Q-Sailing-Ship Rentonl (Gun Crew) - - - The Master of the Collier Farnhorough - - - 192 Q-Ship Famborough - - - - - - 192 Q-Ship Famborough - - - - - - 194 Q-Ship Farnhorough - - - - - - 196 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xi TO PACK PACK S.S. Lodorer - - - - - - - 196 Q-Ship Pargust - - - - - - 198 Q-Ship Sarah Jones - - - - - - 198 Q-Ship Dunraven ...... 200 Bi-idge of Q-Ship Dunraven ----- 202 After the Battle --...- 204 Dimraven Doomed ------ 206 Q-Ship Dunraven ------ 208 Q-Ship Dimraven - - - - - - 212 Q-Ship Du7iraveti - - - - - - 214 Officers and Crew of the Q-Ship Dimraven - - - 21 6 Q-Ship Barranca (Two Illustrations) - - - 220 Q-Ship Barranca (Two Illustrations) - - - 222 Q-Ship Transformation - _ . . - 234 Q-Ship Barranca at Sea . . - . - 234 Q-ship service was representative of every species of seamen. There were officers and men of the Royal Navy both active and retired, of the Royal Naval Reserve, Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, and men from the Royal Fleet Reserve. From warship, bar- racks, office, colony, pleasure yacht, fishing vessel, liner, sailing ship, tramp steamer, and elsewhere these seafarers went forth in unarmoured, slow-moving, lightly-armed vessels to perform the desperate ad- venture of acting as live-bait for a merciless enemy. It was an exploit calling for supreme bravery, com- bined with great fighting skill, sound seamanship, and a highly developed imagination. The successes which were attained were brought about by just this com- bination, so that the officers, especially the command- ing officers, and the men had to be hand-picked. The slow-reasoning, hesitating type of being was useless in a Q-ship ; equally out of place would have been the wild, hare-brained, dashing individual whose excess of gallantry would simply mean the loss of ship and lives. In the ideal Q-ship captain was found something of the virtues of the cleverest angler, the most patient stalker, the most enterprising big-game hunter, together with the attributes of a cool, unper- turbed seaman, the imagination of a sensational novelist, and the plain horse-sense of a hard business man. In two words, the necessary endowment was brains and bravery. It was easy enough to find at least one of these in hundreds of officers, but it was difficult to find among the many volunteers a plucky fighter with a brilliant intellect. It is, of course, one of the happy results of sea training that officer or man 4 Q-SHIPS AND THEIR STORY learns to think and act quickly without doing foolish things. The handling of a ship in bad weather, or in crowded channels, or a strong tideway, or in going alongside a quay or other ship — all this practice makes a sailor of the man, makes him do the one and only right thing at the right second. But it needed ' something plus ' in the Q-ship service. For six months, for a year, she might have wandered up and down the Atlantic, all over the submarine zone, with never a sight of the enemy, and then, all of a sudden, a torpedo is seen rushing straight for the ship. The look-out man has reported it, and the officer of the watch has caused the man at the wheel to port his helm just in time to allow the torpedo to pass harm- lessly under the ship's counter. It was the never- ceasing vigilance and the cool appreciation of the situation which had saved the ship. But the incident is only beginning. The next stage is to lure the enemy on, to entice him, using your own ship as the bait. It may be one hour or one day later, perhaps at dusk, or when the moon gets up, or at dawn, but it is very probable that the submarine will invisibly follow you and attack at the most awkward time. The hours of suspense are trying ; watch has succeeded watch, yet nothing happens. The weather changes from good to bad ; it comes on thick, it clears up again, and the clouds cease to obliterate the sun. Then, apparently from nowhere, shells come whizzing by, and begin to hit. At last in the distance you see the low-lying enemy engaging you with both his guns, firing rapidly, and keeping discreetly out of your own guns' range. Already some of your men have been knocked out ; the ship has a couple of bad holes below the water- line, and the sea is pouring through. To add to THE HOUR AND THE NEED 5 the anxiety a fire is reported in the forecastle, and the next shell has made rather a mess of the funnel. What are you going to do ? Are you going to keep on the bluff of pretending you are an innocent mer- chantman, or are you going to run up the White Ensign, let down the bulwarks, and fire your guns the moment the enemy comes within range and bearing ? How much longer is it possible to play with him hi the hope that he will be fooled into doing just what you would like him to do ? If your ship is sinking, will she keep afloat just long enough to enable you to give the knock-out blow as the inquiring enemy comes alongside ? These are the crucial questions which have to be answered by that one man in command of the ship, who all the time finds his bridge being steadily smashed to pieces by the enemy's fire. ' If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you ; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too ; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting . . .' then, one may definitely assert, you have in you much that goes to the making of an ideal Q-ship captain and a brave warrior. As such you might make a first-class commanding officer of a destroyer, a light cruiser, or even a battleship ; but something more is required. The enemy is artful ; you must be super-artful. You must be able to look across the tumbling sea into his mind behind the conning tower. What are his intentions ? What will be his next move ? Take in by a quick mental calculation the conditions of wind, wave, and sun. Pretend to run away from him, so that you get these just right. Put your ship head on to sea, so that the enemy 6 Q-SHIPS AND THEIR STORY with his sparse freeboard is being badly washed down and his guns' crews are thinking more of their wet feet and legs than of accurate shooting. Then, when you see him submerging, alter course quickly, reckon his probable position by the time you have steadied your ship on her course, and drop a series of depth- charges over his track. ' If you can fill the unfor- giving minute with sixty seconds' worth of distance, run ' ; if you have acted with true seamanship and sound imagination, you will presently see bits of broken wreckage, the boil of water, quantities of oil, perhaps a couple of corpses ; and yours is the U-boat below, my son, and a D.S.O. ; and a thousand pounds in cash to be divided amongst the crew ; and you're a man, my son !

That, in a few phrases, is the kind of work, and 
shows the circumstances of the Q-ship in her 

busiest 
period. As we set forth her wonderful story, so 
gallant, so sad, so victorious, and yet so nerve-trying, 
we shall see all manner of types engaged in this great 
adventure ; but we cannot appreciate either the 
successes or losses until we have seen the birth and 
growth of the Q-ship idea. As this volume is the 
first effort to present the subject historically, we shall 
begin at the beginning by showing the causes which 
created the Q-ship. We shall see the consecutive 
stages of development and improvement, the evolu- 
tion of new methods, and, indeed we may at once say 
it, of a new type of super-seamen. How did it all 
begin ? 

Turn your attention back to the autumn of 1014. 
It was the sinking of the three Ci^essys on Septem- 
ber *22 by U 9 that taught Gerinany what a 
wonderful weapon of offence she had in the sub- 
marine. Five days later the first German submarine 




An Early Q-ship 
Q-ship "Antwerp" entering Harwich harbour. 




Q-SHiP " Antwerp " 

Commander Herbert is on the port side of the bridge, the ^Mercantile Chief 
Officer and Quartermaster being in the foreground. 

To face p. 6 



THE HOUR AND THE NEED 7 

penetrated the Dover Straits. This was U 18, who 
actually attacked the light cruiser Attentive. But it 
was not until October 20 that the first merchant ship, 
the British S.S. Glitru in the North Sea, was sunk by 
a submarine. Six days later the French S.S. Amhal 
Ganteaame, with Belgian refugees, was attacked by 
a German submarine. A month passed, and on 
November 23 the S.S. Malachite was attacked by 
U 21, and after being on fire sank. Three days 
later the S.S. Primo was sunk also by U 21. It was 
thus perfectly clear that we had before us a most 
difficult submarine campaign to contend with, and 
that merchant ships would not be immune. On the 
last day of October H.M.S. Hermes was torpedoed 
oflf Calais, and on November 11 H.M.S. Niger had a 
similar fate near Deal. 

What was to be done ? The creation of what 
eventually became known as the Auxiliary Patrol, 
with its ever increasing force of armed yachts, 
trawlers, drifters, and motor craft ; the use of de- 
stroyers and our own submarines formed part of the 
scheme. But even at this early stage the Q-ship 
idea came into being, though not actually under 
that name. Officially she was a special-service ship, 
whose goings and comings were so mysterious that 
even among service men such craft were spoken of in 
great secrecy as mystery ships. This first mystery 
ship was the S.S. Vittoria, who was commissioned on 
November 29, 1914. She had all the appearance of 
an ordinary merchant ship, but she was armed, and 
went on patrol in the area where submarines had been 
reported. It was an entirely novel idea, and very few 
people knew anything about her. She never had any 
luck, and was paid off early in January, 1915, without 
ever having so much as sighted a submarine. The 



8 Q-SHIPS AND THEIR STORY 

idea of decoy ships suggested itself to various naval 
officers during December, 1914, and their suggestions 
reached the Admiralty. The basic plan was for the 
Admiralty to take up a number of merchantmen and 
fishing craft, arm them with a few light quick-firing 
guns, and then send them forth to cruise in likely 
submarine areas, flying neutral colours. This was 
perfectly legitimate under International Law, provided 
that before opening fire on the enemy the neutral 
colours were lowered and the White Ensign was 
hoisted. Seeing that the enemy was determined to 
sink merchantmen, the obvious reply was to send 
against them armed merchantmen, properly com- 
missioned and armed, but outwardly resembling any- 
thing but a warship. Thus it came about that on 
January 27, 1915, the second decoy ship was com- 
missioned. This was the Great Eastern Railway S.S. 
Antwerp (originally called Vienna)^ which operated in 
the English Channel. She was placed under the com- 
mand of Lieut. -Commander Godfrey Herbert, R.N., 
one of the most experienced and able officers of our 
submarine service. The choice was a happy one, for 
a submarine officer would naturally in his stalking be 
able to realize at once the limitations and possibilities 
of his opponent. It was a most difficult task, for the 
U-boats at this time were still very shy, and only took 
on certainties. Neither in boats nor in personnel had 
Germany yet any to spare, and there were periods 
when the submarine campaign fluctuated. Tlius, day 
after day, week after week, went by, and Aiitxverp 
never had any cliance. The enemy was now beginning 
to operate lurther afield, and at the end of January, 
1915, ior the first time, a U-boat made its way up the 
Irish Sea as far us off Liverpool, and tlien, on Feb- 
ruary 18, was inaugurated the Ciennau Submarine 

