LONG STORIES

Juan Canito and Señor Felipe were not the only members of the Señora’s family who were impatient for the sheep-shearing. There was also Ramona. Ramona was, to the world at large, a far more important person than the Señora herself. The Señora was of the past; Ramona was of the present. For one eye that couldsee the significant, at times solemn, beauty of the Señora’s pale and shadowed countenance, there were ahundred that flashed with eager pleasure at the barest glimpse of Ramona’s face; the shepherds, the herdsmen,the maids, the babies, the dogs, the poultry, all loved the sight of Ramona; all loved her, except theSeñora. The Señora loved her not; never had loved her, never could love her; and yet she had stood in theplace of mother to the girl ever since her childhood, and never once during the whole sixteen years of herlife had shown her any unkindness in act. She had promised to be a mother to her; and with all the inalienablestaunchness of her nature she fulfilled the letter of her promise.

The story of Ramona the Señora never told. To most of the Señora’s acquaintances now, Ramona wasa mystery. They did not know—and no one ever asked a prying question of the Señora Moreno—whoRamona’s parents were, whether they were living or dead, or why Ramona, her name not being Moreno,lived always in the Señora’s house as a daughter, tended and attended equally with the adored Felipe. A fewgray-haired men and women here and there in the country could have told the strange story of Ramona;but its beginning was more than a half-century back, and much had happened since then. They seldomthought of the child. They knew she was in the Señora Moreno’s keeping, and that was enough. The affairsof the generation just going out were not the business of the young people coming in. They would havetragedies enough of their own presently; what was the use of passing down the old ones? Yet the story wasnot one to be forgotten; and now and then it was told in the twilight of a summer evening, or in the shadowsof vines on a lingering afternoon, and all young men and maidens thrilled who heard it.

It was an elder sister of the Señora’s,—a sister old enough to be wooed and won while the Señora wasyet at play,—who had been promised in marriage to a young Scotchman named Angus Phail. She was abeautiful woman; and Angus Phail, from the day that he first saw her standing in the Presidio gate, becameso madly her lover, that he was like a man bereft of his senses. This was the only excuse ever to be made forRamona Gonzaga’s deed. It could never be denied, by her bitterest accusers, that, at the first, and indeed formany months, she told Angus she did not love him, and could not marry him; and that it was only after hisstormy and ceaseless entreaties, that she did finally promise to become his wife. Then, almost immediately,she went away to Monterey, and Angus set sail for San Blas. He was the owner of the richest line of shipswhich traded along the coast at that time; the richest stuffs, carvings, woods, pearls, and jewels, which cameinto the country, came in his ships. The arrival of one of them was always an event; and Angus himself, havingbeen well-born in Scotland, and being wonderfully well-mannered for a seafaring man, was made welcomein all the best houses, wherever his ships went into harbor, from Monterey to San Diego.

The Señorita Ramona Gonzaga sailed for Monterey the same day and hour her lover sailed for SanBlas. They stood on the decks waving signals to each other as one sailed away to the south, the other tothe north. It was remembered afterward by those who were in the ship with the Señorita, that she ceased to wave her signals, and had turned her face away, long before her lover’s ship was out of sight. But the men of the San Jose said that Angus Phail stood immovable, gazing northward, till nightfall shut from his sight even the horizon line at which the Monterey ship had long before disappeared from view.

From the beginning to the end of this book, I have most earnestly represented the necessity of forming earlyhabits of observation. It is a strong foundation, on which any kind of character may be built, as circumstancesrequire. It makes good writers, good painters, good botanists, good mechanics, good cooks, goodhousewives, good farmers—good everything! It fits us for any situation in which Providence may place us,and enables us to make the most of whatever advantages that come in our way. It is a sort of vital principle,that gives life to everything.

Not fifty miles from Boston is a farmer, quite famous for the improvements he has made in the wild grape. He found a vine in the wood, which dozens of his neighbors passed every week, as well as he; bu the observed that where the oxen fed upon the vine the grapes were largest and sweetest. He took the hint. The vine was transplanted, and closely pruned. This produced the same effect as browsing had done; thenourishment, that in a wild state supported a great weight of vines and tendrils, went entirely to the bodyof the grape. His neighbors would have known this as well as he, if they had thought about it; but they didnot observe.

In ancient Greece, the beneficial effect of closely trimming grape-vines was discovered by observing the extreme luxuriance of a vine, which an ass had frequently nibbled as he fed by the way-side. The man who availed himself of this hint, became celebrated throughout Greece, by means of the far-famed grapesof Nauplia; and, with less justice, statues were erected to the ass, and high honors paid to his memory. Thegrape had never been cultivated in this country, when, by a singular coincidence, an observing Americanfarmer made the same discovery, and by the same means, that gave celebrity to the observing Grecianfarmer, in very ancient times.

