\nof recognizing its appropriateness to the occasion. The more Jarette\r\ncondemned himself, the more reason he gave himself for condemnation; the\r\ngreater the number of variations which he played upon the simple theme\r\nof the harmlessness of the dead, the more insupportable grew the discord\r\nof his emotions. "What!" he cried aloud in the anguish of his spirit,\r\n"what! shall I, who have not a shade of superstition in my nature--I,\r\nwho have no belief in immortality--I, who know (and never more clearly\r\nthan now) that the after-life is the dream of a desire--shall I lose at\r\nonce my bet, my honor and my self-respect, perhaps my reason, because\r\ncertain savage ancestors dwelling in caves and burrows conceived the\r\nmonstrous notion that the dead walk by night?--that--" Distinctly,\r\nunmistakably, Mr. Jarette heard behind him a light, soft sound of\r\nfootfalls, deliberate, regular, successively nearer!\r\n\r\nIV\r\n\r\nJust before daybreak the next morning Dr. Helberson and his young\r\nfriend Harper were driving slowly through the streets of North Beach in\r\nthe doctor\'s coupé.\r\n\r\n"Have you still the confidence of youth in the courage or stolidity of\r\nyour friend?" said the elder man. "Do you believe that I have lost this\r\nwager?"\r\n\r\n"I _know_ you have," replied the other, with enfeebling emphasis.\r\n\r\n"Well, upon my soul, I hope so."\r\n\r\nIt was spoken earnestly, almost solemnly. There was a silence for a few\r\nmoments.\r\n\r\n"Harper," the doctor resumed, looking very serious in the shifting\r\nhalf-lights that entered the carriage as they passed the street lamps,\r\n"I don\'t feel altogether comfortable about this business. If your friend\r\nhad not irritated me by the contemptuous manner in which he treated my\r\ndoubt of his endurance--a purely physical quality--and by the cool\r\nincivility of his suggestion that the corpse be that of a physician, I\r\nshould not have gone on with it. If anything should happen we are\r\nruined, as I fear we deserve to be."\r\n\r\n"What can happen? Even if the matter should be taking a serious turn, of\r\nwhich I am not at all afraid, Mancher has only to \'resurrect\' himself\r\nand explain matters. With a genuine \'subject\' from the dissecting-room,\r\nor one of your late patients, it might be different."\r\n\r\nDr. Mancher, then, had been as good as his promise; he was the "corpse."\r\n\r\nDr. Helberson was silent for a long time, as the carriage, at a snail\'s\r\npace, crept along the same street it had traveled two or three times\r\nalready. Presently he spoke: "Well, let us hope that Mancher, if he has\r\nhad to rise from the dead, has been discreet about it. A mistake in that\r\nmight make matters worse instead of better."\r\n\r\n"Yes," said Harper, "Jarette would kill him. But, Doctor"--looking at\r\nhis watch as the carriage passed a gas lamp--"it is nearly four o\'clock\r\nat last."\r\n\r\nA moment later the two had quitted the vehicle and were walking briskly\r\ntoward the long-unoccupied house belonging to the doctor in which they\r\nhad immured Mr. Jarette in accordance with the terms of the mad wager.\r\nAs they neared it they met a man running. "Can you tell me," he cried,\r\nsuddenly checking his speed, "where I can find a doctor?"\r\n\r\n"What\'s the matter?" Helberson asked, non-committal.\r\n\r\n"Go and see for yourself," said the man, resuming his running.\r\n\r\nThey hastened on. Arrived at the house, they saw several persons\r\nentering in haste and excitement. In some of the dwellings near by and\r\nacross the way the chamber windows were thrown up, showing a protrusion\r\nof heads. All heads were asking questions, none heeding the questions of\r\nthe others. A few of the windows with closed blinds were illuminated;\r\nthe inmates of those rooms were dressing to come down. Exactly opposite\r\nthe door of the house that they sought a street lamp threw a yellow,\r\ninsufficient light upon the scene, seeming to say that it could disclose\r\na good deal more if it wished. Harper paused at the door and laid a hand\r\nupon his companion\'s arm. "It is all up with us, Doctor," he said in\r\nextreme agitation, which contrasted strangely with his free-and-easy\r\nwords; "the game has gone against us all. Let\'s not go in there; I\'m for\r\nlying low."\r\n\r\n"I\'m a physician," said Dr. Helberson, calmly; "there may be need of\r\none."\r\n\r\nThey mounted the doorsteps and were about to enter. The door was open;\r\nthe street lamp opposite lighted the passage into which it opened. It\r\nwas full of men. Some had ascended the stairs at the farther end, and,\r\ndenied admittance above, waited for better fortune. All were talking,\r\nnone listening. Suddenly, on the upper landing there was a great\r\ncommotion; a man had sprung out of a door and was breaking away from\r\nthose endeavoring to detain him. Down through the mass of affrighted\r\nidlers he came, pushing them aside, flattening them against the wall on\r\none side, or compelling them to cling to the rail on the other,\r\nclutching them by the throat, striking them savagely, thrusting them\r\nback down the stairs and walking over the fallen. His clothing was in\r\ndisorder, he was without a hat. His eyes, wild and restless, had in them\r\nsomething more terrifying than his apparently superhuman strength. His\r\nface, smooth-shaven, was bloodless, his hair frost-white.\r\n\r\nAs the crowd at the foot of the stairs, having more freedom, fell away\r\nto let him pass Harper sprang forward. "Jarette! Jarette!" he cried.\r\n\r\nDr. Helberson seized Harper by the collar and dragged him back. The man\r\nlooked into their faces without seeming to see them and sprang through\r\nthe door, down the steps, into the street, and away. A stout policeman,\r\nwho had had inferior success in conquering his way down the stairway,\r\nfollowed a moment later and started in pursuit, all the heads in the\r\nwindows--those of women and children now--screaming in guidance.\r\n\r\nThe stairway being now partly cleared, most of the crowd having rushed\r\ndown to the street to observe the flight and pursuit, Dr. Helberson\r\nmounted to the landing, followed by Harper. At a door in the upper\r\npassage an officer denied them admittance. "We are physicians," said the\r\ndoctor, and they passed in. The room was full of men, dimly seen,\r\ncrowded about a table. The newcomers edged their way forward and looked\r\nover the shoulders of those in the front rank. Upon the table, the lower\r\nlimbs covered with a sheet, lay the body of a man, brilliantly\r\nilluminated by the beam of a bull\'s-eye lantern held by a policeman\r\nstanding at the feet. The others, excepting those near the head--the\r\nofficer himself--all were in darkness. The face of the body showed\r\nyellow, repulsive, horrible! The eyes were partly open and upturned and\r\nthe jaw fallen; traces of froth defiled the lips, the chin, the cheeks.\r\nA tall man, evidently a doctor, bent over the body with his hand thrust\r\nunder the shirt front. He withdrew it and placed two fingers in the open\r\nmouth. "This man has been about six hours dead," said he. "It is a case\r\nfor the coroner."\r\n\r\nHe drew a card from his pocket, handed it to the officer and made his\r\nway toward the door.\r\n\r\n"Clear the room--out, all!" said the officer, sharply, and the body\r\ndisappeared as if it had been snatched away, as shifting the lantern he\r\nflashed its beam of light here and there against the faces of the crowd.\r\nThe effect was amazing! The men, blinded, confused, almost terrified,\r\nmade a tumultuous rush for the door, pushing, crowding, and tumbling\r\nover one another as they fled, like the hosts of Night before the shafts\r\nof Apollo. Upon the struggling, trampling mass the officer poured his\r\nlight without pity and without cessation. Caught in the current,\r\nHelberson and Harper were swept out of the room and cascaded down the\r\nstairs into the street.\r\n\r\n"Good God, Doctor! did I not tell you that Jarette would kill him?" said\r\nHarper, as soon as they were clear of the crowd.\r\n\r\n"I believe you did," replied the other, without apparent emotion.\r\n\r\nThey walked on in silence, block after block. Against the graying east\r\nthe dwellings of the hill tribes showed in silhouette. The familiar milk\r\nwagon was already astir in the streets; the baker\'s man would soon come\r\nupon the scene; the newspaper carrier was abroad in the land.\r\n\r\n"It strikes me, youngster," said Helberson, "that you and I have been\r\nhaving too much of the morning air lately. It is unwholesome; we need a\r\nchange. What do you say to a tour in Europe?"\r\n\r\n"When?"\r\n\r\n"I\'m not particular. I should suppose that four o\'clock this afternoon\r\nwould be early enough."\r\n\r\n"I\'ll meet you at the boat," said Harper.\r\n\r\nSeven years afterward these two men sat upon a bench in Madison Square,\r\nNew York, in familiar conversation. Another man, who had been observing\r\nthem for some time, himself unobserved, approached and, courteously\r\nlifting his hat from locks as white as frost, said: "I beg your pardon,\r\ngentlemen, but when you have killed a man by coming to life, it is best\r\nto change clothes with him, and at the first opportunity make a break\r\nfor liberty."\r\n\r\nHelberson and Harper exchanged significant glances. They were obviously\r\namused. The former then looked the stranger kindly in the eye and\r\nreplied:\r\n\r\n"That has always been my plan. I entirely agree with you as to its\r\nadvant--"\r\n\r\nHe stopped suddenly, rose and went white. He stared at the man,\r\nopen-mouthed; he trembled visibly.\r\n\r\n"Ah!" said the stranger, "I see that you are indisposed, Doctor. If you\r\ncannot treat yourself Dr. Harper can do something for you, I am sure."\r\n\r\n"Who the devil are you?" said Harper, bluntly.\r\n\r\nThe stranger came nearer and, bending toward them, said in a whisper: "I\r\ncall myself Jarette sometimes, but I don\'t mind telling you, for old\r\nfriendship, that I am Dr. William Mancher."\r\n\r\nThe revelation brought Harper to his feet. "Mancher!" he cried; and\r\nHelberson added: "It is true, by God!"\r\n\r\n"Yes," said the stranger, smiling vaguely, "it is true enough, no\r\ndoubt."\r\n\r\nHe hesitated and seemed to be trying to recall something, then began\r\nhumming a popular air. He had apparently forgotten their presence.\r\n\r\n"Look here, Mancher," said the elder of the two, "tell us just what\r\noccurred that night--to Jarette, you know."\r\n\r\n"Oh, yes, about Jarette," said the other. "It\'s odd I should have\r\nneglected to tell you--I tell it so often. You see I knew, by\r\nover-hearing him talking to himself, that he was pretty badly\r\nfrightened. So I couldn\'t resist the temptation to come to life and have\r\na bit of fun out of him--I couldn\'t really. That was all right, though\r\ncertainly I did not think he would take it so seriously; I did not,\r\ntruly. And afterward--well, it was a tough job changing places with him,\r\nand then--damn you! you didn\'t let me out!"\r\n\r\nNothing could exceed the ferocity with which these last words were\r\ndelivered. Both men stepped back in alarm.\r\n\r\n"We?--why--why," Helberson stammered, losing his self-possession\r\nutterly, "we had nothing to do with it."\r\n\r\n"Didn\'t I say you were Drs. Hell-born and Sharper?" inquired the man,\r\nlaughing.\r\n\r\n"My name is Helberson, yes; and this gentleman is Mr. Harper," replied\r\nthe former, reassured by the laugh. "But we are not physicians now; we\r\nare--well, hang it, old man, we are gamblers."\r\n\r\nAnd that was the truth.\r\n\r\n"A very good profession--very good, indeed; and, by the way, I hope\r\nSharper here paid over Jarette\'s money like an honest stakeholder. A\r\nvery good and honorable profession," he repeated, thoughtfully, moving\r\ncarelessly away; "but I stick to the old one. I am High Supreme Medical\r\nOfficer of the Bloomingdale Asylum; it is my duty to cure the\r\nsuperintendent."\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE MAN AND THE SNAKE\r\n\r\n It is of veritabyll report, and attested of so many that there be nowe\r\n of wyse and learned none to gaynsaye it, that y\'e serpente hys eye\r\n hath a magnetick propertie that whosoe falleth into its svasion is\r\n drawn forwards in despyte of his wille, and perisheth miserabyll by\r\n y\'e creature hys byte.\r\n\r\nStretched at ease upon a sofa, in gown and slippers, Harker Brayton\r\nsmiled as he read the foregoing sentence in old Morryster\'s _Marvells of\r\nScience._ "The only marvel in the matter," he said to himself, "is that\r\nthe wise and learned in Morryster\'s day should have believed such\r\nnonsense as is rejected by most of even the ignorant in ours." A train\r\nof reflection followed--for Brayton was a man of thought--and he\r\nunconsciously lowered his book without altering the direction of his\r\neyes. As soon as the volume had gone below the line of sight, something\r\nin an obscure corner of the room recalled his attention to his\r\nsurroundings. What he saw, in the shadow under his bed, was two small\r\npoints of light, apparently about an inch apart. They might have been\r\nreflections of the gas jet above him, in metal nail heads; he gave them\r\nbut little thought and resumed his reading. A moment later something--\r\nsome impulse which it did not occur to him to analyze--impelled him to\r\nlower the book again and seek for what he saw before. The points of\r\nlight were still there. They seemed to have become brighter than before,\r\nshining with a greenish lustre that he had not at first observed. He\r\nthought, too, that they might have moved a trifle--were somewhat nearer.\r\nThey were still too much in shadow, however, to reveal their nature and\r\norigin to an indolent attention, and again he resumed his reading.\r\nSuddenly something in the text suggested a thought that made him start\r\nand drop the book for the third time to the side of the sofa, whence,\r\nescaping from his hand, it fell sprawling to the floor, back upward.\r\nBrayton, half-risen, was staring intently into the obscurity beneath the\r\nbed, where the points of light shone with, it seemed to him, an added\r\nfire. His attention was now fully aroused, his gaze eager and\r\nimperative. It disclosed, almost directly under the foot-rail of the\r\nbed, the coils of a large serpent--the points of light were its eyes!\r\nIts horrible head, thrust flatly forth from the innermost coil and\r\nresting upon the outermost, was directed straight toward him, the\r\ndefinition of the wide, brutal jaw and the idiot-like forehead serving\r\nto show the direction of its malevolent gaze. The eyes were no longer\r\nmerely luminous points; they looked into his own with a meaning, a\r\nmalign significance.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nA snake in a bedroom of a modern city dwelling of the better sort is,\r\nhappily, not so common a phenomenon as to make explanation altogether\r\nneedless. Harker Brayton, a bachelor of thirty-five, a scholar, idler\r\nand something of an athlete, rich, popular and of sound health, had\r\nreturned to San Francisco from all manner of remote and unfamiliar\r\ncountries. His tastes, always a trifle luxurious, had taken on an added\r\nexuberance from long privation; and the resources of even the Castle\r\nHotel being inadequate to their perfect gratification, he had gladly\r\naccepted the hospitality of his friend, Dr. Druring, the distinguished\r\nscientist. Dr. Druring\'s house, a large, old-fashioned one in what is\r\nnow an obscure quarter of the city, had an outer and visible aspect of\r\nproud reserve. It plainly would not associate with the contiguous\r\nelements of its altered environment, and appeared to have developed some\r\nof the eccentricities which come of isolation. One of these was a\r\n"wing," conspicuously irrelevant in point of architecture, and no less\r\nrebellious in matter of purpose; for it was a combination of laboratory,\r\nmenagerie and museum. It was here that the doctor indulged the\r\nscientific side of his nature in the study of such forms of animal life\r\nas engaged his interest and comforted his taste--which, it must be\r\nconfessed, ran rather to the lower types. For one of the higher nimbly\r\nand sweetly to recommend itself unto his gentle senses it had at least\r\nto retain certain rudimentary characteristics allying it to such\r\n"dragons of the prime" as toads and snakes. His scientific sympathies\r\nwere distinctly reptilian; he loved nature\'s vulgarians and described\r\nhimself as the Zola of zoölogy. His wife and daughters not having the\r\nadvantage to share his enlightened curiosity regarding the works and\r\nways of our ill-starred fellow-creatures, were with needless austerity\r\nexcluded from what he called the Snakery and doomed to companionship\r\nwith their own kind, though to soften the rigors of their lot he had\r\npermitted them out of his great wealth to outdo the reptiles in the\r\ngorgeousness of their surroundings and to shine with a superior\r\nsplendor.\r\n\r\nArchitecturally and in point of "furnishing" the Snakery had a severe\r\nsimplicity befitting the humble circumstances of its occupants, many of\r\nwhom, indeed, could not safely have been intrusted with the liberty that\r\nis necessary to the full enjoyment of luxury, for they had the\r\ntroublesome peculiarity of being alive. In their own apartments,\r\nhowever, they were under as little personal restraint as was compatible\r\nwith their protection from the baneful habit of swallowing one another;\r\nand, as Brayton had thoughtfully been apprised, it was more than a\r\ntradition that some of them had at divers times been found in parts of\r\nthe premises where it would have embarrassed them to explain their\r\npresence. Despite the Snakery and its uncanny associations--to which,\r\nindeed, he gave little attention--Brayton found life at the Druring\r\nmansion very much to his mind.\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nBeyond a smart shock of surprise and a shudder of mere loathing Mr.\r\nBrayton was not greatly affected. His first thought was to ring the call\r\nbell and bring a servant; but although the bell cord dangled within easy\r\nreach he made no movement toward it; it had occurred to his mind that\r\nthe act might subject him to the suspicion of fear, which he certainly\r\ndid not feel. He was more keenly conscious of the incongruous nature of\r\nthe situation than affected by its perils; it was revolting, but absurd.\r\n\r\nThe reptile was of a species with which Brayton was unfamiliar. Its\r\nlength he could only conjecture; the body at the largest visible part\r\nseemed about as thick as his forearm. In what way was it dangerous, if\r\nin any way? Was it venomous? Was it a constrictor? His knowledge of\r\nnature\'s danger signals did not enable him to say; he had never\r\ndeciphered the code.\r\n\r\nIf not dangerous the creature was at least offensive. It was _de trop_--\r\n"matter out of place"--an impertinence. The gem was unworthy of the\r\nsetting. Even the barbarous taste of our time and country, which had\r\nloaded the walls of the room with pictures, the floor with furniture and\r\nthe furniture with bric-a-brac, had not quite fitted the place for this\r\nbit of the savage life of the jungle. Besides--insupportable thought!--\r\nthe exhalations of its breath mingled with the atmosphere which he\r\nhimself was breathing.\r\n\r\nThese thoughts shaped themselves with greater or less definition in\r\nBrayton\'s mind and begot action. The process is what we call\r\nconsideration and decision. It is thus that we are wise and unwise. It\r\nis thus that the withered leaf in an autumn breeze shows greater or less\r\nintelligence than its fellows, falling upon the land or upon the lake.\r\nThe secret of human action is an open one: something contracts our\r\nmuscles. Does it matter if we give to the preparatory molecular changes\r\nthe name of will?\r\n\r\nBrayton rose to his feet and prepared to back softly away from the\r\nsnake, without disturbing it if possible, and through the door. Men\r\nretire so from the presence of the great, for greatness is power and\r\npower is a menace. He knew that he could walk backward without error.\r\nShould the monster follow, the taste which had plastered the walls with\r\npaintings had consistently supplied a rack of murderous Oriental weapons\r\nfrom which he could snatch one to suit the occasion. In the mean time\r\nthe snake\'s eyes burned with a more pitiless malevolence than before.\r\n\r\nBrayton lifted his right foot free of the floor to step backward. That\r\nmoment he felt a strong aversion to doing so.\r\n\r\n"I am accounted brave," he thought; "is bravery, then, no more than\r\npride? Because there are none to witness the shame shall I retreat?"\r\n\r\nHe was steadying himself with his right hand upon the back of a chair,\r\nhis foot suspended.\r\n\r\n"Nonsense!" he said aloud; "I am not so great a coward as to fear to\r\nseem to myself afraid."\r\n\r\nHe lifted the foot a little higher by slightly bending the knee and\r\nthrust it sharply to the floor--an inch in front of the other! He could\r\nnot think how that occurred. A trial with the left foot had the same\r\nresult; it was again in advance of the right. The hand upon the chair\r\nback was grasping it; the arm was straight, reaching somewhat backward.\r\nOne might have said that he was reluctant to lose his hold. The snake\'s\r\nmalignant head was still thrust forth from the inner coil as before, the\r\nneck level. It had not moved, but its eyes were now electric sparks,\r\nradiating an infinity of luminous needles.\r\n\r\nThe man had an ashy pallor. Again he took a step forward, and another,\r\npartly dragging the chair, which when finally released fell upon the\r\nfloor with a crash. The man groaned; the snake made neither sound nor\r\nmotion, but its eyes were two dazzling suns. The reptile itself was\r\nwholly concealed by them. They gave off enlarging rings of rich and\r\nvivid colors, which at their greatest expansion successively vanished\r\nlike soap-bubbles; they seemed to approach his very face, and anon were\r\nan immeasurable distance away. He heard, somewhere, the continuous\r\nthrobbing of a great drum, with desultory bursts of far music,\r\ninconceivably sweet, like the tones of an æolian harp. He knew it for\r\nthe sunrise melody of Memnon\'s statue, and thought he stood in the\r\nNileside reeds hearing with exalted sense that immortal anthem through\r\nthe silence of the centuries.\r\n\r\nThe music ceased; rather, it became by insensible degrees the distant\r\nroll of a retreating thunder-storm. A landscape, glittering with sun and\r\nrain, stretched before him, arched with a vivid rainbow framing in its\r\ngiant curve a hundred visible cities. In the middle distance a vast\r\nserpent, wearing a crown, reared its head out of its voluminous\r\nconvolutions and looked at him with his dead mother\'s eyes. Suddenly\r\nthis enchanting landscape seemed to rise swiftly upward like the drop\r\nscene at a theatre, and vanished in a blank. Something struck him a hard\r\nblow upon the face and breast. He had fallen to the floor; the blood ran\r\nfrom his broken nose and his bruised lips. For a time he was dazed and\r\nstunned, and lay with closed eyes, his face against the floor. In a few\r\nmoments he had recovered, and then knew that this fall, by withdrawing\r\nhis eyes, had broken the spell that held him. He felt that now, by\r\nkeeping his gaze averted, he would be able to retreat. But the thought\r\nof the serpent within a few feet of his head, yet unseen--perhaps in the\r\nvery act of springing upon him and throwing its coils about his throat--\r\nwas too horrible! He lifted his head, stared again into those baleful\r\neyes and was again in bondage.\r\n\r\nThe snake had not moved and appeared somewhat to have lost its power\r\nupon the imagination; the gorgeous illusions of a few moments before\r\nwere not repeated. Beneath that flat and brainless brow its black, beady\r\neyes simply glittered as at first with an expression unspeakably\r\nmalignant. It was as if the creature, assured of its triumph, had\r\ndetermined to practise no more alluring wiles.\r\n\r\nNow ensued a fearful scene. The man, prone upon the floor, within a yard\r\nof his enemy, raised the upper part of his body upon his elbows, his\r\nhead thrown back, his legs extended to their full length. His face was\r\nwhite between its stains of blood; his eyes were strained open to their\r\nuttermost expansion. There was froth upon his lips; it dropped off in\r\nflakes. Strong convulsions ran through his body, making almost\r\nserpentile undulations. He bent himself at the waist, shifting his legs\r\nfrom side to side. And every movement left him a little nearer to the\r\nsnake. He thrust his hands forward to brace himself back, yet constantly\r\nadvanced upon his elbows.\r\n\r\nIV\r\n\r\nDr. Druring and his wife sat in the library. The scientist was in rare\r\ngood humor.\r\n\r\n"I have just obtained by exchange with another collector," he said, "a\r\nsplendid specimen of the _ophiophagus_."\r\n\r\n"And what may that be?" the lady inquired with a somewhat languid\r\ninterest.\r\n\r\n"Why, bless my soul, what profound ignorance! My dear, a man who\r\nascertains after marriage that his wife does not know Greek is entitled\r\nto a divorce. The _ophiophagus_ is a snake that eats other snakes."\r\n\r\n"I hope it will eat all yours," she said, absently shifting the lamp.\r\n"But how does it get the other snakes? By charming them, I suppose."\r\n\r\n"That is just like you, dear," said the doctor, with an affectation of\r\npetulance. "You know how irritating to me is any allusion to that vulgar\r\nsuperstition about a snake\'s power of fascination."\r\n\r\nThe conversation was interrupted by a mighty cry, which rang through the\r\nsilent house like the voice of a demon shouting in a tomb! Again and yet\r\nagain it sounded, with terrible distinctness. They sprang to their feet,\r\nthe man confused, the lady pale and speechless with fright. Almost\r\nbefore the echoes of the last cry had died away the doctor was out of\r\nthe room, springing up the stairs two steps at a time. In the corridor\r\nin front of Brayton\'s chamber he met some servants who had come from the\r\nupper floor. Together they rushed at the door without knocking. It was\r\nunfastened and gave way. Brayton lay upon his stomach on the floor,\r\ndead. His head and arms were partly concealed under the foot rail of the\r\nbed. They pulled the body away, turning it upon the back. The face was\r\ndaubed with blood and froth, the eyes were wide open, staring--a\r\ndreadful sight!\r\n\r\n"Died in a fit," said the scientist, bending his knee and placing his\r\nhand upon the heart. While in that position, he chanced to look under\r\nthe bed. "Good God!" he added, "how did this thing get in here?"\r\n\r\nHe reached under the bed, pulled out the snake and flung it, still\r\ncoiled, to the center of the room, whence with a harsh, shuffling sound\r\nit slid across the polished floor till stopped by the wall, where it lay\r\nwithout motion. It was a stuffed snake; its eyes were two shoe buttons.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA HOLY TERROR\r\n\r\nI\r\n\r\nThere was an entire lack of interest in the latest arrival at\r\nHurdy-Gurdy. He was not even christened with the picturesquely\r\ndescriptive nick-name which is so frequently a mining camp\'s word of\r\nwelcome to the newcomer. In almost any other camp thereabout this\r\ncircumstance would of itself have secured him some such appellation as\r\n"The White-headed Conundrum," or "No Sarvey"--an expression naively\r\nsupposed to suggest to quick intelligences the Spanish _quien sabe_. He\r\ncame without provoking a ripple of concern upon the social surface of\r\nHurdy-Gurdy--a place which to the general Californian contempt of men\'s\r\npersonal history superadded a local indifference of its own. The time\r\nwas long past when it was of any importance who came there, or if\r\nanybody came. No one was living at Hurdy-Gurdy.\r\n\r\nTwo years before, the camp had boasted a stirring population of two or\r\nthree thousand males and not fewer than a dozen females. A majority of\r\nthe former had done a few weeks\' earnest work in demonstrating, to the\r\ndisgust of the latter, the singularly mendacious character of the person\r\nwhose ingenious tales of rich gold deposits had lured them thither--\r\nwork, by the way, in which there was as little mental satisfaction as\r\npecuniary profit; for a bullet from the pistol of a public-spirited\r\ncitizen had put that imaginative gentleman beyond the reach of aspersion\r\non the third day of the camp\'s existence. Still, his fiction had a\r\ncertain foundation in fact, and many had lingered a considerable time in\r\nand about Hurdy-Gurdy, though now all had been long gone.\r\n\r\nBut they had left ample evidence of their sojourn. From the point where\r\nInjun Creek falls into the Rio San Juan Smith, up along both banks of\r\nthe former into the cañon whence it emerges, extended a double row of\r\nforlorn shanties that seemed about to fall upon one another\'s neck to\r\nbewail their desolation; while about an equal number appeared to have\r\nstraggled up the slope on either hand and perched themselves upon\r\ncommanding eminences, whence they craned forward to get a good view of\r\nthe affecting scene. Most of these habitations were emaciated as by\r\nfamine to the condition of mere skeletons, about which clung unlovely\r\ntatters of what might have been skin, but was really canvas. The little\r\nvalley itself, torn and gashed by pick and shovel, was unhandsome with\r\nlong, bending lines of decaying flume resting here and there upon the\r\nsummits of sharp ridges, and stilting awkwardly across the intervals\r\nupon unhewn poles. The whole place presented that raw and forbidding\r\naspect of arrested development which is a new country\'s substitute for\r\nthe solemn grace of ruin wrought by time. Wherever there remained a\r\npatch of the original soil a rank overgrowth of weeds and brambles had\r\nspread upon the scene, and from its dank, unwholesome shades the visitor\r\ncurious in such matters might have obtained numberless souvenirs of the\r\ncamp\'s former glory--fellowless boots mantled with green mould and\r\nplethoric of rotting leaves; an occasional old felt hat; desultory\r\nremnants of a flannel shirt; sardine boxes inhumanly mutilated and a\r\nsurprising profusion of black bottles distributed with a truly catholic\r\nimpartiality, everywhere.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nThe man who had now rediscovered Hurdy-Gurdy was evidently not curious\r\nas to its archæology. Nor, as he looked about him upon the dismal\r\nevidences of wasted work and broken hopes, their dispiriting\r\nsignificance accentuated by the ironical pomp of a cheap gilding by the\r\nrising sun, did he supplement his sigh of weariness by one of\r\nsensibility. He simply removed from the back of his tired burro a\r\nminer\'s outfit a trifle larger than the animal itself, picketed that\r\ncreature and selecting a hatchet from his kit moved off at once across\r\nthe dry bed of Injun Creek to the top of a low, gravelly hill beyond.\r\n\r\nStepping across a prostrate fence of brush and boards he picked up one\r\nof the latter, split it into five parts and sharpened them at one end.\r\nHe then began a kind of search, occasionally stooping to examine\r\nsomething with close attention. At last his patient scrutiny appeared to\r\nbe rewarded with success, for he suddenly erected his figure to its full\r\nheight, made a gesture of satisfaction, pronounced the word "Scarry" and\r\nat once strode away with long, equal steps, which he counted. Then he\r\nstopped and drove one of his stakes into the earth. He then looked\r\ncarefully about him, measured off a number of paces over a singularly\r\nuneven ground and hammered in another. Pacing off twice the distance at\r\na right angle to his former course he drove down a third, and repeating\r\nthe process sank home the fourth, and then a fifth. This he split at the\r\ntop and in the cleft inserted an old letter envelope covered with an\r\nintricate system of pencil tracks. In short, he staked off a hill claim\r\nin strict accordance with the local mining laws of Hurdy-Gurdy and put\r\nup the customary notice.\r\n\r\nIt is necessary to explain that one of the adjuncts to Hurdy-Gurdy--one\r\nto which that metropolis became afterward itself an adjunct--was a\r\ncemetery. In the first week of the camp\'s existence this had been\r\nthoughtfully laid out by a committee of citizens. The day after had been\r\nsignalized by a debate between two members of the committee, with\r\nreference to a more eligible site, and on the third day the necropolis\r\nwas inaugurated by a double funeral. As the camp had waned the cemetery\r\nhad waxed; and long before the ultimate inhabitant, victorious alike\r\nover the insidious malaria and the forthright revolver, had turned the\r\ntail of his pack-ass upon Injun Creek the outlying settlement had become\r\na populous if not popular suburb. And now, when the town was fallen into\r\nthe sere and yellow leaf of an unlovely senility, the graveyard--though\r\nsomewhat marred by time and circumstance, and not altogether exempt from\r\ninnovations in grammar and experiments in orthography, to say nothing of\r\nthe devastating coyote--answered the humble needs of its denizens with\r\nreasonable completeness. It comprised a generous two acres of ground,\r\nwhich with commendable thrift but needless care had been selected for\r\nits mineral unworth, contained two or three skeleton trees (one of which\r\nhad a stout lateral branch from which a weather-wasted rope still\r\nsignificantly dangled), half a hundred gravelly mounds, a score of rude\r\nheadboards displaying the literary peculiarities above mentioned and a\r\nstruggling colony of prickly pears. Altogether, God\'s Location, as with\r\ncharacteristic reverence it had been called, could justly boast of an\r\nindubitably superior quality of desolation. It was in the most thickly\r\nsettled part of this interesting demesne that Mr. Jefferson Doman staked\r\noff his claim. If in the prosecution of his design he should deem it\r\nexpedient to remove any of the dead they would have the right to be\r\nsuitably reinterred.\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nThis Mr. Jefferson Doman was from Elizabethtown, New Jersey, where six\r\nyears before he had left his heart in the keeping of a golden-haired,\r\ndemure-mannered young woman named Mary Matthews, as collateral security\r\nfor his return to claim her hand.\r\n\r\n"I just _know_ you\'ll never get back alive--you never do succeed in\r\nanything," was the remark which illustrated Miss Matthews\'s notion of\r\nwhat constituted success and, inferentially, her view of the nature of\r\nencouragement. She added: "If you don\'t I\'ll go to California too. I can\r\nput the coins in little bags as you dig them out."\r\n\r\nThis characteristically feminine theory of auriferous deposits did not\r\ncommend itself to the masculine intelligence: it was Mr. Doman\'s belief\r\nthat gold was found in a liquid state. He deprecated her intent with\r\nconsiderable enthusiasm, suppressed her sobs with a light hand upon her\r\nmouth, laughed in her eyes as he kissed away her tears, and with a\r\ncheerful "Ta-ta" went to California to labor for her through the long,\r\nloveless years, with a strong heart, an alert hope and a steadfast\r\nfidelity that never for a moment forgot what it was about. In the\r\nmean time, Miss Matthews had granted a monopoly of her humble talent for\r\nsacking up coins to Mr. Jo. Seeman, of New York, gambler, by whom it was\r\nbetter appreciated than her commanding genius for unsacking and\r\nbestowing them upon his local rivals. Of this latter aptitude, indeed,\r\nhe manifested his disapproval by an act which secured him the position\r\nof clerk of the laundry in the State prison, and for her the _sobriquet_\r\nof "Split-faced Moll." At about this time she wrote to Mr. Doman a\r\ntouching letter of renunciation, inclosing her photograph to prove that\r\nshe had no longer had a right to indulge the dream of becoming Mrs.\r\nDoman, and recounting so graphically her fall from a horse that the\r\nstaid "plug" upon which Mr. Doman had ridden into Red Dog to get the\r\nletter made vicarious atonement under the spur all the way back to camp.\r\nThe letter failed in a signal way to accomplish its object; the fidelity\r\nwhich had before been to Mr. Doman a matter of love and duty was\r\nthenceforth a matter of honor also; and the photograph, showing the once\r\npretty face sadly disfigured as by the slash of a knife, was duly\r\ninstated in his affections and its more comely predecessor treated with\r\ncontumelious neglect. On being informed of this, Miss Matthews, it is\r\nonly fair to say, appeared less surprised than from the apparently low\r\nestimate of Mr. Doman\'s generosity which the tone of her former letter\r\nattested one would naturally have expected her to be. Soon after,\r\nhowever, her letters grew infrequent, and then ceased altogether.\r\n\r\nBut Mr. Doman had another correspondent, Mr. Barney Bree, of\r\nHurdy-Gurdy, formerly of Red Dog. This gentleman, although a notable\r\nfigure among miners, was not a miner. His knowledge of mining consisted\r\nmainly in a marvelous command of its slang, to which he made copious\r\ncontributions, enriching its vocabulary with a wealth of uncommon\r\nphrases more remarkable for their aptness than their refinement, and\r\nwhich impressed the unlearned "tenderfoot" with a lively sense of the\r\nprofundity of their inventor\'s acquirements. When not entertaining a\r\ncircle of admiring auditors from San Francisco or the East he could\r\ncommonly be found pursuing the comparatively obscure industry of\r\nsweeping out the various dance houses and purifying the cuspidors.\r\n\r\nBarney had apparently but two passions in life--love of Jefferson Doman,\r\nwho had once been of some service to him, and love of whisky, which\r\ncertainly had not. He had been among the first in the rush to\r\nHurdy-Gurdy, but had not prospered, and had sunk by degrees to the\r\nposition of grave digger. This was not a vocation, but Barney in a\r\ndesultory way turned his trembling hand to it whenever some local\r\nmisunderstanding at the card table and his own partial recovery from a\r\nprolonged debauch occurred coincidently in point of time. One day Mr.\r\nDoman received, at Red Dog, a letter with the simple postmark, "Hurdy,\r\nCal.," and being occupied with another matter, carelessly thrust it into\r\na chink of his cabin for future perusal. Some two years later it was\r\naccidentally dislodged and he read it. It ran as follows:--\r\n\r\n HURDY, June 6.\r\n\r\n FRIEND JEFF: I\'ve hit her hard in the boneyard. She\'s blind and lousy.\r\n I\'m on the divvy--that\'s me, and mum\'s my lay till you toot.\r\n Yours, BARNEY.\r\n\r\n P.S.--I\'ve clayed her with Scarry.\r\n\r\nWith some knowledge of the general mining camp _argot_ and of Mr. Bree\'s\r\nprivate system for the communication of ideas Mr. Doman had no\r\ndifficulty in understanding by this uncommon epistle that Barney while\r\nperforming his duty as grave digger had uncovered a quartz ledge with no\r\noutcroppings; that it was visibly rich in free gold; that, moved by\r\nconsiderations of friendship, he was willing to accept Mr. Doman as a\r\npartner and awaiting that gentleman\'s declaration of his will in the\r\nmatter would discreetly keep the discovery a secret. From the postscript\r\nit was plainly inferable that in order to conceal the treasure he had\r\nburied above it the mortal part of a person named Scarry.\r\n\r\nFrom subsequent events, as related to Mr. Doman at Red Dog, it would\r\nappear that before taking this precaution Mr. Bree must have had the\r\nthrift to remove a modest competency of the gold; at any rate, it was at\r\nabout that time that he entered upon that memorable series of potations\r\nand treatings which is still one of the cherished traditions of the San\r\nJuan Smith country, and is spoken of with respect as far away as Ghost\r\nRock and Lone Hand. At its conclusion some former citizens of\r\nHurdy-Gurdy, for whom he had performed the last kindly office at the\r\ncemetery, made room for him among them, and he rested well.\r\n\r\nIV\r\n\r\nHaving finished staking off his claim Mr. Doman walked back to the\r\ncentre of it and stood again at the spot where his search among the\r\ngraves had expired in the exclamation, "Scarry." He bent again over the\r\nheadboard that bore that name and as if to reinforce the senses of sight\r\nand hearing ran his forefinger along the rudely carved letters.\r\nRe-erecting himself he appended orally to the simple inscription the\r\nshockingly forthright epitaph, "She was a holy terror!"\r\n\r\nHad Mr. Doman been required to make these words good with proof--as,\r\nconsidering their somewhat censorious character, he doubtless should\r\nhave been--he would have found himself embarrassed by the absence of\r\nreputable witnesses, and hearsay evidence would have been the best he\r\ncould command. At the time when Scarry had been prevalent in the mining\r\ncamps thereabout--when, as the editor of the _Hurdy Herald_ would have\r\nphrased it, she was "in the plenitude of her power"--Mr. Doman\'s\r\nfortunes had been at a low ebb, and he had led the vagrantly laborious\r\nlife of a prospector. His time had been mostly spent in the mountains,\r\nnow with one companion, now with another. It was from the admiring\r\nrecitals of these casual partners, fresh from the various camps, that\r\nhis judgment of Scarry had been made up; he himself had never had the\r\ndoubtful advantage of her acquaintance and the precarious distinction of\r\nher favor. And when, finally, on the termination of her perverse career\r\nat Hurdy-Gurdy he had read in a chance copy of the _Herald_ her\r\ncolumn-long obituary (written by the local humorist of that lively sheet\r\nin the highest style of his art) Doman had paid to her memory and to her\r\nhistoriographer\'s genius the tribute of a smile and chivalrously\r\nforgotten her. Standing now at the grave-side of this mountain Messalina\r\nhe recalled the leading events of her turbulent career, as he had heard\r\nthem celebrated at his several campfires, and perhaps with an\r\nunconscious attempt at self-justification repeated that she was a holy\r\nterror, and sank his pick into her grave up to the handle. At that\r\nmoment a raven, which had silently settled upon a branch of the blasted\r\ntree above his head, solemnly snapped its beak and uttered its mind\r\nabout the matter with an approving croak.\r\n\r\nPursuing his discovery of free gold with great zeal, which he probably\r\ncredited to his conscience as a grave digger, Mr. Barney Bree had made\r\nan unusually deep sepulcher, and it was near sunset before Mr. Doman,\r\nlaboring with the leisurely deliberation of one who has "a dead sure\r\nthing" and no fear of an adverse claimant\'s enforcement of a prior\r\nright, reached the coffin and uncovered it. When he had done so he was\r\nconfronted by a difficulty for which he had made no provision; the\r\ncoffin--a mere flat shell of not very well-preserved redwood boards,\r\napparently--had no handles, and it filled the entire bottom of the\r\nexcavation. The best he could do without violating the decent sanctities\r\nof the situation was to make the excavation sufficiently longer to\r\nenable him to stand at the head of the casket and getting his powerful\r\nhands underneath erect it upon its narrower end; and this he proceeded\r\nto do. The approach of night quickened his efforts. He had no thought of\r\nabandoning his task at this stage to resume it on the morrow under more\r\nadvantageous conditions. The feverish stimulation of cupidity and the\r\nfascination of terror held him to his dismal work with an iron\r\nauthority. He no longer idled, but wrought with a terrible zeal. His\r\nhead uncovered, his outer garments discarded, his shirt opened at the\r\nneck and thrown back from his breast, down which ran sinuous rills of\r\nperspiration, this hardy and impenitent gold-getter and grave-robber\r\ntoiled with a giant energy that almost dignified the character of his\r\nhorrible purpose; and when the sun fringes had burned themselves out\r\nalong the crest line of the western hills, and the full moon had climbed\r\nout of the shadows that lay along the purple plain, he had erected the\r\ncoffin upon its foot, where it stood propped against the end of the open\r\ngrave. Then, standing up to his neck in the earth at the opposite\r\nextreme of the excavation, as he looked at the coffin upon which the\r\nmoonlight now fell with a full illumination he was thrilled with a\r\nsudden terror to observe upon it the startling apparition of a dark\r\nhuman head--the shadow of his own. For a moment this simple and natural\r\ncircumstance unnerved him. The noise of his labored breathing frightened\r\nhim, and he tried to still it, but his bursting lungs would not be\r\ndenied. Then, laughing half-audibly and wholly without spirit, he began\r\nmaking movements of his head from side to side, in order to compel the\r\napparition to repeat them. He found a comforting reassurance in\r\nasserting his command over his own shadow. He was temporizing, making,\r\nwith unconscious prudence, a dilatory opposition to an impending\r\ncatastrophe. He felt that invisible forces of evil were closing in upon\r\nhim, and he parleyed for time with the Inevitable.\r\n\r\nHe now observed in succession several unusual circumstances. The surface\r\nof the coffin upon which his eyes were fastened was not flat; it\r\npresented two distinct ridges, one longitudinal and the other\r\ntransverse. Where these intersected at the widest part there was a\r\ncorroded metallic plate that reflected the moonlight with a dismal\r\nlustre. Along the outer edges of the coffin, at long intervals, were\r\nrust-eaten heads of nails. This frail product of the carpenter\'s art had\r\nbeen put into the grave the wrong side up!\r\n\r\nPerhaps it was one of the humors of the camp--a practical manifestation\r\nof the facetious spirit that had found literary expression in the\r\ntopsy-turvy obituary notice from the pen of Hurdy-Gurdy\'s great\r\nhumorist. Perhaps it had some occult personal signification impenetrable\r\nto understandings uninstructed in local traditions. A more charitable\r\nhypothesis is that it was owing to a misadventure on the part of Mr.\r\nBarney Bree, who, making the interment unassisted (either by choice for\r\nthe conservation of his golden secret, or through public apathy), had\r\ncommitted a blunder which he was afterward unable or unconcerned to\r\nrectify. However it had come about, poor Scarry had indubitably been put\r\ninto the earth face downward.\r\n\r\nWhen terror and absurdity make alliance, the effect is frightful. This\r\nstrong-hearted and daring man, this hardy night worker among the dead,\r\nthis defiant antagonist of darkness and desolation, succumbed to a\r\nridiculous surprise. He was smitten with a thrilling chill--shivered,\r\nand shook his massive shoulders as if to throw off an icy hand. He no\r\nlonger breathed, and the blood in his veins, unable to abate its\r\nimpetus, surged hotly beneath his cold skin. Unleavened with oxygen, it\r\nmounted to his head and congested his brain. His physical functions had\r\ngone over to the enemy; his very heart was arrayed against him. He did\r\nnot move; he could not have cried out. He needed but a coffin to be\r\ndead--as dead as the death that confronted him with only the length of\r\nan open grave and the thickness of a rotting plank between.\r\n\r\nThen, one by one, his senses returned; the tide of terror that had\r\noverwhelmed his faculties began to recede. But with the return of his\r\nsenses he became singularly unconscious of the object of his fear. He\r\nsaw the moonlight gilding the coffin, but no longer the coffin that it\r\ngilded. Raising his eyes and turning his head, he noted, curiously and\r\nwith surprise, the black branches of the dead tree, and tried to\r\nestimate the length of the weather-worn rope that dangled from its\r\nghostly hand. The monotonous barking of distant coyotes affected him as\r\nsomething he had heard years ago in a dream. An owl flapped awkwardly\r\nabove him on noiseless wings, and he tried to forecast the direction of\r\nits flight when it should encounter the cliff that reared its\r\nilluminated front a mile away. His hearing took account of a gopher\'s\r\nstealthy tread in the shadow of the cactus. He was intensely observant;\r\nhis senses were all alert; but he saw not the coffin. As one can gaze at\r\nthe sun until it looks black and then vanishes, so his mind, having\r\nexhausted its capacities of dread, was no longer conscious of the\r\nseparate existence of anything dreadful. The Assassin was cloaking the\r\nsword.\r\n\r\nIt was during this lull in the battle that he became sensible of a\r\nfaint, sickening odor. At first he thought it was that of a\r\nrattle-snake, and involuntarily tried to look about his feet. They were\r\nnearly invisible in the gloom of the grave. A hoarse, gurgling sound,\r\nlike the death-rattle in a human throat, seemed to come out of the sky,\r\nand a moment later a great, black, angular shadow, like the same sound\r\nmade visible, dropped curving from the topmost branch of the spectral\r\ntree, fluttered for an instant before his face and sailed fiercely away\r\ninto the mist along the creek.\r\n\r\nIt was the raven. The incident recalled him to a sense of the situation,\r\nand again his eyes sought the upright coffin, now illuminated by the\r\nmoon for half its length. He saw the gleam of the metallic plate and\r\ntried without moving to decipher the inscription. Then he fell to\r\nspeculating upon what was behind it. His creative imagination presented\r\nhim a vivid picture. The planks no longer seemed an obstacle to his\r\nvision and he saw the livid corpse of the dead woman, standing in\r\ngrave-clothes, and staring vacantly at him, with lidless, shrunken eyes.\r\nThe lower jaw was fallen, the upper lip drawn away from the uncovered\r\nteeth. He could make out a mottled pattern on the hollow cheeks--the\r\nmaculations of decay. By some mysterious process his mind reverted for\r\nthe first time that day to the photograph of Mary Matthews. He\r\ncontrasted its blonde beauty with the forbidding aspect of this dead\r\nface--the most beloved object that he knew with the most hideous that he\r\ncould conceive.\r\n\r\nThe Assassin now advanced and displaying the blade laid it against the\r\nvictim\'s throat. That is to say, the man became at first dimly, then\r\ndefinitely, aware of an impressive coincidence--a relation--a parallel\r\nbetween the face on the card and the name on the headboard. The one was\r\ndisfigured, the other described a disfiguration. The thought took hold\r\nof him and shook him. It transformed the face that his imagination had\r\ncreated behind the coffin lid; the contrast became a resemblance; the\r\nresemblance grew to identity. Remembering the many descriptions of\r\nScarry\'s personal appearance that he had heard from the gossips of his\r\ncamp-fire he tried with imperfect success to recall the exact nature of\r\nthe disfiguration that had given the woman her ugly name; and what was\r\nlacking in his memory fancy supplied, stamping it with the validity of\r\nconviction. In the maddening attempt to recall such scraps of the\r\nwoman\'s history as he had heard, the muscles of his arms and hands were\r\nstrained to a painful tension, as by an effort to lift a great weight.\r\nHis body writhed and twisted with the exertion. The tendons of his neck\r\nstood out as tense as whip-cords, and his breath came in short, sharp\r\ngasps. The catastrophe could not be much longer delayed, or the agony of\r\nanticipation would leave nothing to be done by the _coup de grâce_ of\r\nverification. The scarred face behind the lid would slay him through the\r\nwood.\r\n\r\nA movement of the coffin diverted his thought. It came forward to within\r\na foot of his face, growing visibly larger as it approached. The rusted\r\nmetallic plate, with an inscription illegible in the moonlight, looked\r\nhim steadily in the eye. Determined not to shrink, he tried to brace his\r\nshoulders more firmly against the end of the excavation, and nearly fell\r\nbackward in the attempt. There was nothing to support him; he had\r\nunconsciously moved upon his enemy, clutching the heavy knife that he\r\nhad drawn from his belt. The coffin had not advanced and he smiled to\r\nthink it could not retreat. Lifting his knife he struck the heavy hilt\r\nagainst the metal plate with all his power. There was a sharp, ringing\r\npercussion, and with a dull clatter the whole decayed coffin lid broke\r\nin pieces and came away, falling about his feet. The quick and the dead\r\nwere face to face--the frenzied, shrieking man--the woman standing\r\ntranquil in her silences. She was a holy terror!\r\n\r\nV\r\n\r\nSome months later a party of men and women belonging to the highest\r\nsocial circles of San Francisco passed through Hurdy-Gurdy on their way\r\nto the Yosemite Valley by a new trail. They halted for dinner and during\r\nits preparation explored the desolate camp. One of the party had been at\r\nHurdy-Gurdy in the days of its glory. He had, indeed, been one of its\r\nprominent citizens; and it used to be said that more money passed over\r\nhis faro table in any one night than over those of all his competitors\r\nin a week; but being now a millionaire engaged in greater enterprises,\r\nhe did not deem these early successes of sufficient importance to merit\r\nthe distinction of remark. His invalid wife, a lady famous in San\r\nFrancisco for the costly nature of her entertainments and her exacting\r\nrigor with regard to the social position and "antecedents" of those who\r\nattended them, accompanied the expedition. During a stroll among the\r\nshanties of the abandoned camp Mr. Porfer directed the attention of his\r\nwife and friends to a dead tree on a low hill beyond Injun Creek.\r\n\r\n"As I told you," he said, "I passed through this camp in 1852, and was\r\ntold that no fewer than five men had been hanged here by vigilantes at\r\ndifferent times, and all on that tree. If I am not mistaken, a rope is\r\ndangling from it yet. Let us go over and see the place."\r\n\r\nMr. Porfer did not add that the rope in question was perhaps the very\r\none from whose fatal embrace his own neck had once had an escape so\r\nnarrow that an hour\'s delay in taking himself out of that region would\r\nhave spanned it.\r\n\r\nProceeding leisurely down the creek to a convenient crossing, the party\r\ncame upon the cleanly picked skeleton of an animal which Mr. Porfer\r\nafter due examination pronounced to be that of an ass. The\r\ndistinguishing ears were gone, but much of the inedible head had been\r\nspared by the beasts and birds, and the stout bridle of horsehair was\r\nintact, as was the riata, of similar material, connecting it with a\r\npicket pin still firmly sunken in the earth. The wooden and metallic\r\nelements of a miner\'s kit lay near by. The customary remarks were made,\r\ncynical on the part of the men, sentimental and refined by the lady. A\r\nlittle later they stood by the tree in the cemetery and Mr. Porfer\r\nsufficiently unbent from his dignity to place himself beneath the rotten\r\nrope and confidently lay a coil of it about his neck, somewhat, it\r\nappeared, to his own satisfaction, but greatly to the horror of his\r\nwife, to whose sensibilities the performance gave a smart shock.\r\n\r\nAn exclamation from one of the party gathered them all about an open\r\ngrave, at the bottom of which they saw a confused mass of human bones\r\nand the broken remnants of a coffin. Coyotes and buzzards had performed\r\nthe last sad rites for pretty much all else. Two skulls were visible and\r\nin order to investigate this somewhat unusual redundancy one of the\r\nyounger men had the hardihood to spring into the grave and hand them up\r\nto another before Mrs. Porfer could indicate her marked disapproval of\r\nso shocking an act, which, nevertheless, she did with considerable\r\nfeeling and in very choice words. Pursuing his search among the dismal\r\ndebris at the bottom of the grave the young man next handed up a rusted\r\ncoffin plate, with a rudely cut inscription, which with difficulty Mr.\r\nPorfer deciphered and read aloud with an earnest and not altogether\r\nunsuccessful attempt at the dramatic effect which he deemed befitting to\r\nthe occasion and his rhetorical abilities:\r\n\r\n MANUELITA MURPHY.\r\n Born at the Mission San Pedro--Died in\r\n Hurdy-Gurdy,\r\n Aged 47.\r\n Hell\'s full of such.\r\n\r\nIn deference to the piety of the reader and the nerves of Mrs. Porfer\'s\r\nfastidious sisterhood of both sexes let us not touch upon the painful\r\nimpression produced by this uncommon inscription, further than to say\r\nthat the elocutionary powers of Mr. Porfer had never before met with so\r\nspontaneous and overwhelming recognition.\r\n\r\nThe next morsel that rewarded the ghoul in the grave was a long tangle\r\nof black hair defiled with clay: but this was such an anti-climax that\r\nit received little attention. Suddenly, with a short exclamation and a\r\ngesture of excitement, the young man unearthed a fragment of grayish\r\nrock, and after a hurried inspection handed it up to Mr. Porfer. As the\r\nsunlight fell upon it it glittered with a yellow luster--it was thickly\r\nstudded with gleaming points. Mr. Porfer snatched it, bent his head over\r\nit a moment and threw it lightly away with the simple remark:\r\n\r\n"Iron pyrites--fool\'s gold."\r\n\r\nThe young man in the discovery shaft was a trifle disconcerted,\r\napparently.\r\n\r\nMeanwhile, Mrs. Porfer, unable longer to endure the disagreeable\r\nbusiness, had walked back to the tree and seated herself at its root.\r\nWhile rearranging a tress of golden hair which had slipped from its\r\nconfinement she was attracted by what appeared to be and really was the\r\nfragment of an old coat. Looking about to assure herself that so\r\nunladylike an act was not observed, she thrust her jeweled hand into the\r\nexposed breast pocket and drew out a mouldy pocket-book. Its contents\r\nwere as follows:\r\n\r\nOne bundle of letters, postmarked "Elizabethtown, New Jersey."\r\n\r\nOne circle of blonde hair tied with a ribbon.\r\n\r\nOne photograph of a beautiful girl.\r\n\r\nOne ditto of same, singularly disfigured.\r\n\r\nOne name on back of photograph--"Jefferson Doman."\r\n\r\nA few moments later a group of anxious gentlemen surrounded Mrs. Porfer\r\nas she sat motionless at the foot of the tree, her head dropped forward,\r\nher fingers clutching a crushed photograph. Her husband raised her head,\r\nexposing a face ghastly white, except the long, deforming cicatrice,\r\nfamiliar to all her friends, which no art could ever hide, and which now\r\ntraversed the pallor of her countenance like a visible curse.\r\n\r\nMary Matthews Porfer had the bad luck to be dead.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SUITABLE SURROUNDINGS\r\n\r\nTHE NIGHT\r\n\r\nOne midsummer night a farmer\'s boy living about ten miles from the city\r\nof Cincinnati was following a bridle path through a dense and dark\r\nforest. He had lost himself while searching for some missing cows, and\r\nnear midnight was a long way from home, in a part of the country with\r\nwhich he was unfamiliar. But he was a stout-hearted lad, and knowing his\r\ngeneral direction from his home, he plunged into the forest without\r\nhesitation, guided by the stars. Coming into the bridle path, and\r\nobserving that it ran in the right direction, he followed it.\r\n\r\nThe night was clear, but in the woods it was exceedingly dark. It was\r\nmore by the sense of touch than by that of sight that the lad kept the\r\npath. He could not, indeed, very easily go astray; the undergrowth on\r\nboth sides was so thick as to be almost impenetrable. He had gone into\r\nthe forest a mile or more when he was surprised to see a feeble gleam of\r\nlight shining through the foliage skirting the path on his left. The\r\nsight of it startled him and set his heart beating audibly.\r\n\r\n"The old Breede house is somewhere about here," he said to himself.\r\n"This must be the other end of the path which we reach it by from our\r\nside. Ugh! what should a light be doing there?"\r\n\r\nNevertheless, he pushed on. A moment later he had emerged from the\r\nforest into a small, open space, mostly upgrown to brambles. There were\r\nremnants of a rotting fence. A few yards from the trail, in the middle\r\nof the "clearing," was the house from which the light came, through an\r\nunglazed window. The window had once contained glass, but that and its\r\nsupporting frame had long ago yielded to missiles flung by hands of\r\nventuresome boys to attest alike their courage and their hostility to\r\nthe supernatural; for the Breede house bore the evil reputation of being\r\nhaunted. Possibly it was not, but even the hardiest sceptic could not\r\ndeny that it was deserted--which in rural regions is much the same\r\nthing.\r\n\r\nLooking at the mysterious dim light shining from the ruined window the\r\nboy remembered with apprehension that his own hand had assisted at the\r\ndestruction. His penitence was of course poignant in proportion to its\r\ntardiness and inefficacy. He half expected to be set upon by all the\r\nunworldly and bodiless malevolences whom he had outraged by assisting to\r\nbreak alike their windows and their peace. Yet this stubborn lad,\r\nshaking in every limb, would not retreat. The blood in his veins was\r\nstrong and rich with the iron of the frontiersman. He was but two\r\nremoves from the generation that had subdued the Indian. He started to\r\npass the house.\r\n\r\nAs he was going by he looked in at the blank window space and saw a\r\nstrange and terrifying sight,--the figure of a man seated in the centre\r\nof the room, at a table upon which lay some loose sheets of paper. The\r\nelbows rested on the table, the hands supporting the head, which was\r\nuncovered. On each side the fingers were pushed into the hair. The face\r\nshowed dead-yellow in the light of a single candle a little to one side.\r\nThe flame illuminated that side of the face, the other was in deep\r\nshadow. The man\'s eyes were fixed upon the blank window space with a\r\nstare in which an older and cooler observer might have discerned\r\nsomething of apprehension, but which seemed to the lad altogether\r\nsoulless. He believed the man to be dead.\r\n\r\nThe situation was horrible, but not with out its fascination. The boy\r\nstopped to note it all. He was weak, faint and trembling; he could feel\r\nthe blood forsaking his face. Nevertheless, he set his teeth and\r\nresolutely advanced to the house. He had no conscious intention--it was\r\nthe mere courage of terror. He thrust his white face forward into the\r\nilluminated opening. At that instant a strange, harsh cry, a shriek,\r\nbroke upon the silence of the night--the note of a screech-owl. The man\r\nsprang to his feet, overturning the table and extinguishing the candle.\r\nThe boy took to his heels.\r\n\r\nTHE DAY BEFORE\r\n\r\n"Good-morning, Colston. I am in luck, it seems. You have often said that\r\nmy commendation of your literary work was mere civility, and here you\r\nfind me absorbed--actually merged--in your latest story in the\r\n_Messenger_. Nothing less shocking than your touch upon my shoulder\r\nwould have roused me to consciousness."\r\n\r\n"The proof is stronger than you seem to know," replied the man\r\naddressed: "so keen is your eagerness to read my story that you are\r\nwilling to renounce selfish considerations and forego all the pleasure\r\nthat you could get from it."\r\n\r\n"I don\'t understand you," said the other, folding the newspaper that he\r\nheld and putting it into his pocket. "You writers are a queer lot,\r\nanyhow. Come, tell me what I have done or omitted in this matter. In\r\nwhat way does the pleasure that I get, or might get, from your work\r\ndepend on me?"\r\n\r\n"In many ways. Let me ask you how you would enjoy your breakfast if you\r\ntook it in this street car. Suppose the phonograph so perfected as to be\r\nable to give you an entire opera,--singing, orchestration, and all; do\r\nyou think you would get much pleasure out of it if you turned it on at\r\nyour office during business hours? Do you really care for a serenade by\r\nSchubert when you hear it fiddled by an untimely Italian on a morning\r\nferryboat? Are you always cocked and primed for enjoyment? Do you keep\r\nevery mood on tap, ready to any demand? Let me remind you, sir, that the\r\nstory which you have done me the honor to begin as a means of becoming\r\noblivious to the discomfort of this car is a ghost story!"\r\n\r\n"Well?"\r\n\r\n"Well! Has the reader no duties corresponding to his privileges? You\r\nhave paid five cents for that newspaper. It is yours. You have the right\r\nto read it when and where you will. Much of what is in it is neither\r\nhelped nor harmed by time and place and mood; some of it actually\r\nrequires to be read at once--while it is fizzing. But my story is not of\r\nthat character. It is not \'the very latest advices\' from Ghostland. You\r\nare not expected to keep yourself _au courant_ with what is going on in\r\nthe realm of spooks. The stuff will keep until you have leisure to put\r\nyourself into the frame of mind appropriate to the sentiment of the\r\npiece--which I respectfully submit that you cannot do in a street car,\r\neven if you are the only passenger. The solitude is not of the right\r\nsort. An author has rights which the reader is bound to respect."\r\n\r\n"For specific example?"\r\n\r\n"The right to the reader\'s undivided attention. To deny him this is\r\nimmoral. To make him share your attention with the rattle of a street\r\ncar, the moving panorama of the crowds on the sidewalks, and the\r\nbuildings beyond--with any of the thousands of distractions which make\r\nour customary environment--is to treat him with gross injustice. By God,\r\nit is infamous!"\r\n\r\nThe speaker had risen to his feet and was steadying himself by one of\r\nthe straps hanging from the roof of the car. The other man looked up at\r\nhim in sudden astonishment, wondering how so trivial a grievance could\r\nseem to justify so strong language. He saw that his friend\'s face was\r\nuncommonly pale and that his eyes glowed like living coals.\r\n\r\n"You know what I mean," continued the writer, impetuously crowding his\r\nwords--"you know what I mean, Marsh. My stuff in this morning\'s\r\n_Messenger_ is plainly sub-headed \'A Ghost Story.\' That is ample notice\r\nto all. Every honorable reader will understand it as prescribing by\r\nimplication the conditions under which the work is to be read."\r\n\r\nThe man addressed as Marsh winced a trifle, then asked with a smile:\r\n"What conditions? You know that I am only a plain business man who\r\ncannot be supposed to understand such things. How, when, where should I\r\nread your ghost story?"\r\n\r\n"In solitude--at night--by the light of a candle. There are certain\r\nemotions which a writer can easily enough excite--such as compassion or\r\nmerriment. I can move you to tears or laughter under almost any\r\ncircumstances. But for my ghost story to be effective you must be made\r\nto feel fear--at least a strong sense of the supernatural--and that is a\r\ndifficult matter. I have a right to expect that if you read me at all\r\nyou will give me a chance; that you will make yourself accessible to the\r\nemotion that I try to inspire."\r\n\r\nThe car had now arrived at its terminus and stopped. The trip just\r\ncompleted was its first for the day and the conversation of the two\r\nearly passengers had not been interrupted. The streets were yet silent\r\nand desolate; the house tops were just touched by the rising sun. As\r\nthey stepped from the car and walked away together Marsh narrowly eyed\r\nhis companion, who was reported, like most men of uncommon literary\r\nability, to be addicted to various destructive vices. That is the\r\nrevenge which dull minds take upon bright ones in resentment of their\r\nsuperiority. Mr. Colston was known as a man of genius. There are honest\r\nsouls who believe that genius is a mode of excess. It was known that\r\nColston did not drink liquor, but many said that he ate opium. Something\r\nin his appearance that morning--a certain wildness of the eyes, an\r\nunusual pallor, a thickness and rapidity of speech--were taken by Mr.\r\nMarsh to confirm the report. Nevertheless, he had not the self-denial to\r\nabandon a subject which he found interesting, however it might excite\r\nhis friend.\r\n\r\n"Do you mean to say," he began, "that if I take the trouble to observe\r\nyour directions--place myself in the conditions that you demand:\r\nsolitude, night and a tallow candle--you can with your ghostly work give\r\nme an uncomfortable sense of the supernatural, as you call it? Can you\r\naccelerate my pulse, make me start at sudden noises, send a nervous\r\nchill along my spine and cause my hair to rise?"\r\n\r\nColston turned suddenly and looked him squarely in the eyes as they\r\nwalked. "You would not dare--you have not the courage," he said. He\r\nemphasized the words with a contemptuous gesture. "You are brave enough\r\nto read me in a street car, but--in a deserted house--alone--in the\r\nforest--at night! Bah! I have a manuscript in my pocket that would kill\r\nyou."\r\n\r\nMarsh was angry. He knew himself courageous, and the words stung him.\r\n"If you know such a place," he said, "take me there to-night and leave\r\nme your story and a candle. Call for me when I\'ve had time enough to\r\nread it and I\'ll tell you the entire plot and--kick you out of the\r\nplace."\r\n\r\nThat is how it occurred that the farmer\'s boy, looking in at an unglazed\r\nwindow of the Breede house, saw a man sitting in the light of a candle.\r\n\r\nTHE DAY AFTER\r\n\r\nLate in the afternoon of the next day three men and a boy approached the\r\nBreede house from that point of the compass toward which the boy had\r\nfled the preceding night. The men were in high spirits; they talked very\r\nloudly and laughed. They made facetious and good-humored ironical\r\nremarks to the boy about his adventure, which evidently they did not\r\nbelieve in. The boy accepted their raillery with seriousness, making no\r\nreply. He had a sense of the fitness of things and knew that one who\r\nprofesses to have seen a dead man rise from his seat and blow out a\r\ncandle is not a credible witness.\r\n\r\nArriving at the house and finding the door unlocked, the party of\r\ninvestigators entered without ceremony. Leading out of the passage into\r\nwhich this door opened was another on the right and one on the left.\r\nThey entered the room on the left--the one which had the blank front\r\nwindow. Here was the dead body of a man.\r\n\r\nIt lay partly on one side, with the forearm beneath it, the cheek on the\r\nfloor. The eyes were wide open; the stare was not an agreeable thing to\r\nencounter. The lower jaw had fallen; a little pool of saliva had\r\ncollected beneath the mouth. An overthrown table, a partly burned\r\ncandle, a chair and some paper with writing on it were all else that the\r\nroom contained. The men looked at the body, touching the face in turn.\r\nThe boy gravely stood at the head, assuming a look of ownership. It was\r\nthe proudest moment of his life. One of the men said to him, "You\'re a\r\ngood \'un"--a remark which was received by the two others with nods of\r\nacquiescence. It was Scepticism apologizing to Truth. Then one of the\r\nmen took from the floor the sheet of manuscript and stepped to the\r\nwindow, for already the evening shadows were glooming the forest. The\r\nsong of the whip-poor-will was heard in the distance and a monstrous\r\nbeetle sped by the window on roaring wings and thundered away out of\r\nhearing. The man read:\r\n\r\nTHE MANUSCRIPT\r\n\r\n "Before committing the act which, rightly or wrongly, I have resolved\r\n on and appearing before my Maker for judgment, I, James R. Colston,\r\n deem it my duty as a journalist to make a statement to the public. My\r\n name is, I believe, tolerably well known to the people as a writer of\r\n tragic tales, but the somberest imagination never conceived anything\r\n so tragic as my own life and history. Not in incident: my life has\r\n been destitute of adventure and action. But my mental career has been\r\n lurid with experiences such as kill and damn. I shall not recount them\r\n here--some of them are written and ready for publication elsewhere.