The Fifty-first Dragon Of all the pupils at the knight school Gawaine le Cœur-Hardy was among the least promising. He was tall and sturdy, but his instructors soon discovered that he lacked spirit. He would hide in the woods when the jousting class was called, although his companions and members of the faculty sought to appeal to his better nature by shouting to him to come out and break his neck like a man. Even when they told him that the lances were padded, the horses no more than ponies and the field unusually soft for late autumn, Gawaine refused to grow enthusiastic. The Headmaster and the Assistant Professor of Pleasaunce were discussing the case one spring afternoon and the Assistant Professor could see no remedy but expulsion. "No," said the Headmaster, as he looked out at the purple hills which ringed the school, "I think I'll train him to slay dragons." "He might be killed," objected the Assistant Professor. "So he might," replied the Headmaster brightly, but he added, more soberly, "We must consider the greater good. We are responsible for the formation of this lad's character." "Are the dragons particularly bad this year?" interrupted the Assistant Professor. This was characteristic. He always seemed restive when the head of the school began to talk ethics and the ideals of the institution. "I've never known them worse," replied the Headmaster. "Up in the hills to the south last week they killed a number of peasants, two cows and a prize pig. And if this dry spell holds there's no telling when they may start a forest fire simply by breathing around indiscriminately." "Would any refund on the tuition fee be necessary in case of an accident to young Cœur-Hardy?" "No," the principal answered, judicially, "that's all covered in the contract. But as a matter of fact he won't be killed. Before I send him up in the hills I'm going to give him a magic word." "That's a good idea," said the Professor. "Sometimes they work wonders." From that day on Gawaine specialized in dragons. His course included both theory and practice. In the morning there were long lectures on the history, anatomy, manners and customs of dragons. Gawaine did not distinguish himself in these studies. He had a marvelously versatile gift for forgetting things. In the afternoon he showed to better advantage, for then he would go down to the South Meadow and practise with a battle-ax. In this exercise he was truly impressive, for he had enormous strength as well as speed and grace. He even developed a deceptive display of ferocity. Old alumni say that it was a thrilling sight to see Gawaine charging across the field toward the dummy paper dragon which had been set up for his practice. As he ran he would brandish his ax and shout "A murrain on thee!" or some other vivid bit of campus slang. It never took him more than one stroke to behead the dummy dragon. Gradually his task was made more difficult. Paper gave way to papier-mâché and finally to wood, but even the toughest of these dummy dragons had no terrors for Gawaine. One sweep of the ax always did the business. There were those who said that when the practice was protracted until dusk and the dragons threw long, fantastic shadows across the meadow Gawaine did not charge so impetuously nor shout so loudly. It is possible there was malice in this charge. At any rate, the Headmaster decided by the end of June that it was time for the test. Only the night before a dragon had come close to the school grounds and had eaten some of the lettuce from the garden. The faculty decided that Gawaine was ready. They gave him a diploma and a new battle-ax and the Headmaster summoned him to a private conference. "Sit down," said the Headmaster. "Have a cigarette." Gawaine hesitated. "Oh, I know it's against the rules," said the Headmaster. "But after all, you have received your preliminary degree. You are no longer a boy. You are a man. To-morrow you will go out into the world, the great world of achievement." Gawaine took a cigarette. The Headmaster offered him a match, but he produced one of his own and began to puff away with a dexterity which quite amazed the principal. "Here you have learned the theories of life," continued the Headmaster, resuming the thread of his discourse, "but after all, life is not a matter of theories. Life is a matter of facts. It calls on the young and the old alike to face these facts, even though they are hard and sometimes unpleasant. Your problem, for example, is to slay dragons." "They say that those dragons down in the south wood are five hundred feet long," ventured Gawaine, timorously. "Stuff and nonsense!" said the Headmaster. "The curate saw one last week from the top of Arthur's Hill. The dragon was sunning himself down in the valley. The curate didn't have an opportunity to look at him very long because he felt it was his duty to hurry back to make a report to me. He said the monster, or shall I say, the big lizard?—wasn't an inch over two hundred feet. But the size has nothing at all to do with it. You'll find the big ones even easier than the little ones. They're far slower on their feet and less aggressive, I'm told. Besides, before you go I'm going to equip you in such fashion that you need have no fear of all the dragons in the world." "I'd like an enchanted cap," said Gawaine. "What's that?" answered the Headmaster, testily. "A cap to make me disappear," explained Gawaine. The Headmaster laughed indulgently. "You mustn't believe all those old wives' stories," he said. "There isn't any such thing. A cap to make you disappear, indeed! What would you do with it? You haven't even appeared yet. Why, my boy, you could walk from here to London, and nobody would so much as look at you. You're nobody. You couldn't be more invisible than that." Gawaine seemed dangerously close to a relapse into his old habit of whimpering. The Headmaster reassured him: "Don't worry; I'll give you something much better than an enchanted cap. I'm going to give you a magic word. All you have to do is to repeat this magic charm once and no dragon can possibly harm a hair of your head. You can cut off his head at your leisure." He took a heavy book from the shelf behind his desk and began to run through it. "Sometimes," he said, "the charm is a whole phrase or even a sentence. I might, for instance, give you 'To make the'—No, that might not do. I think a single word would be best for dragons." "A short word," suggested Gawaine. "It can't be too short or it wouldn't be potent. There isn't so much hurry as all that. Here's a splendid magic word: 'Rumplesnitz.' Do you think you can learn that?" Gawaine tried and in an hour or so he seemed to have the word well in hand. Again and again he interrupted the lesson to inquire, "And if I say 'Rumplesnitz' the dragon can't possibly hurt me?" And always the Headmaster replied, "If you only say 'Rumplesnitz,' you are perfectly safe." Toward morning Gawaine seemed resigned to his career. At daybreak the Headmaster saw him to the edge of the forest and pointed him to the direction in which he should proceed. About a mile away to the southwest a cloud of steam hovered over an open meadow in the woods and the Headmaster assured Gawaine that under the steam he would find a dragon. Gawaine went forward slowly. He wondered whether it would be best to approach the dragon on the run as he did in his practice in the South Meadow or to walk slowly toward him, shouting "Rumplesnitz" all the way. The problem was decided for him. No sooner had he come to the fringe of the meadow than the dragon spied him and began to charge. It was a large dragon and yet it seemed decidedly aggressive in spite of the Headmaster's statement to the contrary. As the dragon charged it released huge clouds of hissing steam through its nostrils. It was almost as if a gigantic teapot had gone mad. The dragon came forward so fast and Gawaine was so frightened that he had time to say "Rumplesnitz" only once. As he said it, he swung his battle-ax and off popped the head of the dragon. Gawaine had to admit that it was even easier to kill a real dragon than a wooden one if only you said "Rumplesnitz." Gawaine brought the ears home and a small section of the tail. His school mates and the faculty made much of him, but the Headmaster wisely kept him from being spoiled by insisting that he go on with his work. Every clear day Gawaine rose at dawn and went out to kill dragons. The Headmaster kept him at home when it rained, because he said the woods were damp and unhealthy at such times and that he didn't want the boy to run needless risks. Few good days passed in which Gawaine failed to get a dragon. On one particularly fortunate day he killed three, a husband and wife and a visiting relative. Gradually he developed a technique. Pupils who sometimes watched him from the hill-tops a long way off said that he often allowed the dragon to come within a few feet before he said "Rumplesnitz." He came to say it with a mocking sneer. Occasionally he did stunts. Once when an excursion party from London was watching him he went into action with his right hand tied behind his back. The dragon's head came off just as easily. As Gawaine's record of killings mounted higher the Headmaster found it impossible to keep him completely in hand. He fell into the habit of stealing out at night and engaging in long drinking bouts at the village tavern. It was after such a debauch that he rose a little before dawn one fine August morning and started out after his fiftieth dragon. His head was heavy and his mind sluggish. He was heavy in other respects as well, for he had adopted the somewhat vulgar practice of wearing his medals, ribbons and all, when he went out dragon hunting. The decorations began on his chest and ran all the way down to his abdomen. They must have weighed at least eight pounds. Gawaine found a dragon in the same meadow where he had killed the first one. It was a fair-sized dragon, but evidently an old one. Its face was wrinkled and Gawaine thought he had never seen so hideous a countenance. Much to the lad's disgust, the monster refused to charge and Gawaine was obliged to walk toward him. He whistled as he went. The dragon regarded him hopelessly, but craftily. Of course it had heard of Gawaine. Even when the lad raised his battle-ax the dragon made no move. It knew that there was no salvation in the quickest thrust of the head, for it had been informed that this hunter was protected by an enchantment. It merely waited, hoping something would turn up. Gawaine raised the battle-ax and suddenly lowered it again. He had grown very pale and he trembled violently. The dragon suspected a trick. "What's the matter?" it asked, with false solicitude. "I've forgotten the magic word," stammered Gawaine. "What a pity," said the dragon. "So that was the secret. It doesn't seem quite sporting to me, all this magic stuff, you know. Not cricket, as we used to say when I was a little dragon; but after all, that's a matter of opinion." Gawaine was so helpless with terror that the dragon's confidence rose immeasurably and it could not resist the temptation to show off a bit. "Could I possibly be of any assistance?" it asked. "What's the first letter of the magic word?" "It begins with an 'r,'" said Gawaine weakly. "Let's see," mused the dragon, "that doesn't tell us much, does it? What sort of a word is this? Is it an epithet, do you think?" Gawaine could do no more than nod. "Why, of course," exclaimed the dragon, "reactionary Republican." Gawaine shook his head. "Well, then," said the dragon, "we'd better get down to business. Will you surrender?" With the suggestion of a compromise Gawaine mustered up enough courage to speak. "What will you do if I surrender?" he asked. "Why, I'll eat you," said the dragon. "And if I don't surrender?" "I'll eat you just the same." "Then it doesn't make any difference, does it?" moaned Gawaine. "It does to me," said the dragon with a smile. "I'd rather you didn't surrender. You'd taste much better if you didn't." The dragon waited for a long time for Gawaine to ask "Why?" but the boy was too frightened to speak. At last the dragon had to give the explanation without his cue line. "You see," he said, "if you don't surrender you'll taste better because you'll die game." This was an old and ancient trick of the dragon's. By means of some such quip he was accustomed to paralyze his victims with laughter and then to destroy them. Gawaine was sufficiently paralyzed as it was, but laughter had no part in his helplessness. With the last word of the joke the dragon drew back his head and struck. In that second there flashed into the mind of Gawaine the magic word "Rumplesnitz," but there was no time to say it. There was time only to strike and, without a word, Gawaine met the onrush of the dragon with a full swing. He put all his back and shoulders into it. The impact was terrific and the head of the dragon flew away almost a hundred yards and landed in a thicket. Gawaine did not remain frightened very long after the death of the dragon. His mood was one of wonder. He was enormously puzzled. He cut off the ears of the monster almost in a trance. Again and again he thought to himself, "I didn't say 'Rumplesnitz'!" He was sure of that and yet there was no question that he had killed the dragon. In fact, he had never killed one so utterly. Never before had he driven a head for anything like the same distance. Twenty-five yards was perhaps his best previous record. All the way back to the knight school he kept rumbling about in his mind seeking an explanation for what had occurred. He went to the Headmaster immediately and after closing the door told him what had happened. "I didn't say 'Rumplesnitz,'" he explained with great earnestness. The Headmaster laughed. "I'm glad you've found out," he said. "It makes you ever so much more of a hero. Don't you see that? Now you know that it was you who killed all these dragons and not that foolish little word 'Rumplesnitz.'" Gawaine frowned. "Then it wasn't a magic word after all?" he asked. "Of course not," said the Headmaster, "you ought to be too old for such foolishness. There isn't any such thing as a magic word." "But you told me it was magic," protested Gawaine. "You said it was magic and now you say it isn't." "It wasn't magic in a literal sense," answered the Headmaster, "but it was much more wonderful than that. The word gave you confidence. It took away your fears. If I hadn't told you that you might have been killed the very first time. It was your battle-ax did the trick." Gawaine surprised the Headmaster by his attitude. He was obviously distressed by the explanation. He interrupted a long philosophic and ethical discourse by the Headmaster with, "If I hadn't of hit 'em all mighty hard and fast any one of 'em might have crushed me like a, like a—" He fumbled for a word. "Egg shell," suggested the Headmaster. "Like a egg shell," assented Gawaine, and he said it many times. All through the evening meal people who sat near him heard him muttering, "Like a egg shell, like a egg shell." The next day was clear, but Gawaine did not get up at dawn. Indeed, it was almost noon when the Headmaster found him cowering in bed, with the clothes pulled over his head. The principal called the Assistant Professor of Pleasaunce, and together they dragged the boy toward the forest. "He'll be all right as soon as he gets a couple more dragons under his belt," explained the Headmaster. The Assistant Professor of Pleasaunce agreed. "It would be a shame to stop such a fine run," he said. "Why, counting that one yesterday, he's killed fifty dragons." They pushed the boy into a thicket above which hung a meager cloud of steam. It was obviously quite a small dragon. But Gawaine did not come back that night or the next. In fact, he never came back. Some weeks afterward brave spirits from the school explored the thicket, but they could find nothing to remind them of Gawaine except the metal parts of his medals. Even the ribbons had been devoured. The Headmaster and the Assistant Professor of Pleasaunce agreed that it would be just as well not to tell the school how Gawaine had achieved his record and still less how he came to die. They held that it might have a bad effect on school spirit. Accordingly, Gawaine has lived in the memory of the school as its greatest hero. No visitor succeeds in leaving the building to-day without seeing a great shield which hangs on the wall of the dining hall. Fifty pairs of dragons' ears are mounted upon the shield and underneath in gilt letters is "Gawaine le Cœur-Hardy," followed by the simple inscription, "He killed fifty dragons." The record has never been equaled.