Even in infancy, the foundation of this important habit should be begun, by directing the attention to the size, shape, color, etc, of whatever objects are presented. In childhood it should be constantly keptalive, by never allowing anything to be read, or done, carelessly; and during the teens, when the mind isall alive and busy, very peculiar care should be taken to strengthen and confirm it. A young lady shouldnever be satisfied with getting through with a thing some how or other; she should know how she has doneit, why she has done it, and what is the best way of doing it. She should use her thoughts in all her employments. There is always a best way of doing everything; and however trifling the occupation, this way should be discovered; in making a shirt, for instance, she should be led to observe that it is much more convenientto put in the sleeves before the collar is set on. It is the want of these habits of observation, which makessome people so left-handed and awkward about everything they undertake.

For the purpose of enhancing the value of their own mission, it has been at times asserted by foreignersthat the abundance of the chief was procured by the poverty of his followers. To any person at all familiar,either by experience or from trustworthy tradition, with the daily life of the Hawaiian people fifty yearsago, nothing could be more incorrect than such an assumption. The chief whose retainers were in anypoverty or want would have felt, not only their sufferings, but, further, his own disgrace. As was then customarywith the Hawaiian chiefs,my father was surrounded by hundreds of his own people, all of whomlooked to him, and never in vain, for sustenance.He lived in a large grass house surrounded by smaller ones,which were the homes of those the most closely connected with his service. There was food enough andto spare for everyone. And this was equally true of all his people, however distant from his personal care.For the chief always appointed some man of ability as his agent or overseer. This officer apportioned thelands to each Hawaiian, and on these allotments were raised the taro*, the potatoes, the pigs, and the chickenswhich constituted the living of the family; even the forests, which furnished the material from whichwas made the tapa cloth, were apportioned to the women in like manner. It is true that no one of the commonpeople could mortgage or sell his land, but the wisdom of this limitation is abundantly proved by thehomeless condition of the Hawaiians at the present day. Rent, eviction of tenants, as understood in otherlands, were unknown; but each retainer of any chief contributed in the productions of his holding to thesupport of the chief ’s table.

But I was destined to grow up away from the house of my parents. Immediately after my birth I waswrapped in the finest soft tapa cloth, and taken to the house of another chief, by whom I was adopted. Konia,my foster-mother, was a granddaughter of Kamehameha I, and was married to Paki, also a high chief; theironly daughter, Bernice Pauahi, afterwards Mrs. Charles R. Bishop, was therefore my foster-sister. In speakingof our relationship, I have adopted the term customarily used in the English language, but there wasno such modification recognized in my native land. I knew no other father or mother than my fosterparents,no other sister than Bernice. I used to climb up on the knees of Paki, put my arms around his neck,kiss him, and he caressed me as a father would his child; while on the contrary, when I met my own parents,it was with perhaps more interest, yet always with the demeanor I would have shown to any strangerswho noticed me. My own father and mother had other children, ten in all, the most of them beingadopted into other chiefs’ families; and although I knew that these were my own brothers and sisters, yetwe met throughout my younger life as though we had not known our common parentage. This was, andindeed is, in accordance with Hawaiian customs. It is not easy to explain its origin to those alien to ournational life, but it seems perfectly natural to us. As intelligible a reason as can be given is that this allianceby adoption cemented the ties of friendship between the chiefs. It spread to the common people, and ithas doubtless fostered a community of interest and harmony.

Every work of art is the child of its age and, in many cases, the mother of our emotions. It follows that eachperiod of culture produces an art of its own which can never be repeated. Efforts to revive the art principlesof the past will at best produce an art that is still-born. It is impossible for us to live and feel, as didthe ancient Greeks. In the same way those who strive to follow the Greek methods in sculpture achieve onlya similarity of form, the work remaining soulless for all time. Such imitation is mere aping. Externally themonkey completely resembles a human being; he will sit holding a book in front of his nose and turn overthe pages with a thoughtful aspect, but his actions have for him no real meaning.

There is, however, in art another kind of external similarity, which is founded on a fundamental truth.When there is a similarity of inner tendency in the whole moral and spiritual atmosphere, a similarity ofideals, at first closely pursued but later lost to sight, a similarity in the inner feeling of any one period tothat of another, the logical result will be a revival of the external forms that served to express those innerfeelings in an earlier age. An example of this today is our sympathy, our spiritual relationship, with the Primitives.Like ourselves, these artists sought to express in their work only internal truths, renouncing in consequence all consideration of external form.

