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THE NEW MIDDLE AGES

Alchemy and
Exemplary
Poetry in Middle
English Literature
Curtis Runstedler
The New Middle Ages

Series Editor
Bonnie Wheeler
English and Medieval Studies
Southern Methodist University
Dallas, TX, USA
The New Middle Ages is a series dedicated to pluridisciplinary studies
of medieval cultures, with particular emphasis on recuperating women’s
history and on feminist and gender analyses. This peer-reviewed series
includes both scholarly monographs and essay collections.
 Curtis Runstedler

Alchemy and
Exemplary Poetry
in Middle English
Literature
Curtis Runstedler
University of Stuttgart
Stuttgart, Germany

ISSN 2945-5936     ISSN 2945-5944 (electronic)

The New Middle Ages
ISBN 978-3-031-26605-8    ISBN 978-3-031-26606-5 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-26606-5

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer
Nature Switzerland AG 2023
This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the
Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of
translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on
microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval,
electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now
known or hereafter developed.
The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this
publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are
exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use.
The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information
in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the
publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect
to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made.
The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and
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Cover illustration: CPA Media Pte Ltd / Alamy Stock Photo

This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature
Switzerland AG.
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
For Poppa and my parents. Per ardua ad astra.
 Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my parents for supporting me there and back again.
Mom, thanks for being you and loving and supporting everything I do,
even if it doesn’t make sense sometimes. Dad, my first hero, I really appre-
ciate all the tough love and thanks for always being there for me. You are
the best aviator I know and one of my greatest inspirations each day. I
would also like to thank Poppa, my other great hero, who is possibly the
wisest, most interesting, gifted storyteller I ever knew. One of my favorite
memories with him was at the Thanksgiving dinner table, hearing stories
about Prometheus getting his liver ripped out by the eagle, and I think he
really ignited my active imagination that night. He was a great person, and
his stories transcend time. I wish he was still here to see the final copy. This
one’s for you, Poppa. To my brothers, Ryan and Avery, you guys are
awesome!
Many thanks to Professor Elizabeth Archibald, who was not only an
amazing supervisor, grammarian, and medievalist, but also a wonderful
person. Thank you for being so supportive and thorough with my work
when I needed it most. I would also like to thank Professor Corinne
Saunders for such joyous meetings and feedback. From werewolves to
astronomy to alchemy, we had some good times.
I would also like to thank the good folks at St Chad’s College, the
Department of English, and the Institute of Medieval and Early Modern
Studies at Durham University, as well as my friends and colleagues at
Tübingen University, University of Stuttgart, and beyond. I extend my
heartfelt gratitude to Matthias Bauer and Angelika Zirker at Tübingen

vii
viii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

University for their enduring support and guidance, as well as Sibylle

Baumbach, Jessica Bundschuh, and Geoff Rodoreda at Stuttgart University
for their endless kindness and excellent leadership. Much love for the
Ambiguity research group, especially Asya Achimova, Selina Bernarding,
and Ellie Schedel. Also, special thanks to Allie Troyanos, VinodhKumar
Venkitesan, Chandralekha Mahamelraja, Brian Halm, Sylvia Anand, and
the peer reviewer for their understanding and much-appreciated comments.
Special thanks to Robert Pain, Ted Finnigan, Peter Stuurman, Arya
Aryan, Sercan Hamza Bağlama, Leo Kirchhoff, Sophie Franklin, Henrik
Rydéhn, Koren Kuntz, Frank McCarron, Hannah Piercy, Alexander
J. Wilson, James Harland, Harry Mawdsley, Sree Roy Chowdhury, Mike
Huxtable, Stephen Regan, Michael Snape, Siobhain Bly Calkin, Richard
Firth Green, Nick Barton, Mervyn Ellis, Bill Apedaile, Margaret Masson,
Chris Diming, Chris Eaket, Rebecca Merkelbach, Doug Leatherland,
Damon Lycourinos, Michael Baker, Jessica van’t Westeinde, Sotiris
Dandanas, the Hirte family, Clau Cruz, David Tibet, Dana Durkee, Bob
Yeager, Deborah Moore, Larry Principe, Eoin Bentick, Nicola Polloni,
Charlie Rozier, Stanton J. Linden, Siân Echard, Ronald Hutton, and
Laurens de Rooij. And lastly but certainly not least, my dear Annika!
Thanks for everything you do. May your many days be filled with glorious
transmutations and distillations!
 Praise for Alchemy and Exemplary Poetry in Middle
English Literature

“Alchemy and Exemplary Poetry in Middle English Literature is a daring book.

Focusing on the moral uses of alchemy as it appears in narratives of late four-
teenth- and fifteenth-century poets in England, Curtis Runstedler argues vigor-
ously that late medieval writers grasped the transformational power of alchemy and
alchemical practices to effect positive changes in the character and behavior of the
fictive practitioners they created, and through them of real-life readers as well. This
book uncovers surprising new ways to understand the work of Chaucer, Gower,
and Lydgate, as well as several anonymous romances—a true turning of the famil-
iar—but here-to-fore overlooked—into gold.”
—R. F. Yeager, Professor Emeritus, University of West Florida

“Curtis Runstedler casts a fascinating light on attitudes to alchemy in the Middle

Ages and its literary potential for moral instruction; he examines texts by well-
known writers such as Chaucer and Gower, but also little-known dialogues featur-
ing unexpected speakers such as Merlin and the Queen of Elves. Runstedler
succeeds in making this arcane subject accessible. His book will be useful not only
to medievalists, but also as a prequel to the increasing interest in alchemy in Early
Modern English literature.”
—Elizabeth Archibald, Professor Emerita, Durham University

“Good scholarly books are often characterised by mixing different ingredients in

new ways. This one pioneers the blending of three - the history of alchemy, medi-
eval English poetry, and medieval exemplary literature - and the result is a set of
valuable new insights.”
—Ronald Hutton, Professor, University of Bristol
 Contents

1 Alchemy and Exemplarity  1

Introduction   1
Reading Middle English Alchemical Poems as Exempla   4
The Medieval Exemplum and the History of the Exemplary
Narrative   7
Alchemy and Exemplary Narrative in Middle English Poetry  13
References  18

2 A
 Brief History of Alchemy 21
Introduction  21
Alchemy in the Classical World  22
Medieval Alchemy in the Arabic World  24
Alchemy in Latin Christendom  27
Fourteenth-Century Alchemy and Poetry  39
Alchemical Poetry in Fifteenth-Century England  50
References  58