\r\n The object of these lines is to explain to whomsoever may be\r\n interested that my death is voluntary--my own act. I shall die at\r\n twelve o\'clock on the night of the 15th of July--a significant\r\n anniversary to me, for it was on that day, and at that hour, that my\r\n friend in time and eternity, Charles Breede, performed his vow to me\r\n by the same act which his fidelity to our pledge now entails upon me.\r\n He took his life in his little house in the Copeton woods. There was\r\n the customary verdict of \'temporary insanity.\' Had I testified at that\r\n inquest--had I told all I knew, they would have called _me_ mad!"\r\n\r\nHere followed an evidently long passage which the man reading read to\r\nhimself only. The rest he read aloud.\r\n\r\n "I have still a week of life in which to arrange my worldly affairs\r\n and prepare for the great change. It is enough, for I have but few\r\n affairs and it is now four years since death became an imperative\r\n obligation.\r\n\r\n "I shall bear this writing on my body; the finder will please hand it\r\n to the coroner.\r\n\r\n "JAMES R. COLSTON.\r\n\r\n "P.S.--Willard Marsh, on this the fatal fifteenth day of July I hand\r\n you this manuscript, to be opened and read under the conditions agreed\r\n upon, and at the place which I designated. I forego my intention to\r\n keep it on my body to explain the manner of my death, which is not\r\n important. It will serve to explain the manner of yours. I am to call\r\n for you during the night to receive assurance that you have read the\r\n manuscript. You know me well enough to expect me. But, my friend, it\r\n _will be after twelve o\'clock._ May God have mercy on our souls!\r\n\r\n "J.R.C."\r\n\r\nBefore the man who was reading this manuscript had finished, the candle\r\nhad been picked up and lighted. When the reader had done, he quietly\r\nthrust the paper against the flame and despite the protestations of the\r\nothers held it until it was burnt to ashes. The man who did this, and\r\nwho afterward placidly endured a severe reprimand from the coroner, was\r\na son-in-law of the late Charles Breede. At the inquest nothing could\r\nelicit an intelligent account of what the paper had contained.\r\n\r\nFROM "THE TIMES"\r\n\r\n "Yesterday the Commissioners of Lunacy committed to the asylum Mr.\r\n James R. Colston, a writer of some local reputation, connected with\r\n the _Messenger_. It will be remembered that on the evening of the 15th\r\n inst. Mr. Colston was given into custody by one of his fellow-lodgers\r\n in the Baine House, who had observed him acting very suspiciously,\r\n baring his throat and whetting a razor--occasionally trying its edge\r\n by actually cutting through the skin of his arm, etc. On being handed\r\n over to the police, the unfortunate man made a desperate resistance,\r\n and has ever since been so violent that it has been necessary to keep\r\n him in a strait-jacket. Most of our esteemed contemporary\'s other\r\n writers are still at large."\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE BOARDED WINDOW\r\n\r\nIn 1830, only a few miles away from what is now the great city of\r\nCincinnati, lay an immense and almost unbroken forest. The whole region\r\nwas sparsely settled by people of the frontier--restless souls who no\r\nsooner had hewn fairly habitable homes out of the wilderness and\r\nattained to that degree of prosperity which to-day we should call\r\nindigence than impelled by some mysterious impulse of their nature they\r\nabandoned all and pushed farther westward, to encounter new perils and\r\nprivations in the effort to regain the meagre comforts which they had\r\nvoluntarily renounced. Many of them had already forsaken that region for\r\nthe remoter settlements, but among those remaining was one who had been\r\nof those first arriving. He lived alone in a house of logs surrounded on\r\nall sides by the great forest, of whose gloom and silence he seemed a\r\npart, for no one had ever known him to smile nor speak a needless word.\r\nHis simple wants were supplied by the sale or barter of skins of wild\r\nanimals in the river town, for not a thing did he grow upon the land\r\nwhich, if needful, he might have claimed by right of undisturbed\r\npossession. There were evidences of "improvement"--a few acres of ground\r\nimmediately about the house had once been cleared of its trees, the\r\ndecayed stumps of which were half concealed by the new growth that had\r\nbeen suffered to repair the ravage wrought by the ax. Apparently the\r\nman\'s zeal for agriculture had burned with a failing flame, expiring in\r\npenitential ashes.\r\n\r\nThe little log house, with its chimney of sticks, its roof of warping\r\nclapboards weighted with traversing poles and its "chinking" of clay,\r\nhad a single door and, directly opposite, a window. The latter, however,\r\nwas boarded up--nobody could remember a time when it was not. And none\r\nknew why it was so closed; certainly not because of the occupant\'s\r\ndislike of light and air, for on those rare occasions when a hunter had\r\npassed that lonely spot the recluse had commonly been seen sunning\r\nhimself on his doorstep if heaven had provided sunshine for his need. I\r\nfancy there are few persons living to-day who ever knew the secret of\r\nthat window, but I am one, as you shall see.\r\n\r\nThe man\'s name was said to be Murlock. He was apparently seventy years\r\nold, actually about fifty. Something besides years had had a hand in his\r\naging. His hair and long, full beard were white, his gray, lustreless\r\neyes sunken, his face singularly seamed with wrinkles which appeared to\r\nbelong to two intersecting systems. In figure he was tall and spare,\r\nwith a stoop of the shoulders--a burden bearer. I never saw him; these\r\nparticulars I learned from my grandfather, from whom also I got the\r\nman\'s story when I was a lad. He had known him when living near by in\r\nthat early day.\r\n\r\nOne day Murlock was found in his cabin, dead. It was not a time and\r\nplace for coroners and newspapers, and I suppose it was agreed that he\r\nhad died from natural causes or I should have been told, and should\r\nremember. I know only that with what was probably a sense of the fitness\r\nof things the body was buried near the cabin, alongside the grave of his\r\nwife, who had preceded him by so many years that local tradition had\r\nretained hardly a hint of her existence. That closes the final chapter\r\nof this true story--excepting, indeed, the circumstance that many years\r\nafterward, in company with an equally intrepid spirit, I penetrated to\r\nthe place and ventured near enough to the ruined cabin to throw a stone\r\nagainst it, and ran away to avoid the ghost which every well-informed\r\nboy thereabout knew haunted the spot. But there is an earlier chapter--\r\nthat supplied by my grandfather.\r\n\r\nWhen Murlock built his cabin and began laying sturdily about with his ax\r\nto hew out a farm--the rifle, meanwhile, his means of support--he was\r\nyoung, strong and full of hope. In that eastern country whence he came\r\nhe had married, as was the fashion, a young woman in all ways worthy of\r\nhis honest devotion, who shared the dangers and privations of his lot\r\nwith a willing spirit and light heart. There is no known record of her\r\nname; of her charms of mind and person tradition is silent and the\r\ndoubter is at liberty to entertain his doubt; but God forbid that I\r\nshould share it! Of their affection and happiness there is abundant\r\nassurance in every added day of the man\'s widowed life; for what but the\r\nmagnetism of a blessed memory could have chained that venturesome spirit\r\nto a lot like that?\r\n\r\nOne day Murlock returned from gunning in a distant part of the forest to\r\nfind his wife prostrate with fever, and delirious. There was no\r\nphysician within miles, no neighbor; nor was she in a condition to be\r\nleft, to summon help. So he set about the task of nursing her back to\r\nhealth, but at the end of the third day she fell into unconsciousness\r\nand so passed away, apparently, with never a gleam of returning reason.\r\n\r\nFrom what we know of a nature like his we may venture to sketch in some\r\nof the details of the outline picture drawn by my grandfather. When\r\nconvinced that she was dead, Murlock had sense enough to remember that\r\nthe dead must be prepared for burial. In performance of this sacred duty\r\nhe blundered now and again, did certain things incorrectly, and others\r\nwhich he did correctly were done over and over. His occasional failures\r\nto accomplish some simple and ordinary act filled him with astonishment,\r\nlike that of a drunken man who wonders at the suspension of familiar\r\nnatural laws. He was surprised, too, that he did not weep--surprised and\r\na little ashamed; surely it is unkind not to weep for the dead.\r\n"To-morrow," he said aloud, "I shall have to make the coffin and dig the\r\ngrave; and then I shall miss her, when she is no longer in sight; but\r\nnow--she is dead, of course, but it is all right--it _must_ be all\r\nright, somehow. Things cannot be so bad as they seem."\r\n\r\nHe stood over the body in the fading light, adjusting the hair and\r\nputting the finishing touches to the simple toilet, doing all\r\nmechanically, with soulless care. And still through his consciousness\r\nran an undersense of conviction that all was right--that he should have\r\nher again as before, and everything explained. He had had no experience\r\nin grief; his capacity had not been enlarged by use. His heart could not\r\ncontain it all, nor his imagination rightly conceive it. He did not know\r\nhe was so hard struck; _that_ knowledge would come later, and never go.\r\nGrief is an artist of powers as various as the instruments upon which he\r\nplays his dirges for the dead, evoking from some the sharpest, shrillest\r\nnotes, from others the low, grave chords that throb recurrent like the\r\nslow beating of a distant drum. Some natures it startles; some it\r\nstupefies. To one it comes like the stroke of an arrow, stinging all the\r\nsensibilities to a keener life; to another as the blow of a bludgeon,\r\nwhich in crushing benumbs. We may conceive Murlock to have been that way\r\naffected, for (and here we are upon surer ground than that of\r\nconjecture) no sooner had he finished his pious work than, sinking into\r\na chair by the side of the table upon which the body lay, and noting how\r\nwhite the profile showed in the deepening gloom, he laid his arms upon\r\nthe table\'s edge, and dropped his face into them, tearless yet and\r\nunutterably weary. At that moment came in through the open window a\r\nlong, wailing sound like the cry of a lost child in the far deeps of the\r\ndarkening wood! But the man did not move. Again, and nearer than before,\r\nsounded that unearthly cry upon his failing sense. Perhaps it was a wild\r\nbeast; perhaps it was a dream. For Murlock was asleep.\r\n\r\nSome hours later, as it afterward appeared, this unfaithful watcher\r\nawoke and lifting his head from his arms intently listened--he knew not\r\nwhy. There in the black darkness by the side of the dead, recalling all\r\nwithout a shock, he strained his eyes to see--he knew not what. His\r\nsenses were all alert, his breath was suspended, his blood had stilled\r\nits tides as if to assist the silence. Who--what had waked him, and\r\nwhere was it?\r\n\r\nSuddenly the table shook beneath his arms, and at the same moment he\r\nheard, or fancied that he heard, a light, soft step--another--sounds as\r\nof bare feet upon the floor!\r\n\r\nHe was terrified beyond the power to cry out or move. Perforce he\r\nwaited--waited there in the darkness through seeming centuries of such\r\ndread as one may know, yet live to tell. He tried vainly to speak the\r\ndead woman\'s name, vainly to stretch forth his hand across the table to\r\nlearn if she were there. His throat was powerless, his arms and hands\r\nwere like lead. Then occurred something most frightful. Some heavy body\r\nseemed hurled against the table with an impetus that pushed it against\r\nhis breast so sharply as nearly to overthrow him, and at the same\r\ninstant he heard and felt the fall of something upon the floor with so\r\nviolent a thump that the whole house was shaken by the impact. A\r\nscuffling ensued, and a confusion of sounds impossible to describe.\r\nMurlock had risen to his feet. Fear had by excess forfeited control of\r\nhis faculties. He flung his hands upon the table. Nothing was there!\r\n\r\nThere is a point at which terror may turn to madness; and madness\r\nincites to action. With no definite intent, from no motive but the\r\nwayward impulse of a madman, Murlock sprang to the wall, with a little\r\ngroping seized his loaded rifle, and without aim discharged it. By the\r\nflash which lit up the room with a vivid illumination, he saw an\r\nenormous panther dragging the dead woman toward the window, its teeth\r\nfixed in her throat! Then there were darkness blacker than before, and\r\nsilence; and when he returned to consciousness the sun was high and the\r\nwood vocal with songs of birds.\r\n\r\nThe body lay near the window, where the beast had left it when\r\nfrightened away by the flash and report of the rifle. The clothing was\r\nderanged, the long hair in disorder, the limbs lay anyhow. From the\r\nthroat, dreadfully lacerated, had issued a pool of blood not yet\r\nentirely coagulated. The ribbon with which he had bound the wrists was\r\nbroken; the hands were tightly clenched. Between the teeth was a\r\nfragment of the animal\'s ear.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA LADY FROM REDHORSE\r\n\r\nCORONADO, JUNE 20.\r\n\r\nI find myself more and more interested in him. It is not, I am sure,\r\nhis--do you know any good noun corresponding to the adjective\r\n"handsome"? One does not like to say "beauty" when speaking of a man. He\r\nis beautiful enough, Heaven knows; I should not even care to trust you\r\nwith him--faithfulest of all possible wives that you are--when he looks\r\nhis best, as he always does. Nor do I think the fascination of his\r\nmanner has much to do with it. You recollect that the charm of art\r\ninheres in that which is undefinable, and to you and me, my dear Irene,\r\nI fancy there is rather less of that in the branch of art under\r\nconsideration than to girls in their first season. I fancy I know how my\r\nfine gentleman produces many of his effects and could perhaps give him a\r\npointer on heightening them. Nevertheless, his manner is something truly\r\ndelightful. I suppose what interests me chiefly is the man\'s brains. His\r\nconversation is the best I have ever heard and altogether unlike any one\r\nelse\'s. He seems to know everything, as indeed he ought, for he has been\r\neverywhere, read everything, seen all there is to see--sometimes I think\r\nrather more than is good for him--and had acquaintance with the\r\n_queerest_ people. And then his voice--Irene, when I hear it I actually\r\nfeel as if I ought to have paid at the door, though of course it is my\r\nown door.\r\n\r\nJULY 3.\r\n\r\nI fear my remarks about Dr. Barritz must have been, being thoughtless,\r\nvery silly, or you would not have written of him with such levity, not\r\nto say disrespect. Believe me, dearest, he has more dignity and\r\nseriousness (of the kind, I mean, which is not inconsistent with a\r\nmanner sometimes playful and always charming) than any of the men that\r\nyou and I ever met. And young Raynor--you knew Raynor at Monterey--tells\r\nme that the men all like him and that he is treated with something like\r\ndeference everywhere. There is a mystery, too--something about his\r\nconnection with the Blavatsky people in Northern India. Raynor either\r\nwould not or could not tell me the particulars. I infer that Dr. Barritz\r\nis thought--don\'t you dare to laugh!--a magician. Could anything be\r\nfiner than that?\r\n\r\nAn ordinary mystery is not, of course, so good as a scandal, but when it\r\nrelates to dark and dreadful practices--to the exercise of unearthly\r\npowers--could anything be more piquant? It explains, too, the singular\r\ninfluence the man has upon me. It is the undefinable in his art--black\r\nart. Seriously, dear, I quite tremble when he looks me full in the eyes\r\nwith those unfathomable orbs of his, which I have already vainly\r\nattempted to describe to you. How dreadful if he has the power to make\r\none fall in love! Do you know if the Blavatsky crowd have that power--\r\noutside of Sepoy?\r\n\r\nJULY 16.\r\n\r\nThe strangest thing! Last evening while Auntie was attending one of the\r\nhotel hops (I hate them) Dr. Barritz called. It was scandalously late--I\r\nactually believe that he had talked with Auntie in the ballroom and\r\nlearned from her that I was alone. I had been all the evening contriving\r\nhow to worm out of him the truth about his connection with the Thugs in\r\nSepoy, and all of that black business, but the moment he fixed his eyes\r\non me (for I admitted him, I\'m ashamed to say) I was helpless. I\r\ntrembled, I blushed, I--O Irene, Irene, I love the man beyond expression\r\nand you know how it is yourself.\r\n\r\nFancy! I, an ugly duckling from Redhorse--daughter (they say) of old\r\nCalamity Jim--certainly his heiress, with no living relation but an\r\nabsurd old aunt who spoils me a thousand and fifty ways--absolutely\r\ndestitute of everything but a million dollars and a hope in Paris,--I\r\ndaring to love a god like him! My dear, if I had you here I could tear\r\nyour hair out with mortification.\r\n\r\nI am convinced that he is aware of my feeling, for he stayed but a few\r\nmoments, said nothing but what another man might have said half as well,\r\nand pretending that he had an engagement went away. I learned to-day (a\r\nlittle bird told me--the bell-bird) that he went straight to bed. How\r\ndoes that strike you as evidence of exemplary habits?\r\n\r\nJULY 17.\r\n\r\nThat little wretch, Raynor, called yesterday and his babble set me\r\nalmost wild. He never runs down--that is to say, when he exterminates a\r\nscore of reputations, more or less, he does not pause between one\r\nreputation and the next. (By the way, he inquired about you, and his\r\nmanifestations of interest in you had, I confess, a good deal of\r\n_vraisemblance._.) Mr. Raynor observes no game laws; like Death (which\r\nhe would inflict if slander were fatal) he has all seasons for his own.\r\nBut I like him, for we knew each other at Redhorse when we were young.\r\nHe was known in those days as "Giggles," and I--O Irene, can you ever\r\nforgive me?--I was called "Gunny." God knows why; perhaps in allusion to\r\nthe material of my pinafores; perhaps because the name is in\r\nalliteration with "Giggles," for Gig and I were inseparable playmates,\r\nand the miners may have thought it a delicate civility to recognize some\r\nkind of relationship between us.\r\n\r\nLater, we took in a third--another of Adversity\'s brood, who, like\r\nGarrick between Tragedy and Comedy, had a chronic inability to\r\nadjudicate the rival claims of Frost and Famine. Between him and misery\r\nthere was seldom anything more than a single suspender and the hope of a\r\nmeal which would at the same time support life and make it\r\ninsupportable. He literally picked up a precarious living for himself\r\nand an aged mother by "chloriding the dumps," that is to say, the miners\r\npermitted him to search the heaps of waste rock for such pieces of "pay\r\nore" as had been overlooked; and these he sacked up and sold at the\r\nSyndicate Mill. He became a member of our firm--"Gunny, Giggles, and\r\nDumps" thenceforth--through my favor; for I could not then, nor can I\r\nnow, be indifferent to his courage and prowess in defending against\r\nGiggles the immemorial right of his sex to insult a strange and\r\nunprotected female--myself. After old Jim struck it in the Calamity and\r\nI began to wear shoes and go to school, and in emulation Giggles took to\r\nwashing his face and became Jack Raynor, of Wells, Fargo & Co., and old\r\nMrs. Barts was herself chlorided to her fathers, Dumps drifted over to\r\nSan Juan Smith and turned stage driver, and was killed by road agents,\r\nand so forth.\r\n\r\nWhy do I tell you all this, dear? Because it is heavy on my heart.\r\nBecause I walk the Valley of Humility. Because I am subduing myself to\r\npermanent consciousness of my unworthiness to unloose the latchet of Dr.\r\nBarritz\'s shoe. Because, oh dear, oh dear, there\'s a cousin of Dumps at\r\nthis hotel! I haven\'t spoken to him. I never had much acquaintance with\r\nhim,--but do you suppose he has recognized me? Do, please give me in\r\nyour next your candid, sure-enough opinion about it, and say you don\'t\r\nthink so. Do you suppose He knows about me already, and that that is why\r\nHe left me last evening when He saw that I blushed and trembled like a\r\nfool under His eyes? You know I can\'t bribe _all_ the newspapers, and I\r\ncan\'t go back on anybody who was civil to Gunny at Redhorse--not if I\'m\r\npitched out of society into the sea. So the skeleton sometimes rattles\r\nbehind the door. I never cared much before, as you know, but now--_now_\r\nit is not the same. Jack Raynor I am sure of--he will not tell Him. He\r\nseems, indeed, to hold Him in such respect as hardly to dare speak to\r\nHim at all, and I\'m a good deal that way myself. Dear, dear! I wish I\r\nhad something besides a million dollars! If Jack were three inches\r\ntaller I\'d marry him alive and go back to Redhorse and wear sackcloth\r\nagain to the end of my miserable days.\r\n\r\nJULY 25.\r\n\r\nWe had a perfectly splendid sunset last evening and I must tell you all\r\nabout it. I ran away from Auntie and everybody and was walking alone on\r\nthe beach. I expect you to believe, you infidel! that I had not looked\r\nout of my window on the seaward side of the hotel and seen Him walking\r\nalone on the beach. If you are not lost to every feeling of womanly\r\ndelicacy you will accept my statement without question. I soon\r\nestablished myself under my sunshade and had for some time been gazing\r\nout dreamily over the sea, when he approached, walking close to the edge\r\nof the water--it was ebb tide. I assure you the wet sand actually\r\nbrightened about his feet! As he approached me he lifted his hat,\r\nsaying, "Miss Dement, may I sit with you?--or will you walk with me?"\r\n\r\nThe possibility that neither might be agreeable seems not to have\r\noccurred to him. Did you ever know such assurance? Assurance? My dear,\r\nit was gall, downright _gall!_ Well, I didn\'t find it wormwood, and\r\nreplied, with my untutored Redhorse heart in my throat, "I--I shall be\r\npleased to do _anything_." Could words have been more stupid? There are\r\ndepths of fatuity in me, friend o\' my soul, that are simply bottomless!\r\n\r\nHe extended his hand, smiling, and I delivered mine into it without a\r\nmoment\'s hesitation, and when his fingers closed about it to assist me\r\nto my feet the consciousness that it trembled made me blush worse than\r\nthe red west. I got up, however, and after a while, observing that he\r\nhad not let go my hand I pulled on it a little, but unsuccessfully. He\r\nsimply held on, saying nothing, but looking down into my face with some\r\nkind of smile--I didn\'t know--how could I?--whether it was affectionate,\r\nderisive, or what, for I did not look at him. How beautiful he was!--\r\nwith the red fires of the sunset burning in the depths of his eyes. Do\r\nyou know, dear, if the Thugs and Experts of the Blavatsky region have\r\nany special kind of eyes? Ah, you should have seen his superb attitude,\r\nthe god-like inclination of his head as he stood over me after I had got\r\nupon my feet! It was a noble picture, but I soon destroyed it, for I\r\nbegan at once to sink again to the earth. There was only one thing for\r\nhim to do, and he did it; he supported me with an arm about my waist.\r\n\r\n"Miss Dement, are you ill?" he said.\r\n\r\nIt was not an exclamation; there was neither alarm nor solicitude in it.\r\nIf he had added: "I suppose that is about what I am expected to say," he\r\nwould hardly have expressed his sense of the situation more clearly. His\r\nmanner filled me with shame and indignation, for I was suffering\r\nacutely. I wrenched my hand out of his, grasped the arm supporting me\r\nand pushing myself free, fell plump into the sand and sat helpless. My\r\nhat had fallen off in the struggle and my hair tumbled about my face and\r\nshoulders in the most mortifying way.\r\n\r\n"Go away from me," I cried, half choking. "O _please_ go away, you--you\r\nThug! How dare you think _that_ when my leg is asleep?"\r\n\r\nI actually said those identical words! And then I broke down and sobbed.\r\nIrene, I _blubbered_!\r\n\r\nHis manner altered in an instant--I could see that much through my\r\nfingers and hair. He dropped on one knee beside me, parted the tangle of\r\nhair and said in the tenderest way: "My poor girl, God knows I have not\r\nintended to pain you. How should I?--I who love you--I who have loved\r\nyou for--for years and years!"\r\n\r\nHe had pulled my wet hands away from my face and was covering them with\r\nkisses. My cheeks were like two coals, my whole face was flaming and, I\r\nthink, steaming. What could I do? I hid it on his shoulder--there was no\r\nother place. And, O my dear friend, how my leg tingled and thrilled, and\r\nhow I wanted to kick!\r\n\r\nWe sat so for a long time. He had released one of my hands to pass his\r\narm about me again and I possessed myself of my handkerchief and was\r\ndrying my eyes and my nose. I would not look up until that was done; he\r\ntried in vain to push me a little away and gaze into my face. Presently,\r\nwhen all was right, and it had grown a bit dark, I lifted my head,\r\nlooked him straight in the eyes and smiled my best--my level best, dear.\r\n\r\n"What do you mean," I said, "by \'years and years\'?"\r\n\r\n"Dearest," he replied, very gravely, very earnestly, "in the absence of\r\nthe sunken cheeks, the hollow eyes, the lank hair, the slouching gait,\r\nthe rags, dirt, and youth, can you not--will you not understand? Gunny,\r\nI\'m Dumps!"\r\n\r\nIn a moment I was upon my feet and he upon his. I seized him by the\r\nlapels of his coat and peered into his handsome face in the deepening\r\ndarkness. I was breathless with excitement.\r\n\r\n"And you are not dead?" I asked, hardly knowing what I said.\r\n\r\n"Only dead in love, dear. I recovered from the road agent\'s bullet, but\r\nthis, I fear, is fatal."\r\n\r\n"But about Jack--Mr. Raynor? Don\'t you know--"\r\n\r\n"I am ashamed to say, darling, that it was through that unworthy\r\nperson\'s suggestion that I came here from Vienna."\r\n\r\nIrene, they have roped in your affectionate friend,\r\n\r\n MARY JANE DEMENT.\r\n\r\nP.S.--The worst of it is that there is no mystery; that was the\r\ninvention of Jack Raynor, to arouse my curiosity. James is not a Thug.\r\nHe solemnly assures me that in all his wanderings he has never set foot\r\nin Sepoy.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE EYES OF THE PANTHER\r\n\r\nI\r\n\r\nONE DOES NOT ALWAYS MARRY WHEN INSANE\r\n\r\nA man and a woman--nature had done the grouping--sat on a rustic seat,\r\nin the late afternoon. The man was middle-aged, slender, swarthy, with\r\nthe expression of a poet and the complexion of a pirate--a man at whom\r\none would look again. The woman was young, blonde, graceful, with\r\nsomething in her figure and movements suggesting the word "lithe." She\r\nwas habited in a gray gown with odd brown markings in the texture. She\r\nmay have been beautiful; one could not readily say, for her eyes denied\r\nattention to all else. They were gray-green, long and narrow, with an\r\nexpression defying analysis. One could only know that they were\r\ndisquieting. Cleopatra may have had such eyes.\r\n\r\nThe man and the woman talked.\r\n\r\n"Yes," said the woman, "I love you, God knows! But marry you, no. I\r\ncannot, will not."\r\n\r\n"Irene, you have said that many times, yet always have denied me a\r\nreason. I\'ve a right to know, to understand, to feel and prove my\r\nfortitude if I have it. Give me a reason."\r\n\r\n"For loving you?"\r\n\r\nThe woman was smiling through her tears and her pallor. That did not\r\nstir any sense of humor in the man.\r\n\r\n"No; there is no reason for that. A reason for not marrying me. I\'ve a\r\nright to know. I must know. I will know!"\r\n\r\nHe had risen and was standing before her with clenched hands, on his\r\nface a frown--it might have been called a scowl. He looked as if he\r\nmight attempt to learn by strangling her. She smiled no more--merely sat\r\nlooking up into his face with a fixed, set regard that was utterly\r\nwithout emotion or sentiment. Yet it had something in it that tamed his\r\nresentment and made him shiver.\r\n\r\n"You are determined to have my reason?" she asked in a tone that was\r\nentirely mechanical--a tone that might have been her look made audible.\r\n\r\n"If you please--if I\'m not asking too much."\r\n\r\nApparently this lord of creation was yielding some part of his dominion\r\nover his co-creature.\r\n\r\n"Very well, you shall know: I am insane."\r\n\r\nThe man started, then looked incredulous and was conscious that he ought\r\nto be amused. But, again, the sense of humor failed him in his need and\r\ndespite his disbelief he was profoundly disturbed by that which he did\r\nnot believe. Between our convictions and our feelings there is no good\r\nunderstanding.\r\n\r\n"That is what the physicians would say," the woman continued--"if they\r\nknew. I might myself prefer to call it a case of \'possession.\' Sit down\r\nand hear what I have to say."\r\n\r\nThe man silently resumed his seat beside her on the rustic bench by the\r\nwayside. Over-against them on the eastern side of the valley the hills\r\nwere already sunset-flushed and the stillness all about was of that\r\npeculiar quality that foretells the twilight. Something of its\r\nmysterious and significant solemnity had imparted itself to the man\'s\r\nmood. In the spiritual, as in the material world, are signs and presages\r\nof night. Rarely meeting her look, and whenever he did so conscious of\r\nthe indefinable dread with which, despite their feline beauty, her eyes\r\nalways affected him, Jenner Brading listened in silence to the story\r\ntold by Irene Marlowe. In deference to the reader\'s possible prejudice\r\nagainst the artless method of an unpractised historian the author\r\nventures to substitute his own version for hers.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nA ROOM MAY BE TOO NARROW FOR THREE, THOUGH ONE IS OUTSIDE\r\n\r\nIn a little log house containing a single room sparely and rudely\r\nfurnished, crouching on the floor against one of the walls, was a woman,\r\nclasping to her breast a child. Outside, a dense unbroken forest\r\nextended for many miles in every direction. This was at night and the\r\nroom was black dark: no human eye could have discerned the woman and the\r\nchild. Yet they were observed, narrowly, vigilantly, with never even a\r\nmomentary slackening of attention; and that is the pivotal fact upon\r\nwhich this narrative turns.\r\n\r\nCharles Marlowe was of the class, now extinct in this country, of\r\nwoodmen pioneers--men who found their most acceptable surroundings in\r\nsylvan solitudes that stretched along the eastern slope of the\r\nMississippi Valley, from the Great Lakes to the Gulf of Mexico. For more\r\nthan a hundred years these men pushed ever westward, generation after\r\ngeneration, with rifle and ax, reclaiming from Nature and her savage\r\nchildren here and there an isolated acreage for the plow, no sooner\r\nreclaimed than surrendered to their less venturesome but more thrifty\r\nsuccessors. At last they burst through the edge of the forest into the\r\nopen country and vanished as if they had fallen over a cliff. The\r\nwoodman pioneer is no more; the pioneer of the plains--he whose easy\r\ntask it was to subdue for occupancy two-thirds of the country in a\r\nsingle generation--is another and inferior creation. With Charles\r\nMarlowe in the wilderness, sharing the dangers, hardships and privations\r\nof that strange, unprofitable life, were his wife and child, to whom, in\r\nthe manner of his class, in which the domestic virtues were a religion,\r\nhe was passionately attached. The woman was still young enough to be\r\ncomely, new enough to the awful isolation of her lot to be cheerful. By\r\nwithholding the large capacity for happiness which the simple\r\nsatisfactions of the forest life could not have filled, Heaven had dealt\r\nhonorably with her. In her light household tasks, her child, her husband\r\nand her few foolish books, she found abundant provision for her needs.\r\n\r\nOne morning in midsummer Marlowe took down his rifle from the wooden\r\nhooks on the wall and signified his intention of getting game.\r\n\r\n"We\'ve meat enough," said the wife; "please don\'t go out to-day. I\r\ndreamed last night, O, such a dreadful thing! I cannot recollect it, but\r\nI\'m almost sure that it will come to pass if you go out."\r\n\r\nIt is painful to confess that Marlowe received this solemn statement\r\nwith less of gravity than was due to the mysterious nature of the\r\ncalamity foreshadowed. In truth, he laughed.\r\n\r\n"Try to remember," he said. "Maybe you dreamed that Baby had lost the\r\npower of speech."\r\n\r\nThe conjecture was obviously suggested by the fact that Baby, clinging\r\nto the fringe of his hunting-coat with all her ten pudgy thumbs was at\r\nthat moment uttering her sense of the situation in a series of exultant\r\ngoo-goos inspired by sight of her father\'s raccoon-skin cap.\r\n\r\nThe woman yielded: lacking the gift of humor she could not hold out\r\nagainst his kindly badinage. So, with a kiss for the mother and a kiss\r\nfor the child, he left the house and closed the door upon his happiness\r\nforever.\r\n\r\nAt nightfall he had not returned. The woman prepared supper and waited.\r\nThen she put Baby to bed and sang softly to her until she slept. By this\r\ntime the fire on the hearth, at which she had cooked supper, had burned\r\nout and the room was lighted by a single candle. This she afterward\r\nplaced in the open window as a sign and welcome to the hunter if he\r\nshould approach from that side. She had thoughtfully closed and barred\r\nthe door against such wild animals as might prefer it to an open window\r\n--of the habits of beasts of prey in entering a house uninvited she was\r\nnot advised, though with true female prevision she may have considered\r\nthe possibility of their entrance by way of the chimney. As the night\r\nwore on she became not less anxious, but more drowsy, and at last rested\r\nher arms upon the bed by the child and her head upon the arms. The\r\ncandle in the window burned down to the socket, sputtered and flared a\r\nmoment and went out unobserved; for the woman slept and dreamed.\r\n\r\nIn her dreams she sat beside the cradle of a second child. The first one\r\nwas dead. The father was dead. The home in the forest was lost and the\r\ndwelling in which she lived was unfamiliar. There were heavy oaken\r\ndoors, always closed, and outside the windows, fastened into the thick\r\nstone walls, were iron bars, obviously (so she thought) a provision\r\nagainst Indians. All this she noted with an infinite self-pity, but\r\nwithout surprise--an emotion unknown in dreams. The child in the cradle\r\nwas invisible under its coverlet which something impelled her to remove.\r\nShe did so, disclosing the face of a wild animal! In the shock of this\r\ndreadful revelation the dreamer awoke, trembling in the darkness of her\r\ncabin in the wood.\r\n\r\nAs a sense of her actual surroundings came slowly back to her she felt\r\nfor the child that was not a dream, and assured herself by its breathing\r\nthat all was well with it; nor could she forbear to pass a hand lightly\r\nacross its face. Then, moved by some impulse for which she probably\r\ncould not have accounted, she rose and took the sleeping babe in her\r\narms, holding it close against her breast. The head of the child\'s cot\r\nwas against the wall to which the woman now turned her back as she\r\nstood. Lifting her eyes she saw two bright objects starring the darkness\r\nwith a reddish-green glow. She took them to be two coals on the hearth,\r\nbut with her returning sense of direction came the disquieting\r\nconsciousness that they were not in that quarter of the room, moreover\r\nwere too high, being nearly at the level of the eyes--of her own eyes.\r\nFor these were the eyes of a panther.\r\n\r\nThe beast was at the open window directly opposite and not five paces\r\naway. Nothing but those terrible eyes was visible, but in the dreadful\r\ntumult of her feelings as the situation disclosed itself to her\r\nunderstanding she somehow knew that the animal was standing on its\r\nhinder feet, supporting itself with its paws on the window-ledge. That\r\nsignified a malign interest--not the mere gratification of an indolent\r\ncuriosity. The consciousness of the attitude was an added horror,\r\naccentuating the menace of those awful eyes, in whose steadfast fire her\r\nstrength and courage were alike consumed. Under their silent questioning\r\nshe shuddered and turned sick. Her knees failed her, and by degrees,\r\ninstinctively striving to avoid a sudden movement that might bring the\r\nbeast upon her, she sank to the floor, crouched against the wall and\r\ntried to shield the babe with her trembling body without withdrawing her\r\ngaze from the luminous orbs that were killing her. No thought of her\r\nhusband came to her in her agony--no hope nor suggestion of rescue or\r\nescape. Her capacity for thought and feeling had narrowed to the\r\ndimensions of a single emotion--fear of the animal\'s spring, of the\r\nimpact of its body, the buffeting of its great arms, the feel of its\r\nteeth in her throat, the mangling of her babe. Motionless now and in\r\nabsolute silence, she awaited her doom, the moments growing to hours, to\r\nyears, to ages; and still those devilish eyes maintained their watch.\r\n\r\nReturning to his cabin late at night with a deer on his shoulders\r\nCharles Marlowe tried the door. It did not yield. He knocked; there was\r\nno answer. He laid down his deer and went round to the window. As he\r\nturned the angle of the building he fancied he heard a sound as of\r\nstealthy footfalls and a rustling in the undergrowth of the forest, but\r\nthey were too slight for certainty, even to his practised ear.\r\nApproaching the window, and to his surprise finding it open, he threw\r\nhis leg over the sill and entered. All was darkness and silence. He\r\ngroped his way to the fire-place, struck a match and lit a candle.\r\n\r\nThen he looked about. Cowering on the floor against a wall was his wife,\r\nclasping his child. As he sprang toward her she rose and broke into\r\nlaughter, long, loud, and mechanical, devoid of gladness and devoid of\r\nsense--the laughter that is not out of keeping with the clanking of a\r\nchain. Hardly knowing what he did he extended his arms. She laid the\r\nbabe in them. It was dead--pressed to death in its mother\'s embrace.\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nTHE THEORY OF THE DEFENSE\r\n\r\nThat is what occurred during a night in a forest, but not all of it did\r\nIrene Marlowe relate to Jenner Brading; not all of it was known to her.\r\nWhen she had concluded the sun was below the horizon and the long summer\r\ntwilight had begun to deepen in the hollows of the land. For some\r\nmoments Brading was silent, expecting the narrative to be carried\r\nforward to some definite connection with the conversation introducing\r\nit; but the narrator was as silent as he, her face averted, her hands\r\nclasping and unclasping themselves as they lay in her lap, with a\r\nsingular suggestion of an activity independent of her will.\r\n\r\n"It is a sad, a terrible story," said Brading at last, "but I do not\r\nunderstand. You call Charles Marlowe father; that I know. That he is old\r\nbefore his time, broken by some great sorrow, I have seen, or thought I\r\nsaw. But, pardon me, you said that you--that you--"\r\n\r\n"That I am insane," said the girl, without a movement of head or body.\r\n\r\n"But, Irene, you say--please, dear, do not look away from me--you say\r\nthat the child was dead, not demented."\r\n\r\n"Yes, that one--I am the second. I was born three months after that\r\nnight, my mother being mercifully permitted to lay down her life in\r\ngiving me mine."\r\n\r\nBrading was again silent; he was a trifle dazed and could not at once\r\nthink of the right thing to say. Her face was still turned away. In his\r\nembarrassment he reached impulsively toward the hands that lay closing\r\nand unclosing in her lap, but something--he could not have said what--\r\nrestrained him. He then remembered, vaguely, that he had never\r\naltogether cared to take her hand.\r\n\r\n"Is it likely," she resumed, "that a person born under such\r\ncircumstances is like others--is what you call sane?"\r\n\r\nBrading did not reply; he was preoccupied with a new thought that was\r\ntaking shape in his mind--what a scientist would have called an\r\nhypothesis; a detective, a theory. It might throw an added light, albeit\r\na lurid one, upon such doubt of her sanity as her own assertion had not\r\ndispelled.\r\n\r\nThe country was still new and, outside the villages, sparsely populated.\r\nThe professional hunter was still a familiar figure, and among his\r\ntrophies were heads and pelts of the larger kinds of game. Tales\r\nvariously credible of nocturnal meetings with savage animals in lonely\r\nroads were sometimes current, passed through the customary stages of\r\ngrowth and decay, and were forgotten. A recent addition to these popular\r\napocrypha, originating, apparently, by spontaneous generation in several\r\nhouseholds, was of a panther which had frightened some of their members\r\nby looking in at windows by night. The yarn had caused its little ripple\r\nof excitement--had even attained to the distinction of a place in the\r\nlocal newspaper; but Brading had given it no attention. Its likeness to\r\nthe story to which he had just listened now impressed him as perhaps\r\nmore than accidental. Was it not possible that the one story had\r\nsuggested the other--that finding congenial conditions in a morbid mind\r\nand a fertile fancy, it had grown to the tragic tale that he had heard?\r\n\r\nBrading recalled certain circumstances of the girl\'s history and\r\ndisposition, of which, with love\'s incuriosity, he had hitherto been\r\nheedless--such as her solitary life with her father, at whose house no\r\none, apparently, was an acceptable visitor and her strange fear of the\r\nnight, by which those who knew her best accounted for her never being\r\nseen after dark. Surely in such a mind imagination once kindled might\r\nburn with a lawless flame, penetrating and enveloping the entire\r\nstructure. That she was mad, though the conviction gave him the acutest\r\npain, he could no longer doubt; she had only mistaken an effect of her\r\nmental disorder for its cause, bringing into imaginary relation with her\r\nown personality the vagaries of the local myth-makers. With some vague\r\nintention of testing his new "theory," and no very definite notion of\r\nhow to set about it he said, gravely, but with hesitation:\r\n\r\n"Irene, dear, tell me--I beg you will not take offence, but tell me--"\r\n\r\n"I have told you," she interrupted, speaking with a passionate\r\nearnestness that he had not known her to show--"I have already told you\r\nthat we cannot marry; is anything else worth saying?"\r\n\r\nBefore he could stop her she had sprung from her seat and without\r\nanother word or look was gliding away among the trees toward her\r\nfather\'s house. Brading had risen to detain her; he stood watching her\r\nin silence until she had vanished in the gloom. Suddenly he started as\r\nif he had been shot; his face took on an expression of amazement and\r\nalarm: in one of the black shadows into which she had disappeared he had\r\ncaught a quick, brief glimpse of shining eyes! For an instant he was\r\ndazed and irresolute; then he dashed into the wood after her, shouting:\r\n"Irene, Irene, look out! The panther! The panther!"\r\n\r\nIn a moment he had passed through the fringe of forest into open ground\r\nand saw the girl\'s gray skirt vanishing into her father\'s door. No\r\npanther was visible.\r\n\r\nIV\r\n\r\nAN APPEAL TO THE CONSCIENCE OF GOD\r\n\r\nJenner Brading, attorney-at-law, lived in a cottage at the edge of the\r\ntown. Directly behind the dwelling was the forest. Being a bachelor, and\r\ntherefore, by the Draconian moral code of the time and place denied the\r\nservices of the only species of domestic servant known thereabout, the\r\n"hired girl," he boarded at the village hotel, where also was his\r\noffice. The woodside cottage was merely a lodging maintained--at no\r\ngreat cost, to be sure--as an evidence of prosperity and respectability.\r\nIt would hardly do for one to whom the local newspaper had pointed with\r\npride as "the foremost jurist of his time" to be "homeless," albeit he\r\nmay sometimes have suspected that the words "home" and "house" were not\r\nstrictly synonymous. Indeed, his consciousness of the disparity and his\r\nwill to harmonize it were matters of logical inference, for it was\r\ngenerally reported that soon after the cottage was built its owner had\r\nmade a futile venture in the direction of marriage--had, in truth, gone\r\nso far as to be rejected by the beautiful but eccentric daughter of Old\r\nMan Marlowe, the recluse. This was publicly believed because he had told\r\nit himself and she had not--a reversal of the usual order of things\r\nwhich could hardly fail to carry conviction.\r\n\r\nBrading\'s bedroom was at the rear of the house, with a single window\r\nfacing the forest.\r\n\r\nOne night he was awakened by a noise at that window; he could hardly\r\nhave said what it was like. With a little thrill of the nerves he sat up\r\nin bed and laid hold of the revolver which, with a forethought most\r\ncommendable in one addicted to the habit of sleeping on the ground floor\r\nwith an open window, he had put under his pillow. The room was in\r\nabsolute darkness, but being unterrified he knew where to direct his\r\neyes, and there he held them, awaiting in silence what further might\r\noccur. He could now dimly discern the aperture--a square of lighter\r\nblack. Presently there appeared at its lower edge two gleaming eyes that\r\nburned with a malignant lustre inexpressibly terrible! Brading\'s heart\r\ngave a great jump, then seemed to stand still. A chill passed along his\r\nspine and through his hair; he felt the blood forsake his cheeks. He\r\ncould not have cried out--not to save his life; but being a man of\r\ncourage he would not, to save his life, have done so if he had been\r\nable. Some trepidation his coward body might feel, but his spirit was of\r\nsterner stuff. Slowly the shining eyes rose with a steady motion that\r\nseemed an approach, and slowly rose Brading\'s right hand, holding the\r\npistol. He fired!\r\n\r\nBlinded by the flash and stunned by the report, Brading nevertheless\r\nheard, or fancied that he heard, the wild, high scream of the panther,\r\nso human in sound, so devilish in suggestion. Leaping from the bed he\r\nhastily clothed himself and, pistol in hand, sprang from the door,\r\nmeeting two or three men who came running up from the road. A brief\r\nexplanation was followed by a cautious search of the house. The grass\r\nwas wet with dew; beneath the window it had been trodden and partly\r\nleveled for a wide space, from which a devious trail, visible in the\r\nlight of a lantern, led away into the bushes. One of the men stumbled\r\nand fell upon his hands, which as he rose and rubbed them together were\r\nslippery. On examination they were seen to be red with blood.\r\n\r\nAn encounter, unarmed, with a wounded panther was not agreeable to their\r\ntaste; all but Brading turned back. He, with lantern and pistol, pushed\r\ncourageously forward into the wood. Passing through a difficult\r\nundergrowth he came into a small opening, and there his courage had its\r\nreward, for there he found the body of his victim. But it was no\r\npanther. What it was is told, even to this day, upon a weather-worn\r\nheadstone in the village churchyard, and for many years was attested\r\ndaily at the graveside by the bent figure and sorrow-seamed face of Old\r\nMan Marlowe, to whose soul, and to the soul of his strange, unhappy\r\nchild, peace. Peace and reparation.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COLLECTED WORKS OF AMBROSE BIERCE, VOLUME 02 ***\r\n\r\n\r\n \r\n\r\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will\r\nbe renamed.\r\n\r\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\r\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\r\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United\r\nStates without permission and without paying copyright\r\nroyalties. 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In [25]:
h = Bierce.find('THE COLLECTED\r\nWORKS OF\r\nAMBROSE BIERCE')
k = Bierce.find('\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COLLECTED WORKS OF AMBROSE')
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'THE COLLECTED\r\nWORKS OF\r\nAMBROSE BIERCE\r\n\r\nVOLUME II\r\n\r\n\r\nIN THE MIDST OF LIFE\r\n\r\nTALES OF SOLDIERS AND CIVILIANS\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nOriginally Published 1909\r\n\r\n\r\nPREFACE\r\nTO THE FIRST EDITION\r\n\r\n\r\nDenied existence by the chief publishing houses of the country, this\r\nbook owes itself to Mr. E.L.G. Steele, merchant, of this city. In\r\nattesting Mr. Steele\'s faith in his judgment and his friend, it will\r\nserve its author\'s main and best ambition.\r\n\r\nA.B.\r\n\r\nSAN FRANCISCO, Sept. 4, 1891.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCONTENTS\r\n\r\n\r\nA HORSEMAN IN THE SKY 15\r\nAN OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK BRIDGE 27\r\nCHICKAMAUGA 46\r\nA SON OF THE GODS 58\r\nONE OF THE MISSING 71\r\nKILLED AT RESACA 93\r\nTHE AFFAIR AT COULTER\'S NOTCH 105\r\nTHE COUP DE GRÂCE 122\r\nPARKER ADDERSON, PHILOSOPHER 133\r\nAN AFFAIR OF OUTPOSTS 146\r\nTHE STORY OF A CONSCIENCE 165\r\nONE KIND OF OFFICER 178\r\nONE OFFICER, ONE MAN 197\r\nGEORGE THURSTON 209\r\nTHE MOCKING-BIRD 218\r\n\r\nCIVILIANS\r\n\r\nTHE MAN OUT OF THE NOSE 233\r\nAN ADVENTURE AT BROWNVILLE 247\r\nTHE FAMOUS GILSON BEQUEST 266\r\nTHE APPLICANT 281\r\nA WATCHER BY THE DEAD 290\r\nTHE MAN AND THE SNAKE 311\r\nA HOLY TERROR 324\r\nTHE SUITABLE SURROUNDINGS 350\r\nTHE BOARDED WINDOW 364\r\nA LADY FROM RED HORSE 373\r\nTHE EYES OF THE PANTHER 385\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSOLDIERS\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA HORSEMAN IN THE SKY\r\n\r\nI\r\n\r\nOne sunny afternoon in the autumn of the year 1861 a soldier lay in a\r\nclump of laurel by the side of a road in western Virginia. He lay at\r\nfull length upon his stomach, his feet resting upon the toes, his head\r\nupon the left forearm. His extended right hand loosely grasped his\r\nrifle. But for the somewhat methodical disposition of his limbs and a\r\nslight rhythmic movement of the cartridge-box at the back of his belt he\r\nmight have been thought to be dead. He was asleep at his post of duty.\r\nBut if detected he would be dead shortly afterward, death being the just\r\nand legal penalty of his crime.\r\n\r\nThe clump of laurel in which the criminal lay was in the angle of a road\r\nwhich after ascending southward a steep acclivity to that point turned\r\nsharply to the west, running along the summit for perhaps one hundred\r\nyards. There it turned southward again and went zigzagging downward\r\nthrough the forest. At the salient of that second angle was a large flat\r\nrock, jutting out northward, overlooking the deep valley from which the\r\nroad ascended. The rock capped a high cliff; a stone dropped from its\r\nouter edge would have fallen sheer downward one thousand feet to the\r\ntops of the pines. The angle where the soldier lay was on another spur\r\nof the same cliff. Had he been awake he would have commanded a view, not\r\nonly of the short arm of the road and the jutting rock, but of the\r\nentire profile of the cliff below it. It might well have made him giddy\r\nto look.\r\n\r\nThe country was wooded everywhere except at the bottom of the valley to\r\nthe northward, where there was a small natural meadow, through which\r\nflowed a stream scarcely visible from the valley\'s rim. This open ground\r\nlooked hardly larger than an ordinary door-yard, but was really several\r\nacres in extent. Its green was more vivid than that of the inclosing\r\nforest. Away beyond it rose a line of giant cliffs similar to those upon\r\nwhich we are supposed to stand in our survey of the savage scene, and\r\nthrough which the road had somehow made its climb to the summit. The\r\nconfiguration of the valley, indeed, was such that from this point of\r\nobservation it seemed entirely shut in, and one could but have wondered\r\nhow the road which found a way out of it had found a way into it, and\r\nwhence came and whither went the waters of the stream that parted the\r\nmeadow more than a thousand feet below.\r\n\r\nNo country is so wild and difficult but men will make it a theatre of\r\nwar; concealed in the forest at the bottom of that military rat-trap, in\r\nwhich half a hundred men in possession of the exits might have starved\r\nan army to submission, lay five regiments of Federal infantry. They had\r\nmarched all the previous day and night and were resting. At nightfall\r\nthey would take to the road again, climb to the place where their\r\nunfaithful sentinel now slept, and descending the other slope of the\r\nridge fall upon a camp of the enemy at about midnight. Their hope was to\r\nsurprise it, for the road led to the rear of it. In case of failure,\r\ntheir position would be perilous in the extreme; and fail they surely\r\nwould should accident or vigilance apprise the enemy of the movement.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nThe sleeping sentinel in the clump of laurel was a young Virginian named\r\nCarter Druse. He was the son of wealthy parents, an only child, and had\r\nknown such ease and cultivation and high living as wealth and taste were\r\nable to command in the mountain country of western Virginia. His home\r\nwas but a few miles from where he now lay. One morning he had risen from\r\nthe breakfast-table and said, quietly but gravely: "Father, a Union\r\nregiment has arrived at Grafton. I am going to join it."\r\n\r\nThe father lifted his leonine head, looked at the son a moment in\r\nsilence, and replied: "Well, go, sir, and whatever may occur do what you\r\nconceive to be your duty. Virginia, to which you are a traitor, must get\r\non without you. Should we both live to the end of the war, we will speak\r\nfurther of the matter. Your mother, as the physician has informed you,\r\nis in a most critical condition; at the best she cannot be with us\r\nlonger than a few weeks, but that time is precious. It would be better\r\nnot to disturb her."\r\n\r\nSo Carter Druse, bowing reverently to his father, who returned the\r\nsalute with a stately courtesy that masked a breaking heart, left the\r\nhome of his childhood to go soldiering. By conscience and courage, by\r\ndeeds of devotion and daring, he soon commended himself to his fellows\r\nand his officers; and it was to these qualities and to some knowledge of\r\nthe country that he owed his selection for his present perilous duty at\r\nthe extreme outpost. Nevertheless, fatigue had been stronger than\r\nresolution and he had fallen asleep. What good or bad angel came in a\r\ndream to rouse him from his state of crime, who shall say? Without a\r\nmovement, without a sound, in the profound silence and the languor of\r\nthe late afternoon, some invisible messenger of fate touched with\r\nunsealing finger the eyes of his consciousness--whispered into the ear\r\nof his spirit the mysterious awakening word which no human lips ever\r\nhave spoken, no human memory ever has recalled. He quietly raised his\r\nforehead from his arm and looked between the masking stems of the\r\nlaurels, instinctively closing his right hand about the stock of his\r\nrifle.\r\n\r\nHis first feeling was a keen artistic delight. On a colossal pedestal,\r\nthe cliff,--motionless at the extreme edge of the capping rock and\r\nsharply outlined against the sky,--was an equestrian statue of\r\nimpressive dignity. The figure of the man sat the figure of the horse,\r\nstraight and soldierly, but with the repose of a Grecian god carved in\r\nthe marble which limits the suggestion of activity. The gray costume\r\nharmonized with its aërial background; the metal of accoutrement and\r\ncaparison was softened and subdued by the shadow; the animal\'s skin had\r\nno points of high light. A carbine strikingly foreshortened lay across\r\nthe pommel of the saddle, kept in place by the right hand grasping it at\r\nthe "grip"; the left hand, holding the bridle rein, was invisible. In\r\nsilhouette against the sky the profile of the horse was cut with the\r\nsharpness of a cameo; it looked across the heights of air to the\r\nconfronting cliffs beyond. The face of the rider, turned slightly away,\r\nshowed only an outline of temple and beard; he was looking downward to\r\nthe bottom of the valley. Magnified by its lift against the sky and by\r\nthe soldier\'s testifying sense of the formidableness of a near enemy the\r\ngroup appeared of heroic, almost colossal, size.\r\n\r\nFor an instant Druse had a strange, half-defined feeling that he had\r\nslept to the end of the war and was looking upon a noble work of art\r\nreared upon that eminence to commemorate the deeds of an heroic past of\r\nwhich he had been an inglorious part. The feeling was dispelled by a\r\nslight movement of the group: the horse, without moving its feet, had\r\ndrawn its body slightly backward from the verge; the man remained\r\nimmobile as before. Broad awake and keenly alive to the significance of\r\nthe situation, Druse now brought the butt of his rifle against his cheek\r\nby cautiously pushing the barrel forward through the bushes, cocked the\r\npiece, and glancing through the sights covered a vital spot of the\r\nhorseman\'s breast. A touch upon the trigger and all would have been well\r\nwith Carter Druse. At that instant the horseman turned his head and\r\nlooked in the direction of his concealed foeman--seemed to look into his\r\nvery face, into his eyes, into his brave, compassionate heart.\r\n\r\nIs it then so terrible to kill an enemy in war--an enemy who has\r\nsurprised a secret vital to the safety of one\'s self and comrades--an\r\nenemy more formidable for his knowledge than all his army for its\r\nnumbers? Carter Druse grew pale; he shook in every limb, turned faint,\r\nand saw the statuesque group before him as black figures, rising,\r\nfalling, moving unsteadily in arcs of circles in a fiery sky. His hand\r\nfell away from his weapon, his head slowly dropped until his face rested\r\non the leaves in which he lay. This courageous gentleman and hardy\r\nsoldier was near swooning from intensity of emotion.\r\n\r\nIt was not for long; in another moment his face was raised from earth,\r\nhis hands resumed their places on the rifle, his forefinger sought the\r\ntrigger; mind, heart, and eyes were clear, conscience and reason sound.\r\nHe could not hope to capture that enemy; to alarm him would but send him\r\ndashing to his camp with his fatal news. The duty of the soldier was\r\nplain: the man must be shot dead from ambush--without warning, without a\r\nmoment\'s spiritual preparation, with never so much as an unspoken\r\nprayer, he must be sent to his account. But no--there is a hope; he may\r\nhave discovered nothing--perhaps he is but admiring the sublimity of the\r\nlandscape. If permitted, he may turn and ride carelessly away in the\r\ndirection whence he came. Surely it will be possible to judge at the\r\ninstant of his withdrawing whether he knows. It may well be that his\r\nfixity of attention--Druse turned his head and looked through the deeps\r\nof air downward, as from the surface to the bottom of a translucent sea.\r\nHe saw creeping across the green meadow a sinuous line of figures of men\r\nand horses--some foolish commander was permitting the soldiers of his\r\nescort to water their beasts in the open, in plain view from a dozen\r\nsummits!\r\n\r\nDruse withdrew his eyes from the valley and fixed them again upon the\r\ngroup of man and horse in the sky, and again it was through the sights\r\nof his rifle. But this time his aim was at the horse. In his memory, as\r\nif they were a divine mandate, rang the words of his father at their\r\nparting: "Whatever may occur, do what you conceive to be your duty." He\r\nwas calm now. His teeth were firmly but not rigidly closed; his nerves\r\nwere as tranquil as a sleeping babe\'s--not a tremor affected any muscle\r\nof his body; his breathing, until suspended in the act of taking aim,\r\nwas regular and slow. Duty had conquered; the spirit had said to the\r\nbody: "Peace, be still." He fired.\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nAn officer of the Federal force, who in a spirit of adventure or in\r\nquest of knowledge had left the hidden _bivouac_ in the valley, and with\r\naimless feet had made his way to the lower edge of a small open space\r\nnear the foot of the cliff, was considering what he had to gain by\r\npushing his exploration further. At a distance of a quarter-mile before\r\nhim, but apparently at a stone\'s throw, rose from its fringe of pines\r\nthe gigantic face of rock, towering to so great a height above him that\r\nit made him giddy to look up to where its edge cut a sharp, rugged line\r\nagainst the sky. It presented a clean, vertical profile against a\r\nbackground of blue sky to a point half the way down, and of distant\r\nhills, hardly less blue, thence to the tops of the trees at its base.\r\nLifting his eyes to the dizzy altitude of its summit the officer saw an\r\nastonishing sight--a man on horseback riding down into the valley\r\nthrough the air!\r\n\r\nStraight upright sat the rider, in military fashion, with a firm seat in\r\nthe saddle, a strong clutch upon the rein to hold his charger from too\r\nimpetuous a plunge. From his bare head his long hair streamed upward,\r\nwaving like a plume. His hands were concealed in the cloud of the\r\nhorse\'s lifted mane. The animal\'s body was as level as if every\r\nhoof-stroke encountered the resistant earth. Its motions were those of a\r\nwild gallop, but even as the officer looked they ceased, with all the\r\nlegs thrown sharply forward as in the act of alighting from a leap. But\r\nthis was a flight!\r\n\r\nFilled with amazement and terror by this apparition of a horseman in the\r\nsky--half believing himself the chosen scribe of some new Apocalypse,\r\nthe officer was overcome by the intensity of his emotions; his legs\r\nfailed him and he fell. Almost at the same instant he heard a crashing\r\nsound in the trees--a sound that died without an echo--and all was\r\nstill.\r\n\r\nThe officer rose to his feet, trembling. The familiar sensation of an\r\nabraded shin recalled his dazed faculties. Pulling himself together he\r\nran rapidly obliquely away from the cliff to a point distant from its\r\nfoot; thereabout he expected to find his man; and thereabout he\r\nnaturally failed. In the fleeting instant of his vision his imagination\r\nhad been so wrought upon by the apparent grace and ease and intention of\r\nthe marvelous performance that it did not occur to him that the line of\r\nmarch of aërial cavalry is directly downward, and that he could find the\r\nobjects of his search at the very foot of the cliff. A half-hour later\r\nhe returned to camp.\r\n\r\nThis officer was a wise man; he knew better than to tell an incredible\r\ntruth. He said nothing of what he had seen. But when the commander asked\r\nhim if in his scout he had learned anything of advantage to the\r\nexpedition he answered:\r\n\r\n"Yes, sir; there is no road leading down into this valley from the\r\nsouthward."\r\n\r\nThe commander, knowing better, smiled.\r\n\r\nIV\r\n\r\nAfter firing his shot, Private Carter Druse reloaded his rifle and\r\nresumed his watch. Ten minutes had hardly passed when a Federal sergeant\r\ncrept cautiously to him on hands and knees. Druse neither turned his\r\nhead nor looked at him, but lay without motion or sign of recognition.\r\n\r\n"Did you fire?" the sergeant whispered.\r\n\r\n"Yes."\r\n\r\n"At what?"\r\n\r\n"A horse. It was standing on yonder rock--pretty far out. You see it is\r\nno longer there. It went over the cliff."\r\n\r\nThe man\'s face was white, but he showed no other sign of emotion. Having\r\nanswered, he turned away his eyes and said no more. The sergeant did not\r\nunderstand.\r\n\r\n"See here, Druse," he said, after a moment\'s silence, "it\'s no use\r\nmaking a mystery. I order you to report. Was there anybody on the\r\nhorse?"\r\n\r\n"Yes."\r\n\r\n"Well?"\r\n\r\n"My father."\r\n\r\nThe sergeant rose to his feet and walked away. "Good God!" he said.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAN OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK BRIDGE\r\n\r\nI\r\n\r\nA man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down\r\ninto the swift water twenty feet below. The man\'s hands were behind his\r\nback, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck.\r\nIt was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack\r\nfell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the sleepers\r\nsupporting the metals of the railway supplied a footing for him and his\r\nexecutioners--two private soldiers of the Federal army, directed by a\r\nsergeant who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short\r\nremove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform of\r\nhis rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge\r\nstood with his rifle in the position known as "support," that is to say,\r\nvertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the\r\nforearm thrown straight across the chest--a formal and unnatural\r\nposition, enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not appear to\r\nbe the duty of these two men to know what was occurring at the centre of\r\nthe bridge; they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot planking that\r\ntraversed it.\r\n\r\nBeyond one of the sentinels nobody was in sight; the railroad ran\r\nstraight away into a forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was lost\r\nto view. Doubtless there was an outpost farther along. The other bank of\r\nthe stream was open ground--a gentle acclivity topped with a stockade of\r\nvertical tree trunks, loop-holed for rifles, with a single embrasure\r\nthrough which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the\r\nbridge. Mid-way of the slope between bridge and fort were the\r\nspectators--a single company of infantry in line, at "parade rest," the\r\nbutts of the rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly\r\nbackward against the right shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A\r\nlieutenant stood at the right of the line, the point of his sword upon\r\nthe ground, his left hand resting upon his right. Excepting the group of\r\nfour at the centre of the bridge, not a man moved. The company faced the\r\nbridge, staring stonily, motionless. The sentinels, facing the banks of\r\nthe stream, might have been statues to adorn the bridge. The captain\r\nstood with folded arms, silent, observing the work of his subordinates,\r\nbut making no sign. Death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is\r\nto be received with formal manifestations of respect, even by those most\r\nfamiliar with him. In the code of military etiquette silence and fixity\r\nare forms of deference.\r\n\r\nThe man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five\r\nyears of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit,\r\nwhich was that of a planter. His features were good--a straight nose,\r\nfirm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed\r\nstraight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well-fitting\r\nfrock-coat. He wore a mustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his\r\neyes were large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one\r\nwould hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently\r\nthis was no vulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision\r\nfor hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.\r\n\r\nThe preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside\r\nand each drew away the plank upon which he had been standing. The\r\nsergeant turned to the captain, saluted and placed himself immediately\r\nbehind that officer, who in turn moved apart one pace. These movements\r\nleft the condemned man and the sergeant standing on the two ends of the\r\nsame plank, which spanned three of the cross-ties of the bridge. The end\r\nupon which the civilian stood almost, but not quite, reached a fourth.\r\nThis plank had been held in place by the weight of the captain; it was\r\nnow held by that of the sergeant. At a signal from the former the latter\r\nwould step aside, the plank would tilt and the condemned man go down\r\nbetween two ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judgment as\r\nsimple and effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyes\r\nbandaged. He looked a moment at his "unsteadfast footing," then let his\r\ngaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his\r\nfeet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes\r\nfollowed it down the current. How slowly it appeared to move! What a\r\nsluggish stream!\r\n\r\nHe closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and\r\nchildren. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding\r\nmists under the banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the\r\nsoldiers, the piece of drift--all had distracted him. And now he became\r\nconscious of a new disturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear\r\nones was a sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp,\r\ndistinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith\'s hammer\r\nupon the anvil; it had the same ringing quality. He wondered what it\r\nwas, and whether immeasurably distant or near by--it seemed both. Its\r\nrecurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death knell. He\r\nawaited each stroke with impatience and--he knew not why--apprehension.\r\nThe intervals of silence grew progressively longer; the delays became\r\nmaddening. With their greater infrequency the sounds increased in\r\nstrength and sharpness. They hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife; he\r\nfeared he would shriek. What he heard was the ticking of his watch.\r\n\r\nHe unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. "If I could free\r\nmy hands," he thought, "I might throw off the noose and spring into the\r\nstream. By diving I could evade the bullets and, swimming vigorously,\r\nreach the bank, take to the woods and get away home. My home, thank God,\r\nis as yet outside their lines; my wife and little ones are still beyond\r\nthe invader\'s farthest advance."