the uncommercial traveller- 第73部分

some　small　money　to　bestow　upon　him；　I　casually　directed　my　eyes　to

the　face　of　his　superior　officer；　and　in　him　beheld　the　Face…Maker！

Though　it　was　not　the　way　to　Algeria；　but　quite　the　reverse；　the

military　poodle's　Colonel　was　the　Face…Maker　in　a　dark　blouse；　with

a　small　bundle　dangling　over　his　shoulder　at　the　end　of　an

umbrella；　and　taking　a　pipe　from　his　breast　to　smoke　as　he　and　the

poodle　went　their　mysterious　way。







CHAPTER　XXVIII　…　MEDICINE　MEN　OF　CIVILISATION







My　voyages　（in　paper　boats）　among　savages　often　yield　me　matter　for

reflection　at　home。　　It　is　curious　to　trace　the　savage　in　the

civilised　man；　and　to　detect　the　hold　of　some　savage　customs　on

conditions　of　society　rather　boastful　of　being　high　above　them。



I　wonder；　is　the　Medicine　Man　of　the　North　American　Indians　never

to　be　got　rid　of；　out　of　the　North　American　country？　　He　comes　into

my　Wigwam　on　all　manner　of　occasions；　and　with　the　absurdest

'Medicine。'　　I　always　find　it　extremely　difficult；　and　I　often　find

it　simply　impossible；　to　keep　him　out　of　my　Wigwam。　　For　his　legal

'Medicine'　he　sticks　upon　his　head　the　hair　of　quadrupeds；　and

plasters　the　same　with　fat；　and　dirty　white　powder；　and　talks　a

gibberish　quite　unknown　to　the　men　and　squaws　of　his　tribe。　　For

his　religious　'Medicine'　he　puts　on　puffy　white　sleeves；　little

black　aprons；　large　black　waistcoats　of　a　peculiar　cut；　collarless

coats　with　Medicine　button…holes；　Medicine　stockings　and　gaiters

and　shoes；　and　tops　the　whole　with　a　highly　grotesque　Medicinal

hat。　　In　one　respect；　to　be　sure；　I　am　quite　free　from　him。　　On

occasions　when　the　Medicine　Men　in　general；　together　with　a　large

number　of　the　miscellaneous　inhabitants　of　his　village；　both　male

and　female；　are　presented　to　the　principal　Chief；　his　native

'Medicine'　is　a　comical　mixture　of　old　odds　and　ends　（hired　of

traders）　and　new　things　in　antiquated　shapes；　and　pieces　of　red

cloth　（of　which　he　is　particularly　fond）；　and　white　and　red　and

blue　paint　for　the　face。　　The　irrationality　of　this　particular

Medicine　culminates　in　a　mock　battle…rush；　from　which　many　of　the

squaws　are　borne　out；　much　dilapidated。　　I　need　not　observe　how

unlike　this　is　to　a　Drawing　Room　at　St。　James's　Palace。



The　African　magician　I　find　it　very　difficult　to　exclude　from　my

Wigwam　too。　　This　creature　takes　cases　of　death　and　mourning　under

his　supervision；　and　will　frequently　impoverish　a　whole　family　by

his　preposterous　enchantments。　　He　is　a　great　eater　and　drinker；

and　always　conceals　a　rejoicing　stomach　under　a　grieving　exterior。

His　charms　consist　of　an　infinite　quantity　of　worthless　scraps；　for

which　he　charges　very　high。　　He　impresses　on　the　poor　bereaved

natives；　that　the　more　of　his　followers　they　pay　to　exhibit　such

scraps　on　their　persons　for　an　hour　or　two　（though　they　never　saw

the　deceased　in　their　lives；　and　are　put　in　high　spirits　by　his

decease）；　the　more　honourably　and　piously　they　grieve　for　the　dead。

The　poor　people　submitting　themselves　to　this　conjurer；　an

expensive　procession　is　formed；　in　which　bits　of　stick；　feathers　of

birds；　and　a　quantity　of　other　unmeaning　objects　besmeared　with

black　paint；　are　carried　in　a　certain　ghastly　order　of　which　no　one

understands　the　meaning；　if　it　ever　had　any；　to　the　brink　of　the

grave；　and　are　then　brought　back　again。



In　the　Tonga　Islands　everything　is　supposed　to　have　a　soul；　so　that

when　a　hatchet　is　irreparably　broken；　they　say；　'His　immortal　part

has　departed；　he　is　gone　to　the　happy　hunting…plains。'　　This　belief

leads　to　the　logical　sequence　that　when　a　man　is　buried；　some　of

his　eating　and　drinking　vessels；　and　some　of　his　warlike

implements；　must　be　broken　and　buried　with　him。　　Superstitious　and

wrong；　but　surely　a　more　respectable　superstition　than　the　hire　of

antic　scraps　for　a　show　that　has　no　meaning　based　on　any　sincere

belief。



Let　me　halt　on　my　Uncommercial　road；　to　throw　a　passing　glance　on

some　funeral　solemnities　that　I　have　seen　where　North　American

Indians；　African　Magicians；　and　Tonga　Islanders；　are　supposed　not

to　be。



Once；　I　dwelt　in　an　Italian　city；　where　there　dwelt　with　me　for　a

while；　an　Englishman　of　an　amiable　nature；　great　enthusiasm；　and　no

discretion。　　This　friend　discovered　a　desolate　stranger；　mourning

over　the　unexpected　death　of　one　very　dear　to　him；　in　a　solitary

cottage　among　the　vineyards　of　an　outlying　village。　　The

