Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 123, vol. III, May 8, 1886

‘Who has left already?’ the governor asked anxiously of the negro servants.

‘Dr Whitaker, your Excellency, sah,’ the man in red livery answered, grinning respectfully.

‘Call him back!’ the governor said in a tone of command. ‘There’s an awful thunderstorm coming. No man will ever get down alive to the bottom of the valley until it’s over.’

‘It doan’t no use, sah,’ the negro answered. ‘His horse’s canterin’ down de hillside de same as if him starin’ mad, sah!’ And as he spoke, Dr Whitaker’s white shirt-front gleamed for a second in the moonlight far below, at a turn of the path beside the threatening gully.

Almost before any one could start to recall him, the rain and thunder were upon them with tropical violence. The clouds had drifted rapidly across the sky; the light of the moon was completely effaced; black darkness reigned over the mountains; not a star, not a tree, not an object of any sort could now be discerned through the pitchy atmosphere. Rain! it was hardly rain, but rather a continuous torrent outpoured as from some vast aërial fountain. Every minute or two, a terrific flash lighted up momentarily the gloomy darkness; and almost simultaneously, loud peals of thunder bellowed and re-echoed from peak to peak. The dance was interrupted for the time at least, and everybody crowded out silently to the veranda and the corridors, where the lightning and the rain could be more easily seen, mingling with the thunder in one hideous din, and forming torrents that rushed down the dry gullies in roaring cataracts to the plains below.

And Dr Whitaker? On he rode, the lightning terrifying his little mountain pony at every flash, the rain beating down upon him mercilessly with equatorial fierceness, the darkness stretching in front of him and below him, save when, every now and then, the awful forks of flame illumined for a second the gulfs and precipices that yawned beneath in profoundest gloom. Yet still he rode on, erect and heedless, his hat now lost, bareheaded to the pitiless storm, cold without, and fiery hot at heart within. He cared for nothing now—for nothing—for nothing. Nora had put the final coping-stone on that grim growth of black despair within his soul, that palace of nethermost darkness which alone he was henceforth to inhabit. Nay, in the heat and bitterness of the moment, had he not even sealed his own doom? Had he not sunk down actually to the level of those who despised and contemned him? Had he not been guilty of contemptuous insolence to his own colour, in the words he had flung so wildly at the head of the negro in livery? What did it matter now whatever happened to him? All, all was lost; and he rode on recklessly, madly, despairingly, down that wild and precipitous mountain pathway, he knew not and he cared not whither.

It was a narrow track, a mere thread of bridle-path, dangerous enough even in the best of seasons, hung half-way up the steep hillside, with the peak rising sheer above on one hand, and the precipice yawning black beneath on the other. Stones and creepers cumbered the ground; pebbles and earth, washed down at once by the violence of the storm, blocked and obliterated the track in many places; here, a headlong torrent tore across it with resistless vehemence; there, a little chasm marked the spot where a small landslip had rendered it impassable. The horse floundered and reared and backed up again and again in startled terror; Dr Whitaker, too reckless at last even to pat and encourage him, let him go whatever way his fancy led him among the deep brake of cactuses and tree ferns. And still the rain descended in vast sheets and flakes of water, and still the lightning flashed and quivered among the ravines and gullies of those torn and crumpled mountain-sides. The mulatto took no notice any longer; he only sang aloud in a wild, defiant, half-crazy voice the groaning notes of his own terrible Hurricane Symphony.

So they went, on and down, on and down, on and down always, through fire and water, the horse plunging and kicking and backing; the rider flinging his arms carelessly around him, till they reached the bend in the road beside Louis Delgado’s mud cottage. The old African was sitting cross-legged by himself at the door of his hut, watching the rain grimly by the intermittent light of the frequent flashes. Suddenly, a vivider flash than any burst in upon him with a fearful clap; and by its light, he saw a great gap in the midst of the path, twenty yards wide, close by the cottage; and at its upper end, a horse and rider, trembling on the very brink of the freshly cut abyss. Next instant, the flash was gone, and when the next came, Louis Delgado saw nothing but the gap itself and the wild torrent that had so instantly cut it. The old man smiled an awful smile of gratified malevolence. ‘Ha, ha!’ he said to himself aloud, hugging his withered old breast in malicious joy; ‘I guess dat buckra lyin’ dead by now, down, down, down, at de bottom ob de gully. Ha, ha; ha, ha, ha; him lyin’ dead at de bottom ob de gully; an’ it one buckra de less left alive to bodder us here in de island ob Trinidad.’ He had not seen the mulatto’s face; but he took him at once to be a white man because, in spite of rain and spattered mud, his white shirt-front still showed out distinctly in the red glare of the vivid lightning.