\r\n\r\nAs these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed\r\ninto the doomed man\'s brain rather than evolved from it the captain\r\nnodded to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nPeyton Farquhar was a well-to-do planter, of an old and highly respected\r\nAlabama family. Being a slave owner and like other slave owners a\r\npolitician he was naturally an original secessionist and ardently\r\ndevoted to the Southern cause. Circumstances of an imperious nature,\r\nwhich it is unnecessary to relate here, had prevented him from taking\r\nservice with the gallant army that had fought the disastrous campaigns\r\nending with the fall of Corinth, and he chafed under the inglorious\r\nrestraint, longing for the release of his energies, the larger life of\r\nthe soldier, the opportunity for distinction. That opportunity, he felt,\r\nwould come, as it comes to all in war time. Meanwhile he did what he\r\ncould. No service was too humble for him to perform in aid of the South,\r\nno adventure too perilous for him to undertake if consistent with the\r\ncharacter of a civilian who was at heart a soldier, and who in good\r\nfaith and without too much qualification assented to at least a part of\r\nthe frankly villainous dictum that all is fair in love and war.\r\n\r\nOne evening while Farquhar and his wife were sitting on a rustic bench\r\nnear the entrance to his grounds, a gray-clad soldier rode up to the\r\ngate and asked for a drink of water. Mrs. Farquhar was only too happy to\r\nserve him with her own white hands. While she was fetching the water her\r\nhusband approached the dusty horseman and inquired eagerly for news from\r\nthe front.\r\n\r\n"The Yanks are repairing the railroads," said the man, "and are getting\r\nready for another advance. They have reached the Owl Creek bridge, put\r\nit in order and built a stockade on the north bank. The commandant has\r\nissued an order, which is posted everywhere, declaring that any civilian\r\ncaught interfering with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels or trains\r\nwill be summarily hanged. I saw the order."\r\n\r\n"How far is it to the Owl Creek bridge?" Farquhar asked.\r\n\r\n"About thirty miles."\r\n\r\n"Is there no force on this side the creek?"\r\n\r\n"Only a picket post half a mile out, on the railroad, and a single\r\nsentinel at this end of the bridge."\r\n\r\n"Suppose a man--a civilian and student of hanging--should elude the\r\npicket post and perhaps get the better of the sentinel," said Farquhar,\r\nsmiling, "what could he accomplish?"\r\n\r\nThe soldier reflected. "I was there a month ago," he replied. "I\r\nobserved that the flood of last winter had lodged a great quantity of\r\ndriftwood against the wooden pier at this end of the bridge. It is now\r\ndry and would burn like tow."\r\n\r\nThe lady had now brought the water, which the soldier drank. He thanked\r\nher ceremoniously, bowed to her husband and rode away. An hour later,\r\nafter nightfall, he repassed the plantation, going northward in the\r\ndirection from which he had come. He was a Federal scout.\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nAs Peyton Farquhar fell straight downward through the bridge he lost\r\nconsciousness and was as one already dead. From this state he was\r\nawakened--ages later, it seemed to him--by the pain of a sharp pressure\r\nupon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. Keen, poignant\r\nagonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward through every fibre of\r\nhis body and limbs. These pains appeared to flash along well-defined\r\nlines of ramification and to beat with an inconceivably rapid\r\nperiodicity. They seemed like streams of pulsating fire heating him to\r\nan intolerable temperature. As to his head, he was conscious of nothing\r\nbut a feeling of fulness--of congestion. These sensations were\r\nunaccompanied by thought. The intellectual part of his nature was\r\nalready effaced; he had power only to feel, and feeling was torment. He\r\nwas conscious of motion. Encompassed in a luminous cloud, of which he\r\nwas now merely the fiery heart, without material substance, he swung\r\nthrough unthinkable arcs of oscillation, like a vast pendulum. Then all\r\nat once, with terrible suddenness, the light about him shot upward with\r\nthe noise of a loud plash; a frightful roaring was in his ears, and all\r\nwas cold and dark. The power of thought was restored; he knew that the\r\nrope had broken and he had fallen into the stream. There was no\r\nadditional strangulation; the noose about his neck was already\r\nsuffocating him and kept the water from his lungs. To die of hanging at\r\nthe bottom of a river!--the idea seemed to him ludicrous. He opened his\r\neyes in the darkness and saw above him a gleam of light, but how\r\ndistant, how inaccessible! He was still sinking, for the light became\r\nfainter and fainter until it was a mere glimmer. Then it began to grow\r\nand brighten, and he knew that he was rising toward the surface--knew it\r\nwith reluctance, for he was now very comfortable. "To be hanged and\r\ndrowned," he thought, "that is not so bad; but I do not wish to be shot.\r\nNo; I will not be shot; that is not fair."\r\n\r\nHe was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his wrist\r\napprised him that he was trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle\r\nhis attention, as an idler might observe the feat of a juggler, without\r\ninterest in the outcome. What splendid effort!--what magnificent, what\r\nsuperhuman strength! Ah, that was a fine endeavor! Bravo! The cord fell\r\naway; his arms parted and floated upward, the hands dimly seen on each\r\nside in the growing light. He watched them with a new interest as first\r\none and then the other pounced upon the noose at his neck. They tore it\r\naway and thrust it fiercely aside, its undulations resembling those of a\r\nwater-snake. "Put it back, put it back!" He thought he shouted these\r\nwords to his hands, for the undoing of the noose had been succeeded by\r\nthe direst pang that he had yet experienced. His neck ached horribly;\r\nhis brain was on fire; his heart, which had been fluttering faintly,\r\ngave a great leap, trying to force itself out at his mouth. His whole\r\nbody was racked and wrenched with an insupportable anguish! But his\r\ndisobedient hands gave no heed to the command. They beat the water\r\nvigorously with quick, downward strokes, forcing him to the surface. He\r\nfelt his head emerge; his eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest\r\nexpanded convulsively, and with a supreme and crowning agony his lungs\r\nengulfed a great draught of air, which instantly he expelled in a\r\nshriek!\r\n\r\nHe was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were, indeed,\r\npreternaturally keen and alert. Something in the awful disturbance of\r\nhis organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record\r\nof things never before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and\r\nheard their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on\r\nthe bank of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the\r\nveining of each leaf--saw the very insects upon them: the locusts, the\r\nbrilliant-bodied flies, the gray spiders stretching their webs from twig\r\nto twig. He noted the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a\r\nmillion blades of grass. The humming of the gnats that danced above the\r\neddies of the stream, the beating of the dragon-flies\' wings, the\r\nstrokes of the water-spiders\' legs, like oars which had lifted their\r\nboat--all these made audible music. A fish slid along beneath his eyes\r\nand he heard the rush of its body parting the water.\r\n\r\nHe had come to the surface facing down the stream; in a moment the\r\nvisible world seemed to wheel slowly round, himself the pivotal point,\r\nand he saw the bridge, the fort, the soldiers upon the bridge, the\r\ncaptain, the sergeant, the two privates, his executioners. They were in\r\nsilhouette against the blue sky. They shouted and gesticulated, pointing\r\nat him. The captain had drawn his pistol, but did not fire; the others\r\nwere unarmed. Their movements were grotesque and horrible, their forms\r\ngigantic.\r\n\r\nSuddenly he heard a sharp report and something struck the water smartly\r\nwithin a few inches of his head, spattering his face with spray. He\r\nheard a second report, and saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at\r\nhis shoulder, a light cloud of blue smoke rising from the muzzle. The\r\nman in the water saw the eye of the man on the bridge gazing into his\r\nown through the sights of the rifle. He observed that it was a gray eye\r\nand remembered having read that gray eyes were keenest, and that all\r\nfamous markmen had them. Nevertheless, this one had missed.\r\n\r\nA counter-swirl had caught Farquhar and turned him half round; he was\r\nagain looking into the forest on the bank opposite the fort. The sound\r\nof a clear, high voice in a monotonous singsong now rang out behind him\r\nand came across the water with a distinctness that pierced and subdued\r\nall other sounds, even the beating of the ripples in his ears. Although\r\nno soldier, he had frequented camps enough to know the dread\r\nsignificance of that deliberate, drawling, aspirated chant; the\r\nlieutenant on shore was taking a part in the morning\'s work. How coldly\r\nand pitilessly--with what an even, calm intonation, presaging, and\r\nenforcing tranquillity in the men--with what accurately measured\r\nintervals fell those cruel words:\r\n\r\n"Attention, company!... Shoulder arms!... Ready!... Aim!... Fire!"\r\n\r\nFarquhar dived--dived as deeply as he could. The water roared in his\r\nears like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dulled thunder of the\r\nvolley and, rising again toward the surface, met shining bits of metal,\r\nsingularly flattened, oscillating slowly downward. Some of them touched\r\nhim on the face and hands, then fell away, continuing their descent. One\r\nlodged between his collar and neck; it was uncomfortably warm and he\r\nsnatched it out.\r\n\r\nAs he rose to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that he had been a\r\nlong time under water; he was perceptibly farther down stream--nearer to\r\nsafety. The soldiers had almost finished reloading; the metal ramrods\r\nflashed all at once in the sunshine as they were drawn from the barrels,\r\nturned in the air, and thrust into their sockets. The two sentinels\r\nfired again, independently and ineffectually.\r\n\r\nThe hunted man saw all this over his shoulder; he was now swimming\r\nvigorously with the current. His brain was as energetic as his arms and\r\nlegs; he thought with the rapidity of lightning.\r\n\r\n"The officer," he reasoned, "will not make that martinet\'s error a\r\nsecond time. It is as easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. He has\r\nprobably already given the command to fire at will. God help me, I\r\ncannot dodge them all!"\r\n\r\nAn appalling plash within two yards of him was followed by a loud,\r\nrushing sound, _diminuendo_, which seemed to travel back through the air\r\nto the fort and died in an explosion which stirred the very river to its\r\ndeeps! A rising sheet of water curved over him, fell down upon him,\r\nblinded him, strangled him! The cannon had taken a hand in the game. As\r\nhe shook his head free from the commotion of the smitten water he heard\r\nthe deflected shot humming through the air ahead, and in an instant it\r\nwas cracking and smashing the branches in the forest beyond.\r\n\r\n"They will not do that again," he thought; "the next time they will use\r\na charge of grape. I must keep my eye upon the gun; the smoke will\r\napprise me--the report arrives too late; it lags behind the missile.\r\nThat is a good gun."\r\n\r\nSuddenly he felt himself whirled round and round--spinning like a top.\r\nThe water, the banks, the forests, the now distant bridge, fort and men\r\n--all were commingled and blurred. Objects were represented by their\r\ncolors only; circular horizontal streaks of color--that was all he saw.\r\nHe had been caught in a vortex and was being whirled on with a velocity\r\nof advance and gyration that made him giddy and sick. In a few moments\r\nhe was flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of the stream\r\n--the southern bank--and behind a projecting point which concealed him\r\nfrom his enemies. The sudden arrest of his motion, the abrasion of one\r\nof his hands on the gravel, restored him, and he wept with delight. He\r\ndug his fingers into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls and\r\naudibly blessed it. It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; he could\r\nthink of nothing beautiful which it did not resemble. The trees upon the\r\nbank were giant garden plants; he noted a definite order in their\r\narrangement, inhaled the fragrance of their blooms. A strange, roseate\r\nlight shone through the spaces among their trunks and the wind made in\r\ntheir branches the music of æolian harps. He had no wish to perfect his\r\nescape--was content to remain in that enchanting spot until retaken.\r\n\r\nA whiz and rattle of grapeshot among the branches high above his head\r\nroused him from his dream. The baffled cannoneer had fired him a random\r\nfarewell. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and plunged\r\ninto the forest.\r\n\r\nAll that day he traveled, laying his course by the rounding sun. The\r\nforest seemed interminable; nowhere did he discover a break in it, not\r\neven a woodman\'s road. He had not known that he lived in so wild a\r\nregion. There was something uncanny in the revelation.\r\n\r\nBy nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famishing. The thought of his\r\nwife and children urged him on. At last he found a road which led him in\r\nwhat he knew to be the right direction. It was as wide and straight as a\r\ncity street, yet it seemed untraveled. No fields bordered it, no\r\ndwelling anywhere. Not so much as the barking of a dog suggested human\r\nhabitation. The black bodies of the trees formed a straight wall on both\r\nsides, terminating on the horizon in a point, like a diagram in a lesson\r\nin perspective. Over-head, as he looked up through this rift in the\r\nwood, shone great golden stars looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange\r\nconstellations. He was sure they were arranged in some order which had a\r\nsecret and malign significance. The wood on either side was full of\r\nsingular noises, among which--once, twice, and again--he distinctly\r\nheard whispers in an unknown tongue.\r\n\r\nHis neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it he found it horribly\r\nswollen. He knew that it had a circle of black where the rope had\r\nbruised it. His eyes felt congested; he could no longer close them. His\r\ntongue was swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting it\r\nforward from between his teeth into the cold air. How softly the turf\r\nhad carpeted the untraveled avenue--he could no longer feel the roadway\r\nbeneath his feet!\r\n\r\nDoubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking,\r\nfor now he sees another scene--perhaps he has merely recovered from a\r\ndelirium. He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left it,\r\nand all bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine. He must have\r\ntraveled the entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes up the\r\nwide white walk, he sees a flutter of female garments; his wife, looking\r\nfresh and cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to meet him. At\r\nthe bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with a smile of ineffable\r\njoy, an attitude of matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she\r\nis! He springs forward with extended arms. As he is about to clasp her\r\nhe feels a stunning blow upon the back of the neck; a blinding white\r\nlight blazes all about him with a sound like the shock of a cannon--then\r\nall is darkness and silence!\r\n\r\nPeyton Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently\r\nfrom side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek bridge.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHICKAMAUGA\r\n\r\nOne sunny autumn afternoon a child strayed away from its rude home in a\r\nsmall field and entered a forest unobserved. It was happy in a new sense\r\nof freedom from control, happy in the opportunity of exploration and\r\nadventure; for this child\'s spirit, in bodies of its ancestors, had for\r\nthousands of years been trained to memorable feats of discovery and\r\nconquest--victories in battles whose critical moments were centuries,\r\nwhose victors\' camps were cities of hewn stone. From the cradle of its\r\nrace it had conquered its way through two continents and passing a great\r\nsea had penetrated a third, there to be born to war and dominion as a\r\nheritage.\r\n\r\nThe child was a boy aged about six years, the son of a poor planter. In\r\nhis younger manhood the father had been a soldier, had fought against\r\nnaked savages and followed the flag of his country into the capital of a\r\ncivilized race to the far South. In the peaceful life of a planter the\r\nwarrior-fire survived; once kindled, it is never extinguished. The man\r\nloved military books and pictures and the boy had understood enough to\r\nmake himself a wooden sword, though even the eye of his father would\r\nhardly have known it for what it was. This weapon he now bore bravely,\r\nas became the son of an heroic race, and pausing now and again in the\r\nsunny space of the forest assumed, with some exaggeration, the postures\r\nof aggression and defense that he had been taught by the engraver\'s art.\r\nMade reckless by the ease with which he overcame invisible foes\r\nattempting to stay his advance, he committed the common enough military\r\nerror of pushing the pursuit to a dangerous extreme, until he found\r\nhimself upon the margin of a wide but shallow brook, whose rapid waters\r\nbarred his direct advance against the flying foe that had crossed with\r\nillogical ease. But the intrepid victor was not to be baffled; the\r\nspirit of the race which had passed the great sea burned unconquerable\r\nin that small breast and would not be denied. Finding a place where some\r\nbowlders in the bed of the stream lay but a step or a leap apart, he\r\nmade his way across and fell again upon the rear-guard of his imaginary\r\nfoe, putting all to the sword.\r\n\r\nNow that the battle had been won, prudence required that he withdraw to\r\nhis base of operations. Alas; like many a mightier conqueror, and like\r\none, the mightiest, he could not\r\n\r\n curb the lust for war,\r\n Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.\r\n\r\nAdvancing from the bank of the creek he suddenly found himself\r\nconfronted with a new and more formidable enemy: in the path that he was\r\nfollowing, sat, bolt upright, with ears erect and paws suspended before\r\nit, a rabbit! With a startled cry the child turned and fled, he knew not\r\nin what direction, calling with inarticulate cries for his mother,\r\nweeping, stumbling, his tender skin cruelly torn by brambles, his little\r\nheart beating hard with terror--breathless, blind with tears--lost in\r\nthe forest! Then, for more than an hour, he wandered with erring feet\r\nthrough the tangled undergrowth, till at last, overcome by fatigue, he\r\nlay down in a narrow space between two rocks, within a few yards of the\r\nstream and still grasping his toy sword, no longer a weapon but a\r\ncompanion, sobbed himself to sleep. The wood birds sang merrily above\r\nhis head; the squirrels, whisking their bravery of tail, ran barking\r\nfrom tree to tree, unconscious of the pity of it, and somewhere far away\r\nwas a strange, muffled thunder, as if the partridges were drumming in\r\ncelebration of nature\'s victory over the son of her immemorial\r\nenslavers. And back at the little plantation, where white men and black\r\nwere hastily searching the fields and hedges in alarm, a mother\'s heart\r\nwas breaking for her missing child.\r\n\r\nHours passed, and then the little sleeper rose to his feet. The chill of\r\nthe evening was in his limbs, the fear of the gloom in his heart. But he\r\nhad rested, and he no longer wept. With some blind instinct which\r\nimpelled to action he struggled through the undergrowth about him and\r\ncame to a more open ground--on his right the brook, to the left a\r\ngentle acclivity studded with infrequent trees; over all, the gathering\r\ngloom of twilight. A thin, ghostly mist rose along the water. It\r\nfrightened and repelled him; instead of recrossing, in the direction\r\nwhence he had come, he turned his back upon it, and went forward toward\r\nthe dark inclosing wood. Suddenly he saw before him a strange moving\r\nobject which he took to be some large animal--a dog, a pig--he could not\r\nname it; perhaps it was a bear. He had seen pictures of bears, but knew\r\nof nothing to their discredit and had vaguely wished to meet one. But\r\nsomething in form or movement of this object--something in the\r\nawkwardness of its approach--told him that it was not a bear, and\r\ncuriosity was stayed by fear. He stood still and as it came slowly on\r\ngained courage every moment, for he saw that at least it had not the\r\nlong, menacing ears of the rabbit. Possibly his impressionable mind was\r\nhalf conscious of something familiar in its shambling, awkward gait.\r\nBefore it had approached near enough to resolve his doubts he saw that\r\nit was followed by another and another. To right and to left were many\r\nmore; the whole open space about him was alive with them--all moving\r\ntoward the brook.\r\n\r\nThey were men. They crept upon their hands and knees. They used their\r\nhands only, dragging their legs. They used their knees only, their arms\r\nhanging idle at their sides. They strove to rise to their feet, but fell\r\nprone in the attempt. They did nothing naturally, and nothing alike,\r\nsave only to advance foot by foot in the same direction. Singly, in\r\npairs and in little groups, they came on through the gloom, some halting\r\nnow and again while others crept slowly past them, then resuming their\r\nmovement. They came by dozens and by hundreds; as far on either hand as\r\none could see in the deepening gloom they extended and the black wood\r\nbehind them appeared to be inexhaustible. The very ground seemed in\r\nmotion toward the creek. Occasionally one who had paused did not again\r\ngo on, but lay motionless. He was dead. Some, pausing, made strange\r\ngestures with their hands, erected their arms and lowered them again,\r\nclasped their heads; spread their palms upward, as men are sometimes\r\nseen to do in public prayer.\r\n\r\nNot all of this did the child note; it is what would have been noted by\r\nan elder observer; he saw little but that these were men, yet crept like\r\nbabes. Being men, they were not terrible, though unfamiliarly clad. He\r\nmoved among them freely, going from one to another and peering into\r\ntheir faces with childish curiosity. All their faces were singularly\r\nwhite and many were streaked and gouted with red. Something in this--\r\nsomething too, perhaps, in their grotesque attitudes and movements--\r\nreminded him of the painted clown whom he had seen last summer in the\r\ncircus, and he laughed as he watched them. But on and ever on they\r\ncrept, these maimed and bleeding men, as heedless as he of the dramatic\r\ncontrast between his laughter and their own ghastly gravity. To him it\r\nwas a merry spectacle. He had seen his father\'s negroes creep upon their\r\nhands and knees for his amusement--had ridden them so, "making believe"\r\nthey were his horses. He now approached one of these crawling figures\r\nfrom behind and with an agile movement mounted it astride. The man sank\r\nupon his breast, recovered, flung the small boy fiercely to the ground\r\nas an unbroken colt might have done, then turned upon him a face that\r\nlacked a lower jaw--from the upper teeth to the throat was a great red\r\ngap fringed with hanging shreds of flesh and splinters of bone. The\r\nunnatural prominence of nose, the absence of chin, the fierce eyes, gave\r\nthis man the appearance of a great bird of prey crimsoned in throat and\r\nbreast by the blood of its quarry. The man rose to his knees, the child\r\nto his feet. The man shook his fist at the child; the child, terrified\r\nat last, ran to a tree near by, got upon the farther side of it and took\r\na more serious view of the situation. And so the clumsy multitude\r\ndragged itself slowly and painfully along in hideous pantomime--moved\r\nforward down the slope like a swarm of great black beetles, with never a\r\nsound of going--in silence profound, absolute.\r\n\r\nInstead of darkening, the haunted landscape began to brighten. Through\r\nthe belt of trees beyond the brook shone a strange red light, the trunks\r\nand branches of the trees making a black lacework against it. It struck\r\nthe creeping figures and gave them monstrous shadows, which caricatured\r\ntheir movements on the lit grass. It fell upon their faces, touching\r\ntheir whiteness with a ruddy tinge, accentuating the stains with which\r\nso many of them were freaked and maculated. It sparkled on buttons and\r\nbits of metal in their clothing. Instinctively the child turned toward\r\nthe growing splendor and moved down the slope with his horrible\r\ncompanions; in a few moments had passed the foremost of the throng--not\r\nmuch of a feat, considering his advantages. He placed himself in the\r\nlead, his wooden sword still in hand, and solemnly directed the march,\r\nconforming his pace to theirs and occasionally turning as if to see that\r\nhis forces did not straggle. Surely such a leader never before had such\r\na following.\r\n\r\nScattered about upon the ground now slowly narrowing by the encroachment\r\nof this awful march to water, were certain articles to which, in the\r\nleader\'s mind, were coupled no significant associations: an occasional\r\nblanket, tightly rolled lengthwise, doubled and the ends bound together\r\nwith a string; a heavy knapsack here, and there a broken rifle--such\r\nthings, in short, as are found in the rear of retreating troops, the\r\n"spoor" of men flying from their hunters. Everywhere near the creek,\r\nwhich here had a margin of lowland, the earth was trodden into mud by\r\nthe feet of men and horses. An observer of better experience in the use\r\nof his eyes would have noticed that these footprints pointed in both\r\ndirections; the ground had been twice passed over--in advance and in\r\nretreat. A few hours before, these desperate, stricken men, with their\r\nmore fortunate and now distant comrades, had penetrated the forest in\r\nthousands. Their successive battalions, breaking into swarms and\r\nre-forming in lines, had passed the child on every side--had almost\r\ntrodden on him as he slept. The rustle and murmur of their march had not\r\nawakened him. Almost within a stone\'s throw of where he lay they had\r\nfought a battle; but all unheard by him were the roar of the musketry,\r\nthe shock of the cannon, "the thunder of the captains and the shouting."\r\nHe had slept through it all, grasping his little wooden sword with\r\nperhaps a tighter clutch in unconscious sympathy with his martial\r\nenvironment, but as heedless of the grandeur of the struggle as the dead\r\nwho had died to make the glory.\r\n\r\nThe fire beyond the belt of woods on the farther side of the creek,\r\nreflected to earth from the canopy of its own smoke, was now suffusing\r\nthe whole landscape. It transformed the sinuous line of mist to the\r\nvapor of gold. The water gleamed with dashes of red, and red, too, were\r\nmany of the stones protruding above the surface. But that was blood; the\r\nless desperately wounded had stained them in crossing. On them, too, the\r\nchild now crossed with eager steps; he was going to the fire. As he\r\nstood upon the farther bank he turned about to look at the companions of\r\nhis march. The advance was arriving at the creek. The stronger had\r\nalready drawn themselves to the brink and plunged their faces into the\r\nflood. Three or four who lay without motion appeared to have no heads.\r\nAt this the child\'s eyes expanded with wonder; even his hospitable\r\nunderstanding could not accept a phenomenon implying such vitality as\r\nthat. After slaking their thirst these men had not had the strength to\r\nback away from the water, nor to keep their heads above it. They were\r\ndrowned. In rear of these, the open spaces of the forest showed the\r\nleader as many formless figures of his grim command as at first; but not\r\nnearly so many were in motion. He waved his cap for their encouragement\r\nand smilingly pointed with his weapon in the direction of the guiding\r\nlight--a pillar of fire to this strange exodus.\r\n\r\nConfident of the fidelity of his forces, he now entered the belt of\r\nwoods, passed through it easily in the red illumination, climbed a\r\nfence, ran across a field, turning now and again to coquet with his\r\nresponsive shadow, and so approached the blazing ruin of a dwelling.\r\nDesolation everywhere! In all the wide glare not a living thing was\r\nvisible. He cared nothing for that; the spectacle pleased, and he danced\r\nwith glee in imitation of the wavering flames. He ran about, collecting\r\nfuel, but every object that he found was too heavy for him to cast in\r\nfrom the distance to which the heat limited his approach. In despair he\r\nflung in his sword--a surrender to the superior forces of nature. His\r\nmilitary career was at an end.\r\n\r\nShifting his position, his eyes fell upon some outbuildings which had an\r\noddly familiar appearance, as if he had dreamed of them. He stood\r\nconsidering them with wonder, when suddenly the entire plantation, with\r\nits inclosing forest, seemed to turn as if upon a pivot. His little\r\nworld swung half around; the points of the compass were reversed. He\r\nrecognized the blazing building as his own home!\r\n\r\nFor a moment he stood stupefied by the power of the revelation, then ran\r\nwith stumbling feet, making a half-circuit of the ruin. There,\r\nconspicuous in the light of the conflagration, lay the dead body of a\r\nwoman--the white face turned upward, the hands thrown out and clutched\r\nfull of grass, the clothing deranged, the long dark hair in tangles and\r\nfull of clotted blood. The greater part of the forehead was torn away,\r\nand from the jagged hole the brain protruded, overflowing the temple, a\r\nfrothy mass of gray, crowned with clusters of crimson bubbles--the work\r\nof a shell.\r\n\r\nThe child moved his little hands, making wild, uncertain gestures. He\r\nuttered a series of inarticulate and indescribable cries--something\r\nbetween the chattering of an ape and the gobbling of a turkey--a\r\nstartling, soulless, unholy sound, the language of a devil. The child\r\nwas a deaf mute.\r\n\r\nThen he stood motionless, with quivering lips, looking down upon the\r\nwreck.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA SON OF THE GODS\r\n\r\nA STUDY IN THE PRESENT TENSE\r\n\r\nA breezy day and a sunny landscape. An open country to right and left\r\nand forward; behind, a wood. In the edge of this wood, facing the open\r\nbut not venturing into it, long lines of troops, halted. The wood is\r\nalive with them, and full of confused noises--the occasional rattle of\r\nwheels as a battery of artillery goes into position to cover the\r\nadvance; the hum and murmur of the soldiers talking; a sound of\r\ninnumerable feet in the dry leaves that strew the interspaces among the\r\ntrees; hoarse commands of officers. Detached groups of horsemen are well\r\nin front--not altogether exposed--many of them intently regarding the\r\ncrest of a hill a mile away in the direction of the interrupted advance.\r\nFor this powerful army, moving in battle order through a forest, has met\r\nwith a formidable obstacle--the open country. The crest of that gentle\r\nhill a mile away has a sinister look; it says, Beware! Along it runs a\r\nstone wall extending to left and right a great distance. Behind the wall\r\nis a hedge; behind the hedge are seen the tops of trees in rather\r\nstraggling order. Among the trees--what? It is necessary to know.\r\n\r\nYesterday, and for many days and nights previously, we were fighting\r\nsomewhere; always there was cannonading, with occasional keen rattlings\r\nof musketry, mingled with cheers, our own or the enemy\'s, we seldom\r\nknew, attesting some temporary advantage. This morning at daybreak the\r\nenemy was gone. We have moved forward across his earthworks, across\r\nwhich we have so often vainly attempted to move before, through the\r\ndebris of his abandoned camps, among the graves of his fallen, into the\r\nwoods beyond.\r\n\r\nHow curiously we had regarded everything! how odd it all had seemed!\r\nNothing had appeared quite familiar; the most commonplace objects--an\r\nold saddle, a splintered wheel, a forgotten canteen--everything had\r\nrelated something of the mysterious personality of those strange men who\r\nhad been killing us. The soldier never becomes wholly familiar with the\r\nconception of his foes as men like himself; he cannot divest himself of\r\nthe feeling that they are another order of beings, differently\r\nconditioned, in an environment not altogether of the earth. The smallest\r\nvestiges of them rivet his attention and engage his interest. He thinks\r\nof them as inaccessible; and, catching an unexpected glimpse of them,\r\nthey appear farther away, and therefore larger, than they really are--\r\nlike objects in a fog. He is somewhat in awe of them.\r\n\r\nFrom the edge of the wood leading up the acclivity are the tracks of\r\nhorses and wheels--the wheels of cannon. The yellow grass is beaten down\r\nby the feet of infantry. Clearly they have passed this way in thousands;\r\nthey have not withdrawn by the country roads. This is significant--it is\r\nthe difference between retiring and retreating.\r\n\r\nThat group of horsemen is our commander, his staff and escort. He is\r\nfacing the distant crest, holding his field-glass against his eyes with\r\nboth hands, his elbows needlessly elevated. It is a fashion; it seems to\r\ndignify the act; we are all addicted to it. Suddenly he lowers the glass\r\nand says a few words to those about him. Two or three aides detach\r\nthemselves from the group and canter away into the woods, along the\r\nlines in each direction. We did not hear his words, but we know them:\r\n"Tell General X. to send forward the skirmish line." Those of us who\r\nhave been out of place resume our positions; the men resting at ease\r\nstraighten themselves and the ranks are re-formed without a command.\r\nSome of us staff officers dismount and look at our saddle girths; those\r\nalready on the ground remount.\r\n\r\nGalloping rapidly along in the edge of the open ground comes a young\r\nofficer on a snow-white horse. His saddle blanket is scarlet. What a\r\nfool! No one who has ever been in action but remembers how naturally\r\nevery rifle turns toward the man on a white horse; no one but has\r\nobserved how a bit of red enrages the bull of battle. That such colors\r\nare fashionable in military life must be accepted as the most\r\nastonishing of all the phenomena of human vanity. They would seem to\r\nhave been devised to increase the death-rate.\r\n\r\nThis young officer is in full uniform, as if on parade. He is all agleam\r\nwith bullion--a blue-and-gold edition of the Poetry of War. A wave of\r\nderisive laughter runs abreast of him all along the line. But how\r\nhandsome he is!--with what careless grace he sits his horse!\r\n\r\nHe reins up within a respectful distance of the corps commander and\r\nsalutes. The old soldier nods familiarly; he evidently knows him. A\r\nbrief colloquy between them is going on; the young man seems to be\r\npreferring some request which the elder one is indisposed to grant. Let\r\nus ride a little nearer. Ah! too late--it is ended. The young officer\r\nsalutes again, wheels his horse, and rides straight toward the crest of\r\nthe hill!\r\n\r\nA thin line of skirmishers, the men deployed at six paces or so apart,\r\nnow pushes from the wood into the open. The commander speaks to his\r\nbugler, who claps his instrument to his lips. _Tra-la-la! Tra-la-la!_\r\nThe skirmishers halt in their tracks.\r\n\r\nMeantime the young horseman has advanced a hundred yards. He is riding\r\nat a walk, straight up the long slope, with never a turn of the head.\r\nHow glorious! Gods! what would we not give to be in his place--with his\r\nsoul! He does not draw his sabre; his right hand hangs easily at his\r\nside. The breeze catches the plume in his hat and flutters it smartly.\r\nThe sunshine rests upon his shoulder-straps, lovingly, like a visible\r\nbenediction. Straight on he rides. Ten thousand pairs of eyes are fixed\r\nupon him with an intensity that he can hardly fail to feel; ten thousand\r\nhearts keep quick time to the inaudible hoof-beats of his snowy steed.\r\nHe is not alone--he draws all souls after him. But we remember that we\r\nlaughed! On and on, straight for the hedge-lined wall, he rides. Not a\r\nlook backward. O, if he would but turn--if he could but see the love,\r\nthe adoration, the atonement!\r\n\r\nNot a word is spoken; the populous depths of the forest still murmur\r\nwith their unseen and unseeing swarm, but all along the fringe is\r\nsilence. The burly commander is an equestrian statue of himself. The\r\nmounted staff officers, their field glasses up, are motionless all. The\r\nline of battle in the edge of the wood stands at a new kind of\r\n"attention," each man in the attitude in which he was caught by the\r\nconsciousness of what is going on. All these hardened and impenitent\r\nman-killers, to whom death in its awfulest forms is a fact familiar to\r\ntheir every-day observation; who sleep on hills trembling with the\r\nthunder of great guns, dine in the midst of streaming missiles, and play\r\nat cards among the dead faces of their dearest friends--all are watching\r\nwith suspended breath and beating hearts the outcome of an act involving\r\nthe life of one man. Such is the magnetism of courage and devotion.\r\n\r\nIf now you should turn your head you would see a simultaneous movement\r\namong the spectators--a start, as if they had received an electric\r\nshock--and looking forward again to the now distant horseman you would\r\nsee that he has in that instant altered his direction and is riding at\r\nan angle to his former course. The spectators suppose the sudden\r\ndeflection to be caused by a shot, perhaps a wound; but take this\r\nfield-glass and you will observe that he is riding toward a break in the\r\nwall and hedge. He means, if not killed, to ride through and overlook\r\nthe country beyond.\r\n\r\nYou are not to forget the nature of this man\'s act; it is not permitted\r\nto you to think of it as an instance of bravado, nor, on the other hand,\r\na needless sacrifice of self. If the enemy has not retreated he is in\r\nforce on that ridge. The investigator will encounter nothing less than a\r\nline-of-battle; there is no need of pickets, videttes, skirmishers, to\r\ngive warning of our approach; our attacking lines will be visible,\r\nconspicuous, exposed to an artillery fire that will shave the ground the\r\nmoment they break from cover, and for half the distance to a sheet of\r\nrifle bullets in which nothing can live. In short, if the enemy is\r\nthere, it would be madness to attack him in front; he must be manoeuvred\r\nout by the immemorial plan of threatening his line of communication, as\r\nnecessary to his existence as to the diver at the bottom of the sea his\r\nair tube. But how ascertain if the enemy is there? There is but one\r\nway,--somebody must go and see. The natural and customary thing to do is\r\nto send forward a line of skirmishers. But in this case they will answer\r\nin the affirmative with all their lives; the enemy, crouching in double\r\nranks behind the stone wall and in cover of the hedge, will wait until\r\nit is possible to count each assailant\'s teeth. At the first volley a\r\nhalf of the questioning line will fall, the other half before it can\r\naccomplish the predestined retreat. What a price to pay for gratified\r\ncuriosity! At what a dear rate an army must sometimes purchase\r\nknowledge! "Let me pay all," says this gallant man--this military\r\nChrist!\r\n\r\nThere is no hope except the hope against hope that the crest is clear.\r\nTrue, he might prefer capture to death. So long as he advances, the line\r\nwill not fire--why should it? He can safely ride into the hostile ranks\r\nand become a prisoner of war. But this would defeat his object. It would\r\nnot answer our question; it is necessary either that he return unharmed\r\nor be shot to death before our eyes. Only so shall we know how to act.\r\nIf captured--why, that might have been done by a half-dozen stragglers.\r\n\r\nNow begins an extraordinary contest of intellect between a man and an\r\narmy. Our horseman, now within a quarter of a mile of the crest,\r\nsuddenly wheels to the left and gallops in a direction parallel to it.\r\nHe has caught sight of his antagonist; he knows all. Some slight\r\nadvantage of ground has enabled him to overlook a part of the line. If\r\nhe were here he could tell us in words. But that is now hopeless; he\r\nmust make the best use of the few minutes of life remaining to him, by\r\ncompelling the enemy himself to tell us as much and as plainly as\r\npossible--which, naturally, that discreet power is reluctant to do. Not\r\na rifleman in those crouching ranks, not a cannoneer at those masked and\r\nshotted guns, but knows the needs of the situation, the imperative duty\r\nof forbearance. Besides, there has been time enough to forbid them all\r\nto fire. True, a single rifle-shot might drop him and be no great\r\ndisclosure. But firing is infectious--and see how rapidly he moves, with\r\nnever a pause except as he whirls his horse about to take a new\r\ndirection, never directly backward toward us, never directly forward\r\ntoward his executioners. All this is visible through the glass; it seems\r\noccurring within pistol-shot; we see all but the enemy, whose presence,\r\nwhose thoughts, whose motives we infer. To the unaided eye there is\r\nnothing but a black figure on a white horse, tracing slow zigzags\r\nagainst the slope of a distant hill--so slowly they seem almost to\r\ncreep.\r\n\r\nNow--the glass again--he has tired of his failure, or sees his error, or\r\nhas gone mad; he is dashing directly forward at the wall, as if to take\r\nit at a leap, hedge and all! One moment only and he wheels right about\r\nand is speeding like the wind straight down the slope--toward his\r\nfriends, toward his death! Instantly the wall is topped with a fierce\r\nroll of smoke for a distance of hundreds of yards to right and left.\r\nThis is as instantly dissipated by the wind, and before the rattle of\r\nthe rifles reaches us he is down. No, he recovers his seat; he has but\r\npulled his horse upon its haunches. They are up and away! A tremendous\r\ncheer bursts from our ranks, relieving the insupportable tension of our\r\nfeelings. And the horse and its rider? Yes, they are up and away. Away,\r\nindeed--they are making directly to our left, parallel to the now\r\nsteadily blazing and smoking wall. The rattle of the musketry is\r\ncontinuous, and every bullet\'s target is that courageous heart.\r\n\r\nSuddenly a great bank of white smoke pushes upward from behind the wall.\r\nAnother and another--a dozen roll up before the thunder of the\r\nexplosions and the humming of the missiles reach our ears and the\r\nmissiles themselves come bounding through clouds of dust into our\r\ncovert, knocking over here and there a man and causing a temporary\r\ndistraction, a passing thought of self.\r\n\r\nThe dust drifts away. Incredible!--that enchanted horse and rider have\r\npassed a ravine and are climbing another slope to unveil another\r\nconspiracy of silence, to thwart the will of another armed host. Another\r\nmoment and that crest too is in eruption. The horse rears and strikes\r\nthe air with its forefeet. They are down at last. But look again--the\r\nman has detached himself from the dead animal. He stands erect,\r\nmotionless, holding his sabre in his right hand straight above his head.\r\nHis face is toward us. Now he lowers his hand to a level with his face\r\nand moves it outward, the blade of the sabre describing a downward\r\ncurve. It is a sign to us, to the world, to posterity. It is a hero\'s\r\nsalute to death and history.\r\n\r\nAgain the spell is broken; our men attempt to cheer; they are choking\r\nwith emotion; they utter hoarse, discordant cries; they clutch their\r\nweapons and press tumultuously forward into the open. The skirmishers,\r\nwithout orders, against orders, are going forward at a keen run, like\r\nhounds unleashed. Our cannon speak and the enemy\'s now open in full\r\nchorus; to right and left as far as we can see, the distant crest,\r\nseeming now so near, erects its towers of cloud and the great shot pitch\r\nroaring down among our moving masses. Flag after flag of ours emerges\r\nfrom the wood, line after line sweeps forth, catching the sunlight on\r\nits burnished arms. The rear battalions alone are in obedience; they\r\npreserve their proper distance from the insurgent front.\r\n\r\nThe commander has not moved. He now removes his field-glass from his\r\neyes and glances to the right and left. He sees the human current\r\nflowing on either side of him and his huddled escort, like tide waves\r\nparted by a rock. Not a sign of feeling in his face; he is thinking.\r\nAgain he directs his eyes forward; they slowly traverse that malign and\r\nawful crest. He addresses a calm word to his bugler. _Tra-la-la!\r\nTra-la-la!_ The injunction has an imperiousness which enforces it. It is\r\nrepeated by all the bugles of all the sub-ordinate commanders; the sharp\r\nmetallic notes assert themselves above the hum of the advance and\r\npenetrate the sound of the cannon. To halt is to withdraw. The colors\r\nmove slowly back; the lines face about and sullenly follow, bearing\r\ntheir wounded; the skirmishers return, gathering up the dead.\r\n\r\nAh, those many, many needless dead! That great soul whose beautiful body\r\nis lying over yonder, so conspicuous against the sere hillside--could it\r\nnot have been spared the bitter consciousness of a vain devotion? Would\r\none exception have marred too much the pitiless perfection of the\r\ndivine, eternal plan?\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nONE OF THE MISSING\r\n\r\nJerome Searing, a private soldier of General Sherman\'s army, then\r\nconfronting the enemy at and about Kennesaw Mountain, Georgia, turned\r\nhis back upon a small group of officers with whom he had been talking in\r\nlow tones, stepped across a light line of earthworks, and disappeared in\r\na forest. None of the men in line behind the works had said a word to\r\nhim, nor had he so much as nodded to them in passing, but all who saw\r\nunderstood that this brave man had been intrusted with some perilous\r\nduty. Jerome Searing, though a private, did not serve in the ranks; he\r\nwas detailed for service at division headquarters, being borne upon the\r\nrolls as an orderly. "Orderly" is a word covering a multitude of duties.\r\nAn orderly may be a messenger, a clerk, an officer\'s servant--anything.\r\nHe may perform services for which no provision is made in orders and\r\narmy regulations. Their nature may depend upon his aptitude, upon favor,\r\nupon accident. Private Searing, an incomparable marksman, young, hardy,\r\nintelligent and insensible to fear, was a scout. The general commanding\r\nhis division was not content to obey orders blindly without knowing what\r\nwas in his front, even when his command was not on detached service, but\r\nformed a fraction of the line of the army; nor was he satisfied to\r\nreceive his knowledge of his _vis-à-vis_ through the customary channels;\r\nhe wanted to know more than he was apprised of by the corps commander\r\nand the collisions of pickets and skirmishers. Hence Jerome Searing,\r\nwith his extraordinary daring, his woodcraft, his sharp eyes, and\r\ntruthful tongue. On this occasion his instructions were simple: to get\r\nas near the enemy\'s lines as possible and learn all that he could.\r\n\r\nIn a few moments he had arrived at the picket-line, the men on duty\r\nthere lying in groups of two and four behind little banks of earth\r\nscooped out of the slight depression in which they lay, their rifles\r\nprotruding from the green boughs with which they had masked their small\r\ndefenses. The forest extended without a break toward the front, so\r\nsolemn and silent that only by an effort of the imagination could it be\r\nconceived as populous with armed men, alert and vigilant--a forest\r\nformidable with possibilities of battle. Pausing a moment in one of\r\nthese rifle-pits to apprise the men of his intention Searing crept\r\nstealthily forward on his hands and knees and was soon lost to view in a\r\ndense thicket of underbrush.\r\n\r\n"That is the last of him," said one of the men; "I wish I had his rifle;\r\nthose fellows will hurt some of us with it."\r\n\r\nSearing crept on, taking advantage of every accident of ground and\r\ngrowth to give himself better cover. His eyes penetrated everywhere, his\r\nears took note of every sound. He stilled his breathing, and at the\r\ncracking of a twig beneath his knee stopped his progress and hugged the\r\nearth. It was slow work, but not tedious; the danger made it exciting,\r\nbut by no physical signs was the excitement manifest. His pulse was as\r\nregular, his nerves were as steady as if he were trying to trap a\r\nsparrow.\r\n\r\n"It seems a long time," he thought, "but I cannot have come very far; I\r\nam still alive."\r\n\r\nHe smiled at his own method of estimating distance, and crept forward. A\r\nmoment later he suddenly flattened himself upon the earth and lay\r\nmotionless, minute after minute. Through a narrow opening in the bushes\r\nhe had caught sight of a small mound of yellow clay--one of the enemy\'s\r\nrifle-pits. After some little time he cautiously raised his head, inch\r\nby inch, then his body upon his hands, spread out on each side of him,\r\nall the while intently regarding the hillock of clay. In another moment\r\nhe was upon his feet, rifle in hand, striding rapidly forward with\r\nlittle attempt at concealment. He had rightly interpreted the signs,\r\nwhatever they were; the enemy was gone.\r\n\r\nTo assure himself beyond a doubt before going back to report upon so\r\nimportant a matter, Searing pushed forward across the line of abandoned\r\npits, running from cover to cover in the more open forest, his eyes\r\nvigilant to discover possible stragglers. He came to the edge of a\r\nplantation--one of those forlorn, deserted homesteads of the last years\r\nof the war, upgrown with brambles, ugly with broken fences and desolate\r\nwith vacant buildings having blank apertures in place of doors and\r\nwindows. After a keen reconnoissance from the safe seclusion of a clump\r\nof young pines Searing ran lightly across a field and through an orchard\r\nto a small structure which stood apart from the other farm buildings, on\r\na slight elevation. This he thought would enable him to overlook a large\r\nscope of country in the direction that he supposed the enemy to have\r\ntaken in withdrawing. This building, which had originally consisted of a\r\nsingle room elevated upon four posts about ten feet high, was now little\r\nmore than a roof; the floor had fallen away, the joists and planks\r\nloosely piled on the ground below or resting on end at various angles,\r\nnot wholly torn from their fastenings above. The supporting posts were\r\nthemselves no longer vertical. It looked as if the whole edifice would\r\ngo down at the touch of a finger.\r\n\r\nConcealing himself in the debris of joists and flooring Searing looked\r\nacross the open ground between his point of view and a spur of Kennesaw\r\nMountain, a half-mile away. A road leading up and across this spur was\r\ncrowded with troops--the rear-guard of the retiring enemy, their\r\ngun-barrels gleaming in the morning sunlight.\r\n\r\nSearing had now learned all that he could hope to know. It was his duty\r\nto return to his own command with all possible speed and report his\r\ndiscovery. But the gray column of Confederates toiling up the mountain\r\nroad was singularly tempting. His rifle--an ordinary "Springfield," but\r\nfitted with a globe sight and hair-trigger--would easily send its ounce\r\nand a quarter of lead hissing into their midst. That would probably not\r\naffect the duration and result of the war, but it is the business of a\r\nsoldier to kill. It is also his habit if he is a good soldier. Searing\r\ncocked his rifle and "set" the trigger.\r\n\r\nBut it was decreed from the beginning of time that Private Searing was\r\nnot to murder anybody that bright summer morning, nor was the\r\nConfederate retreat to be announced by him. For countless ages events\r\nhad been so matching themselves together in that wondrous mosaic to some\r\nparts of which, dimly discernible, we give the name of history, that the\r\nacts which he had in will would have marred the harmony of the pattern.\r\nSome twenty-five years previously the Power charged with the execution\r\nof the work according to the design had provided against that mischance\r\nby causing the birth of a certain male child in a little village at the\r\nfoot of the Carpathian Mountains, had carefully reared it, supervised\r\nits education, directed its desires into a military channel, and in due\r\ntime made it an officer of artillery. By the concurrence of an infinite\r\nnumber of favoring influences and their preponderance over an infinite\r\nnumber of opposing ones, this officer of artillery had been made to\r\ncommit a breach of discipline and flee from his native country to avoid\r\npunishment. He had been directed to New Orleans (instead of New York),\r\nwhere a recruiting officer awaited him on the wharf. He was enlisted and\r\npromoted, and things were so ordered that he now commanded a Confederate\r\nbattery some two miles along the line from where Jerome Searing, the\r\nFederal scout, stood cocking his rifle. Nothing had been neglected--at\r\nevery step in the progress of both these men\'s lives, and in the lives\r\nof their contemporaries and ancestors, and in the lives of the\r\ncontemporaries of their ancestors, the right thing had been done to\r\nbring about the desired result. Had anything in all this vast\r\nconcatenation been overlooked Private Searing might have fired on the\r\nretreating Confederates that morning, and would perhaps have missed. As\r\nit fell out, a Confederate captain of artillery, having nothing better\r\nto do while awaiting his turn to pull out and be off, amused himself by\r\nsighting a field-piece obliquely to his right at what he mistook for\r\nsome Federal officers on the crest of a hill, and discharged it. The\r\nshot flew high of its mark.\r\n\r\nAs Jerome Searing drew back the hammer of his rifle and with his eyes\r\nupon the distant Confederates considered where he could plant his shot\r\nwith the best hope of making a widow or an orphan or a childless\r\nmother,--perhaps all three, for Private Searing, although he had\r\nrepeatedly refused promotion, was not without a certain kind of\r\nambition,--he heard a rushing sound in the air, like that made by the\r\nwings of a great bird swooping down upon its prey. More quickly than he\r\ncould apprehend the gradation, it increased to a hoarse and horrible\r\nroar, as the missile that made it sprang at him out of the sky, striking\r\nwith a deafening impact one of the posts supporting the confusion of\r\ntimbers above him, smashing it into matchwood, and bringing down the\r\ncrazy edifice with a loud clatter, in clouds of blinding dust!\r\n\r\nWhen Jerome Searing recovered consciousness he did not at once\r\nunderstand what had occurred. It was, indeed, some time before he opened\r\nhis eyes. For a while he believed that he had died and been buried, and\r\nhe tried to recall some portions of the burial service. He thought that\r\nhis wife was kneeling upon his grave, adding her weight to that of the\r\nearth upon his breast. The two of them, widow and earth, had crushed his\r\ncoffin. Unless the children should persuade her to go home he would not\r\nmuch longer be able to breathe. He felt a sense of wrong. "I cannot\r\nspeak to her," he thought; "the dead have no voice; and if I open my\r\neyes I shall get them full of earth."\r\n\r\nHe opened his eyes. A great expanse of blue sky, rising from a fringe of\r\nthe tops of trees. In the foreground, shutting out some of the trees, a\r\nhigh, dun mound, angular in outline and crossed by an intricate,\r\npatternless system of straight lines; the whole an immeasurable distance\r\naway--a distance so inconceivably great that it fatigued him, and he\r\nclosed his eyes. The moment that he did so he was conscious of an\r\ninsufferable light. A sound was in his ears like the low, rhythmic\r\nthunder of a distant sea breaking in successive waves upon the beach,\r\nand out of this noise, seeming a part of it, or possibly coming from\r\nbeyond it, and intermingled with its ceaseless undertone, came the\r\narticulate words: "Jerome Searing, you are caught like a rat in a trap--\r\nin a trap, trap, trap."\r\n\r\nSuddenly there fell a great silence, a black darkness, an infinite\r\ntranquillity, and Jerome Searing, perfectly conscious of his rathood,\r\nand well assured of the trap that he was in, remembering all and nowise\r\nalarmed, again opened his eyes to reconnoitre, to note the strength of\r\nhis enemy, to plan his defense.\r\n\r\nHe was caught in a reclining posture, his back firmly supported by a\r\nsolid beam. Another lay across his breast, but he had been able to\r\nshrink a little away from it so that it no longer oppressed him, though\r\nit was immovable. A brace joining it at an angle had wedged him against\r\na pile of boards on his left, fastening the arm on that side. His legs,\r\nslightly parted and straight along the ground, were covered upward to\r\nthe knees with a mass of debris which towered above his narrow horizon.\r\nHis head was as rigidly fixed as in a vise; he could move his eyes, his\r\nchin--no more. Only his right arm was partly free. "You must help us out\r\nof this," he said to it. But he could not get it from under the heavy\r\ntimber athwart his chest, nor move it outward more than six inches at\r\nthe elbow.\r\n\r\nSearing was not seriously injured, nor did he suffer pain. A smart rap\r\non the head from a flying fragment of the splintered post, incurred\r\nsimultaneously with the frightfully sudden shock to the nervous system,\r\nhad momentarily dazed him. His term of unconsciousness, including the\r\nperiod of recovery, during which he had had the strange fancies, had\r\nprobably not exceeded a few seconds, for the dust of the wreck had not\r\nwholly cleared away as he began an intelligent survey of the situation.\r\n\r\nWith his partly free right hand he now tried to get hold of the beam\r\nthat lay across, but not quite against, his breast. In no way could he\r\ndo so. He was unable to depress the shoulder so as to push the elbow\r\nbeyond that edge of the timber which was nearest his knees; failing in\r\nthat, he could not raise the forearm and hand to grasp the beam. The\r\nbrace that made an angle with it downward and backward prevented him\r\nfrom doing anything in that direction, and between it and his body the\r\nspace was not half so wide as the length of his forearm. Obviously he\r\ncould not get his hand under the beam nor over it; the hand could not,\r\nin fact, touch it at all. Having demonstrated his inability, he\r\ndesisted, and began to think whether he could reach any of the débris\r\npiled upon his legs.\r\n\r\nIn surveying the mass with a view to determining that point, his\r\nattention was arrested by what seemed to be a ring of shining metal\r\nimmediately in front of his eyes. It appeared to him at first to\r\nsurround some perfectly black substance, and it was somewhat more than a\r\nhalf-inch in diameter. It suddenly occurred to his mind that the\r\nblackness was simply shadow and that the ring was in fact the muzzle of\r\nhis rifle protruding from the pile of débris. He was not long in\r\nsatisfying himself that this was so--if it was a satisfaction. By\r\nclosing either eye he could look a little way along the barrel--to the\r\npoint where it was hidden by the rubbish that held it. He could see the\r\none side, with the corresponding eye, at apparently the same angle as\r\nthe other side with the other eye. Looking with the right eye, the\r\nweapon seemed to be directed at a point to the left of his head, and\r\n_vice-versa._ He was unable to see the upper surface of the barrel, but\r\ncould see the under surface of the stock at a slight angle. The piece\r\nwas, in fact, aimed at the exact centre of his forehead.\r\n\r\nIn the perception of this circumstance, in the recollection that just\r\npreviously to the mischance of which this uncomfortable situation was\r\nthe result he had cocked the rifle and set the trigger so that a touch\r\nwould discharge it, Private Searing was affected with a feeling of\r\nuneasiness. But that was as far as possible from fear; he was a brave\r\nman, somewhat familiar with the aspect of rifles from that point of\r\nview, and of cannon too. And now he recalled, with something like\r\namusement, an incident of his experience at the storming of Missionary\r\nRidge, where, walking up to one of the enemy\'s embrasures from which he\r\nhad seen a heavy gun throw charge after charge of grape among the\r\nassailants he had thought for a moment that the piece had been\r\nwithdrawn; he could see nothing in the opening but a brazen circle. What\r\nthat was he had understood just in time to step aside as it pitched\r\nanother peck of iron down that swarming slope. To face firearms is one\r\nof the commonest incidents in a soldier\'s life--firearms, too, with\r\nmalevolent eyes blazing behind them. That is what a soldier is for.\r\nStill, Private Searing did not altogether relish the situation, and\r\nturned away his eyes.\r\n\r\nAfter groping, aimless, with his right hand for a time he made an\r\nineffectual attempt to release his left. Then he tried to disengage his\r\nhead, the fixity of which was the more annoying from his ignorance of\r\nwhat held it. Next he tried to free his feet, but while exerting the\r\npowerful muscles of his legs for that purpose it occurred to him that a\r\ndisturbance of the rubbish which held them might discharge the rifle;\r\nhow it could have endured what had already befallen it he could not\r\nunderstand, although memory assisted him with several instances in\r\npoint. One in particular he recalled, in which in a moment of mental\r\nabstraction he had clubbed his rifle and beaten out another gentleman\'s\r\nbrains, observing afterward that the weapon which he had been diligently\r\nswinging by the muzzle was loaded, capped, and at full cock--knowledge\r\nof which circumstance would doubtless have cheered his antagonist to\r\nlonger endurance. He had always smiled in recalling that blunder of his\r\n"green and salad days" as a soldier, but now he did not smile. He turned\r\nhis eyes again to the muzzle of the rifle and for a moment fancied that\r\nit had moved; it seemed somewhat nearer.\r\n\r\nAgain he looked away. The tops of the distant trees beyond the bounds of\r\nthe plantation interested him: he had not before observed how light and\r\nfeathery they were, nor how darkly blue the sky was, even among their\r\nbranches, where they somewhat paled it with their green; above him it\r\nappeared almost black. "It will be uncomfortably hot here," he thought,\r\n"as the day advances. I wonder which way I am looking."\r\n\r\nJudging by such shadows as he could see, he decided that his face was\r\ndue north; he would at least not have the sun in his eyes, and north--\r\nwell, that was toward his wife and children.\r\n\r\n"Bah!" he exclaimed aloud, "what have they to do with it?"\r\n\r\nHe closed his eyes. "As I can\'t get out I may as well go to sleep. The\r\nrebels are gone and some of our fellows are sure to stray out here\r\nforaging. They\'ll find me."\r\n\r\nBut he did not sleep. Gradually he became sensible of a pain in his\r\nforehead--a dull ache, hardly perceptible at first, but growing more and\r\nmore uncomfortable. He opened his eyes and it was gone--closed them and\r\nit returned. "The devil!" he said, irrelevantly, and stared again at the\r\nsky. He heard the singing of birds, the strange metallic note of the\r\nmeadow lark, suggesting the clash of vibrant blades. He fell into\r\npleasant memories of his childhood, played again with his brother and\r\nsister, raced across the fields, shouting to alarm the sedentary larks,\r\nentered the sombre forest beyond and with timid steps followed the faint\r\npath to Ghost Rock, standing at last with audible heart-throbs before\r\nthe Dead Man\'s Cave and seeking to penetrate its awful mystery. For the\r\nfirst time he observed that the opening of the haunted cavern was\r\nencircled by a ring of metal. Then all else vanished and left him gazing\r\ninto the barrel of his rifle as before. But whereas before it had seemed\r\nnearer, it now seemed an inconceivable distance away, and all the more\r\nsinister for that. He cried out and, startled by something in his own\r\nvoice--the note of fear--lied to himself in denial: "If I don\'t sing out\r\nI may stay here till I die."\r\n\r\nHe now made no further attempt to evade the menacing stare of the gun\r\nbarrel. If he turned away his eyes an instant it was to look for\r\nassistance (although he could not see the ground on either side the\r\nruin), and he permitted them to return, obedient to the imperative\r\nfascination. If he closed them it was from weariness, and instantly the\r\npoignant pain in his forehead--the prophecy and menace of the bullet--\r\nforced him to reopen them.\r\n\r\nThe tension of nerve and brain was too severe; nature came to his relief\r\nwith intervals of unconsciousness. Reviving from one of these he became\r\nsensible of a sharp, smarting pain in his right hand, and when he worked\r\nhis fingers together, or rubbed his palm with them, he could feel that\r\nthey were wet and slippery. He could not see the hand, but he knew the\r\nsensation; it was running blood. In his delirium he had beaten it\r\nagainst the jagged fragments of the wreck, had clutched it full of\r\nsplinters. He resolved that he would meet his fate more manly. He was a\r\nplain, common soldier, had no religion and not much philosophy; he could\r\nnot die like a hero, with great and wise last words, even if there had\r\nbeen some one to hear them, but he could die "game," and he would. But\r\nif he could only know when to expect the shot!\r\n\r\nSome rats which had probably inhabited the shed came sneaking and\r\nscampering about. One of them mounted the pile of débris that held the\r\nrifle; another followed and another. Searing regarded them at first with\r\nindifference, then with friendly interest; then, as the thought flashed\r\ninto his bewildered mind that they might touch the trigger of his rifle,\r\nhe cursed them and ordered them to go away. "It is no business of\r\nyours," he cried.\r\n\r\nThe creatures went away; they would return later, attack his face, gnaw\r\naway his nose, cut his throat--he knew that, but he hoped by that time\r\nto be dead.\r\n\r\nNothing could now unfix his gaze from the little ring of metal with its\r\nblack interior. The pain in his forehead was fierce and incessant. He\r\nfelt it gradually penetrating the brain more and more deeply, until at\r\nlast its progress was arrested by the wood at the back of his head. It\r\ngrew momentarily more insufferable: he began wantonly beating his\r\nlacerated hand against the splinters again to counteract that horrible\r\nache. It seemed to throb with a slow, regular recurrence, each pulsation\r\nsharper than the preceding, and sometimes he cried out, thinking he felt\r\nthe fatal bullet. No thoughts of home, of wife and children, of country,\r\nof glory. The whole record of memory was effaced. The world had passed\r\naway--not a vestige remained. Here in this confusion of timbers and\r\nboards is the sole universe. Here is immortality in time--each pain an\r\neverlasting life. The throbs tick off eternities.\r\n\r\nJerome Searing, the man of courage, the formidable enemy, the strong,\r\nresolute warrior, was as pale as a ghost. His jaw was fallen; his eyes\r\nprotruded; he trembled in every fibre; a cold sweat bathed his entire\r\nbody; he screamed with fear. He was not insane--he was terrified.\r\n\r\nIn groping about with his torn and bleeding hand he seized at last a\r\nstrip of board, and, pulling, felt it give way. It lay parallel with his\r\nbody, and by bending his elbow as much as the contracted space would\r\npermit, he could draw it a few inches at a time. Finally it was\r\naltogether loosened from the wreckage covering his legs; he could lift\r\nit clear of the ground its whole length. A great hope came into his\r\nmind: perhaps he could work it upward, that is to say backward, far\r\nenough to lift the end and push aside the rifle; or, if that were too\r\ntightly wedged, so place the strip of board as to deflect the bullet.\r\nWith this object he passed it backward inch by inch, hardly daring to\r\nbreathe lest that act somehow defeat his intent, and more than ever\r\nunable to remove his eyes from the rifle, which might perhaps now hasten\r\nto improve its waning opportunity. Something at least had been gained:\r\nin the occupation of his mind in this attempt at self-defense he was\r\nless sensible of the pain in his head and had ceased to wince. But he\r\nwas still dreadfully frightened and his teeth rattled like castanets.\r\n\r\nThe strip of board ceased to move to the suasion of his hand. He tugged\r\nat it with all his strength, changed the direction of its length all he\r\ncould, but it had met some extended obstruction behind him and the end\r\nin front was still too far away to clear the pile of débris and reach\r\nthe muzzle of the gun. It extended, indeed, nearly as far as the trigger\r\nguard, which, uncovered by the rubbish, he could imperfectly see with\r\nhis right eye. He tried to break the strip with his hand, but had no\r\nleverage. In his defeat, all his terror returned, augmented tenfold. The\r\nblack aperture of the rifle appeared to threaten a sharper and more\r\nimminent death in punishment of his rebellion. The track of the bullet\r\nthrough his head ached with an intenser anguish. He began to tremble\r\nagain.\r\n\r\nSuddenly he became composed. His tremor subsided. He clenched his teeth\r\nand drew down his eyebrows. He had not exhausted his means of defense; a\r\nnew design had shaped itself in his mind--another plan of battle.\r\nRaising the front end of the strip of board, he carefully pushed it\r\nforward through the wreckage at the side of the rifle until it pressed\r\nagainst the trigger guard. Then he moved the end slowly outward until he\r\ncould feel that it had cleared it, then, closing his eyes, thrust it\r\nagainst the trigger with all his strength! There was no explosion; the\r\nrifle had been discharged as it dropped from his hand when the building\r\nfell. But it did its work.\r\n\r\n * * * * *\r\n\r\nLieutenant Adrian Searing, in command of the picket-guard on that part\r\nof the line through which his brother Jerome had passed on his mission,\r\nsat with attentive ears in his breastwork behind the line. Not the\r\nfaintest sound escaped him; the cry of a bird, the barking of a\r\nsquirrel, the noise of the wind among the pines--all were anxiously\r\nnoted by his overstrained sense. Suddenly, directly in front of his\r\nline, he heard a faint, confused rumble, like the clatter of a falling\r\nbuilding translated by distance. The lieutenant mechanically looked at\r\nhis watch. Six o\'clock and eighteen minutes. At the same moment an\r\nofficer approached him on foot from the rear and saluted.\r\n\r\n"Lieutenant," said the officer, "the colonel directs you to move forward\r\nyour line and feel the enemy if you find him. If not, continue the\r\nadvance until directed to halt. There is reason to think that the enemy\r\nhas retreated."