3 Alchemy
 and Labor in John Gower’s Confessio Amantis 65
Introduction  65
John Gower’s “New Exemplum” and Alchemy  68
Alchemy and Fraud in the Mirour De L’omme  70
Promethean Ambitions and Alchemy in the Confessio Amantis  72
References  85

xi
xii Contents

4 Alchemists
 Behaving Badly in Chaucer’s Canon’s
Yeoman’s Tale 89
Introduction  89
Reading Chaucer’s Alchemical Tale as Exemplary  92
Chaucer’s Canon and Yeoman  95
The Leaden Yeoman and the Hellish Laboratory 100
“Elvysshe” Alchemy and the Failure of Language 102
Pars Secunda as Exemplary 107
Alchemy Redeemed? Revisiting the Final Section of the
Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale  112
Alchemical Connections in Other Chaucer Tales 116
References 126

5 John
 Lydgate and the Alchemical Churl and the Bird131
Introduction 131
Lydgate and Alchemy: Secrees of Old Philisoffres  134
Lydgate and the Churl and the Bird  135
Harley MS 2407 and the Alchemical Churl and the Bird  143
References 156

6 Merlin
 and the Queen of Elves: Alchemical Dialogues
in the Fifteenth Century159
Introduction 159
Alchemical Morienus and Merlin in the Fifteenth Century 160
Albertus Magnus and the Secrets of the Elf Queen 175
Conclusion 182
References 188

7 Conclusion193
References 198

Index201
 CHAPTER 1

Alchemy and Exemplarity

Introduction
Medieval alchemy and the alchemist have long conjured exciting images of
smoky laboratories, magical secrets, and colorful transmutations.1 While
medieval alchemy is now regarded as a pseudo-science, or to a lesser extent
the foundation or prelude to chemistry, its concepts and themes have seen
a resurgence in literature within the last century, particular in recent liter-
ary and popular culture franchises such as Harry Potter and Game of
Thrones, for example. In J. K. Rowling’s wildly popular debut novel Harry
Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (1997), for instance, the nefarious
Voldemort and his accomplice Professor Quirrell actively seek out the
existing Philosopher’s Stone as a means of prolonging Voldemort’s life
and restoring his power (Rowling 2001, 213–6). Echoing the failings of
the medieval alchemists who also fail in their trade due to their shortcom-
ings and human fallibility, he cannot acquire what he seeks to acquire.
George R. R. Martin also includes alchemists in his A Song of Ice and
Fire series, although alchemy in these books features to a much-lesser
extent than in Harry Potter. In Martin’s medieval universe, the alchemists
practice both alchemy and pyromancy. They are part of an ancient guild,
in which the alchemical adepts are known as “wisdoms,” and their appren-
tices help them in their art. The queen mother of Westeros (Cersei
Lannister) also commissions the alchemists to produce significant

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 1

Switzerland AG 2023
C. Runstedler, Alchemy and Exemplary Poetry in Middle English
Literature, The New Middle Ages,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-26606-5_1
2 C. RUNSTEDLER

quantities of wildfire in preparation for the Battle of King’s Landing in A

Clash of Kings (Martin 2003; see also Runstedler 2020, 129–43). Although
the alchemists claim that their alchemy and their wildfire work, there is no
evidence of any successful transmutation of the metals, and their influence
upon the Seven Kingdoms is dwindling. Cersei’s dwarf brother Tyrion is
suspicious of their talents, and Martin points out that even the most expe-
rienced members of the guild “no longer even pretended to transmute
metals” (Martin 2003, 701), suggesting a connection between deception
and alchemical practice. Alchemy continues to have a lasting power and
give an impression of the medieval world, or at least our imagined medi-
eval world. These alchemical narratives can also be read for the moral, and
moreover show the different ways in which alchemy can be used as a sym-
bol for human imperfection and fallibility, continuing the medieval theme
of the postlapsarian decline.
Alchemy is the study of the transmutation and formation of inanimate
objects, particularly metals (Read 1933, 251). The practice has two goals:
firstly, it aims to produce gold or silver from the transmutation of base
metals (this goal is most prominently discussed in the primary sources
examined in this study), and secondly, to create an elixir vitae that can
prolong the life of its user (Krebs 2003, 177). Gold was considered incor-
ruptible; it could not be destroyed in the fire, but could only be dissolved
in aqua regis (nitric and hydrochloric acid), and it was considered noble
because it did not rust (Bucklow 2009, 126, and Pearsall 1976, 11).
Medieval alchemists saw alchemy as a means of accelerating natural pro-
cesses rather than merely copying them (Karpenko 2003, 209–10). In
their search for the Philosopher’s Stone, the alchemists improved tools
and apparatus for experimentation, such as furnaces and stills, which con-
tributed to chemical experimentation in later centuries (Kieckhefer 2014,
134). The etymology of the term “alchemy” itself is subject to debate.2
The Philosopher’s Stone was a transmuting agent which could change
base metals into gold, and it was also a means of making the imperfect
perfect, which made it much sought after (Read 1936, 118). While such
an agent would be invaluable in late medieval England, however, there are
no confirmed medieval success stories of its discovery.
The medieval study of alchemy also relied on understanding matter and
form on a metaphysical level. Medieval alchemists believed that the goals
of alchemy could be achieved through the successful transmutation of dif-
ferent substances (specifically metals), which are comprised of matter and
form. Aristotelian metaphysics deals with primary substances, proposing
 1 ALCHEMY AND EXEMPLARITY 3

