"A Memoir of his Life" (continued 3)

He had also a short tale, “The Fatal Cord,” running in a periodical, the Boys of England, and had engaged to write “The Planter Pirate” for the same paper.

Chapter Thirteen.

New York.

In October, 1867, Captain and Mrs Mayne Reid went to the United States, arriving at Newport, Rhode Island, in November. Here they took a furnished cottage for the winter.

Soon after his arrival Captain Reid was eagerly sought by different publishers who wished to get his name. At Newport he wrote “The Child Wife,” for which Frank Leslie’s Paper paid him 8,000 dollars for the right of first appearance in its columns. “The Child Wife” was published by Ward, Lock and Tyler, in 3 volumes, in 1868, and is now issued in one volume by Messrs Sonnenschein and Co. The proprietor of the Fireside Companion also paid 5,000 dollars to run “The Finger of Fate” in his paper. Mayne Reid had as much work for his pen as he could get through, and was now speculating upon bringing out a boys’ magazine of his own in New York.

In December, 1868, the first number of Onward, Mayne Reid’s magazine, appeared; he continued in the editorship for 14 months, doing other literary work in addition, till his health completely gave way, and the magazine was abandoned.

He was a constant sufferer from the effects of the wound in his leg, and during this brief sojourn in the United States was a patient in Saint Luke’s Hospital, New York, in 1870, suppuration of the thigh having brought him to death’s door. From the hospital he writes:

“To the Editor of the Sun.

“Sir,—I have been for some days an inmate of Saint Luke’s Hospital, a sufferer from a severe and dangerous malady. To save my life calls for the highest surgical skill, along with combination of the most favourable circumstances, among them quiet. And yet during the whole of yesterday, and part of the day before (the Lord’s Day), the air around me has been resonant with what, in the bitterness of my spirit, I pronounce a feu d’enfer. It has resembled an almost continuous fusillade of small arms, at intervals varied by a report like the bursting of a bombshell or the discharge of a cannon. I am told that this infernal fracas proceeds from a row of dwelling houses in front of this hospital, and that it is caused by the occupants of these dwellings or their children.

“Accustomed in early life to the roar of artillery, my nerves are not easily excited by concussive sounds, and, therefore, I have not been seriously affected by them. But, alas! how different with scores of my fellow-sufferers in the hospital, beside the couch of many of whom death stands waiting for his victim. I am informed by my nurses, intelligent and experienced men, that they have known several cases where death has not only been hastened, but actually caused by the nervous startling and torture inflicted by these Fourth of July celebrations. I have been also informed that the venerable and philanthropic founder of this valuable institution has done all in his power to have this cruel infliction stayed, even by personal appeal to the inhabitants of the houses in question, and that he has been met by refusal, and the reply, ‘We have a right to do as we please upon our own premises.’ I need not point out the utter falsity of this assured view of civic rights, but I would remark that the man, who, even under the sanction of long custom, and the pretence of country’s love, permits his children, through mere wanton sport, to murder annually one or more of his fellow citizens, I say that such a man is not likely to make out of these children citizens who will be distinguished either for their patriotism or humanity.

“In the name of humanity I ask you, sir, to call public attention to this great cruelty, and, if possible, have it discontinued.

“Yours very truly,

“Mayne Reid.

“Saint Luke’s Hospital, July 5th, 1870.”

He was interviewed in the hospital by a lady, who wrote the following account of her visit to Mayne Reid:

“New York, August 9, 1870.

“My sympathies were enlisted, too, for the brave fellow who has been languishing in Saint Luke’s Hospital. The sole tidings of him was the 4th of July remonstrance, which revealed how his spirit chafed at the seclusion and helplessness incomparably worse than physical pain.