\r\n\r\nThe lieutenant nodded and said nothing; the other officer retired. In a\r\nmoment the men, apprised of their duty by the non-commissioned officers\r\nin low tones, had deployed from their rifle-pits and were moving forward\r\nin skirmishing order, with set teeth and beating hearts.\r\n\r\nThis line of skirmishers sweeps across the plantation toward the\r\nmountain. They pass on both sides of the wrecked building, observing\r\nnothing. At a short distance in their rear their commander comes. He\r\ncasts his eyes curiously upon the ruin and sees a dead body half buried\r\nin boards and timbers. It is so covered with dust that its clothing is\r\nConfederate gray. Its face is yellowish white; the cheeks are fallen in,\r\nthe temples sunken, too, with sharp ridges about them, making the\r\nforehead forbiddingly narrow; the upper lip, slightly lifted, shows the\r\nwhite teeth, rigidly clenched. The hair is heavy with moisture, the face\r\nas wet as the dewy grass all about. From his point of view the officer\r\ndoes not observe the rifle; the man was apparently killed by the fall of\r\nthe building.\r\n\r\n"Dead a week," said the officer curtly, moving on and absently pulling\r\nout his watch as if to verify his estimate of time. Six o\'clock and\r\nforty minutes.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nKILLED AT RESACA\r\n\r\nThe best soldier of our staff was Lieutenant Herman Brayle, one of the\r\ntwo aides-de-camp. I don\'t remember where the general picked him up;\r\nfrom some Ohio regiment, I think; none of us had previously known him,\r\nand it would have been strange if we had, for no two of us came from the\r\nsame State, nor even from adjoining States. The general seemed to think\r\nthat a position on his staff was a distinction that should be so\r\njudiciously conferred as not to beget any sectional jealousies and\r\nimperil the integrity of that part of the country which was still an\r\ninteger. He would not even choose officers from his own command, but by\r\nsome jugglery at department headquarters obtained them from other\r\nbrigades. Under such circumstances, a man\'s services had to be very\r\ndistinguished indeed to be heard of by his family and the friends of his\r\nyouth; and "the speaking trump of fame" was a trifle hoarse from\r\nloquacity, anyhow.\r\n\r\nLieutenant Brayle was more than six feet in height and of splendid\r\nproportions, with the light hair and gray-blue eyes which men so gifted\r\nusually find associated with a high order of courage. As he was commonly\r\nin full uniform, especially in action, when most officers are content to\r\nbe less flamboyantly attired, he was a very striking and conspicuous\r\nfigure. As to the rest, he had a gentleman\'s manners, a scholar\'s head,\r\nand a lion\'s heart. His age was about thirty.\r\n\r\nWe all soon came to like Brayle as much as we admired him, and it was\r\nwith sincere concern that in the engagement at Stone\'s River--our first\r\naction after he joined us--we observed that he had one most\r\nobjectionable and unsoldierly quality: he was vain of his courage.\r\nDuring all the vicissitudes and mutations of that hideous encounter,\r\nwhether our troops were fighting in the open cotton fields, in the cedar\r\nthickets, or behind the railway embankment, he did not once take cover,\r\nexcept when sternly commanded to do so by the general, who usually had\r\nother things to think of than the lives of his staff officers--or those\r\nof his men, for that matter.\r\n\r\nIn every later engagement while Brayle was with us it was the same way.\r\nHe would sit his horse like an equestrian statue, in a storm of bullets\r\nand grape, in the most exposed places--wherever, in fact, duty,\r\nrequiring him to go, permitted him to remain--when, without trouble and\r\nwith distinct advantage to his reputation for common sense, he might\r\nhave been in such security as is possible on a battlefield in the brief\r\nintervals of personal inaction.\r\n\r\nOn foot, from necessity or in deference to his dismounted commander or\r\nassociates, his conduct was the same. He would stand like a rock in the\r\nopen when officers and men alike had taken to cover; while men older in\r\nservice and years, higher in rank and of unquestionable intrepidity,\r\nwere loyally preserving behind the crest of a hill lives infinitely\r\nprecious to their country, this fellow would stand, equally idle, on the\r\nridge, facing in the direction of the sharpest fire.\r\n\r\nWhen battles are going on in open ground it frequently occurs that the\r\nopposing lines, confronting each other within a stone\'s throw for hours,\r\nhug the earth as closely as if they loved it. The line officers in their\r\nproper places flatten themselves no less, and the field officers, their\r\nhorses all killed or sent to the rear, crouch beneath the infernal\r\ncanopy of hissing lead and screaming iron without a thought of personal\r\ndignity.\r\n\r\nIn such circumstances the life of a staff officer of a brigade is\r\ndistinctly "not a happy one," mainly because of its precarious tenure\r\nand the unnerving alternations of emotion to which he is exposed. From a\r\nposition of that comparative security from which a civilian would\r\nascribe his escape to a "miracle," he may be despatched with an order to\r\nsome commander of a prone regiment in the front line--a person for the\r\nmoment inconspicuous and not always easy to find without a deal of\r\nsearch among men somewhat preoccupied, and in a din in which question\r\nand answer alike must be imparted in the sign language. It is customary\r\nin such cases to duck the head and scuttle away on a keen run, an object\r\nof lively interest to some thousands of admiring marksmen. In returning\r\n--well, it is not customary to return.\r\n\r\nBrayle\'s practice was different. He would consign his horse to the care\r\nof an orderly,--he loved his horse,--and walk quietly away on his\r\nperilous errand with never a stoop of the back, his splendid figure,\r\naccentuated by his uniform, holding the eye with a strange fascination.\r\nWe watched him with suspended breath, our hearts in our mouths. On one\r\noccasion of this kind, indeed, one of our number, an impetuous\r\nstammerer, was so possessed by his emotion that he shouted at me:\r\n\r\n"I\'ll b-b-bet you t-two d-d-dollars they d-drop him b-b-before he g-gets\r\nto that d-d-ditch!"\r\n\r\nI did not accept the brutal wager; I thought they would.\r\n\r\nLet me do justice to a brave man\'s memory; in all these needless\r\nexposures of life there was no visible bravado nor subsequent narration.\r\nIn the few instances when some of us had ventured to remonstrate, Brayle\r\nhad smiled pleasantly and made some light reply, which, however, had not\r\nencouraged a further pursuit of the subject. Once he said:\r\n\r\n"Captain, if ever I come to grief by forgetting your advice, I hope my\r\nlast moments will be cheered by the sound of your beloved voice\r\nbreathing into my ear the blessed words, \'I told you so.\'"\r\n\r\nWe laughed at the captain--just why we could probably not have\r\nexplained--and that afternoon when he was shot to rags from an ambuscade\r\nBrayle remained by the body for some time, adjusting the limbs with\r\nneedless care--there in the middle of a road swept by gusts of grape and\r\ncanister! It is easy to condemn this kind of thing, and not very\r\ndifficult to refrain from imitation, but it is impossible not to\r\nrespect, and Brayle was liked none the less for the weakness which had\r\nso heroic an expression. We wished he were not a fool, but he went on\r\nthat way to the end, sometimes hard hit, but always returning to duty\r\nabout as good as new.\r\n\r\nOf course, it came at last; he who ignores the law of probabilities\r\nchallenges an adversary that is seldom beaten. It was at Resaca, in\r\nGeorgia, during the movement that resulted in the taking of Atlanta. In\r\nfront of our brigade the enemy\'s line of earthworks ran through open\r\nfields along a slight crest. At each end of this open ground we were\r\nclose up to him in the woods, but the clear ground we could not hope to\r\noccupy until night, when darkness would enable us to burrow like moles\r\nand throw up earth. At this point our line was a quarter-mile away in\r\nthe edge of a wood. Roughly, we formed a semicircle, the enemy\'s\r\nfortified line being the chord of the arc.\r\n\r\n"Lieutenant, go tell Colonel Ward to work up as close as he can get\r\ncover, and not to waste much ammunition in unnecessary firing. You may\r\nleave your horse."\r\n\r\nWhen the general gave this direction we were in the fringe of the\r\nforest, near the right extremity of the arc. Colonel Ward was at the\r\nleft. The suggestion to leave the horse obviously enough meant that\r\nBrayle was to take the longer line, through the woods and among the men.\r\nIndeed, the suggestion was needless; to go by the short route meant\r\nabsolutely certain failure to deliver the message. Before anybody could\r\ninterpose, Brayle had cantered lightly into the field and the enemy\'s\r\nworks were in crackling conflagration.\r\n\r\n"Stop that damned fool!" shouted the general.\r\n\r\nA private of the escort, with more ambition than brains, spurred forward\r\nto obey, and within ten yards left himself and his horse dead on the\r\nfield of honor.\r\n\r\nBrayle was beyond recall, galloping easily along, parallel to the enemy\r\nand less than two hundred yards distant. He was a picture to see! His\r\nhat had been blown or shot from his head, and his long, blond hair rose\r\nand fell with the motion of his horse. He sat erect in the saddle,\r\nholding the reins lightly in his left hand, his right hanging carelessly\r\nat his side. An occasional glimpse of his handsome profile as he turned\r\nhis head one way or the other proved that the interest which he took in\r\nwhat was going on was natural and without affectation.\r\n\r\nThe picture was intensely dramatic, but in no degree theatrical.\r\nSuccessive scores of rifles spat at him viciously as he came within\r\nrange, and our own line in the edge of the timber broke out in visible\r\nand audible defense. No longer regardful of themselves or their orders,\r\nour fellows sprang to their feet, and swarming into the open sent broad\r\nsheets of bullets against the blazing crest of the offending works,\r\nwhich poured an answering fire into their unprotected groups with deadly\r\neffect. The artillery on both sides joined the battle, punctuating the\r\nrattle and roar with deep, earth-shaking explosions and tearing the air\r\nwith storms of screaming grape, which from the enemy\'s side splintered\r\nthe trees and spattered them with blood, and from ours defiled the smoke\r\nof his arms with banks and clouds of dust from his parapet.\r\n\r\nMy attention had been for a moment drawn to the general combat, but now,\r\nglancing down the unobscured avenue between these two thunderclouds, I\r\nsaw Brayle, the cause of the carnage. Invisible now from either side,\r\nand equally doomed by friend and foe, he stood in the shot-swept space,\r\nmotionless, his face toward the enemy. At some little distance lay his\r\nhorse. I instantly saw what had stopped him.\r\n\r\nAs topographical engineer I had, early in the day, made a hasty\r\nexamination of the ground, and now remembered that at that point was a\r\ndeep and sinuous gully, crossing half the field from the enemy\'s line,\r\nits general course at right angles to it. From where we now were it was\r\ninvisible, and Brayle had evidently not known about it. Clearly, it was\r\nimpassable. Its salient angles would have afforded him absolute security\r\nif he had chosen to be satisfied with the miracle already wrought in his\r\nfavor and leapt into it. He could not go forward, he would not turn\r\nback; he stood awaiting death. It did not keep him long waiting.\r\n\r\nBy some mysterious coincidence, almost instantaneously as he fell, the\r\nfiring ceased, a few desultory shots at long intervals serving rather to\r\naccentuate than break the silence. It was as if both sides had suddenly\r\nrepented of their profitless crime. Four stretcher-bearers of ours,\r\nfollowing a sergeant with a white flag, soon afterward moved unmolested\r\ninto the field, and made straight for Brayle\'s body. Several Confederate\r\nofficers and men came out to meet them, and with uncovered heads\r\nassisted them to take up their sacred burden. As it was borne toward us\r\nwe heard beyond the hostile works fifes and a muffled drum--a dirge. A\r\ngenerous enemy honored the fallen brave.\r\n\r\nAmongst the dead man\'s effects was a soiled Russia-leather pocketbook.\r\nIn the distribution of mementoes of our friend, which the general, as\r\nadministrator, decreed, this fell to me.\r\n\r\nA year after the close of the war, on my way to California, I opened and\r\nidly inspected it. Out of an overlooked compartment fell a letter\r\nwithout envelope or address. It was in a woman\'s handwriting, and began\r\nwith words of endearment, but no name.\r\n\r\nIt had the following date line: "San Francisco, Cal., July 9, 1862." The\r\nsignature was "Darling," in marks of quotation. Incidentally, in the\r\nbody of the text, the writer\'s full name was given--Marian Mendenhall.\r\n\r\nThe letter showed evidence of cultivation and good breeding, but it was\r\nan ordinary love letter, if a love letter can be ordinary. There was not\r\nmuch in it, but there was something. It was this:\r\n\r\n"Mr. Winters, whom I shall always hate for it, has been telling that at\r\nsome battle in Virginia, where he got his hurt, you were seen crouching\r\nbehind a tree. I think he wants to injure you in my regard, which he\r\nknows the story would do if I believed it. I could bear to hear of my\r\nsoldier lover\'s death, but not of his cowardice."\r\n\r\nThese were the words which on that sunny afternoon, in a distant region,\r\nhad slain a hundred men. Is woman weak?\r\n\r\nOne evening I called on Miss Mendenhall to return the letter to her. I\r\nintended, also, to tell her what she had done--but not that she did it.\r\nI found her in a handsome dwelling on Rincon Hill. She was beautiful,\r\nwell bred--in a word, charming.\r\n\r\n"You knew Lieutenant Herman Brayle," I said, rather abruptly. "You know,\r\ndoubtless, that he fell in battle. Among his effects was found this\r\nletter from you. My errand here is to place it in your hands."\r\n\r\nShe mechanically took the letter, glanced through it with deepening\r\ncolor, and then, looking at me with a smile, said:\r\n\r\n"It is very good of you, though I am sure it was hardly worth while."\r\nShe started suddenly and changed color. "This stain," she said, "is it--\r\nsurely it is not--"\r\n\r\n"Madam," I said, "pardon me, but that is the blood of the truest and\r\nbravest heart that ever beat."\r\n\r\nShe hastily flung the letter on the blazing coals. "Uh! I cannot bear\r\nthe sight of blood!" she said. "How did he die?"\r\n\r\nI had involuntarily risen to rescue that scrap of paper, sacred even to\r\nme, and now stood partly behind her. As she asked the question she\r\nturned her face about and slightly upward. The light of the burning\r\nletter was reflected in her eyes and touched her cheek with a tinge of\r\ncrimson like the stain upon its page. I had never seen anything so\r\nbeautiful as this detestable creature.\r\n\r\n"He was bitten by a snake," I replied.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE AFFAIR AT COULTER\'S NOTCH\r\n\r\n"Do you think, Colonel, that your brave Coulter would like to put one of\r\nhis guns in here?" the general asked.\r\n\r\nHe was apparently not altogether serious; it certainly did not seem a\r\nplace where any artillerist, however brave, would like to put a gun. The\r\ncolonel thought that possibly his division commander meant\r\ngood-humoredly to intimate that in a recent conversation between them\r\nCaptain Coulter\'s courage had been too highly extolled.\r\n\r\n"General," he replied warmly, "Coulter would like to put a gun anywhere\r\nwithin reach of those people," with a motion of his hand in the\r\ndirection of the enemy.\r\n\r\n"It is the only place," said the general. He was serious, then.\r\n\r\nThe place was a depression, a "notch," in the sharp crest of a hill. It\r\nwas a pass, and through it ran a turnpike, which reaching this highest\r\npoint in its course by a sinuous ascent through a thin forest made a\r\nsimilar, though less steep, descent toward the enemy. For a mile to the\r\nleft and a mile to the right, the ridge, though occupied by Federal\r\ninfantry lying close behind the sharp crest and appearing as if held in\r\nplace by atmospheric pressure, was inaccessible to artillery. There was\r\nno place but the bottom of the notch, and that was barely wide enough\r\nfor the roadbed. From the Confederate side this point was commanded by\r\ntwo batteries posted on a slightly lower elevation beyond a creek, and a\r\nhalf-mile away. All the guns but one were masked by the trees of an\r\norchard; that one--it seemed a bit of impudence--was on an open lawn\r\ndirectly in front of a rather grandiose building, the planter\'s\r\ndwelling. The gun was safe enough in its exposure--but only because the\r\nFederal infantry had been forbidden to fire. Coulter\'s Notch--it came to\r\nbe called so--was not, that pleasant summer afternoon, a place where one\r\nwould "like to put a gun."\r\n\r\nThree or four dead horses lay there sprawling in the road, three or four\r\ndead men in a trim row at one side of it, and a little back, down the\r\nhill. All but one were cavalrymen belonging to the Federal advance. One\r\nwas a quartermaster. The general commanding the division and the colonel\r\ncommanding the brigade, with their staffs and escorts, had ridden into\r\nthe notch to have a look at the enemy\'s guns--which had straightway\r\nobscured themselves in towering clouds of smoke. It was hardly\r\nprofitable to be curious about guns which had the trick of the\r\ncuttle-fish, and the season of observation had been brief. At its\r\nconclusion--a short remove backward from where it began--occurred the\r\nconversation already partly reported. "It is the only place," the\r\ngeneral repeated thoughtfully, "to get at them."\r\n\r\nThe colonel looked at him gravely. "There is room for only one gun,\r\nGeneral--one against twelve."\r\n\r\n"That is true--for only one at a time," said the commander with\r\nsomething like, yet not altogether like, a smile. "But then, your brave\r\nCoulter--a whole battery in himself."\r\n\r\nThe tone of irony was now unmistakable. It angered the colonel, but he\r\ndid not know what to say. The spirit of military subordination is not\r\nfavorable to retort, nor even to deprecation.\r\n\r\nAt this moment a young officer of artillery came riding slowly up the\r\nroad attended by his bugler. It was Captain Coulter. He could not have\r\nbeen more than twenty-three years of age. He was of medium height, but\r\nvery slender and lithe, and sat his horse with something of the air of a\r\ncivilian. In face he was of a type singularly unlike the men about him;\r\nthin, high-nosed, gray-eyed, with a slight blond mustache, and long,\r\nrather straggling hair of the same color. There was an apparent\r\nnegligence in his attire. His cap was worn with the visor a trifle\r\naskew; his coat was buttoned only at the sword-belt, showing a\r\nconsiderable expanse of white shirt, tolerably clean for that stage of\r\nthe campaign. But the negligence was all in his dress and bearing; in\r\nhis face was a look of intense interest in his surroundings. His gray\r\neyes, which seemed occasionally to strike right and left across the\r\nlandscape, like search-lights, were for the most part fixed upon the sky\r\nbeyond the Notch; until he should arrive at the summit of the road there\r\nwas nothing else in that direction to see. As he came opposite his\r\ndivision and brigade commanders at the road-side he saluted mechanically\r\nand was about to pass on. The colonel signed to him to halt.\r\n\r\n"Captain Coulter," he said, "the enemy has twelve pieces over there on\r\nthe next ridge. If I rightly understand the general, he directs that you\r\nbring up a gun and engage them."\r\n\r\nThere was a blank silence; the general looked stolidly at a distant\r\nregiment swarming slowly up the hill through rough undergrowth, like a\r\ntorn and draggled cloud of blue smoke; the captain appeared not to have\r\nobserved him. Presently the captain spoke, slowly and with apparent\r\neffort:\r\n\r\n"On the next ridge, did you say, sir? Are the guns near the house?"\r\n\r\n"Ah, you have been over this road before. Directly at the house."\r\n\r\n"And it is--necessary--to engage them? The order is imperative?"\r\n\r\nHis voice was husky and broken. He was visibly paler. The colonel was\r\nastonished and mortified. He stole a glance at the commander. In that\r\nset, immobile face was no sign; it was as hard as bronze. A moment later\r\nthe general rode away, followed by his staff and escort. The colonel,\r\nhumiliated and indignant, was about to order Captain Coulter in arrest,\r\nwhen the latter spoke a few words in a low tone to his bugler, saluted,\r\nand rode straight forward into the Notch, where, presently, at the\r\nsummit of the road, his field-glass at his eyes, he showed against the\r\nsky, he and his horse, sharply defined and statuesque. The bugler had\r\ndashed down the speed and disappeared behind a wood. Presently his bugle\r\nwas heard singing in the cedars, and in an incredibly short time a\r\nsingle gun with its caisson, each drawn by six horses and manned by its\r\nfull complement of gunners, came bounding and banging up the grade in a\r\nstorm of dust, unlimbered under cover, and was run forward by hand to\r\nthe fatal crest among the dead horses. A gesture of the captain\'s arm,\r\nsome strangely agile movements of the men in loading, and almost before\r\nthe troops along the way had ceased to hear the rattle of the wheels, a\r\ngreat white cloud sprang forward down the slope, and with a deafening\r\nreport the affair at Coulter\'s Notch had begun.\r\n\r\nIt is not intended to relate in detail the progress and incidents of\r\nthat ghastly contest--a contest without vicissitudes, its alternations\r\nonly different degrees of despair. Almost at the instant when Captain\r\nCoulter\'s gun blew its challenging cloud twelve answering clouds rolled\r\nupward from among the trees about the plantation house, a deep multiple\r\nreport roared back like a broken echo, and thenceforth to the end the\r\nFederal cannoneers fought their hopeless battle in an atmosphere of\r\nliving iron whose thoughts were lightnings and whose deeds were death.\r\n\r\nUnwilling to see the efforts which he could not aid and the slaughter\r\nwhich he could not stay, the colonel ascended the ridge at a point a\r\nquarter of a mile to the left, whence the Notch, itself invisible, but\r\npushing up successive masses of smoke, seemed the crater of a volcano in\r\nthundering eruption. With his glass he watched the enemy\'s guns, noting\r\nas he could the effects of Coulter\'s fire--if Coulter still lived to\r\ndirect it. He saw that the Federal gunners, ignoring those of the\r\nenemy\'s pieces whose positions could be determined by their smoke only,\r\ngave their whole attention to the one that maintained its place in the\r\nopen--the lawn in front of the house. Over and about that hardy piece\r\nthe shells exploded at intervals of a few seconds. Some exploded in the\r\nhouse, as could be seen by thin ascensions of smoke from the breached\r\nroof. Figures of prostrate men and horses were plainly visible.\r\n\r\n"If our fellows are doing so good work with a single gun," said the\r\ncolonel to an aide who happened to be nearest, "they must be suffering\r\nlike the devil from twelve. Go down and present the commander of that\r\npiece with my congratulations on the accuracy of his fire."\r\n\r\nTurning to his adjutant-general he said, "Did you observe Coulter\'s\r\ndamned reluctance to obey orders?"\r\n\r\n"Yes, sir, I did."\r\n\r\n"Well, say nothing about it, please. I don\'t think the general will care\r\nto make any accusations. He will probably have enough to do in\r\nexplaining his own connection with this uncommon way of amusing the\r\nrear-guard of a retreating enemy."\r\n\r\nA young officer approached from below, climbing breathless up the\r\nacclivity. Almost before he had saluted, he gasped out:\r\n\r\n"Colonel, I am directed by Colonel Harmon to say that the enemy\'s guns\r\nare within easy reach of our rifles, and most of them visible from\r\nseveral points along the ridge."\r\n\r\nThe brigade commander looked at him without a trace of interest in his\r\nexpression. "I know it," he said quietly.\r\n\r\nThe young adjutant was visibly embarrassed. "Colonel Harmon would like\r\nto have permission to silence those guns," he stammered.\r\n\r\n"So should I," the colonel said in the same tone. "Present my\r\ncompliments to Colonel Harmon and say to him that the general\'s orders\r\nfor the infantry not to fire are still in force."\r\n\r\nThe adjutant saluted and retired. The colonel ground his heel into the\r\nearth and turned to look again at the enemy\'s guns.\r\n\r\n"Colonel," said the adjutant-general, "I don\'t know that I ought to say\r\nanything, but there is something wrong in all this. Do you happen to\r\nknow that Captain Coulter is from the South?"\r\n\r\n"No; _was_ he, indeed?"\r\n\r\n"I heard that last summer the division which the general then commanded\r\nwas in the vicinity of Coulter\'s home--camped there for weeks, and--"\r\n\r\n"Listen!" said the colonel, interrupting with an upward gesture. "Do you\r\nhear _that_?"\r\n\r\n"That" was the silence of the Federal gun. The staff, the orderlies, the\r\nlines of infantry behind the crest--all had "heard," and were looking\r\ncuriously in the direction of the crater, whence no smoke now ascended\r\nexcept desultory cloudlets from the enemy\'s shells. Then came the blare\r\nof a bugle, a faint rattle of wheels; a minute later the sharp reports\r\nrecommenced with double activity. The demolished gun had been replaced\r\nwith a sound one.\r\n\r\n"Yes," said the adjutant-general, resuming his narrative, "the general\r\nmade the acquaintance of Coulter\'s family. There was trouble--I don\'t\r\nknow the exact nature of it--something about Coulter\'s wife. She is a\r\nred-hot Secessionist, as they all are, except Coulter himself, but she\r\nis a good wife and high-bred lady. There was a complaint to army\r\nheadquarters. The general was transferred to this division. It is odd\r\nthat Coulter\'s battery should afterward have been assigned to it."\r\n\r\nThe colonel had risen from the rock upon which they had been sitting.\r\nHis eyes were blazing with a generous indignation.\r\n\r\n"See here, Morrison," said he, looking his gossiping staff officer\r\nstraight in the face, "did you get that story from a gentleman or a\r\nliar?"\r\n\r\n"I don\'t want to say how I got it, Colonel, unless it is necessary"--he\r\nwas blushing a trifle--"but I\'ll stake my life upon its truth in the\r\nmain."\r\n\r\nThe colonel turned toward a small knot of officers some distance away.\r\n"Lieutenant Williams!" he shouted.\r\n\r\nOne of the officers detached himself from the group and coming forward\r\nsaluted, saying: "Pardon me, Colonel, I thought you had been informed.\r\nWilliams is dead down there by the gun. What can I do, sir?"\r\n\r\nLieutenant Williams was the aide who had had the pleasure of conveying\r\nto the officer in charge of the gun his brigade commander\'s\r\ncongratulations.\r\n\r\n"Go," said the colonel, "and direct the withdrawal of that gun\r\ninstantly. No--I\'ll go myself."\r\n\r\nHe strode down the declivity toward the rear of the Notch at a\r\nbreak-neck pace, over rocks and through brambles, followed by his little\r\nretinue in tumultuous disorder. At the foot of the declivity they\r\nmounted their waiting animals and took to the road at a lively trot,\r\nround a bend and into the Notch. The spectacle which they encountered\r\nthere was appalling!\r\n\r\nWithin that defile, barely broad enough for a single gun, were piled the\r\nwrecks of no fewer than four. They had noted the silencing of only the\r\nlast one disabled--there had been a lack of men to replace it quickly\r\nwith another. The débris lay on both sides of the road; the men had\r\nmanaged to keep an open way between, through which the fifth piece was\r\nnow firing. The men?--they looked like demons of the pit! All were\r\nhatless, all stripped to the waist, their reeking skins black with\r\nblotches of powder and spattered with gouts of blood. They worked like\r\nmadmen, with rammer and cartridge, lever and lanyard. They set their\r\nswollen shoulders and bleeding hands against the wheels at each recoil\r\nand heaved the heavy gun back to its place. There were no commands; in\r\nthat awful environment of whooping shot, exploding shells, shrieking\r\nfragments of iron, and flying splinters of wood, none could have been\r\nheard. Officers, if officers there were, were indistinguishable; all\r\nworked together--each while he lasted--governed by the eye. When the gun\r\nwas sponged, it was loaded; when loaded, aimed and fired. The colonel\r\nobserved something new to his military experience--something horrible\r\nand unnatural: the gun was bleeding at the mouth! In temporary default\r\nof water, the man sponging had dipped his sponge into a pool of\r\ncomrade\'s blood. In all this work there was no clashing; the duty of the\r\ninstant was obvious. When one fell, another, looking a trifle cleaner,\r\nseemed to rise from the earth in the dead man\'s tracks, to fall in his\r\nturn.\r\n\r\nWith the ruined guns lay the ruined men--alongside the wreckage, under\r\nit and atop of it; and back down the road--a ghastly procession!--crept\r\non hands and knees such of the wounded as were able to move. The\r\ncolonel--he had compassionately sent his cavalcade to the right about--\r\nhad to ride over those who were entirely dead in order not to crush\r\nthose who were partly alive. Into that hell he tranquilly held his way,\r\nrode up alongside the gun, and, in the obscurity of the last discharge,\r\ntapped upon the cheek the man holding the rammer--who straightway fell,\r\nthinking himself killed. A fiend seven times damned sprang out of the\r\nsmoke to take his place, but paused and gazed up at the mounted officer\r\nwith an unearthly regard, his teeth flashing between his black lips, his\r\neyes, fierce and expanded, burning like coals beneath his bloody brow.\r\nThe colonel made an authoritative gesture and pointed to the rear. The\r\nfiend bowed in token of obedience. It was Captain Coulter.\r\n\r\nSimultaneously with the colonel\'s arresting sign, silence fell upon the\r\nwhole field of action. The procession of missiles no longer streamed\r\ninto that defile of death, for the enemy also had ceased firing. His\r\narmy had been gone for hours, and the commander of his rear-guard, who\r\nhad held his position perilously long in hope to silence the Federal\r\nfire, at that strange moment had silenced his own. "I was not aware of\r\nthe breadth of my authority," said the colonel to anybody, riding\r\nforward to the crest to see what had really happened. An hour later his\r\nbrigade was in bivouac on the enemy\'s ground, and its idlers were\r\nexamining, with something of awe, as the faithful inspect a saint\'s\r\nrelics, a score of straddling dead horses and three disabled guns, all\r\nspiked. The fallen men had been carried away; their torn and broken\r\nbodies would have given too great satisfaction.\r\n\r\nNaturally, the colonel established himself and his military family in\r\nthe plantation house. It was somewhat shattered, but it was better than\r\nthe open air. The furniture was greatly deranged and broken. Walls and\r\nceilings were knocked away here and there, and a lingering odor of\r\npowder smoke was everywhere. The beds, the closets of women\'s clothing,\r\nthe cupboards were not greatly damaged. The new tenants for a night\r\nmade themselves comfortable, and the virtual effacement of Coulter\'s\r\nbattery supplied them with an interesting topic.\r\n\r\nDuring supper an orderly of the escort showed himself into the\r\ndining-room and asked permission to speak to the colonel.\r\n\r\n"What is it, Barbour?" said that officer pleasantly, having overheard\r\nthe request.\r\n\r\n"Colonel, there is something wrong in the cellar; I don\'t know what--\r\nsomebody there. I was down there rummaging about."\r\n\r\n"I will go down and see," said a staff officer, rising.\r\n\r\n"So will I," the colonel said; "let the others remain. Lead on,\r\norderly."\r\n\r\nThey took a candle from the table and descended the cellar stairs, the\r\norderly in visible trepidation. The candle made but a feeble light, but\r\npresently, as they advanced, its narrow circle of illumination revealed\r\na human figure seated on the ground against the black stone wall which\r\nthey were skirting, its knees elevated, its head bowed sharply forward.\r\nThe face, which should have been seen in profile, was invisible, for the\r\nman was bent so far forward that his long hair concealed it; and,\r\nstrange to relate, the beard, of a much darker hue, fell in a great\r\ntangled mass and lay along the ground at his side. They involuntarily\r\npaused; then the colonel, taking the candle from the orderly\'s shaking\r\nhand, approached the man and attentively considered him. The long dark\r\nbeard was the hair of a woman--dead. The dead woman clasped in her arms\r\na dead babe. Both were clasped in the arms of the man, pressed against\r\nhis breast, against his lips. There was blood in the hair of the woman;\r\nthere was blood in the hair of the man. A yard away, near an irregular\r\ndepression in the beaten earth which formed the cellar\'s floor--fresh\r\nexcavation with a convex bit of iron, having jagged edges, visible in\r\none of the sides--lay an infant\'s foot. The colonel held the light as\r\nhigh as he could. The floor of the room above was broken through, the\r\nsplinters pointing at all angles downward. "This casemate is not\r\nbomb-proof," said the colonel gravely. It did not occur to him that his\r\nsumming up of the matter had any levity in it.\r\n\r\nThey stood about the group awhile in silence; the staff officer was\r\nthinking of his unfinished supper, the orderly of what might possibly be\r\nin one of the casks on the other side of the cellar. Suddenly the man\r\nwhom they had thought dead raised his head and gazed tranquilly into\r\ntheir faces. His complexion was coal black; the cheeks were apparently\r\ntattooed in irregular sinuous lines from the eyes downward. The lips,\r\ntoo, were white, like those of a stage negro. There was blood upon his\r\nforehead.\r\n\r\nThe staff officer drew back a pace, the orderly two paces.\r\n\r\n"What are you doing here, my man?" said the colonel, unmoved.\r\n\r\n"This house belongs to me, sir," was the reply, civilly delivered.\r\n\r\n"To you? Ah, I see! And these?"\r\n\r\n"My wife and child. I am Captain Coulter."\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE COUP DE GRÂCE\r\n\r\nThe fighting had been hard and continuous; that was attested by all the\r\nsenses. The very taste of battle was in the air. All was now over; it\r\nremained only to succor the wounded and bury the dead--to "tidy up a\r\nbit," as the humorist of a burial squad put it. A good deal of "tidying\r\nup" was required. As far as one could see through the forests, among the\r\nsplintered trees, lay wrecks of men and horses. Among them moved the\r\nstretcher-bearers, gathering and carrying away the few who showed signs\r\nof life. Most of the wounded had died of neglect while the right to\r\nminister to their wants was in dispute. It is an army regulation that\r\nthe wounded must wait; the best way to care for them is to win the\r\nbattle. It must be confessed that victory is a distinct advantage to a\r\nman requiring attention, but many do not live to avail themselves of it.\r\n\r\nThe dead were collected in groups of a dozen or a score and laid side by\r\nside in rows while the trenches were dug to receive them.\r\n\r\nSome, found at too great a distance from these rallying points, were\r\nburied where they lay. There was little attempt at identification,\r\nthough in most cases, the burial parties being detailed to glean the\r\nsame ground which they had assisted to reap, the names of the victorious\r\ndead were known and listed. The enemy\'s fallen had to be content with\r\ncounting. But of that they got enough: many of them were counted several\r\ntimes, and the total, as given afterward in the official report of the\r\nvictorious commander, denoted rather a hope than a result.\r\n\r\nAt some little distance from the spot where one of the burial parties\r\nhad established its "bivouac of the dead," a man in the uniform of a\r\nFederal officer stood leaning against a tree. From his feet upward to\r\nhis neck his attitude was that of weariness reposing; but he turned his\r\nhead uneasily from side to side; his mind was apparently not at rest. He\r\nwas perhaps uncertain in which direction to go; he was not likely to\r\nremain long where he was, for already the level rays of the setting sun\r\nstraggled redly through the open spaces of the wood and the weary\r\nsoldiers were quitting their task for the day. He would hardly make a\r\nnight of it alone there among the dead.\r\n\r\nNine men in ten whom you meet after a battle inquire the way to some\r\nfraction of the army--as if any one could know. Doubtless this officer\r\nwas lost. After resting himself a moment he would presumably follow one\r\nof the retiring burial squads.\r\n\r\nWhen all were gone he walked straight away into the forest toward the\r\nred west, its light staining his face like blood. The air of confidence\r\nwith which he now strode along showed that he was on familiar ground; he\r\nhad recovered his bearings. The dead on his right and on his left were\r\nunregarded as he passed. An occasional low moan from some\r\nsorely-stricken wretch whom the relief-parties had not reached, and who\r\nwould have to pass a comfortless night beneath the stars with his thirst\r\nto keep him company, was equally unheeded. What, indeed, could the\r\nofficer have done, being no surgeon and having no water?\r\n\r\nAt the head of a shallow ravine, a mere depression of the ground, lay a\r\nsmall group of bodies. He saw, and swerving suddenly from his course\r\nwalked rapidly toward them. Scanning each one sharply as he passed, he\r\nstopped at last above one which lay at a slight remove from the others,\r\nnear a clump of small trees. He looked at it narrowly. It seemed to\r\nstir. He stooped and laid his hand upon its face. It screamed.\r\n\r\n * * * * *\r\n\r\nThe officer was Captain Downing Madwell, of a Massachusetts regiment of\r\ninfantry, a daring and intelligent soldier, an honorable man.\r\n\r\nIn the regiment were two brothers named Halcrow--Caffal and Creede\r\nHalcrow. Caffal Halcrow was a sergeant in Captain Madwell\'s company, and\r\nthese two men, the sergeant and the captain, were devoted friends. In so\r\nfar as disparity of rank, difference in duties and considerations of\r\nmilitary discipline would permit they were commonly together. They had,\r\nindeed, grown up together from childhood. A habit of the heart is not\r\neasily broken off. Caffal Halcrow had nothing military in his taste nor\r\ndisposition, but the thought of separation from his friend was\r\ndisagreeable; he enlisted in the company in which Madwell was\r\nsecond-lieutenant. Each had taken two steps upward in rank, but between\r\nthe highest non-commissioned and the lowest commissioned officer the\r\ngulf is deep and wide and the old relation was maintained with\r\ndifficulty and a difference.\r\n\r\nCreede Halcrow, the brother of Caffal, was the major of the regiment--a\r\ncynical, saturnine man, between whom and Captain Madwell there was a\r\nnatural antipathy which circumstances had nourished and strengthened to\r\nan active animosity. But for the restraining influence of their mutual\r\nrelation to Caffal these two patriots would doubtless have endeavored to\r\ndeprive their country of each other\'s services.\r\n\r\nAt the opening of the battle that morning the regiment was performing\r\noutpost duty a mile away from the main army. It was attacked and nearly\r\nsurrounded in the forest, but stubbornly held its ground. During a lull\r\nin the fighting, Major Halcrow came to Captain Madwell. The two\r\nexchanged formal salutes, and the major said: "Captain, the colonel\r\ndirects that you push your company to the head of this ravine and hold\r\nyour place there until recalled. I need hardly apprise you of the\r\ndangerous character of the movement, but if you wish, you can, I\r\nsuppose, turn over the command to your first-lieutenant. I was not,\r\nhowever, directed to authorize the substitution; it is merely a\r\nsuggestion of my own, unofficially made."\r\n\r\nTo this deadly insult Captain Madwell coolly replied:\r\n\r\n"Sir, I invite you to accompany the movement. A mounted officer would be\r\na conspicuous mark, and I have long held the opinion that it would be\r\nbetter if you were dead."\r\n\r\nThe art of repartee was cultivated in military circles as early as 1862.\r\n\r\nA half-hour later Captain Madwell\'s company was driven from its position\r\nat the head of the ravine, with a loss of one-third its number. Among\r\nthe fallen was Sergeant Halcrow. The regiment was soon afterward forced\r\nback to the main line, and at the close of the battle was miles away.\r\nThe captain was now standing at the side of his subordinate and friend.\r\n\r\nSergeant Halcrow was mortally hurt. His clothing was deranged; it seemed\r\nto have been violently torn apart, exposing the abdomen. Some of the\r\nbuttons of his jacket had been pulled off and lay on the ground beside\r\nhim and fragments of his other garments were strewn about. His leather\r\nbelt was parted and had apparently been dragged from beneath him as he\r\nlay. There had been no great effusion of blood. The only visible wound\r\nwas a wide, ragged opening in the abdomen.\r\n\r\nIt was defiled with earth and dead leaves. Protruding from it was a loop\r\nof small intestine. In all his experience Captain Madwell had not seen a\r\nwound like this. He could neither conjecture how it was made nor explain\r\nthe attendant circumstances--the strangely torn clothing, the parted\r\nbelt, the besmirching of the white skin. He knelt and made a closer\r\nexamination. When he rose to his feet, he turned his eyes in different\r\ndirections as if looking for an enemy. Fifty yards away, on the crest of\r\na low, thinly wooded hill, he saw several dark objects moving about\r\namong the fallen men--a herd of swine. One stood with its back to him,\r\nits shoulders sharply elevated. Its forefeet were upon a human body, its\r\nhead was depressed and invisible. The bristly ridge of its chine showed\r\nblack against the red west. Captain Madwell drew away his eyes and fixed\r\nthem again upon the thing which had been his friend.\r\n\r\nThe man who had suffered these monstrous mutilations was alive. At\r\nintervals he moved his limbs; he moaned at every breath. He stared\r\nblankly into the face of his friend and if touched screamed. In his\r\ngiant agony he had torn up the ground on which he lay; his clenched\r\nhands were full of leaves and twigs and earth. Articulate speech was\r\nbeyond his power; it was impossible to know if he were sensible to\r\nanything but pain. The expression of his face was an appeal; his eyes\r\nwere full of prayer. For what?\r\n\r\nThere was no misreading that look; the captain had too frequently seen\r\nit in eyes of those whose lips had still the power to formulate it by an\r\nentreaty for death. Consciously or unconsciously, this writhing fragment\r\nof humanity, this type and example of acute sensation, this handiwork of\r\nman and beast, this humble, unheroic Prometheus, was imploring\r\neverything, all, the whole non-ego, for the boon of oblivion. To the\r\nearth and the sky alike, to the trees, to the man, to whatever took form\r\nin sense or consciousness, this incarnate suffering addressed that\r\nsilent plea.\r\n\r\nFor what, indeed? For that which we accord to even the meanest creature\r\nwithout sense to demand it, denying it only to the wretched of our own\r\nrace: for the blessed release, the rite of uttermost compassion, the\r\n_coup de grâce_.\r\n\r\nCaptain Madwell spoke the name of his friend. He repeated it over and\r\nover without effect until emotion choked his utterance.\r\n\r\nHis tears plashed upon the livid face beneath his own and blinded\r\nhimself. He saw nothing but a blurred and moving object, but the moans\r\nwere more distinct than ever, interrupted at briefer intervals by\r\nsharper shrieks. He turned away, struck his hand upon his forehead, and\r\nstrode from the spot. The swine, catching sight of him, threw up their\r\ncrimson muzzles, regarding him suspiciously a second, and then with a\r\ngruff, concerted grunt, raced away out of sight. A horse, its foreleg\r\nsplintered by a cannon-shot, lifted its head sidewise from the ground\r\nand neighed piteously. Madwell stepped forward, drew his revolver and\r\nshot the poor beast between the eyes, narrowly observing its\r\ndeath-struggle, which, contrary to his expectation, was violent and\r\nlong; but at last it lay still. The tense muscles of its lips, which had\r\nuncovered the teeth in a horrible grin, relaxed; the sharp, clean-cut\r\nprofile took on a look of profound peace and rest.\r\n\r\nAlong the distant, thinly wooded crest to westward the fringe of sunset\r\nfire had now nearly burned itself out. The light upon the trunks of the\r\ntrees had faded to a tender gray; shadows were in their tops, like great\r\ndark birds aperch. Night was coming and there were miles of haunted\r\nforest between Captain Madwell and camp. Yet he stood there at the side\r\nof the dead animal, apparently lost to all sense of his surroundings.\r\nHis eyes were bent upon the earth at his feet; his left hand hung\r\nloosely at his side, his right still held the pistol. Presently he\r\nlifted his face, turned it toward his dying friend and walked rapidly\r\nback to his side. He knelt upon one knee, cocked the weapon, placed the\r\nmuzzle against the man\'s forehead, and turning away his eyes pulled the\r\ntrigger. There was no report. He had used his last cartridge for the\r\nhorse.\r\n\r\nThe sufferer moaned and his lips moved convulsively. The froth that ran\r\nfrom them had a tinge of blood.\r\n\r\nCaptain Madwell rose to his feet and drew his sword from the scabbard.\r\nHe passed the fingers of his left hand along the edge from hilt to\r\npoint. He held it out straight before him, as if to test his nerves.\r\nThere was no visible tremor of the blade; the ray of bleak skylight that\r\nit reflected was steady and true. He stooped and with his left hand tore\r\naway the dying man\'s shirt, rose and placed the point of the sword just\r\nover the heart. This time he did not withdraw his eyes. Grasping the\r\nhilt with both hands, he thrust downward with all his strength and\r\nweight. The blade sank into the man\'s body--through his body into the\r\nearth; Captain Madwell came near falling forward upon his work. The\r\ndying man drew up his knees and at the same time threw his right arm\r\nacross his breast and grasped the steel so tightly that the knuckles of\r\nthe hand visibly whitened. By a violent but vain effort to withdraw the\r\nblade the wound was enlarged; a rill of blood escaped, running sinuously\r\ndown into the deranged clothing. At that moment three men stepped\r\nsilently forward from behind the clump of young trees which had\r\nconcealed their approach. Two were hospital attendants and carried a\r\nstretcher.\r\n\r\nThe third was Major Creede Halcrow.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nPARKER ADDERSON, PHILOSOPHER\r\n\r\n"Prisoner, what is your name?"\r\n\r\n"As I am to lose it at daylight to-morrow morning it is hardly worth\r\nwhile concealing it. Parker Adderson."\r\n\r\n"Your rank?"\r\n\r\n"A somewhat humble one; commissioned officers are too precious to be\r\nrisked in the perilous business of a spy. I am a sergeant."\r\n\r\n"Of what regiment?"\r\n\r\n"You must excuse me; my answer might, for anything I know, give you an\r\nidea of whose forces are in your front. Such knowledge as that is what I\r\ncame into your lines to obtain, not to impart."\r\n\r\n"You are not without wit."\r\n\r\n"If you have the patience to wait you will find me dull enough\r\nto-morrow."\r\n\r\n"How do you know that you are to die to-morrow morning?"\r\n\r\n"Among spies captured by night that is the custom. It is one of the nice\r\nobservances of the profession."\r\n\r\nThe general so far laid aside the dignity appropriate to a Confederate\r\nofficer of high rank and wide renown as to smile. But no one in his\r\npower and out of his favor would have drawn any happy augury from that\r\noutward and visible sign of approval. It was neither genial nor\r\ninfectious; it did not communicate itself to the other persons exposed\r\nto it--the caught spy who had provoked it and the armed guard who had\r\nbrought him into the tent and now stood a little apart, watching his\r\nprisoner in the yellow candle-light. It was no part of that warrior\'s\r\nduty to smile; he had been detailed for another purpose. The\r\nconversation was resumed; it was in character a trial for a capital\r\noffense.\r\n\r\n"You admit, then, that you are a spy--that you came into my camp,\r\ndisguised as you are in the uniform of a Confederate soldier, to obtain\r\ninformation secretly regarding the numbers and disposition of my\r\ntroops."\r\n\r\n"Regarding, particularly, their numbers. Their disposition I already\r\nknew. It is morose."\r\n\r\nThe general brightened again; the guard, with a severer sense of his\r\nresponsibility, accentuated the austerity of his expression and stood a\r\ntrifle more erect than before. Twirling his gray slouch hat round and\r\nround upon his forefinger, the spy took a leisurely survey of his\r\nsurroundings. They were simple enough. The tent was a common "wall\r\ntent," about eight feet by ten in dimensions, lighted by a single tallow\r\ncandle stuck into the haft of a bayonet, which was itself stuck into a\r\npine table at which the general sat, now busily writing and apparently\r\nforgetful of his unwilling guest. An old rag carpet covered the earthen\r\nfloor; an older leather trunk, a second chair and a roll of blankets\r\nwere about all else that the tent contained; in General Clavering\'s\r\ncommand Confederate simplicity and penury of "pomp and circumstance" had\r\nattained their highest development. On a large nail driven into the tent\r\npole at the entrance was suspended a sword-belt supporting a long sabre,\r\na pistol in its holster and, absurdly enough, a bowie-knife. Of that\r\nmost unmilitary weapon it was the general\'s habit to explain that it was\r\na souvenir of the peaceful days when he was a civilian.\r\n\r\nIt was a stormy night. The rain cascaded upon the canvas in torrents,\r\nwith the dull, drum-like sound familiar to dwellers in tents. As the\r\nwhooping blasts charged upon it the frail structure shook and swayed and\r\nstrained at its confining stakes and ropes.\r\n\r\nThe general finished writing, folded the half-sheet of paper and spoke\r\nto the soldier guarding Adderson: "Here, Tassman, take that to the\r\nadjutant-general; then return."\r\n\r\n"And the prisoner, General?" said the soldier, saluting, with an\r\ninquiring glance in the direction of that unfortunate.\r\n\r\n"Do as I said," replied the officer, curtly.\r\n\r\nThe soldier took the note and ducked himself out of the tent. General\r\nClavering turned his handsome face toward the Federal spy, looked him in\r\nthe eyes, not unkindly, and said: "It is a bad night, my man."\r\n\r\n"For me, yes."\r\n\r\n"Do you guess what I have written?"\r\n\r\n"Something worth reading, I dare say. And--perhaps it is my vanity--I\r\nventure to suppose that I am mentioned in it."\r\n\r\n"Yes; it is a memorandum for an order to be read to the troops at\r\n_reveille_ concerning your execution. Also some notes for the guidance\r\nof the provost-marshal in arranging the details of that event."\r\n\r\n"I hope, General, the spectacle will be intelligently arranged, for I\r\nshall attend it myself."\r\n\r\n"Have you any arrangements of your own that you wish to make? Do you\r\nwish to see a chaplain, for example?"\r\n\r\n"I could hardly secure a longer rest for myself by depriving him of some\r\nof his."\r\n\r\n"Good God, man! do you mean to go to your death with nothing but jokes\r\nupon your lips? Do you know that this is a serious matter?"\r\n\r\n"How can I know that? I have never been dead in all my life. I have\r\nheard that death is a serious matter, but never from any of those who\r\nhave experienced it."\r\n\r\nThe general was silent for a moment; the man interested, perhaps amused\r\nhim--a type not previously encountered.\r\n\r\n"Death," he said, "is at least a loss--a loss of such happiness as we\r\nhave, and of opportunities for more."\r\n\r\n"A loss of which we shall never be conscious can be borne with composure\r\nand therefore expected without apprehension. You must have observed,\r\nGeneral, that of all the dead men with whom it is your soldierly\r\npleasure to strew your path none shows signs of regret."\r\n\r\n"If the being dead is not a regrettable condition, yet the becoming so--\r\nthe act of dying--appears to be distinctly disagreeable to one who has\r\nnot lost the power to feel."\r\n\r\n"Pain is disagreeable, no doubt. I never suffer it without more or less\r\ndiscomfort. But he who lives longest is most exposed to it. What you\r\ncall dying is simply the last pain--there is really no such thing as\r\ndying. Suppose, for illustration, that I attempt to escape. You lift the\r\nrevolver that you are courteously concealing in your lap, and--"\r\n\r\nThe general blushed like a girl, then laughed softly, disclosing his\r\nbrilliant teeth, made a slight inclination of his handsome head and said\r\nnothing. The spy continued: "You fire, and I have in my stomach what I\r\ndid not swallow. I fall, but am not dead. After a half-hour of agony I\r\nam dead. But at any given instant of that half-hour I was either alive\r\nor dead. There is no transition period.\r\n\r\n"When I am hanged to-morrow morning it will be quite the same; while\r\nconscious I shall be living; when dead, unconscious. Nature appears to\r\nhave ordered the matter quite in my interest--the way that I should have\r\nordered it myself. It is so simple," he added with a smile, "that it\r\nseems hardly worth while to be hanged at all."\r\n\r\nAt the finish of his remarks there was a long silence. The general sat\r\nimpassive, looking into the man\'s face, but apparently not attentive to\r\nwhat had been said. It was as if his eyes had mounted guard over the\r\nprisoner while his mind concerned itself with other matters. Presently\r\nhe drew a long, deep breath, shuddered, as one awakened from a dreadful\r\ndream, and exclaimed almost inaudibly: "Death is horrible!"--this man of\r\ndeath.\r\n\r\n"It was horrible to our savage ancestors," said the spy, gravely,\r\n"because they had not enough intelligence to dissociate the idea of\r\nconsciousness from the idea of the physical forms in which it is\r\nmanifested--as an even lower order of intelligence, that of the monkey,\r\nfor example, may be unable to imagine a house without inhabitants, and\r\nseeing a ruined hut fancies a suffering occupant. To us it is horrible\r\nbecause we have inherited the tendency to think it so, accounting for\r\nthe notion by wild and fanciful theories of another world--as names of\r\nplaces give rise to legends explaining them and reasonless conduct to\r\nphilosophies in justification. You can hang me, General, but there your\r\npower of evil ends; you cannot condemn me to heaven."\r\n\r\nThe general appeared not to have heard; the spy\'s talk had merely turned\r\nhis thoughts into an unfamiliar channel, but there they pursued their\r\nwill independently to conclusions of their own. The storm had ceased,\r\nand something of the solemn spirit of the night had imparted itself to\r\nhis reflections, giving them the sombre tinge of a supernatural dread.\r\nPerhaps there was an element of prescience in it. "I should not like to\r\ndie," he said--"not to-night."\r\n\r\nHe was interrupted--if, indeed, he had intended to speak further--by the\r\nentrance of an officer of his staff, Captain Hasterlick, the\r\nprovost-marshal. This recalled him to himself; the absent look passed\r\naway from his face.\r\n\r\n"Captain," he said, acknowledging the officer\'s salute, "this man is a\r\nYankee spy captured inside our lines with incriminating papers on him.\r\nHe has confessed. How is the weather?"\r\n\r\n"The storm is over, sir, and the moon shining."\r\n\r\n"Good; take a file of men, conduct him at once to the parade ground, and\r\nshoot him."\r\n\r\nA sharp cry broke from the spy\'s lips. He threw himself forward, thrust\r\nout his neck, expanded his eyes, clenched his hands.\r\n\r\n"Good God!" he cried hoarsely, almost inarticulately; "you do not mean\r\nthat! You forget--I am not to die until morning."\r\n\r\n"I have said nothing of morning," replied the general, coldly; "that was\r\nan assumption of your own. You die now."\r\n\r\n"But, General, I beg--I implore you to remember; I am to hang! It will\r\ntake some time to erect the gallows--two hours--an hour. Spies are\r\nhanged; I have rights under military law. For Heaven\'s sake, General,\r\nconsider how short--"\r\n\r\n"Captain, observe my directions."\r\n\r\nThe officer drew his sword and fixing his eyes upon the prisoner pointed\r\nsilently to the opening of the tent. The prisoner hesitated; the officer\r\ngrasped him by the collar and pushed him gently forward. As he\r\napproached the tent pole the frantic man sprang to it and with cat-like\r\nagility seized the handle of the bowie-knife, plucked the weapon from\r\nthe scabbard and thrusting the captain aside leaped upon the general\r\nwith the fury of a madman, hurling him to the ground and falling\r\nheadlong upon him as he lay. The table was overturned, the candle\r\nextinguished and they fought blindly in the darkness. The\r\nprovost-marshal sprang to the assistance of his Superior officer and was\r\nhimself prostrated upon the struggling forms. Curses and inarticulate\r\ncries of rage and pain came from the welter of limbs and bodies; the\r\ntent came down upon them and beneath its hampering and enveloping folds\r\nthe struggle went on. Private Tassman, returning from his errand and\r\ndimly conjecturing the situation, threw down his rifle and laying hold\r\nof the flouncing canvas at random vainly tried to drag it off the men\r\nunder it; and the sentinel who paced up and down in front, not daring to\r\nleave his beat though the skies should fall, discharged his rifle. The\r\nreport alarmed the camp; drums beat the long roll and bugles sounded the\r\nassembly, bringing swarms of half-clad men into the moonlight, dressing\r\nas they ran, and falling into line at the sharp commands of their\r\nofficers. This was well; being in line the men were under control; they\r\nstood at arms while the general\'s staff and the men of his escort\r\nbrought order out of confusion by lifting off the fallen tent and\r\npulling apart the breathless and bleeding actors in that strange\r\ncontention.\r\n\r\nBreathless, indeed, was one: the captain was dead; the handle of the\r\nbowie-knife, protruding from his throat, was pressed back beneath his\r\nchin until the end had caught in the angle of the jaw and the hand that\r\ndelivered the blow had been unable to remove the weapon. In the dead\r\nman\'s hand was his sword, clenched with a grip that defied the strength\r\nof the living. Its blade was streaked with red to the hilt.\r\n\r\nLifted to his feet, the general sank back to the earth with a moan and\r\nfainted. Besides his bruises he had two sword-thrusts--one through the\r\nthigh, the other through the shoulder.\r\n\r\nThe spy had suffered the least damage. Apart from a broken right arm,\r\nhis wounds were such only as might have been incurred in an ordinary\r\ncombat with nature\'s weapons. But he was dazed and seemed hardly to know\r\nwhat had occurred. He shrank away from those attending him, cowered upon\r\nthe ground and uttered unintelligible remonstrances. His face, swollen\r\nby blows and stained with gouts of blood, nevertheless showed white\r\nbeneath his disheveled hair--as white as that of a corpse.\r\n\r\n"The man is not insane," said the surgeon, preparing bandages and\r\nreplying to a question; "he is suffering from fright. Who and what is\r\nhe?"\r\n\r\nPrivate Tassman began to explain. It was the opportunity of his life; he\r\nomitted nothing that could in any way accentuate the importance of his\r\nown relation to the night\'s events. When he had finished his story and\r\nwas ready to begin it again nobody gave him any attention.\r\n\r\nThe general had now recovered consciousness. He raised himself upon his\r\nelbow, looked about him, and, seeing the spy crouching by a camp-fire,\r\nguarded, said simply:\r\n\r\n"Take that man to the parade ground and shoot him."\r\n\r\n"The general\'s mind wanders," said an officer standing near.\r\n\r\n"His mind does _not_ wander," the adjutant-general said. "I have a\r\nmemorandum from him about this business; he had given that same order to\r\nHasterlick"--with a motion of the hand toward the dead provost-marshal--\r\n"and, by God! it shall be executed."\r\n\r\nTen minutes later Sergeant Parker Adderson, of the Federal army,\r\nphilosopher and wit, kneeling in the moonlight and begging incoherently\r\nfor his life, was shot to death by twenty men. As the volley rang out\r\nupon the keen air of the midnight, General Clavering, lying white and\r\nstill in the red glow of the camp-fire, opened his big blue eyes, looked\r\npleasantly upon those about him and said: "How silent it all is!"\r\n\r\nThe surgeon looked at the adjutant-general, gravely and significantly.\r\nThe patient\'s eyes slowly closed, and thus he lay for a few moments;\r\nthen, his face suffused with a smile of ineffable sweetness, he said,\r\nfaintly: "I suppose this must be death," and so passed away.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAN AFFAIR OF OUTPOSTS\r\n\r\nI\r\n\r\nCONCERNING THE WISH TO BE DEAD\r\n\r\nTwo men sat in conversation. One was the Governor of the State. The year\r\nwas 1861; the war was on and the Governor already famous for the\r\nintelligence and zeal with which he directed all the powers and\r\nresources of his State to the service of the Union.\r\n\r\n"What! _you_?" the Governor was saying in evident surprise--"you too\r\nwant a military commission? Really, the fifing and drumming must have\r\neffected a profound alteration in your convictions. In my character of\r\nrecruiting sergeant I suppose I ought not to be fastidious, but"--there\r\nwas a touch of irony in his manner--"well, have you forgotten that an\r\noath of allegiance is required?"\r\n\r\n"I have altered neither my convictions nor my sympathies," said the\r\nother, tranquilly. "While my sympathies are with the South, as you do me\r\nthe honor to recollect, I have never doubted that the North was in the\r\nright. I am a Southerner in fact and in feeling, but it is my habit in\r\nmatters of importance to act as I think, not as I feel."\r\n\r\nThe Governor was absently tapping his desk with a pencil; he did not\r\nimmediately reply. After a while he said: "I have heard that there are\r\nall kinds of men in the world, so I suppose there are some like that,\r\nand doubtless you think yourself one. I\'ve known you a long time and--\r\npardon me--I don\'t think so."\r\n\r\n"Then I am to understand that my application is denied?"\r\n\r\n"Unless you can remove my belief that your Southern sympathies are in\r\nsome degree a disqualification, yes. I do not doubt your good faith, and\r\nI know you to be abundantly fitted by intelligence and special training\r\nfor the duties of an officer. Your convictions, you say, favor the Union\r\ncause, but I prefer a man with his heart in it. The heart is what men\r\nfight with."\r\n\r\n"Look here, Governor," said the younger man, with a smile that had more\r\nlight than warmth: "I have something up my sleeve--a qualification which\r\nI had hoped it would not be necessary to mention. A great military\r\nauthority has given a simple recipe for being a good soldier: \'Try\r\nalways to get yourself killed.\' It is with that purpose that I wish to\r\nenter the service. I am not, perhaps, much of a patriot, but I wish to\r\nbe dead."\r\n\r\nThe Governor looked at him rather sharply, then a little coldly. "There\r\nis a simpler and franker way," he said.\r\n\r\n"In my family, sir," was the reply, "we do not do that--no Armisted has\r\never done that."\r\n\r\nA long silence ensued and neither man looked at the other. Presently the\r\nGovernor lifted his eyes from the pencil, which had resumed its tapping,\r\nand said:\r\n\r\n"Who is she?"\r\n\r\n"My wife."\r\n\r\nThe Governor tossed the pencil into the desk, rose and walked two or\r\nthree times across the room. Then he turned to Armisted, who also had\r\nrisen, looked at him more coldly than before and said: "But the man--\r\nwould it not be better that he--could not the country spare him better\r\nthan it can spare you? Or are the Armisteds opposed to \'the unwritten\r\nlaw\'?"\r\n\r\nThe Armisteds, apparently, could feel an insult: the face of the younger\r\nman flushed, then paled, but he subdued himself to the service of his\r\npurpose.\r\n\r\n"The man\'s identity is unknown to me," he said, calmly enough.\r\n\r\n"Pardon me," said the Governor, with even less of visible contrition\r\nthan commonly underlies those words. After a moment\'s reflection he\r\nadded: "I shall send you to-morrow a captain\'s commission in the Tenth\r\nInfantry, now at Nashville, Tennessee. Good night."\r\n\r\n"Good night, sir. I thank you."\r\n\r\nLeft alone, the Governor remained for a time motionless, leaning against\r\nhis desk. Presently he shrugged his shoulders as if throwing off a\r\nburden. "This is a bad business," he said.\r\n\r\nSeating himself at a reading-table before the fire, he took up the book\r\nnearest his hand, absently opening it. His eyes fell upon this sentence:\r\n\r\n"When God made it necessary for an unfaithful wife to lie about her\r\nhusband in justification of her own sins He had the tenderness to endow\r\nmen with the folly to believe her."\r\n\r\nHe looked at the title of the book; it was, _His Excellency the Fool_.\r\n\r\nHe flung the volume into the fire.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nHOW TO SAY WHAT IS WORTH HEARING\r\n\r\nThe enemy, defeated in two days of battle at Pittsburg Landing, had\r\nsullenly retired to Corinth, whence he had come. For manifest\r\nincompetence Grant, whose beaten army had been saved from destruction\r\nand capture by Buell\'s soldierly activity and skill, had been relieved\r\nof his command, which nevertheless had not been given to Buell, but to\r\nHalleck, a man of unproved powers, a theorist, sluggish, irresolute.\r\nFoot by foot his troops, always deployed in line-of-battle to resist the\r\nenemy\'s bickering skirmishers, always entrenching against the columns\r\nthat never came, advanced across the thirty miles of forest and swamp\r\ntoward an antagonist prepared to vanish at contact, like a ghost at\r\ncock-crow. It was a campaign of "excursions and alarums," of\r\nreconnoissances and counter-marches, of cross-purposes and countermanded\r\norders. For weeks the solemn farce held attention, luring distinguished\r\ncivilians from fields of political ambition to see what they safely\r\ncould of the horrors of war. Among these was our friend the Governor. At\r\nthe headquarters of the army and in the camps of the troops from his\r\nState he was a familiar figure, attended by the several members of his\r\npersonal staff, showily horsed, faultlessly betailored and bravely\r\nsilk-hatted. Things of charm they were, rich in suggestions of peaceful\r\nlands beyond a sea of strife. The bedraggled soldier looked up from his\r\ntrench as they passed, leaned upon his spade and audibly damned them to\r\nsignify his sense of their ornamental irrelevance to the austerities of\r\nhis trade.\r\n\r\n"I think, Governor," said General Masterson one day, going into informal\r\nsession atop of his horse and throwing one leg across the pommel of his\r\nsaddle, his favorite posture--"I think I would not ride any farther in\r\nthat direction if I were you. We\'ve nothing out there but a line of\r\nskirmishers. That, I presume, is why I was directed to put these siege\r\nguns here: if the skirmishers are driven in the enemy will die of\r\ndejection at being unable to haul them away--they\'re a trifle heavy."\r\n\r\nThere is reason to fear that the unstrained quality of this military\r\nhumor dropped not as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath\r\nthe civilian\'s silk hat. Anyhow he abated none of his dignity in\r\nrecognition.\r\n\r\n"I understand," he said, gravely, "that some of my men are out there--a\r\ncompany of the Tenth, commanded by Captain Armisted. I should like to\r\nmeet him if you do not mind."\r\n\r\n"He is worth meeting. But there\'s a bad bit of jungle out there, and I\r\nshould advise that you leave your horse and"--with a look at the\r\nGovernor\'s retinue--"your other impedimenta."\r\n\r\nThe Governor went forward alone and on foot. In a half-hour he had\r\npushed through a tangled undergrowth covering a boggy soil and entered\r\nupon firm and more open ground. Here he found a half-company of infantry\r\nlounging behind a line of stacked rifles. The men wore their\r\naccoutrements--their belts, cartridge-boxes, haversacks and canteens.\r\nSome lying at full length on the dry leaves were fast asleep: others in\r\nsmall groups gossiped idly of this and that; a few played at cards; none\r\nwas far from the line of stacked arms. To the civilian\'s eye the scene\r\nwas one of carelessness, confusion, indifference; a soldier would have\r\nobserved expectancy and readiness.\r\n\r\nAt a little distance apart an officer in fatigue uniform, armed, sat on\r\na fallen tree noting the approach of the visitor, to whom a sergeant,\r\nrising from one of the groups, now came forward.\r\n\r\n"I wish to see Captain Armisted," said the Governor.\r\n\r\nThe sergeant eyed him narrowly, saying nothing, pointed to the officer,\r\nand taking a rifle from one of the stacks, accompanied him.\r\n\r\n"This man wants to see you, sir," said the sergeant, saluting. The\r\nofficer rose.\r\n\r\nIt would have been a sharp eye that would have recognized him. His hair,\r\nwhich but a few months before had been brown, was streaked with gray.\r\nHis face, tanned by exposure, was seamed as with age. A long livid scar\r\nacross the forehead marked the stroke of a sabre; one cheek was drawn\r\nand puckered by the work of a bullet. Only a woman of the loyal North\r\nwould have thought the man handsome.\r\n\r\n"Armisted--Captain," said the Governor, extending his hand, "do you not\r\nknow me?"\r\n\r\n"I know you, sir, and I salute you--as the Governor of my State."\r\n\r\nLifting his right hand to the level of his eyes he threw it outward and\r\ndownward. In the code of military etiquette there is no provision for\r\nshaking hands. That of the civilian was withdrawn. If he felt either\r\nsurprise or chagrin his face did not betray it.\r\n\r\n"It is the hand that signed your commission," he said.\r\n\r\n"And it is the hand--"\r\n\r\nThe sentence remains unfinished. The sharp report of a rifle came from\r\nthe front, followed by another and another. A bullet hissed through the\r\nforest and struck a tree near by. The men sprang from the ground and\r\neven before the captain\'s high, clear voice was done intoning the\r\ncommand "At-ten-tion!" had fallen into line in rear of the stacked arms.\r\nAgain--and now through the din of a crackling fusillade--sounded the\r\nstrong, deliberate sing-song of authority: "Take... arms!" followed by\r\nthe rattle of unlocking bayonets.