How To Be a Lion Tamer

The Ways of the Circus is a decidedly readable book, rich in anecdotes of the life of circus folk and circus animals. The narrator is an old lion tamer and Harvey W. Root, who has done the actual writing, has managed to keep a decidedly naïve quality in the talk as he sets it down. There is a delightful chapter, for instance, in which Conklin tells how he first became a lion tamer. By gradual process of promotion he had gone as far as an elephant, but his salary was still much lower than that of Charlie Forepaugh, the lion man. There were three lions with the circus, but Charlie never worked with more than one in the cage at the time. Conklin got the notion that an act with all the lions in action at once would be a sensational success. He was not sure that it could be done, as he had had no experience with lions. The only way to find out was to try. Accordingly Conklin sneaked into the menagerie alone, late at night, to ascertain whether or not lions lay along his natural bent.
"The animals seemed somewhat surprised at being disturbed in the middle of the night," he says, "and began to pace rapidly up and down their cages. I paid no attention to this, but opened the door of each cage in succession and drove them out. Then I began as sternly as I could to order them round and give them their cues.
"Except, perhaps, for an unusual amount of snarling, they did as well for me as for Charlie. I put them through their regular work, which took fifteen or twenty minutes, drove them back, and fastened them into their own cages and climbed down on to the floor from the performing cage, much elated with my success. I had proved to myself that I could handle lions."
Conklin then goes on to tell how he gave a secret exhibition for the proprietor of the circus and convinced him of his skill. In fact, the proprietor promised that he should become the lion tamer of the show as soon as Charlie Forepaugh's contract ran out. Conklin goes on to say that he himself was very particular for the sake of safety not to let Charlie know of this arrangement. And in explaining his timidity, he writes, "He was a big fellow with a quick temper."
This almost emboldens us to believe the old story of the lion tamer and his shrewish wife. Coming home late from a party, he feared to enter the house and so he went to the backyard and crept into the cage with the lions. There it was that his wife discovered him the next morning, sleeping with the lions, and she shook her fist and shouted through the bars, "you coward!"
To be sure as Mr. Conklin tells it there seems to be no great trick in being a lion tamer. Take, for instance, the familiar stunt in which a trainer puts his head into a lion's mouth and you will find upon close survey that it is nothing to worry about. "This never failed to make the crowd hold its breath, but it was not as risky as it seemed," says Conklin, "for with my hold on the lion's nose and jowl I could detect the slightest movement of his muscles and govern my actions accordingly." Mr. Conklin does not develop the point, but we suppose that if he detected any intention on the lion's part of closing his mouth he would take his head out in order to make it easier for the animal.
Mr. Conklin also corrects a number of misapprehensions about lions which may be of use to some readers. Contrary to popular belief, you have nothing to worry about if any of your lions insist on walking up and down. "A lion that will walk round when you get in the cage with him is all right, as a general thing," explains Conklin, "but look out for the one that goes and lies down in a corner."
To be sure, there is something just a little disturbing in the afterthought indicated in "as a general thing." Our luck is so bad that we wouldn't feel safe in a cage with a lion even if he ran up and down. In fact, we would be almost willing to wager that ours would be one of the unfortunate exceptions which didn't know the rule and so would do his bit toward providing it.
In another respect the lion tamer is a little more specific about lions and therefore more helpful. "It is true, though," he adds, "that you should never let one get behind you if you can help it, though in many of the acts it is not possible to keep all of them in front of you all the time." We can understand this advice, though it is not altogether clear to us just what we would do if a lion tried to get behind us. Of course, we would tell him not to, but after that we should be somewhat at a loss. We have never believed in being rough with lions. Probably we would let him have his way just to avoid argument. As a matter of fact we would have no great objection to having all our lions behind us if only we could keep far enough in front.
"A lion that growls frightfully and acts very ferocious when you are outside the cage may be one of the easiest to handle and get work out of when once you are actually in the cage; and on the other hand, a lion that is mean and dangerous to do anything with in the cage may be exceptionally docile from the outside and allow you to pet him freely."
This should go a long way toward solving the problems of lion tamers. All you have to do before a performance is to make a test from outside the cage. Try to pat your lion and pull his ears. If he growls and bites your hand you will know at once that you may come in and go about your business with perfect safety. On the other hand, if he meets your caresses by rolling over on his back and purring it is up to you to call off the show or send for your understudy.
The unfortunate fate of such a substitute is described by Conklin with much detail and, we fear, a little relish. The man in question took Conklin's job when he struck for a raise in salary. Things went well enough during the first performance until the very end, and then it was the fault not of the lion but of the substitute, for the trainer was ignorant of one of the cues which had become a part of the act.
"I had taught George to jump for me as I went out the door," writes Conklin. "It had been done by blowing on his nose and then jumping back as you would play with a dog. It always made a great hit with the crowd, who supposed it had seen a lion try to eat a man and that I had had a very narrow escape. I worked it this way: After I had finished the rest of my act I would get George all stirred up and growling. Then I would fire my pistol two or three times and jump out of the cage as quickly as I could. At the same time George would give a big lunge and come up against the door which I had just shut behind me. George had learned the trick so well that I frequently had to turn on him once or twice and work him farther back from the door before I dared attempt getting out."
Unfortunately the substitute had missed all this part of the act. He started out of the cage and George jumped at him and the man was not prepared to dodge. The moral seems to be that nobody should covet another man's job, not even that of lion taming.
Some readers we suppose will find Mr. Conklin's lion stories unwelcome because they may tend to take away their illusions. It is not to be denied that he has to some extent rubbed the gilt off the gingerbread by writing that the record for all the lions he has known consists of one substitute trainer and a cow. His whole attitude toward lions is contemptuous in its calm and so is the attitude of practically everybody else in the book with the exception of the cow and the substitute trainer. Even they suffered a little, at first, from overconfidence.
On the night down in Philadelphia when Wallace, the big lion, escaped from his cage in winter quarters nobody grew excited. O'Brien, the owner of the show, did not even get up, but called through the door "Go git Conklin!" The preparations of the trainer were simple. First he got an iron bar and then he found the lion and hit him on the end of the nose. "After a few minutes," he adds, "I had him safely locked in again."
Lions, for all their air of authority, seem to be easily dominated. They're not so much wicked as weak. Anybody with a little firmness can twist them around a finger, possibly not the little finger, but any of the others. It is a great pity that lions should be like that. To be sure, the information ought not to come as a surprise to anybody who is familiar with the Bible. The condition we have mentioned has existed for a long time. As far as we know, Daniel had not so much as an iron bar when he went into the den. He overawed the lions with nothing more than faith.
Perhaps it is not quite fair to go on as if lions were the only living creatures in all the world who are swayed and cowed by firmness and authority. The same weakness may be found now and then among men. All too many of us if hit on the nose with iron bars, either real ones or symbols, do little more than lions in similar circumstances. We may growl and roar a little, but we do not show resentment in any efficient way. And like the lions, we are singularly stupid in not making working alliances with our fellows against the man with the iron bar. By and by we begin to go through the hoops as if the procedure were inevitable. Having made a protest we feel that our duty is done.
It is a great pity. Lions ought to know better. The man who stares you in the eye and squeezes hard in a handshake may come to the bad end which you wish him, but it is unlikely that he will ever be eaten by lions. Something else must be devised for him. Even outside the circus he is likely to go far. Anybody who can shake a little personality can be ringmaster in this world. And we, all of us who have none, do nothing about it except to obey him. Camels we can swallow easily enough, but we strain at the natty dresser.
Still we did manage to find a few bits of information in The Ways of the Circus which were brand new to us. If, for instance, a rhinoceros escaped from his cage just what would you do to get him back again? That is, if he were the sort of rhinoceros you wanted back. At first glance it seems rather a problem, but any reader of Mr. Conklin's book could arrange it for you without difficulty. Nothing is needed but carrots and a stout heart. The carrots you scatter profusely about the floor of the cage, and when the rhinoceros returns to get them you slam down the door, and there he is.

H. G. Wells of England

H. G. Wells in his Outline of History seldom seems just an Englishman. He fights his battles and makes most of his judgments alone and generally in defiance of the traditions of his countrymen, but he is not bold enough to face Napoleon Bonaparte all by himself. The sight of the terrible little Corsican peeping over the edge of the thirty-eighth chapter sends Wells scurrying from his solitude into the center of a British square. It must be that when Wells was little and bad his nurse told him that if he did not eat his mush or go to bed, or perform some other necessary function in the daily life of a child, Old Bony would get him. And Wells is still scared. He takes it out, of course, by pretending that Napoleon has been vastly overrated and remarks that it was pretty lucky for him that he lost Trafalgar and never got to England, where troops would have made short work of him.
Nelson, Wells holds, was just as great a figure in his own specialty as Napoleon in his, but if so it seems a pity that he did not rise to Wellsian heights of strategy and lose Trafalgar so that Napoleon might land and be defeated by British pluck and skill. Then, indeed, might Waterloo have been won upon the cricket fields of Eton.
Not only does Wells insist on regarding Napoleon through national lenses but through moral ones also. Speaking of his accession as First Consul, Wells writes: "Now surely here was opportunity such as never came to man before. Here was a position in which a man might well bow himself in fear of himself, and search his heart and serve God and man to the utmost."
That, of course, was not Napoleon's intent. His performance must be judged by his purpose, and it seems to us that Wells doesn't half appreciate how brilliant was the stunt which Napoleon achieved. "He tried to do the impossible and did it." Man was no better for him and neither was God, but he remains still the great bogy man of Europe, a bogy great enough to have frightened Mr. Wells and marked him. Here was a man who took life and made it theatrical. It was an achievement in popular æsthetics, if nothing else, but Wells doesn't care about æsthetics. Perhaps even a moral might be extracted from the life of Napoleon. He proved the magic quality of personality and the inspiration of gesture. Some day the same methods may be used to better advantage.
The institution of the Legion of Honor Wells calls "A scheme for decorating Frenchmen with bits of ribbon which was admirably calculated to divert ambitious men from subversive proceedings." But these same bits of ribbon and the red and green ones of the Croix de Guerre and the yellow and green of the Médaille Militaire were later to save France from the onrush of the Germans. Without decorations, without phrases and without the brilliant and effective theatrical oratory of French officers, from marshals to sub-lieutenants, France would have lost the great war. Everybody who saw the French army in action realized that its morale was maintained during the worst days by colored ribbons and florid speeches. Even the stern and taciturn Pershing learned the lesson, and before he had been in France three months he was about making speeches to wounded men in which he told them that he wished that he, too, were lying in hospital with all their glory. Personally, it never seemed to me that Pershing actually convinced any wounded doughboy of his enthusiasm for such a change, but he did not use the gesture with much skill. He lacked the Napoleonic tradition.
Another American officer, a younger one, said, "If I ever have anything to do with West Point I'm going to copy these Frenchmen. They do it naturally, but we've got to learn. I'm going to introduce a course in practical theatricalism. Now, if I were a general, as soon as I heard of some little trench raid in which Private Smith distinguished himself I'd send a staff officer down on the sly to find out what Smith looked like. Then I'd inspect that particular organization and when I got to Smith my aide would nudge me and I'd turn, as if instinctively, and say, 'Isn't that Private Smith who distinguished himself on the evening of January 18 at 8 o'clock? I want to shake your hand, Smith.' Why, man, the French army has been living and breathing on stuff like that for the last two years."
It is an easy matter to satirize the heroic and theatrical gesture. The French themselves did it. Once in the Chamber of Deputies, late in the war, a Radical member, who didn't care much for the war, anyway, and still less for the Cabinet, arose and said: "This morning as I was walking in the streets of Paris a little before dawn I saw three camions headed for the front, and I stopped the first driver and said, 'Ah, I am overjoyed to see that at last the ministry is awake to the needs of our brave poilus and is sending supplies to the front. What is it that you carry—ammunition, clothing, food?' But the driver shook his head and said, 'No; Croix de Guerre.'"

Above all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before the general gaze from the foundations of the world - the figure of the sharp female called La Guillotine. It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache, it infallibly prevented hair from turning gray, it imparted a peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which shaved close: who kissed La Guillotine looked through the little window and sneezed into the sack ...A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the book should shut with a a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead, my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?

Mr Lorry asks the witness questions:

Ever been kicked?
Might have been.
Frequently? No. Ever kicked down stairs?
Decidedly not; once received a kick at the top of a staircase, and fell down stairs of his own accord

The Night Shadows

A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead, my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?

As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the first Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the three passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail coach; they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had been in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the breadth of a county between him and the next.
The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together—as if they were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too far apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and throat, which descended nearly to the wearer's knees. When he stopped for drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he poured his liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he muffled again.
"No, Jerry, no!" said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode. "It wouldn't do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn't suit your line of business! Recalled—! Bust me if I don't think he'd been a drinking!"
His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown, which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was so like Smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.
While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night watchman in his box at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Temple Bar, who was to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such shapes to the mare as arose out of her private topics of uneasiness. They seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.
What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon its tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom, likewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.
Tellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank passenger—with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what lay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger, and driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special jolt—nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little coach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great stroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money, and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson's, with all its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time. Then the strong-rooms underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable stores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a little that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them safe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.
But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach (in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was always with him, there was another current of impression that never ceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one out of a grave.
Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did not indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by years, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed, and in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt, defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another; so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands and figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was prematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this spectre:
"Buried how long?"
The answer was always the same: "Almost eighteen years."
"You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?"
"Long ago."
"You know that you are recalled to life?"
"They tell me so."
"I hope you care to live?"
"I can't say."
"Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?"
The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes the broken reply was, "Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon." Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was, "Take me to her." Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it was, "I don't know her. I don't understand."
After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig, and dig, dig—now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his hands—to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the reality of mist and rain on his cheek.
Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating by jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train of the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the real business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express sent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out of the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost it again.
"Buried how long?"
"Almost eighteen years."
"I hope you care to live?"
"I can't say."
Dig—dig—dig—until an impatient movement from one of the two passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again slid away into the bank and the grave.
"Buried how long?"
"Almost eighteen years."
"You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?"
"Long ago."
The words were still in his hearing as just spoken—distinctly in his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life—when the weary passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the shadows of the night were gone.
He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left last night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood, in which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained upon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear, and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.
"Eighteen years!" said the passenger, looking at the sun. "Gracious Creator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!

They had almost finished with the loading. Outside stood the Optus, his arms folded, his face sunk in gloom. Captain Franco walked leisurely down the gangplank, grinning. "What's the matter?" he said. "You're getting paid for all this." The Optus said nothing. He turned away, collecting his robes. The Captain put his boot on the hem of the robe. "Just a minute. Don't go off. I'm not finished." "Oh?" The Optus turned with dignity. "I am going back to the village." He looked toward the animals and birds being driven up the gangplank into the spaceship. "I must organize new hunts." Franco lit a cigarette. "Why not? You people can go out into the veldt and track it all down again. But when we run out halfway between Mars and Earth--" The Optus went off, wordless. Franco joined the first mate at the bottom of the gangplank.

"How's it coming?" he said.

 He looked at his watch. "We got a good
bargain here."

The mate glanced at him sourly.

 "How do you explain that?"

"What's the matter with you?

 We need it more than they do."

"I'll see you later, Captain." The mate threaded his way up the plank,
between the long-legged Martian go-birds, into the ship. Franco watched
him disappear. He was just starting up after him, up the plank toward
the port, when he saw _it_.

"My God!" He stood staring, his hands on his hips. Peterson was walking
along the path, his face red, leading _it_ by a string.

"I'm sorry, Captain," he said, tugging at the string. Franco walked
toward him.

"What is it?"

The wub stood sagging, its great body settling slowly. It was sitting
down, its eyes half shut. A few flies buzzed about its flank, and it
switched its tail.

_It_ sat. There was silence.

"It's a wub," Peterson said. "I got it from a native for fifty cents. He
said it was a very unusual animal. Very respected."

"This?" Franco poked the great sloping side of the wub. "It's a pig! A
huge dirty pig!"

"Yes sir, it's a pig. The natives call it a wub."

"A huge pig. It must weigh four hundred pounds." Franco grabbed a tuft
of the rough hair. The wub gasped. Its eyes opened, small and moist.
Then its great mouth twitched.

A tear rolled down the wub's cheek and splashed on the floor.

"Maybe it's good to eat," Peterson said nervously.

"We'll soon find out," Franco said.

       *       *       *       *       *

The wub survived the take-off, sound asleep in the hold of the ship.
When they were out in space and everything was running smoothly, Captain
Franco bade his men fetch the wub upstairs so that he might perceive
what manner of beast it was.

The wub grunted and wheezed, squeezing up the passageway.

"Come on," Jones grated, pulling at the rope. The wub twisted, rubbing
its skin off on the smooth chrome walls. It burst into the ante-room,
tumbling down in a heap. The men leaped up.

"Good Lord," French said. "What is it?"

"Peterson says it's a wub," Jones said. "It belongs to him." He kicked
at the wub. The wub stood up unsteadily, panting.

"What's the matter with it?" French came over. "Is it going to be sick?"

They watched. The wub rolled its eyes mournfully. It gazed around at the
men.

"I think it's thirsty," Peterson said. He went to get some water. French
shook his head.

"No wonder we had so much trouble taking off. I had to reset all my
ballast calculations."

Peterson came back with the water. The wub began to lap gratefully,
splashing the men.

Captain Franco appeared at the door.

"Let's have a look at it." 

He advanced, squinting critically. "You got
this for fifty cents?"

"Yes, sir," Peterson said. "It eats almost anything. I fed it on grain
and it liked that. And then potatoes, and mash, and scraps from the
table, and milk. It seems to enjoy eating. After it eats it lies down
and goes to sleep."

"I see," Captain Franco said. "Now, as to its taste. That's the real
question. I doubt if there's much point in fattening it up any more. It
seems fat enough to me already. Where's the cook? I want him here. I
want to find out--"

The wub stopped lapping and looked up at the Captain.

"Really, Captain," the wub said. "I suggest we talk of other matters."

The room was silent.

"What was that?" Franco said. "Just now."

"The wub, sir," Peterson said. "It spoke."

They all looked at the wub.

"What did it say? What did it say?"

"It suggested we talk about other things."

Franco walked toward the wub. 

He went all around it, examining it from
every side. Then he came back over and stood with the men.

"I wonder if there's a native inside it," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe
we should open it up and have a look."

"Oh, goodness!" the wub cried. "Is that all you people can think of,
killing and cutting?"

Franco clenched his fists. "Come out of there! Whoever you are, come
out!"

Nothing stirred. The men stood together, their faces blank, staring at
the wub. The wub swished its tail. It belched suddenly.

"I beg your pardon," the wub said.

"I don't think there's anyone in there," Jones said in a low voice. They
all looked at each other.

The cook came in.

"You wanted me, Captain?" he said. "What's this thing?"

"This is a wub," Franco said. "It's to be eaten. Will you measure it and
figure out--"

"I think we should have a talk," the wub said. "I'd like to discuss this
with you, Captain, if I might. I can see that you and I do not agree on
some basic issues."

The Captain took a long time to answer. The wub waited good-naturedly,
licking the water from its jowls.

"Come into my office," the Captain said at last. He turned and walked
out of the room. The wub rose and padded after him. The men watched it
go out. They heard it climbing the stairs.

"I wonder what the outcome will be," the cook said. "Well, I'll be in
the kitchen. Let me know as soon as you hear."

"Sure," Jones said. "Sure."

       *       *       *       *       *

The wub eased itself down in the corner with a sigh. "You must forgive
me," it said. "I'm afraid I'm addicted to various forms of relaxation.
When one is as large as I--"

The Captain nodded impatiently. He sat down at his desk and folded his
hands.

"All right," he said. "Let's get started. You're a wub? Is that
correct?"

The wub shrugged. "I suppose so. That's what they call us, the natives,
I mean. We have our own term."

"And you speak English? You've been in contact with Earthmen before?"

"No."

"Then how do you do it?"

"Speak English? Am I speaking English? I'm not conscious of speaking
anything in particular. I examined your mind--"

"My mind?"

"I studied the contents, especially the semantic warehouse, as I refer
to it--"

"I see," the Captain said. "Telepathy. Of course."

"We are a very old race," the wub said. "Very old and very ponderous. It
is difficult for us to move around. You can appreciate that anything so
slow and heavy would be at the mercy of more agile forms of life. There
was no use in our relying on physical defenses. How could we win? Too
heavy to run, too soft to fight, too good-natured to hunt for game--"

"How do you live?"

"Plants. Vegetables. We can eat almost anything. We're very catholic.
Tolerant, eclectic, catholic. We live and let live. That's how we've
gotten along."

The wub eyed the Captain.

"And that's why I so violently objected to this business about having me
boiled. I could see the image in your mind--most of me in the frozen
food locker, some of me in the kettle, a bit for your pet cat--"

"So you read minds?" the Captain said. "How interesting. Anything else?
I mean, what else can you do along those lines?"

"A few odds and ends," the wub said absently, staring around the room.
"A nice apartment you have here, Captain. You keep it quite neat. I
respect life-forms that are tidy. Some Martian birds are quite tidy.
They throw things out of their nests and sweep them--"

"Indeed." The Captain nodded. "But to get back to the problem--"

"Quite so. You spoke of dining on me. The taste, I am told, is good. A
little fatty, but tender. But how can any lasting contact be established
between your people and mine if you resort to such barbaric attitudes?
Eat me? Rather you should discuss questions with me, philosophy, the
arts--"

The Captain stood up. "Philosophy. It might interest you to know that we
will be hard put to find something to eat for the next month. An
unfortunate spoilage--"

"I know." The wub nodded. "But wouldn't it be more in accord with your
principles of democracy if we all drew straws, or something along that
line? After all, democracy is to protect the minority from just such
infringements. Now, if each of us casts one vote--"

The Captain walked to the door.

"Nuts to you," he said. He opened the door. He opened his mouth.

He stood frozen, his mouth wide, his eyes staring, his fingers still on
the knob.

The wub watched him. Presently it padded out of the room, edging past
the Captain. It went down the hall, deep in meditation.

       *       *       *       *       *

The room was quiet.

"So you see," the wub said, "we have a common myth. Your mind contains
many familiar myth symbols. Ishtar, Odysseus--"

Peterson sat silently, staring at the floor. He shifted in his chair.

"Go on," he said. "Please go on."

"I find in your Odysseus a figure common to the mythology of most
self-conscious races. As I interpret it, Odysseus wanders as an
individual, aware of himself as such. This is the idea of separation, of
separation from family and country. The process of individuation."

"But Odysseus returns to his home." Peterson looked out the port window,
at the stars, endless stars, burning intently in the empty universe.
"Finally he goes home."

"As must all creatures. The moment of separation is a temporary period,
a brief journey of the soul. It begins, it ends. The wanderer returns to
land and race...."

The door opened. The wub stopped, turning its great head.

Captain Franco came into the room, the men behind him. They hesitated at
the door.

"Are you all right?" French said.

"Do you mean me?" Peterson said, surprised. "Why me?"

Franco lowered his gun. "Come over here," he said to Peterson. "Get up
and come here."

There was silence.

"Go ahead," the wub said. "It doesn't matter."

Peterson stood up. "What for?"

"It's an order."

Peterson walked to the door. French caught his arm.

"What's going on?" Peterson wrenched loose. "What's the matter with
you?"

Captain Franco moved toward the wub. The wub looked up from where it lay
in the corner, pressed against the wall.

"It is interesting," the wub said, "that you are obsessed with the idea
of eating me. I wonder why."

"Get up," Franco said.

"If you wish." The wub rose, grunting. "Be patient. It is difficult for
me." It stood, gasping, its tongue lolling foolishly.

"Shoot it now," French said.

"For God's sake!" Peterson exclaimed. Jones turned to him quickly, his
eyes gray with fear.

"You didn't see him--like a statue, standing there, his mouth open. If
we hadn't come down, he'd still be there."

"Who? The Captain?" Peterson stared around. "But he's all right now."

They looked at the wub, standing in the middle of the room, its great
chest rising and falling.

"Come on," Franco said. "Out of the way."

The men pulled aside toward the door.

"You are quite afraid, aren't you?" the wub said. "Have I done anything
to you? I am against the idea of hurting. All I have done is try to
protect myself. Can you expect me to rush eagerly to my death? I am a
sensible being like yourselves. I was curious to see your ship, learn
about you. I suggested to the native--"

The gun jerked.

"See," Franco said. "I thought so."

The wub settled down, panting. It put its paw out, pulling its tail
around it.

"It is very warm," the wub said. "I understand that we are close to the
jets. Atomic power. You have done many wonderful things with
it--technically. Apparently, your scientific hierarchy is not equipped
to solve moral, ethical--"

Franco turned to the men, crowding behind him, wide-eyed, silent.

"I'll do it. You can watch."

French nodded. "Try to hit the brain. It's no good for eating. Don't hit
the chest. If the rib cage shatters, we'll have to pick bones out."

"Listen," Peterson said, licking his lips. "Has it done anything? What
harm has it done? I'm asking you. And anyhow, it's still mine. You have
no right to shoot it. It doesn't belong to you."

Franco raised his gun.

"I'm going out," Jones said, his face white and sick. "I don't want to
see it."

"Me, too," French said. The men straggled out, murmuring. Peterson
lingered at the door.

"It was talking to me about myths," he said. "It wouldn't hurt anyone."

He went outside.

Franco walked toward the wub. The wub looked up slowly. It swallowed.

"A very foolish thing," it said. "I am sorry that you want to do it.
There was a parable that your Saviour related--"

It stopped, staring at the gun.

"Can you look me in the eye and do it?" the wub said. "Can you do that?"

The Captain gazed down. "I can look you in the eye," he said. "Back on
the farm we had hogs, dirty razor-back hogs. I can do it."

Staring down at the wub, into the gleaming, moist eyes, he pressed the
trigger.

       *       *       *       *       *

The taste was excellent.

They sat glumly around the table, some of them hardly eating at all. The
only one who seemed to be enjoying himself was Captain Franco.

"More?" he said, looking around. "More? And some wine, perhaps."

"Not me," French said. "I think I'll go back to the chart room."

"Me, too." Jones stood up, pushing his chair back. "I'll see you later."

The Captain watched them go. Some of the others excused themselves.

"What do you suppose the matter is?" the Captain said. He turned to
Peterson. Peterson sat staring down at his plate, at the potatoes, the
green peas, and at the thick slab of tender, warm meat.

He opened his mouth. No sound came.

The Captain put his hand on Peterson's shoulder.

"It is only organic matter, now," he said. "The life essence is gone."
He ate, spooning up the gravy with some bread. "I, myself, love to eat.
It is one of the greatest things that a living creature can enjoy.
Eating, resting, meditation, discussing things."

Peterson nodded. Two more men got up and went out. The Captain drank
some water and sighed.

"Well," he said. "I must say that this was a very enjoyable meal. All
the reports I had heard were quite true--the taste of wub. Very fine.
But I was prevented from enjoying this pleasure in times past."

He dabbed at his lips with his napkin and leaned back in his chair.
Peterson stared dejectedly at the table.

The Captain watched him intently. He leaned over.

"Come, come," he said. "Cheer up! Let's discuss things."

He smiled.

"As I was saying before I was interrupted, the role of Odysseus in the
myths--"

Peterson jerked up, staring.

"To go on," the Captain said. 

"Odysseus, as I understand him--"

The change in the mode of production would not have been sudden", Mr, Forest explained, "but would have been brought about gradually, thus giving the business people, perhaps thirty years time to let their children join guilds instead of becoming store- keepers and traders. And there is no reason why enterprising merchants who had a fine taste in select- ing goods, should not have retained a large number of customers. It is not cheapness alone that attracts buyers, and in the country, where there were no fac- tories, etc., close at hand, stores would have to be kept", "You said you would have passed laws preventing far- mers owning more than forty acres of land", I said^ <'Would you have also limited the amount of city property to be owned by any one man?" "The possession of one house ought to have satis- fied every fair-minded man", Mr. Forest continued. "Nobody can deny that the accumulation of fortunes io8 LOOKING FORWARD, amounting to many millions in the hands of a few people, while hundreds of thousands could earn hardly more than a living, was a state of affairs which made this damnable communism possible". "But how would you have been able to prevent this?" I queried with some curiosity, '•By making the taxation of inherited property the principal assessment for the maintenance of the na- tional, state and local governments as well as of the schools . I would have proposed a tax of one percent on all property inherited by a single person, amount- ing upward to $10,000. An inheritance amounting to $20,000 I would have taxed two percent, $30,000 three percent, $100,000 ten percent, $200,000 twenty percent, ^500,000 fifty percent. If anybody left a fortune yielding a larger sum than $250,000 to each heir, the surplus should have been considered as an income to humanity, the national, state and local governments sharing therein in a just proportion'

"Would not such a law have acted as a check upon 
the ambition and the enterprise of the people?'* I 
asked, 

"If it had prevented people amassing immense 

fortunes it would have served a good purpose. 

It would 
not have lessened but protected competition'', Mr. 
Forest answered, "Men possessing twenty or fifty 
millions of dollars and using them without regard 

for 
the rights of other people, were very dangerous. 

They 
were in a position to annihilate their competitors, and 
they frequently used their power unmercifully. 

Thus by increasing their millions and by killing 

competition 
they were paving the way for communism. And was 
it not unfair that a man who had amassed by all 

manner of means such an enormous fortune 

could leave it 
to a son who would continue the work of killing 

competitors with smaller means? 

What could the most 
able man accomplish in an avocation, if he had 
against him a man who possessed, perhaps, 

very little 
ability, but who was unscrupulously using 

his millions 
to attain his ends? Parents might leave their 
children enough to place their dear ones beyond the 
reach of want but they should not enable them to 

prevent the children of poorer parents 

having a fair show 
to get ahead in life".

 You would have met with considerable resistance 
to such a proposition in my days", I remarked. 

"I fancy the millionaires would have objected", Mr. 
Forest assented. "Still, I think that such a law would 
have served the best interest of both the children of 
rich parents and humanity in general. Nothing but a 
law of this kind could have stemmed the tide of com- 
munism and anarchy. A child inheriting $250,000 
ought to be satisfied with his lot and ought to let the 
surplus go to the defraying of the expenses of the 
government. By sacrificing a part of their enormous 
fortunes, the heirs would have saved the rest, and 
would have weakened the communistic tendency of 
your days. And it appears more than doubtful to 
me whether the possession of such enormous proper- 



no LOOKING FORWARD. 

ties made these wealthy people good, or even happy 
and contented". 

*^If such a law had been passed in 1887 most of the 
millionaires would have converted their property into 
cash and emigrated to Europe", I objected, 

"I suppose they would have done so", Mr, Forest 
admitted. "But I am, nevertheless, convinced that 
a law of this kind would not only have been just but 
that it would have done a great deal to save humanity 
from communism. Civilized countries would have 
been obliged to pass a similar law at the same time". 

"The temptation to avoid the consequences of the 
statute would have been very great", I remarked. 
"Many people would have tried to evade the tax by 
declaring to the authorities a smaller amount of prop- 
erty than they really owned, or by presenting during 
their life time, a part of their fortune to their chil- 
dren'\ 

"Any attempt at fraud should have been punished 
by a confiscation of all the property", said Mr. Forest 
^^And as for gifts they could have been taxed at the 
same rate as inheritances from one percent up to 
fifty. — But such a law would have been necessary only 
during the first fifty or sixty years of a new order of 
things. As soon as mutual producing associations 
were in general operation, selling their goods directly 
from the factories to the consumers, and buying all 
the necessities of life and commodities, as far as pos- 
sible, at wholesale, and selling them a little above 
cost price, there would have been little occasion for 

men to amass millions of dollars. The numoer of 
middlemen and traders would have largely decreased^ 
Everybody would have been compelled to do work of 
some kind and would have received a compensation 
according to both the quantity and quality of his per- 
formances'\ 

"But would not cliques like the one you are charg- 
ing with having control of your government have 
taken possession of a mutual producing association, 
thus depriving the clever workers of a part of their 
earnings and paying the poorer men more for their 
work than they deserved?" I queried. 

"In such a case the good men could have left an 
association, where they were cheated and joined an- 
other partnership . Good laborers are always appre- 
ciated wherever competition rules. 

But the association, thus driving away their

 ablest members, would 
soon have been unable to compete with others.

 Difficulties, therefore, could have been regulated

 without 
much trouble".  

 Would you have encouraged immigration?" 1 
asked* "At the end of the nineteenth century, many 
honest, Uberaland fair-minded people, whom nobody 
could fairly class as know-nothings, were of the opin- 
ion that the United States had all the foreign elements 
the country could assimilate, and that the rest of the 
public lands should be preserved for the children of 
the people living in the Union, in the year of our 
Lord 1887. The objection against further immigra- 
tion was largely due to the actions of the German 
and Irish dynamiters", 

"I can imagine", Mr. Forest answered, "that some of 
the customs and notions of the numerous immigrants 
of your time were objectionable to the native Ameri- 
cans, and that the crimes of the anarchists, their crazy 
revolt against the laws of a country that had offered 
them hospitality, must naturally have created a deep 
emotion among the Anglo-Americans. But I think 
they had, nevertheless, many reasons for encouraging 
immigration, especially under your form of produc- 
tion. A strict execution of the laws of the country", 
he continued, after a pause, "against all transgressors, 
native as well as transplanted, would have done the 
country good and have made all attempts to restrict 
immigration entirely unnecessary, all the more so, as 
the really objectionable foreigners could reach the 
United States via Canada or Mexico if they desired 
strongly to become inhabitants of the United States.'' 

'^These arguments were frequently used in my time/' 
I remarked. 



LOOKING FORWARD. 113 

<'The comparatively small harm done by immigrants 
was largely over-balanced by the many advantages the 
citizens of the United States obtained through the 
large influx of people from Europe'% said Mr, Forest. 
"The very fact that hundreds of thousands of able- 
bodied people, whose rearing and education had cost 
the European countries millions of dollars, landed on 
American shores was a great gain to the United States. 
The very presence of these men and women increased 
the value of the lands or city lots where they settled, 
thus enriching the property owners. Many of the 
immigrants were well trained laborers and mechanics, 
others artists and scholars. All these men and women 
were not familiar with the ways and means of their 
new country, many of them were unable to speak the 
English language, and they all had, therefore, to start 
in the very lowest places of American business life — 
thus naturally elevating all the inhabitants of the 
United States in a more or less degree, to higher 
positions in life. Many of these people, coming from 
all parts 6f Europe, were ably and well trained, and 
they became successfull competitors of th6se, who 
were here before their arrival. But the constant 
stream of people from Europe to the United States 
was, nevertheless, steadily enriching and elevating 
the American people, and all the blows aimed at im- 
migration were, therefore, unwise, and the legislators 
who proposed such blows remind me of the man who 
intended to kill the goose that laid the golden eggs*'» 



"It is, of course, impossible to advance social theo- 
ries to which everybody will agree", Mr» Forest said 
in conclusion. "I maintain, however, that all such 
theories should be based on two fundamental princi- 
ples. They should have as an aim the estabhshment 
of a state of society, where everybody should be pro- 
tected against an undeserved poverty, where the brain- 
cancer, fear of an undeserved poverty, should be 
cured; and they should preserve competition, the 
power that is permanently spurring everybody to use 
his best efforts to elevate himself and humanity". 

FREGIRT EOIN GHAIRNELAIR DO DH-EOIN BALBHAN. LE IAIN MAC AILAIN. Mu 'n sceul so a chualas Ga luaidh air Eoin Manntach, 'S mu 'n f hregirt a f huair e Ann am bruadar a bhalbhain. Ged nach digedh le m' gheire-sa 'N tuigse threun sin a lenmhuinn. 'S feairde sceula ga threised Moran teistis is derlihidh. Chi mi 'n saoghal air chuibhlibh 'S gun e aig aon chor a fuirech ; Ach a diredh 's a ternadh Mar roth amhuiltech muilinn. Am fer a thachir 'na airde 'S e 's mo abhar gu mulad ; *S gum faod mise 'th' air teainadh 'Bhi 'na aite mun scuir e. Gu de 'n gliocas no 'n tabhachd 'Th' ann do ghairnelair eolach Craobh thorach a gharridh 'Dhol le ailghes ga 'fogradh, Gu craobh ur 'chur 'na h-aite 'S gun e mu 'nadar leth-eolach, 'S a mheud 's a gheibh e ga h-arach Sel mun tar e deagh phor dhi ? Ach an crann s' bho chionn tamuill 'Bha fo thoradh gun esbhuidh, 'S cian l)hon chraobh-scaoil a chomain Air gach comunn am Bretunn. Ged a rachadh cail dhuathair Air a chnuasachd re treise 'S mairg a loiscedh a thiomban Ris a mhuinntir a chreic e. Is beg ra' ionghnadh an dream sin 'Bha gun daimh ris ga threigsinn ; 'S gum b' e 'n abhar thun f hogradh 'Thaobh nach b'ann de 'm por fein e ; Ach Alba bheg dhona 'Bha gun onair fo 'n ghrein aic,' 'N uair a chaidh i ga 'f hagail, 'S gum b'e arach a geig e. B'e bhur ghocas 'san abhar s' Ann 'sna casanabh ceutna, A bhi carthannach, cairdail, Is mar brath'ren d'a cheile ; An righ sin 'bh' air mhairenn 'Chumail slan mar a dh' f heudtedh

Air sceith na madne 's luaithe , 

Gu tuath thoir mo bhennachd bhuam 

A dh-ionnsidh 'n f hir nach fuath leam 

Gu uaisle, Fer Thalascair. 

'S e mheudich dhomh mo ghradh ort 

Do ghnaths 'dhol ri t' athairelachd ; 

'S gum faic do mhuinntir fein, 

Ann am dheidh-s', thu bhi mairennach. 

Gheibht' at f hardich muirn is manran 

'S piob da laimh ga callanach ; 

Flath is feusda 's ol d'a reir sin 

Aig luchd feum is aithnichen. 

Bhiodh gleodhrich stop ri lionadh chorn 

Is fion ga ol a serragabh ; 

Re sel dhuinn air a ghleus sin 

Bhiodh dith ceill air ferigainn. 

Bhiodhmid mar sud, bhiodhmid mar sud, 

Bhiodhmid mar sud is deimhinn leam ; 

Ag ol gu trie, ag ol gu trie 

Gun ol, gun mhisc, gun mherichinn 

Gun scainnel bhreug ga chur an ceill, 

Gun chomradh breun no ballachail ; 

'S bu trie a' liubhirt phog iat 

Le ro ghradh 's le carthannachd. 

Fhuair thu ragha ceile 

Do d' reir fein 's gur math leam sin 

Ann sa bheil bechd is geire 

Le ceill is le banalachd 

Cha dean mi facal breige 

B' e m' eudach is m' anart i 

Is f had 's a rinn mi cuairt let 



A gruaman cha d' f hairich mi. 
Gu bheil thu glic air iomad bechd, 
Chan f haod mi mhes gur h-amid thu ; 
Tha thu baighail, caoimhnail, cairdail, 
Tlusmhor, daimhail, carthannach. 
Beud no lochd chan airim ort, 
'S gur airidh bhochd is bhennachd thu ; 
'S gur cridhail ri am feum' thu 
Gu feusd' 'thoirt do dh-aithnichen. 
Bhiodhmid mar sud, etc. 

Tha mulad mor no dha orm 
Tha fath dhomh "bhi geranach ; 
Tha mi gun long, gun bhata, 
Gun ardrich bheir thairis mi. 
Nam biodh a chuis mar b' f hearr leam 
'S mo chur 'san ait 'bu mhath leam 'bhi, 
Gum faicinn bho thrath noine 
An Domhnall sin 's lennan dhomh. 
Is ann san am 's an ruiginn thall 
Gun cuirinn geall 's cha chaillinn e, 
'N uair rachinn suas do 'n t-seombar uachdrach 
An deidh fuachd is allabain, 
Gun doirtedh lamh air botuU Ian 
A dh' f hagadh blath gu h-elamh mi ; 
Chan f haictedh nech fo mhuig 
An taigh muirnech P'er Thalascair. 
Bhiodhmid mar sud, etc. 

Dh' f hag mi ann san aite sin 

Plannta de lenabh beg ; 

'S gur trie a's smaointinn broin dhomh 

A ghloir an am delachadh. 

Mur h-eil breug 'nam f haistnechd 

Bidh pairten a shenar ann ; 

'S ma 's a duine beo e 

Ni 'n seol sin fer ainnimh dheth. 

Tha uaisle 'bheus a cur an ceill 

SOUHRN ....Závěry: V první experimentální skupin ě prasat za niţší ch pracovních náklad ů, za úspory nedostatkov ých lék ů byla terapeutick á účinnost o 9% vyšší neţ v kontrolní skupině , přírůstek hmotnosti byl o 30% vyšší. D ruh á experimentální skupin a selat vykazovala při významně menší ch pracovních nákladec h, menší spotřebě léků terapeutickou účinnost , která byla o 21% vyšší neţ v kontrolní skupině, o 12% vyšší neţ v první experimentální skupině. Přírůstek hmotnosti zvířat byl rovněţ vyšší neţ u kontrolní skupiny, a to více neţ 2 krát v porovnání s 1 . experime ntální skupin ou , tj. o 30%. Závěr: testy provedené v podmínkách ţivočišné výroby prasat prokázaly vysokou účinnost přípravku ENTERO ZOO při léčbě gastro - intestinálních onemocnění , coţ umoţňuje doporučovat tento přípravek pro široké vyuţití v chov ech pras at.U domácí ch zvířat jsou velmi rozšířen á onemocnění virové etiologie, a sice mór masoţravců, virov á hepatitid a a parvovir ová enteriti da . K dnešnímu dni jsou tato onemocnění zjistitelná prakticky po celý rok a postihují aţ 50 - 60% domácí zvířat, coţ se projevuje zejména u ps ů s třídními plemennými charakteristikami. Uvedená onemocnění se vyznačují výrazným enterotoxemickým entero syndrom em, coţ je mnohdy jední m z patogenetických mechanismů, kter ý vede k úhynu zvířat nebo ztrátě jejich exteriér ových a plemenných vlastnost í . V této souvislosti byly realizovány studie za účelem hodnocení vývoj e a testování terapeutických cyklů při podávání polimethylsiloxan u ENT ERO ZOO imobilizačně vázajícího antivirovou a imunostimulační látk ou ( dále jen přípravek typu "I"). Tento byl testován v komplexu léčebných cyklů, kter é zahrnoval y parenterální podávání protispálničkov ého gamma - globulin u , chemoterapeutik a kardiologických léků. Šlo o testaci tří (3) dávkových hladin přípravku "I" - 5, 10, 15 g. Účinnost přípravku byla vyhodnocena z hlediska výskytu e nterotexemi e , průj mu , četnost i recidiv a dalších obecně klinických ukazatelů. Byly vytvořeny kontrolní a pokusné skupiny psů s enterotoxemickým syndromem. Zvířat ům pokusné skupiny byl dodatečně perorálně aplikován přípravek typu «I» 3krát denně 1 - 1,5 hodiny před krmením ve formě roztoku. Výsledky těchto studií ukazují , ţe zahrnutí uvedeného přípravku typu "I" do komplexní léčb y nemocných psů s enterotoxemickým syndromem podstatně zvyšuje celkovou terapeutickou účinnost, sn i ţ uje dobu uzdravení a počet recidiv. V případě podávání přípravku "I" v dávkách 10 a 15 g došlo k uzdravení 90% zvířat. Nízká účinnost přípravku byla pozoro v ána u závaţných forem parvovirové enteritid y a virové hepatitidy.