UNPOPULAR RELATIONSHIPS.

Historians for the most part recount only the great events of the world; though, by brief anecdotes and familiar illustrations, they sometimes glance at the manners and morals of a particular period. But, in reality, human happiness depends far more on harmonious social relations than on changes of dynasties or the aggrandisement of empires; and a philosophical consideration of the weaknesses of human nature in connection with home-life may be as profitable to us as poring over a description of those striking events which apparently led to the rise and fall of nations. We say apparently, for the causes of most things which happen are a good deal more remote than we may fancy them.

We see how individual characters and interests and public events act and react on one another; but our reason is very apt to play at cross-purposes and mistake cause for effect. One thing, however, is certain, that the family life of a nation is the greatest of all factors in its ill or well being. A happy well-ordered home is, as a rule, the nest in which wise men and good women are most likely to be reared. Yet the ideal patriarchal life is not certain to be realised, even by those most fitted to lead it. The happiest of married couples do not always live to see their children grown up, much less to behold their children’s children to the third and fourth generation. Undoubtedly, the loss of a wise and loving mother is one of the greatest misfortunes which can befall a family. This truth is in all its bearings so much a truism that it is needless to dilate on it. What we are about to consider is the prejudice which so often prevails against Step-mothers.

Let us picture to ourselves a middle-class household, with perhaps four or five children of tender age, suddenly deprived of a mother’s care. Happy is it in one respect for the father, that his business avocations are imperative, and so in some measure distract him from his grief; but they at the same time prevent his supervision of home affairs, even if he be one of those effeminate men—happily few—who love to meddle in domestic matters. With the best of servants, and even with some female relative to ‘manage’ for him, the chances are very great that many things go wrong—that children are either spoiled or neglected, and that daily incidents so remind him of his loss, that his sorrow even after a long interval remains unassuaged. Surely, under such circumstances to marry again is often the wisest thing a widower can do. As he has had experience of married life, it is presumable that he knows the qualities in a woman which will make him happy, and is less likely to make an imprudent marriage than a young bachelor is. In point of fact, second wives are often very admirable women, and second marriages very happy ones.

Yet it cannot be denied that the step-mother is, as a rule, looked on with suspicion by the relatives of the children who pass into her care. It seems to be of no account that hitherto she has been noted for good sense and kindness of heart—it is taken for granted that she cannot exercise these qualities in reference to the little creatures intrusted to her charge. The cruel thing is that children are often absolutely set against their father’s wife by foolish people, who think they thus do homage to the memory of the dead.

‘Ah,’ sighs perhaps an aunt; ‘of course, my dear, you must call her “mother” if your father wishes it; but you must not expect her to love you as darling mamma did.’

‘But, auntie,’ the child may respond, ready with tears at the mention of the dead—‘but, auntie, she says she loves us, and kisses us as if she did.’

Upon which the auntie moans again, and with an expressive shake of the head, ejaculates: ‘I hope she does’—in a tone that implies, ‘I don’t believe it.’

Children are wonderfully quick at interpreting tones, looks, and gestures.

Children are by no means all little angels, whatever certain poets may have written in laudation of them. Ingrained characteristics show themselves very early; and when the fire of rebellion to authority is kindled in their young hearts—smoulder as it may—it makes the task of governing them terribly difficult. How much wiser and kinder would it be if friends and relatives played the part of cheerful peacemakers, instead of grave-faced watchers and doubters! How really sensible it would be to teach the children that they ought to be grateful to her who comes to console their father, and to take upon herself the dead mother’s duties. In a multitude of cases, this truth ought to be emphatically inculcated; for we suppose there are few women whose ideal of happiness is marrying a widower with children.