\r\n\r\nBullets from the unseen enemy were now flying thick and fast, though\r\nmostly well spent and emitting the humming sound which signified\r\ninterference by twigs and rotation in the plane of flight. Two or three\r\nof the men in the line were already struck and down. A few wounded men\r\ncame limping awkwardly out of the undergrowth from the skirmish line in\r\nfront; most of them did not pause, but held their way with white faces\r\nand set teeth to the rear.\r\n\r\nSuddenly there was a deep, jarring report in front, followed by the\r\nstartling rush of a shell, which passing overhead exploded in the edge\r\nof a thicket, setting afire the fallen leaves. Penetrating the din--\r\nseeming to float above it like the melody of a soaring bird--rang the\r\nslow, aspirated monotones of the captain\'s several commands, without\r\nemphasis, without accent, musical and restful as an evensong under the\r\nharvest moon. Familiar with this tranquilizing chant in moments of\r\nimminent peril, these raw soldiers of less than a year\'s training\r\nyielded themselves to the spell, executing its mandates with the\r\ncomposure and precision of veterans. Even the distinguished civilian\r\nbehind his tree, hesitating between pride and terror, was accessible to\r\nits charm and suasion. He was conscious of a fortified resolution and\r\nran away only when the skirmishers, under orders to rally on the\r\nreserve, came out of the woods like hunted hares and formed on the left\r\nof the stiff little line, breathing hard and thankful for the boon of\r\nbreath.\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nTHE FIGHTING OF ONE WHOSE HEART WAS NOT IN THE QUARREL\r\n\r\nGuided in his retreat by that of the fugitive wounded, the Governor\r\nstruggled bravely to the rear through the "bad bit of jungle." He was\r\nwell winded and a trifle confused. Excepting a single rifle-shot now and\r\nagain, there was no sound of strife behind him; the enemy was pulling\r\nhimself together for a new onset against an antagonist of whose numbers\r\nand tactical disposition he was in doubt. The fugitive felt that he\r\nwould probably be spared to his country, and only commended the\r\narrangements of Providence to that end, but in leaping a small brook in\r\nmore open ground one of the arrangements incurred the mischance of a\r\ndisabling sprain at the ankle. He was unable to continue his flight, for\r\nhe was too fat to hop, and after several vain attempts, causing\r\nintolerable pain, seated himself on the earth to nurse his ignoble\r\ndisability and deprecate the military situation.\r\n\r\nA brisk renewal of the firing broke out and stray bullets came flitting\r\nand droning by. Then came the crash of two clean, definite volleys,\r\nfollowed by a continuous rattle, through which he heard the yells and\r\ncheers of the combatants, punctuated by thunderclaps of cannon. All this\r\ntold him that Armisted\'s little command was bitterly beset and fighting\r\nat close quarters. The wounded men whom he had distanced began to\r\nstraggle by on either hand, their numbers visibly augmented by new\r\nlevies from the line. Singly and by twos and threes, some supporting\r\ncomrades more desperately hurt than themselves, but all deaf to his\r\nappeals for assistance, they sifted through the underbrush and\r\ndisappeared. The firing was increasingly louder and more distinct, and\r\npresently the ailing fugitives were succeeded by men who strode with a\r\nfirmer tread, occasionally facing about and discharging their pieces,\r\nthen doggedly resuming their retreat, reloading as they walked. Two or\r\nthree fell as he looked, and lay motionless. One had enough of life left\r\nin him to make a pitiful attempt to drag himself to cover. A passing\r\ncomrade paused beside him long enough to fire, appraised the poor\r\ndevil\'s disability with a look and moved sullenly on, inserting a\r\ncartridge in his weapon.\r\n\r\nIn all this was none of the pomp of war--no hint of glory. Even in his\r\ndistress and peril the helpless civilian could not forbear to contrast\r\nit with the gorgeous parades and reviews held in honor of himself--with\r\nthe brilliant uniforms, the music, the banners, and the marching. It was\r\nan ugly and sickening business: to all that was artistic in his nature,\r\nrevolting, brutal, in bad taste.\r\n\r\n"Ugh!" he grunted, shuddering--"this is beastly! Where is the charm of\r\nit all? Where are the elevated sentiments, the devotion, the heroism,\r\nthe--"\r\n\r\nFrom a point somewhere near, in the direction of the pursuing enemy,\r\nrose the clear, deliberate sing-song of Captain Armisted.\r\n\r\n"Stead-y, men--stead-y. Halt! Com-mence fir-ing."\r\n\r\nThe rattle of fewer than a score of rifles could be distinguished\r\nthrough the general uproar, and again that penetrating falsetto:\r\n\r\n"Cease fir-ing. In re-treat... maaarch!"\r\n\r\nIn a few moments this remnant had drifted slowly past the Governor, all\r\nto the right of him as they faced in retiring, the men deployed at\r\nintervals of a half-dozen paces. At the extreme left and a few yards\r\nbehind came the captain. The civilian called out his name, but he did\r\nnot hear. A swarm of men in gray now broke out of cover in pursuit,\r\nmaking directly for the spot where the Governor lay--some accident of\r\nthe ground had caused them to converge upon that point: their line had\r\nbecome a crowd. In a last struggle for life and liberty the Governor\r\nattempted to rise, and looking back the captain saw him. Promptly, but\r\nwith the same slow precision as before, he sang his commands:\r\n\r\n"Skirm-ish-ers, halt!" The men stopped and according to rule turned to\r\nface the enemy.\r\n\r\n"Ral-ly on the right!"--and they came in at a run, fixing bayonets and\r\nforming loosely on the man at that end of the line.\r\n\r\n"Forward... to save the Gov-ern-or of your State... doub-le quick...\r\nmaaarch!"\r\n\r\nOnly one man disobeyed this astonishing command! He was dead. With a\r\ncheer they sprang forward over the twenty or thirty paces between them\r\nand their task. The captain having a shorter distance to go arrived\r\nfirst--simultaneously with the enemy. A half-dozen hasty shots were\r\nfired at him, and the foremost man--a fellow of heroic stature, hatless\r\nand bare-breasted--made a vicious sweep at his head with a clubbed\r\nrifle. The officer parried the blow at the cost of a broken arm and\r\ndrove his sword to the hilt into the giant\'s breast. As the body fell\r\nthe weapon was wrenched from his hand and before he could pluck his\r\nrevolver from the scabbard at his belt another man leaped upon him like\r\na tiger, fastening both hands upon his throat and bearing him backward\r\nupon the prostrate Governor, still struggling to rise. This man was\r\npromptly spitted upon the bayonet of a Federal sergeant and his\r\ndeath-gripe on the captain\'s throat loosened by a kick upon each wrist.\r\nWhen the captain had risen he was at the rear of his men, who had all\r\npassed over and around him and were thrusting fiercely at their more\r\nnumerous but less coherent antagonists. Nearly all the rifles on both\r\nsides were empty and in the crush there was neither time nor room to\r\nreload. The Confederates were at a disadvantage in that most of them\r\nlacked bayonets; they fought by bludgeoning--and a clubbed rifle is a\r\nformidable arm. The sound of the conflict was a clatter like that of the\r\ninterlocking horns of battling bulls--now and then the pash of a crushed\r\nskull, an oath, or a grunt caused by the impact of a rifle\'s muzzle\r\nagainst the abdomen transfixed by its bayonet. Through an opening made\r\nby the fall of one of his men Captain Armisted sprang, with his dangling\r\nleft arm; in his right hand a full-charged revolver, which he fired with\r\nrapidity and terrible effect into the thick of the gray crowd: but\r\nacross the bodies of the slain the survivors in the front were pushed\r\nforward by their comrades in the rear till again they breasted the\r\ntireless bayonets. There were fewer bayonets now to breast--a beggarly\r\nhalf-dozen, all told. A few minutes more of this rough work--a little\r\nfighting back to back--and all would be over.\r\n\r\nSuddenly a lively firing was heard on the right and the left: a fresh\r\nline of Federal skirmishers came forward at a run, driving before them\r\nthose parts of the Confederate line that had been separated by staying\r\nthe advance of the centre. And behind these new and noisy combatants, at\r\na distance of two or three hundred yards, could be seen, indistinct\r\namong the trees a line-of-battle!\r\n\r\nInstinctively before retiring, the crowd in gray made a tremendous rush\r\nupon its handful of antagonists, overwhelming them by mere momentum and,\r\nunable to use weapons in the crush, trampled them, stamped savagely on\r\ntheir limbs, their bodies, their necks, their faces; then retiring with\r\nbloody feet across its own dead it joined the general rout and the\r\nincident was at an end.\r\n\r\nIV\r\n\r\nTHE GREAT HONOR THE GREAT\r\n\r\nThe Governor, who had been unconscious, opened his eyes and stared about\r\nhim, slowly recalling the day\'s events. A man in the uniform of a major\r\nwas kneeling beside him; he was a surgeon. Grouped about were the\r\ncivilian members of the Governor\'s staff, their faces expressing a\r\nnatural solicitude regarding their offices. A little apart stood General\r\nMasterson addressing another officer and gesticulating with a cigar. He\r\nwas saying: "It was the beautifulest fight ever made--by God, sir, it\r\nwas great!"\r\n\r\nThe beauty and greatness were attested by a row of dead, trimly\r\ndisposed, and another of wounded, less formally placed, restless,\r\nhalf-naked, but bravely bebandaged.\r\n\r\n"How do you feel, sir?" said the surgeon. "I find no wound."\r\n\r\n"I think I am all right," the patient replied, sitting up. "It is that\r\nankle."\r\n\r\nThe surgeon transferred his attention to the ankle, cutting away the\r\nboot. All eyes followed the knife.\r\n\r\nIn moving the leg a folded paper was uncovered. The patient picked it up\r\nand carelessly opened it. It was a letter three months old, signed\r\n"Julia." Catching sight of his name in it he read it. It was nothing\r\nvery remarkable--merely a weak woman\'s confession of unprofitable sin--\r\nthe penitence of a faithless wife deserted by her betrayer. The letter\r\nhad fallen from the pocket of Captain Armisted; the reader quietly\r\ntransferred it to his own.\r\n\r\nAn aide-de-camp rode up and dismounted. Advancing to the Governor he\r\nsaluted.\r\n\r\n"Sir," he said, "I am sorry to find you wounded--the Commanding General\r\nhas not been informed. He presents his compliments and I am directed to\r\nsay that he has ordered for to-morrow a grand review of the reserve\r\ncorps in your honor. I venture to add that the General\'s carriage is at\r\nyour service if you are able to attend."\r\n\r\n"Be pleased to say to the Commanding General that I am deeply touched by\r\nhis kindness. If you have the patience to wait a few moments you shall\r\nconvey a more definite reply."\r\n\r\nHe smiled brightly and glancing at the surgeon and his assistants added:\r\n"At present--if you will permit an allusion to the horrors of peace--I\r\nam \'in the hands of my friends.\'"\r\n\r\nThe humor of the great is infectious; all laughed who heard.\r\n\r\n"Where is Captain Armisted?" the Governor asked, not altogether\r\ncarelessly.\r\n\r\nThe surgeon looked up from his work, pointing silently to the nearest\r\nbody in the row of dead, the features discreetly covered with a\r\nhandkerchief. It was so near that the great man could have laid his hand\r\nupon it, but he did not. He may have feared that it would bleed.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE STORY OF A CONSCIENCE\r\n\r\nI\r\n\r\nCaptain Parrol Hartroy stood at the advanced post of his picket-guard,\r\ntalking in low tones with the sentinel. This post was on a turnpike\r\nwhich bisected the captain\'s camp, a half-mile in rear, though the camp\r\nwas not in sight from that point. The officer was apparently giving the\r\nsoldier certain instructions--was perhaps merely inquiring if all were\r\nquiet in front. As the two stood talking a man approached them from the\r\ndirection of the camp, carelessly whistling, and was promptly halted by\r\nthe soldier. He was evidently a civilian--a tall person, coarsely clad\r\nin the home-made stuff of yellow gray, called "butternut," which was\r\nmen\'s only wear in the latter days of the Confederacy. On his head was a\r\nslouch felt hat, once white, from beneath which hung masses of uneven\r\nhair, seemingly unacquainted with either scissors or comb. The man\'s\r\nface was rather striking; a broad forehead, high nose, and thin cheeks,\r\nthe mouth invisible in the full dark beard, which seemed as neglected as\r\nthe hair. The eyes were large and had that steadiness and fixity of\r\nattention which so frequently mark a considering intelligence and a will\r\nnot easily turned from its purpose--so say those physiognomists who have\r\nthat kind of eyes. On the whole, this was a man whom one would be likely\r\nto observe and be observed by. He carried a walking-stick freshly cut\r\nfrom the forest and his ailing cowskin boots were white with dust.\r\n\r\n"Show your pass," said the Federal soldier, a trifle more imperiously\r\nperhaps than he would have thought necessary if he had not been under\r\nthe eye of his commander, who with folded arms looked on from the\r\nroadside.\r\n\r\n"\'Lowed you\'d rec\'lect me, Gineral," said the wayfarer tranquilly, while\r\nproducing the paper from the pocket of his coat. There was something in\r\nhis tone--perhaps a faint suggestion of irony--which made his elevation\r\nof his obstructor to exalted rank less agreeable to that worthy warrior\r\nthan promotion is commonly found to be. "You-all have to be purty\r\npertickler, I reckon," he added, in a more conciliatory tone, as if in\r\nhalf-apology for being halted.\r\n\r\nHaving read the pass, with his rifle resting on the ground, the soldier\r\nhanded the document back without a word, shouldered his weapon, and\r\nreturned to his commander. The civilian passed on in the middle of the\r\nroad, and when he had penetrated the circumjacent Confederacy a few\r\nyards resumed his whistling and was soon out of sight beyond an angle in\r\nthe road, which at that point entered a thin forest. Suddenly the\r\nofficer undid his arms from his breast, drew a revolver from his belt\r\nand sprang forward at a run in the same direction, leaving his sentinel\r\nin gaping astonishment at his post. After making to the various visible\r\nforms of nature a solemn promise to be damned, that gentleman resumed\r\nthe air of stolidity which is supposed to be appropriate to a state of\r\nalert military attention.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nCaptain Hartroy held an independent command. His force consisted of a\r\ncompany of infantry, a squadron of cavalry, and a section of artillery,\r\ndetached from the army to which they belonged, to defend an important\r\ndefile in the Cumberland Mountains in Tennessee. It was a field\r\nofficer\'s command held by a line officer promoted from the ranks, where\r\nhe had quietly served until "discovered." His post was one of\r\nexceptional peril; its defense entailed a heavy responsibility and he\r\nhad wisely been given corresponding discretionary powers, all the more\r\nnecessary because of his distance from the main army, the precarious\r\nnature of his communications and the lawless character of the enemy\'s\r\nirregular troops infesting that region. He had strongly fortified his\r\nlittle camp, which embraced a village of a half-dozen dwellings and a\r\ncountry store, and had collected a considerable quantity of supplies. To\r\na few resident civilians of known loyalty, with whom it was desirable to\r\ntrade, and of whose services in various ways he sometimes availed\r\nhimself, he had given written passes admitting them within his lines. It\r\nis easy to understand that an abuse of this privilege in the interest of\r\nthe enemy might entail serious consequences. Captain Hartroy had made an\r\norder to the effect that any one so abusing it would be summarily shot.\r\n\r\nWhile the sentinel had been examining the civilian\'s pass the captain\r\nhad eyed the latter narrowly. He thought his appearance familiar and had\r\nat first no doubt of having given him the pass which had satisfied the\r\nsentinel. It was not until the man had got out of sight and hearing that\r\nhis identity was disclosed by a revealing light from memory. With\r\nsoldierly promptness of decision the officer had acted on the\r\nrevelation.\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nTo any but a singularly self-possessed man the apparition of an officer\r\nof the military forces, formidably clad, bearing in one hand a sheathed\r\nsword and in the other a cocked revolver, and rushing in furious\r\npursuit, is no doubt disquieting to a high degree; upon the man to whom\r\nthe pursuit was in this instance directed it appeared to have no other\r\neffect than somewhat to intensify his tranquillity. He might easily\r\nenough have escaped into the forest to the right or the left, but chose\r\nanother course of action--turned and quietly faced the captain, saying\r\nas he came up: "I reckon ye must have something to say to me, which ye\r\ndisremembered. What mout it be, neighbor?"\r\n\r\nBut the "neighbor" did not answer, being engaged in the unneighborly act\r\nof covering him with a cocked pistol.\r\n\r\n"Surrender," said the captain as calmly as a slight breathlessness from\r\nexertion would permit, "or you die."\r\n\r\nThere was no menace in the manner of this demand; that was all in the\r\nmatter and in the means of enforcing it. There was, too, something not\r\naltogether reassuring in the cold gray eyes that glanced along the\r\nbarrel of the weapon. For a moment the two men stood looking at each\r\nother in silence; then the civilian, with no appearance of fear--with as\r\ngreat apparent unconcern as when complying with the less austere demand\r\nof the sentinel--slowly pulled from his pocket the paper which had\r\nsatisfied that humble functionary and held it out, saying:\r\n\r\n"I reckon this \'ere parss from Mister Hartroy is--"\r\n\r\n"The pass is a forgery," the officer said, interrupting. "I am Captain\r\nHartroy--and you are Dramer Brune."\r\n\r\nIt would have required a sharp eye to observe the slight pallor of the\r\ncivilian\'s face at these words, and the only other manifestation\r\nattesting their significance was a voluntary relaxation of the thumb and\r\nfingers holding the dishonored paper, which, falling to the road,\r\nunheeded, was rolled by a gentle wind and then lay still, with a coating\r\nof dust, as in humiliation for the lie that it bore. A moment later the\r\ncivilian, still looking unmoved into the barrel of the pistol, said:\r\n\r\n"Yes, I am Dramer Brune, a Confederate spy, and your prisoner. I have on\r\nmy person, as you will soon discover, a plan of your fort and its\r\narmament, a statement of the distribution of your men and their number,\r\na map of the approaches, showing the positions of all your outposts. My\r\nlife is fairly yours, but if you wish it taken in a more formal way than\r\nby your own hand, and if you are willing to spare me the indignity of\r\nmarching into camp at the muzzle of your pistol, I promise you that I\r\nwill neither resist, escape, nor remonstrate, but will submit to\r\nwhatever penalty may be imposed."\r\n\r\nThe officer lowered his pistol, uncocked it, and thrust it into its\r\nplace in his belt. Brune advanced a step, extending his right hand.\r\n\r\n"It is the hand of a traitor and a spy," said the officer coldly, and\r\ndid not take it. The other bowed.\r\n\r\n"Come," said the captain, "let us go to camp; you shall not die until\r\nto-morrow morning."\r\n\r\nHe turned his back upon his prisoner, and these two enigmatical men\r\nretraced their steps and soon passed the sentinel, who expressed his\r\ngeneral sense of things by a needless and exaggerated salute to his\r\ncommander.\r\n\r\nIV\r\n\r\nEarly on the morning after these events the two men, captor and captive,\r\nsat in the tent of the former. A table was between them on which lay,\r\namong a number of letters, official and private, which the captain had\r\nwritten during the night, the incriminating papers found upon the spy.\r\nThat gentleman had slept through the night in an adjoining tent,\r\nunguarded. Both, having breakfasted, were now smoking.\r\n\r\n"Mr. Brune," said Captain Hartroy, "you probably do not understand why I\r\nrecognized you in your disguise, nor how I was aware of your name."\r\n\r\n"I have not sought to learn, Captain," the prisoner said with quiet\r\ndignity.\r\n\r\n"Nevertheless I should like you to know--if the story will not offend.\r\nYou will perceive that my knowledge of you goes back to the autumn of\r\n1861. At that time you were a private in an Ohio regiment--a brave and\r\ntrusted soldier. To the surprise and grief of your officers and comrades\r\nyou deserted and went over to the enemy. Soon afterward you were\r\ncaptured in a skirmish, recognized, tried by court-martial and sentenced\r\nto be shot. Awaiting the execution of the sentence you were confined,\r\nunfettered, in a freight car standing on a side track of a railway."\r\n\r\n"At Grafton, Virginia," said Brune, pushing the ashes from his cigar\r\nwith the little finger of the hand holding it, and without looking up.\r\n\r\n"At Grafton, Virginia," the captain repeated. "One dark and stormy night\r\na soldier who had just returned from a long, fatiguing march was put on\r\nguard over you. He sat on a cracker box inside the car, near the door,\r\nhis rifle loaded and the bayonet fixed. You sat in a corner and his\r\norders were to kill you if you attempted to rise."\r\n\r\n"But if I _asked_ to rise he might call the corporal of the guard."\r\n\r\n"Yes. As the long silent hours wore away the soldier yielded to the\r\ndemands of nature: he himself incurred the death penalty by sleeping at\r\nhis post of duty."\r\n\r\n"You did."\r\n\r\n"What! you recognize me? you have known me all along?"\r\n\r\nThe captain had risen and was walking the floor of his tent, visibly\r\nexcited. His face was flushed, the gray eyes had lost the cold, pitiless\r\nlook which they had shown when Brune had seen them over the pistol\r\nbarrel; they had softened wonderfully.\r\n\r\n"I knew you," said the spy, with his customary tranquillity, "the moment\r\nyou faced me, demanding my surrender. In the circumstances it would have\r\nbeen hardly becoming in me to recall these matters. I am perhaps a\r\ntraitor, certainly a spy; but I should not wish to seem a suppliant."\r\n\r\nThe captain had paused in his walk and was facing his prisoner. There\r\nwas a singular huskiness in his voice as he spoke again.\r\n\r\n"Mr. Brune, whatever your conscience may permit you to be, you saved my\r\nlife at what you must have believed the cost of your own. Until I saw\r\nyou yesterday when halted by my sentinel I believed you dead--thought\r\nthat you had suffered the fate which through my own crime you might\r\neasily have escaped. You had only to step from the car and leave me to\r\ntake your place before the firing-squad. You had a divine compassion.\r\nYou pitied my fatigue. You let me sleep, watched over me, and as the\r\ntime drew near for the relief-guard to come and detect me in my crime,\r\nyou gently waked me. Ah, Brune, Brune, that was well done--that was\r\ngreat--that--"\r\n\r\nThe captain\'s voice failed him; the tears were running down his face and\r\nsparkled upon his beard and his breast. Resuming his seat at the table,\r\nhe buried his face in his arms and sobbed. All else was silence.\r\n\r\nSuddenly the clear warble of a bugle was heard sounding the "assembly."\r\nThe captain started and raised his wet face from his arms; it had turned\r\nghastly pale. Outside, in the sunlight, were heard the stir of the men\r\nfalling into line; the voices of the sergeants calling the roll; the\r\ntapping of the drummers as they braced their drums. The captain spoke\r\nagain:\r\n\r\n"I ought to have confessed my fault in order to relate the story of your\r\nmagnanimity; it might have procured you a pardon. A hundred times I\r\nresolved to do so, but shame prevented. Besides, your sentence was just\r\nand righteous. Well, Heaven forgive me! I said nothing, and my regiment\r\nwas soon afterward ordered to Tennessee and I never heard about you."\r\n\r\n"It was all right, sir," said Brune, without visible emotion; "I escaped\r\nand returned to my colors--the Confederate colors. I should like to add\r\nthat before deserting from the Federal service I had earnestly asked a\r\ndischarge, on the ground of altered convictions. I was answered by\r\npunishment."\r\n\r\n"Ah, but if I had suffered the penalty of my crime--if you had not\r\ngenerously given me the life that I accepted without gratitude you would\r\nnot be again in the shadow and imminence of death."\r\n\r\nThe prisoner started slightly and a look of anxiety came into his face.\r\nOne would have said, too, that he was surprised. At that moment a\r\nlieutenant, the adjutant, appeared at the opening of the tent and\r\nsaluted. "Captain," he said, "the battalion is formed."\r\n\r\nCaptain Hartroy had recovered his composure. He turned to the officer\r\nand said: "Lieutenant, go to Captain Graham and say that I direct him to\r\nassume command of the battalion and parade it outside the parapet. This\r\ngentleman is a deserter and a spy; he is to be shot to death in the\r\npresence of the troops. He will accompany you, unbound and unguarded."\r\n\r\nWhile the adjutant waited at the door the two men inside the tent rose\r\nand exchanged ceremonious bows, Brune immediately retiring.\r\n\r\nHalf an hour later an old negro cook, the only person left in camp\r\nexcept the commander, was so startled by the sound of a volley of\r\nmusketry that he dropped the kettle that he was lifting from a fire. But\r\nfor his consternation and the hissing which the contents of the kettle\r\nmade among the embers, he might also have heard, nearer at hand, the\r\nsingle pistol shot with which Captain Hartroy renounced the life which\r\nin conscience he could no longer keep.\r\n\r\nIn compliance with the terms of a note that he left for the officer who\r\nsucceeded him in command, he was buried, like the deserter and spy,\r\nwithout military honors; and in the solemn shadow of the mountain which\r\nknows no more of war the two sleep well in long-forgotten graves.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nONE KIND OF OFFICER\r\n\r\nI\r\n\r\nOF THE USES OF CIVILITY\r\n\r\n"Captain Ransome, it is not permitted to you to know _anything_. It is\r\nsufficient that you obey my order--which permit me to repeat. If you\r\nperceive any movement of troops in your front you are to open fire, and\r\nif attacked hold this position as long as you can. Do I make myself\r\nunderstood, sir?"\r\n\r\n"Nothing could be plainer. Lieutenant Price,"--this to an officer of his\r\nown battery, who had ridden up in time to hear the order--"the general\'s\r\nmeaning is clear, is it not?"\r\n\r\n"Perfectly."\r\n\r\nThe lieutenant passed on to his post. For a moment General Cameron and\r\nthe commander of the battery sat in their saddles, looking at each other\r\nin silence. There was no more to say; apparently too much had already\r\nbeen said. Then the superior officer nodded coldly and turned his horse\r\nto ride away. The artillerist saluted slowly, gravely, and with extreme\r\nformality. One acquainted with the niceties of military etiquette would\r\nhave said that by his manner he attested a sense of the rebuke that he\r\nhad incurred. It is one of the important uses of civility to signify\r\nresentment.\r\n\r\nWhen the general had joined his staff and escort, awaiting him at a\r\nlittle distance, the whole cavalcade moved off toward the right of the\r\nguns and vanished in the fog. Captain Ransome was alone, silent,\r\nmotionless as an equestrian statue. The gray fog, thickening every\r\nmoment, closed in about him like a visible doom.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nUNDER WHAT CIRCUMSTANCES MEN DO NOT WISH TO BE SHOT\r\n\r\nThe fighting of the day before had been desultory and indecisive. At the\r\npoints of collision the smoke of battle had hung in blue sheets among\r\nthe branches of the trees till beaten into nothing by the falling rain.\r\nIn the softened earth the wheels of cannon and ammunition wagons cut\r\ndeep, ragged furrows, and movements of infantry seemed impeded by the\r\nmud that clung to the soldiers\' feet as, with soaken garments and rifles\r\nimperfectly protected by capes of overcoats they went dragging in\r\nsinuous lines hither and thither through dripping forest and flooded\r\nfield. Mounted officers, their heads protruding from rubber ponchos that\r\nglittered like black armor, picked their way, singly and in loose\r\ngroups, among the men, coming and going with apparent aimlessness and\r\ncommanding attention from nobody but one another. Here and there a dead\r\nman, his clothing defiled with earth, his face covered with a blanket or\r\nshowing yellow and claylike in the rain, added his dispiriting influence\r\nto that of the other dismal features of the scene and augmented the\r\ngeneral discomfort with a particular dejection. Very repulsive these\r\nwrecks looked--not at all heroic, and nobody was accessible to the\r\ninfection of their patriotic example. Dead upon the field of honor, yes;\r\nbut the field of honor was so very wet! It makes a difference.\r\n\r\nThe general engagement that all expected did not occur, none of the\r\nsmall advantages accruing, now to this side and now to that, in isolated\r\nand accidental collisions being followed up. Half-hearted attacks\r\nprovoked a sullen resistance which was satisfied with mere repulse.\r\nOrders were obeyed with mechanical fidelity; no one did any more than\r\nhis duty.\r\n\r\n"The army is cowardly to-day," said General Cameron, the commander of a\r\nFederal brigade, to his adjutant-general.\r\n\r\n"The army is cold," replied the officer addressed, "and--yes, it doesn\'t\r\nwish to be like that."\r\n\r\nHe pointed to one of the dead bodies, lying in a thin pool of yellow\r\nwater, its face and clothing bespattered with mud from hoof and wheel.\r\n\r\nThe army\'s weapons seemed to share its military delinquency. The rattle\r\nof rifles sounded flat and contemptible. It had no meaning and scarcely\r\nroused to attention and expectancy the unengaged parts of the\r\nline-of-battle and the waiting reserves. Heard at a little distance, the\r\nreports of cannon were feeble in volume and _timbre_: they lacked sting\r\nand resonance. The guns seemed to be fired with light charges,\r\nunshotted. And so the futile day wore on to its dreary close, and then\r\nto a night of discomfort succeeded a day of apprehension.\r\n\r\nAn army has a personality. Beneath the individual thoughts and emotions\r\nof its component parts it thinks and feels as a unit. And in this large,\r\ninclusive sense of things lies a wiser wisdom than the mere sum of all\r\nthat it knows. On that dismal morning this great brute force, groping at\r\nthe bottom of a white ocean of fog among trees that seemed as sea weeds,\r\nhad a dumb consciousness that all was not well; that a day\'s manoeuvring\r\nhad resulted in a faulty disposition of its parts, a blind diffusion of\r\nits strength. The men felt insecure and talked among themselves of such\r\ntactical errors as with their meager military vocabulary they were able\r\nto name. Field and line officers gathered in groups and spoke more\r\nlearnedly of what they apprehended with no greater clearness. Commanders\r\nof brigades and divisions looked anxiously to their connections on the\r\nright and on the left, sent staff officers on errands of inquiry and\r\npushed skirmish lines silently and cautiously forward into the dubious\r\nregion between the known and the unknown. At some points on the line the\r\ntroops, apparently of their own volition, constructed such defenses as\r\nthey could without the silent spade and the noisy ax.\r\n\r\nOne of these points was held by Captain Ransome\'s battery of six guns.\r\nProvided always with intrenching tools, his men had labored with\r\ndiligence during the night, and now his guns thrust their black muzzles\r\nthrough the embrasures of a really formidable earthwork. It crowned a\r\nslight acclivity devoid of undergrowth and providing an unobstructed\r\nfire that would sweep the ground for an unknown distance in front. The\r\nposition could hardly have been better chosen. It had this peculiarity,\r\nwhich Captain Ransome, who was greatly addicted to the use of the\r\ncompass, had not failed to observe: it faced northward, whereas he knew\r\nthat the general line of the army must face eastward. In fact, that part\r\nof the line was "refused"--that is to say, bent backward, away from the\r\nenemy. This implied that Captain Ransome\'s battery was somewhere near\r\nthe left flank of the army; for an army in line of battle retires its\r\nflanks if the nature of the ground will permit, they being its\r\nvulnerable points. Actually, Captain Ransome appeared to hold the\r\nextreme left of the line, no troops being visible in that direction\r\nbeyond his own. Immediately in rear of his guns occurred that\r\nconversation between him and his brigade commander, the concluding and\r\nmore picturesque part of which is reported above.\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nHOW TO PLAY THE CANNON WITHOUT NOTES\r\n\r\nCaptain Ransome sat motionless and silent on horseback. A few yards away\r\nhis men were standing at their guns. Somewhere--everywhere within a few\r\nmiles--were a hundred thousand men, friends and enemies. Yet he was\r\nalone. The mist had isolated him as completely as if he had been in the\r\nheart of a desert. His world was a few square yards of wet and trampled\r\nearth about the feet of his horse. His comrades in that ghostly domain\r\nwere invisible and inaudible. These were conditions favorable to\r\nthought, and he was thinking. Of the nature of his thoughts his\r\nclear-cut handsome features yielded no attesting sign. His face was as\r\ninscrutable as that of the sphinx. Why should it have made a record\r\nwhich there was none to observe? At the sound of a footstep he merely\r\nturned his eyes in the direction whence it came; one of his sergeants,\r\nlooking a giant in stature in the false perspective of the fog,\r\napproached, and when clearly defined and reduced to his true dimensions\r\nby propinquity, saluted and stood at attention.\r\n\r\n"Well, Morris," said the officer, returning his subordinate\'s salute.\r\n\r\n"Lieutenant Price directed me to tell you, sir, that most of the\r\ninfantry has been withdrawn. We have not sufficient support."\r\n\r\n"Yes, I know."\r\n\r\n"I am to say that some of our men have been out over the works a hundred\r\nyards and report that our front is not picketed."\r\n\r\n"Yes."\r\n\r\n"They were so far forward that they heard the enemy."\r\n\r\n"Yes."\r\n\r\n"They heard the rattle of the wheels of artillery and the commands of\r\nofficers."\r\n\r\n"Yes."\r\n\r\n"The enemy is moving toward our works."\r\n\r\nCaptain Ransome, who had been facing to the rear of his line--toward the\r\npoint where the brigade commander and his cavalcade had been swallowed\r\nup by the fog--reined his horse about and faced the other way. Then he\r\nsat motionless as before.\r\n\r\n"Who are the men who made that statement?" he inquired, without looking\r\nat the sergeant; his eyes were directed straight into the fog over the\r\nhead of his horse.\r\n\r\n"Corporal Hassman and Gunner Manning."\r\n\r\nCaptain Ransome was a moment silent. A slight pallor came into his face,\r\na slight compression affected the lines of his lips, but it would have\r\nrequired a closer observer than Sergeant Morris to note the change.\r\nThere was none in the voice.\r\n\r\n"Sergeant, present my compliments to Lieutenant Price and direct him to\r\nopen fire with all the guns. Grape."\r\n\r\nThe sergeant saluted and vanished in the fog.\r\n\r\nIV.\r\n\r\nTO INTRODUCE GENERAL MASTERSON\r\n\r\nSearching for his division commander,\r\nGeneral Cameron and his escort had followed the line of battle for\r\nnearly a mile to the right of Ransome\'s battery, and there learned that\r\nthe division commander had gone in search of the corps commander. It\r\nseemed that everybody was looking for his immediate superior--an ominous\r\ncircumstance. It meant that nobody was quite at ease. So General Cameron\r\nrode on for another half-mile, where by good luck he met General\r\nMasterson, the division commander, returning.\r\n\r\n"Ah, Cameron," said the higher officer, reining up, and throwing his\r\nright leg across the pommel of his saddle in a most unmilitary way--\r\n"anything up? Found a good position for your battery, I hope--if one\r\nplace is better than another in a fog."\r\n\r\n"Yes, general," said the other, with the greater dignity appropriate to\r\nhis less exalted rank, "my battery is very well placed. I wish I could\r\nsay that it is as well commanded."\r\n\r\n"Eh, what\'s that? Ransome? I think him a fine fellow. In the army we\r\nshould be proud of him."\r\n\r\nIt was customary for officers of the regular army to speak of it as "the\r\narmy." As the greatest cities are most provincial, so the\r\nself-complacency of aristocracies is most frankly plebeian.\r\n\r\n"He is too fond of his opinion. By the way, in order to occupy the hill\r\nthat he holds I had to extend my line dangerously. The hill is on my\r\nleft--that is to say the left flank of the army."\r\n\r\n"Oh, no, Hart\'s brigade is beyond. It was ordered up from Drytown during\r\nthe night and directed to hook on to you. Better go and--"\r\n\r\nThe sentence was unfinished: a lively cannonade had broken out on the\r\nleft, and both officers, followed by their retinues of aides and\r\norderlies making a great jingle and clank, rode rapidly toward the spot.\r\nBut they were soon impeded, for they were compelled by the fog to keep\r\nwithin sight of the line-of-battle, behind which were swarms of men, all\r\nin motion across their way. Everywhere the line was assuming a sharper\r\nand harder definition, as the men sprang to arms and the officers, with\r\ndrawn swords, "dressed" the ranks. Color-bearers unfurled the flags,\r\nbuglers blew the "assembly," hospital attendants appeared with\r\nstretchers. Field officers mounted and sent their impedimenta to the\r\nrear in care of negro servants. Back in the ghostly spaces of the forest\r\ncould be heard the rustle and murmur of the reserves, pulling themselves\r\ntogether.\r\n\r\nNor was all this preparation vain, for scarcely five minutes had passed\r\nsince Captain Ransome\'s guns had broken the truce of doubt before the\r\nwhole region was aroar: the enemy had attacked nearly everywhere.\r\n\r\nV\r\n\r\nHOW SOUNDS CAN FIGHT SHADOWS\r\n\r\nCaptain Ransome walked up and down behind his guns, which were firing\r\nrapidly but with steadiness. The gunners worked alertly, but without\r\nhaste or apparent excitement. There was really no reason for excitement;\r\nit is not much to point a cannon into a fog and fire it. Anybody can do\r\nas much as that.\r\n\r\nThe men smiled at their noisy work, performing it with a lessening\r\nalacrity. They cast curious regards upon their captain, who had now\r\nmounted the banquette of the fortification and was looking across the\r\nparapet as if observing the effect of his fire. But the only visible\r\neffect was the substitution of wide, low-lying sheets of smoke for their\r\nbulk of fog. Suddenly out of the obscurity burst a great sound of\r\ncheering, which filled the intervals between the reports of the guns\r\nwith startling distinctness! To the few with leisure and opportunity to\r\nobserve, the sound was inexpressibly strange--so loud, so near, so\r\nmenacing, yet nothing seen! The men who had smiled at their work smiled\r\nno more, but performed it with a serious and feverish activity.\r\n\r\nFrom his station at the parapet Captain Ransome now saw a great\r\nmultitude of dim gray figures taking shape in the mist below him and\r\nswarming up the slope. But the work of the guns was now fast and\r\nfurious. They swept the populous declivity with gusts of grape and\r\ncanister, the whirring of which could be heard through the thunder of\r\nthe explosions. In this awful tempest of iron the assailants struggled\r\nforward foot by foot across their dead, firing into the embrasures,\r\nreloading, firing again, and at last falling in their turn, a little in\r\nadvance of those who had fallen before. Soon the smoke was dense enough\r\nto cover all. It settled down upon the attack and, drifting back,\r\ninvolved the defense. The gunners could hardly see to serve their\r\npieces, and when occasional figures of the enemy appeared upon the\r\nparapet--having had the good luck to get near enough to it, between two\r\nembrasures, to be protected from the guns--they looked so unsubstantial\r\nthat it seemed hardly worth while for the few infantrymen to go to work\r\nupon them with the bayonet and tumble them back into the ditch.\r\n\r\nAs the commander of a battery in action can find something better to do\r\nthan cracking individual skulls, Captain Ransome had retired from the\r\nparapet to his proper post in rear of his guns, where he stood with\r\nfolded arms, his bugler beside him. Here, during the hottest of the\r\nfight, he was approached by Lieutenant Price, who had just sabred a\r\ndaring assailant inside the work. A spirited colloquy ensued between the\r\ntwo officers--spirited, at least, on the part of the lieutenant, who\r\ngesticulated with energy and shouted again and again into his\r\ncommander\'s ear in the attempt to make himself heard above the infernal\r\ndin of the guns. His gestures, if coolly noted by an actor, would have\r\nbeen pronounced to be those of protestation: one would have said that he\r\nwas opposed to the proceedings. Did he wish to surrender?\r\n\r\nCaptain Ransome listened without a change of countenance or attitude,\r\nand when the other man had finished his harangue, looked him coldly in\r\nthe eyes and during a seasonable abatement of the uproar said:\r\n\r\n"Lieutenant Price, it is not permitted to you to know _anything_. It is\r\nsufficient that you obey my orders."\r\n\r\nThe lieutenant went to his post, and the parapet being now apparently\r\nclear Captain Ransome returned to it to have a look over. As he mounted\r\nthe banquette a man sprang upon the crest, waving a great brilliant\r\nflag. The captain drew a pistol from his belt and shot him dead. The\r\nbody, pitching forward, hung over the inner edge of the embankment, the\r\narms straight downward, both hands still grasping the flag. The man\'s\r\nfew followers turned and fled down the slope. Looking over the parapet,\r\nthe captain saw no living thing. He observed also that no bullets were\r\ncoming into the work.\r\n\r\nHe made a sign to the bugler, who sounded the command to cease firing.\r\nAt all other points the action had already ended with a repulse of the\r\nConfederate attack; with the cessation of this cannonade the silence was\r\nabsolute.\r\n\r\nVI\r\n\r\nWHY, BEING AFFRONTED BY A, IT IS NOT BEST TO AFFRONT B\r\n\r\nGeneral Masterson rode into the redoubt. The men, gathered in groups,\r\nwere talking loudly and gesticulating. They pointed at the dead, running\r\nfrom one body to another. They neglected their foul and heated guns and\r\nforgot to resume their outer clothing. They ran to the parapet and\r\nlooked over, some of them leaping down into the ditch. A score were\r\ngathered about a flag rigidly held by a dead man.\r\n\r\n"Well, my men," said the general cheerily, "you have had a pretty fight\r\nof it."\r\n\r\nThey stared; nobody replied; the presence of the great man seemed to\r\nembarrass and alarm.\r\n\r\nGetting no response to his pleasant condescension, the easy-mannered\r\nofficer whistled a bar or two of a popular air, and riding forward to\r\nthe parapet, looked over at the dead. In an instant he had whirled his\r\nhorse about and was spurring along in rear of the guns, his eyes\r\neverywhere at once. An officer sat on the trail of one of the guns,\r\nsmoking a cigar. As the general dashed up he rose and tranquilly\r\nsaluted.\r\n\r\n"Captain Ransome!"--the words fell sharp and harsh, like the clash of\r\nsteel blades--"you have been fighting our own men--our own men, sir; do\r\nyou hear? Hart\'s brigade!"\r\n\r\n"General, I know that."\r\n\r\n"You know it--you know that, and you sit here smoking? Oh, damn it,\r\nHamilton, I\'m losing my temper,"--this to his provost-marshal. "Sir--\r\nCaptain Ransome, be good enough to say--to say why you fought our own\r\nmen."\r\n\r\n"That I am unable to say. In my orders that information was withheld."\r\n\r\nApparently the general did not comprehend.\r\n\r\n"Who was the aggressor in this affair, you or General Hart?" he asked.\r\n\r\n"I was."\r\n\r\n"And could you not have known--could you not see, sir, that you were\r\nattacking our own men?"\r\n\r\nThe reply was astounding!\r\n\r\n"I knew that, general. It appeared to be none of my business."\r\n\r\nThen, breaking the dead silence that followed his answer, he said:\r\n\r\n"I must refer you to General Cameron."\r\n\r\n"General Cameron is dead, sir--as dead as he can be--as dead as any man\r\nin this army. He lies back yonder under a tree. Do you mean to say that\r\nhe had anything to do with this horrible business?"\r\n\r\nCaptain Ransome did not reply. Observing the altercation his men had\r\ngathered about to watch the outcome. They were greatly excited. The fog,\r\nwhich had been partly dissipated by the firing, had again closed in so\r\ndarkly about them that they drew more closely together till the judge on\r\nhorseback and the accused standing calmly before him had but a narrow\r\nspace free from intrusion. It was the most informal of courts-martial,\r\nbut all felt that the formal one to follow would but affirm its\r\njudgment. It had no jurisdiction, but it had the significance of\r\nprophecy.\r\n\r\n"Captain Ransome," the general cried impetuously, but with something in\r\nhis voice that was almost entreaty, "if you can say anything to put a\r\nbetter light upon your incomprehensible conduct I beg you will do so."\r\n\r\nHaving recovered his temper this generous soldier sought for something\r\nto justify his naturally sympathetic attitude toward a brave man in the\r\nimminence of a dishonorable death.\r\n\r\n"Where is Lieutenant Price?" the captain said.\r\n\r\nThat officer stood forward, his dark saturnine face looking somewhat\r\nforbidding under a bloody handkerchief bound about his brow. He\r\nunderstood the summons and needed no invitation to speak. He did not\r\nlook at the captain, but addressed the general:\r\n\r\n"During the engagement I discovered the state of affairs, and apprised\r\nthe commander of the battery. I ventured to urge that the firing cease.\r\nI was insulted and ordered to my post."\r\n\r\n"Do you know anything of the orders under which I was acting?" asked the\r\ncaptain.\r\n\r\n"Of any orders under which the commander of the battery was acting," the\r\nlieutenant continued, still addressing the general, "I know nothing."\r\n\r\nCaptain Ransome felt his world sink away from his feet. In those cruel\r\nwords he heard the murmur of the centuries breaking upon the shore of\r\neternity. He heard the voice of doom; it said, in cold, mechanical, and\r\nmeasured tones: "Ready, aim, fire!" and he felt the bullets tear his\r\nheart to shreds. He heard the sound of the earth upon his coffin and (if\r\nthe good God was so merciful) the song of a bird above his forgotten\r\ngrave. Quietly detaching his sabre from its supports, he handed it up to\r\nthe provost-marshal.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nONE OFFICER, ONE MAN\r\n\r\nCaptain Graffenreid stood at the head of his company. The regiment was\r\nnot engaged. It formed a part of the front line-of-battle, which\r\nstretched away to the right with a visible length of nearly two miles\r\nthrough the open ground. The left flank was veiled by woods; to the\r\nright also the line was lost to sight, but it extended many miles. A\r\nhundred yards in rear was a second line; behind this, the reserve\r\nbrigades and divisions in column. Batteries of artillery occupied the\r\nspaces between and crowned the low hills. Groups of horsemen--generals\r\nwith their staffs and escorts, and field officers of regiments behind\r\nthe colors--broke the regularity of the lines and columns. Numbers of\r\nthese figures of interest had field-glasses at their eyes and sat\r\nmotionless, stolidly scanning the country in front; others came\r\nand went at a slow canter, bearing orders. There were squads of\r\nstretcher-bearers, ambulances, wagon-trains with ammunition, and\r\nofficers\' servants in rear of all--of all that was visible--for still in\r\nrear of these, along the roads, extended for many miles all that vast\r\nmultitude of non-combatants who with their various _impedimenta_ are\r\nassigned to the inglorious but important duty of supplying the fighters\'\r\nmany needs.\r\n\r\nAn army in line-of-battle awaiting attack, or prepared to deliver it,\r\npresents strange contrasts. At the front are precision, formality,\r\nfixity, and silence. Toward the rear these characteristics are less and\r\nless conspicuous, and finally, in point of space, are lost altogether in\r\nconfusion, motion and noise. The homogeneous becomes heterogeneous.\r\nDefinition is lacking; repose is replaced by an apparently purposeless\r\nactivity; harmony vanishes in hubbub, form in disorder. Commotion\r\neverywhere and ceaseless unrest. The men who do not fight are never\r\nready.\r\n\r\nFrom his position at the right of his company in the front rank, Captain\r\nGraffenreid had an unobstructed outlook toward the enemy. A half-mile of\r\nopen and nearly level ground lay before him, and beyond it an irregular\r\nwood, covering a slight acclivity; not a human being anywhere visible.\r\nHe could imagine nothing more peaceful than the appearance of that\r\npleasant landscape with its long stretches of brown fields over which\r\nthe atmosphere was beginning to quiver in the heat of the morning sun.\r\nNot a sound came from forest or field--not even the barking of a dog or\r\nthe crowing of a cock at the half-seen plantation house on the crest\r\namong the trees. Yet every man in those miles of men knew that he and\r\ndeath were face to face.\r\n\r\nCaptain Graffenreid had never in his life seen an armed enemy, and the\r\nwar in which his regiment was one of the first to take the field was two\r\nyears old. He had had the rare advantage of a military education, and\r\nwhen his comrades had marched to the front he had been detached for\r\nadministrative service at the capital of his State, where it was thought\r\nthat he could be most useful. Like a bad soldier he protested, and like\r\na good one obeyed. In close official and personal relations with the\r\ngovernor of his State, and enjoying his confidence and favor, he had\r\nfirmly refused promotion and seen his juniors elevated above him. Death\r\nhad been busy in his distant regiment; vacancies among the field\r\nofficers had occurred again and again; but from a chivalrous feeling\r\nthat war\'s rewards belonged of right to those who bore the storm and\r\nstress of battle he had held his humble rank and generously advanced the\r\nfortunes of others. His silent devotion to principle had conquered at\r\nlast: he had been relieved of his hateful duties and ordered to the\r\nfront, and now, untried by fire, stood in the van of battle in command\r\nof a company of hardy veterans, to whom he had been only a name, and\r\nthat name a by-word. By none--not even by those of his brother officers\r\nin whose favor he had waived his rights--was his devotion to duty\r\nunderstood. They were too busy to be just; he was looked upon as one who\r\nhad shirked his duty, until forced unwillingly into the field. Too proud\r\nto explain, yet not too insensible to feel, he could only endure and\r\nhope.\r\n\r\nOf all the Federal Army on that summer morning none had accepted battle\r\nmore joyously than Anderton Graffenreid. His spirit was buoyant, his\r\nfaculties were riotous. He was in a state of mental exaltation and\r\nscarcely could endure the enemy\'s tardiness in advancing to the attack.\r\nTo him this was opportunity--for the result he cared nothing. Victory or\r\ndefeat, as God might will; in one or in the other he should prove\r\nhimself a soldier and a hero; he should vindicate his right to the\r\nrespect of his men and the companionship of his brother officers--to the\r\nconsideration of his superiors. How his heart leaped in his breast as\r\nthe bugle sounded the stirring notes of the "assembly"! With what a\r\nlight tread, scarcely conscious of the earth beneath his feet, he strode\r\nforward at the head of his company, and how exultingly he noted the\r\ntactical dispositions which placed his regiment in the front line! And\r\nif perchance some memory came to him of a pair of dark eyes that might\r\ntake on a tenderer light in reading the account of that day\'s doings,\r\nwho shall blame him for the unmartial thought or count it a debasement\r\nof soldierly ardor?\r\n\r\nSuddenly, from the forest a half-mile in front--apparently from among\r\nthe upper branches of the trees, but really from the ridge beyond--rose\r\na tall column of white smoke. A moment later came a deep, jarring\r\nexplosion, followed--almost attended--by a hideous rushing sound that\r\nseemed to leap forward across the intervening space with inconceivable\r\nrapidity, rising from whisper to roar with too quick a gradation for\r\nattention to note the successive stages of its horrible progression! A\r\nvisible tremor ran along the lines of men; all were startled into\r\nmotion. Captain Graffenreid dodged and threw up his hands to one side of\r\nhis head, palms outward.\r\n\r\nAs he did so he heard a keen, ringing report, and saw on a hillside\r\nbehind the line a fierce roll of smoke and dust--the shell\'s explosion.\r\nIt had passed a hundred feet to his left! He heard, or fancied he heard,\r\na low, mocking laugh and turning in the direction whence it came saw the\r\neyes of his first lieutenant fixed upon him with an unmistakable look of\r\namusement. He looked along the line of faces in the front ranks. The men\r\nwere laughing. At him? The thought restored the color to his bloodless\r\nface--restored too much of it. His cheeks burned with a fever of shame.\r\n\r\nThe enemy\'s shot was not answered: the officer in command at that\r\nexposed part of the line had evidently no desire to provoke a cannonade.\r\nFor the forbearance Captain Graffenreid was conscious of a sense of\r\ngratitude. He had not known that the flight of a projectile was a\r\nphenomenon of so appalling character. His conception of war had already\r\nundergone a profound change, and he was conscious that his new feeling\r\nwas manifesting itself in visible perturbation. His blood was boiling in\r\nhis veins; he had a choking sensation and felt that if he had a command\r\nto give it would be inaudible, or at least unintelligible. The hand in\r\nwhich he held his sword trembled; the other moved automatically,\r\nclutching at various parts of his clothing. He found a difficulty in\r\nstanding still and fancied that his men observed it. Was it fear? He\r\nfeared it was.\r\n\r\nFrom somewhere away to the right came, as the wind served, a low,\r\nintermittent murmur like that of ocean in a storm--like that of a\r\ndistant railway train--like that of wind among the pines--three sounds\r\nso nearly alike that the ear, unaided by the judgment, cannot\r\ndistinguish them one from another. The eyes of the troops were drawn in\r\nthat direction; the mounted officers turned their field-glasses that\r\nway. Mingled with the sound was an irregular throbbing. He thought it,\r\nat first, the beating of his fevered blood in his ears; next, the\r\ndistant tapping of a bass drum.\r\n\r\n"The ball is opened on the right flank," said an officer.\r\n\r\nCaptain Graffenreid understood: the sounds were musketry and artillery.\r\nHe nodded and tried to smile. There was apparently nothing infectious in\r\nthe smile.\r\n\r\nPresently a light line of blue smoke-puffs broke out along the edge of\r\nthe wood in front, succeeded by a crackle of rifles. There were keen,\r\nsharp hissings in the air, terminating abruptly with a thump near by.\r\nThe man at Captain Graffenreid\'s side dropped his rifle; his knees gave\r\nway and he pitched awkwardly forward, falling upon his face. Somebody\r\nshouted "Lie down!" and the dead man was hardly distinguishable from the\r\nliving. It looked as if those few rifle-shots had slain ten thousand\r\nmen. Only the field officers remained erect; their concession to the\r\nemergency consisted in dismounting and sending their horses to the\r\nshelter of the low hills immediately in rear.\r\n\r\nCaptain Graffenreid lay alongside the dead man, from beneath whose\r\nbreast flowed a little rill of blood. It had a faint, sweetish odor that\r\nsickened him. The face was crushed into the earth and flattened. It\r\nlooked yellow already, and was repulsive. Nothing suggested the glory of\r\na soldier\'s death nor mitigated the loathsomeness of the incident. He\r\ncould not turn his back upon the body without facing away from his\r\ncompany.\r\n\r\nHe fixed his eyes upon the forest, where all again was silent. He tried\r\nto imagine what was going on there--the lines of troops forming to\r\nattack, the guns being pushed forward by hand to the edge of the open.\r\nHe fancied he could see their black muzzles protruding from the\r\nundergrowth, ready to deliver their storm of missiles--such missiles as\r\nthe one whose shriek had so unsettled his nerves. The distension of his\r\neyes became painful; a mist seemed to gather before them; he could no\r\nlonger see across the field, yet would not withdraw his gaze lest he see\r\nthe dead man at his side.\r\n\r\nThe fire of battle was not now burning very brightly in this warrior\'s\r\nsoul. From inaction had come introspection. He sought rather to analyze\r\nhis feelings than distinguish himself by courage and devotion. The\r\nresult was profoundly disappointing. He covered his face with his hands\r\nand groaned aloud.\r\n\r\nThe hoarse murmur of battle grew more and more distinct upon the right;\r\nthe murmur had, indeed, become a roar, the throbbing, a thunder. The\r\nsounds had worked round obliquely to the front; evidently the enemy\'s\r\nleft was being driven back, and the propitious moment to move against\r\nthe salient angle of his line would soon arrive. The silence and mystery\r\nin front were ominous; all felt that they boded evil to the assailants.\r\n\r\nBehind the prostrate lines sounded the hoofbeats of galloping horses;\r\nthe men turned to look. A dozen staff officers were riding to the\r\nvarious brigade and regimental commanders, who had remounted. A moment\r\nmore and there was a chorus of voices, all uttering out of time the same\r\nwords--"Attention, battalion!" The men sprang to their feet and were\r\naligned by the company commanders. They awaited the word "forward"--\r\nawaited, too, with beating hearts and set teeth the gusts of lead and\r\niron that were to smite them at their first movement in obedience to\r\nthat word. The word was not given; the tempest did not break out. The\r\ndelay was hideous, maddening! It unnerved like a respite at the\r\nguillotine.\r\n\r\nCaptain Graffenreid stood at the head of his company, the dead man at\r\nhis feet. He heard the battle on the right--rattle and crash of\r\nmusketry, ceaseless thunder of cannon, desultory cheers of invisible\r\ncombatants. He marked ascending clouds of smoke from distant forests. He\r\nnoted the sinister silence of the forest in front. These contrasting\r\nextremes affected the whole range of his sensibilities. The strain upon\r\nhis nervous organization was insupportable. He grew hot and cold by\r\nturns. He panted like a dog, and then forgot to breathe until reminded\r\nby vertigo.\r\n\r\nSuddenly he grew calm. Glancing downward, his eyes had fallen upon his\r\nnaked sword, as he held it, point to earth. Foreshortened to his view,\r\nit resembled somewhat, he thought, the short heavy blade of the ancient\r\nRoman. The fancy was full of suggestion, malign, fateful, heroic!\r\n\r\nThe sergeant in the rear rank, immediately behind Captain Graffenreid,\r\nnow observed a strange sight. His attention drawn by an uncommon\r\nmovement made by the captain--a sudden reaching forward of the hands and\r\ntheir energetic withdrawal, throwing the elbows out, as in pulling an\r\noar--he saw spring from between the officer\'s shoulders a bright point\r\nof metal which prolonged itself outward, nearly a half-arm\'s length--a\r\nblade! It was faintly streaked with crimson, and its point approached so\r\nnear to the sergeant\'s breast, and with so quick a movement, that he\r\nshrank backward in alarm. That moment Captain Graffenreid pitched\r\nheavily forward upon the dead man and died.\r\n\r\nA week later the major-general commanding the left corps of the Federal\r\nArmy submitted the following official report:\r\n\r\n"SIR: I have the honor to report, with regard to the action of the 19th\r\ninst, that owing to the enemy\'s withdrawal from my front to reinforce\r\nhis beaten left, my command was not seriously engaged. My loss was as\r\nfollows: Killed, one officer, one man."\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nGEORGE THURSTON\r\n\r\nTHREE INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF A MAN\r\n\r\nGeorge Thurston was a first lieutenant and aide-de-camp on the staff of\r\nColonel Brough, commanding a Federal brigade. Colonel Brough was only\r\ntemporarily in command, as senior colonel, the brigadier-general having\r\nbeen severely wounded and granted a leave of absence to recover.\r\nLieutenant Thurston was, I believe, of Colonel Brough\'s regiment, to\r\nwhich, with his chief, he would naturally have been relegated had he\r\nlived till our brigade commander\'s recovery. The aide whose place\r\nThurston took had been killed in battle; Thurston\'s advent among us was\r\nthe only change in the _personnel_ of our staff consequent upon the\r\nchange in commanders. We did not like him; he was unsocial. This,\r\nhowever, was more observed by others than by me. Whether in camp or on\r\nthe march, in barracks, in tents, or _en bivouac_, my duties as\r\ntopographical engineer kept me working like a beaver--all day in the\r\nsaddle and half the night at my drawing-table, platting my surveys. It\r\nwas hazardous work; the nearer to the enemy\'s lines I could penetrate,\r\nthe more valuable were my field notes and the resulting maps. It was a\r\nbusiness in which the lives of men counted as nothing against the chance\r\nof defining a road or sketching a bridge. Whole squadrons of cavalry\r\nescort had sometimes to be sent thundering against a powerful infantry\r\noutpost in order that the brief time between the charge and the\r\ninevitable retreat might be utilized in sounding a ford or determining\r\nthe point of intersection of two roads.\r\n\r\nIn some of the dark corners of England and Wales they have an immemorial\r\ncustom of "beating the bounds" of the parish. On a certain day of the\r\nyear the whole population turns out and travels in procession from one\r\nlandmark to another on the boundary line. At the most important points\r\nlads are soundly beaten with rods to make them remember the place in\r\nafter life. They become authorities. Our frequent engagements with the\r\nConfederate outposts, patrols, and scouting parties had, incidentally,\r\nthe same educating value; they fixed in my memory a vivid and apparently\r\nimperishable picture of the locality--a picture serving instead of\r\naccurate field notes, which, indeed, it was not always convenient to\r\ntake, with carbines cracking, sabers clashing, and horses plunging all\r\nabout. These spirited encounters were observations entered in red.\r\n\r\nOne morning as I set out at the head of my escort on an expedition of\r\nmore than the usual hazard Lieutenant Thurston rode up alongside and\r\nasked if I had any objection to his accompanying me, the colonel\r\ncommanding having given him permission.\r\n\r\n"None whatever," I replied rather gruffly; "but in what capacity will\r\nyou go? You are not a topographical engineer, and Captain Burling\r\ncommands my escort."\r\n\r\n"I will go as a spectator," he said. Removing his sword-belt and taking\r\nthe pistols from his holsters he handed them to his servant, who took\r\nthem back to headquarters. I realized the brutality of my remark, but\r\nnot clearly seeing my way to an apology, said nothing.\r\n\r\nThat afternoon we encountered a whole regiment of the enemy\'s cavalry in\r\nline and a field-piece that dominated a straight mile of the turnpike by\r\nwhich we had approached. My escort fought deployed in the woods on both\r\nsides, but Thurston remained in the center of the road, which at\r\nintervals of a few seconds was swept by gusts of grape and canister that\r\ntore the air wide open as they passed. He had dropped the rein on the\r\nneck of his horse and sat bolt upright in the saddle, with folded arms.\r\nSoon he was down, his horse torn to pieces. From the side of the road,\r\nmy pencil and field book idle, my duty forgotten, I watched him slowly\r\ndisengaging himself from the wreck and rising. At that instant, the\r\ncannon having ceased firing, a burly Confederate trooper on a spirited\r\nhorse dashed like a thunderbolt down the road with drawn saber. Thurston\r\nsaw him coming, drew himself up to his full height, and again folded his\r\narms. He was too brave to retreat before the word, and my uncivil words\r\nhad disarmed him. He was a spectator. Another moment and he would have\r\nbeen split like a mackerel, but a blessed bullet tumbled his assailant\r\ninto the dusty road so near that the impetus sent the body rolling to\r\nThurston\'s feet. That evening, while platting my hasty survey, I found\r\ntime to frame an apology, which I think took the rude, primitive form of\r\na confession that I had spoken like a malicious idiot.\r\n\r\nA few weeks later a part of our army made an assault upon the enemy\'s\r\nleft. The attack, which was made upon an unknown position and across\r\nunfamiliar ground, was led by our brigade. The ground was so broken and\r\nthe underbrush so thick that all mounted officers and men were compelled\r\nto fight on foot--the brigade commander and his staff included. In the\r\n_mêlée_ Thurston was parted from the rest of us, and we found him,\r\nhorribly wounded, only when we had taken the enemy\'s last defense. He\r\nwas some months in hospital at Nashville, Tennessee, but finally\r\nrejoined us. He said little about his misadventure, except that he had\r\nbeen bewildered and had strayed into the enemy\'s lines and been shot\r\ndown; but from one of his captors, whom we in turn had captured, we\r\nlearned the particulars. "He came walking right upon us as we lay in\r\nline," said this man. "A whole company of us instantly sprang up and\r\nleveled our rifles at his breast, some of them almost touching him.\r\n\'Throw down that sword and surrender, you damned Yank!\' shouted some one\r\nin authority. The fellow ran his eyes along the line of rifle barrels,\r\nfolded his arms across his breast, his right hand still clutching his\r\nsword, and deliberately replied, \'I will not.\' If we had all fired he\r\nwould have been torn to shreds. Some of us didn\'t. I didn\'t, for one;\r\nnothing could have induced me."\r\n\r\nWhen one is tranquilly looking death in the eye and refusing him any\r\nconcession one naturally has a good opinion of one\'s self. I don\'t know\r\nif it was this feeling that in Thurston found expression in a stiffish\r\nattitude and folded arms; at the mess table one day, in his absence,\r\nanother explanation was suggested by our quartermaster, an irreclaimable\r\nstammerer when the wine was in: "It\'s h--is w--ay of m-m-mastering a\r\nc-c-consti-t-tu-tional t-tendency to r--un aw--ay."\r\n\r\n"What!" I flamed out, indignantly rising; "you intimate that Thurston is\r\na coward--and in his absence?"\r\n\r\n"If he w--ere a cow--wow-ard h--e w--wouldn\'t t-try to m-m-master it;\r\nand if he w--ere p-present I w--wouldn\'t d-d-dare to d-d-discuss it,"\r\nwas the mollifying reply.\r\n\r\nThis intrepid man, George Thurston, died an ignoble death. The brigade\r\nwas in camp, with headquarters in a grove of immense trees. To an upper\r\nbranch of one of these a venturesome climber had attached the two ends\r\nof a long rope and made a swing with a length of not less than one\r\nhundred feet. Plunging downward from a height of fifty feet, along the\r\narc of a circle with such a radius, soaring to an equal altitude,\r\npausing for one breathless instant, then sweeping dizzily backward--no\r\none who has not tried it can conceive the terrors of such sport to the\r\nnovice. Thurston came out of his tent one day and asked for instruction\r\nin the mystery of propelling the swing--the art of rising and sitting,\r\nwhich every boy has mastered. In a few moments he had acquired the trick\r\nand was swinging higher than the most experienced of us had dared. We\r\nshuddered to look at his fearful flights.\r\n\r\n"St-t-top him," said the quartermaster, snailing lazily along from the\r\nmess-tent, where he had been lunching; "h--e d-doesn\'t know that if h--e\r\ng-g-goes c-clear over h--e\'ll w--ind up the sw--ing."\r\n\r\nWith such energy was that strong man cannonading himself through the air\r\nthat at each extremity of his increasing arc his body, standing in the\r\nswing, was almost horizontal. Should he once pass above the level of the\r\nrope\'s attachment he would be lost; the rope would slacken and he would\r\nfall vertically to a point as far below as he had gone above, and then\r\nthe sudden tension of the rope would wrest it from his hands. All saw\r\nthe peril--all cried out to him to desist, and gesticulated at him as,\r\nindistinct and with a noise like the rush of a cannon shot in flight, he\r\nswept past us through the lower reaches of his hideous oscillation. A\r\nwoman standing at a little distance away fainted and fell unobserved.\r\nMen from the camp of a regiment near by ran in crowds to see, all\r\nshouting. Suddenly, as Thurston was on his upward curve, the shouts all\r\nceased.\r\n\r\nThurston and the swing had parted--that is all that can be known; both\r\nhands at once had released the rope. The impetus of the light swing\r\nexhausted, it was falling back; the man\'s momentum was carrying him,\r\nalmost erect, upward and forward, no longer in his arc, but with an\r\noutward curve. It could have been but an instant, yet it seemed an age.\r\nI cried out, or thought I cried out: "My God! will he never stop going\r\nup?" He passed close to the branch of a tree. I remember a feeling of\r\ndelight as I thought he would clutch it and save himself. I speculated\r\non the possibility of it sustaining his weight. He passed above it, and\r\nfrom my point of view was sharply outlined against the blue. At this\r\ndistance of many years I can distinctly recall that image of a man in\r\nthe sky, its head erect, its feet close together, its hands--I do not\r\nsee its hands. All at once, with astonishing suddenness and rapidity, it\r\nturns clear over and pitches downward. There is another cry from the\r\ncrowd, which has rushed instinctively forward. The man has become merely\r\na whirling object, mostly legs. Then there is an indescribable sound--\r\nthe sound of an impact that shakes the earth, and these men, familiar\r\nwith death in its most awful aspects, turn sick. Many walk unsteadily\r\naway from the spot; others support themselves against the trunks of\r\ntrees or sit at the roots. Death has taken an unfair advantage; he has\r\nstruck with an unfamiliar weapon; he has executed a new and disquieting\r\nstratagem. We did not know that he had so ghastly resources,\r\npossibilities of terror so dismal.