Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 729, December 15, 1877

I thought so too, and at once made up my mind that the meeting at the Railway Tavern was to settle about shipping the paper.

'I can give a pretty good guess at the man they will engage for the job,' says Wilkins.

'I know him,' I said; 'a tall, sulky-looking, bony-headed old fellow, with a game eye.'

'Why, Mr Nickham,' says Wilkins, 'you're a wonder, a perfect wonder! You're a credit to the force, and Sir Richard ought to hear of it! Why, that's the man, the very man; and here have you only been down two days, and know all about it! Keep your eye on him after dark, and you're all right.'

We had some more talk after this; and then he pretended to go to sleep in his corner again, and I went out.

I went straight into the City and saw some of our chief people, who sent over to the Bank. They would not chance my going there, for fear of somebody seeing me that had better know nothing about it. The gents from the Bank could hardly believe their ears, and the compliments they paid me, to be sure! It was decided that everything was to be left in my hands, and I was provided with letters to the right parties at the water-side. But I need not go into any further particulars of that kind.

I was not going to trouble myself any more just now about the pilfering at Byrle & Co.'s factory; as far as I was interested in it, the thieves might take boilers, wheels, chimneys, and all. I took up my post in the old arbours, and there, though the rain came steadily down, I sat. I managed to get a pretty dry corner; and with a little of the Anchor's rum-and-water and my pipe, I made myself tolerably comfortable while I sat and watched the Dutch trader. I was well screened from the sight of any one below, or else my corner would not have suited; and although I could hear the steps and the voices of the people going to the ferry, and could have touched them by leaning over, yet they could not see me.

The bony ferryman, in his tarpaulin coat and hat, was there this afternoon; and very sloppy and miserable all the boats looked; and as the tide fell lower and lower, the great broad bed of river-mud grew broader, and the path to the ferryboat grew longer, and still I kept my watch, and meant to keep it. I must own, however, that I did not expect to see anything worth notice, for what could there be? But sometimes, you know, in our business, it is as necessary to watch to make sure there is nothing being done, as it is to make sure that some important movement is going on.

There was an oyster-smack not fifty yards from me as was left on the shingle or mud when the tide went down; and there was a man smoking his pipe on the deck of that oyster-smack, just as I was smoking mine in the arbour; and when night came, and the river got dark, and you couldn't make anything out of it but a great black space, with a hollow sound of the wind moaning over it and of the water lapping on the shore as the tide rose again – then there was a lantern burning on the deck of that smack, and there was a similar lantern burning in my arbour; but the light was shewn open on board of the smack, and mine was a dark-lantern (so was the other) with the light hid. But I was perfectly well aware that the man aboard that smack never took his eyes off me while it was light, and that after dark he watched to see if I shewed my lantern. I didn't shew it; but if I had, there would have been a Thames police galley and five armed constables alongside of that hard in a couple of minutes.

AN EXTRAORDINARY PROJECT

In the city of San Francisco resides Mr Hubert Howe Bancroft, a gentleman about forty-five years of age, formerly engaged in commerce, but now retired from business, in order that he may devote his whole life, as well as the wealth which he had amassed, to the furtherance of a project which he formed some sixteen years ago. This was no less comprehensive a task than the compilation of a full history, as well as a scientific account, of all that vast district west of the Rocky Mountains, which, stretching from Panama to Alaska, embraces Central America, Mexico, and California. It was to be in a popular form, and to embrace every point of interest that could be ascertained respecting the Pacific States, their aboriginal inhabitants, their successive civilised occupiers, their geology, botany, and other natural features. First of all in this stupendous task comes the history of the native tribes – to be completed in five volumes, the first instalments of which are already published by Messrs Appleton and Co. in New York, and by Messrs Longmans in our own country. These will be followed by a history of the States from the Spanish Conquest down to contemporary times, and for this portion of the work it is thought that some twenty volumes will be required. A third series will treat of the geological structure of the territory, its minerals especially, and of mining operations. Physical geography forms the fourth section of the proposed work; whilst the fifth will deal with agriculture; and the sixth with bibliography. It must be apparent that a man must be of a highly sanguine temperament to imagine such an enterprise; it will be well if he live to complete only a portion of it; and should he really succeed in doing what he wishes, he will have earned for himself an honourable distinction, and conferred on the world an extraordinary boon.