When the second marriage takes place comparatively late in life, and when children are grown up, the trials are of a different sort. Sons already away from home, and making for themselves careers in the world; and daughters of twenty years old, likely to marry within the next few years, have often but little feeling for the loneliness of their father’s declining years. Of course, elderly men sometimes do foolish things, as well as young ones; but even if the second marriage be in every respect a suitable one, the children are in too many instances jealous of the step-mother, and inclined to carp at all she does. Really, a great deal of this ill-feeling is a bad habit of thought, the result of a popular prejudice which falls in with the weak side of human nature.

But if we demur against the prevailing idea of step-mothers, what shall we say against the yet more absurd notions which abound concerning Mothers-in-law! Unjustly and, one may say, stupidly satirised as they are by pen and pencil in the comic papers, they still, as a rule, maintain the even tenor of their way, far more often as a beneficent influence than anything else. Represented as a synonym for everything that is meddling and mischief-making, we confess that in a pretty long experience we have seen but few very nearly approaching this type. But we have known many a mother who has taken the husband of a daughter to her heart as if he were indeed a son, he requiting her affection with reverential regard. Nor is this at all an unnatural thing to happen between right-minded sensible people.

The mother of grown-up sons and daughters is not generally the vulgar, ill-favoured shrew that caricaturists love to paint her; on the contrary, she is often a woman in the prime of life, very probably an influence in society, and with the wisdom that ought to come with experience of the world. She has not forgotten her own youth, and she sympathises with the young more than they quite believe. Whether it be the daughter’s husband or the son’s wife that has to be considered, so long as the choice be tolerably prudent, she is sure to rejoice at the prospect of happiness, and be grateful that the perils of unwise likings are over. If, unhappily, the choice has not been prudent, and yet she is unable to avert its consequences, the mother is in many cases the one to be peacemaker and make the best of everything. If it be a son’s wife who needs culture, she tries to give it; if it be a daughter’s husband of small means, she ekes out income by personal sacrifices; or if she herself be too poor to do this, we have known her to help with the needle, or in some other efficient manner, when she cannot do so with the purse.

Suppose the mother-in-law does sometimes suggest or advise, is this to be considered an unpardonable offence? In point of fact, her error is often on the other side, and through a dread of seeming to interfere, she refrains from speaking the wise word in due season. Carlyle says somewhere that ‘experience teaches like no other,’ but takes terribly high ‘school-wages’ in the process. Most of us can remember occasions when we might have been spared some of the ‘school-wages,’ if we would have accepted, as a loving gift to profit by, the experience of our elders. How often in illness does the mother-in-law aid in nursing her grandchildren; how often, in some inevitable absence of the parents, does she prove their most trustworthy guardian!

We are afraid, however, that it is mainly when she is a widow and poor, that the mother-in-law becomes the butt of inconsiderate satirists, who fail to see the pathetic side of her position. Yet, to the honour of human nature, it may be said that there are multitudes of households in which the wife or husband’s mother, wholly dependent on her children, is treated with the respect and affection proper to the circumstances, and without any associations that can recall the paltry witticisms of the comic writers. We wonder if young mothers, with their children still around them, speculate on the swiftly passing years which will change the scene! In a single decade, what alterations may there not be in the domestic circle, and how naturally may it come to pass that the daughter-in-law of to-day shall become the mother-in-law of the future.

There is another unpopular personage for whom we desire to say a good word; not that, as a rule, she is immaculate, or even as nearly so as we should like to see her—we mean the Lodging-house Keeper. She, too, has long been a favourite theme of the caricaturist, and no doubt her vocation leads up to many humorous incidents. What a life it is, if we think of it seriously for a moment! Homely but shrewd women who let lodgings often acquire a surprising knowledge of character; and indeed, if they do not, they are likely to be wofully deceived. It is as great a mistake to suppose that all tenants are true and just in their dealings, as that all landladies are grasping and untrustworthy. Imagine a small furnished house being let to a middle-aged couple for three years at a low rent, mainly because there were no children to add to the wear and tear of furniture. But events proved that there were little grandchildren who paid lengthened visits, on which occasions a perambulator was ruthlessly wheeled about the new dining-room carpet, and similar reckless destruction of property went on in many other ways. This is a true story, and we do not much wonder that the landlady lost temper, and not being able to turn out her tenants, tried to recoup herself by all legitimate methods—especially as she was wholly dependent on her house for the means of existence.

It ought to be remembered that people do not let lodgings for pleasure; receiving inmates is always more or less a matter of business, and there should be justice and the doing as you would be done by on both sides. Sometimes the lodging-house keeper is a decayed gentlewoman, but more generally she belongs to a class socially inferior to that of her tenants. In either case, a little kindly consideration for the feelings and interests of the householder will often be amply requited. The decayed gentlewoman will keenly appreciate a manner of speaking and bargaining which seems to recognise her true position; and the ordinary lodging-house keeper is quick to distinguish ‘real gentlefolks’ from ‘stuck-up people,’ by signs which the latter rarely comprehend.

People of position resorting to the seaside for a few weeks never expect the luxuries and elegances they enjoy at home; but as they generally pay liberally for the accommodation they receive, they do require ordinary comforts. It would be greatly to the interest of all parties if lodging-house keepers would bear this in mind. Not only should bedding be faultless in point of purity, but as men do exist of six feet high and upwards, provision should be made to receive a tall inmate who could sleep without doubling himself up like a carpenter’s rule. White curtains are decidedly countrified and clean-looking; but unless there are also shutters to the bedroom windows, woe betide the light sleeper who is wakened by the early dawn. Lodging-house pillows should be more ample, and blankets more numerous than they generally are; easy-chairs should deserve their name; footstools should be discoverable; and windows and blinds should be easily manageable. The lodging-house cooking is also often capable of improvement, though, if people are content with what is called ‘good plain cooking,’ they frequently have little reason to complain; especially is this the case when the lodging-house keepers are retired servants who have lived in good families.

In return for the essential comforts described, the tenant would generally be willing to dispense with the ancestral portraits which so often decorate the walls of furnished lodgings. Staring likenesses, no doubt they are, of departed worthies; but they always seem to stare at the tenant with something like reproach at his presence; and if, as is often the case, they are veritable daubs, they become at last absolutely irritating. Also most people would rather have space for their own odds and ends, than see tables and shelves occupied by heirlooms in the shape of cracked vases incapable of holding water for flowers, but filled with dusty feathers, paper roses, or dried seaweed. Not that we despise simple ornaments; happily, many very common things are very pretty, and quite capable of pleasing the most artistic eye; it is incongruity which really offends.

But with all their shortcomings, we do not believe that, as a class, lodging-house keepers deserve the hard things which comic writers, for the sake of a joke, have said of them. Many a lodging-house keeper has a pathetic past, and a present that is a severe struggle for existence; and sometimes their worth is so appreciated that they make influential friends of their tenants. It is pleasant to hear a landlady say that she has little need to advertise; she lets her rooms on the recommendation of people who have occupied them, and often has the same family over and over again. Where this is the case, we may be pretty sure that at parting there are none of the mean squabbles about cracked china or a chipped chair-back which leave a sting of ill-feeling behind. On the contrary, there is perhaps the recollection of kind assiduity in illness, or of little services beyond the bond on one side; and on the other a pleasant consciousness that such services have been recognised.

It is possible that the tenant sometimes forgets his duties as well as the landlady hers. It is as grasping to overreach on one side as on the other. Not long ago an inquiry for lodgings was made in a popular district—they were to be perfect in a sanitary point of view, and with householders where valuable property would be safe—but because the would-be tenant would often be away, the fair applicant hoped to obtain them for an ‘infinitesimal’ rent. We believe she has not yet quite succeeded in her search. There are certainly unprincipled as well as inconsiderate lodgers, besides untrustworthy landladies. We fear there are quite as many people who, convalescent after infectious diseases, take apartments in the country or at the seaside without apprising the householders of their condition; as there are lodging-house keepers who receive fresh tenants after having housed fever patients without having taken due precautions against the propagation of disease. In short, lodgers and tenants belong to the same human nature that is corrupted by evil influences, and falls but too often, each individual under his own special temptations.