\r\n\r\nThurston\'s body lay on its back. One leg, bent beneath, was broken above\r\nthe knee and the bone driven into the earth. The abdomen had burst; the\r\nbowels protruded. The neck was broken.\r\n\r\nThe arms were folded tightly across the breast.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE MOCKING-BIRD\r\n\r\nThe time, a pleasant Sunday afternoon in the early autumn of 1861. The\r\nplace, a forest\'s heart in the mountain region of southwestern Virginia.\r\nPrivate Grayrock of the Federal Army is discovered seated comfortably at\r\nthe root of a great pine tree, against which he leans, his legs extended\r\nstraight along the ground, his rifle lying across his thighs, his hands\r\n(clasped in order that they may not fall away to his sides) resting upon\r\nthe barrel of the weapon. The contact of the back of his head with the\r\ntree has pushed his cap downward over his eyes, almost concealing them;\r\none seeing him would say that he slept.\r\n\r\nPrivate Grayrock did not sleep; to have done so would have imperiled the\r\ninterests of the United States, for he was a long way outside the lines\r\nand subject to capture or death at the hands of the enemy. Moreover, he\r\nwas in a frame of mind unfavorable to repose. The cause of his\r\nperturbation of spirit was this: during the previous night he had served\r\non the picket-guard, and had been posted as a sentinel in this very\r\nforest. The night was clear, though moonless, but in the gloom of the\r\nwood the darkness was deep. Grayrock\'s post was at a considerable\r\ndistance from those to right and left, for the pickets had been thrown\r\nout a needless distance from the camp, making the line too long for the\r\nforce detailed to occupy it. The war was young, and military camps\r\nentertained the error that while sleeping they were better protected by\r\nthin lines a long way out toward the enemy than by thicker ones close\r\nin. And surely they needed as long notice as possible of an enemy\'s\r\napproach, for they were at that time addicted to the practice of\r\nundressing--than which nothing could be more unsoldierly. On the morning\r\nof the memorable 6th of April, at Shiloh, many of Grant\'s men when\r\nspitted on Confederate bayonets were as naked as civilians; but it\r\nshould be allowed that this was not because of any defect in their\r\npicket line. Their error was of another sort: they had no pickets. This\r\nis perhaps a vain digression. I should not care to undertake to interest\r\nthe reader in the fate of an army; what we have here to consider is that\r\nof Private Grayrock.\r\n\r\nFor two hours after he had been left at his lonely post that Saturday\r\nnight he stood stock-still, leaning against the trunk of a large tree,\r\nstaring into the darkness in his front and trying to recognize known\r\nobjects; for he had been posted at the same spot during the day. But all\r\nwas now different; he saw nothing in detail, but only groups of things,\r\nwhose shapes, not observed when there was something more of them to\r\nobserve, were now unfamiliar. They seemed not to have been there before.\r\nA landscape that is all trees and undergrowth, moreover, lacks\r\ndefinition, is confused and without accentuated points upon which\r\nattention can gain a foothold. Add the gloom of a moonless night, and\r\nsomething more than great natural intelligence and a city education is\r\nrequired to preserve one\'s knowledge of direction. And that is how it\r\noccurred that Private Grayrock, after vigilantly watching the spaces in\r\nhis front and then imprudently executing a circumspection of his whole\r\ndimly visible environment (silently walking around his tree to\r\naccomplish it) lost his bearings and seriously impaired his usefulness\r\nas a sentinel. Lost at his post--unable to say in which direction to\r\nlook for an enemy\'s approach, and in which lay the sleeping camp for\r\nwhose security he was accountable with his life--conscious, too, of many\r\nanother awkward feature of the situation and of considerations affecting\r\nhis own safety, Private Grayrock was profoundly disquieted. Nor was he\r\ngiven time to recover his tranquillity, for almost at the moment that he\r\nrealized his awkward predicament he heard a stir of leaves and a snap of\r\nfallen twigs, and turning with a stilled heart in the direction whence\r\nit came, saw in the gloom the indistinct outlines of a human figure.\r\n\r\n"Halt!" shouted Private Grayrock, peremptorily as in duty bound, backing\r\nup the command with the sharp metallic snap of his cocking rifle--"who\r\ngoes there?"\r\n\r\nThere was no answer; at least there was an instant\'s hesitation, and the\r\nanswer, if it came, was lost in the report of the sentinel\'s rifle. In\r\nthe silence of the night and the forest the sound was deafening, and\r\nhardly had it died away when it was repeated by the pieces of the\r\npickets to right and left, a sympathetic fusillade. For two hours every\r\nunconverted civilian of them had been evolving enemies from his\r\nimagination, and peopling the woods in his front with them, and\r\nGrayrock\'s shot had started the whole encroaching host into visible\r\nexistence. Having fired, all retreated, breathless, to the reserves--all\r\nbut Grayrock, who did not know in what direction to retreat. When, no\r\nenemy appearing, the roused camp two miles away had undressed and got\r\nitself into bed again, and the picket line was cautiously\r\nre-established, he was discovered bravely holding his ground, and was\r\ncomplimented by the officer of the guard as the one soldier of that\r\ndevoted band who could rightly be considered the moral equivalent of\r\nthat uncommon unit of value, "a whoop in hell."\r\n\r\nIn the mean time, however, Grayrock had made a close but unavailing\r\nsearch for the mortal part of the intruder at whom he had fired, and\r\nwhom he had a marksman\'s intuitive sense of having hit; for he was one\r\nof those born experts who shoot without aim by an instinctive sense of\r\ndirection, and are nearly as dangerous by night as by day. During a full\r\nhalf of his twenty-four years he had been a terror to the targets of all\r\nthe shooting-galleries in three cities. Unable now to produce his dead\r\ngame he had the discretion to hold his tongue, and was glad to observe\r\nin his officer and comrades the natural assumption that not having run\r\naway he had seen nothing hostile. His "honorable mention" had been\r\nearned by not running away anyhow.\r\n\r\nNevertheless, Private Grayrock was far from satisfied with the night\'s\r\nadventure, and when the next day he made some fair enough pretext to\r\napply for a pass to go outside the lines, and the general commanding\r\npromptly granted it in recognition of his bravery the night before, he\r\npassed out at the point where that had been displayed. Telling the\r\nsentinel then on duty there that he had lost something,--which was true\r\nenough--he renewed the search for the person whom he supposed himself to\r\nhave shot, and whom if only wounded he hoped to trail by the blood. He\r\nwas no more successful by daylight than he had been in the darkness, and\r\nafter covering a wide area and boldly penetrating a long distance into\r\n"the Confederacy" he gave up the search, somewhat fatigued, seated\r\nhimself at the root of the great pine tree, where we have seen him, and\r\nindulged his disappointment.\r\n\r\nIt is not to be inferred that Grayrock\'s was the chagrin of a cruel\r\nnature balked of its bloody deed. In the clear large eyes, finely\r\nwrought lips, and broad forehead of that young man one could read quite\r\nanother story, and in point of fact his character was a singularly\r\nfelicitous compound of boldness and sensibility, courage and conscience.\r\n\r\n"I find myself disappointed," he said to himself, sitting there at the\r\nbottom of the golden haze submerging the forest like a subtler sea--\r\n"disappointed in failing to discover a fellow-man dead by my hand! Do I\r\nthen really wish that I had taken life in the performance of a duty as\r\nwell performed without? What more could I wish? If any danger\r\nthreatened, my shot averted it; that is what I was there to do. No, I am\r\nglad indeed if no human life was needlessly extinguished by me. But I am\r\nin a false position. I have suffered myself to be complimented by my\r\nofficers and envied by my comrades. The camp is ringing with praise of\r\nmy courage. That is not just; I know myself courageous, but this praise\r\nis for specific acts which I did not perform, or performed--otherwise.\r\nIt is believed that I remained at my post bravely, without firing,\r\nwhereas it was I who began the fusillade, and I did not retreat in the\r\ngeneral alarm because bewildered. What, then, shall I do? Explain that I\r\nsaw an enemy and fired? They have all said that of themselves, yet none\r\nbelieves it. Shall I tell a truth which, discrediting my courage, will\r\nhave the effect of a lie? Ugh! it is an ugly business altogether. I wish\r\nto God I could find my man!"\r\n\r\nAnd so wishing, Private Grayrock, overcome at last by the languor of the\r\nafternoon and lulled by the stilly sounds of insects droning and prosing\r\nin certain fragrant shrubs, so far forgot the interests of the United\r\nStates as to fall asleep and expose himself to capture. And sleeping he\r\ndreamed.\r\n\r\nHe thought himself a boy, living in a far, fair land by the border of a\r\ngreat river upon which the tall steamboats moved grandly up and down\r\nbeneath their towering evolutions of black smoke, which announced them\r\nlong before they had rounded the bends and marked their movements when\r\nmiles out of sight. With him always, at his side as he watched them, was\r\none to whom he gave his heart and soul in love--a twin brother. Together\r\nthey strolled along the banks of the stream; together explored the\r\nfields lying farther away from it, and gathered pungent mints and sticks\r\nof fragrant sassafras in the hills overlooking all--beyond which lay the\r\nRealm of Conjecture, and from which, looking southward across the great\r\nriver, they caught glimpses of the Enchanted Land. Hand in hand and\r\nheart in heart they two, the only children of a widowed mother, walked\r\nin paths of light through valleys of peace, seeing new things under a\r\nnew sun. And through all the golden days floated one unceasing sound--\r\nthe rich, thrilling melody of a mocking-bird in a cage by the cottage\r\ndoor. It pervaded and possessed all the spiritual intervals of the\r\ndream, like a musical benediction. The joyous bird was always in song;\r\nits infinitely various notes seemed to flow from its throat, effortless,\r\nin bubbles and rills at each heart-beat, like the waters of a pulsing\r\nspring. That fresh, clear melody seemed, indeed, the spirit of the\r\nscene, the meaning and interpretation to sense of the mysteries of life\r\nand love.\r\n\r\nBut there came a time when the days of the dream grew dark with sorrow\r\nin a rain of tears. The good mother was dead, the meadowside home by the\r\ngreat river was broken up, and the brothers were parted between two of\r\ntheir kinsmen. William (the dreamer) went to live in a populous city in\r\nthe Realm of Conjecture, and John, crossing the river into the Enchanted\r\nLand, was taken to a distant region whose people in their lives and ways\r\nwere said to be strange and wicked. To him, in the distribution of the\r\ndead mother\'s estate, had fallen all that they deemed of value--the\r\nmocking-bird. They could be divided, but it could not, so it was carried\r\naway into the strange country, and the world of William knew it no more\r\nforever. Yet still through the aftertime of his loneliness its song\r\nfilled all the dream, and seemed always sounding in his ear and in his\r\nheart.\r\n\r\nThe kinsmen who had adopted the boys were enemies, holding no\r\ncommunication. For a time letters full of boyish bravado and boastful\r\nnarratives of the new and larger experience--grotesque descriptions of\r\ntheir widening lives and the new worlds they had conquered--passed\r\nbetween them; but these gradually became less frequent, and with\r\nWilliam\'s removal to another and greater city ceased altogether. But\r\never through it all ran the song of the mocking-bird, and when the\r\ndreamer opened his eyes and stared through the vistas of the pine forest\r\nthe cessation of its music first apprised him that he was awake.\r\n\r\nThe sun was low and red in the west; the level rays projected from the\r\ntrunk of each giant pine a wall of shadow traversing the golden haze to\r\neastward until light and shade were blended in undistinguishable blue.\r\n\r\nPrivate Grayrock rose to his feet, looked cautiously about him,\r\nshouldered his rifle and set off toward camp. He had gone perhaps a\r\nhalf-mile, and was passing a thicket of laurel, when a bird rose from\r\nthe midst of it and perching on the branch of a tree above, poured from\r\nits joyous breast so inexhaustible floods of song as but one of all\r\nGod\'s creatures can utter in His praise. There was little in that--it\r\nwas only to open the bill and breathe; yet the man stopped as if struck\r\n--stopped and let fall his rifle, looked upward at the bird, covered his\r\neyes with his hands and wept like a child! For the moment he was,\r\nindeed, a child, in spirit and in memory, dwelling again by the great\r\nriver, over-against the Enchanted Land! Then with an effort of the will\r\nhe pulled himself together, picked up his weapon and audibly damning\r\nhimself for an idiot strode on. Passing an opening that reached into the\r\nheart of the little thicket he looked in, and there, supine upon the\r\nearth, its arms all abroad, its gray uniform stained with a single spot\r\nof blood upon the breast, its white face turned sharply upward and\r\nbackward, lay the image of himself!--the body of John Grayrock, dead of\r\na gunshot wound, and still warm! He had found his man.\r\n\r\nAs the unfortunate soldier knelt beside that masterwork of civil war the\r\nshrilling bird upon the bough overhead stilled her song and, flushed\r\nwith sunset\'s crimson glory, glided silently away through the solemn\r\nspaces of the wood. At roll-call that evening in the Federal camp the\r\nname William Grayrock brought no response, nor ever again there-after.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCIVILIANS\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE MAN OUT OF THE NOSE\r\n\r\nAt the intersection of two certain streets in that part of San Francisco\r\nknown by the rather loosely applied name of North Beach, is a vacant\r\nlot, which is rather more nearly level than is usually the case with\r\nlots, vacant or otherwise, in that region. Immediately at the back of\r\nit, to the south, however, the ground slopes steeply upward, the\r\nacclivity broken by three terraces cut into the soft rock. It is a place\r\nfor goats and poor persons, several families of each class having\r\noccupied it jointly and amicably "from the foundation of the city." One\r\nof the humble habitations of the lowest terrace is noticeable for its\r\nrude resemblance to the human face, or rather to such a simulacrum of it\r\nas a boy might cut out of a hollowed pumpkin, meaning no offense to his\r\nrace. The eyes are two circular windows, the nose is a door, the mouth\r\nan aperture caused by removal of a board below. There are no doorsteps.\r\nAs a face, this house is too large; as a dwelling, too small. The blank,\r\nunmeaning stare of its lidless and browless eyes is uncanny.\r\n\r\nSometimes a man steps out of the nose, turns, passes the place where the\r\nright ear should be and making his way through the throng of children\r\nand goats obstructing the narrow walk between his neighbors\' doors and\r\nthe edge of the terrace gains the street by descending a flight of\r\nrickety stairs. Here he pauses to consult his watch and the stranger who\r\nhappens to pass wonders why such a man as that can care what is the\r\nhour. Longer observations would show that the time of day is an\r\nimportant element in the man\'s movements, for it is at precisely two\r\no\'clock in the afternoon that he comes forth 365 times in every year.\r\n\r\nHaving satisfied himself that he has made no mistake in the hour he\r\nreplaces the watch and walks rapidly southward up the street two\r\nsquares, turns to the right and as he approaches the next corner fixes\r\nhis eyes on an upper window in a three-story building across the way.\r\nThis is a somewhat dingy structure, originally of red brick and now\r\ngray. It shows the touch of age and dust. Built for a dwelling, it is\r\nnow a factory. I do not know what is made there; the things that are\r\ncommonly made in a factory, I suppose. I only know that at two o\'clock\r\nin the afternoon of every day but Sunday it is full of activity and\r\nclatter; pulsations of some great engine shake it and there are\r\nrecurrent screams of wood tormented by the saw. At the window on which\r\nthe man fixes an intensely expectant gaze nothing ever appears; the\r\nglass, in truth, has such a coating of dust that it has long ceased to\r\nbe transparent. The man looks at it without stopping; he merely keeps\r\nturning his head more and more backward as he leaves the building\r\nbehind. Passing along to the next corner, he turns to the left, goes\r\nround the block, and comes back till he reaches the point diagonally\r\nacross the street from the factory--point on his former course, which he\r\nthen retraces, looking frequently backward over his right shoulder at\r\nthe window while it is in sight. For many years he has not been known to\r\nvary his route nor to introduce a single innovation into his action. In\r\na quarter of an hour he is again at the mouth of his dwelling, and a\r\nwoman, who has for some time been standing in the nose, assists him to\r\nenter. He is seen no more until two o\'clock the next day. The woman is\r\nhis wife. She supports herself and him by washing for the poor people\r\namong whom they live, at rates which destroy Chinese and domestic\r\ncompetition.\r\n\r\nThis man is about fifty-seven years of age, though he looks greatly\r\nolder. His hair is dead white. He wears no beard, and is always newly\r\nshaven. His hands are clean, his nails well kept. In the matter of dress\r\nhe is distinctly superior to his position, as indicated by his\r\nsurroundings and the business of his wife. He is, indeed, very neatly,\r\nif not quite fashionably, clad. His silk hat has a date no earlier than\r\nthe year before the last, and his boots, scrupulously polished, are\r\ninnocent of patches. I am told that the suit which he wears during his\r\ndaily excursions of fifteen minutes is not the one that he wears at\r\nhome. Like everything else that he has, this is provided and kept in\r\nrepair by the wife, and is renewed as frequently as her scanty means\r\npermit.\r\n\r\nThirty years ago John Hardshaw and his wife lived on Rincon Hill in one\r\nof the finest residences of that once aristocratic quarter. He had once\r\nbeen a physician, but having inherited a considerable estate from his\r\nfather concerned himself no more about the ailments of his\r\nfellow-creatures and found as much work as he cared for in managing his\r\nown affairs. Both he and his wife were highly cultivated persons, and\r\ntheir house was frequented by a small set of such men and women as\r\npersons of their tastes would think worth knowing. So far as these knew,\r\nMr. and Mrs. Hardshaw lived happily together; certainly the wife was\r\ndevoted to her handsome and accomplished husband and exceedingly proud\r\nof him.\r\n\r\nAmong their acquaintances were the Barwells--man, wife and two young\r\nchildren--of Sacramento. Mr. Barwell was a civil and mining engineer,\r\nwhose duties took him much from home and frequently to San Francisco. On\r\nthese occasions his wife commonly accompanied him and passed much of her\r\ntime at the house of her friend, Mrs. Hardshaw, always with her two\r\nchildren, of whom Mrs. Hardshaw, childless herself, grew fond.\r\nUnluckily, her husband grew equally fond of their mother--a good deal\r\nfonder. Still more unluckily, that attractive lady was less wise than\r\nweak.\r\n\r\nAt about three o\'clock one autumn morning Officer No. 13 of the\r\nSacramento police saw a man stealthily leaving the rear entrance of a\r\ngentleman\'s residence and promptly arrested him. The man--who wore a\r\nslouch hat and shaggy overcoat--offered the policeman one hundred, then\r\nfive hundred, then one thousand dollars to be released. As he had less\r\nthan the first mentioned sum on his person the officer treated his\r\nproposal with virtuous contempt. Before reaching the station the\r\nprisoner agreed to give him a check for ten thousand dollars and remain\r\nironed in the willows along the river bank until it should be paid. As\r\nthis only provoked new derision he would say no more, merely giving an\r\nobviously fictitious name. When he was searched at the station nothing\r\nof value was found on him but a miniature portrait of Mrs. Barwell--the\r\nlady of the house at which he was caught. The case was set with costly\r\ndiamonds; and something in the quality of the man\'s linen sent a pang of\r\nunavailing regret through the severely incorruptible bosom of Officer\r\nNo. 13. There was nothing about the prisoner\'s clothing nor person to\r\nidentify him and he was booked for burglary under the name that he had\r\ngiven, the honorable name of John K. Smith. The K. was an inspiration\r\nupon which, doubtless, he greatly prided himself.\r\n\r\nIn the mean time the mysterious disappearance of John Hardshaw was\r\nagitating the gossips of Rincon Hill in San Francisco, and was even\r\nmentioned in one of the newspapers. It did not occur to the lady whom\r\nthat journal considerately described as his "widow," to look for him in\r\nthe city prison at Sacramento--a town which he was not known ever to\r\nhave visited. As John K. Smith he was arraigned and, waiving\r\nexamination, committed for trial.\r\n\r\nAbout two weeks before the trial, Mrs. Hardshaw, accidentally learning\r\nthat her husband was held in Sacramento under an assumed name on a\r\ncharge of burglary, hastened to that city without daring to mention the\r\nmatter to any one and presented herself at the prison, asking for an\r\ninterview with her husband, John K. Smith. Haggard and ill with anxiety,\r\nwearing a plain traveling wrap which covered her from neck to foot, and\r\nin which she had passed the night on the steamboat, too anxious to\r\nsleep, she hardly showed for what she was, but her manner pleaded for\r\nher more strongly than anything that she chose to say in evidence of her\r\nright to admittance. She was permitted to see him alone.\r\n\r\nWhat occurred during that distressing interview has never transpired;\r\nbut later events prove that Hardshaw had found means to subdue her will\r\nto his own. She left the prison, a broken-hearted woman, refusing to\r\nanswer a single question, and returning to her desolate home renewed, in\r\na half-hearted way, her inquiries for her missing husband. A week later\r\nshe was herself missing: she had "gone back to the States"--nobody knew\r\nany more than that.\r\n\r\nOn his trial the prisoner pleaded guilty--"by advice of his counsel," so\r\nhis counsel said. Nevertheless, the judge, in whose mind several unusual\r\ncircumstances had created a doubt, insisted on the district attorney\r\nplacing Officer No. 13 on the stand, and the deposition of Mrs. Barwell,\r\nwho was too ill to attend, was read to the jury. It was very brief: she\r\nknew nothing of the matter except that the likeness of herself was her\r\nproperty, and had, she thought, been left on the parlor table when she\r\nhad retired on the night of the arrest. She had intended it as a present\r\nto her husband, then and still absent in Europe on business for a mining\r\ncompany.\r\n\r\nThis witness\'s manner when making the deposition at her residence was\r\nafterward described by the district attorney as most extraordinary.\r\nTwice she had refused to testify, and once, when the deposition lacked\r\nnothing but her signature, she had caught it from the clerk\'s hands and\r\ntorn it in pieces. She had called her children to the bedside and\r\nembraced them with streaming eyes, then suddenly sending them from the\r\nroom, she verified her statement by oath and signature, and fainted--\r\n"slick away," said the district attorney. It was at that time that her\r\nphysician, arriving upon the scene, took in the situation at a glance\r\nand grasping the representative of the law by the collar chucked him\r\ninto the street and kicked his assistant after him. The insulted majesty\r\nof the law was not vindicated; the victim of the indignity did not even\r\nmention anything of all this in court. He was ambitious to win his case,\r\nand the circumstances of the taking of that deposition were not such as\r\nwould give it weight if related; and after all, the man on trial had\r\ncommitted an offense against the law\'s majesty only less heinous than\r\nthat of the irascible physician.\r\n\r\nBy suggestion of the judge the jury rendered a verdict of guilty; there\r\nwas nothing else to do, and the prisoner was sentenced to the\r\npenitentiary for three years. His counsel, who had objected to nothing\r\nand had made no plea for lenity--had, in fact, hardly said a word--wrung\r\nhis client\'s hand and left the room. It was obvious to the whole bar\r\nthat he had been engaged only to prevent the court from appointing\r\ncounsel who might possibly insist on making a defense.\r\n\r\nJohn Hardshaw served out his term at San Quentin, and when discharged\r\nwas met at the prison gates by his wife, who had returned from "the\r\nStates" to receive him. It is thought they went straight to Europe;\r\nanyhow, a general power-of-attorney to a lawyer still living among us--\r\nfrom whom I have many of the facts of this simple history--was executed\r\nin Paris. This lawyer in a short time sold everything that Hardshaw\r\nowned in California, and for years nothing was heard of the unfortunate\r\ncouple; though many to whose ears had come vague and inaccurate\r\nintimations of their strange story, and who had known them, recalled\r\ntheir personality with tenderness and their misfortunes with compassion.\r\n\r\nSome years later they returned, both broken in fortune and spirits and\r\nhe in health. The purpose of their return I have not been able to\r\nascertain. For some time they lived, under the name of Johnson, in a\r\nrespectable enough quarter south of Market Street, pretty well put, and\r\nwere never seen away from the vicinity of their dwelling. They must have\r\nhad a little money left, for it is not known that the man had any\r\noccupation, the state of his health probably not permitting. The woman\'s\r\ndevotion to her invalid husband was matter of remark among their\r\nneighbors; she seemed never absent from his side and always supporting\r\nand cheering him. They would sit for hours on one of the benches in a\r\nlittle public park, she reading to him, his hand in hers, her light\r\ntouch occasionally visiting his pale brow, her still beautiful eyes\r\nfrequently lifted from the book to look into his as she made some\r\ncomment on the text, or closed the volume to beguile his mood with talk\r\nof--what? Nobody ever overheard a conversation between these two. The\r\nreader who has had the patience to follow their history to this point\r\nmay possibly find a pleasure in conjecture: there was probably something\r\nto be avoided. The bearing of the man was one of profound dejection;\r\nindeed, the unsympathetic youth of the neighborhood, with that keen\r\nsense for visible characteristics which ever distinguishes the young\r\nmale of our species, sometimes mentioned him among themselves by the\r\nname of Spoony Glum.\r\n\r\nIt occurred one day that John Hardshaw was possessed by the spirit of\r\nunrest. God knows what led him whither he went, but he crossed Market\r\nStreet and held his way northward over the hills, and downward into the\r\nregion known as North Beach. Turning aimlessly to the left he followed\r\nhis toes along an unfamiliar street until he was opposite what for that\r\nperiod was a rather grand dwelling, and for this is a rather shabby\r\nfactory. Casting his eyes casually upward he saw at an open window what\r\nit had been better that he had not seen--the face and figure of Elvira\r\nBarwell. Their eyes met. With a sharp exclamation, like the cry of a\r\nstartled bird, the lady sprang to her feet and thrust her body half out\r\nof the window, clutching the casing on each side. Arrested by the cry,\r\nthe people in the street below looked up. Hardshaw stood motionless,\r\nspeechless, his eyes two flames. "Take care!" shouted some one in the\r\ncrowd, as the woman strained further and further forward, defying the\r\nsilent, implacable law of gravitation, as once she had defied that other\r\nlaw which God thundered from Sinai. The suddenness of her movements had\r\ntumbled a torrent of dark hair down her shoulders, and now it was blown\r\nabout her cheeks, almost concealing her face. A moment so, and then--! A\r\nfearful cry rang through the street, as, losing her balance, she pitched\r\nheadlong from the window, a confused and whirling mass of skirts, limbs,\r\nhair, and white face, and struck the pavement with a horrible sound and\r\na force of impact that was felt a hundred feet away. For a moment all\r\neyes refused their office and turned from the sickening spectacle on the\r\nsidewalk. Drawn again to that horror, they saw it strangely augmented. A\r\nman, hatless, seated flat upon the paving stones, held the broken,\r\nbleeding body against his breast, kissing the mangled cheeks and\r\nstreaming mouth through tangles of wet hair, his own features\r\nindistinguishably crimson with the blood that half-strangled him and ran\r\nin rills from his soaken beard.\r\n\r\nThe reporter\'s task is nearly finished. The Barwells had that very\r\nmorning returned from a two years\' absence in Peru. A week later the\r\nwidower, now doubly desolate, since there could be no missing the\r\nsignificance of Hardshaw\'s horrible demonstration, had sailed for I know\r\nnot what distant port; he has never come back to stay. Hardshaw--as\r\nJohnson no longer--passed a year in the Stockton asylum for the insane,\r\nwhere also, through the influence of pitying friends, his wife was\r\nadmitted to care for him. When he was discharged, not cured but\r\nharmless, they returned to the city; it would seem ever to have had some\r\ndreadful fascination for them. For a time they lived near the Mission\r\nDolores, in poverty only less abject than that which is their present\r\nlot; but it was too far away from the objective point of the man\'s daily\r\npilgrimage. They could not afford car fare. So that poor devil of an\r\nangel from Heaven--wife to this convict and lunatic--obtained, at a fair\r\nenough rental, the blank-faced shanty on the lower terrace of Goat Hill.\r\nThence to the structure that was a dwelling and is a factory the\r\ndistance is not so great; it is, in fact, an agreeable walk, judging\r\nfrom the man\'s eager and cheerful look as he takes it. The return\r\njourney appears to be a trifle wearisome.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAN ADVENTURE AT BROWNVILLE[1]\r\n\r\n[1] This story was written in collaboration with Miss Ina Lillian\r\nPeterson, to whom is rightly due the credit for whatever merit it may\r\nhave.\r\n\r\nI taught a little country school near Brownville, which, as every one\r\nknows who has had the good luck to live there, is the capital of a\r\nconsiderable expanse of the finest scenery in California. The town is\r\nsomewhat frequented in summer by a class of persons whom it is the habit\r\nof the local journal to call "pleasure seekers," but who by a juster\r\nclassification would be known as "the sick and those in adversity."\r\nBrownville itself might rightly enough be described, indeed, as a summer\r\nplace of last resort. It is fairly well endowed with boarding-houses, at\r\nthe least pernicious of which I performed twice a day (lunching at the\r\nschoolhouse) the humble rite of cementing the alliance between soul and\r\nbody. From this "hostelry" (as the local journal preferred to call it\r\nwhen it did not call it a "caravanserai") to the schoolhouse the\r\ndistance by the wagon road was about a mile and a half; but there was a\r\ntrail, very little used, which led over an intervening range of low,\r\nheavily wooded hills, considerably shortening the distance. By this\r\ntrail I was returning one evening later than usual. It was the last day\r\nof the term and I had been detained at the schoolhouse until almost\r\ndark, preparing an account of my stewardship for the trustees--two of\r\nwhom, I proudly reflected, would be able to read it, and the third (an\r\ninstance of the dominion of mind over matter) would be overruled in his\r\ncustomary antagonism to the schoolmaster of his own creation.\r\n\r\nI had gone not more than a quarter of the way when, finding an interest\r\nin the antics of a family of lizards which dwelt thereabout and seemed\r\nfull of reptilian joy for their immunity from the ills incident to life\r\nat the Brownville House, I sat upon a fallen tree to observe them. As I\r\nleaned wearily against a branch of the gnarled old trunk the twilight\r\ndeepened in the somber woods and the faint new moon began casting\r\nvisible shadows and gilding the leaves of the trees with a tender but\r\nghostly light.\r\n\r\nI heard the sound of voices--a woman\'s, angry, impetuous, rising against\r\ndeep masculine tones, rich and musical. I strained my eyes, peering\r\nthrough the dusky shadows of the wood, hoping to get a view of the\r\nintruders on my solitude, but could see no one. For some yards in each\r\ndirection I had an uninterrupted view of the trail, and knowing of no\r\nother within a half mile thought the persons heard must be approaching\r\nfrom the wood at one side. There was no sound but that of the voices,\r\nwhich were now so distinct that I could catch the words. That of the man\r\ngave me an impression of anger, abundantly confirmed by the matter\r\nspoken.\r\n\r\n"I will have no threats; you are powerless, as you very well know. Let\r\nthings remain as they are or, by God! you shall both suffer for it."\r\n\r\n"What do you mean?"--this was the voice of the woman, a cultivated\r\nvoice, the voice of a lady. "You would not--murder us."\r\n\r\nThere was no reply, at least none that was audible to me. During the\r\nsilence I peered into the wood in hope to get a glimpse of the speakers,\r\nfor I felt sure that this was an affair of gravity in which ordinary\r\nscruples ought not to count. It seemed to me that the woman was in\r\nperil; at any rate the man had not disavowed a willingness to murder.\r\nWhen a man is enacting the rôle of potential assassin he has not the\r\nright to choose his audience.\r\n\r\nAfter some little time I saw them, indistinct in the moonlight among the\r\ntrees. The man, tall and slender, seemed clothed in black; the woman\r\nwore, as nearly as I could make out, a gown of gray stuff. Evidently\r\nthey were still unaware of my presence in the shadow, though for some\r\nreason when they renewed their conversation they spoke in lower tones\r\nand I could no longer understand. As I looked the woman seemed to sink\r\nto the ground and raise her hands in supplication, as is frequently done\r\non the stage and never, so far as I knew, anywhere else, and I am now\r\nnot altogether sure that it was done in this instance. The man fixed his\r\neyes upon her; they seemed to glitter bleakly in the moonlight with an\r\nexpression that made me apprehensive that he would turn them upon me. I\r\ndo not know by what impulse I was moved, but I sprang to my feet out of\r\nthe shadow. At that instant the figures vanished. I peered in vain\r\nthrough the spaces among the trees and clumps of undergrowth. The night\r\nwind rustled the leaves; the lizards had retired early, reptiles of\r\nexemplary habits. The little moon was already slipping behind a black\r\nhill in the west.\r\n\r\nI went home, somewhat disturbed in mind, half doubting that I had heard\r\nor seen any living thing excepting the lizards. It all seemed a trifle\r\nodd and uncanny. It was as if among the several phenomena, objective and\r\nsubjective, that made the sum total of the incident there had been an\r\nuncertain element which had diffused its dubious character over all--had\r\nleavened the whole mass with unreality. I did not like it.\r\n\r\nAt the breakfast table the next morning there was a new face; opposite\r\nme sat a young woman at whom I merely glanced as I took my seat. In\r\nspeaking to the high and mighty female personage who condescended to\r\nseem to wait upon us, this girl soon invited my attention by the sound\r\nof her voice, which was like, yet not altogether like, the one still\r\nmurmuring in my memory of the previous evening\'s adventure. A moment\r\nlater another girl, a few years older, entered the room and sat at the\r\nleft of the other, speaking to her a gentle "good morning." By _her_\r\nvoice I was startled: it was without doubt the one of which the first\r\ngirl\'s had reminded me. Here was the lady of the sylvan incident sitting\r\nbodily before me, "in her habit as she lived."\r\n\r\nEvidently enough the two were sisters.\r\n\r\nWith a nebulous kind of apprehension that I might be recognized as the\r\nmute inglorious hero of an adventure which had in my consciousness and\r\nconscience something of the character of eavesdropping, I allowed myself\r\nonly a hasty cup of the lukewarm coffee thoughtfully provided by the\r\nprescient waitress for the emergency, and left the table. As I passed\r\nout of the house into the grounds I heard a rich, strong male voice\r\nsinging an aria from "Rigoletto." I am bound to say that it was\r\nexquisitely sung, too, but there was something in the performance that\r\ndispleased me, I could say neither what nor why, and I walked rapidly\r\naway.\r\n\r\nReturning later in the day I saw the elder of the two young women\r\nstanding on the porch and near her a tall man in black clothing--the man\r\nwhom I had expected to see. All day the desire to know something of\r\nthese persons had been uppermost in my mind and I now resolved to learn\r\nwhat I could of them in any way that was neither dishonorable nor low.\r\n\r\nThe man was talking easily and affably to his companion, but at the\r\nsound of my footsteps on the gravel walk he ceased, and turning about\r\nlooked me full in the face. He was apparently of middle age, dark and\r\nuncommonly handsome. His attire was faultless, his bearing easy and\r\ngraceful, the look which he turned upon me open, free, and devoid of any\r\nsuggestion of rudeness. Nevertheless it affected me with a distinct\r\nemotion which on subsequent analysis in memory appeared to be compounded\r\nof hatred and dread--I am unwilling to call it fear. A second later the\r\nman and woman had disappeared. They seemed to have a trick of\r\ndisappearing. On entering the house, however, I saw them through the\r\nopen doorway of the parlor as I passed; they had merely stepped through\r\na window which opened down to the floor.\r\n\r\nCautiously "approached" on the subject of her new guests my landlady\r\nproved not ungracious. Restated with, I hope, some small reverence for\r\nEnglish grammar the facts were these: the two girls were Pauline and Eva\r\nMaynard of San Francisco; the elder was Pauline. The man was Richard\r\nBenning, their guardian, who had been the most intimate friend of their\r\nfather, now deceased. Mr. Benning had brought them to Brownville in the\r\nhope that the mountain climate might benefit Eva, who was thought to be\r\nin danger of consumption.\r\n\r\nUpon these short and simple annals the landlady wrought an embroidery of\r\neulogium which abundantly attested her faith in Mr. Benning\'s will and\r\nability to pay for the best that her house afforded. That he had a good\r\nheart was evident to her from his devotion to his two beautiful wards\r\nand his really touching solicitude for their comfort. The evidence\r\nimpressed me as insufficient and I silently found the Scotch verdict,\r\n"Not proven."\r\n\r\nCertainly Mr. Benning was most attentive to his wards. In my strolls\r\nabout the country I frequently encountered them--sometimes in company\r\nwith other guests of the hotel--exploring the gulches, fishing, rifle\r\nshooting, and otherwise wiling away the monotony of country life; and\r\nalthough I watched them as closely as good manners would permit I saw\r\nnothing that would in any way explain the strange words that I had\r\noverheard in the wood. I had grown tolerably well acquainted with the\r\nyoung ladies and could exchange looks and even greetings with their\r\nguardian without actual repugnance.\r\n\r\nA month went by and I had almost ceased to interest myself in their\r\naffairs when one night our entire little community was thrown into\r\nexcitement by an event which vividly recalled my experience in the\r\nforest.\r\n\r\nThis was the death of the elder girl, Pauline.\r\n\r\nThe sisters had occupied the same bedroom on the third floor of the\r\nhouse. Waking in the gray of the morning Eva had found Pauline dead\r\nbeside her. Later, when the poor girl was weeping beside the body amid a\r\nthrong of sympathetic if not very considerate persons, Mr. Benning\r\nentered the room and appeared to be about to take her hand. She drew\r\naway from the side of the dead and moved slowly toward the door.\r\n\r\n"It is you," she said--"you who have done this. You--you--you!"\r\n\r\n"She is raving," he said in a low voice. He followed her, step by step,\r\nas she retreated, his eyes fixed upon hers with a steady gaze in which\r\nthere was nothing of tenderness nor of compassion. She stopped; the hand\r\nthat she had raised in accusation fell to her side, her dilated eyes\r\ncontracted visibly, the lids slowly dropped over them, veiling their\r\nstrange wild beauty, and she stood motionless and almost as white as the\r\ndead girl lying near. The man took her hand and put his arm gently about\r\nher shoulders, as if to support her. Suddenly she burst into a passion\r\nof tears and clung to him as a child to its mother. He smiled with a\r\nsmile that affected me most disagreeably--perhaps any kind of smile\r\nwould have done so--and led her silently out of the room.\r\n\r\nThere was an inquest--and the customary verdict: the deceased, it\r\nappeared, came to her death through "heart disease." It was before the\r\ninvention of heart _failure_, though the heart of poor Pauline had\r\nindubitably failed. The body was embalmed and taken to San Francisco by\r\nsome one summoned thence for the purpose, neither Eva nor Benning\r\naccompanying it. Some of the hotel gossips ventured to think that very\r\nstrange, and a few hardy spirits went so far as to think it very strange\r\nindeed; but the good landlady generously threw herself into the breach,\r\nsaying it was owing to the precarious nature of the girl\'s health. It is\r\nnot of record that either of the two persons most affected and\r\napparently least concerned made any explanation.\r\n\r\nOne evening about a week after the death I went out upon the veranda of\r\nthe hotel to get a book that I had left there. Under some vines shutting\r\nout the moonlight from a part of the space I saw Richard Benning, for\r\nwhose apparition I was prepared by having previously heard the low,\r\nsweet voice of Eva Maynard, whom also I now discerned, standing before\r\nhim with one hand raised to his shoulder and her eyes, as nearly as I\r\ncould judge, gazing upward into his. He held her disengaged hand and his\r\nhead was bent with a singular dignity and grace. Their attitude was that\r\nof lovers, and as I stood in deep shadow to observe I felt even guiltier\r\nthan on that memorable night in the wood. I was about to retire, when\r\nthe girl spoke, and the contrast between her words and her attitude was\r\nso surprising that I remained, because I had merely forgotten to go\r\naway.\r\n\r\n"You will take my life," she said, "as you did Pauline\'s. I know your\r\nintention as well as I know your power, and I ask nothing, only that you\r\nfinish your work without needless delay and let me be at peace."\r\n\r\nHe made no reply--merely let go the hand that he was holding, removed\r\nthe other from his shoulder, and turning away descended the steps\r\nleading to the garden and disappeared in the shrubbery. But a moment\r\nlater I heard, seemingly from a great distance, his fine clear voice in\r\na barbaric chant, which as I listened brought before some inner\r\nspiritual sense a consciousness of some far, strange land peopled with\r\nbeings having forbidden powers. The song held me in a kind of spell, but\r\nwhen it had died away I recovered and instantly perceived what I thought\r\nan opportunity. I walked out of my shadow to where the girl stood. She\r\nturned and stared at me with something of the look, it seemed to me, of\r\na hunted hare. Possibly my intrusion had frightened her.\r\n\r\n"Miss Maynard," I said, "I beg you to tell me who that man is and the\r\nnature of his power over you. Perhaps this is rude in me, but it is not\r\na matter for idle civilities. When a woman is in danger any man has a\r\nright to act."\r\n\r\nShe listened without visible emotion--almost I thought without interest,\r\nand when I had finished she closed her big blue eyes as if unspeakably\r\nweary.\r\n\r\n"You can do nothing," she said.\r\n\r\nI took hold of her arm, gently shaking her as one shakes a person\r\nfalling into a dangerous sleep.\r\n\r\n"You must rouse yourself," I said; "something must be done and you must\r\ngive me leave to act. You have said that that man killed your sister,\r\nand I believe it--that he will kill you, and I believe that."\r\n\r\nShe merely raised her eyes to mine.\r\n\r\n"Will you not tell me all?" I added.\r\n\r\n"There is nothing to be done, I tell you--nothing. And if I could do\r\nanything I would not. It does not matter in the least. We shall be here\r\nonly two days more; we go away then, oh, so far! If you have observed\r\nanything, I beg you to be silent."\r\n\r\n"But this is madness, girl." I was trying by rough speech to break the\r\ndeadly repose of her manner. "You have accused him of murder. Unless you\r\nexplain these things to me I shall lay the matter before the\r\nauthorities."\r\n\r\nThis roused her, but in a way that I did not like. She lifted her head\r\nproudly and said: "Do not meddle, sir, in what does not concern you.\r\nThis is my affair, Mr. Moran, not yours."\r\n\r\n"It concerns every person in the country--in the world," I answered,\r\nwith equal coldness. "If you had no love for your sister I, at least, am\r\nconcerned for you."\r\n\r\n"Listen," she interrupted, leaning toward me. "I loved her, yes, God\r\nknows! But more than that--beyond all, beyond expression, I love _him_.\r\nYou have overheard a secret, but you shall not make use of it to harm\r\nhim. I shall deny all. Your word against mine--it will be that. Do you\r\nthink your \'authorities\' will believe you?"\r\n\r\nShe was now smiling like an angel and, God help me! I was heels over\r\nhead in love with her! Did she, by some of the many methods of\r\ndivination known to her sex, read my feelings? Her whole manner had\r\naltered.\r\n\r\n"Come," she said, almost coaxingly, "promise that you will not be\r\nimpolite again." She took my arm in the most friendly way. "Come, I will\r\nwalk with you. He will not know--he will remain away all night."\r\n\r\nUp and down the veranda we paced in the moonlight, she seemingly\r\nforgetting her recent bereavement, cooing and murmuring girl-wise of\r\nevery kind of nothing in all Brownville; I silent, consciously awkward\r\nand with something of the feeling of being concerned in an intrigue. It\r\nwas a revelation--this most charming and apparently blameless creature\r\ncoolly and confessedly deceiving the man for whom a moment before she\r\nhad acknowledged and shown the supreme love which finds even death an\r\nacceptable endearment.\r\n\r\n"Truly," I thought in my inexperience, "here is something new under the\r\nmoon."\r\n\r\nAnd the moon must have smiled.\r\n\r\nBefore we parted I had exacted a promise that she would walk with me the\r\nnext afternoon--before going away forever--to the Old Mill, one of\r\nBrownville\'s revered antiquities, erected in 1860.\r\n\r\n"If he is not about," she added gravely, as I let go the hand she had\r\ngiven me at parting, and of which, may the good saints forgive me, I\r\nstrove vainly to repossess myself when she had said it--so charming, as\r\nthe wise Frenchman has pointed out, do we find woman\'s infidelity when\r\nwe are its objects, not its victims. In apportioning his benefactions\r\nthat night the Angel of Sleep overlooked me.\r\n\r\nThe Brownville House dined early, and after dinner the next day Miss\r\nMaynard, who had not been at table, came to me on the veranda, attired\r\nin the demurest of walking costumes, saying not a word. "He" was\r\nevidently "not about." We went slowly up the road that led to the Old\r\nMill. She was apparently not strong and at times took my arm,\r\nrelinquishing it and taking it again rather capriciously, I thought. Her\r\nmood, or rather her succession of moods, was as mutable as skylight in a\r\nrippling sea. She jested as if she had never heard of such a thing as\r\ndeath, and laughed on the lightest incitement, and directly afterward\r\nwould sing a few bars of some grave melody with such tenderness of\r\nexpression that I had to turn away my eyes lest she should see the\r\nevidence of her success in art, if art it was, not artlessness, as then\r\nI was compelled to think it. And she said the oddest things in the most\r\nunconventional way, skirting sometimes unfathomable abysms of thought,\r\nwhere I had hardly the courage to set foot. In short, she was\r\nfascinating in a thousand and fifty different ways, and at every step I\r\nexecuted a new and profounder emotional folly, a hardier spiritual\r\nindiscretion, incurring fresh liability to arrest by the constabulary of\r\nconscience for infractions of my own peace.\r\n\r\nArriving at the mill, she made no pretense of stopping, but turned into\r\na trail leading through a field of stubble toward a creek. Crossing by a\r\nrustic bridge we continued on the trail, which now led uphill to one of\r\nthe most picturesque spots in the country. The Eagle\'s Nest, it was\r\ncalled--the summit of a cliff that rose sheer into the air to a height\r\nof hundreds of feet above the forest at its base. From this elevated\r\npoint we had a noble view of another valley and of the opposite hills\r\nflushed with the last rays of the setting sun.\r\n\r\nAs we watched the light escaping to higher and higher planes from the\r\nencroaching flood of shadow filling the valley we heard footsteps, and\r\nin another moment were joined by Richard Benning.\r\n\r\n"I saw you from the road," he said carelessly; "so I came up."\r\n\r\nBeing a fool, I neglected to take him by the throat and pitch him into\r\nthe treetops below, but muttered some polite lie instead. On the girl\r\nthe effect of his coming was immediate and unmistakable. Her face was\r\nsuffused with the glory of love\'s transfiguration: the red light of the\r\nsunset had not been more obvious in her eyes than was now the lovelight\r\nthat replaced it.\r\n\r\n"I am so glad you came!" she said, giving him both her hands; and, God\r\nhelp me! it was manifestly true.\r\n\r\nSeating himself upon the ground he began a lively dissertation upon the\r\nwild flowers of the region, a number of which he had with him. In the\r\nmiddle of a facetious sentence he suddenly ceased speaking and fixed his\r\neyes upon Eva, who leaned against the stump of a tree, absently plaiting\r\ngrasses. She lifted her eyes in a startled way to his, as if she had\r\n_felt_ his look. She then rose, cast away her grasses, and moved slowly\r\naway from him. He also rose, continuing to look at her. He had still in\r\nhis hand the bunch of flowers. The girl turned, as if to speak, but said\r\nnothing. I recall clearly now something of which I was but\r\nhalf-conscious then--the dreadful contrast between the smile upon her\r\nlips and the terrified expression in her eyes as she met his steady and\r\nimperative gaze. I know nothing of how it happened, nor how it was that\r\nI did not sooner understand; I only know that with the smile of an angel\r\nupon her lips and that look of terror in her beautiful eyes Eva Maynard\r\nsprang from the cliff and shot crashing into the tops of the pines\r\nbelow!\r\n\r\nHow and how long afterward I reached the place I cannot say, but Richard\r\nBenning was already there, kneeling beside the dreadful thing that had\r\nbeen a woman.\r\n\r\n"She is dead--quite dead," he said coldly. "I will go to town for\r\nassistance. Please do me the favor to remain."\r\n\r\nHe rose to his feet and moved away, but in a moment had stopped and\r\nturned about.\r\n\r\n"You have doubtless observed, my friend," he said, "that this was\r\nentirely her own act. I did not rise in time to prevent it, and you, not\r\nknowing her mental condition--you could not, of course, have suspected."\r\n\r\nHis manner maddened me.\r\n\r\n"You are as much her assassin," I said, "as if your damnable hands had\r\ncut her throat." He shrugged his shoulders without reply and, turning,\r\nwalked away. A moment later I heard, through the deepening shadows of\r\nthe wood into which he had disappeared, a rich, strong, baritone voice\r\nsinging "_La donna e mobile_," from "Rigoletto."\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE FAMOUS GILSON BEQUEST\r\n\r\nIt was rough on Gilson. Such was the terse, cold, but not altogether\r\nunsympathetic judgment of the better public opinion at Mammon Hill--the\r\ndictum of respectability. The verdict of the opposite, or rather the\r\nopposing, element--the element that lurked red-eyed and restless about\r\nMoll Gurney\'s "deadfall," while respectability took it with sugar at Mr.\r\nJo. Bentley\'s gorgeous "saloon"--was to pretty much the same general\r\neffect, though somewhat more ornately expressed by the use of\r\npicturesque expletives, which it is needless to quote. Virtually, Mammon\r\nHill was a unit on the Gilson question. And it must be confessed that in\r\na merely temporal sense all was not well with Mr. Gilson. He had that\r\nmorning been led into town by Mr. Brentshaw and publicly charged with\r\nhorse stealing; the sheriff meantime busying himself about The Tree with\r\na new manila rope and Carpenter Pete being actively employed between\r\ndrinks upon a pine box about the length and breadth of Mr. Gilson.\r\nSociety having rendered its verdict, there remained between Gilson and\r\neternity only the decent formality of a trial.\r\n\r\nThese are the short and simple annals of the prisoner: He had recently\r\nbeen a resident of New Jerusalem, on the north fork of the Little Stony,\r\nbut had come to the newly discovered placers of Mammon Hill immediately\r\nbefore the "rush" by which the former place was depopulated. The\r\ndiscovery of the new diggings had occurred opportunely for Mr. Gilson,\r\nfor it had only just before been intimated to him by a New Jerusalem\r\nvigilance committee that it would better his prospects in, and for, life\r\nto go somewhere; and the list of places to which he could safely go did\r\nnot include any of the older camps; so he naturally established himself\r\nat Mammon Hill. Being eventually followed thither by all his judges, he\r\nordered his conduct with considerable circumspection, but as he had\r\nnever been known to do an honest day\'s work at any industry sanctioned\r\nby the stern local code of morality except draw poker he was still an\r\nobject of suspicion. Indeed, it was conjectured that he was the author\r\nof the many daring depredations that had recently been committed with\r\npan and brush on the sluice boxes.\r\n\r\nProminent among those in whom this suspicion had ripened into a\r\nsteadfast conviction was Mr. Brentshaw. At all seasonable and\r\nunseasonable times Mr. Brentshaw avowed his belief in Mr. Gilson\'s\r\nconnection with these unholy midnight enterprises, and his own\r\nwillingness to prepare a way for the solar beams through the body of any\r\none who might think it expedient to utter a different opinion--which, in\r\nhis presence, no one was more careful not to do than the peace-loving\r\nperson most concerned. Whatever may have been the truth of the matter,\r\nit is certain that Gilson frequently lost more "clean dust" at Jo.\r\nBentley\'s faro table than it was recorded in local history that he had\r\never honestly earned at draw poker in all the days of the camp\'s\r\nexistence. But at last Mr. Bentley--fearing, it may be, to lose the more\r\nprofitable patronage of Mr. Brentshaw--peremptorily refused to let\r\nGilson copper the queen, intimating at the same time, in his frank,\r\nforthright way, that the privilege of losing money at "this bank" was a\r\nblessing appertaining to, proceeding logically from, and coterminous\r\nwith, a condition of notorious commercial righteousness and social good\r\nrepute.\r\n\r\nThe Hill thought it high time to look after a person whom its most\r\nhonored citizen had felt it his duty to rebuke at a considerable\r\npersonal sacrifice. The New Jerusalem contingent, particularly, began to\r\nabate something of the toleration begotten of amusement at their own\r\nblunder in exiling an objectionable neighbor from the place which they\r\nhad left to the place whither they had come. Mammon Hill was at last of\r\none mind. Not much was said, but that Gilson must hang was "in the air."\r\nBut at this critical juncture in his affairs he showed signs of an\r\naltered life if not a changed heart. Perhaps it was only that "the bank"\r\nbeing closed against him he had no further use for gold dust. Anyhow the\r\nsluice boxes were molested no more forever. But it was impossible to\r\nrepress the abounding energies of such a nature as his, and he\r\ncontinued, possibly from habit, the tortuous courses which he had\r\npursued for profit of Mr. Bentley. After a few tentative and resultless\r\nundertakings in the way of highway robbery--if one may venture to\r\ndesignate road-agency by so harsh a name--he made one or two modest\r\nessays in horse-herding, and it was in the midst of a promising\r\nenterprise of this character, and just as he had taken the tide in his\r\naffairs at its flood, that he made shipwreck. For on a misty, moonlight\r\nnight Mr. Brentshaw rode up alongside a person who was evidently leaving\r\nthat part of the country, laid a hand upon the halter connecting Mr.\r\nGilson\'s wrist with Mr. Harper\'s bay mare, tapped him familiarly on the\r\ncheek with the barrel of a navy revolver and requested the pleasure of\r\nhis company in a direction opposite to that in which he was traveling.\r\n\r\nIt was indeed rough on Gilson.\r\n\r\nOn the morning after his arrest he was tried, convicted, and sentenced.\r\nIt only remains, so far as concerns his earthly career, to hang him,\r\nreserving for more particular mention his last will and testament,\r\nwhich, with great labor, he contrived in prison, and in which, probably\r\nfrom some confused and imperfect notion of the rights of captors, he\r\nbequeathed everything he owned to his "lawfle execketer," Mr. Brentshaw.\r\nThe bequest, however, was made conditional on the legatee taking the\r\ntestator\'s body from The Tree and "planting it white."\r\n\r\nSo Mr. Gilson was--I was about to say "swung off," but I fear there has\r\nbeen already something too much of slang in this straightforward\r\nstatement of facts; besides, the manner in which the law took its course\r\nis more accurately described in the terms employed by the judge in\r\npassing sentence: Mr. Gilson was "strung up."\r\n\r\nIn due season Mr. Brentshaw, somewhat touched, it may well be, by the\r\nempty compliment of the bequest, repaired to The Tree to pluck the fruit\r\nthereof. When taken down the body was found to have in its waistcoat\r\npocket a duly attested codicil to the will already noted. The nature of\r\nits provisions accounted for the manner in which it had been withheld,\r\nfor had Mr. Brentshaw previously been made aware of the conditions under\r\nwhich he was to succeed to the Gilson estate he would indubitably have\r\ndeclined the responsibility. Briefly stated, the purport of the codicil\r\nwas as follows:\r\n\r\nWhereas, at divers times and in sundry places, certain persons had\r\nasserted that during his life the testator had robbed their sluice\r\nboxes; therefore, if during the five years next succeeding the date of\r\nthis instrument any one should make proof of such assertion before a\r\ncourt of law, such person was to receive as reparation the entire\r\npersonal and real estate of which the testator died seized and\r\npossessed, minus the expenses of court and a stated compensation to the\r\nexecutor, Henry Clay Brentshaw; provided, that if more than one person\r\nmade such proof the estate was to be equally divided between or among\r\nthem. But in case none should succeed in so establishing the testator\'s\r\nguilt, then the whole property, minus court expenses, as aforesaid,\r\nshould go to the said Henry Clay Brentshaw for his own use, as stated in\r\nthe will.\r\n\r\nThe syntax of this remarkable document was perhaps open to critical\r\nobjection, but that was clearly enough the meaning of it. The\r\northography conformed to no recognized system, but being mainly phonetic\r\nit was not ambiguous. As the probate judge remarked, it would take five\r\naces to beat it. Mr. Brentshaw smiled good-humoredly, and after\r\nperforming the last sad rites with amusing ostentation, had himself duly\r\nsworn as executor and conditional legatee under the provisions of a law\r\nhastily passed (at the instance of the member from the Mammon Hill\r\ndistrict) by a facetious legislature; which law was afterward discovered\r\nto have created also three or four lucrative offices and authorized the\r\nexpenditure of a considerable sum of public money for the construction\r\nof a certain railway bridge that with greater advantage might perhaps\r\nhave been erected on the line of some actual railway.\r\n\r\nOf course Mr. Brentshaw expected neither profit from the will nor\r\nlitigation in consequence of its unusual provisions; Gilson, although\r\nfrequently "flush," had been a man whom assessors and tax collectors\r\nwere well satisfied to lose no money by. But a careless and merely\r\nformal search among his papers revealed title deeds to valuable estates\r\nin the East and certificates of deposit for incredible sums in banks\r\nless severely scrupulous than that of Mr. Jo. Bentley.\r\n\r\nThe astounding news got abroad directly, throwing the Hill into a fever\r\nof excitement. The Mammon Hill _Patriot_, whose editor had been a\r\nleading spirit in the proceedings that resulted in Gilson\'s departure\r\nfrom New Jerusalem, published a most complimentary obituary notice of\r\nthe deceased, and was good enough to call attention to the fact that his\r\ndegraded contemporary, the Squaw Gulch _Clarion_, was bringing virtue\r\ninto contempt by beslavering with flattery the memory of one who in life\r\nhad spurned the vile sheet as a nuisance from his door. Undeterred by\r\nthe press, however, claimants under the will were not slow in presenting\r\nthemselves with their evidence; and great as was the Gilson estate it\r\nappeared conspicuously paltry considering the vast number of sluice\r\nboxes from which it was averred to have been obtained. The country rose\r\nas one man!\r\n\r\nMr. Brentshaw was equal to the emergency. With a shrewd application of\r\nhumble auxiliary devices, he at once erected above the bones of his\r\nbenefactor a costly monument, overtopping every rough headboard in the\r\ncemetery, and on this he judiciously caused to be inscribed an epitaph\r\nof his own composing, eulogizing the honesty, public spirit and cognate\r\nvirtues of him who slept beneath, "a victim to the unjust aspersions of\r\nSlander\'s viper brood."\r\n\r\nMoreover, he employed the best legal talent in the Territory to defend\r\nthe memory of his departed friend, and for five long years the\r\nTerritorial courts were occupied with litigation growing out of the\r\nGilson bequest. To fine forensic abilities Mr. Brentshaw opposed\r\nabilities more finely forensic; in bidding for purchasable favors he\r\noffered prices which utterly deranged the market; the judges found at\r\nhis hospitable board entertainment for man and beast, the like of which\r\nhad never been spread in the Territory; with mendacious witnesses he\r\nconfronted witnesses of superior mendacity.\r\n\r\nNor was the battle confined to the temple of the blind goddess--it\r\ninvaded the press, the pulpit, the drawing-room. It raged in the mart,\r\nthe exchange, the school; in the gulches, and on the street corners. And\r\nupon the last day of the memorable period to which legal action under\r\nthe Gilson will was limited, the sun went down upon a region in which\r\nthe moral sense was dead, the social conscience callous, the\r\nintellectual capacity dwarfed, enfeebled, and confused! But Mr.\r\nBrentshaw was victorious all along the line.\r\n\r\nOn that night it so happened that the cemetery in one corner of which\r\nlay the now honored ashes of the late Milton Gilson, Esq., was partly\r\nunder water. Swollen by incessant rains, Cat Creek had spilled over its\r\nbanks an angry flood which, after scooping out unsightly hollows\r\nwherever the soil had been disturbed, had partly subsided, as if ashamed\r\nof the sacrilege, leaving exposed much that had been piously concealed.\r\nEven the famous Gilson monument, the pride and glory of Mammon Hill, was\r\nno longer a standing rebuke to the "viper brood"; succumbing to the\r\nsapping current it had toppled prone to earth. The ghoulish flood had\r\nexhumed the poor, decayed pine coffin, which now lay half-exposed, in\r\npitiful contrast to the pompous monolith which, like a giant note of\r\nadmiration, emphasized the disclosure.\r\n\r\nTo this depressing spot, drawn by some subtle influence he had sought\r\nneither to resist nor analyze, came Mr. Brentshaw. An altered man was\r\nMr. Brentshaw. Five years of toil, anxiety, and wakefulness had dashed\r\nhis black locks with streaks and patches of gray, bowed his fine figure,\r\ndrawn sharp and angular his face, and debased his walk to a doddering\r\nshuffle. Nor had this lustrum of fierce contention wrought less upon his\r\nheart and intellect. The careless good humor that had prompted him to\r\naccept the trust of the dead man had given place to a fixed habit of\r\nmelancholy. The firm, vigorous intellect had overripened into the mental\r\nmellowness of second childhood. His broad understanding had narrowed to\r\nthe accommodation of a single idea; and in place of the quiet, cynical\r\nincredulity of former days, there was in him a haunting faith in the\r\nsupernatural, that flitted and fluttered about his soul, shadowy,\r\nbatlike, ominous of insanity. Unsettled in all else, his understanding\r\nclung to one conviction with the tenacity of a wrecked intellect. That\r\nwas an unshaken belief in the entire blamelessness of the dead Gilson.\r\nHe had so often sworn to this in court and asserted it in private\r\nconversation--had so frequently and so triumphantly established it by\r\ntestimony that had come expensive to him (for that very day he had paid\r\nthe last dollar of the Gilson estate to Mr. Jo. Bentley, the last\r\nwitness to the Gilson good character)--that it had become to him a sort\r\nof religious faith. It seemed to him the one great central and basic\r\ntruth of life--the sole serene verity in a world of lies.\r\n\r\nOn that night, as he seated himself pensively upon the prostrate\r\nmonument, trying by the uncertain moonlight to spell out the epitaph\r\nwhich five years before he had composed with a chuckle that memory had\r\nnot recorded, tears of remorse came into his eyes as he remembered that\r\nhe had been mainly instrumental in compassing by a false accusation this\r\ngood man\'s death; for during some of the legal proceedings, Mr. Harper,\r\nfor a consideration (forgotten) had come forward and sworn that in the\r\nlittle transaction with his bay mare the deceased had acted in strict\r\naccordance with the Harperian wishes, confidentially communicated to the\r\ndeceased and by him faithfully concealed at the cost of his life. All\r\nthat Mr. Brentshaw had since done for the dead man\'s memory seemed\r\npitifully inadequate--most mean, paltry, and debased with selfishness!\r\n\r\nAs he sat there, torturing himself with futile regrets, a faint shadow\r\nfell across his eyes. Looking toward the moon, hanging low in the west,\r\nhe saw what seemed a vague, watery cloud obscuring her; but as it moved\r\nso that her beams lit up one side of it he perceived the clear, sharp\r\noutline of a human figure. The apparition became momentarily more\r\ndistinct, and grew, visibly; it was drawing near. Dazed as were his\r\nsenses, half locked up with terror and confounded with dreadful\r\nimaginings, Mr. Brentshaw yet could but perceive, or think he perceived,\r\nin this unearthly shape a strange similitude to the mortal part of the\r\nlate Milton Gilson, as that person had looked when taken from The Tree\r\nfive years before. The likeness was indeed complete, even to the full,\r\nstony eyes, and a certain shadowy circle about the neck. It was without\r\ncoat or hat, precisely as Gilson had been when laid in his poor, cheap\r\ncasket by the not ungentle hands of Carpenter Pete--for whom some one\r\nhad long since performed the same neighborly office. The spectre, if\r\nsuch it was, seemed to bear something in its hands which Mr. Brentshaw\r\ncould not clearly make out. It drew nearer, and paused at last beside\r\nthe coffin containing the ashes of the late Mr. Gilson, the lid of which\r\nwas awry, half disclosing the uncertain interior. Bending over this, the\r\nphantom seemed to shake into it from a basin some dark substance of\r\ndubious consistency, then glided stealthily back to the lowest part of\r\nthe cemetery. Here the retiring flood had stranded a number of open\r\ncoffins, about and among which it gurgled with low sobbings and stilly\r\nwhispers. Stooping over one of these, the apparition carefully brushed\r\nits contents into the basin, then returning to its own casket, emptied\r\nthe vessel into that, as before. This mysterious operation was repeated\r\nat every exposed coffin, the ghost sometimes dipping its laden basin\r\ninto the running water, and gently agitating it to free it of the baser\r\nclay, always hoarding the residuum in its own private box. In short, the\r\nimmortal part of the late Milton Gilson was cleaning up the dust of its\r\nneighbors and providently adding the same to its own.\r\n\r\nPerhaps it was a phantasm of a disordered mind in a fevered body.\r\nPerhaps it was a solemn farce enacted by pranking existences that throng\r\nthe shadows lying along the border of another world. God knows; to us is\r\npermitted only the knowledge that when the sun of another day touched\r\nwith a grace of gold the ruined cemetery of Mammon Hill his kindliest\r\nbeam fell upon the white, still face of Henry Brentshaw, dead among the\r\ndead.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE APPLICANT\r\n\r\nPushing his adventurous shins through the deep snow that had fallen\r\novernight, and encouraged by the glee of his little sister, following in\r\nthe open way that he made, a sturdy small boy, the son of Grayville\'s\r\nmost distinguished citizen, struck his foot against something of which\r\nthere was no visible sign on the surface of the snow. It is the purpose\r\nof this narrative to explain how it came to be there.