circumstances　of　the　bereavement　were　unusually　distressing；　and

the　survivor；　new　to　the　peasants　and　the　country；　sorely　needed

help；　being　alone　with　the　remains。　　With　some　difficulty；　but　with

the　strong　influence　of　a　purpose　at　once　gentle；　disinterested；

and　determined；　my　friend　…　Mr。　Kindheart　…　obtained　access　to　the

mourner；　and　undertook　to　arrange　the　burial。



There　was　a　small　Protestant　cemetery　near　the　city　walls；　and　as

Mr。　Kindheart　came　back　to　me；　he　turned　into　it　and　chose　the

spot。　　He　was　always　highly　flushed　when　rendering　a　service

unaided；　and　I　knew　that　to　make　him　happy　I　must　keep　aloof　from

his　ministration。　　But　when　at　dinner　he　warmed　with　the　good

action　of　the　day；　and　conceived　the　brilliant　idea　of　comforting

the　mourner　with　'an　English　funeral；'　I　ventured　to　intimate　that

I　thought　that　institution；　which　was　not　absolutely　sublime　at

home；　might　prove　a　failure　in　Italian　hands。　　However；　Mr。

Kindheart　was　so　enraptured　with　his　conception；　that　he　presently

wrote　down　into　the　town　requesting　the　attendance　with　to…morrow's

earliest　light　of　a　certain　little　upholsterer。　　This　upholsterer

was　famous　for　speaking　the　unintelligible　local　dialect　（his　own）

in　a　far　more　unintelligible　manner　than　any　other　man　alive。



When　from　my　bath　next　morning　I　overheard　Mr。　Kindheart　and　the

upholsterer　in　conference　on　the　top　of　an　echoing　staircase；　and

when　I　overheard　Mr。　Kindheart　rendering　English　Undertaking

phrases　into　very　choice　Italian；　and　the　upholsterer　replying　in

the　unknown　Tongues；　and　when　I　furthermore　remembered　that　the

local　funerals　had　no　resemblance　to　English　funerals；　I　became　in

my　secret　bosom　apprehensive。　　But　Mr。　Kindheart　informed　me　at

breakfast　that　measures　had　been　taken　to　ensure　a　signal　success。



As　the　funeral　was　to　take　place　at　sunset；　and　as　I　knew　to　which

of　the　city　gates　it　must　tend；　I　went　out　at　that　gate　as　the　sun

descended；　and　walked　along　the　dusty；　dusty　road。　　I　had　not

walked　far；　when　I　encountered　this　procession：



1。　　Mr。　Kindheart；　much　abashed；　on　an　immense　grey　horse。



2。　　A　bright　yellow　coach　and　pair；　driven　by　a　coachman　in　bright

red　velvet　knee…breeches　and　waistcoat。　　（This　was　the　established

local　idea　of　State。）　　Both　coach　doors　kept　open　by　the　coffin；

which　was　on　its　side　within；　and　sticking　out　at　each。



3。　　Behind　the　coach；　the　mourner；　for　whom　the　coach　was　intended；

walking　in　the　dust。



4。　Concealed　behind　a　roadside　well　for　the　irrigation　of　a　garden；

the　unintelligible　Upholsterer；　admiring。



It　matters　little　now。　　Coaches　of　all　colours　are　alike　to　poor

Kindheart；　and　he　rests　far　North　of　the　little　cemetery　with　the

cypress…trees；　by　the　city　walls　where　the　Mediterranean　is　so

beautiful。



My　first　funeral；　a　fair　representative　funeral　after　its　kind；　was

that　of　the　husband　of　a　married　servant；　once　my　nurse。　　She

married　for　money。　　Sally　Flanders；　after　a　year　or　two　of

matrimony；　became　the　relict　of　Flanders；　a　small　master　builder；

and　either　she　or　Flanders　had　done　me　the　honour　to　express　a

desire　that　I　should　'follow。'　　I　may　have　been　seven　or　eight

years　old；　…　young　enough；　certainly；　to　feel　rather　alarmed　by　the

expression；　as　not　knowing　where　the　invitation　was　held　to

terminate；　and　how　far　I　was　expected　to　follow　the　deceased

Flanders。　　Consent　being　given　by　the　heads　of　houses；　I　was　jobbed

up　into　what　was　pronounced　at　home　decent　mourning　（comprehending

somebody　else's　shirt；　unless　my　memory　deceives　me）；　and　was

admonished　that　if；　when　the　funeral　was　in　action；　I　put　my　hands

in　my　pockets；　or　took　my　eyes　out　of　my　pocket…handkerchief；　I　was

personally　lost；　and　my　family　disgraced。　　On　the　eventful　day；

having　tried　to　get　myself　into　a　disastrous　frame　of　mind；　and

having　formed　a　very　poor　opinion　of　myself　because　I　couldn't　cry；

I　repaired　to　Sally's。　　Sally　was　an　excellent　creature；　and　had

been　a　good　wife　to　old　Flanders；　but　the　moment　I　saw　her　I　knew

that　she　was　not　in　her　own　real　natural　state。　　She　formed　a　sort

of　Coat　of　Arms；　grouped　with　a　smelling…bottle；　a　handkerchief；　an

orange；　a　bottle　of　vinegar；　Flanders's　sister；　her　own　sister；

Flanders's　brother's　wife；　and　two　neighbouring　gossips　…　all　in

mourning；　and　all　ready　to　hold　her　whenever　she　fainted。　　At　sight

of　poor　little　me　she　became　much　agitated　（agitating　me　much

more）；　and　having　exclaimed；　'O　here's　dear　Master　Uncommercial！'

bec