But how was such an undertaking to be begun? Where were the materials; and even granting that they were to be procured, how was such a mass of general reading as must be consulted, to be utilised? Mr Bancroft's first step was to solve this difficulty. He decided to establish at his own cost, in San Francisco, a library of reference, which should contain all the books to be had for money which could throw any light on the subject. With this end in view, he appointed agents in all the principal cities of the world, whose business was to frequent sales, examine book catalogues, and effect the purchase of any volumes which seemed likely to contain useful information. Of course by such a system many books were transmitted to headquarters which ultimately proved to be of little or no value; but this was inevitable in the course of purchases of such magnitude. And notwithstanding all drawbacks of the kind, the collection has gradually increased, until it is said now to consist of between eighteen and twenty thousand volumes, including pamphlets; whether this number also includes manuscripts, we are unable to say. The acquisition of these works has been occasionally furthered by adventitious circumstances. The Mexican war, for instance, was the means of throwing in Mr Bancroft's way some highly valuable documents, which, under favourable circumstances, would have remained the property of their lawful owners; these, contained in four volumes, are a set of parchment records of the Church in Mexico between the years 1530 and 1583, and apart from their historical value, have an interest to the bibliopolist as containing autographs of many celebrated men, amongst others of Philip II., Torquemada, Las Casas, and Zumarraga, first Archbishop of Mexico. This last-named worthy is notorious for his act of insensate bigotry in destroying the Aztec records, and thereby depriving the world of the history of that race; he burned the hieroglyphic paintings of Anahuac in the public square of Tlatelolco, much as Ximenes did with eighty thousand Moorish manuscripts in Granada. These priceless records were stolen from the government archives! When the unfortunate Emperor Maximilian's library was sold, many valuable works were also obtained from that collection, which had been gathered together during a lifetime by a well-known amateur, Count Andrade.

The weakest part of the arrangement of Mr Bancroft's undertaking is the manner in which the books are housed, but this is probably an unavoidable evil; they occupy the fifth story of the owner's house in Market Street, San Francisco, where they are exposed to all the risk of fire, to say nothing of the inconvenience of such a plan. The apartment in which they are kept occupies the whole length of the building, and the books are arranged upon shelves reaching from the floor to the ceiling, and running from one end of the room to the other. Let us now see how it is proposed to utilise this mass of literature for reference.

No one but a resolute enthusiast with an abundance of means could have brought this extraordinary project into shape. The trouble spent in the undertaking has been enormous. Of course, the projector has a staff of assistants possessing the requisite accomplishments, headed by a librarian, Mr Oak, who has been indefatigable in producing a catalogue of the works collected, with copious subordinate references. So aided, Mr Bancroft, as we understand, has begun his literary operations; but whether he will live to complete his colossal production in proper artistic style must necessarily be left to conjecture. Fortunately, besides being still in middle life, he is said to have splendid bodily health and great powers of endurance, both of which must stand him in good stead. He always writes at a standing desk, and sometimes prolongs his hours of labour to as many as eleven or twelve – which seem to us excessive. Such application may do for work which is chiefly compilation; but any brain-worker knows that it is simply impossible to do really valuable work throughout such a time. As a matter of fact, very few men can read or write hard for more than six hours a day with profitable result. Let us hope, however, that the man who has had courage to undertake such a task, will have self-restraint enough not to endanger its success by an undue straining of the faculties, which must be kept in full repair to insure its accomplishment. We should be sorry to hear that any disaster from fire had put an abrupt termination to so well-meaning, though we may be allowed to call it a somewhat eccentric undertaking.

GORDON

She came on towards me, her trailing draperies falling round her with the soft grace she gave to all she touched. Sunshine was on her beautiful hair – evening sunshine, which turned the wreath of plaits she wore into a crown of burnished gold. She came floating on, through the flower and fruit gemmed orange trees, through the crimson and pure white camellia bloom; violets grew beneath her feet, and she seemed to me part of the glory and the fragrance of the sunset and the blossoms.

Below the terrace where I stood, lay the sea, where blue faded to green, and green to opal, melting into one deep far-stretching mystery of purple light and banks of golden cloud. Palaces and domes and tapering spires shone white against the dark background of distant mountains. Suddenly the music of many bells rung out on the still air, their chiming softened by distance into low faint sweetness. They were the bells of the stately marble city that shone so fair across her gleaming bay. The first bell-notes were taken up and echoed by the bells of chapels in villages along the shore; of convents hidden away in country dells and valleys, till the air was full of lingering prayerful sound. Through it, through the magical Italian twilight came the woman I loved. She came and stood beside me, looking across the water to where Genoa's palaces glimmered against the sky; but I do not think she saw or thought of them. There was a dreamy look in her eyes, a cold, set weariness about her mouth, which is only seen in those whose thoughts have drifted far from where they stand.