\r\n\r\nNo one who has had the advantage of passing through Grayville by day can\r\nhave failed to observe the large stone building crowning the low hill to\r\nthe north of the railway station--that is to say, to the right in going\r\ntoward Great Mowbray. It is a somewhat dull-looking edifice, of the\r\nEarly Comatose order, and appears to have been designed by an architect\r\nwho shrank from publicity, and although unable to conceal his work--even\r\ncompelled, in this instance, to set it on an eminence in the sight of\r\nmen--did what he honestly could to insure it against a second look. So\r\nfar as concerns its outer and visible aspect, the Abersush Home for Old\r\nMen is unquestionably inhospitable to human attention. But it is a\r\nbuilding of great magnitude, and cost its benevolent founder the profit\r\nof many a cargo of the teas and silks and spices that his ships brought\r\nup from the under-world when he was in trade in Boston; though the main\r\nexpense was its endowment. Altogether, this reckless person had robbed\r\nhis heirs-at-law of no less a sum than half a million dollars and flung\r\nit away in riotous giving. Possibly it was with a view to get out of\r\nsight of the silent big witness to his extravagance that he shortly\r\nafterward disposed of all his Grayville property that remained to him,\r\nturned his back upon the scene of his prodigality and went off across\r\nthe sea in one of his own ships. But the gossips who got their\r\ninspiration most directly from Heaven declared that he went in search of\r\na wife--a theory not easily reconciled with that of the village\r\nhumorist, who solemnly averred that the bachelor philanthropist had\r\ndeparted this life (left Grayville, to wit) because the marriageable\r\nmaidens had made it too hot to hold him. However this may have been, he\r\nhad not returned, and although at long intervals there had come to\r\nGrayville, in a desultory way, vague rumors of his wanderings in strange\r\nlands, no one seemed certainly to know about him, and to the new\r\ngeneration he was no more than a name. But from above the portal of the\r\nHome for Old Men the name shouted in stone.\r\n\r\nDespite its unpromising exterior, the Home is a fairly commodious place\r\nof retreat from the ills that its inmates have incurred by being poor\r\nand old and men. At the time embraced in this brief chronicle they were\r\nin number about a score, but in acerbity, querulousness, and general\r\ningratitude they could hardly be reckoned at fewer than a hundred; at\r\nleast that was the estimate of the superintendent, Mr. Silas Tilbody. It\r\nwas Mr. Tilbody\'s steadfast conviction that always, in admitting new old\r\nmen to replace those who had gone to another and a better Home, the\r\ntrustees had distinctly in will the infraction of his peace, and the\r\ntrial of his patience. In truth, the longer the institution was\r\nconnected with him, the stronger was his feeling that the founder\'s\r\nscheme of benevolence was sadly impaired by providing any inmates at\r\nall. He had not much imagination, but with what he had he was addicted\r\nto the reconstruction of the Home for Old Men into a kind of "castle in\r\nSpain," with himself as castellan, hospitably entertaining about a score\r\nof sleek and prosperous middle-aged gentlemen, consummately good-humored\r\nand civilly willing to pay for their board and lodging. In this revised\r\nproject of philanthropy the trustees, to whom he was indebted for his\r\noffice and responsible for his conduct, had not the happiness to appear.\r\nAs to them, it was held by the village humorist aforementioned that in\r\ntheir management of the great charity Providence had thoughtfully\r\nsupplied an incentive to thrift. With the inference which he expected to\r\nbe drawn from that view we have nothing to do; it had neither support\r\nnor denial from the inmates, who certainly were most concerned. They\r\nlived out their little remnant of life, crept into graves neatly\r\nnumbered, and were succeeded by other old men as like them as could be\r\ndesired by the Adversary of Peace. If the Home was a place of punishment\r\nfor the sin of unthrift the veteran offenders sought justice with a\r\npersistence that attested the sincerity of their penitence. It is to one\r\nof these that the reader\'s attention is now invited.\r\n\r\nIn the matter of attire this person was not altogether engaging. But for\r\nthis season, which was midwinter, a careless observer might have looked\r\nupon him as a clever device of the husbandman indisposed to share the\r\nfruits of his toil with the crows that toil not, neither spin--an error\r\nthat might not have been dispelled without longer and closer observation\r\nthan he seemed to court; for his progress up Abersush Street, toward the\r\nHome in the gloom of the winter evening, was not visibly faster than\r\nwhat might have been expected of a scarecrow blessed with youth, health,\r\nand discontent. The man was indisputably ill-clad, yet not without a\r\ncertain fitness and good taste, withal; for he was obviously an\r\napplicant for admittance to the Home, where poverty was a qualification.\r\nIn the army of indigence the uniform is rags; they serve to distinguish\r\nthe rank and file from the recruiting officers.\r\n\r\nAs the old man, entering the gate of the grounds, shuffled up the broad\r\nwalk, already white with the fast-falling snow, which from time to time\r\nhe feebly shook from its various coigns of vantage on his person, he\r\ncame under inspection of the large globe lamp that burned always by\r\nnight over the great door of the building. As if unwilling to incur its\r\nrevealing beams, he turned to the left and, passing a considerable\r\ndistance along the face of the building, rang at a smaller door emitting\r\na dimmer ray that came from within, through the fanlight, and expended\r\nitself incuriously overhead. The door was opened by no less a personage\r\nthan the great Mr. Tilbody himself. Observing his visitor, who at once\r\nuncovered, and somewhat shortened the radius of the permanent curvature\r\nof his back, the great man gave visible token of neither surprise nor\r\ndispleasure. Mr. Tilbody was, indeed, in an uncommonly good humor, a\r\nphenomenon ascribable doubtless to the cheerful influence of the season;\r\nfor this was Christmas Eve, and the morrow would be that blessed 365th\r\npart of the year that all Christian souls set apart for mighty feats of\r\ngoodness and joy. Mr. Tilbody was so full of the spirit of the season\r\nthat his fat face and pale blue eyes, whose ineffectual fire served to\r\ndistinguish it from an untimely summer squash, effused so genial a glow\r\nthat it seemed a pity that he could not have lain down in it, basking in\r\nthe consciousness of his own identity. He was hatted, booted,\r\novercoated, and umbrellaed, as became a person who was about to expose\r\nhimself to the night and the storm on an errand of charity; for Mr.\r\nTilbody had just parted from his wife and children to go "down town" and\r\npurchase the wherewithal to confirm the annual falsehood about the\r\nhunch-bellied saint who frequents the chimneys to reward little boys and\r\ngirls who are good, and especially truthful. So he did not invite the\r\nold man in, but saluted him cheerily:\r\n\r\n"Hello! just in time; a moment later and you would have missed me. Come,\r\nI have no time to waste; we\'ll walk a little way together."\r\n\r\n"Thank you," said the old man, upon whose thin and white but not ignoble\r\nface the light from the open door showed an expression that was perhaps\r\ndisappointment; "but if the trustees--if my application--"\r\n\r\n"The trustees," Mr. Tilbody said, closing more doors than one, and\r\ncutting off two kinds of light, "have agreed that your application\r\ndisagrees with them."\r\n\r\nCertain sentiments are inappropriate to Christmastide, but Humor, like\r\nDeath, has all seasons for his own.\r\n\r\n"Oh, my God!" cried the old man, in so thin and husky a tone that the\r\ninvocation was anything but impressive, and to at least one of his two\r\nauditors sounded, indeed, somewhat ludicrous. To the Other--but that is\r\na matter which laymen are devoid of the light to expound.\r\n\r\n"Yes," continued Mr. Tilbody, accommodating his gait to that of his\r\ncompanion, who was mechanically, and not very successfully, retracing\r\nthe track that he had made through the snow; "they have decided that,\r\nunder the circumstances--under the very peculiar circumstances, you\r\nunderstand--it would be inexpedient to admit you. As superintendent and\r\n_ex officio_ secretary of the honorable board"--as Mr. Tilbody "read his\r\ntitle clear" the magnitude of the big building, seen through its veil of\r\nfalling snow, appeared to suffer somewhat in comparison--"it is my duty\r\nto inform you that, in the words of Deacon Byram, the chairman, your\r\npresence in the Home would--under the circumstances--be peculiarly\r\nembarrassing. I felt it my duty to submit to the honorable board the\r\nstatement that you made to me yesterday of your needs, your physical\r\ncondition, and the trials which it has pleased Providence to send upon\r\nyou in your very proper effort to present your claims in person; but,\r\nafter careful, and I may say prayerful, consideration of your case--with\r\nsomething too, I trust, of the large charitableness appropriate to the\r\nseason--it was decided that we would not be justified in doing anything\r\nlikely to impair the usefulness of the institution intrusted (under\r\nProvidence) to our care."\r\n\r\nThey had now passed out of the grounds; the street lamp opposite the\r\ngate was dimly visible through the snow. Already the old man\'s former\r\ntrack was obliterated, and he seemed uncertain as to which way he should\r\ngo. Mr. Tilbody had drawn a little away from him, but paused and turned\r\nhalf toward him, apparently reluctant to forego the continuing\r\nopportunity.\r\n\r\n"Under the circumstances," he resumed, "the decision--"\r\n\r\nBut the old man was inaccessible to the suasion of his verbosity; he had\r\ncrossed the street into a vacant lot and was going forward, rather\r\ndeviously toward nowhere in particular--which, he having nowhere in\r\nparticular to go to, was not so reasonless a proceeding as it looked.\r\n\r\nAnd that is how it happened that the next morning, when the church bells\r\nof all Grayville were ringing with an added unction appropriate to the\r\nday, the sturdy little son of Deacon Byram, breaking a way through the\r\nsnow to the place of worship, struck his foot against the body of Amasa\r\nAbersush, philanthropist.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA WATCHER BY THE DEAD\r\n\r\nI\r\n\r\nIn an upper room of an unoccupied dwelling in the part of San Francisco\r\nknown as North Beach lay the body of a man, under a sheet. The hour was\r\nnear nine in the evening; the room was dimly lighted by a single candle.\r\nAlthough the weather was warm, the two windows, contrary to the custom\r\nwhich gives the dead plenty of air, were closed and the blinds drawn\r\ndown. The furniture of the room consisted of but three pieces--an\r\narm-chair, a small reading-stand supporting the candle, and a long\r\nkitchen table, supporting the body of the man. All these, as also the\r\ncorpse, seemed to have been recently brought in, for an observer, had\r\nthere been one, would have seen that all were free from dust, whereas\r\neverything else in the room was pretty thickly coated with it, and there\r\nwere cobwebs in the angles of the walls.\r\n\r\nUnder the sheet the outlines of the body could be traced, even the\r\nfeatures, these having that unnaturally sharp definition which seems to\r\nbelong to faces of the dead, but is really characteristic of those only\r\nthat have been wasted by disease. From the silence of the room one would\r\nrightly have inferred that it was not in the front of the house, facing\r\na street. It really faced nothing but a high breast of rock, the rear of\r\nthe building being set into a hill.\r\n\r\nAs a neighboring church clock was striking nine with an indolence which\r\nseemed to imply such an indifference to the flight of time that one\r\ncould hardly help wondering why it took the trouble to strike at all,\r\nthe single door of the room was opened and a man entered, advancing\r\ntoward the body. As he did so the door closed, apparently of its own\r\nvolition; there was a grating, as of a key turned with difficulty, and\r\nthe snap of the lock bolt as it shot into its socket. A sound of\r\nretiring footsteps in the passage outside ensued, and the man was to all\r\nappearance a prisoner. Advancing to the table, he stood a moment looking\r\ndown at the body; then with a slight shrug of the shoulders walked over\r\nto one of the windows and hoisted the blind. The darkness outside was\r\nabsolute, the panes were covered with dust, but by wiping this away he\r\ncould see that the window was fortified with strong iron bars crossing\r\nit within a few inches of the glass and imbedded in the masonry on each\r\nside. He examined the other window. It was the same. He manifested no\r\ngreat curiosity in the matter, did not even so much as raise the sash.\r\nIf he was a prisoner he was apparently a tractable one. Having completed\r\nhis examination of the room, he seated himself in the arm-chair, took a\r\nbook from his pocket, drew the stand with its candle alongside and began\r\nto read.\r\n\r\nThe man was young--not more than thirty--dark in complexion,\r\nsmooth-shaven, with brown hair. His face was thin and high-nosed, with a\r\nbroad forehead and a "firmness" of the chin and jaw which is said by\r\nthose having it to denote resolution. The eyes were gray and steadfast,\r\nnot moving except with definitive purpose. They were now for the greater\r\npart of the time fixed upon his book, but he occasionally withdrew them\r\nand turned them to the body on the table, not, apparently, from any\r\ndismal fascination which under such circumstances it might be supposed\r\nto exercise upon even a courageous person, nor with a conscious\r\nrebellion against the contrary influence which might dominate a timid\r\none. He looked at it as if in his reading he had come upon something\r\nrecalling him to a sense of his surroundings. Clearly this watcher by\r\nthe dead was discharging his trust with intelligence and composure, as\r\nbecame him.\r\n\r\nAfter reading for perhaps a half-hour he seemed to come to the end of a\r\nchapter and quietly laid away the book. He then rose and taking the\r\nreading-stand from the floor carried it into a corner of the room near\r\none of the windows, lifted the candle from it and returned to the empty\r\nfireplace before which he had been sitting.\r\n\r\nA moment later he walked over to the body on the table, lifted the sheet\r\nand turned it back from the head, exposing a mass of dark hair and a\r\nthin face-cloth, beneath which the features showed with even sharper\r\ndefinition than before. Shading his eyes by interposing his free hand\r\nbetween them and the candle, he stood looking at his motionless\r\ncompanion with a serious and tranquil regard. Satisfied with his\r\ninspection, he pulled the sheet over the face again and returning to the\r\nchair, took some matches off the candlestick, put them in the side\r\npocket of his sack-coat and sat down. He then lifted the candle from its\r\nsocket and looked at it critically, as if calculating how long it would\r\nlast. It was barely two inches long; in another hour he would be in\r\ndarkness. He replaced it in the candlestick and blew it out.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nIn a physician\'s office in Kearny Street three men sat about a table,\r\ndrinking punch and smoking. It was late in the evening, almost midnight,\r\nindeed, and there had been no lack of punch. The gravest of the three,\r\nDr. Helberson, was the host--it was in his rooms they sat. He was about\r\nthirty years of age; the others were even younger; all were physicians.\r\n\r\n"The superstitious awe with which the living regard the dead," said Dr.\r\nHelberson, "is hereditary and incurable. One needs no more be ashamed of\r\nit than of the fact that he inherits, for example, an incapacity for\r\nmathematics, or a tendency to lie."\r\n\r\nThe others laughed. "Oughtn\'t a man to be ashamed to lie?" asked the\r\nyoungest of the three, who was in fact a medical student not yet\r\ngraduated.\r\n\r\n"My dear Harper, I said nothing about that. The tendency to lie is one\r\nthing; lying is another."\r\n\r\n"But do you think," said the third man, "that this superstitious\r\nfeeling, this fear of the dead, reasonless as we know it to be, is\r\nuniversal? I am myself not conscious of it."\r\n\r\n"Oh, but it is \'in your system\' for all that," replied Helberson; "it\r\nneeds only the right conditions--what Shakespeare calls the \'confederate\r\nseason\'--to manifest itself in some very disagreeable way that will open\r\nyour eyes. Physicians and soldiers are of course more nearly free from\r\nit than others."\r\n\r\n"Physicians and soldiers!--why don\'t you add hangmen and headsmen? Let\r\nus have in all the assassin classes."\r\n\r\n"No, my dear Mancher; the juries will not let the public executioners\r\nacquire sufficient familiarity with death to be altogether unmoved by\r\nit."\r\n\r\nYoung Harper, who had been helping himself to a fresh cigar at the\r\nsideboard, resumed his seat. "What would you consider conditions under\r\nwhich any man of woman born would become insupportably conscious of his\r\nshare of our common weakness in this regard?" he asked, rather\r\nverbosely.\r\n\r\n"Well, I should say that if a man were locked up all night with a\r\ncorpse--alone--in a dark room--of a vacant house--with no bed covers to\r\npull over his head--and lived through it without going altogether mad,\r\nhe might justly boast himself not of woman born, nor yet, like Macduff,\r\na product of Cæsarean section."\r\n\r\n"I thought you never would finish piling up conditions," said Harper,\r\n"but I know a man who is neither a physician nor a soldier who will\r\naccept them all, for any stake you like to name."\r\n\r\n"Who is he?"\r\n\r\n"His name is Jarette--a stranger here; comes from my town in New York. I\r\nhave no money to back him, but he will back himself with loads of it."\r\n\r\n"How do you know that?"\r\n\r\n"He would rather bet than eat. As for fear--I dare say he thinks it some\r\ncutaneous disorder, or possibly a particular kind of religious heresy."\r\n\r\n"What does he look like?" Helberson was evidently becoming interested.\r\n\r\n"Like Mancher, here--might be his twin brother."\r\n\r\n"I accept the challenge," said Helberson, promptly.\r\n\r\n"Awfully obliged to you for the compliment, I\'m sure," drawled Mancher,\r\nwho was growing sleepy. "Can\'t I get into this?"\r\n\r\n"Not against me," Helberson said. "I don\'t want _your_ money."\r\n\r\n"All right," said Mancher; "I\'ll be the corpse."\r\n\r\nThe others laughed.\r\n\r\nThe outcome of this crazy conversation we have seen.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nIn extinguishing his meagre allowance of candle Mr. Jarette\'s object was\r\nto preserve it against some unforeseen need. He may have thought, too,\r\nor half thought, that the darkness would be no worse at one time than\r\nanother, and if the situation became insupportable it would be better to\r\nhave a means of relief, or even release. At any rate it was wise to have\r\na little reserve of light, even if only to enable him to look at his\r\nwatch.\r\n\r\nNo sooner had he blown out the candle and set it on the floor at his\r\nside than he settled himself comfortably in the arm-chair, leaned back\r\nand closed his eyes, hoping and expecting to sleep. In this he was\r\ndisappointed; he had never in his life felt less sleepy, and in a few\r\nminutes he gave up the attempt. But what could he do? He could not go\r\ngroping about in absolute darkness at the risk of bruising himself--at\r\nthe risk, too, of blundering against the table and rudely disturbing the\r\ndead. We all recognize their right to lie at rest, with immunity from\r\nall that is harsh and violent. Jarette almost succeeded in making\r\nhimself believe that considerations of this kind restrained him from\r\nrisking the collision and fixed him to the chair.\r\n\r\nWhile thinking of this matter he fancied that he heard a faint sound in\r\nthe direction of the table--what kind of sound he could hardly have\r\nexplained. He did not turn his head. Why should he--in the darkness? But\r\nhe listened--why should he not? And listening he grew giddy and grasped\r\nthe arms of the chair for support. There was a strange ringing in his\r\nears; his head seemed bursting; his chest was oppressed by the\r\nconstriction of his clothing. He wondered why it was so, and whether\r\nthese were symptoms of fear. Then, with a long and strong expiration,\r\nhis chest appeared to collapse, and with the great gasp with which he\r\nrefilled his exhausted lungs the vertigo left him and he knew that so\r\nintently had he listened that he had held his breath almost to\r\nsuffocation. The revelation was vexatious; he arose, pushed away the\r\nchair with his foot and strode to the centre of the room. But one does\r\nnot stride far in darkness; he began to grope, and finding the wall\r\nfollowed it to an angle, turned, followed it past the two windows and\r\nthere in another corner came into violent contact with the\r\nreading-stand, overturning it. It made a clatter that startled him. He\r\nwas annoyed. "How the devil could I have forgotten where it was?" he\r\nmuttered, and groped his way along the third wall to the fireplace. "I\r\nmust put things to rights," said he, feeling the floor for the candle.\r\n\r\nHaving recovered that, he lighted it and instantly turned his eyes to\r\nthe table, where, naturally, nothing had undergone any change. The\r\nreading-stand lay unobserved upon the floor: he had forgotten to "put it\r\nto rights." He looked all about the room, dispersing the deeper shadows\r\nby movements of the candle in his hand, and crossing over to the door\r\ntested it by turning and pulling the knob with all his strength. It did\r\nnot yield and this seemed to afford him a certain satisfaction; indeed,\r\nhe secured it more firmly by a bolt which he had not before observed.\r\nReturning to his chair, he looked at his watch; it was half-past nine.\r\nWith a start of surprise he held the watch at his ear. It had not\r\nstopped. The candle was now visibly shorter. He again extinguished it,\r\nplacing it on the floor at his side as before.\r\n\r\nMr. Jarette was not at his ease; he was distinctly dissatisfied with his\r\nsurroundings, and with himself for being so. "What have I to fear?" he\r\nthought. "This is ridiculous and disgraceful; I will not be so great a\r\nfool." But courage does not come of saying, "I will be courageous," nor\r\nof recognizing its appropriateness to the occasion. The more Jarette\r\ncondemned himself, the more reason he gave himself for condemnation; the\r\ngreater the number of variations which he played upon the simple theme\r\nof the harmlessness of the dead, the more insupportable grew the discord\r\nof his emotions. "What!" he cried aloud in the anguish of his spirit,\r\n"what! shall I, who have not a shade of superstition in my nature--I,\r\nwho have no belief in immortality--I, who know (and never more clearly\r\nthan now) that the after-life is the dream of a desire--shall I lose at\r\nonce my bet, my honor and my self-respect, perhaps my reason, because\r\ncertain savage ancestors dwelling in caves and burrows conceived the\r\nmonstrous notion that the dead walk by night?--that--" Distinctly,\r\nunmistakably, Mr. Jarette heard behind him a light, soft sound of\r\nfootfalls, deliberate, regular, successively nearer!\r\n\r\nIV\r\n\r\nJust before daybreak the next morning Dr. Helberson and his young\r\nfriend Harper were driving slowly through the streets of North Beach in\r\nthe doctor\'s coupé.\r\n\r\n"Have you still the confidence of youth in the courage or stolidity of\r\nyour friend?" said the elder man. "Do you believe that I have lost this\r\nwager?"\r\n\r\n"I _know_ you have," replied the other, with enfeebling emphasis.\r\n\r\n"Well, upon my soul, I hope so."\r\n\r\nIt was spoken earnestly, almost solemnly. There was a silence for a few\r\nmoments.\r\n\r\n"Harper," the doctor resumed, looking very serious in the shifting\r\nhalf-lights that entered the carriage as they passed the street lamps,\r\n"I don\'t feel altogether comfortable about this business. If your friend\r\nhad not irritated me by the contemptuous manner in which he treated my\r\ndoubt of his endurance--a purely physical quality--and by the cool\r\nincivility of his suggestion that the corpse be that of a physician, I\r\nshould not have gone on with it. If anything should happen we are\r\nruined, as I fear we deserve to be."\r\n\r\n"What can happen? Even if the matter should be taking a serious turn, of\r\nwhich I am not at all afraid, Mancher has only to \'resurrect\' himself\r\nand explain matters. With a genuine \'subject\' from the dissecting-room,\r\nor one of your late patients, it might be different."\r\n\r\nDr. Mancher, then, had been as good as his promise; he was the "corpse."\r\n\r\nDr. Helberson was silent for a long time, as the carriage, at a snail\'s\r\npace, crept along the same street it had traveled two or three times\r\nalready. Presently he spoke: "Well, let us hope that Mancher, if he has\r\nhad to rise from the dead, has been discreet about it. A mistake in that\r\nmight make matters worse instead of better."\r\n\r\n"Yes," said Harper, "Jarette would kill him. But, Doctor"--looking at\r\nhis watch as the carriage passed a gas lamp--"it is nearly four o\'clock\r\nat last."\r\n\r\nA moment later the two had quitted the vehicle and were walking briskly\r\ntoward the long-unoccupied house belonging to the doctor in which they\r\nhad immured Mr. Jarette in accordance with the terms of the mad wager.\r\nAs they neared it they met a man running. "Can you tell me," he cried,\r\nsuddenly checking his speed, "where I can find a doctor?"\r\n\r\n"What\'s the matter?" Helberson asked, non-committal.\r\n\r\n"Go and see for yourself," said the man, resuming his running.\r\n\r\nThey hastened on. Arrived at the house, they saw several persons\r\nentering in haste and excitement. In some of the dwellings near by and\r\nacross the way the chamber windows were thrown up, showing a protrusion\r\nof heads. All heads were asking questions, none heeding the questions of\r\nthe others. A few of the windows with closed blinds were illuminated;\r\nthe inmates of those rooms were dressing to come down. Exactly opposite\r\nthe door of the house that they sought a street lamp threw a yellow,\r\ninsufficient light upon the scene, seeming to say that it could disclose\r\na good deal more if it wished. Harper paused at the door and laid a hand\r\nupon his companion\'s arm. "It is all up with us, Doctor," he said in\r\nextreme agitation, which contrasted strangely with his free-and-easy\r\nwords; "the game has gone against us all. Let\'s not go in there; I\'m for\r\nlying low."\r\n\r\n"I\'m a physician," said Dr. Helberson, calmly; "there may be need of\r\none."\r\n\r\nThey mounted the doorsteps and were about to enter. The door was open;\r\nthe street lamp opposite lighted the passage into which it opened. It\r\nwas full of men. Some had ascended the stairs at the farther end, and,\r\ndenied admittance above, waited for better fortune. All were talking,\r\nnone listening. Suddenly, on the upper landing there was a great\r\ncommotion; a man had sprung out of a door and was breaking away from\r\nthose endeavoring to detain him. Down through the mass of affrighted\r\nidlers he came, pushing them aside, flattening them against the wall on\r\none side, or compelling them to cling to the rail on the other,\r\nclutching them by the throat, striking them savagely, thrusting them\r\nback down the stairs and walking over the fallen. His clothing was in\r\ndisorder, he was without a hat. His eyes, wild and restless, had in them\r\nsomething more terrifying than his apparently superhuman strength. His\r\nface, smooth-shaven, was bloodless, his hair frost-white.\r\n\r\nAs the crowd at the foot of the stairs, having more freedom, fell away\r\nto let him pass Harper sprang forward. "Jarette! Jarette!" he cried.\r\n\r\nDr. Helberson seized Harper by the collar and dragged him back. The man\r\nlooked into their faces without seeming to see them and sprang through\r\nthe door, down the steps, into the street, and away. A stout policeman,\r\nwho had had inferior success in conquering his way down the stairway,\r\nfollowed a moment later and started in pursuit, all the heads in the\r\nwindows--those of women and children now--screaming in guidance.\r\n\r\nThe stairway being now partly cleared, most of the crowd having rushed\r\ndown to the street to observe the flight and pursuit, Dr. Helberson\r\nmounted to the landing, followed by Harper. At a door in the upper\r\npassage an officer denied them admittance. "We are physicians," said the\r\ndoctor, and they passed in. The room was full of men, dimly seen,\r\ncrowded about a table. The newcomers edged their way forward and looked\r\nover the shoulders of those in the front rank. Upon the table, the lower\r\nlimbs covered with a sheet, lay the body of a man, brilliantly\r\nilluminated by the beam of a bull\'s-eye lantern held by a policeman\r\nstanding at the feet. The others, excepting those near the head--the\r\nofficer himself--all were in darkness. The face of the body showed\r\nyellow, repulsive, horrible! The eyes were partly open and upturned and\r\nthe jaw fallen; traces of froth defiled the lips, the chin, the cheeks.\r\nA tall man, evidently a doctor, bent over the body with his hand thrust\r\nunder the shirt front. He withdrew it and placed two fingers in the open\r\nmouth. "This man has been about six hours dead," said he. "It is a case\r\nfor the coroner."\r\n\r\nHe drew a card from his pocket, handed it to the officer and made his\r\nway toward the door.\r\n\r\n"Clear the room--out, all!" said the officer, sharply, and the body\r\ndisappeared as if it had been snatched away, as shifting the lantern he\r\nflashed its beam of light here and there against the faces of the crowd.\r\nThe effect was amazing! The men, blinded, confused, almost terrified,\r\nmade a tumultuous rush for the door, pushing, crowding, and tumbling\r\nover one another as they fled, like the hosts of Night before the shafts\r\nof Apollo. Upon the struggling, trampling mass the officer poured his\r\nlight without pity and without cessation. Caught in the current,\r\nHelberson and Harper were swept out of the room and cascaded down the\r\nstairs into the street.\r\n\r\n"Good God, Doctor! did I not tell you that Jarette would kill him?" said\r\nHarper, as soon as they were clear of the crowd.\r\n\r\n"I believe you did," replied the other, without apparent emotion.\r\n\r\nThey walked on in silence, block after block. Against the graying east\r\nthe dwellings of the hill tribes showed in silhouette. The familiar milk\r\nwagon was already astir in the streets; the baker\'s man would soon come\r\nupon the scene; the newspaper carrier was abroad in the land.\r\n\r\n"It strikes me, youngster," said Helberson, "that you and I have been\r\nhaving too much of the morning air lately. It is unwholesome; we need a\r\nchange. What do you say to a tour in Europe?"\r\n\r\n"When?"\r\n\r\n"I\'m not particular. I should suppose that four o\'clock this afternoon\r\nwould be early enough."\r\n\r\n"I\'ll meet you at the boat," said Harper.\r\n\r\nSeven years afterward these two men sat upon a bench in Madison Square,\r\nNew York, in familiar conversation. Another man, who had been observing\r\nthem for some time, himself unobserved, approached and, courteously\r\nlifting his hat from locks as white as frost, said: "I beg your pardon,\r\ngentlemen, but when you have killed a man by coming to life, it is best\r\nto change clothes with him, and at the first opportunity make a break\r\nfor liberty."\r\n\r\nHelberson and Harper exchanged significant glances. They were obviously\r\namused. The former then looked the stranger kindly in the eye and\r\nreplied:\r\n\r\n"That has always been my plan. I entirely agree with you as to its\r\nadvant--"\r\n\r\nHe stopped suddenly, rose and went white. He stared at the man,\r\nopen-mouthed; he trembled visibly.\r\n\r\n"Ah!" said the stranger, "I see that you are indisposed, Doctor. If you\r\ncannot treat yourself Dr. Harper can do something for you, I am sure."\r\n\r\n"Who the devil are you?" said Harper, bluntly.\r\n\r\nThe stranger came nearer and, bending toward them, said in a whisper: "I\r\ncall myself Jarette sometimes, but I don\'t mind telling you, for old\r\nfriendship, that I am Dr. William Mancher."\r\n\r\nThe revelation brought Harper to his feet. "Mancher!" he cried; and\r\nHelberson added: "It is true, by God!"\r\n\r\n"Yes," said the stranger, smiling vaguely, "it is true enough, no\r\ndoubt."\r\n\r\nHe hesitated and seemed to be trying to recall something, then began\r\nhumming a popular air. He had apparently forgotten their presence.\r\n\r\n"Look here, Mancher," said the elder of the two, "tell us just what\r\noccurred that night--to Jarette, you know."\r\n\r\n"Oh, yes, about Jarette," said the other. "It\'s odd I should have\r\nneglected to tell you--I tell it so often. You see I knew, by\r\nover-hearing him talking to himself, that he was pretty badly\r\nfrightened. So I couldn\'t resist the temptation to come to life and have\r\na bit of fun out of him--I couldn\'t really. That was all right, though\r\ncertainly I did not think he would take it so seriously; I did not,\r\ntruly. And afterward--well, it was a tough job changing places with him,\r\nand then--damn you! you didn\'t let me out!"\r\n\r\nNothing could exceed the ferocity with which these last words were\r\ndelivered. Both men stepped back in alarm.\r\n\r\n"We?--why--why," Helberson stammered, losing his self-possession\r\nutterly, "we had nothing to do with it."\r\n\r\n"Didn\'t I say you were Drs. Hell-born and Sharper?" inquired the man,\r\nlaughing.\r\n\r\n"My name is Helberson, yes; and this gentleman is Mr. Harper," replied\r\nthe former, reassured by the laugh. "But we are not physicians now; we\r\nare--well, hang it, old man, we are gamblers."\r\n\r\nAnd that was the truth.\r\n\r\n"A very good profession--very good, indeed; and, by the way, I hope\r\nSharper here paid over Jarette\'s money like an honest stakeholder. A\r\nvery good and honorable profession," he repeated, thoughtfully, moving\r\ncarelessly away; "but I stick to the old one. I am High Supreme Medical\r\nOfficer of the Bloomingdale Asylum; it is my duty to cure the\r\nsuperintendent."\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE MAN AND THE SNAKE\r\n\r\n It is of veritabyll report, and attested of so many that there be nowe\r\n of wyse and learned none to gaynsaye it, that y\'e serpente hys eye\r\n hath a magnetick propertie that whosoe falleth into its svasion is\r\n drawn forwards in despyte of his wille, and perisheth miserabyll by\r\n y\'e creature hys byte.\r\n\r\nStretched at ease upon a sofa, in gown and slippers, Harker Brayton\r\nsmiled as he read the foregoing sentence in old Morryster\'s _Marvells of\r\nScience._ "The only marvel in the matter," he said to himself, "is that\r\nthe wise and learned in Morryster\'s day should have believed such\r\nnonsense as is rejected by most of even the ignorant in ours." A train\r\nof reflection followed--for Brayton was a man of thought--and he\r\nunconsciously lowered his book without altering the direction of his\r\neyes. As soon as the volume had gone below the line of sight, something\r\nin an obscure corner of the room recalled his attention to his\r\nsurroundings. What he saw, in the shadow under his bed, was two small\r\npoints of light, apparently about an inch apart. They might have been\r\nreflections of the gas jet above him, in metal nail heads; he gave them\r\nbut little thought and resumed his reading. A moment later something--\r\nsome impulse which it did not occur to him to analyze--impelled him to\r\nlower the book again and seek for what he saw before. The points of\r\nlight were still there. They seemed to have become brighter than before,\r\nshining with a greenish lustre that he had not at first observed. He\r\nthought, too, that they might have moved a trifle--were somewhat nearer.\r\nThey were still too much in shadow, however, to reveal their nature and\r\norigin to an indolent attention, and again he resumed his reading.\r\nSuddenly something in the text suggested a thought that made him start\r\nand drop the book for the third time to the side of the sofa, whence,\r\nescaping from his hand, it fell sprawling to the floor, back upward.\r\nBrayton, half-risen, was staring intently into the obscurity beneath the\r\nbed, where the points of light shone with, it seemed to him, an added\r\nfire. His attention was now fully aroused, his gaze eager and\r\nimperative. It disclosed, almost directly under the foot-rail of the\r\nbed, the coils of a large serpent--the points of light were its eyes!\r\nIts horrible head, thrust flatly forth from the innermost coil and\r\nresting upon the outermost, was directed straight toward him, the\r\ndefinition of the wide, brutal jaw and the idiot-like forehead serving\r\nto show the direction of its malevolent gaze. The eyes were no longer\r\nmerely luminous points; they looked into his own with a meaning, a\r\nmalign significance.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nA snake in a bedroom of a modern city dwelling of the better sort is,\r\nhappily, not so common a phenomenon as to make explanation altogether\r\nneedless. Harker Brayton, a bachelor of thirty-five, a scholar, idler\r\nand something of an athlete, rich, popular and of sound health, had\r\nreturned to San Francisco from all manner of remote and unfamiliar\r\ncountries. His tastes, always a trifle luxurious, had taken on an added\r\nexuberance from long privation; and the resources of even the Castle\r\nHotel being inadequate to their perfect gratification, he had gladly\r\naccepted the hospitality of his friend, Dr. Druring, the distinguished\r\nscientist. Dr. Druring\'s house, a large, old-fashioned one in what is\r\nnow an obscure quarter of the city, had an outer and visible aspect of\r\nproud reserve. It plainly would not associate with the contiguous\r\nelements of its altered environment, and appeared to have developed some\r\nof the eccentricities which come of isolation. One of these was a\r\n"wing," conspicuously irrelevant in point of architecture, and no less\r\nrebellious in matter of purpose; for it was a combination of laboratory,\r\nmenagerie and museum. It was here that the doctor indulged the\r\nscientific side of his nature in the study of such forms of animal life\r\nas engaged his interest and comforted his taste--which, it must be\r\nconfessed, ran rather to the lower types. For one of the higher nimbly\r\nand sweetly to recommend itself unto his gentle senses it had at least\r\nto retain certain rudimentary characteristics allying it to such\r\n"dragons of the prime" as toads and snakes. His scientific sympathies\r\nwere distinctly reptilian; he loved nature\'s vulgarians and described\r\nhimself as the Zola of zoölogy. His wife and daughters not having the\r\nadvantage to share his enlightened curiosity regarding the works and\r\nways of our ill-starred fellow-creatures, were with needless austerity\r\nexcluded from what he called the Snakery and doomed to companionship\r\nwith their own kind, though to soften the rigors of their lot he had\r\npermitted them out of his great wealth to outdo the reptiles in the\r\ngorgeousness of their surroundings and to shine with a superior\r\nsplendor.\r\n\r\nArchitecturally and in point of "furnishing" the Snakery had a severe\r\nsimplicity befitting the humble circumstances of its occupants, many of\r\nwhom, indeed, could not safely have been intrusted with the liberty that\r\nis necessary to the full enjoyment of luxury, for they had the\r\ntroublesome peculiarity of being alive. In their own apartments,\r\nhowever, they were under as little personal restraint as was compatible\r\nwith their protection from the baneful habit of swallowing one another;\r\nand, as Brayton had thoughtfully been apprised, it was more than a\r\ntradition that some of them had at divers times been found in parts of\r\nthe premises where it would have embarrassed them to explain their\r\npresence. Despite the Snakery and its uncanny associations--to which,\r\nindeed, he gave little attention--Brayton found life at the Druring\r\nmansion very much to his mind.\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nBeyond a smart shock of surprise and a shudder of mere loathing Mr.\r\nBrayton was not greatly affected. His first thought was to ring the call\r\nbell and bring a servant; but although the bell cord dangled within easy\r\nreach he made no movement toward it; it had occurred to his mind that\r\nthe act might subject him to the suspicion of fear, which he certainly\r\ndid not feel. He was more keenly conscious of the incongruous nature of\r\nthe situation than affected by its perils; it was revolting, but absurd.\r\n\r\nThe reptile was of a species with which Brayton was unfamiliar. Its\r\nlength he could only conjecture; the body at the largest visible part\r\nseemed about as thick as his forearm. In what way was it dangerous, if\r\nin any way? Was it venomous? Was it a constrictor? His knowledge of\r\nnature\'s danger signals did not enable him to say; he had never\r\ndeciphered the code.\r\n\r\nIf not dangerous the creature was at least offensive. It was _de trop_--\r\n"matter out of place"--an impertinence. The gem was unworthy of the\r\nsetting. Even the barbarous taste of our time and country, which had\r\nloaded the walls of the room with pictures, the floor with furniture and\r\nthe furniture with bric-a-brac, had not quite fitted the place for this\r\nbit of the savage life of the jungle. Besides--insupportable thought!--\r\nthe exhalations of its breath mingled with the atmosphere which he\r\nhimself was breathing.\r\n\r\nThese thoughts shaped themselves with greater or less definition in\r\nBrayton\'s mind and begot action. The process is what we call\r\nconsideration and decision. It is thus that we are wise and unwise. It\r\nis thus that the withered leaf in an autumn breeze shows greater or less\r\nintelligence than its fellows, falling upon the land or upon the lake.\r\nThe secret of human action is an open one: something contracts our\r\nmuscles. Does it matter if we give to the preparatory molecular changes\r\nthe name of will?\r\n\r\nBrayton rose to his feet and prepared to back softly away from the\r\nsnake, without disturbing it if possible, and through the door. Men\r\nretire so from the presence of the great, for greatness is power and\r\npower is a menace. He knew that he could walk backward without error.\r\nShould the monster follow, the taste which had plastered the walls with\r\npaintings had consistently supplied a rack of murderous Oriental weapons\r\nfrom which he could snatch one to suit the occasion. In the mean time\r\nthe snake\'s eyes burned with a more pitiless malevolence than before.\r\n\r\nBrayton lifted his right foot free of the floor to step backward. That\r\nmoment he felt a strong aversion to doing so.\r\n\r\n"I am accounted brave," he thought; "is bravery, then, no more than\r\npride? Because there are none to witness the shame shall I retreat?"\r\n\r\nHe was steadying himself with his right hand upon the back of a chair,\r\nhis foot suspended.\r\n\r\n"Nonsense!" he said aloud; "I am not so great a coward as to fear to\r\nseem to myself afraid."\r\n\r\nHe lifted the foot a little higher by slightly bending the knee and\r\nthrust it sharply to the floor--an inch in front of the other! He could\r\nnot think how that occurred. A trial with the left foot had the same\r\nresult; it was again in advance of the right. The hand upon the chair\r\nback was grasping it; the arm was straight, reaching somewhat backward.\r\nOne might have said that he was reluctant to lose his hold. The snake\'s\r\nmalignant head was still thrust forth from the inner coil as before, the\r\nneck level. It had not moved, but its eyes were now electric sparks,\r\nradiating an infinity of luminous needles.\r\n\r\nThe man had an ashy pallor. Again he took a step forward, and another,\r\npartly dragging the chair, which when finally released fell upon the\r\nfloor with a crash. The man groaned; the snake made neither sound nor\r\nmotion, but its eyes were two dazzling suns. The reptile itself was\r\nwholly concealed by them. They gave off enlarging rings of rich and\r\nvivid colors, which at their greatest expansion successively vanished\r\nlike soap-bubbles; they seemed to approach his very face, and anon were\r\nan immeasurable distance away. He heard, somewhere, the continuous\r\nthrobbing of a great drum, with desultory bursts of far music,\r\ninconceivably sweet, like the tones of an æolian harp. He knew it for\r\nthe sunrise melody of Memnon\'s statue, and thought he stood in the\r\nNileside reeds hearing with exalted sense that immortal anthem through\r\nthe silence of the centuries.\r\n\r\nThe music ceased; rather, it became by insensible degrees the distant\r\nroll of a retreating thunder-storm. A landscape, glittering with sun and\r\nrain, stretched before him, arched with a vivid rainbow framing in its\r\ngiant curve a hundred visible cities. In the middle distance a vast\r\nserpent, wearing a crown, reared its head out of its voluminous\r\nconvolutions and looked at him with his dead mother\'s eyes. Suddenly\r\nthis enchanting landscape seemed to rise swiftly upward like the drop\r\nscene at a theatre, and vanished in a blank. Something struck him a hard\r\nblow upon the face and breast. He had fallen to the floor; the blood ran\r\nfrom his broken nose and his bruised lips. For a time he was dazed and\r\nstunned, and lay with closed eyes, his face against the floor. In a few\r\nmoments he had recovered, and then knew that this fall, by withdrawing\r\nhis eyes, had broken the spell that held him. He felt that now, by\r\nkeeping his gaze averted, he would be able to retreat. But the thought\r\nof the serpent within a few feet of his head, yet unseen--perhaps in the\r\nvery act of springing upon him and throwing its coils about his throat--\r\nwas too horrible! He lifted his head, stared again into those baleful\r\neyes and was again in bondage.\r\n\r\nThe snake had not moved and appeared somewhat to have lost its power\r\nupon the imagination; the gorgeous illusions of a few moments before\r\nwere not repeated. Beneath that flat and brainless brow its black, beady\r\neyes simply glittered as at first with an expression unspeakably\r\nmalignant. It was as if the creature, assured of its triumph, had\r\ndetermined to practise no more alluring wiles.\r\n\r\nNow ensued a fearful scene. The man, prone upon the floor, within a yard\r\nof his enemy, raised the upper part of his body upon his elbows, his\r\nhead thrown back, his legs extended to their full length. His face was\r\nwhite between its stains of blood; his eyes were strained open to their\r\nuttermost expansion. There was froth upon his lips; it dropped off in\r\nflakes. Strong convulsions ran through his body, making almost\r\nserpentile undulations. He bent himself at the waist, shifting his legs\r\nfrom side to side. And every movement left him a little nearer to the\r\nsnake. He thrust his hands forward to brace himself back, yet constantly\r\nadvanced upon his elbows.\r\n\r\nIV\r\n\r\nDr. Druring and his wife sat in the library. The scientist was in rare\r\ngood humor.\r\n\r\n"I have just obtained by exchange with another collector," he said, "a\r\nsplendid specimen of the _ophiophagus_."\r\n\r\n"And what may that be?" the lady inquired with a somewhat languid\r\ninterest.\r\n\r\n"Why, bless my soul, what profound ignorance! My dear, a man who\r\nascertains after marriage that his wife does not know Greek is entitled\r\nto a divorce. The _ophiophagus_ is a snake that eats other snakes."\r\n\r\n"I hope it will eat all yours," she said, absently shifting the lamp.\r\n"But how does it get the other snakes? By charming them, I suppose."\r\n\r\n"That is just like you, dear," said the doctor, with an affectation of\r\npetulance. "You know how irritating to me is any allusion to that vulgar\r\nsuperstition about a snake\'s power of fascination."\r\n\r\nThe conversation was interrupted by a mighty cry, which rang through the\r\nsilent house like the voice of a demon shouting in a tomb! Again and yet\r\nagain it sounded, with terrible distinctness. They sprang to their feet,\r\nthe man confused, the lady pale and speechless with fright. Almost\r\nbefore the echoes of the last cry had died away the doctor was out of\r\nthe room, springing up the stairs two steps at a time. In the corridor\r\nin front of Brayton\'s chamber he met some servants who had come from the\r\nupper floor. Together they rushed at the door without knocking. It was\r\nunfastened and gave way. Brayton lay upon his stomach on the floor,\r\ndead. His head and arms were partly concealed under the foot rail of the\r\nbed. They pulled the body away, turning it upon the back. The face was\r\ndaubed with blood and froth, the eyes were wide open, staring--a\r\ndreadful sight!\r\n\r\n"Died in a fit," said the scientist, bending his knee and placing his\r\nhand upon the heart. While in that position, he chanced to look under\r\nthe bed. "Good God!" he added, "how did this thing get in here?"\r\n\r\nHe reached under the bed, pulled out the snake and flung it, still\r\ncoiled, to the center of the room, whence with a harsh, shuffling sound\r\nit slid across the polished floor till stopped by the wall, where it lay\r\nwithout motion. It was a stuffed snake; its eyes were two shoe buttons.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA HOLY TERROR\r\n\r\nI\r\n\r\nThere was an entire lack of interest in the latest arrival at\r\nHurdy-Gurdy. He was not even christened with the picturesquely\r\ndescriptive nick-name which is so frequently a mining camp\'s word of\r\nwelcome to the newcomer. In almost any other camp thereabout this\r\ncircumstance would of itself have secured him some such appellation as\r\n"The White-headed Conundrum," or "No Sarvey"--an expression naively\r\nsupposed to suggest to quick intelligences the Spanish _quien sabe_. He\r\ncame without provoking a ripple of concern upon the social surface of\r\nHurdy-Gurdy--a place which to the general Californian contempt of men\'s\r\npersonal history superadded a local indifference of its own. The time\r\nwas long past when it was of any importance who came there, or if\r\nanybody came. No one was living at Hurdy-Gurdy.\r\n\r\nTwo years before, the camp had boasted a stirring population of two or\r\nthree thousand males and not fewer than a dozen females. A majority of\r\nthe former had done a few weeks\' earnest work in demonstrating, to the\r\ndisgust of the latter, the singularly mendacious character of the person\r\nwhose ingenious tales of rich gold deposits had lured them thither--\r\nwork, by the way, in which there was as little mental satisfaction as\r\npecuniary profit; for a bullet from the pistol of a public-spirited\r\ncitizen had put that imaginative gentleman beyond the reach of aspersion\r\non the third day of the camp\'s existence. Still, his fiction had a\r\ncertain foundation in fact, and many had lingered a considerable time in\r\nand about Hurdy-Gurdy, though now all had been long gone.\r\n\r\nBut they had left ample evidence of their sojourn. From the point where\r\nInjun Creek falls into the Rio San Juan Smith, up along both banks of\r\nthe former into the cañon whence it emerges, extended a double row of\r\nforlorn shanties that seemed about to fall upon one another\'s neck to\r\nbewail their desolation; while about an equal number appeared to have\r\nstraggled up the slope on either hand and perched themselves upon\r\ncommanding eminences, whence they craned forward to get a good view of\r\nthe affecting scene. Most of these habitations were emaciated as by\r\nfamine to the condition of mere skeletons, about which clung unlovely\r\ntatters of what might have been skin, but was really canvas. The little\r\nvalley itself, torn and gashed by pick and shovel, was unhandsome with\r\nlong, bending lines of decaying flume resting here and there upon the\r\nsummits of sharp ridges, and stilting awkwardly across the intervals\r\nupon unhewn poles. The whole place presented that raw and forbidding\r\naspect of arrested development which is a new country\'s substitute for\r\nthe solemn grace of ruin wrought by time. Wherever there remained a\r\npatch of the original soil a rank overgrowth of weeds and brambles had\r\nspread upon the scene, and from its dank, unwholesome shades the visitor\r\ncurious in such matters might have obtained numberless souvenirs of the\r\ncamp\'s former glory--fellowless boots mantled with green mould and\r\nplethoric of rotting leaves; an occasional old felt hat; desultory\r\nremnants of a flannel shirt; sardine boxes inhumanly mutilated and a\r\nsurprising profusion of black bottles distributed with a truly catholic\r\nimpartiality, everywhere.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nThe man who had now rediscovered Hurdy-Gurdy was evidently not curious\r\nas to its archæology. Nor, as he looked about him upon the dismal\r\nevidences of wasted work and broken hopes, their dispiriting\r\nsignificance accentuated by the ironical pomp of a cheap gilding by the\r\nrising sun, did he supplement his sigh of weariness by one of\r\nsensibility. He simply removed from the back of his tired burro a\r\nminer\'s outfit a trifle larger than the animal itself, picketed that\r\ncreature and selecting a hatchet from his kit moved off at once across\r\nthe dry bed of Injun Creek to the top of a low, gravelly hill beyond.\r\n\r\nStepping across a prostrate fence of brush and boards he picked up one\r\nof the latter, split it into five parts and sharpened them at one end.\r\nHe then began a kind of search, occasionally stooping to examine\r\nsomething with close attention. At last his patient scrutiny appeared to\r\nbe rewarded with success, for he suddenly erected his figure to its full\r\nheight, made a gesture of satisfaction, pronounced the word "Scarry" and\r\nat once strode away with long, equal steps, which he counted. Then he\r\nstopped and drove one of his stakes into the earth. He then looked\r\ncarefully about him, measured off a number of paces over a singularly\r\nuneven ground and hammered in another. Pacing off twice the distance at\r\na right angle to his former course he drove down a third, and repeating\r\nthe process sank home the fourth, and then a fifth. This he split at the\r\ntop and in the cleft inserted an old letter envelope covered with an\r\nintricate system of pencil tracks. In short, he staked off a hill claim\r\nin strict accordance with the local mining laws of Hurdy-Gurdy and put\r\nup the customary notice.\r\n\r\nIt is necessary to explain that one of the adjuncts to Hurdy-Gurdy--one\r\nto which that metropolis became afterward itself an adjunct--was a\r\ncemetery. In the first week of the camp\'s existence this had been\r\nthoughtfully laid out by a committee of citizens. The day after had been\r\nsignalized by a debate between two members of the committee, with\r\nreference to a more eligible site, and on the third day the necropolis\r\nwas inaugurated by a double funeral. As the camp had waned the cemetery\r\nhad waxed; and long before the ultimate inhabitant, victorious alike\r\nover the insidious malaria and the forthright revolver, had turned the\r\ntail of his pack-ass upon Injun Creek the outlying settlement had become\r\na populous if not popular suburb. And now, when the town was fallen into\r\nthe sere and yellow leaf of an unlovely senility, the graveyard--though\r\nsomewhat marred by time and circumstance, and not altogether exempt from\r\ninnovations in grammar and experiments in orthography, to say nothing of\r\nthe devastating coyote--answered the humble needs of its denizens with\r\nreasonable completeness. It comprised a generous two acres of ground,\r\nwhich with commendable thrift but needless care had been selected for\r\nits mineral unworth, contained two or three skeleton trees (one of which\r\nhad a stout lateral branch from which a weather-wasted rope still\r\nsignificantly dangled), half a hundred gravelly mounds, a score of rude\r\nheadboards displaying the literary peculiarities above mentioned and a\r\nstruggling colony of prickly pears. Altogether, God\'s Location, as with\r\ncharacteristic reverence it had been called, could justly boast of an\r\nindubitably superior quality of desolation. It was in the most thickly\r\nsettled part of this interesting demesne that Mr. Jefferson Doman staked\r\noff his claim. If in the prosecution of his design he should deem it\r\nexpedient to remove any of the dead they would have the right to be\r\nsuitably reinterred.\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nThis Mr. Jefferson Doman was from Elizabethtown, New Jersey, where six\r\nyears before he had left his heart in the keeping of a golden-haired,\r\ndemure-mannered young woman named Mary Matthews, as collateral security\r\nfor his return to claim her hand.\r\n\r\n"I just _know_ you\'ll never get back alive--you never do succeed in\r\nanything," was the remark which illustrated Miss Matthews\'s notion of\r\nwhat constituted success and, inferentially, her view of the nature of\r\nencouragement. She added: "If you don\'t I\'ll go to California too. I can\r\nput the coins in little bags as you dig them out."\r\n\r\nThis characteristically feminine theory of auriferous deposits did not\r\ncommend itself to the masculine intelligence: it was Mr. Doman\'s belief\r\nthat gold was found in a liquid state. He deprecated her intent with\r\nconsiderable enthusiasm, suppressed her sobs with a light hand upon her\r\nmouth, laughed in her eyes as he kissed away her tears, and with a\r\ncheerful "Ta-ta" went to California to labor for her through the long,\r\nloveless years, with a strong heart, an alert hope and a steadfast\r\nfidelity that never for a moment forgot what it was about. In the\r\nmean time, Miss Matthews had granted a monopoly of her humble talent for\r\nsacking up coins to Mr. Jo. Seeman, of New York, gambler, by whom it was\r\nbetter appreciated than her commanding genius for unsacking and\r\nbestowing them upon his local rivals. Of this latter aptitude, indeed,\r\nhe manifested his disapproval by an act which secured him the position\r\nof clerk of the laundry in the State prison, and for her the _sobriquet_\r\nof "Split-faced Moll." At about this time she wrote to Mr. Doman a\r\ntouching letter of renunciation, inclosing her photograph to prove that\r\nshe had no longer had a right to indulge the dream of becoming Mrs.\r\nDoman, and recounting so graphically her fall from a horse that the\r\nstaid "plug" upon which Mr. Doman had ridden into Red Dog to get the\r\nletter made vicarious atonement under the spur all the way back to camp.\r\nThe letter failed in a signal way to accomplish its object; the fidelity\r\nwhich had before been to Mr. Doman a matter of love and duty was\r\nthenceforth a matter of honor also; and the photograph, showing the once\r\npretty face sadly disfigured as by the slash of a knife, was duly\r\ninstated in his affections and its more comely predecessor treated with\r\ncontumelious neglect. On being informed of this, Miss Matthews, it is\r\nonly fair to say, appeared less surprised than from the apparently low\r\nestimate of Mr. Doman\'s generosity which the tone of her former letter\r\nattested one would naturally have expected her to be. Soon after,\r\nhowever, her letters grew infrequent, and then ceased altogether.\r\n\r\nBut Mr. Doman had another correspondent, Mr. Barney Bree, of\r\nHurdy-Gurdy, formerly of Red Dog. This gentleman, although a notable\r\nfigure among miners, was not a miner. His knowledge of mining consisted\r\nmainly in a marvelous command of its slang, to which he made copious\r\ncontributions, enriching its vocabulary with a wealth of uncommon\r\nphrases more remarkable for their aptness than their refinement, and\r\nwhich impressed the unlearned "tenderfoot" with a lively sense of the\r\nprofundity of their inventor\'s acquirements. When not entertaining a\r\ncircle of admiring auditors from San Francisco or the East he could\r\ncommonly be found pursuing the comparatively obscure industry of\r\nsweeping out the various dance houses and purifying the cuspidors.\r\n\r\nBarney had apparently but two passions in life--love of Jefferson Doman,\r\nwho had once been of some service to him, and love of whisky, which\r\ncertainly had not. He had been among the first in the rush to\r\nHurdy-Gurdy, but had not prospered, and had sunk by degrees to the\r\nposition of grave digger. This was not a vocation, but Barney in a\r\ndesultory way turned his trembling hand to it whenever some local\r\nmisunderstanding at the card table and his own partial recovery from a\r\nprolonged debauch occurred coincidently in point of time. One day Mr.\r\nDoman received, at Red Dog, a letter with the simple postmark, "Hurdy,\r\nCal.," and being occupied with another matter, carelessly thrust it into\r\na chink of his cabin for future perusal. Some two years later it was\r\naccidentally dislodged and he read it. It ran as follows:--\r\n\r\n HURDY, June 6.\r\n\r\n FRIEND JEFF: I\'ve hit her hard in the boneyard. She\'s blind and lousy.\r\n I\'m on the divvy--that\'s me, and mum\'s my lay till you toot.\r\n Yours, BARNEY.\r\n\r\n P.S.--I\'ve clayed her with Scarry.\r\n\r\nWith some knowledge of the general mining camp _argot_ and of Mr. Bree\'s\r\nprivate system for the communication of ideas Mr. Doman had no\r\ndifficulty in understanding by this uncommon epistle that Barney while\r\nperforming his duty as grave digger had uncovered a quartz ledge with no\r\noutcroppings; that it was visibly rich in free gold; that, moved by\r\nconsiderations of friendship, he was willing to accept Mr. Doman as a\r\npartner and awaiting that gentleman\'s declaration of his will in the\r\nmatter would discreetly keep the discovery a secret. From the postscript\r\nit was plainly inferable that in order to conceal the treasure he had\r\nburied above it the mortal part of a person named Scarry.\r\n\r\nFrom subsequent events, as related to Mr. Doman at Red Dog, it would\r\nappear that before taking this precaution Mr. Bree must have had the\r\nthrift to remove a modest competency of the gold; at any rate, it was at\r\nabout that time that he entered upon that memorable series of potations\r\nand treatings which is still one of the cherished traditions of the San\r\nJuan Smith country, and is spoken of with respect as far away as Ghost\r\nRock and Lone Hand. At its conclusion some former citizens of\r\nHurdy-Gurdy, for whom he had performed the last kindly office at the\r\ncemetery, made room for him among them, and he rested well.\r\n\r\nIV\r\n\r\nHaving finished staking off his claim Mr. Doman walked back to the\r\ncentre of it and stood again at the spot where his search among the\r\ngraves had expired in the exclamation, "Scarry." He bent again over the\r\nheadboard that bore that name and as if to reinforce the senses of sight\r\nand hearing ran his forefinger along the rudely carved letters.\r\nRe-erecting himself he appended orally to the simple inscription the\r\nshockingly forthright epitaph, "She was a holy terror!"\r\n\r\nHad Mr. Doman been required to make these words good with proof--as,\r\nconsidering their somewhat censorious character, he doubtless should\r\nhave been--he would have found himself embarrassed by the absence of\r\nreputable witnesses, and hearsay evidence would have been the best he\r\ncould command. At the time when Scarry had been prevalent in the mining\r\ncamps thereabout--when, as the editor of the _Hurdy Herald_ would have\r\nphrased it, she was "in the plenitude of her power"--Mr. Doman\'s\r\nfortunes had been at a low ebb, and he had led the vagrantly laborious\r\nlife of a prospector. His time had been mostly spent in the mountains,\r\nnow with one companion, now with another. It was from the admiring\r\nrecitals of these casual partners, fresh from the various camps, that\r\nhis judgment of Scarry had been made up; he himself had never had the\r\ndoubtful advantage of her acquaintance and the precarious distinction of\r\nher favor. And when, finally, on the termination of her perverse career\r\nat Hurdy-Gurdy he had read in a chance copy of the _Herald_ her\r\ncolumn-long obituary (written by the local humorist of that lively sheet\r\nin the highest style of his art) Doman had paid to her memory and to her\r\nhistoriographer\'s genius the tribute of a smile and chivalrously\r\nforgotten her. Standing now at the grave-side of this mountain Messalina\r\nhe recalled the leading events of her turbulent career, as he had heard\r\nthem celebrated at his several campfires, and perhaps with an\r\nunconscious attempt at self-justification repeated that she was a holy\r\nterror, and sank his pick into her grave up to the handle. At that\r\nmoment a raven, which had silently settled upon a branch of the blasted\r\ntree above his head, solemnly snapped its beak and uttered its mind\r\nabout the matter with an approving croak.\r\n\r\nPursuing his discovery of free gold with great zeal, which he probably\r\ncredited to his conscience as a grave digger, Mr. Barney Bree had made\r\nan unusually deep sepulcher, and it was near sunset before Mr. Doman,\r\nlaboring with the leisurely deliberation of one who has "a dead sure\r\nthing" and no fear of an adverse claimant\'s enforcement of a prior\r\nright, reached the coffin and uncovered it. When he had done so he was\r\nconfronted by a difficulty for which he had made no provision; the\r\ncoffin--a mere flat shell of not very well-preserved redwood boards,\r\napparently--had no handles, and it filled the entire bottom of the\r\nexcavation. The best he could do without violating the decent sanctities\r\nof the situation was to make the excavation sufficiently longer to\r\nenable him to stand at the head of the casket and getting his powerful\r\nhands underneath erect it upon its narrower end; and this he proceeded\r\nto do. The approach of night quickened his efforts. He had no thought of\r\nabandoning his task at this stage to resume it on the morrow under more\r\nadvantageous conditions. The feverish stimulation of cupidity and the\r\nfascination of terror held him to his dismal work with an iron\r\nauthority. He no longer idled, but wrought with a terrible zeal. His\r\nhead uncovered, his outer garments discarded, his shirt opened at the\r\nneck and thrown back from his breast, down which ran sinuous rills of\r\nperspiration, this hardy and impenitent gold-getter and grave-robber\r\ntoiled with a giant energy that almost dignified the character of his\r\nhorrible purpose; and when the sun fringes had burned themselves out\r\nalong the crest line of the western hills, and the full moon had climbed\r\nout of the shadows that lay along the purple plain, he had erected the\r\ncoffin upon its foot, where it stood propped against the end of the open\r\ngrave. Then, standing up to his neck in the earth at the opposite\r\nextreme of the excavation, as he looked at the coffin upon which the\r\nmoonlight now fell with a full illumination he was thrilled with a\r\nsudden terror to observe upon it the startling apparition of a dark\r\nhuman head--the shadow of his own. For a moment this simple and natural\r\ncircumstance unnerved him. The noise of his labored breathing frightened\r\nhim, and he tried to still it, but his bursting lungs would not be\r\ndenied. Then, laughing half-audibly and wholly without spirit, he began\r\nmaking movements of his head from side to side, in order to compel the\r\napparition to repeat them. He found a comforting reassurance in\r\nasserting his command over his own shadow. He was temporizing, making,\r\nwith unconscious prudence, a dilatory opposition to an impending\r\ncatastrophe. He felt that invisible forces of evil were closing in upon\r\nhim, and he parleyed for time with the Inevitable.\r\n\r\nHe now observed in succession several unusual circumstances. The surface\r\nof the coffin upon which his eyes were fastened was not flat; it\r\npresented two distinct ridges, one longitudinal and the other\r\ntransverse. Where these intersected at the widest part there was a\r\ncorroded metallic plate that reflected the moonlight with a dismal\r\nlustre. Along the outer edges of the coffin, at long intervals, were\r\nrust-eaten heads of nails. This frail product of the carpenter\'s art had\r\nbeen put into the grave the wrong side up!\r\n\r\nPerhaps it was one of the humors of the camp--a practical manifestation\r\nof the facetious spirit that had found literary expression in the\r\ntopsy-turvy obituary notice from the pen of Hurdy-Gurdy\'s great\r\nhumorist. Perhaps it had some occult personal signification impenetrable\r\nto understandings uninstructed in local traditions. A more charitable\r\nhypothesis is that it was owing to a misadventure on the part of Mr.\r\nBarney Bree, who, making the interment unassisted (either by choice for\r\nthe conservation of his golden secret, or through public apathy), had\r\ncommitted a blunder which he was afterward unable or unconcerned to\r\nrectify. However it had come about, poor Scarry had indubitably been put\r\ninto the earth face downward.\r\n\r\nWhen terror and absurdity make alliance, the effect is frightful. This\r\nstrong-hearted and daring man, this hardy night worker among the dead,\r\nthis defiant antagonist of darkness and desolation, succumbed to a\r\nridiculous surprise. He was smitten with a thrilling chill--shivered,\r\nand shook his massive shoulders as if to throw off an icy hand. He no\r\nlonger breathed, and the blood in his veins, unable to abate its\r\nimpetus, surged hotly beneath his cold skin. Unleavened with oxygen, it\r\nmounted to his head and congested his brain. His physical functions had\r\ngone over to the enemy; his very heart was arrayed against him. He did\r\nnot move; he could not have cried out. He needed but a coffin to be\r\ndead--as dead as the death that confronted him with only the length of\r\nan open grave and the thickness of a rotting plank between.\r\n\r\nThen, one by one, his senses returned; the tide of terror that had\r\noverwhelmed his faculties began to recede. But with the return of his\r\nsenses he became singularly unconscious of the object of his fear. He\r\nsaw the moonlight gilding the coffin, but no longer the coffin that it\r\ngilded. Raising his eyes and turning his head, he noted, curiously and\r\nwith surprise, the black branches of the dead tree, and tried to\r\nestimate the length of the weather-worn rope that dangled from its\r\nghostly hand. The monotonous barking of distant coyotes affected him as\r\nsomething he had heard years ago in a dream. An owl flapped awkwardly\r\nabove him on noiseless wings, and he tried to forecast the direction of\r\nits flight when it should encounter the cliff that reared its\r\nilluminated front a mile away. His hearing took account of a gopher\'s\r\nstealthy tread in the shadow of the cactus. He was intensely observant;\r\nhis senses were all alert; but he saw not the coffin. As one can gaze at\r\nthe sun until it looks black and then vanishes, so his mind, having\r\nexhausted its capacities of dread, was no longer conscious of the\r\nseparate existence of anything dreadful. The Assassin was cloaking the\r\nsword.\r\n\r\nIt was during this lull in the battle that he became sensible of a\r\nfaint, sickening odor. At first he thought it was that of a\r\nrattle-snake, and involuntarily tried to look about his feet. They were\r\nnearly invisible in the gloom of the grave. A hoarse, gurgling sound,\r\nlike the death-rattle in a human throat, seemed to come out of the sky,\r\nand a moment later a great, black, angular shadow, like the same sound\r\nmade visible, dropped curving from the topmost branch of the spectral\r\ntree, fluttered for an instant before his face and sailed fiercely away\r\ninto the mist along the creek.\r\n\r\nIt was the raven. The incident recalled him to a sense of the situation,\r\nand again his eyes sought the upright coffin, now illuminated by the\r\nmoon for half its length. He saw the gleam of the metallic plate and\r\ntried without moving to decipher the inscription. Then he fell to\r\nspeculating upon what was behind it. His creative imagination presented\r\nhim a vivid picture. The planks no longer seemed an obstacle to his\r\nvision and he saw the livid corpse of the dead woman, standing in\r\ngrave-clothes, and staring vacantly at him, with lidless, shrunken eyes.