“To find my way, then, to the hospital seemed a part of my pleasure in New York. The gate shut me in with a heavy clang, and I walked up the path to the main building with, I confess, no little trepidation at my boldness. In answer to the request ‘to see Captain Mayne Reid,’ I was conducted through a broad hall into a long ward furnished with an infinite number of low, narrow cots, that looked too small for any practical purpose. A turn through a short hall and what appeared to be an apothecary’s closet brought us to the private room of the author. He was lying upon a bedstead (similar to the ones in the ward) which was placed in the centre of the apartment. As he turned his head and raised himself upon his elbow to address me, he presented the view of a middle-aged, sturdy-looking English squire. The head is compact and covered by a profusion of dark brown hair, which, in contrast with the pallid complexion, stood out as if it had no part and parcel with the corpse-like whiteness of the scalp. The brow was smooth and fair, rounded out to gigantic proportions by ideality, causality and reverence. The nose, nervous and scornful, would have been remarkable but for the large and beautiful eyes, that are restless habitually, but when fixed upon an object have a lancellating effect, and withal an expression of great good heart, that is seconded by one of the most winning smiles I ever beheld. Hands of uncommon grace and beauty somehow complete the charm of his lips and eyes.

“To speak first of matters of most interest to the public, Captain Reid has been suffering from the effects of a gun-shot wound received in the Mexican war, culminating in an abscess which threatened to exhaust his vitality. Recovered from that by the care of one of the most experienced surgeons in America, he was attacked by dysentery, which at the time I saw him had reduced him to a critical condition again.

“‘I may say truly,’ he observed, ‘that I was dead, and am alive. The doctors had given me up, and I felt myself there was no chance. I had the hiccough for hours, and the brandy and water administered gave me no relief. With life slowly ebbing away, and the past and future passing in rapid review before my mind, an old recollection flashed before me in the strangest way, that draughts of pure brandy would sometimes arrest hiccoughs. I reached forth my hand for the bottle of brandy that stood on my stand and took a swallow. Instantly it went like fire through my veins, and with another draught my life was saved. I tell it to you for it may be of service to you some time.’

“As we talked, the air coming fresh through the open window, laden with the murmur of leaves and twitter of swallows, a light, even step was heard approaching, and a lady came forward, pausing on the threshold. Oh, but she was fair! with her golden hair caught up under an azure fanchon of satin, and falling in soft ripples over her forehead. There was an expression of firmness in her calm blue eyes which gave character to the face of infantile shape and loveliness. From her face my eye wandered to her figure, struck with admiration at her graceful pose—an accomplishment few women possess. They dance and sometimes walk well, but they rarely know how to stand still. Her gown, I observed, was white, with an overdress or wrap of blue, admirably suited to her peculiar style of beauty.

“‘My wife,’ said the invalid, and as he explained that I called because I had read his books she smiled and extended her hand. The smile was like sunshine, and the clasp of her soft, cool hand a positive luxury. The clear and musical voice was in keeping with her beautiful self, and I loitered for a moment to gather a full impression of the scene.”

A few days after this interview a serious relapse took place, and on August 10th, telegrams were sent to his friends: “Captain Mayne Reid is dying.” Everything was prepared for his interment, and even an obituary notice was written.

His wife was allowed to stay at the hospital during the night, being told by the doctors that any minute might be her husband’s last. He had been lying in an unconscious state for the past three days, all the signs of approaching dissolution being present. About 8 o’clock on the morning of the 11th he rallied considerably. The doctors and two of the lady nurses were around his bed, when he suddenly raised himself up, exclaiming in a strong voice: “Turn those she-Beelzebubs,” pointing to the two ladies, “out of the room at once, preaching at a fellow, and telling him he’s going to die. I’m not going to die. Bring me a beef-steak!”

Every one was astounded, the poor chaplain being nearly frightened out of his wits. The beef-steak was speedily brought in, and the patient made a feint of eating a portion.

From that day the gallant Captain slowly progressed towards recovery, and on September 10th left Saint Luke’s Hospital and sailed for Liverpool in the middle of October, this being his last visit to the country in whose cause he had shed his blood and earned the laurels of war.

Chapter Fourteen.

Closing Scenes.

For some time after his return home Mayne Reid’s health remained in a precarious state, and he suffered very much from depression. At one time it was almost feared that his mind would not recover its balance. That wonderful intellect was sadly clouded; the terrible ordeal he had passed through in New York had left its mark behind. But in the end, with careful nursing his illusions vanished, and he once more resumed the pen. After writing some short articles for “Cassell’s Illustrated Travels,” he revised “The Finger of Fate” and “Lone Ranche,” which was published in two volumes by Chapman and Hall. In May, 1872, Mayne Reid commenced writing a new story, “The Death Shot,” for Mr Ingram. It appeared in The Penny Illustrated Paper, and was a great success, speedily increasing the circulation of that paper. “The Death Shot” was also published by Beadle and Adams, of New York, in their Saturday Journal.

On returning from his autumn tour in South Wales, Captain Reid writes to his young friend, Charles Ollivant:

“I’m growing as fat as the claimant, and strong as a bull, but sorrowful as a ‘gib cat.’”

He was then re-writing “The Lone Ranche,” and making it a much longer book. It ran through the columns of The Penny Illustrated Paper, under the title of “Adela.”

In a letter written in November, Mayne Reid says:

“I am now in the middle of a negotiation, that if successful will be of great service to me—perhaps give me a small income for life, and for my dear wife when I die. I am trying to re-purchase the copyrights of my novels.”

It was successful, and in December, 1873, and the following June, 1874, he was enabled to re-purchase the copyrights of most of his works.

In the autumn of 1874, Chapman and Hall published “The Death Shot” in three volumes. It had recently been revised.

In the preface, dated Great Malvern, September, 1874, he says:

“The author has re-modelled—almost rewritten it.

“It is the same story, but as he hopes and believes, better told.”

During the summer of this year Captain Reid commenced “The Flag of Distress,” which was first published in Chambers Journal in August, 1875. He received three hundred guineas for the right of issue in that journal. Of this book Dr William Chambers wrote to Mayne Reid: “I think the plot excellent, and the character of ‘Harry Blew’ the finest you have drawn.”

“The Flag of Distress” was afterwards published in three volumes by Tinsley, and it and “The Death Shot” are now issued in one volume, published by Swan Sonnenschein and Co.

He also contributed several articles to magazines and a short tale to The Illustrated London News.

In October, 1874, Mayne Reid was again laid low. This time an abscess attacked the knee of the wounded leg. Again reports of his death were circulated, and once more arrangements made for his burial. For six months he was on his bed, and rose at last a cripple, never being able to walk again for the remainder of his life without the aid of crutches. In 1882 a small pension was granted him from the United States Government for Mexican war services. The claim was for an invalid pension, and this was afterwards increased, but only shortly before his death.

During the last few years of his life, Captain Mayne Reid may be said to have literally turned his sword into the “plough share.” He resided then near Ross, Herefordshire, amid the picturesque Wye scenery, and occupied himself in farming. He reared a peculiar breed of sheep—a cross between a Mexican species and the Welsh mountain sheep—and succeeded at length in getting a flock, all with the same peculiarities, namely, jet black bodies, snow-white faces and long white bushy tails. An account of these sheep appeared in the Live Stock Journal, 1880. They were called “Jacob’s sheep,” being “ringed and speckled.”

The Captain used to say, jestingly, that he should go down to posterity as a breeder of sheep. Their mutton appeared on his table, and out of their wool he had cloth woven, from which he wore garments made to his own design.

He was also a large potato grower, experimenting with Mexican seed. Some clever articles upon potato culture from his pen were contributed to the Live Stock Journal, 1880.

In his Herefordshire home he wrote “Gwen Wynn: a Romance of the Wye.”

Towards the end of 1880 Captain Mayne Reid revised “The Free Lances,” in fact re-writing almost every line. The book had been originally written while he was editing the Onward Magazine in New York, but was not then published. Mr Bonner, the proprietor of the New York Ledger, paid a large sum for running it through his paper.

This revising, in addition to other literary work, was rather hard upon Mayne Reid. He writes:

“I thought I would have broken down, but I seem to get better with the hard work, only I am in great fear my poor wife will give way. She is in very delicate health, and looking quite ill. That acts sadly against me in my work, for when she is not cheerful I don’t write nearly so well.”

His wife was his amanuensis. Captain Mayne Reid regularly contributed a Christmas tale to the Penny Illustrated Paper and other journals during these latter days.

“The Free Lances” was published in three volumes, 1881, by Remington. The Saturday Review, July, 1881, says: “Captain Mayne Reid seems to be as lively a writer as he ever was, and if ‘The Free Lances’ causes any less thrill of excitement than was wont to be aroused by ‘The Scalp Hunters,’ the fault must be due to a change in the reader rather than in the author.”

“The Free Lances” is now published in one volume.

The last novel from Captain Mayne Reid’s pen was “No Quarter,” an historical tale of the Parliamentary wars. Most of the scenes are laid in Herefordshire and the Forest of Dean, all of which Mayne Reid personally visited before writing the story. The principal characters and scenes of the book are historically correct.

He also wrote for the Sporting and Dramatic News articles on “Our Home Natural History,” and letters to the New York Tribune on the “Rural Life of England.”

For Mr Ingram’s paper, the Boys’ Illustrated News, of which Captain Mayne Reid was co-editor on its first appearance, he wrote “The Lost Mountain” and “The Chase of Leviathan,” also natural history notes and short stories.

“The Naturalist in Siluria,” a popular book on natural history, was also written in Herefordshire.

Mr W.H. Bates, author of “The Naturalist on the Amazon,” in a letter to Mrs Reid, says:

“Throughout our mutual acquaintance Captain Mayne Reid always impressed me as a man deeply interested in all natural history lore, and the subject was one of our most constant topics of conversation. If circumstances in early life had turned his attention in that direction he would have made a reputation as a naturalist.”

The last book for boys written by Captain Mayne Reid was “The Land of Fire,” a short story of the South Seas; but ere its publication the hand that penned it was cold in death.

Captain Mayne Reid possessed great powers of oratory. He would speak for hours on a subject with untiring energy. The language from his tongue flowed facile as that from his pen, his favourite theme being politics. He would often astound his hearers by the eloquence he expended upon his beloved theory—the superiority of Republican over Monarchial institutions. Occasionally he came across a Tory equally red-hot, and then the “fur would fly.” But Captain Reid, by his great charm of manner, rarely gave offence, and was, as a rule, listened to with good nature on both sides. Often while in the height of a very hot discussion he would suddenly change the theme, dropping at once from the sublime to the ridiculous with such ease that it was difficult for his audience to tell if he had really been in earnest. Had Mayne Reid chosen, he would have made a name as an orator. The few occasions on which he occupied the platform amply proved this.

Though cherishing the strongest Republican principles, Mayne Reid was by no means a leveller, but in many things the very opposite to what the expression of his opinions would lead one to suppose. He was an enigma, which only one in the close contact of everyday life with him could solve.

His name rarely figured at literary gatherings, but he sometimes attended the Geographical or Zoological Societies’ meetings; in fact, he avoided rather than sought literary society.

Before commencing a new book, Captain Mayne Reid would thoroughly study his subject and work out the plot. He would make rough drafts at first, which were afterwards thrown away.

He had no skill with the pencil, but would make curious figures like hieroglyphics in his manuscript, intended to represent objects described, but bearing to all but himself a merely imaginary resemblance.

His mode of writing was peculiar. He rarely sat at a table, but reclined on a couch, arrayed in dressing-gown and slippers, with a portable desk and fur robe thrown across his knees even in hot weather, and a cigar between his lips—which was constantly going out and being re-lighted—while the floor all around him was strewed with matches. Latterly, after he became a cripple, the dressing-gown was discarded for a large Norfolk jacket, made from his own sheep’s wool; and he would sit and write at the window in a large arm-chair with an improvised table in front of him resting on his knees, upon which at night he would have a couple of candles placed, the inevitable cigar, matches, and whisky toddy being the accessories.

He had a singular habit of reading in bed, with newspapers, manuscript, and a lighted candle on his pillow. At least a score or more of times he has been found in the morning with the paper burnt to black tinder all round him, but neither himself nor the bed-clothes in the slightest singed.

The Mexican hero was never an idle man; and after his sword was sheathed in its scabbard, his pen never rested. His brain was as active as ever till within a fortnight of his death.

On October 22nd, 1883, Mayne Reid had fought his last battle.

An irregular block of white marble, on which is carved a sword and pen crossing each other, and these words from “The Scalp Hunters:—”

This is the weed prairie, It is misnamed, It is the Garden of God,

mark his last resting-place, in Kensal Green Cemetery, London.

Chapter Fifteen.

Donn Piatt’s Reminiscence. Press Notices.

In this chapter are given a reminiscence by Donn Piatt of Mayne Reid, and a few extracts from the numerous obituary notices which appeared in the press. Donn Piatt writes:

“Mayne Reid wrote his first romance at my house, in this valley, where he spent a winter. He had come out of the Mexican war decorated with an ugly wound, and covered with glory as the bravest of the brave, in our little army under Scott.

“When not making love to the fair girls of the Mac-o-chee, or dashing over the country on my mare, he was writing a romance, (‘The Rifle Rangers’) with the scene in Mexico and on our Mexican border.

“He would read chapters to us of an evening (he was a fine reader), and if the commendation did not come up to his self-appreciation he would go to bed in a huff, and not touching pen to paper for days would make my mare suffer in his wild rides. I found that to save bay Jenny I must praise his work, and he came to regard me in time as Byron did Gifford. When told that ugly critic had pronounced ‘me lord’ the greatest of living poets, he said that he was ‘a damned discriminating fellow.’

“That romance proved a great success. Again, like Byron, he put his well-worn gown, one morning, about one wakened to fame and fortune.

“The first remittance took the restless soldier of fortune from us, never to return. He would not have been content to remain as long as he did, but for the fact that he was desperately in love with a fair inmate of our house. But in her big blue eyes the gallant Irishman did not find favour, and he at last gave up the pursuit.

“From the station where he awaited his train he wrote us two letters. One of these I never saw. The other contained the following lines, which, without possessing any remarkable poetic merit, gracefully put on record his kind feelings on parting from the house he had made his home for nearly a year.”

Mac-o-Chee Adieu. Fade from my sight the valley sweet, The brown, old, mossy mill, The willows, where the wild birds keep Song watch beside the rill; The cottage, with its rustic porch, Where the latest flower blooms, And autumn, with her flaming torch, The dying year illumes. Within mine ears the sad farewell In music lingers yet, And casts upon my soul a spell That bids it not forget; Forget, dear friends, I never may, While yet there lives a strain, A flower, a thought, a favoured lay To call you back again. When evening comes you fondly meet About the firelit hearth, And hours fly by on winged feet, In music and in mirth; Ah! give a thought to one whose fate On thorny pathway lies, Who lingered fondly near the gate That hid his paradise. I hear, along the ringing rails, My fate, that comes apace, A moment more and strife prevails, Where once were peace and rest; Unrest begins, my furlough ends, The world breaks on my view, Ah! peaceful scene; ah! loving friends, A sad and last adieu.

“Between that parting and our next encounter some twenty years intervened. Mayne Reid had made his fame and fortune, throwing the last away upon a Mexican ranch in England, and I yet floating about on spars had just begun to use my pen as a means of support. He was grey, stout and rosy, living with his handsome little wife in rooms in Union Square. I told him that the old homestead upon the Mac-o-chee had fallen into decay, and of the little family circle he so fondly remembered I alone remained.

“That made him so sad that I proposed a bottle of wine to alleviate our sorrow, and he led the way to a subterranean excavation in Broadway, where we had not only the bottle, but a dinner and several bottles.”

The following are short extracts from some public notices of his life:

In The Times, October 24th, 1883—“Every schoolboy, and every one who has ever been a schoolboy, will learn with sorrow of the death of Captain Mayne Reid. Who has forgotten those glorious rides across the Mexican prairies, when we galloped, mounted upon a mustang—a horse would have been too flat and unromantic—on the war trail, and surprised our enemy. The very titles of the books are enough to stir the blood. What a vista they open out of wild adventure, of mystery, of savage heroism!”

In The Standard—“It is an odd incident in the life of Captain Mayne Reid, that its active part ended suddenly, just when he might be supposed to think that it was seriously beginning. In 1849 he came to London, and began to pour forth that wonderful stream of romance, which never quite failed through thirty-four years, to the day of his death. Captain Mayne Reid wrote for men and women, as well as boys; but there was not, we believe, a word in his books which a schoolboy could not read aloud to his mother and sisters.”

In The Daily News—“An active man of adventurous temperament, he imparted his own animal spirits and his passion for the marvellous into the products of his busy brain. He was born with a zest for travel, which he contrived to indulge at a very early age. He explored American backwoods, hunted with Indians up the Red River, and roamed the boundless prairie on his own account. On behalf of the United States, in whose army he received a commission, he fought against Mexico. When his sword was in its sheath, and his fingers held the pen, he wrote with vigour and impetuosity as if under fire. Captain Mayne Reid gave by his books a great deal of innocent pleasure, and they could always be admitted without scruple or inquiry into the best-regulated families.”

And in The Spectator, October 27th, 1883—“As our judgment on Mayne Reid’s novels is not that of our contemporaries, we are disinclined to allow his death to pass without a word of criticism. As an individual we knew nothing about him, except that in our judgment he missed his career, and would have made a first-class agent of the Geographical Society, to explore dangerous or excessively difficult regions, like Thibet, the Atlas Range, or the unknown hills and locked-up villages of Eastern Peru. He was a man of exceptional daring, having a positive liking for danger; he had the typographical eyes which should belong to a general; and he had a faculty of description, which he watered down for his novels till it was hardly apparent. During the only interview which this writer ever had with him, accident induced his interlocutor to ask about the Pintos—the particoloured race sprung from native Mexicans and the cross breed between Indians and Negroes—who are stated to exist in the State of Mexico. The writer disbelieved in them, and expressed his belief, but Captain Mayne Reid, who declared he had seen specimens of the race, held him quite fascinated for half-an-hour by a description which, if imaginary, was a triumph of art, but which left on the hearer’s mind an impression of absolute truth.”

Appendix.

“The Land of Innisfail,” by Mayne Reid.

And I must leave thee, Erin! ’tis my fate— And I must wander over many a land! And other climes and other homes await The ‘Scholar,’ wasted - worn - but may this hand That writes thy praises now, cold on the sand Unburied lie for ever - may no hearth Shelter me, vagrant on a foreign strand The cursed and homeless outcast of the earth, When I forget thou art the country of my birth. Erin, I love thee! though thy sunken cheek Is pale with weeping, and thy hollow eye, With many a stifled groan, and rending shriek, Reveals dark tales of bitter agony; That I have pitied thy sad misery I’ve proved through every change of land and sea; I’ve wafted o’er the ocean many a sigh, And many an earnest prayer that thou shouldst be, As are thy children’s souls - unshackled, happy, free! I love thee, though I could not live with thee! The trampler of thy fields, red with thy gore, Had made my home a hell - I would not be The fawning minion at a great man’s door— I would not beg upon thy wintry moor To starve neglected; and soon as I knew That there were other lands, the broad seas o’er, With hands to welcome, and with hearts as true— I dropped one tear, and bid my native land adieu!

A Southern Sunset, from “La Cubana,” by Mayne Reid.

How gorgeously the golden sun declining Gilds the soft sea whose tranquil waters span Fair Cuba’s Isle, the broad blue billow lining With such bright tints as painter’s pencil can Project upon the naked canvas never! In mellower beam his parting glances quiver, Blending the hues of gold and red and azure, And pouring on the wave his richest treasure. From terraced roof above the noisy town, The Spanish maiden watches him go down; And mischief glistens in her dark brown eye: For sunset brings the masking hour nigh. Through loophole barred in yonder battlement, Where grimly frowns El Moros castled wall There’s many an eye in weary watching bent, And many a sigh - alas! too idly spent— By pinioned captive pining in his thrall. The brilliant sheen upon the distant sea Perchance may to his memory recall Some happy thought of days when he was free; Draw from his haggard eye the scalding tear— The first that he has shed for many a year; He breathes! he moves! alas, the clanking chain, Soon checks the thought - he’s in his cell again! The sentry pacing on the ’brazured wall, Lets to his feet the burnished carbine fall, And looking down upon the busy bay, Hums to himself some Andalusian lay; Or, gazing on the banner floating gay, Drawls out the loyal words, “Viva el rey!” Along the shores that skirt this southern town, A thousand dark eyes beam from faces brown— ’Tis they that joy to see the sun go down. The muleteer, mounting, homeward turns his face, And goads his laden mule to quicker pace; The weary slave from out the field of cane, A moment glances at the far free main, And sighs as he bethinks him of his chain. Short-lived and silent is his thought of pain, For, stopping in his task while it is on, He reads relief in yonder setting sun, For, ’tis the herald of his labour done! The poor Bozal, who knows not yet to pray, Thinks of his wife and children far away, In some rude kräal by Biafra’s bay. But where are they, that mild and gentle race, Who worshipped him with prostrate form and face? Where is the palm-screened hut of the cacique, That once rose over yon barranca’s brow? Where are they all? Son of the island, speak! Where the bohio stood, domes, turrets now Alone along the hill-sides proudly gleam! Ha! thou art sad and silent on the theme; But in thy silence I can read their doom— Name, nation, all, have passed into the tomb. The tomb? No - no; they have not even one To tell that they were once, and now are gone! ***** The fading light grows purple on the deep, In gorgeous robes the god hath sunk to sleep; So sets the sun o’er Cuba, with a smile— The sweetest that he sheds upon this southern isle!