that all substances are comprised of matter and form. In his Metaphysics,
Aristotle argues that the natural world is the genesis of all living things,
and the cause of the primary elements (Aristotle 1995, 2:I.980a25.1–6).
These incorruptible substances could be created through the perfect bal-
ance of elements, based on Empedocles’s theory of the four elements (all
things are made of earth, air, fire, and water) (Read 1936, 9). Each of the
elements has four qualities, which are moist, dry, hot, and cold (Aristotle
1995, 1:IV.378b1.10–15). Aristotle describes the primum mobile, or
prime mover, as the first cause of being, causing form to be naturally
attracted to matter, so that they unite to create a substance. Similarly, a
body has the potential to become a living being, that is a composite of
matter (the body) and form (the soul). The body Is corporeal, yet it
requires a soul to activate its intellectual faculties. Both matter and form
have the potential to create substance, with the perfection of a substance
being its final cause (Aristotle 1995, 1:VII.1037a1.5–6). Moreover, the
alchemists believed that all things were composed of prime matter (prima
materia), which could be constituted into higher forms (Saunders 2010,
107). Aristotle also developed the concept hylomorphism, which recog-
nizes that “all things have shape and substance” (Bucklow 2009, 78–9).3
Citing these material principles concerning the unity between substances,
the alchemists believed that they could transmute base metals into gold
since the properties of the inferior metals could be altered. While these
alchemical principles had a practical dimension, especially in terms of met-
allurgy and laboratory experiments, medieval alchemy, particularly the
Mercury-Sulphur theory, was also deeply philosophical in its experimenta-
tion. These principles notably feature in Geoffrey Chaucer and John
Gower’s alchemical depictions in Chaps. 2 and 3, as well as fifteenth-­
century poems.
Alchemy can also serve metaphorical purposes in other seemingly unre-
lated disciplines, symbolizing the “perpetually abstruse processes of the
commercial economy” (Epstein 2014, 209). The modern phenomenon of
cryptocurrencies and their blockchain-based technology are arguably
modern equivalents to the ancient promise of making gold from base met-
als. The real-life case of OneCoin, for example, comprised of three scams
in one (a Ponzi scheme, a pyramid scheme, and fake cryptocurrency), took
advantage of ignorance and credulity on an international scale (Bartlett
2022). OneCoin’s founder Ruja Ignatova, who called herself the
Cryptoqueen, persuaded investors to invest billions into what she deemed
a rival cryptocurrency to Bitcoin (Bartlett and Byrne 2022). Like Chaucer’s
4 C. RUNSTEDLER

shady canon in the Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale, however, Ignatova disappeared

along with billions of dollars and remains at large (Bartlett and Byrne
2022). Ironically, OneCoin continues to be sold all over the world, show-
ing lessons not learned. Like medieval alchemical fraudulence, many digi-
tal currencies today, such as OneCoin, are scams that deliberately exploit
the unwary by playing on popular credulity and ignorance about technol-
ogy and its jargon. The Singapore-based payment provider Alchemy Pay is
even named after the ancient art and has seen a recent spike in crypto
prices (Bitcoin.com 2022). While Alchemy Pay appears legitimate com-
pared to OneCoin, for example, this trend suggests that the monetary
goals of alchemy and its use as a metaphor remain popular today. Such
contemporary parallels also anticipate differences between apparently
benign examples of such disputed activities and those intended to be
exploitative.
Alchemy as a metaphor is not solely limited to finance and cryptocur-
rencies, however. Richard E. Rubenstein’s reassessment of terrorists and
terrorism, for example, is titled Alchemists of Revolution (1987), which is
taken from Karl Marx’s comparison between the follies of terrorists to the
ancient alchemists. According to Marx, both terrorists and alchemists
“throw themselves on discoveries which should work revolutionary won-
ders; incendiary bombs, hell-machines of magical impact” (Rubenstein
1987, 157) instead of achieving scientific political organization. The term
“alchemy” even lends itself to titles such as Petra Ahnert’s Beeswax Alchemy
(2015), which describes how to make beeswax soaps, candles, balms, and
creams. In this way, beeswax is “transmuted” from a raw substance into
these refined products. In many of these titles, however, alchemy becomes
a buzzword and risks losing the specificity of its medieval and classical
core themes.

Reading Middle English Alchemical Poems

as Exempla

These contemporary examples of the use of alchemy are clearly informed

by medieval alchemy and alchemical themes. Yet my focus is not on con-
temporary depictions of alchemy or the “alchemy” of finance, but rather
the moral uses of alchemy in Middle English poetry. The exemplarity of
these poems challenges the controversial nature of late medieval alchemi-
cal practice, and in some cases, it even validates such experimentation. My
 1 ALCHEMY AND EXEMPLARITY 5

main argument is that literary representations of alchemy in fourteenth-

and fifteenth-century English writing, such as John Gower’s Confessio
Amantis and Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale, function as
exemplary narratives which directly address the ambiguity of late medieval
English practice (Gower 2004–2013, and Chaucer 1988). Consequently,
alchemy’s practical and metaphorical aspects in the narration effect trans-
formation in the practitioner and/or reader. While medieval alchemical
poems were also written in France, Germany, and other countries in the
late Middle Ages, I will primarily focus on alchemy in Middle English
poetry since, as Didier Kahn argues, medieval England was where alchemi-
cal poetry “developed most fully” (2010a, 254) as well as where most
surviving medieval alchemical poems were produced. The study of alchemy
in medieval poetry also helps to understand and answer questions about
how Middle English writers used alchemy for moral purposes to offer
examples of ethical or unethical practice in Middle English poetry.4 In
addition, this literary approach shows how late medieval English authors
such as Chaucer, Gower, and anonymous poets were thinking about and
responding to scientific practices, particularly alchemy.
Alchemical poetry (or the use of alchemy in Middle English poetry),
which brings together medieval science and imaginative literature, remains
largely unexplored in medieval studies. The best-known examples of
alchemy in Middle English poetry include Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canon’s
Yeoman’s Tale in The Canterbury Tales and to a lesser extent John Gower’s
alchemical section in Book IV of the Confessio Amantis. While these two
examples are highly influential and form the contents of the Chaps. 2
and 3, there are other less well-known Middle English poems containing
alchemy, such as an alchemical version of John Lydgate’s poem The Churl
and the Bird in British Library, Harley MS 2407, as well as anonymously
written alchemical dialogues/recipes between Merlin and Morienus and
between Albertus Magnus and the Queen of Elves that I will discuss in my
fifth and final chapter. These examples reveal the ways in which these
Middle English authors used alchemy for moral purposes or to make moral
points about alchemical practice.
The primary source texts that I will be examining use alchemy both
within literary frameworks as well as independently from them. Chaucer
and Gower, for instance, present their alchemical passages as part of a liter-
ary and social framework, and show the growing interest in writing about
English alchemy in the vernacular, which would become even more wide-
spread in fifteenth-century England. I argue that Gower’s alchemical
6 C. RUNSTEDLER