\r\nThe lower jaw was fallen, the upper lip drawn away from the uncovered\r\nteeth. He could make out a mottled pattern on the hollow cheeks--the\r\nmaculations of decay. By some mysterious process his mind reverted for\r\nthe first time that day to the photograph of Mary Matthews. He\r\ncontrasted its blonde beauty with the forbidding aspect of this dead\r\nface--the most beloved object that he knew with the most hideous that he\r\ncould conceive.\r\n\r\nThe Assassin now advanced and displaying the blade laid it against the\r\nvictim\'s throat. That is to say, the man became at first dimly, then\r\ndefinitely, aware of an impressive coincidence--a relation--a parallel\r\nbetween the face on the card and the name on the headboard. The one was\r\ndisfigured, the other described a disfiguration. The thought took hold\r\nof him and shook him. It transformed the face that his imagination had\r\ncreated behind the coffin lid; the contrast became a resemblance; the\r\nresemblance grew to identity. Remembering the many descriptions of\r\nScarry\'s personal appearance that he had heard from the gossips of his\r\ncamp-fire he tried with imperfect success to recall the exact nature of\r\nthe disfiguration that had given the woman her ugly name; and what was\r\nlacking in his memory fancy supplied, stamping it with the validity of\r\nconviction. In the maddening attempt to recall such scraps of the\r\nwoman\'s history as he had heard, the muscles of his arms and hands were\r\nstrained to a painful tension, as by an effort to lift a great weight.\r\nHis body writhed and twisted with the exertion. The tendons of his neck\r\nstood out as tense as whip-cords, and his breath came in short, sharp\r\ngasps. The catastrophe could not be much longer delayed, or the agony of\r\nanticipation would leave nothing to be done by the _coup de grâce_ of\r\nverification. The scarred face behind the lid would slay him through the\r\nwood.\r\n\r\nA movement of the coffin diverted his thought. It came forward to within\r\na foot of his face, growing visibly larger as it approached. The rusted\r\nmetallic plate, with an inscription illegible in the moonlight, looked\r\nhim steadily in the eye. Determined not to shrink, he tried to brace his\r\nshoulders more firmly against the end of the excavation, and nearly fell\r\nbackward in the attempt. There was nothing to support him; he had\r\nunconsciously moved upon his enemy, clutching the heavy knife that he\r\nhad drawn from his belt. The coffin had not advanced and he smiled to\r\nthink it could not retreat. Lifting his knife he struck the heavy hilt\r\nagainst the metal plate with all his power. There was a sharp, ringing\r\npercussion, and with a dull clatter the whole decayed coffin lid broke\r\nin pieces and came away, falling about his feet. The quick and the dead\r\nwere face to face--the frenzied, shrieking man--the woman standing\r\ntranquil in her silences. She was a holy terror!\r\n\r\nV\r\n\r\nSome months later a party of men and women belonging to the highest\r\nsocial circles of San Francisco passed through Hurdy-Gurdy on their way\r\nto the Yosemite Valley by a new trail. They halted for dinner and during\r\nits preparation explored the desolate camp. One of the party had been at\r\nHurdy-Gurdy in the days of its glory. He had, indeed, been one of its\r\nprominent citizens; and it used to be said that more money passed over\r\nhis faro table in any one night than over those of all his competitors\r\nin a week; but being now a millionaire engaged in greater enterprises,\r\nhe did not deem these early successes of sufficient importance to merit\r\nthe distinction of remark. His invalid wife, a lady famous in San\r\nFrancisco for the costly nature of her entertainments and her exacting\r\nrigor with regard to the social position and "antecedents" of those who\r\nattended them, accompanied the expedition. During a stroll among the\r\nshanties of the abandoned camp Mr. Porfer directed the attention of his\r\nwife and friends to a dead tree on a low hill beyond Injun Creek.\r\n\r\n"As I told you," he said, "I passed through this camp in 1852, and was\r\ntold that no fewer than five men had been hanged here by vigilantes at\r\ndifferent times, and all on that tree. If I am not mistaken, a rope is\r\ndangling from it yet. Let us go over and see the place."\r\n\r\nMr. Porfer did not add that the rope in question was perhaps the very\r\none from whose fatal embrace his own neck had once had an escape so\r\nnarrow that an hour\'s delay in taking himself out of that region would\r\nhave spanned it.\r\n\r\nProceeding leisurely down the creek to a convenient crossing, the party\r\ncame upon the cleanly picked skeleton of an animal which Mr. Porfer\r\nafter due examination pronounced to be that of an ass. The\r\ndistinguishing ears were gone, but much of the inedible head had been\r\nspared by the beasts and birds, and the stout bridle of horsehair was\r\nintact, as was the riata, of similar material, connecting it with a\r\npicket pin still firmly sunken in the earth. The wooden and metallic\r\nelements of a miner\'s kit lay near by. The customary remarks were made,\r\ncynical on the part of the men, sentimental and refined by the lady. A\r\nlittle later they stood by the tree in the cemetery and Mr. Porfer\r\nsufficiently unbent from his dignity to place himself beneath the rotten\r\nrope and confidently lay a coil of it about his neck, somewhat, it\r\nappeared, to his own satisfaction, but greatly to the horror of his\r\nwife, to whose sensibilities the performance gave a smart shock.\r\n\r\nAn exclamation from one of the party gathered them all about an open\r\ngrave, at the bottom of which they saw a confused mass of human bones\r\nand the broken remnants of a coffin. Coyotes and buzzards had performed\r\nthe last sad rites for pretty much all else. Two skulls were visible and\r\nin order to investigate this somewhat unusual redundancy one of the\r\nyounger men had the hardihood to spring into the grave and hand them up\r\nto another before Mrs. Porfer could indicate her marked disapproval of\r\nso shocking an act, which, nevertheless, she did with considerable\r\nfeeling and in very choice words. Pursuing his search among the dismal\r\ndebris at the bottom of the grave the young man next handed up a rusted\r\ncoffin plate, with a rudely cut inscription, which with difficulty Mr.\r\nPorfer deciphered and read aloud with an earnest and not altogether\r\nunsuccessful attempt at the dramatic effect which he deemed befitting to\r\nthe occasion and his rhetorical abilities:\r\n\r\n MANUELITA MURPHY.\r\n Born at the Mission San Pedro--Died in\r\n Hurdy-Gurdy,\r\n Aged 47.\r\n Hell\'s full of such.\r\n\r\nIn deference to the piety of the reader and the nerves of Mrs. Porfer\'s\r\nfastidious sisterhood of both sexes let us not touch upon the painful\r\nimpression produced by this uncommon inscription, further than to say\r\nthat the elocutionary powers of Mr. Porfer had never before met with so\r\nspontaneous and overwhelming recognition.\r\n\r\nThe next morsel that rewarded the ghoul in the grave was a long tangle\r\nof black hair defiled with clay: but this was such an anti-climax that\r\nit received little attention. Suddenly, with a short exclamation and a\r\ngesture of excitement, the young man unearthed a fragment of grayish\r\nrock, and after a hurried inspection handed it up to Mr. Porfer. As the\r\nsunlight fell upon it it glittered with a yellow luster--it was thickly\r\nstudded with gleaming points. Mr. Porfer snatched it, bent his head over\r\nit a moment and threw it lightly away with the simple remark:\r\n\r\n"Iron pyrites--fool\'s gold."\r\n\r\nThe young man in the discovery shaft was a trifle disconcerted,\r\napparently.\r\n\r\nMeanwhile, Mrs. Porfer, unable longer to endure the disagreeable\r\nbusiness, had walked back to the tree and seated herself at its root.\r\nWhile rearranging a tress of golden hair which had slipped from its\r\nconfinement she was attracted by what appeared to be and really was the\r\nfragment of an old coat. Looking about to assure herself that so\r\nunladylike an act was not observed, she thrust her jeweled hand into the\r\nexposed breast pocket and drew out a mouldy pocket-book. Its contents\r\nwere as follows:\r\n\r\nOne bundle of letters, postmarked "Elizabethtown, New Jersey."\r\n\r\nOne circle of blonde hair tied with a ribbon.\r\n\r\nOne photograph of a beautiful girl.\r\n\r\nOne ditto of same, singularly disfigured.\r\n\r\nOne name on back of photograph--"Jefferson Doman."\r\n\r\nA few moments later a group of anxious gentlemen surrounded Mrs. Porfer\r\nas she sat motionless at the foot of the tree, her head dropped forward,\r\nher fingers clutching a crushed photograph. Her husband raised her head,\r\nexposing a face ghastly white, except the long, deforming cicatrice,\r\nfamiliar to all her friends, which no art could ever hide, and which now\r\ntraversed the pallor of her countenance like a visible curse.\r\n\r\nMary Matthews Porfer had the bad luck to be dead.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SUITABLE SURROUNDINGS\r\n\r\nTHE NIGHT\r\n\r\nOne midsummer night a farmer\'s boy living about ten miles from the city\r\nof Cincinnati was following a bridle path through a dense and dark\r\nforest. He had lost himself while searching for some missing cows, and\r\nnear midnight was a long way from home, in a part of the country with\r\nwhich he was unfamiliar. But he was a stout-hearted lad, and knowing his\r\ngeneral direction from his home, he plunged into the forest without\r\nhesitation, guided by the stars. Coming into the bridle path, and\r\nobserving that it ran in the right direction, he followed it.\r\n\r\nThe night was clear, but in the woods it was exceedingly dark. It was\r\nmore by the sense of touch than by that of sight that the lad kept the\r\npath. He could not, indeed, very easily go astray; the undergrowth on\r\nboth sides was so thick as to be almost impenetrable. He had gone into\r\nthe forest a mile or more when he was surprised to see a feeble gleam of\r\nlight shining through the foliage skirting the path on his left. The\r\nsight of it startled him and set his heart beating audibly.\r\n\r\n"The old Breede house is somewhere about here," he said to himself.\r\n"This must be the other end of the path which we reach it by from our\r\nside. Ugh! what should a light be doing there?"\r\n\r\nNevertheless, he pushed on. A moment later he had emerged from the\r\nforest into a small, open space, mostly upgrown to brambles. There were\r\nremnants of a rotting fence. A few yards from the trail, in the middle\r\nof the "clearing," was the house from which the light came, through an\r\nunglazed window. The window had once contained glass, but that and its\r\nsupporting frame had long ago yielded to missiles flung by hands of\r\nventuresome boys to attest alike their courage and their hostility to\r\nthe supernatural; for the Breede house bore the evil reputation of being\r\nhaunted. Possibly it was not, but even the hardiest sceptic could not\r\ndeny that it was deserted--which in rural regions is much the same\r\nthing.\r\n\r\nLooking at the mysterious dim light shining from the ruined window the\r\nboy remembered with apprehension that his own hand had assisted at the\r\ndestruction. His penitence was of course poignant in proportion to its\r\ntardiness and inefficacy. He half expected to be set upon by all the\r\nunworldly and bodiless malevolences whom he had outraged by assisting to\r\nbreak alike their windows and their peace. Yet this stubborn lad,\r\nshaking in every limb, would not retreat. The blood in his veins was\r\nstrong and rich with the iron of the frontiersman. He was but two\r\nremoves from the generation that had subdued the Indian. He started to\r\npass the house.\r\n\r\nAs he was going by he looked in at the blank window space and saw a\r\nstrange and terrifying sight,--the figure of a man seated in the centre\r\nof the room, at a table upon which lay some loose sheets of paper. The\r\nelbows rested on the table, the hands supporting the head, which was\r\nuncovered. On each side the fingers were pushed into the hair. The face\r\nshowed dead-yellow in the light of a single candle a little to one side.\r\nThe flame illuminated that side of the face, the other was in deep\r\nshadow. The man\'s eyes were fixed upon the blank window space with a\r\nstare in which an older and cooler observer might have discerned\r\nsomething of apprehension, but which seemed to the lad altogether\r\nsoulless. He believed the man to be dead.\r\n\r\nThe situation was horrible, but not with out its fascination. The boy\r\nstopped to note it all. He was weak, faint and trembling; he could feel\r\nthe blood forsaking his face. Nevertheless, he set his teeth and\r\nresolutely advanced to the house. He had no conscious intention--it was\r\nthe mere courage of terror. He thrust his white face forward into the\r\nilluminated opening. At that instant a strange, harsh cry, a shriek,\r\nbroke upon the silence of the night--the note of a screech-owl. The man\r\nsprang to his feet, overturning the table and extinguishing the candle.\r\nThe boy took to his heels.\r\n\r\nTHE DAY BEFORE\r\n\r\n"Good-morning, Colston. I am in luck, it seems. You have often said that\r\nmy commendation of your literary work was mere civility, and here you\r\nfind me absorbed--actually merged--in your latest story in the\r\n_Messenger_. Nothing less shocking than your touch upon my shoulder\r\nwould have roused me to consciousness."\r\n\r\n"The proof is stronger than you seem to know," replied the man\r\naddressed: "so keen is your eagerness to read my story that you are\r\nwilling to renounce selfish considerations and forego all the pleasure\r\nthat you could get from it."\r\n\r\n"I don\'t understand you," said the other, folding the newspaper that he\r\nheld and putting it into his pocket. "You writers are a queer lot,\r\nanyhow. Come, tell me what I have done or omitted in this matter. In\r\nwhat way does the pleasure that I get, or might get, from your work\r\ndepend on me?"\r\n\r\n"In many ways. Let me ask you how you would enjoy your breakfast if you\r\ntook it in this street car. Suppose the phonograph so perfected as to be\r\nable to give you an entire opera,--singing, orchestration, and all; do\r\nyou think you would get much pleasure out of it if you turned it on at\r\nyour office during business hours? Do you really care for a serenade by\r\nSchubert when you hear it fiddled by an untimely Italian on a morning\r\nferryboat? Are you always cocked and primed for enjoyment? Do you keep\r\nevery mood on tap, ready to any demand? Let me remind you, sir, that the\r\nstory which you have done me the honor to begin as a means of becoming\r\noblivious to the discomfort of this car is a ghost story!"\r\n\r\n"Well?"\r\n\r\n"Well! Has the reader no duties corresponding to his privileges? You\r\nhave paid five cents for that newspaper. It is yours. You have the right\r\nto read it when and where you will. Much of what is in it is neither\r\nhelped nor harmed by time and place and mood; some of it actually\r\nrequires to be read at once--while it is fizzing. But my story is not of\r\nthat character. It is not \'the very latest advices\' from Ghostland. You\r\nare not expected to keep yourself _au courant_ with what is going on in\r\nthe realm of spooks. The stuff will keep until you have leisure to put\r\nyourself into the frame of mind appropriate to the sentiment of the\r\npiece--which I respectfully submit that you cannot do in a street car,\r\neven if you are the only passenger. The solitude is not of the right\r\nsort. An author has rights which the reader is bound to respect."\r\n\r\n"For specific example?"\r\n\r\n"The right to the reader\'s undivided attention. To deny him this is\r\nimmoral. To make him share your attention with the rattle of a street\r\ncar, the moving panorama of the crowds on the sidewalks, and the\r\nbuildings beyond--with any of the thousands of distractions which make\r\nour customary environment--is to treat him with gross injustice. By God,\r\nit is infamous!"\r\n\r\nThe speaker had risen to his feet and was steadying himself by one of\r\nthe straps hanging from the roof of the car. The other man looked up at\r\nhim in sudden astonishment, wondering how so trivial a grievance could\r\nseem to justify so strong language. He saw that his friend\'s face was\r\nuncommonly pale and that his eyes glowed like living coals.\r\n\r\n"You know what I mean," continued the writer, impetuously crowding his\r\nwords--"you know what I mean, Marsh. My stuff in this morning\'s\r\n_Messenger_ is plainly sub-headed \'A Ghost Story.\' That is ample notice\r\nto all. Every honorable reader will understand it as prescribing by\r\nimplication the conditions under which the work is to be read."\r\n\r\nThe man addressed as Marsh winced a trifle, then asked with a smile:\r\n"What conditions? You know that I am only a plain business man who\r\ncannot be supposed to understand such things. How, when, where should I\r\nread your ghost story?"\r\n\r\n"In solitude--at night--by the light of a candle. There are certain\r\nemotions which a writer can easily enough excite--such as compassion or\r\nmerriment. I can move you to tears or laughter under almost any\r\ncircumstances. But for my ghost story to be effective you must be made\r\nto feel fear--at least a strong sense of the supernatural--and that is a\r\ndifficult matter. I have a right to expect that if you read me at all\r\nyou will give me a chance; that you will make yourself accessible to the\r\nemotion that I try to inspire."\r\n\r\nThe car had now arrived at its terminus and stopped. The trip just\r\ncompleted was its first for the day and the conversation of the two\r\nearly passengers had not been interrupted. The streets were yet silent\r\nand desolate; the house tops were just touched by the rising sun. As\r\nthey stepped from the car and walked away together Marsh narrowly eyed\r\nhis companion, who was reported, like most men of uncommon literary\r\nability, to be addicted to various destructive vices. That is the\r\nrevenge which dull minds take upon bright ones in resentment of their\r\nsuperiority. Mr. Colston was known as a man of genius. There are honest\r\nsouls who believe that genius is a mode of excess. It was known that\r\nColston did not drink liquor, but many said that he ate opium. Something\r\nin his appearance that morning--a certain wildness of the eyes, an\r\nunusual pallor, a thickness and rapidity of speech--were taken by Mr.\r\nMarsh to confirm the report. Nevertheless, he had not the self-denial to\r\nabandon a subject which he found interesting, however it might excite\r\nhis friend.\r\n\r\n"Do you mean to say," he began, "that if I take the trouble to observe\r\nyour directions--place myself in the conditions that you demand:\r\nsolitude, night and a tallow candle--you can with your ghostly work give\r\nme an uncomfortable sense of the supernatural, as you call it? Can you\r\naccelerate my pulse, make me start at sudden noises, send a nervous\r\nchill along my spine and cause my hair to rise?"\r\n\r\nColston turned suddenly and looked him squarely in the eyes as they\r\nwalked. "You would not dare--you have not the courage," he said. He\r\nemphasized the words with a contemptuous gesture. "You are brave enough\r\nto read me in a street car, but--in a deserted house--alone--in the\r\nforest--at night! Bah! I have a manuscript in my pocket that would kill\r\nyou."\r\n\r\nMarsh was angry. He knew himself courageous, and the words stung him.\r\n"If you know such a place," he said, "take me there to-night and leave\r\nme your story and a candle. Call for me when I\'ve had time enough to\r\nread it and I\'ll tell you the entire plot and--kick you out of the\r\nplace."\r\n\r\nThat is how it occurred that the farmer\'s boy, looking in at an unglazed\r\nwindow of the Breede house, saw a man sitting in the light of a candle.\r\n\r\nTHE DAY AFTER\r\n\r\nLate in the afternoon of the next day three men and a boy approached the\r\nBreede house from that point of the compass toward which the boy had\r\nfled the preceding night. The men were in high spirits; they talked very\r\nloudly and laughed. They made facetious and good-humored ironical\r\nremarks to the boy about his adventure, which evidently they did not\r\nbelieve in. The boy accepted their raillery with seriousness, making no\r\nreply. He had a sense of the fitness of things and knew that one who\r\nprofesses to have seen a dead man rise from his seat and blow out a\r\ncandle is not a credible witness.\r\n\r\nArriving at the house and finding the door unlocked, the party of\r\ninvestigators entered without ceremony. Leading out of the passage into\r\nwhich this door opened was another on the right and one on the left.\r\nThey entered the room on the left--the one which had the blank front\r\nwindow. Here was the dead body of a man.\r\n\r\nIt lay partly on one side, with the forearm beneath it, the cheek on the\r\nfloor. The eyes were wide open; the stare was not an agreeable thing to\r\nencounter. The lower jaw had fallen; a little pool of saliva had\r\ncollected beneath the mouth. An overthrown table, a partly burned\r\ncandle, a chair and some paper with writing on it were all else that the\r\nroom contained. The men looked at the body, touching the face in turn.\r\nThe boy gravely stood at the head, assuming a look of ownership. It was\r\nthe proudest moment of his life. One of the men said to him, "You\'re a\r\ngood \'un"--a remark which was received by the two others with nods of\r\nacquiescence. It was Scepticism apologizing to Truth. Then one of the\r\nmen took from the floor the sheet of manuscript and stepped to the\r\nwindow, for already the evening shadows were glooming the forest. The\r\nsong of the whip-poor-will was heard in the distance and a monstrous\r\nbeetle sped by the window on roaring wings and thundered away out of\r\nhearing. The man read:\r\n\r\nTHE MANUSCRIPT\r\n\r\n "Before committing the act which, rightly or wrongly, I have resolved\r\n on and appearing before my Maker for judgment, I, James R. Colston,\r\n deem it my duty as a journalist to make a statement to the public. My\r\n name is, I believe, tolerably well known to the people as a writer of\r\n tragic tales, but the somberest imagination never conceived anything\r\n so tragic as my own life and history. Not in incident: my life has\r\n been destitute of adventure and action. But my mental career has been\r\n lurid with experiences such as kill and damn. I shall not recount them\r\n here--some of them are written and ready for publication elsewhere.\r\n The object of these lines is to explain to whomsoever may be\r\n interested that my death is voluntary--my own act. I shall die at\r\n twelve o\'clock on the night of the 15th of July--a significant\r\n anniversary to me, for it was on that day, and at that hour, that my\r\n friend in time and eternity, Charles Breede, performed his vow to me\r\n by the same act which his fidelity to our pledge now entails upon me.\r\n He took his life in his little house in the Copeton woods. There was\r\n the customary verdict of \'temporary insanity.\' Had I testified at that\r\n inquest--had I told all I knew, they would have called _me_ mad!"\r\n\r\nHere followed an evidently long passage which the man reading read to\r\nhimself only. The rest he read aloud.\r\n\r\n "I have still a week of life in which to arrange my worldly affairs\r\n and prepare for the great change. It is enough, for I have but few\r\n affairs and it is now four years since death became an imperative\r\n obligation.\r\n\r\n "I shall bear this writing on my body; the finder will please hand it\r\n to the coroner.\r\n\r\n "JAMES R. COLSTON.\r\n\r\n "P.S.--Willard Marsh, on this the fatal fifteenth day of July I hand\r\n you this manuscript, to be opened and read under the conditions agreed\r\n upon, and at the place which I designated. I forego my intention to\r\n keep it on my body to explain the manner of my death, which is not\r\n important. It will serve to explain the manner of yours. I am to call\r\n for you during the night to receive assurance that you have read the\r\n manuscript. You know me well enough to expect me. But, my friend, it\r\n _will be after twelve o\'clock._ May God have mercy on our souls!\r\n\r\n "J.R.C."\r\n\r\nBefore the man who was reading this manuscript had finished, the candle\r\nhad been picked up and lighted. When the reader had done, he quietly\r\nthrust the paper against the flame and despite the protestations of the\r\nothers held it until it was burnt to ashes. The man who did this, and\r\nwho afterward placidly endured a severe reprimand from the coroner, was\r\na son-in-law of the late Charles Breede. At the inquest nothing could\r\nelicit an intelligent account of what the paper had contained.\r\n\r\nFROM "THE TIMES"\r\n\r\n "Yesterday the Commissioners of Lunacy committed to the asylum Mr.\r\n James R. Colston, a writer of some local reputation, connected with\r\n the _Messenger_. It will be remembered that on the evening of the 15th\r\n inst. Mr. Colston was given into custody by one of his fellow-lodgers\r\n in the Baine House, who had observed him acting very suspiciously,\r\n baring his throat and whetting a razor--occasionally trying its edge\r\n by actually cutting through the skin of his arm, etc. On being handed\r\n over to the police, the unfortunate man made a desperate resistance,\r\n and has ever since been so violent that it has been necessary to keep\r\n him in a strait-jacket. Most of our esteemed contemporary\'s other\r\n writers are still at large."\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE BOARDED WINDOW\r\n\r\nIn 1830, only a few miles away from what is now the great city of\r\nCincinnati, lay an immense and almost unbroken forest. The whole region\r\nwas sparsely settled by people of the frontier--restless souls who no\r\nsooner had hewn fairly habitable homes out of the wilderness and\r\nattained to that degree of prosperity which to-day we should call\r\nindigence than impelled by some mysterious impulse of their nature they\r\nabandoned all and pushed farther westward, to encounter new perils and\r\nprivations in the effort to regain the meagre comforts which they had\r\nvoluntarily renounced. Many of them had already forsaken that region for\r\nthe remoter settlements, but among those remaining was one who had been\r\nof those first arriving. He lived alone in a house of logs surrounded on\r\nall sides by the great forest, of whose gloom and silence he seemed a\r\npart, for no one had ever known him to smile nor speak a needless word.\r\nHis simple wants were supplied by the sale or barter of skins of wild\r\nanimals in the river town, for not a thing did he grow upon the land\r\nwhich, if needful, he might have claimed by right of undisturbed\r\npossession. There were evidences of "improvement"--a few acres of ground\r\nimmediately about the house had once been cleared of its trees, the\r\ndecayed stumps of which were half concealed by the new growth that had\r\nbeen suffered to repair the ravage wrought by the ax. Apparently the\r\nman\'s zeal for agriculture had burned with a failing flame, expiring in\r\npenitential ashes.\r\n\r\nThe little log house, with its chimney of sticks, its roof of warping\r\nclapboards weighted with traversing poles and its "chinking" of clay,\r\nhad a single door and, directly opposite, a window. The latter, however,\r\nwas boarded up--nobody could remember a time when it was not. And none\r\nknew why it was so closed; certainly not because of the occupant\'s\r\ndislike of light and air, for on those rare occasions when a hunter had\r\npassed that lonely spot the recluse had commonly been seen sunning\r\nhimself on his doorstep if heaven had provided sunshine for his need. I\r\nfancy there are few persons living to-day who ever knew the secret of\r\nthat window, but I am one, as you shall see.\r\n\r\nThe man\'s name was said to be Murlock. He was apparently seventy years\r\nold, actually about fifty. Something besides years had had a hand in his\r\naging. His hair and long, full beard were white, his gray, lustreless\r\neyes sunken, his face singularly seamed with wrinkles which appeared to\r\nbelong to two intersecting systems. In figure he was tall and spare,\r\nwith a stoop of the shoulders--a burden bearer. I never saw him; these\r\nparticulars I learned from my grandfather, from whom also I got the\r\nman\'s story when I was a lad. He had known him when living near by in\r\nthat early day.\r\n\r\nOne day Murlock was found in his cabin, dead. It was not a time and\r\nplace for coroners and newspapers, and I suppose it was agreed that he\r\nhad died from natural causes or I should have been told, and should\r\nremember. I know only that with what was probably a sense of the fitness\r\nof things the body was buried near the cabin, alongside the grave of his\r\nwife, who had preceded him by so many years that local tradition had\r\nretained hardly a hint of her existence. That closes the final chapter\r\nof this true story--excepting, indeed, the circumstance that many years\r\nafterward, in company with an equally intrepid spirit, I penetrated to\r\nthe place and ventured near enough to the ruined cabin to throw a stone\r\nagainst it, and ran away to avoid the ghost which every well-informed\r\nboy thereabout knew haunted the spot. But there is an earlier chapter--\r\nthat supplied by my grandfather.\r\n\r\nWhen Murlock built his cabin and began laying sturdily about with his ax\r\nto hew out a farm--the rifle, meanwhile, his means of support--he was\r\nyoung, strong and full of hope. In that eastern country whence he came\r\nhe had married, as was the fashion, a young woman in all ways worthy of\r\nhis honest devotion, who shared the dangers and privations of his lot\r\nwith a willing spirit and light heart. There is no known record of her\r\nname; of her charms of mind and person tradition is silent and the\r\ndoubter is at liberty to entertain his doubt; but God forbid that I\r\nshould share it! Of their affection and happiness there is abundant\r\nassurance in every added day of the man\'s widowed life; for what but the\r\nmagnetism of a blessed memory could have chained that venturesome spirit\r\nto a lot like that?\r\n\r\nOne day Murlock returned from gunning in a distant part of the forest to\r\nfind his wife prostrate with fever, and delirious. There was no\r\nphysician within miles, no neighbor; nor was she in a condition to be\r\nleft, to summon help. So he set about the task of nursing her back to\r\nhealth, but at the end of the third day she fell into unconsciousness\r\nand so passed away, apparently, with never a gleam of returning reason.\r\n\r\nFrom what we know of a nature like his we may venture to sketch in some\r\nof the details of the outline picture drawn by my grandfather. When\r\nconvinced that she was dead, Murlock had sense enough to remember that\r\nthe dead must be prepared for burial. In performance of this sacred duty\r\nhe blundered now and again, did certain things incorrectly, and others\r\nwhich he did correctly were done over and over. His occasional failures\r\nto accomplish some simple and ordinary act filled him with astonishment,\r\nlike that of a drunken man who wonders at the suspension of familiar\r\nnatural laws. He was surprised, too, that he did not weep--surprised and\r\na little ashamed; surely it is unkind not to weep for the dead.\r\n"To-morrow," he said aloud, "I shall have to make the coffin and dig the\r\ngrave; and then I shall miss her, when she is no longer in sight; but\r\nnow--she is dead, of course, but it is all right--it _must_ be all\r\nright, somehow. Things cannot be so bad as they seem."\r\n\r\nHe stood over the body in the fading light, adjusting the hair and\r\nputting the finishing touches to the simple toilet, doing all\r\nmechanically, with soulless care. And still through his consciousness\r\nran an undersense of conviction that all was right--that he should have\r\nher again as before, and everything explained. He had had no experience\r\nin grief; his capacity had not been enlarged by use. His heart could not\r\ncontain it all, nor his imagination rightly conceive it. He did not know\r\nhe was so hard struck; _that_ knowledge would come later, and never go.\r\nGrief is an artist of powers as various as the instruments upon which he\r\nplays his dirges for the dead, evoking from some the sharpest, shrillest\r\nnotes, from others the low, grave chords that throb recurrent like the\r\nslow beating of a distant drum. Some natures it startles; some it\r\nstupefies. To one it comes like the stroke of an arrow, stinging all the\r\nsensibilities to a keener life; to another as the blow of a bludgeon,\r\nwhich in crushing benumbs. We may conceive Murlock to have been that way\r\naffected, for (and here we are upon surer ground than that of\r\nconjecture) no sooner had he finished his pious work than, sinking into\r\na chair by the side of the table upon which the body lay, and noting how\r\nwhite the profile showed in the deepening gloom, he laid his arms upon\r\nthe table\'s edge, and dropped his face into them, tearless yet and\r\nunutterably weary. At that moment came in through the open window a\r\nlong, wailing sound like the cry of a lost child in the far deeps of the\r\ndarkening wood! But the man did not move. Again, and nearer than before,\r\nsounded that unearthly cry upon his failing sense. Perhaps it was a wild\r\nbeast; perhaps it was a dream. For Murlock was asleep.\r\n\r\nSome hours later, as it afterward appeared, this unfaithful watcher\r\nawoke and lifting his head from his arms intently listened--he knew not\r\nwhy. There in the black darkness by the side of the dead, recalling all\r\nwithout a shock, he strained his eyes to see--he knew not what. His\r\nsenses were all alert, his breath was suspended, his blood had stilled\r\nits tides as if to assist the silence. Who--what had waked him, and\r\nwhere was it?\r\n\r\nSuddenly the table shook beneath his arms, and at the same moment he\r\nheard, or fancied that he heard, a light, soft step--another--sounds as\r\nof bare feet upon the floor!\r\n\r\nHe was terrified beyond the power to cry out or move. Perforce he\r\nwaited--waited there in the darkness through seeming centuries of such\r\ndread as one may know, yet live to tell. He tried vainly to speak the\r\ndead woman\'s name, vainly to stretch forth his hand across the table to\r\nlearn if she were there. His throat was powerless, his arms and hands\r\nwere like lead. Then occurred something most frightful. Some heavy body\r\nseemed hurled against the table with an impetus that pushed it against\r\nhis breast so sharply as nearly to overthrow him, and at the same\r\ninstant he heard and felt the fall of something upon the floor with so\r\nviolent a thump that the whole house was shaken by the impact. A\r\nscuffling ensued, and a confusion of sounds impossible to describe.\r\nMurlock had risen to his feet. Fear had by excess forfeited control of\r\nhis faculties. He flung his hands upon the table. Nothing was there!\r\n\r\nThere is a point at which terror may turn to madness; and madness\r\nincites to action. With no definite intent, from no motive but the\r\nwayward impulse of a madman, Murlock sprang to the wall, with a little\r\ngroping seized his loaded rifle, and without aim discharged it. By the\r\nflash which lit up the room with a vivid illumination, he saw an\r\nenormous panther dragging the dead woman toward the window, its teeth\r\nfixed in her throat! Then there were darkness blacker than before, and\r\nsilence; and when he returned to consciousness the sun was high and the\r\nwood vocal with songs of birds.\r\n\r\nThe body lay near the window, where the beast had left it when\r\nfrightened away by the flash and report of the rifle. The clothing was\r\nderanged, the long hair in disorder, the limbs lay anyhow. From the\r\nthroat, dreadfully lacerated, had issued a pool of blood not yet\r\nentirely coagulated. The ribbon with which he had bound the wrists was\r\nbroken; the hands were tightly clenched. Between the teeth was a\r\nfragment of the animal\'s ear.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA LADY FROM REDHORSE\r\n\r\nCORONADO, JUNE 20.\r\n\r\nI find myself more and more interested in him. It is not, I am sure,\r\nhis--do you know any good noun corresponding to the adjective\r\n"handsome"? One does not like to say "beauty" when speaking of a man. He\r\nis beautiful enough, Heaven knows; I should not even care to trust you\r\nwith him--faithfulest of all possible wives that you are--when he looks\r\nhis best, as he always does. Nor do I think the fascination of his\r\nmanner has much to do with it. You recollect that the charm of art\r\ninheres in that which is undefinable, and to you and me, my dear Irene,\r\nI fancy there is rather less of that in the branch of art under\r\nconsideration than to girls in their first season. I fancy I know how my\r\nfine gentleman produces many of his effects and could perhaps give him a\r\npointer on heightening them. Nevertheless, his manner is something truly\r\ndelightful. I suppose what interests me chiefly is the man\'s brains. His\r\nconversation is the best I have ever heard and altogether unlike any one\r\nelse\'s. He seems to know everything, as indeed he ought, for he has been\r\neverywhere, read everything, seen all there is to see--sometimes I think\r\nrather more than is good for him--and had acquaintance with the\r\n_queerest_ people. And then his voice--Irene, when I hear it I actually\r\nfeel as if I ought to have paid at the door, though of course it is my\r\nown door.\r\n\r\nJULY 3.\r\n\r\nI fear my remarks about Dr. Barritz must have been, being thoughtless,\r\nvery silly, or you would not have written of him with such levity, not\r\nto say disrespect. Believe me, dearest, he has more dignity and\r\nseriousness (of the kind, I mean, which is not inconsistent with a\r\nmanner sometimes playful and always charming) than any of the men that\r\nyou and I ever met. And young Raynor--you knew Raynor at Monterey--tells\r\nme that the men all like him and that he is treated with something like\r\ndeference everywhere. There is a mystery, too--something about his\r\nconnection with the Blavatsky people in Northern India. Raynor either\r\nwould not or could not tell me the particulars. I infer that Dr. Barritz\r\nis thought--don\'t you dare to laugh!--a magician. Could anything be\r\nfiner than that?\r\n\r\nAn ordinary mystery is not, of course, so good as a scandal, but when it\r\nrelates to dark and dreadful practices--to the exercise of unearthly\r\npowers--could anything be more piquant? It explains, too, the singular\r\ninfluence the man has upon me. It is the undefinable in his art--black\r\nart. Seriously, dear, I quite tremble when he looks me full in the eyes\r\nwith those unfathomable orbs of his, which I have already vainly\r\nattempted to describe to you. How dreadful if he has the power to make\r\none fall in love! Do you know if the Blavatsky crowd have that power--\r\noutside of Sepoy?\r\n\r\nJULY 16.\r\n\r\nThe strangest thing! Last evening while Auntie was attending one of the\r\nhotel hops (I hate them) Dr. Barritz called. It was scandalously late--I\r\nactually believe that he had talked with Auntie in the ballroom and\r\nlearned from her that I was alone. I had been all the evening contriving\r\nhow to worm out of him the truth about his connection with the Thugs in\r\nSepoy, and all of that black business, but the moment he fixed his eyes\r\non me (for I admitted him, I\'m ashamed to say) I was helpless. I\r\ntrembled, I blushed, I--O Irene, Irene, I love the man beyond expression\r\nand you know how it is yourself.\r\n\r\nFancy! I, an ugly duckling from Redhorse--daughter (they say) of old\r\nCalamity Jim--certainly his heiress, with no living relation but an\r\nabsurd old aunt who spoils me a thousand and fifty ways--absolutely\r\ndestitute of everything but a million dollars and a hope in Paris,--I\r\ndaring to love a god like him! My dear, if I had you here I could tear\r\nyour hair out with mortification.\r\n\r\nI am convinced that he is aware of my feeling, for he stayed but a few\r\nmoments, said nothing but what another man might have said half as well,\r\nand pretending that he had an engagement went away. I learned to-day (a\r\nlittle bird told me--the bell-bird) that he went straight to bed. How\r\ndoes that strike you as evidence of exemplary habits?\r\n\r\nJULY 17.\r\n\r\nThat little wretch, Raynor, called yesterday and his babble set me\r\nalmost wild. He never runs down--that is to say, when he exterminates a\r\nscore of reputations, more or less, he does not pause between one\r\nreputation and the next. (By the way, he inquired about you, and his\r\nmanifestations of interest in you had, I confess, a good deal of\r\n_vraisemblance._.) Mr. Raynor observes no game laws; like Death (which\r\nhe would inflict if slander were fatal) he has all seasons for his own.\r\nBut I like him, for we knew each other at Redhorse when we were young.\r\nHe was known in those days as "Giggles," and I--O Irene, can you ever\r\nforgive me?--I was called "Gunny." God knows why; perhaps in allusion to\r\nthe material of my pinafores; perhaps because the name is in\r\nalliteration with "Giggles," for Gig and I were inseparable playmates,\r\nand the miners may have thought it a delicate civility to recognize some\r\nkind of relationship between us.\r\n\r\nLater, we took in a third--another of Adversity\'s brood, who, like\r\nGarrick between Tragedy and Comedy, had a chronic inability to\r\nadjudicate the rival claims of Frost and Famine. Between him and misery\r\nthere was seldom anything more than a single suspender and the hope of a\r\nmeal which would at the same time support life and make it\r\ninsupportable. He literally picked up a precarious living for himself\r\nand an aged mother by "chloriding the dumps," that is to say, the miners\r\npermitted him to search the heaps of waste rock for such pieces of "pay\r\nore" as had been overlooked; and these he sacked up and sold at the\r\nSyndicate Mill. He became a member of our firm--"Gunny, Giggles, and\r\nDumps" thenceforth--through my favor; for I could not then, nor can I\r\nnow, be indifferent to his courage and prowess in defending against\r\nGiggles the immemorial right of his sex to insult a strange and\r\nunprotected female--myself. After old Jim struck it in the Calamity and\r\nI began to wear shoes and go to school, and in emulation Giggles took to\r\nwashing his face and became Jack Raynor, of Wells, Fargo & Co., and old\r\nMrs. Barts was herself chlorided to her fathers, Dumps drifted over to\r\nSan Juan Smith and turned stage driver, and was killed by road agents,\r\nand so forth.\r\n\r\nWhy do I tell you all this, dear? Because it is heavy on my heart.\r\nBecause I walk the Valley of Humility. Because I am subduing myself to\r\npermanent consciousness of my unworthiness to unloose the latchet of Dr.\r\nBarritz\'s shoe. Because, oh dear, oh dear, there\'s a cousin of Dumps at\r\nthis hotel! I haven\'t spoken to him. I never had much acquaintance with\r\nhim,--but do you suppose he has recognized me? Do, please give me in\r\nyour next your candid, sure-enough opinion about it, and say you don\'t\r\nthink so. Do you suppose He knows about me already, and that that is why\r\nHe left me last evening when He saw that I blushed and trembled like a\r\nfool under His eyes? You know I can\'t bribe _all_ the newspapers, and I\r\ncan\'t go back on anybody who was civil to Gunny at Redhorse--not if I\'m\r\npitched out of society into the sea. So the skeleton sometimes rattles\r\nbehind the door. I never cared much before, as you know, but now--_now_\r\nit is not the same. Jack Raynor I am sure of--he will not tell Him. He\r\nseems, indeed, to hold Him in such respect as hardly to dare speak to\r\nHim at all, and I\'m a good deal that way myself. Dear, dear! I wish I\r\nhad something besides a million dollars! If Jack were three inches\r\ntaller I\'d marry him alive and go back to Redhorse and wear sackcloth\r\nagain to the end of my miserable days.\r\n\r\nJULY 25.\r\n\r\nWe had a perfectly splendid sunset last evening and I must tell you all\r\nabout it. I ran away from Auntie and everybody and was walking alone on\r\nthe beach. I expect you to believe, you infidel! that I had not looked\r\nout of my window on the seaward side of the hotel and seen Him walking\r\nalone on the beach. If you are not lost to every feeling of womanly\r\ndelicacy you will accept my statement without question. I soon\r\nestablished myself under my sunshade and had for some time been gazing\r\nout dreamily over the sea, when he approached, walking close to the edge\r\nof the water--it was ebb tide. I assure you the wet sand actually\r\nbrightened about his feet! As he approached me he lifted his hat,\r\nsaying, "Miss Dement, may I sit with you?--or will you walk with me?"\r\n\r\nThe possibility that neither might be agreeable seems not to have\r\noccurred to him. Did you ever know such assurance? Assurance? My dear,\r\nit was gall, downright _gall!_ Well, I didn\'t find it wormwood, and\r\nreplied, with my untutored Redhorse heart in my throat, "I--I shall be\r\npleased to do _anything_." Could words have been more stupid? There are\r\ndepths of fatuity in me, friend o\' my soul, that are simply bottomless!\r\n\r\nHe extended his hand, smiling, and I delivered mine into it without a\r\nmoment\'s hesitation, and when his fingers closed about it to assist me\r\nto my feet the consciousness that it trembled made me blush worse than\r\nthe red west. I got up, however, and after a while, observing that he\r\nhad not let go my hand I pulled on it a little, but unsuccessfully. He\r\nsimply held on, saying nothing, but looking down into my face with some\r\nkind of smile--I didn\'t know--how could I?--whether it was affectionate,\r\nderisive, or what, for I did not look at him. How beautiful he was!--\r\nwith the red fires of the sunset burning in the depths of his eyes. Do\r\nyou know, dear, if the Thugs and Experts of the Blavatsky region have\r\nany special kind of eyes? Ah, you should have seen his superb attitude,\r\nthe god-like inclination of his head as he stood over me after I had got\r\nupon my feet! It was a noble picture, but I soon destroyed it, for I\r\nbegan at once to sink again to the earth. There was only one thing for\r\nhim to do, and he did it; he supported me with an arm about my waist.\r\n\r\n"Miss Dement, are you ill?" he said.\r\n\r\nIt was not an exclamation; there was neither alarm nor solicitude in it.\r\nIf he had added: "I suppose that is about what I am expected to say," he\r\nwould hardly have expressed his sense of the situation more clearly. His\r\nmanner filled me with shame and indignation, for I was suffering\r\nacutely. I wrenched my hand out of his, grasped the arm supporting me\r\nand pushing myself free, fell plump into the sand and sat helpless. My\r\nhat had fallen off in the struggle and my hair tumbled about my face and\r\nshoulders in the most mortifying way.\r\n\r\n"Go away from me," I cried, half choking. "O _please_ go away, you--you\r\nThug! How dare you think _that_ when my leg is asleep?"\r\n\r\nI actually said those identical words! And then I broke down and sobbed.\r\nIrene, I _blubbered_!\r\n\r\nHis manner altered in an instant--I could see that much through my\r\nfingers and hair. He dropped on one knee beside me, parted the tangle of\r\nhair and said in the tenderest way: "My poor girl, God knows I have not\r\nintended to pain you. How should I?--I who love you--I who have loved\r\nyou for--for years and years!"\r\n\r\nHe had pulled my wet hands away from my face and was covering them with\r\nkisses. My cheeks were like two coals, my whole face was flaming and, I\r\nthink, steaming. What could I do? I hid it on his shoulder--there was no\r\nother place. And, O my dear friend, how my leg tingled and thrilled, and\r\nhow I wanted to kick!\r\n\r\nWe sat so for a long time. He had released one of my hands to pass his\r\narm about me again and I possessed myself of my handkerchief and was\r\ndrying my eyes and my nose. I would not look up until that was done; he\r\ntried in vain to push me a little away and gaze into my face. Presently,\r\nwhen all was right, and it had grown a bit dark, I lifted my head,\r\nlooked him straight in the eyes and smiled my best--my level best, dear.\r\n\r\n"What do you mean," I said, "by \'years and years\'?"\r\n\r\n"Dearest," he replied, very gravely, very earnestly, "in the absence of\r\nthe sunken cheeks, the hollow eyes, the lank hair, the slouching gait,\r\nthe rags, dirt, and youth, can you not--will you not understand? Gunny,\r\nI\'m Dumps!"\r\n\r\nIn a moment I was upon my feet and he upon his. I seized him by the\r\nlapels of his coat and peered into his handsome face in the deepening\r\ndarkness. I was breathless with excitement.\r\n\r\n"And you are not dead?" I asked, hardly knowing what I said.\r\n\r\n"Only dead in love, dear. I recovered from the road agent\'s bullet, but\r\nthis, I fear, is fatal."\r\n\r\n"But about Jack--Mr. Raynor? Don\'t you know--"\r\n\r\n"I am ashamed to say, darling, that it was through that unworthy\r\nperson\'s suggestion that I came here from Vienna."\r\n\r\nIrene, they have roped in your affectionate friend,\r\n\r\n MARY JANE DEMENT.\r\n\r\nP.S.--The worst of it is that there is no mystery; that was the\r\ninvention of Jack Raynor, to arouse my curiosity. James is not a Thug.\r\nHe solemnly assures me that in all his wanderings he has never set foot\r\nin Sepoy.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE EYES OF THE PANTHER\r\n\r\nI\r\n\r\nONE DOES NOT ALWAYS MARRY WHEN INSANE\r\n\r\nA man and a woman--nature had done the grouping--sat on a rustic seat,\r\nin the late afternoon. The man was middle-aged, slender, swarthy, with\r\nthe expression of a poet and the complexion of a pirate--a man at whom\r\none would look again. The woman was young, blonde, graceful, with\r\nsomething in her figure and movements suggesting the word "lithe." She\r\nwas habited in a gray gown with odd brown markings in the texture. She\r\nmay have been beautiful; one could not readily say, for her eyes denied\r\nattention to all else. They were gray-green, long and narrow, with an\r\nexpression defying analysis. One could only know that they were\r\ndisquieting. Cleopatra may have had such eyes.\r\n\r\nThe man and the woman talked.\r\n\r\n"Yes," said the woman, "I love you, God knows! But marry you, no. I\r\ncannot, will not."\r\n\r\n"Irene, you have said that many times, yet always have denied me a\r\nreason. I\'ve a right to know, to understand, to feel and prove my\r\nfortitude if I have it. Give me a reason."\r\n\r\n"For loving you?"\r\n\r\nThe woman was smiling through her tears and her pallor. That did not\r\nstir any sense of humor in the man.\r\n\r\n"No; there is no reason for that. A reason for not marrying me. I\'ve a\r\nright to know. I must know. I will know!"\r\n\r\nHe had risen and was standing before her with clenched hands, on his\r\nface a frown--it might have been called a scowl. He looked as if he\r\nmight attempt to learn by strangling her. She smiled no more--merely sat\r\nlooking up into his face with a fixed, set regard that was utterly\r\nwithout emotion or sentiment. Yet it had something in it that tamed his\r\nresentment and made him shiver.\r\n\r\n"You are determined to have my reason?" she asked in a tone that was\r\nentirely mechanical--a tone that might have been her look made audible.\r\n\r\n"If you please--if I\'m not asking too much."\r\n\r\nApparently this lord of creation was yielding some part of his dominion\r\nover his co-creature.\r\n\r\n"Very well, you shall know: I am insane."\r\n\r\nThe man started, then looked incredulous and was conscious that he ought\r\nto be amused. But, again, the sense of humor failed him in his need and\r\ndespite his disbelief he was profoundly disturbed by that which he did\r\nnot believe. Between our convictions and our feelings there is no good\r\nunderstanding.\r\n\r\n"That is what the physicians would say," the woman continued--"if they\r\nknew. I might myself prefer to call it a case of \'possession.\' Sit down\r\nand hear what I have to say."\r\n\r\nThe man silently resumed his seat beside her on the rustic bench by the\r\nwayside. Over-against them on the eastern side of the valley the hills\r\nwere already sunset-flushed and the stillness all about was of that\r\npeculiar quality that foretells the twilight. Something of its\r\nmysterious and significant solemnity had imparted itself to the man\'s\r\nmood. In the spiritual, as in the material world, are signs and presages\r\nof night. Rarely meeting her look, and whenever he did so conscious of\r\nthe indefinable dread with which, despite their feline beauty, her eyes\r\nalways affected him, Jenner Brading listened in silence to the story\r\ntold by Irene Marlowe. In deference to the reader\'s possible prejudice\r\nagainst the artless method of an unpractised historian the author\r\nventures to substitute his own version for hers.\r\n\r\nII\r\n\r\nA ROOM MAY BE TOO NARROW FOR THREE, THOUGH ONE IS OUTSIDE\r\n\r\nIn a little log house containing a single room sparely and rudely\r\nfurnished, crouching on the floor against one of the walls, was a woman,\r\nclasping to her breast a child. Outside, a dense unbroken forest\r\nextended for many miles in every direction. This was at night and the\r\nroom was black dark: no human eye could have discerned the woman and the\r\nchild. Yet they were observed, narrowly, vigilantly, with never even a\r\nmomentary slackening of attention; and that is the pivotal fact upon\r\nwhich this narrative turns.\r\n\r\nCharles Marlowe was of the class, now extinct in this country, of\r\nwoodmen pioneers--men who found their most acceptable surroundings in\r\nsylvan solitudes that stretched along the eastern slope of the\r\nMississippi Valley, from the Great Lakes to the Gulf of Mexico. For more\r\nthan a hundred years these men pushed ever westward, generation after\r\ngeneration, with rifle and ax, reclaiming from Nature and her savage\r\nchildren here and there an isolated acreage for the plow, no sooner\r\nreclaimed than surrendered to their less venturesome but more thrifty\r\nsuccessors. At last they burst through the edge of the forest into the\r\nopen country and vanished as if they had fallen over a cliff. The\r\nwoodman pioneer is no more; the pioneer of the plains--he whose easy\r\ntask it was to subdue for occupancy two-thirds of the country in a\r\nsingle generation--is another and inferior creation. With Charles\r\nMarlowe in the wilderness, sharing the dangers, hardships and privations\r\nof that strange, unprofitable life, were his wife and child, to whom, in\r\nthe manner of his class, in which the domestic virtues were a religion,\r\nhe was passionately attached. The woman was still young enough to be\r\ncomely, new enough to the awful isolation of her lot to be cheerful. By\r\nwithholding the large capacity for happiness which the simple\r\nsatisfactions of the forest life could not have filled, Heaven had dealt\r\nhonorably with her. In her light household tasks, her child, her husband\r\nand her few foolish books, she found abundant provision for her needs.\r\n\r\nOne morning in midsummer Marlowe took down his rifle from the wooden\r\nhooks on the wall and signified his intention of getting game.\r\n\r\n"We\'ve meat enough," said the wife; "please don\'t go out to-day. I\r\ndreamed last night, O, such a dreadful thing! I cannot recollect it, but\r\nI\'m almost sure that it will come to pass if you go out."\r\n\r\nIt is painful to confess that Marlowe received this solemn statement\r\nwith less of gravity than was due to the mysterious nature of the\r\ncalamity foreshadowed. In truth, he laughed.\r\n\r\n"Try to remember," he said. "Maybe you dreamed that Baby had lost the\r\npower of speech."\r\n\r\nThe conjecture was obviously suggested by the fact that Baby, clinging\r\nto the fringe of his hunting-coat with all her ten pudgy thumbs was at\r\nthat moment uttering her sense of the situation in a series of exultant\r\ngoo-goos inspired by sight of her father\'s raccoon-skin cap.\r\n\r\nThe woman yielded: lacking the gift of humor she could not hold out\r\nagainst his kindly badinage. So, with a kiss for the mother and a kiss\r\nfor the child, he left the house and closed the door upon his happiness\r\nforever.\r\n\r\nAt nightfall he had not returned. The woman prepared supper and waited.\r\nThen she put Baby to bed and sang softly to her until she slept. By this\r\ntime the fire on the hearth, at which she had cooked supper, had burned\r\nout and the room was lighted by a single candle. This she afterward\r\nplaced in the open window as a sign and welcome to the hunter if he\r\nshould approach from that side. She had thoughtfully closed and barred\r\nthe door against such wild animals as might prefer it to an open window\r\n--of the habits of beasts of prey in entering a house uninvited she was\r\nnot advised, though with true female prevision she may have considered\r\nthe possibility of their entrance by way of the chimney. As the night\r\nwore on she became not less anxious, but more drowsy, and at last rested\r\nher arms upon the bed by the child and her head upon the arms. The\r\ncandle in the window burned down to the socket, sputtered and flared a\r\nmoment and went out unobserved; for the woman slept and dreamed.\r\n\r\nIn her dreams she sat beside the cradle of a second child. The first one\r\nwas dead. The father was dead. The home in the forest was lost and the\r\ndwelling in which she lived was unfamiliar. There were heavy oaken\r\ndoors, always closed, and outside the windows, fastened into the thick\r\nstone walls, were iron bars, obviously (so she thought) a provision\r\nagainst Indians. All this she noted with an infinite self-pity, but\r\nwithout surprise--an emotion unknown in dreams. The child in the cradle\r\nwas invisible under its coverlet which something impelled her to remove.\r\nShe did so, disclosing the face of a wild animal! In the shock of this\r\ndreadful revelation the dreamer awoke, trembling in the darkness of her\r\ncabin in the wood.\r\n\r\nAs a sense of her actual surroundings came slowly back to her she felt\r\nfor the child that was not a dream, and assured herself by its breathing\r\nthat all was well with it; nor could she forbear to pass a hand lightly\r\nacross its face. Then, moved by some impulse for which she probably\r\ncould not have accounted, she rose and took the sleeping babe in her\r\narms, holding it close against her breast. The head of the child\'s cot\r\nwas against the wall to which the woman now turned her back as she\r\nstood. Lifting her eyes she saw two bright objects starring the darkness\r\nwith a reddish-green glow. She took them to be two coals on the hearth,\r\nbut with her returning sense of direction came the disquieting\r\nconsciousness that they were not in that quarter of the room, moreover\r\nwere too high, being nearly at the level of the eyes--of her own eyes.\r\nFor these were the eyes of a panther.\r\n\r\nThe beast was at the open window directly opposite and not five paces\r\naway. Nothing but those terrible eyes was visible, but in the dreadful\r\ntumult of her feelings as the situation disclosed itself to her\r\nunderstanding she somehow knew that the animal was standing on its\r\nhinder feet, supporting itself with its paws on the window-ledge. That\r\nsignified a malign interest--not the mere gratification of an indolent\r\ncuriosity. The consciousness of the attitude was an added horror,\r\naccentuating the menace of those awful eyes, in whose steadfast fire her\r\nstrength and courage were alike consumed. Under their silent questioning\r\nshe shuddered and turned sick. Her knees failed her, and by degrees,\r\ninstinctively striving to avoid a sudden movement that might bring the\r\nbeast upon her, she sank to the floor, crouched against the wall and\r\ntried to shield the babe with her trembling body without withdrawing her\r\ngaze from the luminous orbs that were killing her. No thought of her\r\nhusband came to her in her agony--no hope nor suggestion of rescue or\r\nescape. Her capacity for thought and feeling had narrowed to the\r\ndimensions of a single emotion--fear of the animal\'s spring, of the\r\nimpact of its body, the buffeting of its great arms, the feel of its\r\nteeth in her throat, the mangling of her babe. Motionless now and in\r\nabsolute silence, she awaited her doom, the moments growing to hours, to\r\nyears, to ages; and still those devilish eyes maintained their watch.\r\n\r\nReturning to his cabin late at night with a deer on his shoulders\r\nCharles Marlowe tried the door. It did not yield. He knocked; there was\r\nno answer. He laid down his deer and went round to the window. As he\r\nturned the angle of the building he fancied he heard a sound as of\r\nstealthy footfalls and a rustling in the undergrowth of the forest, but\r\nthey were too slight for certainty, even to his practised ear.\r\nApproaching the window, and to his surprise finding it open, he threw\r\nhis leg over the sill and entered. All was darkness and silence. He\r\ngroped his way to the fire-place, struck a match and lit a candle.\r\n\r\nThen he looked about. Cowering on the floor against a wall was his wife,\r\nclasping his child. As he sprang toward her she rose and broke into\r\nlaughter, long, loud, and mechanical, devoid of gladness and devoid of\r\nsense--the laughter that is not out of keeping with the clanking of a\r\nchain. Hardly knowing what he did he extended his arms. She laid the\r\nbabe in them. It was dead--pressed to death in its mother\'s embrace.\r\n\r\nIII\r\n\r\nTHE THEORY OF THE DEFENSE\r\n\r\nThat is what occurred during a night in a forest, but not all of it did\r\nIrene Marlowe relate to Jenner Brading; not all of it was known to her.\r\nWhen she had concluded the sun was below the horizon and the long summer\r\ntwilight had begun to deepen in the hollows of the land. For some\r\nmoments Brading was silent, expecting the narrative to be carried\r\nforward to some definite connection with the conversation introducing\r\nit; but the narrator was as silent as he, her face averted, her hands\r\nclasping and unclasping themselves as they lay in her lap, with a\r\nsingular suggestion of an activity independent of her will.\r\n\r\n"It is a sad, a terrible story," said Brading at last, "but I do not\r\nunderstand. You call Charles Marlowe father; that I know. That he is old\r\nbefore his time, broken by some great sorrow, I have seen, or thought I\r\nsaw. But, pardon me, you said that you--that you--"\r\n\r\n"That I am insane," said the girl, without a movement of head or body.\r\n\r\n"But, Irene, you say--please, dear, do not look away from me--you say\r\nthat the child was dead, not demented."\r\n\r\n"Yes, that one--I am the second. I was born three months after that\r\nnight, my mother being mercifully permitted to lay down her life in\r\ngiving me mine."\r\n\r\nBrading was again silent; he was a trifle dazed and could not at once\r\nthink of the right thing to say. Her face was still turned away. In his\r\nembarrassment he reached impulsively toward the hands that lay closing\r\nand unclosing in her lap, but something--he could not have said what--\r\nrestrained him. He then remembered, vaguely, that he had never\r\naltogether cared to take her hand.\r\n\r\n"Is it likely," she resumed, "that a person born under such\r\ncircumstances is like others--is what you call sane?"\r\n\r\nBrading did not reply; he was preoccupied with a new thought that was\r\ntaking shape in his mind--what a scientist would have called an\r\nhypothesis; a detective, a theory. It might throw an added light, albeit\r\na lurid one, upon such doubt of her sanity as her own assertion had not\r\ndispelled.\r\n\r\nThe country was still new and, outside the villages, sparsely populated.\r\nThe professional hunter was still a familiar figure, and among his\r\ntrophies were heads and pelts of the larger kinds of game. Tales\r\nvariously credible of nocturnal meetings with savage animals in lonely\r\nroads were sometimes current, passed through the customary stages of\r\ngrowth and decay, and were forgotten. A recent addition to these popular\r\napocrypha, originating, apparently, by spontaneous generation in several\r\nhouseholds, was of a panther which had frightened some of their members\r\nby looking in at windows by night. The yarn had caused its little ripple\r\nof excitement--had even attained to the distinction of a place in the\r\nlocal newspaper; but Brading had given it no attention. Its likeness to\r\nthe story to which he had just listened now impressed him as perhaps\r\nmore than accidental. Was it not possible that the one story had\r\nsuggested the other--that finding congenial conditions in a morbid mind\r\nand a fertile fancy, it had grown to the tragic tale that he had heard?\r\n\r\nBrading recalled certain circumstances of the girl\'s history and\r\ndisposition, of which, with love\'s incuriosity, he had hitherto been\r\nheedless--such as her solitary life with her father, at whose house no\r\none, apparently, was an acceptable visitor and her strange fear of the\r\nnight, by which those who knew her best accounted for her never being\r\nseen after dark. Surely in such a mind imagination once kindled might\r\nburn with a lawless flame, penetrating and enveloping the entire\r\nstructure. That she was mad, though the conviction gave him the acutest\r\npain, he could no longer doubt; she had only mistaken an effect of her\r\nmental disorder for its cause, bringing into imaginary relation with her\r\nown personality the vagaries of the local myth-makers. With some vague\r\nintention of testing his new "theory," and no very definite notion of\r\nhow to set about it he said, gravely, but with hesitation:\r\n\r\n"Irene, dear, tell me--I beg you will not take offence, but tell me--"\r\n\r\n"I have told you," she interrupted, speaking with a passionate\r\nearnestness that he had not known her to show--"I have already told you\r\nthat we cannot marry; is anything else worth saying?"\r\n\r\nBefore he could stop her she had sprung from her seat and without\r\nanother word or look was gliding away among the trees toward her\r\nfather\'s house. Brading had risen to detain her; he stood watching her\r\nin silence until she had vanished in the gloom. Suddenly he started as\r\nif he had been shot; his face took on an expression of amazement and\r\nalarm: in one of the black shadows into which she had disappeared he had\r\ncaught a quick, brief glimpse of shining eyes! For an instant he was\r\ndazed and irresolute; then he dashed into the wood after her, shouting:\r\n"Irene, Irene, look out! The panther! The panther!"\r\n\r\nIn a moment he had passed through the fringe of forest into open ground\r\nand saw the girl\'s gray skirt vanishing into her father\'s door. No\r\npanther was visible.\r\n\r\nIV\r\n\r\nAN APPEAL TO THE CONSCIENCE OF GOD\r\n\r\nJenner Brading, attorney-at-law, lived in a cottage at the edge of the\r\ntown. Directly behind the dwelling was the forest. Being a bachelor, and\r\ntherefore, by the Draconian moral code of the time and place denied the\r\nservices of the only species of domestic servant known thereabout, the\r\n"hired girl," he boarded at the village hotel, where also was his\r\noffice. The woodside cottage was merely a lodging maintained--at no\r\ngreat cost, to be sure--as an evidence of prosperity and respectability.\r\nIt would hardly do for one to whom the local newspaper had pointed with\r\npride as "the foremost jurist of his time" to be "homeless," albeit he\r\nmay sometimes have suspected that the words "home" and "house" were not\r\nstrictly synonymous. Indeed, his consciousness of the disparity and his\r\nwill to harmonize it were matters of logical inference, for it was\r\ngenerally reported that soon after the cottage was built its owner had\r\nmade a futile venture in the direction of marriage--had, in truth, gone\r\nso far as to be rejected by the beautiful but eccentric daughter of Old\r\nMan Marlowe, the recluse. This was publicly believed because he had told\r\nit himself and she had not--a reversal of the usual order of things\r\nwhich could hardly fail to carry conviction.\r\n\r\nBrading\'s bedroom was at the rear of the house, with a single window\r\nfacing the forest.\r\n\r\nOne night he was awakened by a noise at that window; he could hardly\r\nhave said what it was like. With a little thrill of the nerves he sat up\r\nin bed and laid hold of the revolver which, with a forethought most\r\ncommendable in one addicted to the habit of sleeping on the ground floor\r\nwith an open window, he had put under his pillow. The room was in\r\nabsolute darkness, but being unterrified he knew where to direct his\r\neyes, and there he held them, awaiting in silence what further might\r\noccur. He could now dimly discern the aperture--a square of lighter\r\nblack. Presently there appeared at its lower edge two gleaming eyes that\r\nburned with a malignant lustre inexpressibly terrible! Brading\'s heart\r\ngave a great jump, then seemed to stand still. A chill passed along his\r\nspine and through his hair; he felt the blood forsake his cheeks. He\r\ncould not have cried out--not to save his life; but being a man of\r\ncourage he would not, to save his life, have done so if he had been\r\nable. Some trepidation his coward body might feel, but his spirit was of\r\nsterner stuff. Slowly the shining eyes rose with a steady motion that\r\nseemed an approach, and slowly rose Brading\'s right hand, holding the\r\npistol. He fired!\r\n\r\nBlinded by the flash and stunned by the report, Brading nevertheless\r\nheard, or fancied that he heard, the wild, high scream of the panther,\r\nso human in sound, so devilish in suggestion. Leaping from the bed he\r\nhastily clothed himself and, pistol in hand, sprang from the door,\r\nmeeting two or three men who came running up from the road. A brief\r\nexplanation was followed by a cautious search of the house. The grass\r\nwas wet with dew; beneath the window it had been trodden and partly\r\nleveled for a wide space, from which a devious trail, visible in the\r\nlight of a lantern, led away into the bushes. One of the men stumbled\r\nand fell upon his hands, which as he rose and rubbed them together were\r\nslippery. On examination they were seen to be red with blood.\r\n\r\nAn encounter, unarmed, with a wounded panther was not agreeable to their\r\ntaste; all but Brading turned back. He, with lantern and pistol, pushed\r\ncourageously forward into the wood. Passing through a difficult\r\nundergrowth he came into a small opening, and there his courage had its\r\nreward, for there he found the body of his victim. But it was no\r\npanther. What it was is told, even to this day, upon a weather-worn\r\nheadstone in the village churchyard, and for many years was attested\r\ndaily at the graveside by the bent figure and sorrow-seamed face of Old\r\nMan Marlowe, to whose soul, and to the soul of his strange, unhappy\r\nchild, peace. Peace and reparation.'
In [41]:
l = [(1,45),(2,37),(3,204),(4,56),(5,2),(6,778)]
In [44]:
l.sort(reverse=True)
In [45]:
l
Out[45]:
[(6, 778), (5, 2), (4, 56), (3, 204), (2, 37), (1, 45)]
In [40]:
help(list.sort)
Help on method_descriptor:
sort(self, /, *, key=None, reverse=False)
Sort the list in ascending order and return None.
The sort is in-place (i.e. the list itself is modified) and stable (i.e. the
order of two equal elements is maintained).
If a key function is given, apply it once to each list item and sort them,
ascending or descending, according to their function values.
The reverse flag can be set to sort in descending order.
In [46]:
def second(tup):
return tup[1]
In [47]:
second((45,16))
Out[47]:
16
In [48]:
l.sort(key=second)
In [49]:
l
Out[49]:
[(5, 2), (2, 37), (1, 45), (4, 56), (3, 204), (6, 778)]
In [ ]: