I must make some apology for what I am going to narrate in this chapter. I have been asked to give the story, written by myself, to which I alluded in a former chapter; and, as a sensible young lady sits down to play at the piano when she is asked, whether she is a good or an indifferent performer, so I think I had better give this story at once rather than show any tiresomely modest reluctance to do so.

On the day when I told the story, we met in the study, after luncheon, for the weather was stormy, and the gentlemen were not inclined to venture out. The ladies, however, had gone to hear a confirmation sermon. Mr. Milverton began the conversation.

_Milverton._ We are to have something new to-day. Johnson is going to give us a bit of his experience of life.

_Ellesmere._ Babes and sucklings! A discourse on coral, eh?

Sir John seemed to have forgotten, or pretended to have forgotten, that he had himself asked me to write a story.

_Milverton._ I can tell you it is very good, and very deep.

_Ellesmere._ Oh yes! we know! Milverton has a forty-woman power of prejudice in favour of his friends. Anything that they do must be admirable. And, as for his secretary, who is part of himself, whatever he does is good enough for the _Revue des deux Mondes_.

I wonder what mischief Sandy has been hatching. I have observed he has been very thoughtful lately, and has been an execrable companion. O Sandy the clever one! drinker-in of wisdom from many fountains of that fluid! And oh the delight of a well-woven story that agitates the mind with pleasing alternations of hope and fear!

_Milverton._ What _do_ you mean, Ellesmere, by that nonsense?

_Ellesmere._ It is an imitation, and not a bad one, I think, of one of Paul Louis Courier’s best bits.

He was ridiculing some of the French lawyers for their habit of apostrophizing, which, however, he said he had adopted himself; for, when at home, he did not ask his servant Nicole simply to bring his slippers, but exclaimed, “_O mes pantoufles! et toi, Nicole, et toi!_” And so, instead of asking Sandy to give us his story, I exclaim, “Oh the cleverness of Sandy! And oh the beauty of a good story!”

But what is it about, though? A treatise, in the disguise of a story, on weights and measures? An essay, disguised as a tale, on the system of decimal notation? If it is, I go. Friendship has its limits. I like Sandy very much; but one must draw a line somewhere: and I draw the line by refusing to listen to any essay on decimal notation, even from my dearest friend.

_Milverton._ Make your mind quite easy, Ellesmere; and, Alick, do not wait for any more talk, but begin at once.

_Johnson._ I begin by saying that it has always been admitted that the Scotch possess peculiar prophetic powers, as I may instance by their well-known powers of second sight. And now I commence my story.

When I was a youth I went to visit my uncle, a small tenant-farmer and fisherman, who lived in the extreme north of Scotland on the sea-side. Boy-like, I was always about amongst the boats, which were new things to one who had hitherto lived far inland. One morning I succeeded, by dint of great efforts, in pushing my uncle’s boat down to the margin of the sea. I got into it, and rocked it about from side to side. In a few minutes it happened that a great wave came rushing up the shore--a ninth wave, I suppose it was--and when the recoil of the waters came, the boat, to my dismay, was afloat; and a strong wind from the shore carried me out to sea.

_Ellesmere._ Of course you had some haggis with you?

_Johnson._ No, Sir John; but I had two bannocks which my good aunt had given me after breakfast, knowing that I should not return to the house for hours. But I had no water. For three days I was driven further and further out to sea. What I suffered from thirst no man, who has not gone through similar suffering, can imagine. I think I should have died if it had not been for a slight shower which fell at the end of the second day, some drops of which I caught in my bonnet.

On the morning of the fourth day, after my departure, I neared an island. To my great astonishment, a number of people were on the shore and made signs of welcome to me. The moment I landed, a young girl handed me a beautiful shell, full of water.

The people were all dressed in a fashion quite unknown to me. After turning me round several times, and pulling about my clothes in the way in which savages examine the dress of civilized men, and asking me many questions which I could neither fully understand nor answer, I was taken to the hut, near the shore, of the father of the girl who had given me the water. His name was Pitou. Her name was Effra. They showed me a couch of heather; gave me some dried fish to eat; and, after I had eaten it, I lay down and went to sleep for four-and-twenty hours.

When I awoke, and was refreshed with food, I went out of the hut, and wandered about the island. It was very beautiful. Doubtless the beneficent Gulf Stream made the surrounding waters warm and the climate temperate.

The language was very like Scotch: indeed it was Scotch, only that there were many old words in it such as I had never heard any one but my grandfather make use of. I soon became familiar with the language. It is such an easy thing to learn a language when one is taught by a girl like Effra.

I was allowed to roam about the island as I pleased; but, to my dismay, I found that my boat had been hauled up some distance from the beach, and had been firmly fastened to stakes driven into the earth, so that I could not move it.

After I had been a few weeks in the island, Pitou asked me if I would like to see the House of Wisdom. He did not use the word “wisdom,” but said the House of Direction for Head, Heart, and Hand. You will readily consent to my abridging the title.

I assented to Pitou’s suggestion. We then went to the only building of any pretension to architecture in the island. I had often noticed it in my rambles; but had never ventured to approach it, thinking it to be the residence of the chief of the island, who might not approve of my coming into his presence unsent for. The first persons I saw, and who were in a sort of out-house, had a painful, anxious, subdued look about them, most unpleasant to behold. They glanced at me for a moment, and then seemed to look far away over my head. Then they muttered something to one another which I could not understand.

“Those are the Spoolans,” said Pitou to me. It is almost impossible to give an idea of the contempt which Pitou threw into his pronunciation of the word “Spoolans.” “Two foolish old fellows,” he added.

Now, they were not old. One was quite young, and the other only middle-aged. What can Pitou mean? I thought.

After making a gesture of contempt, which was done by bringing his two hands together close to his mouth, and then throwing them suddenly from his mouth, as if he said, “I have collected all their merits together, and find them to be naught,” Pitou departed. I could not help looking back at these two poor men, who must have seen this gesture; but they were evidently used to such demonstrations, and merely looked wistfully over Pitou’s head into the far country and the distant sea.

We then went into a shed on the right hand of the principal building. Here there were six men. These men also looked very miserable, but there was not that abject and hopeless appearance about them that there had been about the Spoolans. They were better clothed too; the Spoolans were in rags. I made my bow, and then Pitou said to me, “The Raths!” Then he added, “It’s no good staying here. Come on;” but, as we departed, he did not make any gesture of contempt.

We then ascended a flight of steps which led to the principal building. It consisted of three chambers on the lower story, and two on the upper.

We went into the left-hand room on the lower story. There were five men here. They were well-dressed, and, though exceedingly thoughtful, did not seem to be unhappy. Pitou made a bow to them, and then saying to me, “The Uraths,” conducted me out of the apartment.

We then went into the right-hand chamber. Here there were four men. These were handsomely dressed, were evidently in good spirits, and altogether in good case. Pitou made three low obeisances; and, as if introducing me, said, “The Auraths,” and then added, “The Boy from the Black Land.” I made my obeisances, imitating Pitou, and we walked out.

We then entered the centre chamber. Here were seated two men, very well dressed and very jovial-looking, and with an imperious air about them. When Pitou came into their presence, he was abject. It was not merely that he indulged in bows and genuflexions; but he almost crawled before them. “The Mauraths,” he said; and then pointing to me, “Your servant from the Black Land.”

I then made sundry bows--I could not condescend to crawl, like Pitou--and we quitted that apartment.

Then we went upstairs into a sort of ante-chamber, that was crowded with people. A way, however, was made for us, and we entered the principal chamber of the building. Here was seated, in great state, a coarse, fat, jovial-looking, rubicund man, who seemed to me to spend half his time in laughing about nothing. He was waited upon by persons who knelt to him. If Pitou had been abject before, in approaching the Mauraths, it was nothing compared to his abjectness now. He pulled me down on the ground, and dragging me after him, crawled to the feet of the laughing man. Then he said, “The Amaurath;” and afterwards, pointing to me, “Your slave from the Black Land.” Then, shading his face with his hands, as if he could not bear the splendour of the jolly chief’s commonplace countenance, Pitou crawled backwards, pulling me with him.

Then we went home. I should think that on the face of the earth that day there was not a more puzzled and bewildered individual than I was. As we walked home I remained silent; but Pitou kept exclaiming, “O the beloved young man! O the beautiful Being! O the Basketful of Direction for Head, Heart, and Hand!” I thought Pitou had gone crazy, especially as I understood him to apply these exclamations to the stout, rubicund, middle-aged, laughing gentleman we had just left.

After I had a little overcome my amazement, I questioned Pitou and Effra as to what all this meant. It was not until after many hours’ talk on that and on the succeeding day that I began to understand the whole matter.

These twenty men whom I had seen in the House of Wisdom were prophets, or were supposed to be prophets. At any rate, they had remarkable gifts of foresight. But these gifts differed very much in value. For instance, the wretched Spoolans only foresaw what would happen after a hundred years had passed: the unfortunate Raths, what would happen after twenty-seven years: the Uraths, after a year: the Auraths, after a month: the Mauraths, after three days: while the great Amaurath, that genial prophet and potentate, could foretell what would happen after the next six hours. The extent of their prophetic powers was after this fashion--that each set of prophets foresaw for as long a time as that which had to elapse between the present and the time at which their power came into play. For instance, the Amaurath’s duration of prophetic vision, if I may so describe it, was for six hours: that of the Mauraths for three days: and so on with all the rest.

The latter four classes foresaw only, or chiefly, material damage or material good. Moreover, they could not explain much about their prophecies. They could not tell you about the means to the ends which they foresaw; while on the other hand the despised Raths and Spoolans had great width and depth of foresight. But who cares to know what will happen twenty-seven years hence, still less what will happen a hundred years hence? I now quite understood the sorry garb of the Raths, and the absolute rags of the Spoolans.

As time went on I became familiar with the inhabitants of the House of Direction for Head, Heart, and Hand. The jolly old chief would laugh his loudest when he saw his slave from the Black Land. These people had somewhat of an aversion and distrust for any person who lived upon a continent. They used to say, the bigger the land he comes from, the worse the man; and they preferred to remain quite isolated from the rest of the world. They naturally supposed me to come from a continent; but gradually they came to tolerate me, and were very kind to me.

This freedom of entry into the great House would have given anybody much knowledge of the world who had brought any of such knowledge to begin with. But I was a simple youth of eighteen, and could profit but little by what I heard. The world seemed then to me, and indeed seems now, like a play, or an opera, acted before you in a language you do not understand.

There are very emphatic gestures; and the principal performers come together in twos, threes, and fours; and they lift up their hands, and appeal to the audience very earnestly about something. They do not seem to have much to say to one another.

Then somebody seems to hate somebody else very much, but you do not make out why. Also somebody, always a tenor (why tenors should be the only men who ever fall in love I cannot understand), loves some soprano very much, and there is a stage embrace, which does not seem to count for much; especially as the gentleman and lady on the stage make most of their love respectively to a lady and gentleman apparently in the upper gallery.

Then there is a chorus of very clean peasants, who never have anything to do with clay soils, and who seem happy, and are certainly noisy, about something; and then there is some dancing, of which you cannot exactly construe the meaning. And then there is a good deal of scuffling amongst the minor performers; but whatever they do, it never interferes with the singing of the principal performers. The politeness is wonderful; fetters are never put by the little people on the great people until they have quite finished their songs.

And then somebody, generally the principal lady or gentleman, seems resolved to die, and takes a long time about it, but keeps in good voice, if not in good heart to the end. And then the curtain falls down, and he or she comes on looking very smiling and gracious; and then the audience rush away to catch cold in the passages.

When you go home and have to tell the story of the play, and endeavour to do so, it must often be a story that differs considerably from the one that you were intended to listen to and understand.

But I suppose one makes out quite as much, and quite as accurately, about this play-story as about the story of the men and women who surround you.

Now here was an opportunity for getting nearer to the heart of things, and making out what people really wished for; but, as I said before, this grand opportunity was given to a mere lad. Still I remarked some things which, perhaps, were worth observing.

I was with the Raths one day. I used to frequent the rooms of those who could prophesy distant things to a degree that astonished the other inhabitants of the island. Suddenly there entered a handsome young man who was celebrated for his skill in minstrelsy. He had come to ask the question whether he would be famous in future years. The Raths told him that neither his fame, nor even his name, nor the songs he sang, nor the music which he sang them to, would be known to any human being in twenty-seven years’ time. He went away very sad; and I noticed that the mean fellow carried off some honey-cakes which he had doubtless brought as a present if the response should be favourable. The Raths looked wistfully after the honey-cakes; but they were obliged to tell the truth: and they told it, and remained hungry.

Again, everywhere throughout the building there was a buzzing sound, on the days of audience, of the word “Beans,” or something like it. Beans, beans, beans, nothing but beans. I was puzzled at first, but soon found out that a wild bean, much smaller than ours, passed for money; and there were constant questions about beans addressed to the short-time prophets. Would beans be more or less valuable? would there be many found this year? A whole boat-load of these beans had once come from a neighbouring island, and had been exchanged for dried fish and other articles of small value. The disturbance this had caused amongst the beaned (I mean the moneyed) men of the island was fearful; and a frequent question was whether any such pestilential cargo would soon come again.

The prophets took no share in the government of the island. But they were often secretly consulted by the ruling men, or by those who aspired to rule. It surprised me greatly, at first, to find that the ruling men consulted only the short-time prophets. Certainly one old chief did ask a question of the Uraths while I was there; but he was the only one who did so. The Mauraths or the Amaurath were the prophets chiefly consulted by politicians. I thought this very strange; but Mr. Milverton tells me that not only in this little island of mine, but elsewhere, the politicians would be quite contented with veritable prophecies for six hours, or three days, or at the most for a month.

I wondered that lovers never came to the Raths, or even to the Uraths; but I found that they were too sure about their future to care for asking questions respecting it. One poor fellow, a melancholy bachelor (the rarest thing in that island), had once asked a question of the Uraths about his prospects of happiness after the first year of marriage. His name was Toulvi, and that of his beloved, Dalumma. Dalumma, hearing of this question (all the prophets were addicted to gossipping), refused poor Toulvi; and no other young woman ever listened to his advances.

I expected that unpleasant questions would be asked about life and death. But this was never done. It had been tried in former years; but mankind, at least the mankind of that island, could not endure such knowledge. Besides, there were very ugly stories of sons and wives having asked questions about the lives of heads of families--questions asked in the purest spirit of conjugal and filial tenderness; but, somehow or other, the husbands and fathers did not take it well; and the practice was very wisely discontinued. It was a beautiful arrangement connected with this prophetic power, that, with rare exceptions, the prophets had no knowledge of future events, unless distinct questions were submitted to them respecting these events.

The questions chiefly asked were of a very humble kind; and were asked more by fishermen, and husbandmen, and handicraftsmen than by any other classes in society. In truth, in good society, if I may use such an expression as regards the society amongst those who may be considered semi-savages (for they had no newspapers), it was not thought very good taste to be seen in the House of Wisdom. Any foreknowledge was an agitating and vulgar thing: it tended to democracy: it made people dissatisfied with the goings on of their ancestors and of the ruling classes; and it was, very judiciously, voted to be vulgar.

My sympathy was with the Spoolans. Such melancholy I have never seen upon the faces of any human beings as that which was indented upon theirs. And yet the things they prophesied were mostly pleasant. According to them, the race of these islanders was always to improve in sagacity and gentleness. But that foreknowledge seemed to make them (the Spoolans) dreadfully discontented with the present state of things. I suspect that there will prove to be the usual counterbalancing drawbacks to all the good things the Spoolans prophesied; but they seemed to believe only in the good. And they always wore the aspect that is to be seen in sanguine men, when the things they have hoped for, and schemed for, do not come to pass--at least in their time.

Once a year (luckily it happened while I was in the island) the Spoolans were called in to make mirth for an evening, by narrating what would begin to happen in one hundred years’ time, and would continue to happen for a hundred years. What they said was in the highest degree interesting to me. I listened to them with breathless attention, but the rest of their auditors were, for the most part, convulsed with laughter--even when calamity was prophesied. And yet there were traditions showing how truly the Spoolans of a former age had spoken.

For instance, the chiefs who ruled the island now were of a conquering race who had subdued the original inhabitants. The Spoolans had foretold the coming of these conquerors. The Spoolans had only met with ridicule.

When the calamity had in two more generations approached much more closely, the Raths began to utter their forebodings. One or two chiefs (and it is remarkable that they were amongst the oldest) endeavoured to warn the people, and to suggest fortifications. But nobody heeded them. All the middle-aged men said to themselves: “This is an affair for our children. Meanwhile we have to be predominant in the Great Council to-day, which is hard work enough for us.”

Then it came to the Uraths to prophesy upon this coming invasion. A little stir was made then; but men said, “If the invasion is to come in a year, it must come: we cannot do more than we are doing. Our forefathers really ought to have looked to this matter. It is disgraceful to see how careless men are about the fortunes of those who are to succeed them.”

It need hardly be said that the island was easily conquered; and that the ancient inhabitants had to submit to the new dynasty, as the Chinese to the Tartars.

I must not weary my hearers any longer. You will, of course, know that I escaped from the island; for here I am. My personal adventures are not worth listening to; but I thought you might like to hear about an island which possesses such a wonderful institution as that which is to be found in the House of Wisdom of Tele-Ma-Malakah, which means the “Bridal Pearl of the Sea.”

_Ellesmere._ Well, Sandy, I must congratulate you. You will evidently become a great writer of fiction. Only, my dear fellow, avoid preciseness. Observe the great Sir Arthur: you would not have caught him placing his island in any waters near home; and then your foreseeing people are too clearly distinguished one from another by your naming distinct periods for their prophetic powers. “_Nemo repente fuit falsissimus_,” which means “no one tells plausible lies,” or writes fiction well, without a good deal of practice.

For my own part I should have liked to have heard more about Effra. Doubtless she aided in your escape, and won over a foster-brother; and then you and she and he were wrecked on the rocks at Brixton, somewhere near where the railway station is now. You know there is, or was, such a river as Effra at Brixton. The name was unquestionably derived from your Effra. Some foolish antiquaries--but they are always in the wrong--might contend that it was an Anglo-Saxon name which the said river had enjoyed for a thousand years. But never mind. What says the poet?--

“Whate’er, my friend, you say, whate’er you write, Keep probability well out of sight.”

She, I mean your Effra, was very beautiful, was she not?

_Johnson._ Indeed she was.

[My readers will imagine that there was a young lady whom I could describe.]

She had a horizontal face, and----

_Ellesmere._ What on earth does the boy mean by a horizontal face?

_Sir Arthur._ I understand.

_Johnson._ A forehead which is so set in the hair that it shows squarely--straight eyebrows--straight lips, though full; in fact, all the lines which principally attracted your attention, were horizontal.

_Ellesmere._ A civil engineer’s description of his love. But I do see what Sandy means. When she smiled, the dimples spread horizontally and not vertically. I declare, though, I believe there never was such a description of a young woman given before. You certainly are an original fellow, Sandy.

The moral of your tale is a shade too obvious. We all know that short-time prophets are the people worth attending to in this short-time world. If anybody will be good enough to tell me what Mr. Gladstone or Mr. Disraeli will do next week, I shall be very much obliged to him, whether the much-foreseeing man is called a Maurath or not. And, in truth, I should be one of those who would crawl before the laughing Amaurath, a worthy man who could tell me, on the last day of the debate, better even than Mr. Brand or Colonel Taylor, what the division would be. Down with the Raths and the Spoolans, say I. If such fellows were listened to, we might have good sense prevailing in the world, which would be a very dull thing.

My complaint of the world, which I beg leave to make very loudly, is this--that there is too much of everything. A conservatory is always too full of flowers to please me; a city, of inhabitants; a dinner, of dishes; a speech, of words; a concert, of songs; a museum, of curiosities; a picture-gallery, of pictures; a sermon, of texts; an evening party, of guests: and so I could go on enumerating, for an hour at least, all the things which are too full in this fulsome world. I use fulsome in the original sense.

You remember the witty saying of a French traveller. When asked about his travels he pithily exclaimed, “_Il y a quelque chose de trop dans tous les pays--les habitans._”

And so say I, there is always “_quelque chose de trop_” in everything human. With one exception, however. There are not too much good sense and foresight in mankind. Now, Sandy would make us all wise and foreseeing, or at least borrowers of wisdom and foresight from his old Spoolans. I quite understand why everybody thought them old.

In fact, Sandy would make us all into Scotchmen. Now the Scotch are pleasant and useful fellows in their way. In truth, they have done wonderful things, and have made their little rugged country occupy a great space in men’s hearts and minds.

But I decline to belong to a universe of Scotchmen.

There would be no such unproductive sports left in the world as leap-frog. And every joke would be sat upon by a jury.

No, Sandy, whatever other mischief you may do, beware of bringing too much good sense and foresight into the world. Good-bye, I am going to walk. Come along, Fairy. Every dog would be made useful, and have to draw a cart. And the immense fun and affection that there are in dogs would all be worked out of them. They would come home in the evening to their wives and families, as dull as men of business. It shan’t happen in my time, if I can prevent it.

[So saying, he whistled to Fairy, and off they went together.]

_Sir Arthur._ There was one passage in the story that I hardly think was yours, Mr. Johnson; and, in fact, I hope it was not. I accuse Mr. Milverton of it.

_Johnson._ Which was it, Sir Arthur?

_Sir Arthur._ The illustration of human life taken from an opera heard by you in some language not known to you. That passage was too old for you, and a little too cynical, I thought.

_Milverton._ Well, that was mine: it really was almost the only thing I did insert; but I did not mean it to be cynical.

I know very well what you mean--that a young man is too much delighted by his early operas to take much notice of the comic element in them.

Now I go beyond that, and must confess I am greatly amused by the real life at a play or an opera, and by what goes on behind the scenes: things which would have disgusted me, as being unpleasantly real, when I was young.

_Sir Arthur._ I do not know exactly what you allude to.

_Milverton._ The reproachful look of the severe conductor when he turns to quell some of his band who are too loud or too fast; the anxiety of the stage-manager who at the side is tempestuously waving his flag to “supers” who will not come on at the right time; the gay chattering with some friend at the side-scenes of the great tragic lady who is just coming on with the dire intention of killing herself, and a child or two; the good-natured ballet-girl who is adjusting a wreath, to make it more becoming, upon some other ballet-girl, or smoothing down her friend’s skirts; the pot of porter which the high tragic actor is consuming with considerable relish; the perplexity of the scene-shifter when the scenes won’t go rightly together, and an obstinate old oak-tree will cut into the middle of a cottage; the busy carpenters in the flies giving the final touches to their work; the abrupt change of demeanour which occurs when the chief tenor and soprano have gone off the stage with their arms round each other, or in some loving attitude, and they part at the side-scenes as a lady and gentleman who have a slight acquaintance with one another, and perhaps a considerable dislike: all these things amuse my foolish mind; and I like to sit in a box which will give me a good view of them.

_Mauleverer._ Do not forget the choruses. How beautiful is their unanimity! How I wish that there was anything like it in common life! The same gesture, the same question, the same reproach, the very same words, seem to occur to all these excellent men at the same moment. Hands, arms, legs, eyes, eyebrows, all move together. They make use of the same exclamation: if one says “hah!” they all say “hah!” Of “ohs” and “ehs” and “hahs” and “hums” there is no unpleasant variety.

_Milverton._ As the French song says,--

“Quand un gendarme rit, Tous les gendarmes rient, Dans la gendarmerie.”

_Sir Arthur._ I declare we have gone into quite a discussion of the proceedings at operas and plays. It is all your fault, Milverton, as it was you who introduced that illustration into Mr. Johnson’s clever story, which illustration, forgive me for saying so, was evidently lugged in, and had no proper relation to “Spoolans” or “Uraths.”

[After this the conversation ended.]