ONDE DOM QUIXOTE VÊ GIGANTES SANCHO PANÇA VÊ MOINHOS VÊ MOLINOS SUNT MOLINOS VÊ GIANT'S IT'S SIMPLE SUNT GIANT'S ...The Change War clearly affects the combatants, having to deal with the past, present and future simultaneously. Indeed, it is possible that what we are reading here is nothing but an altered memory, ‘a crazy, mixed up dream’. This is an idea that clearly lends itself to the psychedelia of the 1960’s, and also fits entirely with the strangely unreal place between, and beyond, the time streams. Similar things do happen in Michael Moorcock’s Eternal Champion novels, too. (It also explains my 1960’s book cover, too, as shown at the top of this review.) But for me most of all, it is the breath-taking places and events that have changed, often mentioned in one sentence that are memorable. Crete is built up at the expense of Greece, causing the disappearance of Greek culture, Rome collapses a few years after the death of Julius Caesar, the German Nazis occupy Europe after the US and England do not take part in World War Two, “from the salt mines of Siberia to the plantations of Iowa, from Nizhni Novgorod to Kansas City!” All mentioned briefly, in little more than a sentence. Despite the focus on the characters being small, the breadth of the impact of the Change War is stunning: “But I'm forgetting that this is a cosmic war and that the Spiders are conducting operations on billions, trillions of planets and inhabited gas clouds through millions of ages and that we're just one little world—one little solar system… and we can hardly expect our inscrutable masters, with all their pressing preoccupations and far-flung responsibilities, to be especially understanding or tender in their treatment of our pet books and centuries, our favorite prophets and periods, or unduly concerned about preserving any of the trifles that we just happen to hold dear.” The Big Time is also a book about war. It is clear that the constant to-ing and fro-ing is affecting our combatants. Their nerves are shot, their behaviour erratic, with paranoia and weariness often exhibited. War is hell, and constant war across time even more so. The people involved are often killed, and their ‘Resurrection’, to play their part in the War again, is both terrifying and humblingly bleak, although, interestingly, Leiber enigmatically points out towards the end that ‘The Change War isn't the blind destruction it seems.’ War-weary cynicism mixed with deadpan humour, cosmic concepts given over in a sentence, and the relative brevity of the book together gives The Big Time’s narrative a hefty punch. Less is definitely more here. In summary, I’m pleased I went back to this one. It’s not perfect, and definitely not for everyone, but it’s not bad at all. In summary, The Big Time is an underrated attention-grabber of a story, which left me thinking on it long after I’d finished it. And I guess, despite its flaws and despite the strong opposition, that’s why it won a Hugo.A bunch of wooden, unconvincing characters—refugees, in a sense, from the Time War—are stuck in the Place together, a safe space outside of time that’s used for soldiers’ R&R. Except the Place has been sabotaged, and there’s a bomb and possibly a traitor in their midst and blah blah blah…man, this was boring. The characters, as I said, had all the texture and depth of my cardboard Spike stand-up, the plot was rather half-assed, and the whole thing just felt very juvenile,THE BIG TIME. (1958). Fritz Leiber. **. Although this novel was the winner of the Hugo Award in 1959, I found it to be almost impossible to follow. In general, it is the story of a shifting array of warriors from a variety of times who are sent both forward and backward in time to fight battles that will change the course of history. The warriors are divided into two different camps, the Spiders and the Snakes. They were snatched from battles of their times just before they were killed and then recruited into these respective armies. The story is told by Greta Forzane, self-described as “twenty-nine and a party girl...born in Chicago of Scandinavian parents...now operat(ing) chiefly outside space and time.” The dialog is pre-hipster in style and is discontinuous in its flow. I had trouble following the thread of the story, and, after a while stopped caring. According to the publishers, it was several years after the appearence of this novel in two consequetive issues of Galaxy Magazine in 1958 that the book was finally published in hardback. The publisher also makes the comment that the book is not well known today. There are apparently good reasons for that. I’m not sure why this was included in Library of America’s compendium of American Science Fiction.

On the one hand it is a highly intelligent and an impressively weaved story evolving around a unique blend of philosophical ideas & "hip" 1950s/60s sci-fi; on the other it is a soap drama with loads of references to classic literature & drama.......

The first part I must say is so amazing that Leiber's story has left ever-lasting impressions on my mind....I HAVE A DREAM ...NOT A DREAM IN THE CLASSICAL SENSE SONHEI QUE ESTAVA A FAZER UM TESTE SOBRE B.D. E LEMBREI-ME DUM BOOK SOCIO-ILLOGIC SUR DISNEY E A AMERICANIZAÇÃO DAS MENTES 
E DEPOIS AO LER O LIVRO RECORDEI-ME DE TODO O SONHO QUE TINHA UMA CAMBADA DE HUMANOS PELO MEIO E UMA HISTÓRIA ALTERNATIVA QUE SE IA ALTERANDO À MEDIDA QUE A IA LENDO .....UMA HISTÓRIA BANAL EM QUE A AMÉRICA TINHA INVADIDO A POLÓNIA ...E CURIOSAMENTE ISTO FOI EM 1977 ANTES DE EU COMEÇAR A LER ESTE LIVRO ...O SONHO LEMBREI-ME DAS ESTATÍSTICAS PRISIONAIS NOS U.S OF A NA ALTURA CERCA DE 250 MIL PRISIONEIROS E ACHEI POUCO PARA UMA SUB-CIVILIZAÇÃO TÃO VIOLENTA
OS DADOS ERAM DE 1972 OU 1973 ...
And a cleverer plot device using the Einsteinean concept of Time (in philosophical language called "Static Time") is hard to imagine.

Unfortunately it clashes with the "high drama" style. I admire Leiber for doing it--and I am sure it would have been an utterly complete failure from any other writer--but in my opinion it isn't all successful. Standing on its own that's a style Leiber masters to perfection--but I am not too keen on it combined with the story's plot.

That's why it left me feeling oddly "Hooray" as well as "Ugh, c'mon!"... Hmmm...

That's a recommendation of sorts, I guess;

SOLAR HEAT CAN BE STORED IN VARIOUS MEDIA IN WATER IN SOIL IN AIR ...AND IN HUMANS ...ROMANI SUNT NIHIL HUMANI MI ALIENUM PUTO Romanı kaç sene önce okudum, hatırlamıyorum. Romanı kaç kere okuyabilirim, bilmiyorum; ama defalarca okuyabilirim. Başucumda olabilir, Feride'nin mücadelesi, bir erkeğe yenilmeden hayatını ters edecek şekilde kendi ayakları üzerinde durma çabası... İhsan Bey'in onurlu bir şekilde Feride'ye verdiği cevap, Hayrullah Bey'in babacanlığı... Birçok not düşürdü Çalıkuşu romanı kafama, birçok cümle. Filmini yeni izledim. Siyah-beyaz oluşu, yandan gelen "geçmiş" sesi, kıyafetler, konuşmalar vs... Türkân Şoray aşığı birisi olarak romanın uyarlanışına bayıldım, birkaç ayrıntı atlanmış. Mesela Feride'nin Çanakkale'den adı "Gülbeşeker'e" çıkarak ayrılmak zorunda kalışı gibi. Önemli değil, romanın tam tadını vermedi; ama romanın da filmin de tadı bambaşka. Çok seviyorum arkadaşlar, romanını da okuyun filmini de izleyin. Gerçi, büyük ihtimal okumuşsunuzdur, umuyorum en azından.

WATER -SHORT TERM STORAGE

WOOD - A LAREIRA LUTAVA PARA MANTER ALGUNS PREGUIÇOSOS OLHOS

ALARANJADOS DE CARVÃO OU DE BRASAS FEITOS

NAQUELES DIAS OS PECADORES MOVIAM-SE TÃO DEPRESSA

NOS SEUS TRANSPORTES ONDE A ENERGIA SOLAR ARMAZENADA

ERA QUEIMADA DE FORMA FLUIDA

A VELOCIDADE TORNA AS FORMAS INDISTINTAS

ADEUS DISSE O SONHO A DEUS A DIOS DEUS O ACOMPANHE

E O TEMPO SUFOCARÁ TODAS AS PALAVRAS E TODOS OS SONHOS

E NO SONHO AS JANELAS COLAPSARAM E ONDAS DE CALOR

E DE DESESPERO DOBRARAM AS DOBRADIÇAS

E AS JANELAS SONOLENTAMENTE CEDERAM

E O DESESPERO ENTROU E ENCHEU A CASA VAZIA

NUM SONHO DEIXEI AS MALAS FICAREM PARA TRÁS NUMA VIAGEM NA VIRTUALIDADE ESPACIO-TEMPORAL QUE SÃO OS SONHOS E A CAMIONETE NÃO QUERIA PARAR (É NO TEMPO DA RODOVIÁRIA NACIONAL NOSSA NEM NOS SONHOS PARAVAM) SAÍ COM MEDO QUE AS MALAS TIVESSEM SIDO ROUBADAS (OU NACIONALIZADAS A BEM DA NAÇÃO COMO O ESPÍRITO SANTO E O IRMÃO DO BORGES) ENTÃO PORQUE É QUE NÃO AS METI NA CAMIONETE ..A RESPOSTA É CLARA ...SOU PREGUIÇOSO ...ATÉ NOS SONHOS

E POR FALAR NISSO ...SE BEM QUE NÃO ESTEJA FALANDO ACORDEI TARDE

RELATIVAMENTE

JÁ A VISTA ME FRAQUEJA

BEBEI CERVEJA BEBEI CERVEJA

TOMAI CARQUEJA

NON ,,,,É AINDA RUBRA A CEREJA....

É AINDA NEGRO O POMAR?

JÁ, A FLOR SE FAZ CARQUEJA....

JÁ O CAIXÃO SE FAZ AO MAR

SE FEZ FICAVA MELHOR ,,,,

like the rest of us he seeks an external savior.” ― Philip K. Dick, VALIS tags: external, savior, seeking-salvation 2 likes like “in Parsifal: "You see, my son, here time turns into space.” ― Philip K. Dick, VALIS 2 likes like “They ought to make it a binding clause that if you find God you get to keep Him.” ― Philip K. Dick, VALIS tags: god, humor 2 likes like “Era come se avessi tremato per tutta la vita, a causa di una cronica corrente sotterranea di paura. Tremare, scappare, finire nei guai, perdere le persone che amavo. Come un personaggio dei cartoni animati invece di una persona, mi resi conto. Un cartone animato degli anni Trenta, ammuffito. Dietro a tutto quello che avevo fatto c'era sempre stata la paura di spingermi.” ― Philip K. Dick, VALIS tags: dick, fear, italiano, paura, valis 1 likes like “What you should do," she told Fat during one of his darker hours, "is get into studying the characteristics of the T-34." Fat asked what that was. It turned out that Sherri had read a book on Russion armor during World War Two. The T-34 tank had been the Soviet Union's salvation and thereby the salvation of all the Allied Powers- and, by extension, Horselover Fat's, since without the T-34 he would be speaking - not english or Latin or the koine - but German.” ― Philip K. Dick, VALIS tags: history, language 1 likes like “I've always told people that for each person there is a sentence--a series of words--which has the power to destroy him. When Fat told me about Leon Stone I realized (this came years after the first realization) that another sentence exists, another series of words, which will heal the person. If you're lucky you will get the second; but you can be certain of getting the first: that is the way it works.” ― Philip K. Dick, VALIS tags: healing, mental-illness, words-have-power 1 likes like “Fat heard in her rational tone the harp of nihilism, the twang of the void.” ― Philip K. Dick, VALIS 1 likes like “terms of those who loved her. She paid back their love with—well, with what? Malice? Not proven. Hate? Not proven. With the irrational? Yes; proven. In terms of the effect on her friends—such as Fat—no lucid purpose was served but purpose there was: purpose without purpose, if you can conceive of that. Her motive was no motive. We're talking about nihilism. Under everything else, even under death itself” ― Philip K. Dick, VALIS 0 likes like “Matter is plastic in the face of Mind.” ― Philip K. Dick, VALIS tags: insanity, matter, mind 0 likes like “Sometimes I dream--" "I'll put that on your gravestone.” ― Philip K. Dick, VALIS 0 likes like “Dr. Leon Stone turned out to be one of the most important people in Horselover Fat's life. To get to Stone, Fat had to nearly kill himself physically, matching his mental death. Is this what they mean about God's mysterious ways? How else could Fat have linked up with Leon Stone? Only some dismal act of the order of a suicide attempt, a truly lethal attempt, would have achieved it; Fat had to die, or nearly die, to be cured. Or nearly cured.” ― Philip K. Dick, VALIS 0 likes like “I think," Dr. Stone said, "that when you tried to kill yourself you got in touch with reality for the first time.” ― Philip K. Dick, VALIS 0 likes like “The first thing that went wrong, according to Fat, had to do with the radio. Listening to it one night- he had not been able to sleep for a long time- he heard the radio saying hideous words, sentences which it could not be saying. Beth, being asleep, missed that. So that could have been Fat's mind breaking down; by then his psyche was disintegrating at a terrible velocity. Mental illness is not funny.” ― Philip K. Dick, VALIS 0 likes like “Pious people spoke to God, and crazy people imagined that God spoke back.” ― Philip K. Dick, VALIS tags: faith, faithfulness, religion 0 likes like “Masochism is more widespread than we realize because it takes an attenuated form. The basic dynamism is as follows: a human being sees something bad which is coming as inevitable. There is no way he can halt the process; he is helpess. This sense of helplessness generates a need to gain some control over the impending pain -- any kind of control will do. This makes sense; the subjective feeling of helplessness is more painful than the impending misery. So the person seizes control over the situation in the only way open to him: he connives to bring on the impending misery; he hastens it. This activity on his part promotes the false impression that he enjoys pain. Not so. It is simply that he cannot any longer endure the helplessness or the supposed helplessness. But in the process of gaining control over the inevitable misery he becomes, automatically, anhedonic. Anhedonia sets in stealthily. Over the years it takes control of him. For example, he learns to defer gratification; this is a step in the dismal process of anhedonia. In learning to defer he gratification he experiences a sense of self-mastery; he has become stoic, disciplined; he does not give way to impulse. He has "control". Control over himself in terms of his impulses and control over the external situation. He is a controlled and controlling person. Pretty soon he has branched out and is controlling other people, as part of the situation. He becomes a manipulator. Of course, he is not conciousily aware of this; all he intends to do is lessen his own sense of impotence. But in his task of lessening this sense, he insidiously overpowers the freedom of others. Yet, he dervies no pleasure from this, no positive psychological gain; all his gains are essential negative.”

A DERANGED MIND SOMETIMES IS A GOOD THING

ASK TO VASCO DA GAMA

Fludd moreover declared, that the magnet was a remedy for all diseases, if properly applied; but that man having, like the earth, a north and a south pole, magnetism could only take place when his body was in a boreal position! In the midst of his popularity, an attack was made upon him and his favourite remedy, the salve; which, however, did little or nothing to diminish the belief in its efficacy. One “Parson Foster” wrote a pamphlet, entitled Hyplocrisma Spongus; or, a Spunge to wipe away the Weapon-Salve; in which he declared, that it was as bad as witchcraft to use or recommend such an unguent; that it was invented by the Devil, who, at the last day, would seize upon every person who had given it the slightest encouragement. “In fact,” said Parson Foster, “the Devil himself gave it to Paracelsus; Paracelsus to the emperor; the emperor to the courtier; the courtier to Baptista Porta; and Baptista Porta to Dr. Fludd, a doctor of physic, yet living and practising in the famous city of London, who now stands tooth and nail for it.” Dr. Fludd, thus assailed, took up the pen in defence of his unguent, in a reply called The Squeezing of Parson Foster’s Spunge; wherein the Spunge-bearer’s immodest carriage and behaviour towards his brethren is detected; the bitter flames of his slanderous reports are, by the sharp vinegar of truth, corrected and quite extinguished; and lastly, the virtuous validity of his spunge in wiping away the-weapon-salve, is crushed out and clean abolished.

Shortly after this dispute a more distinguished believer in the weapon-salve made his appearance in the person of Sir Kenelm Digby, the son of Sir Everard Digby, who was executed for his participation in the Gunpowder Plot. This gentleman, who, in other respects, was an accomplished scholar and an able man, was imbued with all the extravagant notions of the alchymists. He believed in the philosopher’s stone, and wished to engage Descartes to devote his energies to the discovery of the elixir of life, or some other means by which the existence of man might be prolonged to an indefinite period. He gave his wife, the beautiful Venetia Anastasia Stanley, a dish of capons fed upon vipers, according to the plan supposed to have been laid down by Arnold of Villeneuve, in the hope that she might thereby preserve her loveliness for a century. If such a man once took up the idea of the weapon-salve, it was to be expected that he would make the most of it. In his hands, however, it was changed from an unguent into a powder, and was called the powder of sympathy. He pretended that he had acquired the knowledge of it from a Carmelite friar, who had learned it in Persia or Armenia, from an oriental philosopher of great renown. King James, the Prince of Wales, the Duke of Buchingham, and many other noble personages, believed in its efficacy. The following remarkable instance of his mode of cure was read by Sir Kenelm to a society of learned men at Montpellier. Mr. James Howell, the well-known author of the Dendrologia, and of various letters, coming by chance as two of his best friends were fighting a duel, rushed between them and endeavoured to part them. He seized the sword of one of the combatants by the hilt, while, at the same time, he grasped the other by the blade. Being transported with fury one against the other, they struggled to rid themselves of the hindrance caused by their friend; and in so doing, the one whose sword was held by the blade by Mr. Howell, drew it away roughly, and nearly cut his hand off, severing the nerves and muscles, and penetrating to the bone. The other, almost at the same instant, disengaged his sword, and aimed a blow at the head of his antagonist, which Mr. Howell observing, raised his wounded hand with the rapidity of thought to prevent the blow. The sword fell on the back of his already wounded hand, and cut it severely. “It seemed,” said Sir Kenelm Digby, “as if some unlucky star raged over them, that they should have both shed the blood of that dear friend for whose life they would have given their own, if they had been in their proper mind at the time.” Seeing Mr. Howell’s face all besmeared with blood from his wounded hand, they both threw down their swords and embraced him, and bound up his hand with a garter, to close the veins which were cut and bled profusely. They then conveyed him home, and sent for a surgeon. King James, who was much attached to Mr. Howell, afterwards sent his own surgeon to attend him. We must continue the narrative in the words of Sir Kenelm Digby: “It was my chance,” says he, “to be lodged hard by him; and four or five days after, as I was making myself ready, he came to my house, and prayed me to view his wounds. ‘For I understand,’ said he, ‘that you have extraordinary remedies on such occasions; and my surgeons apprehend some fear that it may grow to a gangrene, and so the hand must be cut off.’ In effect, his countenance discovered that he was in much pain, which, he said, was insupportable in regard of the extreme inflammation. I told him I would willingly serve him; but if, haply, he knew the manner how I could cure him, without touching or seeing him, it might be that he would not expose himself to my manner of curing; because he would think it, peradventure, either ineffectual or superstitious. He replied, ‘The many wonderful things which people have related unto me of your way of medicinement makes me nothing doubt at all of its efficacy; and all that I have to say unto you is comprehended in the Spanish proverb, Hagase el milagro y hagalo Mahoma—Let the miracle be done, though Mahomet do it.’

“I asked him then for any thing that had the blood upon it: so he presently sent for his garter, wherewith his hand was first bound; and as I called for a basin of water, as if I would wash my hands, I took a handful of powder of vitriol, which I had in my study, and presently dissolved it. As soon as the bloody garter was brought me, I put it in the basin, observing, in the interim, what Mr. Howell did, who stood talking with a gentleman in a corner of my chamber, not regarding at all what I was doing. He started suddenly, as if he had found some strange alteration in himself. I asked him what he ailed? ‘I know not what ails me, but I find that I feel no more pain. Methinks that a pleasing kind of freshness, as it were a wet cold napkin, did spread over my hand, which hath taken away the inflammation that tormented me before.’ I replied, ‘Since, then, you feel already so much good of my medicament, I advise you to cast away all your plasters; only keep the wound clean, and in a moderate temper betwixt heat and cold.’ This was presently reported to the Duke of Buckingham, and, a little after, to the king, who were both very curious to know the circumstances of the business; which was, that after dinner I took the garter out of the water, and put it to dry before a great fire. It was scarce dry before Mr. Howell’s servant came running, and saying that his master felt as much burning as ever he had done, if not more; for the heat was such as if his hand were betwixt coals of fire. I answered that, although that had happened at present, yet he should find ease in a short time; for I knew the reason of this new accident, and would provide accordingly; for his master should be free from that inflammation, it might be before he could possibly return to him. But, in case he found no ease, I wished him to come presently back again; if not, he might forbear coming. Thereupon he went, and, at the instant I did put the garter again into the water; thereupon he found his master without any pain at all. To be brief, there was no cense of pain afterwards; but within five or six days the wounds were sicatrised and entirely healed.”

Such is the marvellous story of Sir Kenelm Digby. Other practitioners of that age were not behind him in their pretensions. It was not always thought necessary to use either the powder of sympathy, or the weapon-salve, to effect a cure. It was sufficient to magnetise the sword with the hand (the first faint dawn of the animal theory), to relieve any pain the same weapon had caused. They asserted, that if they stroked the sword upwards with their fingers, the wounded person would feel immediate relief; but if they stroked it downwards, he would feel intolerable pain.66
Another very singular notion of the power and capabilities of magnetism was entertained at the same time. It was believed that a sympathetic alphabet could be made on the flesh, by means of which persons could correspond with each other, and communicate all their ideas with the rapidity of volition, although thousands of miles apart. From the arms of two persons a piece of flesh was cut, and mutually transplanted, while still warm and bleeding. The piece so severed grew to the new arm on which it was placed; but still retained so close a sympathy with its native limb, that its old possessor was always sensible of any injury done to it. Upon these transplanted pieces were tatooed the letters of the alphabet; so that, when a communication was to be made, either of the persons, though the wide Atlantic rolled between them, had only to prick his arm with a magnetic needle, and straightway his friend received intimation that the telegraph was at work. Whatever letter he pricked on his own arm pained the same letter on the arm of his correspondent.
Contemporary with Sir Kenelm Digby was the no less famous Mr. Valentine Greatraks, who, without mentioning magnetism, or laying claim to any theory, practised upon himself and others a deception much more akin to the animal magnetism of the present day than the mineral magnetism it was then so much the fashion to study. He was the son of an Irish gentleman, of good education and property, in the county of Cork. He fell, at an early age, into a sort of melancholy derangement. After some time he had an impulse, or strange persuasion in his mind, which continued to present itself, whether he were sleeping or waking, that God had given him the power of curing the king’s evil. He mentioned this persuasion to his wife, who very candidly told him that he was a fool. He was not quite sure of this, notwithstanding the high authority from which it came, and determined to make trial of the power that was in him. A few days afterwards, he went to one William Maher, of Saltersbridge, in the parish of Lismore, who was grievously afflicted with the king’s evil in his eyes, cheek, and throat. Upon this man, who was of abundant faith, he laid his hands, stroked him, and prayed fervently. He had the satisfaction to see him heal considerably in the course of a few days; and finally, with the aid of other remedies, to be quite cured. This success encouraged him in the belief that he had a divine mission. Day after day he had further impulses from on high that he was called upon to cure the ague also. In the course of time he extended his powers to the curing of epilepsy, ulcers, aches, and lameness. All the county of Cork was in a commotion to see this extraordinary physician, who certainly operated some very great benefit in cases where the disease was heightened by hypochondria and depression of spirits. According to his own account,67 such great multitudes resorted to him from divers places, that he had no time to follow his own business, or enjoy the company of his family and friends. He was obliged to set aside three days in the week, from six in the morning till six at night, during which time only he laid hands upon all that came. Still the crowds which thronged around him were so great, that the neighbouring towns were not able to accommodate them. He thereupon left his house in the country, and went to Youghal, where the resort of sick people, not only from all parts of Ireland, but from England, continued so great, that the magistrates were afraid they would infect the place by their diseases. Several of these poor credulous people no sooner saw him than they fell into fits, and he restored them by waving his hand in their faces, and praying over them. Nay, he affirmed that the touch of his glove had driven pains away, and, on one occasion, cast out from a woman several devils, or evil spirits, who tormented her day and night. “Every one of these devils,” says Greatraks, “was like to choke her when it came up into her throat.” It is evident from this that the woman’s complaint was nothing but hysteria.
The clergy of the diocese of Lismore, who seem to have had much clearer notions of Greatraks’ pretensions than their parishioners, set their faces against the new prophet and worker of miracles. He was cited to appear in the Dean’s Court, and prohibited from laying on his hands for the future: but he cared nothing for the Church. He imagined that he derived his powers direct from heaven, and continued to throw people into fits, and bring them to their senses again, as usual, almost exactly after the fashion of modern magnetisers. His reputation became, at last, so great, that Lord Conway sent to him from London, begging that he would come over immediately to cure a grievous headache which his lady had suffered for several years, and which the principal physicians of England had been unable to relieve.
Greatraks accepted the invitation, and tried his manipulations and prayers upon Lady Conway. He failed, however, in affording any relief. The poor lady’s headache was excited by causes too serious to allow her any help, even from faith and a lively imagination. He lived for some months in Lord Conway’s house, at Ragley, in Warwickshire, operating cures similar to those he had performed in Ireland. He afterwards removed to London, and took a house in Lincoln’s-Inn Fields, which soon became the daily resort of all the nervous and credulous women of the metropolis. A very amusing account of Greatraks at this time (1665) is given in the second volume of the Miscellanies of St. Evremond, under the title of the Irish prophet. It is the most graphic sketch ever made of this early magnetiser. Whether his pretensions were more or less absurd than those of some of his successors, who have lately made their appearance among us, would be hard to say.
“When M. de Comminges,” says St. Evremond, “was ambassador from his most Christian majesty to the king of Great Britain, there came to London an Irish prophet, who passed himself off as a great worker of miracles. Some persons of quality having begged M. de Comminges to invite him to his house, that they might be witnesses of some of his miracles, the ambassador promised to satisfy them, as much to gratify his own curiosity as from courtesy to his friends; and gave notice to Greatraks that he would be glad to see him.

“A rumour of the prophet’s coming soon spread all over the town, and the hotel of M. de Comminges was crowded by sick persons, who came full of confidence in their speedy cure. The Irishman made them wait a considerable time for him, but came at last, in the midst of their impatience, with a grave and simple countenance, that showed no signs of his being a cheat. Monsieur de Comminges prepared to question him strictly, hoping to discourse with him on the matters that he had read of in Van Helmont and Bodinus; but he was not able to do so, much to his regret, for the crowd became so great, and cripples and others pressed around so impatiently to be the first cured, that the servants were obliged to use threats, and even force, before they could establish order among them, or place them in proper ranks.
“The prophet affirmed that all diseases were caused by evil spirits. Every infirmity was with him a case of diabolical possession. The first that was presented to him was a man suffering from gout and rheumatism, and so severely that the physicians had been unable to cure him. ‘Ah,’ said the miracle-worker, ‘I have seen a good deal of this sort of spirits when I was in Ireland. They are watery spirits, who bring on cold shivering, and excite an overflow of aqueous humours in our poor bodies.’ Then addressing the man, he said, ‘Evil spirit, who hast quitted thy dwelling in the waters to come and afflict this miserable body, I command thee to quit thy new abode, and to return to thine ancient habitation!’ This said, the sick man was ordered to withdraw, and another was brought forward in his place. This new comer said he was tormented by the melancholy vapours. In fact, he looked like a hypochondriac; one of those persons, diseased in imagination, and who but too often become so in reality. ‘Aerial spirit,’ said the Irishman, ‘return, I command thee, into the air;—exercise thy natural vocation of raising tempests, and do not excite any more wind in this sad unlucky body!’ This man was immediately turned away to make room for a third patient, who, in the Irishman’s opinion, was only tormented by a little bit of a sprite, who could not withstand his command for an instant. He pretended that he recognised this sprite by some marks which were invisible to the company, to whom he turned with a smile, and said, ‘This sort of spirit does not often do much harm, and is always very diverting.’ To hear him talk, one would have imagined that he knew all about spirits,—their names, their rank, their numbers, their employment, and all the functions they were destined to; and he boasted of being much better acquainted with the intrigues of demons than he was with the affairs of men. You can hardly imagine what a reputation he gained in a short time. Catholics and Protestants visited him from every part, all believing that power from heaven was in his hands.”

After relating a rather equivocal adventure of a husband and wife, who implored Greatraks to cast out the devil of dissension which had crept in between them, St. Evremond thus sums up the effect he produced on the popular mind: “So great was the confidence in him, that the blind fancied they saw the light which they did not see—the deaf imagined that they heard—the lame that they walked straight, and the paralytic that they had recovered the use of their limbs. An idea of health made the sick forget for a while their maladies; and imagination, which was not less active in those merely drawn by curiosity than in the sick, gave a false view to the one class, from the desire of seeing, as it operated a false cure on the other from the strong desire of being healed. Such was the power of the Irishman over the mind, and such was the influence of the mind upon the body. Nothing was spoken of in London but his prodigies; and these prodigies were supported by such great authorities, that the bewildered multitude believed them almost without examination, while more enlightened people did not dare to reject them from their own knowledge. The public opinion, timid and enslaved, respected this imperious and, apparently, well-authenticated error. Those who saw through the delusion kept their opinion to themselves, knowing how useless it was to declare their disbelief to a people filled with prejudice and admiration.”
About the same time that Valentine Greatraks was thus magnetising the people of London, an Italian enthusiast, named Francisco Bagnone, was performing the same tricks in Italy, and with as great success. He had only to touch weak women with his hands, or sometimes (for the sake of working more effectively upon their fanaticism) with a relic, to make them fall into fits, and manifest all the symptoms of magnetism.
Besides these, several learned men, in different parts of Europe, directed their attention to the study of the magnet, believing that it might be rendered efficacious in many diseases. Van Helmont, in particular, published a work on the effects of magnetism on the human frame; and Balthazar Gracian, a Spaniard, rendered himself famous for the boldness of his views on the subject. “The magnet,” said the latter, “attracts iron; iron is found every where; every thing, therefore, is under the influence of magnetism. It is only a modification of the general principle, which establishes harmony or foments divisions among men. It is the same agent that gives rise to sympathy, antipathy, and the passions.

reached Inya-tsu-tsu, a native town situated about three miles to the north of a range of hills called Vunga. I am persuaded that this town is the place marked Vunge on Dr. Livingstone's map, through which he passed on his first journey across Africa, from the west to the east coast, and that the Umrenji river, which passes close to it, is Dr. Livingstone's Molinji. The Makololo escort naturally changed the Um into Mo, and the "r" into "1," and the Doctor adopted their pronuncia- tion. P"rom Inya-tsu-tsu we could see Mount Bungwi, a large hill near the Zambesi, quite plainly ; it lay a little to the east of north by compass, and looked about twenty- five miles distant. Up to this point we had followed one of the Portuguese trade routes, between Tete and Zumbo, but as we were getting too far north I determined to leave it and strike back towards the Mazoe ; so I now endeavoured to obtain guides direct to the country of Magomo, Eastern Mashunaland, or at any rate to some place in that direction. Ever since leaving Tete we had travelled through a very dry, burnt-up country, almost destitute of inhabitants, owing principally, I think, to the great scarcity of water, and pos- sibly also to the presence of tse-tse fly....I found on inquiry that three white Portuguese had visited this part of the country within the memory of Rusambo, but I met no chief beyond him who had ever seen a Portuguese. When I asked him if he had given his country to the Portuguese he said that he had submitted to Ignacio Jesus de Xavier, the black Capitao Mor of Baroma, in order to live, -and that he now paid him an annual tribute in corn and gold dust. This year, i 889, was the third in which he had paid tribute. Augusto told us that Rusambo's country had been given to Ignacio Jesus de Xavier as a praco by the Portuguese Government, on the usual terms ; that is to say, in consideration of the payment of an annual rental, and no questions asked as to the amount of taxes he exacted from the natives. I asked Augusto what would happen should Rusambo, or any native chief in a similar position, refuse to pay up ; and he replied that Colonel Ignacio,as he called him, was able to enforce payment, as he had a strong force of well-armed men in his service, who would either get the corn and gold dust required, or in default take women and children. This year Rusambo's people had had an abundant harvest, and the old chief had a fine lot of fat fowls. He is the only African native I have ever seen who fed his fowls. Every night they were all driven into a large wattle and daub hutch, and morning and evening they received an allowance of grain.

Hanging up in the kraal, one to each hut, were the wooden 
dishes in which the women wash alluvial gold. These dishes 
were all square with rounded corners, and as all the other 
wooden pans I saw for gold washing in many other kraals in 
the Mazoe valley were of exactly the same pattern, and as 
all their other household utensils are round, these wooden pans 
may possibly retain the form of the original pans for gold 
washing introduced into South-P^astern Africa by the gold- 
seeking nations of the ancient world in very remote times. 

On I st September we found that twenty-nine of our forty- 
two carriers from Tete had decamped during the night. Fear 
of punishment by the Portuguese authorities had alone restrained 
the others ; but I did not expect they would go many days 
farther with us, as they were such a miserable lot that although 
there was no earthly cause for alarm, I felt pretty sure that their 
fear of the unknown country and unknown people on ahead 
would soon outweigh their fear of deserting us and running the 
risk of punishment at Tete. We at once set to work collecting 
porters from the surrounding villages, and by the evening had 
enlisted twenty-two to carry twenty-two loads for liberal pay- 
ment as far as Maziwa's, a chief whose town is three days' 
journey (for men carrying loads) from here. The remaining 
loads we left in charge of Rusambo. 

On 5th September, after having travelled through a very 
dry stony country, and passed the villages of two miserable 
famine -stricken chiefs, Chibonga and Matopi, we reached 
Maziwa's. 

During the last few days we had shot a little game and 
seen fresh rhinoceros tracks, and near Maziwa's village we saw 
much spoor of elands, Burchell's zebras, sable antelopes, koo- 



XV TROUBLE WITH OUR CARRIERS 283 

doos, etc. We camped at the foot of the hill on which Maziwa's 
village was situated, but there were two or three more villages 
about, all subject to the same chief and all perched on the 
summits of high rocky hills. The people here had very little 
food to sell, and appeared very poor and famine- stricken. 
Maziwa is an independent chief on a very small scale, being 
beyond Portuguese influence, either direct or indirect. Yet 
this is scarcely a correct statement, as he has been raided upon 
by one of the black CapitSo Mors from the north, who are 
supposed to be subject to the Portuguese. 

At this place we had a lot of trouble. In the first place 
Rusambo's men, having fulfilled their bargain, returned home, 
and we were left with twenty-two loads for which we wanted 
carriers, whom I thought we should have obtained from Maziwa 
without difificulty. However, Maziwa turned out to be singularly 
avaricious and grasping, even for a Kafir, and I never knew a 
Kafir yet, whose mind has been uninfluenced by contact with 
Europeans, who, when the opportunity presented itself, failed 
to make a large profit out of another man's necessity. 
Believing he had got us in a fix, Maziwa thought he would be 
able not only to skin us, but to pick the flesh from our bones, 
figuratively speaking. He demanded ten yards of calico per 
man for carrying our loads a distance of less than twenty 
miles, and wanted a large present for himself into the bargain. 
It was impossible to comply with this exorbitant demand, as, 
had we done so, the next petty chief, when he learned what 
Maziwa had screwed out of us, would have wanted at least as 
much to put us a short distance farther on our journey, and in 
this way in a very short time we should have been left without 
any goods at all. During the day I did a lot of tallcing to 
Maziwa ; but he remained obdurate, and was deaf to all argu- 
ment, persuasion, sarcasm, invective, and insult, for he thought 
we were in his power and would have to agree to his terms, 
however exorbitant. One of his remarks was, that an elephant 
had come and died in his country, and he and his people 
would fatten on the carcase. 

In the evening, our thrice-accursed Shakundas from Tete, 
who were probably in communication with Maziwa, thinking 
that now we were in a mess they would be able to make 



284 TRAVEL AND ADVENTURE IN AFRICA chap. 

capital out of our misfortunes, came up in a body and 
demanded ten yards of calico per man to carry their loads 
two days' journey farther, threatening to leave in the night if 
we did not comply with their request. Though boiling over 
with indignation we were obliged to talk quietly with them, 
and argue and temporise, for if these fourteen men had left us, 
plantes la, with only Augusto and five boys, we could never 
have removed the greater part of our thirty-seven loads, and 
the expedition would have come to an end. After much 
discussion we gave the Shakundas each a common shirt, 
and they then promised to cany our goods as far as we 
wanted to go. 

The next morning Maziwa came down to our camp with a 
good many of his tribe, but we found him even more unreason- 
able than he had been the previous day, and after a short and 
.stormy interview he again retired to his kraal. I now resolved 
to destroy a portion of our goods, and to push on without 
Maziwa's aid. With the fourteen Shakundas and our five boys 
(three from Quillimani and Augusto's two), we had nineteen 
carriers for thirty-seven loads. I now went through every- 
thing and made up nineteen loads of what we most required, 
and then collected the remaining things, principally trading 
goods and provisions, about seven hundredweights altogether, 
into an immense heap. We then collected large quantities of 
fuel and set the pyre alight. It seemed a pity to sacrifice 
goods that had been carried so far, but it was much better 
than submitting to the extortions of a 

MISERABLE SAVAGE .... 

 During this operation Maziwa and his greedy clansmen stood 
looking on from the hill, and the old chief, as he saw the 
calico and blankets which he coveted being licked up and 
destroyed by the flames, lost all his self-possession, and 
declaimed loudly against us from his coign of vantage. I did 
not understand him, but Augusto told us that he said we were 
his enemies, and that every one was his enemy who came from 
Tete ; that if he had men enough he would kill us and seize 
our goods, and finally threatened that if we went on he would 
follow and raise the country on us. As we had four good 
breech-loading rifles, and all our Shakundas were armed with 
muskets belonging to Senhor Martins Da Gama Baixa..

And, after such barbarous treatment as this, can the world blame me, when I ask, What is become of the freedom of an Englishman? And where is the liberty and property that my old glorious friend came over to assert? We have drove popery out of the nation, and sent slavery to foreign climes. The arts only remain in bondage, when a man of science and character shall be openly insulted in the midst of the many useful services he is daily paying to the publick. Was it ever heard, even in Turkey or Algiers, that a state- astrologer was banter’d out of his life by an ignorant impostor, or bawl’d out of the world by a pack of villanous, deep-mouth’d hawkers? Though I print almanacks, and publish advertisements; though I produce certificates under the ministers and church-wardens hands I am alive, and attest the same on oath at quarter-sessions, out comes a full and true relation of the death and interment of John Partridge; Truth is bore down, attestations neglected, the testimony of sober persons despised, and a man is looked upon by his neighbours as if he had been seven years dead, and is buried alive in the midst of his friends and acquaintance. Now can any man of common sense think it consistent with the honour of my profession, and not much beneath the dignity of a philosopher, to stand bawling before his own door? – Alive! Alive ho! The famous Dr. Partridge! No counterfeit, but all alive! – As if I had the twelve celestial monsters of the zodiac to shew within, or was forced for a livelihood to turn retailer to May and Bartholomew Fairs. Therefore, if Her Majesty would but graciously be pleased to think a hardship of this nature worthy her royal consideration, and the next parliament, in their great wisdom cast but an eye towards the deplorable case of their old philomath, that annually bestows his poetical good wishes on them, I am sure there is one Isaac Bickerstaff, Esq; would soon be truss’d up for his bloody predictions, and putting good subjects in terror of their lives: And that henceforward to murder a man by way of prophecy, and bury him in a printed letter, either to a lord or commoner, shall as legally entitle him to the present possession of Tyburn, as if he robb’d on the highway, or cut your throat in bed

when you should have been in your coffin this three hours? In short, what

with undertakers, imbalmers, joiners, sextons, and your damn’d elegy hawk-

ers, upon a late practitioner in physick and astrology, I got not one wink

of sleep that night, nor scarce a moment’s rest ever since. Now I doubt not

but this villainous ‘squire has the impudence to assert, that these are en-

tirely strangers to him; he, good man, knows nothing of the matter, and

honest I

saac Bickerstaff, I warrant you, is more a man of honour, than to be

an accomplice with a pack of rascals, that walk the streets on nights, and

disturb good people in their beds; but he is out, if he thinks the whole world

is blind; for there is one John Partridge can smell a knave as far as Grubstreet,

– tho’ he lies in the most exalted garret, and writes himself ‘Squire: – But

I’ll keep my temper, and proceed in the narration.

I could not stir out of doors for the space of three months after this, but

presently one comes up to me in the street; Mr Partridge, that coffin you

was last buried in I have not been yet paid for: Doctor, cries another dog,

How d’ye think people can live by making of graves for nothing? Next

time you die, you may e’en toll out the bell yourself for Ned. A third

rogue tips me by the elbow, and wonders how I have the conscience to

sneak abroad without paying my funeral expences. Lord, says one, I durst

have swore that was honest Dr. Partridge, my old friend; but poor man,

he is gone. I beg your pardon, says another, you look so like my old ac-

quaintance that I used to consult on some private occasions; but, alack,

he’s gone the way of all flesh – Look, look, look, cries a third, after a

competent space of staring at me, would not one think our neighbour the

almanack-maker, was crept out of his grave to take t’other peep at the stars

in this world, and shew how much he is improv’d in fortune-telling by

having taken a journey to the other?

Nay, the very reader, of our parish, a good sober, discreet person, has

sent two or three times for me to come and be buried decently, or send

him sufficient reasons to the contrary, if I have been interr’d in any other

parish, to produce my certificate, as the act requires. My poor wife is

almost run distracted with being called Widow Partridge, when she knows

its false; and once a term she is cited into the court, to take out letters of

administration. But the greatest grievance is, a paultry quack, that takes

up my calling just under my nose, and in his printed directions with N.B.

says, He lives in the house of the late ingenious Mr. John Partridge, an

eminent practitioner in leather, physick and astrology.

But to show how far the wicked spirit of envy, malice and resentment

can hurry some men, my nameless old persecutor had provided me a

monument at the stone-cutter’s and would have erected it in the parish-church; and this piece of notorious and expensive villany had actually

succeeded, had I not used my utmost interest with the vestry, where it was

carried at last but by two voices, that I am still alive. That stratagem fail-

ing, out comes a long sable elegy, bedeck’d with hour-glasses, mattocks,

sculls, spades, and skeletons, with an epitaph as confidently written to

abuse me, and my profession, as if I had been under ground these twenty

years

 

I shall demonstrate to the judicious, that France and Rome are at the bottom of this horrid conspiracy against me; and that culprit aforesaid is

a popish emissary, has paid his visits to St. Germains, and is now in the measures of Lewis XIV. That in attempting my reputation, there is a general massacre of learning designed in these realms; and through my sides

there is a wound given to all the Protestant almanack-makers in the universe.

Vivat Regina.