Mayne Reid did not admire a classical education. He wrote the following in May, 1881, and intended to publish it:

“The old adage ‘knowledge is power’ is more trite than true. Like many other proverbs long unquestioned in these modern days it often meets contradiction—indeed oftener than otherwise—ignorant men in every walk of life wielding an influence denied to the most learned. Substitute the word ‘wealth’ for knowledge, or even craft of the lowest kind, and the proverb, alas! holds good.

“Nevertheless is there still some truth in it in its original form, dependent on the kind of knowledge, whether it be useful or merely ornamental. To the latter belong most of that taught at our universities and public schools—especially what are called the ‘dead languages’—all but useless as regards the needs and realities of after life, and but of little value even for its adornments. Lore more valueless, and time worse spent than in acquiring it, are scarce possible to be conceived. It barely finds its parallel in the Chinese mnemonics. When one reflects on the hours spent on this study, days—with nights as well—weeks, months, and years, and then in after life looks back how little good he has got from it—unless, indeed, he be himself a school teacher or college professor to perpetuate the folly—his reflections cannot be of a satisfactory kind. What might he have done—what could he not have done—had he been instructed in science, instead of his mind made a storehouse of lumber, the cast-off clothing of nations who were never properly clad, with coffins containing their language dead as themselves?

“‘But,’ say the advocates of so-called classical education, ‘what better way is there of training the youthful mind—giving it shape, scope, and direction—what other?’ It seems hardly worth while to answer such a question; the wonder is that any one should ask it. Training the mind by the declination of ‘hic haec hoc,’ or that most absurd of all absurd excessing, scansion, is the veriest mockery of mental discipline. Science even in its humblest branches does infinitely better, and along with the lesson gives something as valuable as the training itself, or more so.

“‘Ah! that may be true,’ admit the admirers of defunct tongues, ‘but then think of the soldiers, the statesmen, the poets, the heroes and notables of every speciality, who have lived, and whose deeds are alone recorded in the languages called dead. Think of their customs and ways of life, their virtues and their vices, their gods and their devils, and how are you to get knowledge of them without acquaintance with their language?’ Possibly better if we had never got knowledge of them, since their ways of life were not always such as they ought to be, while their vices and devils had a far more powerful influence over them than their virtues and gods.

“But admitting the knowledge worth attaining, it is the sheerest nonsense to say that it is not attainable without the study of their languages. The best classical scholar—and this in its truest sense—the writer ever came in contact with was a man who knew not even the letters of either Latin or Greek alphabet. There are no arcana there. Everything has been translated worth translating, and for the acquisition of classical knowledge a year spent in reading these translations is worth ten in the slow uncertain process of extracting it from the originals. To say that in translations the literature of the ancients is not obtainable in its purity, is, like many other sayings, either a falsehood or misconception. And often more, since all the translations are an actual improvement on the original.”

The End.

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Chapter 1

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Chapter 2

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Chapter 3

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Chapter 4

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Chapter 5

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Chapter 6

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Chapter 7

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Chapter 8

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Chapter 9

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Chapter 10

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Chapter 11

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Chapter 12

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Chapter 13

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Chapter 14

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Chapter 15

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Appendix

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