'Are you tired of this place?' I at length ventured to ask her.

'Not particularly,' she answered; 'you know I never care much where I am.' The words sound petulant; but said as she said them, they were only weary. I should have been glad if she had ever shewn impatience; anything rather than the cold quiet which ever lay upon her beauty like a pall. At first, in my triumphant happiness at having won her promise to be my wife, this coldness had not chilled me – as it sometimes did now – to the heart. I so longed, so hungered for a word of love, for a tender look. All her stately beauty would soon be mine, and it seemed still as far from me as ever.

We leaned on the low parapet of the terrace, while the music of the bells died away, till only the slow beating of the waves broke the stillness. It was an hour of wonderful peace and beauty, yet a strange sense of unrest took possession of me, and jarred the music of the waves and the restful quiet of the twilight. Standing there close to her, with the certainty that soon she would be my own for ever, a vague thrill of fear came over me, a fear lest all this feverish joy of knowing she was mine, might vanish away, and leave me a lonely mortal. This love for her had become to me an all-absorbing passion; and yet she never for one moment allowed me to think that my love was returned. Perhaps it was the might of her beauty that filled my senses; yet I have seen beautiful women since, and had seen them before I first saw her on the walls above the old Etruscan gateway at Perugia.

One morning the week before, I had strolled out from the dull hotel; and leaving the street with its tall houses and quaint old fountain, glowing in the day's first freshness, I sauntered on to the walls, and there I first saw her. Below in the valley the silvery olive leaves trembled in the sunshine; wreaths of broad-leaved vines clung to the gray old trees, clothing them with a borrowed beauty of youth and freshness. Hundreds of flowers blushed in the light, and varied odours from herb and blossom filled the air with a subtle languor. Above, on the lichen-covered wall, with a background of purple mountain, a fitting frame to her stately loveliness, she sat, looking out across the sunlit land, with the dreary far-away look in her great deep eyes, and the haughty coldness upon her chiselled face. I lingered about, drinking draughts of beauty; fancying it was my artistic sense that kept me there watching her face, till she rose wearily, and slowly walking down the street, entered the hotel where I was staying.

I found on inquiry that a Mrs Vereker and her niece, Miss Mayne, had arrived there the previous evening. I had sometimes met Mrs Vereker in London; and later on in the day, while I was carelessly examining the carving on the fountain in the square I saw her and my vision of the morning standing on the cathedral steps. Mrs Vereker came forward with that friendliness we feel for a slight home acquaintance whom we may chance to meet when abroad. So I joined them, and we strolled on chatting over home news. Miss Mayne seldom spoke, and yet that walk seemed to me a strangely happy one. Mrs Vereker told me they had only been a day in Perugia, and had intended going on at once to Rome; but the mountain air and mountain views were so delightful, they had changed their minds, and intended remaining for some time at Perugia.

I had come to the old town to study art; to search the blazoned manuscripts lying hidden in sacristy and convent, and learn from them their secrets of colour and design; to wander through frescoed church and palace, where walls and ceilings are brilliant still as when the hands which wove their gorgeous stories first laid the pencil down and thanked God for the great consoler – Art. I had come to watch the mists rising from the valleys, and wrapping the mountains in soft mystery of cloud – cloud which changes and shifts, and melts at last into the golden and purple, the opaline green of the sunrise; so that I might try to wrest from Nature a faint touch of her magic of shadow and light, of colour and form, and lay it at the feet of the one mistress I had ever known – Art.

What I was now studying was a woman's heart – and what I learned was – nothing. I do not think mine is an impressionable nature. I had spent thirty years in the world, and had never loved any woman until I saw Mary Mayne in the morning light sitting above that old gateway; yet in one short week I had grown to love her – well, as few women are ever loved.

At the end of that week came a letter from Willie Vereker, saying his yacht needed some repairs, and he would put in at Genoa for a few days if his mother could meet him there. He had been to the East, and she had not seen him for some time; so she decided on going back to Genoa; hoping the Gwendoline might need more repairing than Willie thought, and keep him there longer than he expected. The evening of the day Mrs Vereker received that letter, I told her of my love for her niece, and asked permission to accompany them to Genoa.