exegesis in the Confessio Amantis launches a pattern of alchemy within an

exemplary framework, representing a new style of literary alchemical nar-
ratives. Chaucer’s Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale continues this trend, further
extending his moral contemplation to communication and improving lan-
guage. Chaucer’s exemplary tale connects to the wider framework of The
Canterbury Tales while also stressing the validity of alchemical practice and
clarifying the tale’s alchemical imagery and themes. The fifteenth-century
Middle English poems discussed in this analysis, however, are much
shorter and independent from a wider framework, and suggest the increas-
ingly literary appeal of alchemy. Literature containing alchemy during this
period was no longer necessarily confined to obscure alchemical treatises
in a workshop or laboratory but could also reach a wider literate audience
and thus provide a wider context and meaning (Timmermann 2013, 18).5
The alchemical version of Lydgate’s The Churl of the Bird found in British
Library, Harley MS 2407 exemplifies the advancements and innovations in
vernacular English alchemical poetry of the fifteenth century, revealing the
growing audience, changing alchemical authorship, and increase in ver-
nacular production. Moreover, it continues to explore the failure of lan-
guage and loss of communication shown in the previous fourteenth-century
poems. The two alchemical dialogues examined in Chap. 5 (one between
Morienus and Merlin, and another between Albertus Magnus and the
Queen of Elves) illustrate that the dialogue format supports exemplary
reading, as well as how the appropriation of real-life figures provides clar-
ity to the narratives of such poems and suggests validity to their alchemical
pursuits. The primary sources featured in the following chapters are also
connected through their interest in using alchemy within fictional narra-
tives, which provide a suitable medium to explore their exemplary ideas
and themes.
The study of alchemy in medieval poetry and morality prompt the fol-
lowing questions—“What should one make of the use of alchemy in medi-
eval poetry?” and “How does the poet situate alchemy as a topic within
the controversies of its time?”—as well as literary questions: “What is the
good of including alchemical examples in medieval literature?” and “How
is this author using alchemy within an exemplary framework, or how does
he subvert the exemplum?” These alchemical narratives are predominantly
morally driven and form exemplary narratives; as this study reveals, they
are not always solely about alchemical practice, but also about bettering
human behavior and labor.
 1 ALCHEMY AND EXEMPLARITY 7

The following chapters analyze the ways in which these Middle English
poems containing alchemy are presented as exemplary narratives, and
these poets use them to make moral points about human fallibility, the
decline in language and understanding, and moral blindness. Functioning
as a narrative, poetry is also an effective and creative medium for critiquing
and drawing attention to late medieval scientific practices and experimen-
tation, in this case alchemy. Commenting on the benefits of narratives for
scientific study, Randy Olson comments that such narratives can show
“how to do science better” (2015) by using the creative process to point
out shortcomings, such as questionable outcomes, and blind spots, such
as unclear approaches or understandings, with science. I suggest that these
poetic narratives are also effective tools for recognizing these issues in late
medieval science and society. Alchemy as a (pseudo) scientific practice
lends itself to literary storytelling by not only providing a model for moral
frameworks, as shown in Gower’s Confessio Amantis and the two alchemi-
cal dialogues, but also exposing dubious scientific practices, as Chaucer’s
tale and the Harley 2407 version of the The Churl and the Bird reveal. The
poems examined in the following chapters all address these concerns,
hopes, and limitations; from a failing Canon’s Yeoman to an allegorical
bird and churl to an Elf Queen and Albertus Magnus, and more.
Reading these Middle English poems as exempla provides diverse ways
of thinking about the intersections between medieval science, ethics, and
poetry. While alchemy itself does not work in the view of many of these
authors (for example, the transmutations of metals are not successful, and
gold is not produced), Middle English poems containing alchemy can
offer the possibility of individual human transformation (or lack thereof)
and the potential for moral improvement.6 These poets use alchemy to
write about moral behavior, pointing out the use and misuse of alchemical
and scientific knowledge within a moral context.

The Medieval Exemplum and the History

of the Exemplary Narrative

When reading poems containing alchemy as exemplary narratives, it is also

important to understand the history of the exemplum in medieval England
and its secular uses in fourteenth- and fifteenth-century England. J. Allan
Mitchell points out that the term exemplum originates from the Latin verb
eximere, “to take out, to cut” (2004, 14), signifying excising a section
8 C. RUNSTEDLER

from a greater whole. He further stresses that the exemplum is one in

which “we recognise what we should be doing” (2004, 14), or what not to
do, as Chaucer’s exemplum illustrates. I define exemplum as a short narra-
tive with the purpose of moral instruction. The ethics of the exemplum by
this definition seems quite clear: the exemplum seeks to improve or prompt
a course of action for self-improvement by illustrating these moral points.
Alchemy may not work, but literary alchemists can be examples for moral
improvement or cautionary tales of greed and covetousness, as well as
helpful starting points for navigating the uncertainties of contemporary
science. Most importantly, how does one achieve the alchemical ideal, that
is transmuting base metals into gold, or uncover the secrets of nature?
These Middle English poets were interested in exploring these questions
and their possibilities, and my aim is to draw attention to this aspect of
their work.
The medieval exemplum drew from the Bible, particularly (but not
exclusively) the New Testament. Christ used the parable as a means of
moral instruction to his followers, and in the Middle Ages he would
become the ideal figure for exemplary storytelling. As Leah Sinanoglou
comments, the exemplum was so effective because good exempla could
convince even Doubting Thomases of the faith, acting as effective preach-
ing aids (1973, 491). The exemplum served to “educate and persuade, not
to analyze or test doctrines” (Gelley 1995, 4), and could be used as a
powerful demonstrative tool. The exemplum also featured in the stories of
the Desert Fathers, notably in Athanasius of Alexandria’s early hagiogra-
phy of St Antony, and in the writings of Gregory the Great.7 The first
exempla to appear in medieval England were from the writings of Gregory
the Great in his Pastoral Care and Dialogues, which were translated by
Alfred the Great into Old English in the ninth century. Gregory the Great
draws predominantly from the Old Testament for his exempla, including
the stories of Nebuchadnezzar, Jeremiah, Isaiah, Hezekiah, and Balaam.
Gregory believed that the exempla were “more effective in doctrine than
in inspiring audiences” and the narrative itself as a “memorial activity”
(Ferster 1996, 17, 19). Not only is this type of narrative memorial, but it
is also contemplative and interactive, causing the audience member or
reader to react and respond to the story in a transformative way. In the
case of religious exempla, the audience responds to follow and conform to
the model of Christ. Gregory’s writings were highly influential and helped
promote more exemplary sermons and devotional literature.
 1 ALCHEMY AND EXEMPLARITY 9

Gregory’s exempla mark a distinct shift in the history of the exemplum.