This all-important spark of inner life today is at present only a spark. Our minds, which are even nowonly just awakening after years of materialism, are infected with the despair of unbelief, of lack of purpose and ideal. The nightmare of materialism, which has turned the life of the universe into an evil, useless game, is not yet past; it holds the awakening soul still in its grip. Only a feeble light glimmers like a tiny star in a vast gulf of darkness. This feeble light is but a presentiment, and the soul, when it sees it, trembles in doubt whether the light is not a dream, and the gulf of darkness reality. This doubt, and the still harsh tyranny of the materialistic philosophy, divide our soul sharply from that of the Primitives. Our soul rings cracked when we seek to play upon it, as does a costly vase, long buried in the earth, which is found to have a flaw when it is dug up once more. For this reason, the Primitive phase, through which we are now passing, with its temporary similarity of form, can only be of short duration.

These two possible resemblances between the art forms of today and those of the past will be at oncerecognized as diametrically opposed to one another. The first, being purely external, has no future. Thesecond, being internal, contains the seed of the future within itself. After the period of materialist effort,which held the soul in check until it was shaken off as evil, the soul is emerging, purged by trials and sufferings. Shapeless emotions such as fear, joy, grief, etc., which belonged to this time of effort, will no longergreatly attract the artist.He will endeavor to awake subtler emotions, as yet unnamed. Living himself a complicatedand comparatively subtle life, his work will give to those observers capable of feeling them loftyemotions beyond the reach of words.

The observer of today, however, is seldom capable of feeling such emotions. He seeks in a work ofart a mere imitation of nature which can serve some definite purpose (for example a portrait in the ordinarysense) or a presentment of nature according to a certain convention (“impressionist” painting), orsome inner feeling expressed in terms of natural form (as we say—a picture with Stimmung*). All those varieties of picture, when they are really art, fulfill their purpose and feed the spirit. Though this appliesto the first case, it applies more strongly to the third, where the spectator does feel a corresponding thrillin himself. Such harmony or even contrast of emotion cannot be superficial or worthless; indeed the Stimmungof a picture can deepen and purify that of the spectator. Such works of art at least preserve the soulfrom coarseness; they “key it up,” so to speak, to a certain height, as a tuning-key the strings of a musicalinstrument. But purification, and extension in duration and size of this sympathy of soul, remain one-sided,and the possibilities of the influence of art are not exerted to their utmost.

The voyage of the “Beagle” has been by far the most important event in my life, and has determined mywhole career; yet it depended on so small a circumstance as my uncle offering to drive me thirty miles toShrewsbury, which few uncles would have done, and on such a trifle as the shape of my nose. I have alwaysfelt that I owe to the voyage the first real training or education of my mind; I was led to attend closely to several branches of natural history, and thus my powers of observation were improved, though they were always fairly developed.

The investigation of the geology of all the places visited was far more important, as reasoning here comes into play. On first examining a new district nothing can appear more hopeless than the chaos of rocks; but by recording the stratification and nature of the rocks and fossils at many points, always reasoning and predicting what will be found elsewhere, light soon begins to dawn on the district, and the structure of the whole becomes more or less intelligible. I had brought with me the first volume of Lyell’s Principles of Geology, which I studied attentively; and the book was of the highest service to me in many ways. The very firstplace which I examined, namely St. Jago in the Cape de Verde islands, showed me clearly the wonderfulsuperiority of Lyell’s manner of treating geology, compared with that of any other author, whose works I had with me or ever afterwards read. Another of my occupations was collecting animals of all classes, brieflydescribing and roughly dissecting many of the marine ones; but from not being able to draw, and from not having sufficient anatomical knowledge, a great pile of manuscripts which I made during the voyagehas proved almost useless. I thus lost much time, with the exception of that spent in acquiring some knowledgeof the Crustaceans, as this was of service when in after years I undertook a monograph of theCirripedia.

During some part of the day I wrote my journal, and took much pains in describing carefully andvividly all that I had seen; and this was good practice.My journal served also, in part, as letters to my home,and portions were sent to England whenever there was an opportunity.

The above various special studies were, however, of no importance compared with the habit of energeticindustry and of concentrated attention to whatever I was engaged in, which I then acquired. Everythingabout which I thought or read was made to bear directly on what I had seen or was likely to see; andthis habit of mind was continued during the five years of the voyage. I feel sure that it was this training whichhas enabled me to do whatever I have done in science.

Looking backwards, I can now perceive how my love for science gradually preponderated over everyother taste.