She regarded me with an odd look of compassion. 'Have you spoken to Mary yet?' she asked.

I told her I had not; I wished to wait until we had known each other longer; I feared being too precipitate.

'Then,' said Mrs Vereker, 'I have no right to tell you anything of her story. It is a sad one, poor child! and I warn you, you have little chance of success. If you choose, you can come with us to Genoa; but if I were you, I should not do so. Save yourself while you can. You have known her a very short time. If you leave us now, you will soon forget her; later, you may find it a more difficult task.'

I shook my head. The advice came too late. I went with them to Genoa. The stately marble city had a charm for us all. Mrs Vereker had her son, and the two found marvellous attractions in the quaint narrow streets with their palace portals, their courts and halls, where fountains sparkled and flung diamonds of spray round the brows of pure fair statues; where in the coolness and the shadow, gold-laden orange trees and thick masses of crimson blossom gleamed with sudden startling glory.

I had my idol. Day after day I was by her side. It was a fool's Paradise perhaps; but I suppose there is such an Eden in every life; and looking back, when we have left its short-lived peace, we vainly long for a single throb of its rapture. So, during those quiet days at Genoa, each of us, except Mary Mayne, had our heart's desire: Willie, the life, the colour, the loveliness he and his Gwendoline sought in voyages to many lands; Mrs Vereker, her son; I, my new delirious joy. There, on the terrace where we were standing, I first spoke to Mary, and heard her tell me my love was hopeless. She told me her story.

Her wedding-day had been fixed. In a year she was to have been married to a man she loved with her whole heart; when the war with Russia broke out, and Gordon Frazer's regiment was ordered to the Crimea. He and Mary wished to be married before he left, but family reasons prevented it, and so they parted. He had never returned to England. A soldier brought Mary a little locket which she had given Gordon. The ribbon it hung upon was thickened here and there with deep dark stains; and the man said Gordon Frazer had given it to him to take to Mary, when the young officer lay dying after the charge at Balaklava. It was only the story of many an English and many a Russian girl during that dreadful time. When a strong, self-contained nature breaks down, it is almost utter collapse; so it was with Mary. For months she lay silent, tearless, listlessly unable to make the slightest exertion, to take the smallest interest in life. Her friends thought her brain had suffered from the shock; and when she recovered sufficiently to travel, Mrs Vereker had taken her abroad, where they had been moving from place to place ever since. Her body regained health; she was now quite strong; but the girl's heart and soul seemed dead; as she said, dead, and buried in Gordon Frazer's grave. Yet as I listened I did not despair. I had no living rival; he was dead, this man she loved; while my heart was beating, living, and strong with its worship of her. If I could only win her to be my wife, the dead love would pale and faint before my real and passionate devotion. So I hoped, as day by day I watched her every look, forestalled her every wish, until she grew accustomed to my presence, and to rely upon my care. My hopes were answered; ere long I won her reluctant consent to be my wife, but on the condition that our marriage should not take place until their return to England next year.

The rosy clouds were fading into the deep purple of Italian night. Silence fell around us as a mantle; only the throb of the sea below the terrace broke the intense quiet. Out on the sea shone the white sails of a little yacht. Nearer, within the harbour, rose the masts and spars of many ships, mysterious, spectre-like, as ships always look at night. As we were seated in calm enjoyment of the scene, a small boat shot out from the rocks beneath our feet, where lay some hidden cave or landing-place. It was rowed by two men; a third sat wrapped in a large cloak in the stern. They rowed well, and the boat was nearly a mile from us, leaving a bright line of light upon the shining water, when a cry broke the calm of the night – a wild, weird cry, with agony in its tone. 'Gordon!' I have never heard its like since, and I hope I never shall again. In its agonised tone I could scarcely recognise the voice of Mary, so changed was it, so shrill with long pent-up yearning, as it wailed out that one word – 'Gordon!' The cry seemed to be repeated again and again, though softened by the echoes, while the little boat sped on its way, and its passengers – mere dark specks they seemed – climbed into the yacht. The white sails gleamed against the horizon, and then, phantom-like, were lost in its dim purple.

I turned and looked at Mary. She stood with her eyes fixed on the darkness which hid the yacht from sight, her hands clasped upon her heart, her face drawn and colourless. I feared the fate her friends dreaded for her had stricken her as she stood beside me there in the still luxurious twilight. 'Mary, my dearest, my own! what is it?' – taking her hand and drawing her closer.