David Jones links this shift in the exemplary audience to the decree from
the Fourth Lateran Council in 1215, which required “every Christian
man and woman to confess to their own parish priest and to take com-
munion at least once a year” (2011, 3). In the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries, the exempla were used as preaching aids among the mendicant
orders, particularly the Dominicans. The exemplary mode became a staple
for Christian sermons until the twelfth century in medieval England, when
exempla started to become less overtly religious, particularly among the
friars, to appeal to a wider lay audience, where it was still used for moral
purposes (Mosher 1966, 24; Yeager 1982, 307). Yet the exempla also
developed roots within the secular tradition, and notable medieval preach-
ers such as Robert Rypon, Jacques de Vitry, Nicholas Bozon, and John
Bromyard successfully apply the secular exempla. The Gesta Romanorum
exemplifies this tradition because it is secular in content and its popular
entertainment is the moral instruction. Robert Mannyng of Brunne’s
Handlyng Synne “desires to hear ‘talys’ on the part of the common peo-
ple” (Owst 1961, 153; see also Kemmler 1984) demonstrating further
developments and shifts in the exemplary tradition.
In the late fourteenth century, Gower presented what R. F. Yeager
terms a “new exemplum” (1982, 308). While the confessional framework
of the Confessio Amantis retains the sermonizing aspects of the traditional
exempla, Yeager suggests that Gower’s use of secular exempla enables the
creation of a new type of exemplum. This “new exemplum” is characterized
by enabling its examples to have a more conversational format (the dia-
logue between Genius and Amans). In addition, and unlike the stories of
the Gesta Romanorum, for instance, Gower’s exempla form part of a wider
literary framework, specifically the ailing lover’s confession to the chaplain
of Venus, making them unique and novel. This “new exemplum” effec-
tively joins together a secular narrative with the moral storytelling in the
exemplary tradition, fitting Gower’s fictional framework and is a helpful
term for understanding the exemplary uses of alchemy in Middle English
poetry. As Yeager suggests, Gower uses the secular exemplum not only for
moral instruction, but also for a “paradigm for narration” (1982, 314). In
other words, Gower’s repurposing of exempla in the Confessio Amantis as
rhetorical devices forms networks of narratives on linked themes within
the framework of the seven deadly sins. Moreover, Gower constructs his
narratives as he does because he expects them to “work like exempla”
(Yeager 1982, 312). Gower takes on the role of the preacher and Genius
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 The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's
Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art,
Fifth Series, No. 114, Vol. III, March 6, 1886
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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and

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CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE,
AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 114, VOL. III, MARCH 6, 1886 ***
 CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND
ART.
 CONTENTS
COCAINE.
IN ALL SHADES.
SHOT-FIRING IN COAL-MINES: AN IMPROVED METHOD.
THE HAUNTED JUNGLE.
AN EVERY-DAY OCCURRENCE.
A NIGHT IN A WELL.
PERSEPHONÉ.
No. 114.—Vol. III. SATURDAY, MARCH 6, 1886. Price 1½d.
 COCAINE.
A new discovery in medicine, which has established its claim to
general utility, is as much a matter for congratulation on the part of
the general public as on the part of the members of that profession
whose duty it is to use it. The stir in the world which Simpson’s grand
discovery of chloroform excited is still well remembered, and upon
reflection, persons even now could not fail to be impressed with the
incalculable amount of relief from suffering of which the drug is the
source, if they were to pay a visit to one of our large hospitals and
judge for themselves. It is true that chloroform has some drawbacks;
it is even true that indirectly, if not directly fatal results have followed
its use; but what good thing is free from all blemish, and how, ‘in this
best of all possible worlds,’ can we expect everything to be as we
should wish?
The discovery of ether, it should be remembered, afforded surgeons
the opportunity in after-years of making a choice between the two
drugs. Fortunately, in this connection the effects of each are different
in certain particulars, so that, in a given number of cases, the use of
ether is advisable, and chloroform is to be avoided. The explanation
of this can be readily understood. The effect of chloroform is to
depress the action of the heart. In cases of an overdose of this drug,
the heart is paralysed; and when death occurs during its
administration, there need not necessarily have been more than a
very small dose given; but owing to some undiscovered weakness of
the heart, which the drug unfortunately becomes the means of
rendering manifest, sudden stoppage of the organ takes place, with,
of course, death as a consequence. On the other hand, ether has
exactly the opposite effect. The heart’s action is stimulated during its
administration, and the contractions of the organ are rendered more
vigorous. Thus, whenever there is any suspected weakness of the
heart in patients to whom an anæsthetic is about to be administered,
there is no hesitation on the part of the surgeon in using ether, which
under these circumstances is certainly the safest drug to employ.
But apart from these considerations, all drugs which possess the
property of producing what is called general anæsthesia, are
associated with certain discomforts, certain inconveniences which
materially detract from their usefulness. It is not necessary here to
specify the nature of these, for the knowledge of them has almost
become common property, so that there are persons who would
preferably endure the suffering of an operation than submit to the
administration of an anæsthetic, the after-effects of which, perhaps,
previous experience has taught them to be careful to avoid. Surely,
then, under these circumstances, it must be a matter of extreme
comfort for the public to know that a drug has been discovered
whose property is such as to enable the surgeon in many cases to
dispense with either ether or chloroform during the performance of
an operation. This is the new discovery which agreeably startled the
world of medicine towards the end of the year 1884. The drug in
question is called Cocaine, from Coca—though sometimes also
written cucaine and cuca—and it possesses the remarkable property
of causing local anæsthesia when applied to a mucous membrane,
of which more anon. The plant from which this alkaloid is derived is
Erythroxylon coca, which is largely cultivated in the warm valleys of
the eastern slopes of the Andes, between five and six thousand feet
above the level of the sea, where almost the only variation of the
climate is from wet to dry, where frost is unknown, and where it rains
more or less every month in the year.
A few details with reference to this remarkable plant may not here be
out of place. It is described as a ‘shrub from four to six feet high,
branches straight and alternate, leaves in form and size like tea-
leaves, flowers, with a small yellowish white corolla, ten stamens,
and three pistils. In raising the plant from the seed, the sowing is
commenced in December and January, when the rain begins, and
continues until April. The seeds are spread on the surface of the soil
in a small nursery or raising-ground, over which there is generally a
thatch-roof. At the end of about fourteen days, they come up, the
young plants being continually watered and protected from the sun.
At the end of eighteen months, the plants yield their first harvest, and
continue to yield for upwards of forty years. The first harvest, the
leaves are picked very carefully one by one, to avoid disturbing the
roots of the young tender plants. Gathering takes place three times,
and even four times in the year. The most abundant harvest takes
place in March, immediately after the rains. With plenty of watering,
forty days suffice to cover the plants with leaves afresh. It is
necessary to weed the ground very carefully, especially while the
plants are young. The harvest is gathered by women and children.
The greatest care is required in the drying of the leaves; for too
much sun causes them to dry up and lose their flavour; while, if
packed up moist, they become fetid. They are generally exposed to
the sun in thin layers.’ Such is, in brief, the account of the plant
whose alkaloid, cocaine, has attained so marked a popularity within
the short space of a few months.
Although the plant has only recently become known to us, its virtues
have long been recognised by the natives of that part of the world in
which it grows. It is stated that in 1583 the Indians consumed one
hundred thousand ‘cestos’ of coca, worth 2½ dollars each in Guzco,
and four dollars in Potosi. In 1591 an excise of five per cent. was
imposed on coca; and in 1746 and 1750, this duty yielded eight
hundred and fifteen hundred dollars respectively, from Caravaya
alone. Between 1785 and 1795, the coca traffic was calculated at
1,207,436 dollars in the Peruvian vice-royalty, and including that of
Buenos Ayres, 2,641,478 dollars. The coca trade is a government
monopoly in Bolivia, the state reserving the right of purchasing from
the growers and reselling to the consumer. This right is generally
farmed out to the highest bidder. The proximate annual produce of
coca in Peru is about fifteen million pounds, the average yield being
about eight hundred pounds an acre. More than ten million pounds
are produced annually in Bolivia; so that the annual yield of coca
throughout South America, including Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador, and
Pasto, may be estimated at thirty million pounds.
It is scarcely pleasant news for us to learn that the natives who
cultivate the coca-plant themselves absorb so much of the products
of their own cultivation. We have here, doubtless, the explanation of
the costliness of cocaine and the scarcity of the drug in England.
This can hardly be otherwise, it is to be feared, for some time to
come, when we remember that the reliance upon the extraordinary
virtues of the coca-leaf amongst the Peruvian Indians is so strong,
that in the Huanuco province they believe that if a dying man can
taste a leaf placed upon his tongue, it is a sure sign of his future
happiness! When Weston the pedestrian was performing his feats of
endurance in England, it was noticed that from time to time he
placed something in his mouth, which he afterwards chewed. For
long he refused to divulge what the nature of this substance was, but
at last he acknowledged that he always provided himself with some
coca-leaves; and he added, that the chewing of these gave him
strength, and enabled him more easily to accomplish his allotted
task.
In the states above referred to, the natives are accustomed to use
the leaves largely for the purpose of allaying hunger. Now, the sense
of hunger takes origin in the nerves of the stomach, and it is evident
that if these nerves are rendered incapable of exercising their
functions, the sensations to which they give rise must decline and
remain temporarily in abeyance. This is precisely what takes place
when coca-leaves are eaten. Their effect is to paralyse for the time
being the sensitive ends of the nerves of the stomach, and to
establish practically a condition of local anæsthesia within the interior
of that organ. The sensation of hunger, of course, under such
circumstances becomes impossible; and the native, after eating a
few leaves, goes on his way rejoicing, with the same sensations as if
he had partaken of a hearty repast.
Although cocaine has been known for a good many years, and has
from time to time formed the subject of inquiry amongst distinguished
British and continental savants, including the veteran Sir R.
Christison, it was reserved for Dr Carl Koller of Vienna to
demonstrate the practical use to which its marvellous property could
be put. It occurred to this gentleman that the drug might be of use in
the department of diseases of the eye. With this object in view, he
experimented upon the eyes of animals, applying the drug in solution
of a certain strength, and carefully noting the results. He found that
in the course of a few moments, after the drug had been instilled
several times into the conjunctival sac of an animal, the organ
became insensible; that he was able to touch the cornea—the front
part of the eye, which is endowed with extreme sensibility—with a
pin without the least flinching on the part of the animal.
Experimenting further, he ascertained that the insensibility was not
confined to the superficial parts of the eye, but that it extended
throughout the corneal substance, even to the structures within the
ocular globe, and thus the fact so far of the utility of the drug for
operative purposes came to be established. Then he turned his
attention to cases in which the eye was the seat of disease, and the
cornea acutely inflamed and painful, and he found that much relief
from the symptoms was obtained by the use of the drug. Soon after
this, he commenced to employ cocaine in operations performed
upon the eyes of patients. The results were highly satisfactory; and
since then, cataracts have been operated on, squinting eyes put
straight, foreign bodies upon the cornea removed painlessly and with
ease, under the influence of the drug. In cataract especially, cocaine
is of great value; this operation can be performed by its means
without the slightest sensation of pain, and yet the patient is fully
conscious, and is of course able to follow during its performance the
precise instructions of the surgeon.
Now, to an outside observer, cocaine is apt to produce impressions
somewhat akin to the marvellous. Here is a description which a
writer gives in a recent number of the St James’s Gazette. A camel-
hair brush is dipped into a small bottle containing a fluid as
transparent as water. With the brush so charged, the part—let us say
a portion of the tongue—is painted several times. After an interval of
about a dozen minutes, another brush is taken, but in this instance a
glass one, and dipped into a bottle, the fumes, colour, and label of
which establish its contents as fuming nitric acid. The tongue is
freely brushed with the acid, great care being observed in so doing,
and submits to the procedure without the slightest recoil indicative of
pain.
Such is cocaine, and such is its effect upon every mucous
membrane. We have referred to its utility in the practice of
ophthalmic surgeons; but it is not only in this department of the
healing art that cocaine has been found useful; it can be employed
whenever an operation upon any mucous membrane has to be
performed. The drug has been used in the extraction and stopping of
teeth; and results, nothing less than startling in their completeness,
have been obtained with cocaine in all branches of medicine and
surgery, bringing relief to thousands of sufferers, and—it is true to
remark—more than that, unqualified gratification to the physician or
surgeon in charge. Even that immemorial bugbear, sea-sickness,
has often fled before the influence of cocaine.
One word more. In the present prosaic condition of the world, when
the surfeit of new discoveries seems to have bred in this connection
the familiarity which produces the conventional contempt, it is
refreshing to draw attention to a discovery which has surpassed the
ordinary standard of greatness sufficiently to enable it to figure as a
wonder of the age. Cocaine flashed like a meteor before the eyes of
the medical world, but, unlike a meteor, its impressions have proved
to be enduring; while it is destined in the future to occupy a high
position in the estimation of those whom duty requires to combat the
ravages of disease.
 IN ALL SHADES.
BY GRANT ALLEN,
Author of ‘Babylon,’ ‘Strange Stories,’ etc.
etc.