She drew her hand from mine, and shuddering away from me, leaned against the stone parapet, resting her head on the cold marble coping.

'You are ill; let me take you home, darling,' I said.

'No,' she murmured; 'not ill. But oh,' she exclaimed, 'Harry, Harry! my good kind friend, help me! Gordon was near us just now. I felt it; I am sure of it. You will help me to find him; will you not?'

Help her to find him! help to break my own heart – to bruise this new-found sweetness out of my life! The very thought struck me with a sudden chill. What if this fancy of hers, coming so close upon my sure forebodings, should be a reality? What if Gordon Frazer were still in existence? I thrust the thought from me as I should thrust a temptation. 'I will help you in any way I can, my darling,' I said; 'but come in now; the night-air is chilling; and you are giving way to feverish fancies.'

'No,' she said; 'it is no fancy.' Drawing herself up wearily, she turned without looking at me; and I followed her down the terrace and across the marble court of the old palace which was our home in Genoa. I watched her glide, stately and pale and quiet, up the broad white staircase.

It was months before she recovered from the brain-fever in which she awoke next morning – such awful months, during which we often feared the worst. Yet when they were over, and she was among us again, paler, more fragile, but still her own beautiful self, stately, self-possessed as usual, I was almost thankful for the terrible illness, which proved that her cry and wild words on the terrace were but warnings of coming illness, the mere wandering of a brain diseased.

The Roman season was nearly over, yet Rome was full – full of English sightseers, like ourselves; full of Americans, on rapid flight across Europe; of eastern prelates, in flowing eastern robes, with olive-hued eastern faces; of eager-faced French ladies, and solemn-eyed peasants from lonely villages on the Campagna, and of Italians from city and from plain; for it was Easter-time. We were only waiting until the conclusion of the festivities to set out on our journey home. Home! I never until now felt half the meaning of that word. When we got home, Mary and I would be married. I should give up wandering, and settle down into a country gentleman. I thought with a pang of self-reproach of the grand old home which called me master, shut up in desolate state since my dear father died. How a fair young mistress would brighten and beautify the old rooms. I could see it all now – the oaken hall with its quaint old pictures; spring sunshine pouring in at the open door, red-coated sportsmen grouped under the beeches, horns ringing from the copses, children playing under the shadow of the avenue of limes – the loveliness of joyous life, where for so long had been the silence left by death. It was a sunny dream of home – home in fair England, into which I had fallen; standing there, upon the Pincian, under the deep dark blue of Roman night.

Below lay the city, its narrow streets dimly mysterious, no light visible in their tall houses; the fountain murmured its sweet monotonous music in the Piazza di Spagna; the wide white marble steps gleamed along the hillside; tall palm-trees cast weird shadows across the gravelled walks; nightingales answered each other in low rich trills of song, echoing from tree to tree, through whispering palms and odorous night-flowers. Beside me, cold and silent, was the woman whose charmful spell woke within me this new sweet longing for home – home musical with the soft rustling of women's garments; with the tender voices of little children. I suppose such a dream and such a longing come to all men at some time of their lives; it came to me that night as I stood above the city of vanished glories, of dead and buried dreams.

It did not last long. Suddenly, above the city roofs, a cross of silvery light shone out against the sky. The illumination of Saint Peter's had begun. Above the winding narrow streets, above palace roofs, above palm and cypress, above triumphal arch and mouldering temple, over the palace of the Cæsars, over Capitol and Forum, the silvery cross shone glad, triumphant; and from it, the light spread from window to window, from pillar to pillar, till the vast pile was one glory, changing rapidly from soft silvery radiance into a glow of golden fire.

'It was worth coming to see. Was it not, Mary?'

'Mary!' A stranger's voice echoed her name; and instead of answering my question, she sprang with a low cry from my side, and laid her head upon a stranger's breast. 'Did you not get my letters? I have been looking everywhere for you,' I heard him say.

She did not answer, nor raised her head; as if at last she had found her rest.

'You are not alone here?' he went on. 'Who are you with?'

Then with a quiver as of pain, she raised herself, and looked from me to him with beseeching eyes and trembling clasped hands.

Before she spoke – for even in all the agony of my crushed-out hopes, my love for her bore down all other feelings, and I tried to save her from the pain of telling me what I already knew – I said: 'You have found an older friend than I am, Mary. Shall I leave him to take you to Mrs Vereker?'

'An older friend?' he repeated. 'By Jove! I should think so.'

Then raising his hat, he shook hands with me as I turned away.