CHAPTER XII.
On the morning when the Severn was to reach Trinidad, everybody
was up betimes and eagerly looking for the expected land. Nora and
Marian went up on deck before breakfast, and there found Dr
Whitaker, opera-glass in hand, scanning the horizon for the first sight
of his native island. ‘I haven’t seen it or my dear father,’ he said to
Marian, ‘for nearly ten years, and I can’t tell you how anxious I am
once more to see him. I wonder whether he’ll have altered much! But
there—ten years is a long time. After ten years, one’s pictures of
home and friends begin to get terribly indefinite. Still, I shall know
him—I’m sure I shall know him. He’ll be on the wharf to welcome us
in, and I’m sure I shall recognise his dear old face again.’
‘Your father’s very well known in the island, the captain tells me,’
Marian said, anxious to show some interest in what interested him so
much. ‘I believe he was very influential in helping to get slavery
abolished.’
‘He was,’ the young doctor answered, kindling up afresh with his
ever-ready enthusiasm—‘he was; very influential. Mr Wilberforce
considered that my father, Robert Whitaker, was one of his most
powerful coloured supporters in any of the colonies. I’m proud of my
father, Mrs Hawthorn—proud of the part he bore in the great
revolution which freed my race. I’m proud to think that I’m the son of
such a man as Robert Whitaker.’
‘Now, then, ladies,’ the captain put in drily, coming upon them
suddenly from behind; ‘breakfast’s ready, and you won’t sight
Trinidad, I take it, for at least another fifty minutes. Plenty of time to
get your breakfast quietly and comfortably, and pack your traps up,
before you come in sight of the Port-o’-Spain lighthouse.’
After breakfast, they all hurried up on deck once more, and soon the
gray peaks and rocky sierras of Trinidad began to heave in sight
straight in front of them. Slowly the land drew closer and closer, till at
last the port and town lay full in sight before them. Dr Whitaker was
overflowing with excitement as they reached the wharf. ‘In ten
minutes,’ he cried to Marian—‘in ten minutes, I shall see my dear
father.’
It was a strange and motley scene, ever fresh and interesting to the
new-comer from Europe, that first glimpse of tropical life from the
crowded deck of an ocean steamer. The Severn stood off, waiting for
the gangways to be lowered on board, but close up to the high
wooden pier of the lively, bustling, little harbour. In front lay the busy
wharf, all alive with a teeming swarm of black faces—men in light
and ragged jackets, women in thin white muslins and scarlet turbans,
children barefooted and half naked, lying sprawling idly in the very
eye of the sun. Behind, white houses with green venetian blinds;
waving palm-trees; tall hills; a blazing pale blue sky; a great haze of
light and shimmer and glare and fervour. All round, boats full of noisy
negroes, gesticulating, shouting, swearing, laughing, and showing
their big teeth every second anew in boisterous merriment. A general
pervading sense of bustle and life, all meaningless and all
ineffectual; much noise and little labour; a ceaseless chattering, as of
monkeys in a menagerie; a purposeless running up and down on the
pier and ’longshore with wonderful gesticulations; a babel of
inarticulate sounds and cries and shouting and giggling. Nothing of it
all clearly visible as an individual fact at first; only a confused mass
of heads and faces and bandanas and dresses, out of which, as the
early hubbub of arrival subsided a little, there stood forth prominently
a single foremost figure—the figure of a big, heavy, oily, fat, dark
mulatto, gray-haired and smooth-faced, dressed in a dirty white linen
suit, and waving his soiled silk pocket-handkerchief ostentatiously
before the eyes of the assembled passengers. A supple, vulgar,
oleaginous man altogether, with an astonishing air of conceited self-
importance, and a profound consciousness of the admiring eyes of
the whole surrounding negro populace.
‘How d’ye do, captain?’ he shouted aloud in a clear but thick and
slightly negro voice, mouthing his words with much volubility in the
true semi-articulate African fashion. ‘Glad to see de Severn has
come in puncshual to her time as usual. Good ship, de Severn;
neber minds storms or nuffin.—Well, sah, who have you got on
board? I’ve come down to meet de doctor and Mr Hawtorn. Trinidad
is proud to welcome back her children to her shores agin. Got ’em on
board, captain?—got ’em on board, sah?’
‘All right, Bobby,’ the captain answered, with easy familiarity. ‘Been
having a pull at the mainsheet this morning?—Ah, I thought so. I
thought you’d taken a cargo of rum aboard. Ah, you sly dog! You’ve
got the look of it.’
‘Massa Bobby, him doan’t let de rum spile in him cellar,’ a ragged fat
negress standing by shouted out in a stentorian voice. ‘Him know de
way to keep him from spilin’, so pour him down him own troat in time
—eh, Massa Bobby?’
‘Rum,’ the oily mulatto responded cheerfully, but with great dignity,
raising his fat brown hand impressively before him—‘rum is de staple
produck an’ chief commercial commodity of de great an’ flourishin’
island of Trinidad. To drink a moderate quantity of rum every mornin’
before brekfuss is de best way of encouragin’ de principal
manufacture of dis island. I do my duty in dat respeck, I flatter
myself, as faithfully as any pusson in de whole of Trinidad, not
exceptin’ His Excellency de governor, who ought to set de best
example to de entire community. As de recognised representative of
de coloured people of dis colony, I feel bound to teach dem to
encourage de manufacture of rum by my own pussonal example an’
earnest endeavour.’ And he threw back his greasy neck playfully in a
pantomimic representation of the art of drinking off a good glassful of
rum-and-water.
The negroes behind laughed immoderately at this sally of the man
addressed as Bobby, and cheered him on with loud vociferations.
‘Evidently,’ Edward said to Nora, with a face of some disgust, ‘this
creature is the chartered buffoon and chief jester to the whole of
Trinidad. They all seem to recognise him and laugh at him, and I see
even the captain himself knows him well of old, evidently.’
‘Bless your soul, yes,’ the captain said, overhearing the remark.
‘Everybody in the island knows Bobby. Good-natured old man, but
conceited as a peacock, and foolish too.—Everybody knows you
here,’ raising his voice; ‘don’t they, Bobby?’
The gray-haired mulatto took off his broad-brimmed Panama hat and
bowed profoundly. ‘I flatter myself,’ he said, looking round about him
complacently on the crowd of negroes, ‘dere isn’t a better known
man in de whole great an’ flourishin’ island of Trinidad dan Bobby
Whitaker.’
Edward and Marian started suddenly, and even Nora gave a little
shiver of surprise and disappointment. ‘Whitaker,’ Edward repeated
slowly—‘Whitaker—Bobby Whitaker!—You don’t mean to tell us,
surely, captain, that that man’s our Dr Whitaker’s father!’
‘Yes, I do,’ the captain answered, smiling grimly. ‘That’s his father.—
Dr Whitaker! hi, you, sir; where have you got to? Don’t you see?—
there’s your father.’
Edward turned at once to seek for him, full of a sudden unspoken
compassion. He had not far to seek. A little way off, standing
irresolutely by the gunwale, with a strange terrified look in his
handsome large eyes, and a painful twitching nervously evident at
the trembling corners of his full mouth, Dr Whitaker gazed intently
and speechlessly at the fat mulatto in the white linen suit. It was
clear that the old man did not yet recognise his son; but the son had
recognised his father instantaneously and unhesitatingly, as he stood
there playing the buffoon in broad daylight before the whole
assembled ship’s company. Edward looked at the poor young fellow
with profound commiseration. Never in his life before had he seen
shame and humiliation more legibly written on a man’s very limbs
and features. The unhappy young mulatto, thunderstruck by the
blow, had collapsed entirely. It was too terrible for him. Coming in,
fresh from his English education, full of youthful hopes and vivid
enthusiasms, proud of the father he had more than half forgotten,
and anxious to meet once more that ideal picture he had carried
away with him of the liberator of Trinidad—here he was met, on the
very threshold of his native island, by this horrible living contradiction
of all his fervent fancies and imaginings. The Robert Whitaker he
had once known faded away as if by magic into absolute nonentity,
and that voluble, greasy, self-satisfied, buffoonish old brown man
was the only thing left that he could now possibly call ‘my father.’
Edward pitied him far too earnestly to obtrude just then upon his
shame and sorrow. But the poor mulatto, meeting his eyes
accidentally for a single second, turned upon him such a mutely
appealing look of profound anguish, that Edward moved over slowly
toward the grim captain and whispered to him in a low undertone:
‘Don’t speak to that man Whitaker again, I beg of you. Don’t you see
his poor son there’s dying of shame for him?’
The captain stared back at him with the same curious half-sardonic
look that Marian had more than once noticed upon his impassive
features. ‘Dying of shame!’ he answered, smiling carelessly. ‘Ho, ho,
ho! that’s a good one! Dying of shame is he, for poor old Bobby!
Why, sooner or later, you know, he’ll have to get used to him.
Besides, I tell you, whether you talk to him or whether you don’t, old
Bobby’ll go on talking about himself as long as there’s anybody left
anywhere about who’ll stand and listen to him.—You just hark there
to what he’s saying now. What’s he up to next, I wonder?’
‘Yes, ladies and gentlemen,’ the old mulatto was proceeding aloud,
addressing now in a set speech the laughing passengers on board
the Severn, ‘I’m de Honourable Robert Whitaker, commonly called
Bobby Whitaker, de leadin’ member of de coloured party in dis
island. Along wit my lamented friend Mr Wilberforce, an’ de British
parliament, I was de chief instrument in procurin’ de abolition of
slavery an’ de freedom of de slaves troughout de whole English
possessions. Millions of my fellow-men were moanin’ an’ groanin’ in
a painful bondage. I have a heart dat cannot witstand de appeal of
misery. I laboured for dem; I toiled for dem; I bore de brunt of de
battle; an’ in de end I conquered—I conquered. Wit de aid of my
friend Mr Wilberforce, by superhuman exertions, I succeeded in
passin’ de grand act of slavery emancipation. You behold in me de
leadin’ actor in dat famous great an’ impressive drama. I’m an ole
man now; but I have prospered in dis world, as de just always do,
says de Psalmist, an’ I shall be glad to see any of you whenever you
choose at my own residence, an’ to offer you in confidence a glass
of de excellent staple produck of dis island—I allude to de wine of de
country, de admirable beverage known as rum!’
There was another peal of foolish laughter from the crowd of
negroes at this one ancient threadbare joke, and a faint titter from
the sillier passengers on board the Severn. Edward looked over
appealingly at the old buffoon; but the mulatto misunderstood his
look of deprecation, and bowed once more profoundly, with immense
importance, straight at him, like a sovereign acknowledging the
plaudits of his subjects.
‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I shall be happy to see any of you—you, sah, or
you—at my own estate, Whitaker Hall, in dis island, whenever you
find it convenient to visit me. You have on board my son, Dr
Whitaker, de future leader of de coloured party in de Council of
Trinidad; an’ you have no doubt succeeded in makin’ his
acquaintance in de course of your voyage from de shores of
England. Dr Whitaker, of de University of Edinburgh, after pursuin’
his studies’——
The poor young man gave an audible groan, and turned away, in his
poignant disgrace, to the very furthest end of the vessel. It was
terrible enough to have all his hopes dashed and falsified in this
awful fashion; but to be humiliated and shamed by name before the
staring eyes of all his fellow-passengers, that last straw was more
than his poor bursting heart could possibly endure. He walked away,
broken and tottering, and leaned over the opposite side of the
vessel, letting the hot tears trickle unreproved down his dusky
cheeks into the ocean below.
At that very moment, before the man they called Bobby Whitaker
could finish his sentence, a tall white man, of handsome and
imposing presence, walked out quietly from among the knot of
people behind the negroes, and laid his hand with a commanding air
on the fat old mulatto’s broad shoulder. Bobby Whitaker turned round
suddenly and listened with attention to something that the white man
whispered gently but firmly at his astonished ear. Then his lower jaw
dropped in surprise, and he fell behind, abashed for a second, into
the confused background of laughing negroes. Partly from his
childish recollections, but partly, too, by the aid of the photographs,
Edward immediately recognised the tall white man. ‘Marian, Marian!’
he cried, waving his hand in welcome towards the new-comer, ‘it’s
my father, my father!’
And even as he spoke, a pang of pain ran through him as he thought
of the difference between the two first greetings. He couldn’t help
feeling proud in his heart of hearts of the very look and bearing of his
own father—tall, erect, with his handsome, clear-cut face and full
white beard, the exact type of a self-respecting and respected
English gentleman; and yet, the mere reflex of his own pride and
satisfaction revealed to him at once the bitter poignancy of Dr
Whitaker’s unspeakable disappointment. As the two men stood there
on the wharf side by side, in quiet conversation, James Hawthorn
with his grave, severe, earnest expression, and Bobby Whitaker with
his greasy, vulgar, negro joviality speaking out from every crease in
his fat chin and every sparkle of his small pig’s eyes, the contrast
between them was so vast and so apparent, that it seemed to make
the old mulatto’s natural vulgarity and coarseness of fibre more
obvious and more unmistakable than ever to all beholders.
In a minute more, a gangway was hastily lowered from the wharf on
to the deck; and the first man that came down it, pushed in front of a
great crowd of eager, grinning, and elbowing negroes—mostly in
search of small jobs among the passengers—was Bobby Whitaker.
The moment he reached the deck, he seemed to take possession of
it and of all the passengers by pure instinct, as if he were father to
the whole shipload of them. The captain, the crew, and the other
authorities were effaced instantly. Bobby Whitaker, with easy, greasy
geniality, stood bowing and waving his hand on every side, in an
access of universal graciousness towards the entire company. ‘My