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The Palgrave Handbook of
Media Misinformation
Edited by
Karen Fowler-Watt · Julian McDougall
The Palgrave Handbook of Media Misinformation
Karen Fowler-Watt • Julian McDougall
Editors
The Palgrave
Handbook of Media
Misinformation
Editors
Karen Fowler-Watt Julian McDougall
Centre for Excellence in Media Practice Centre for Excellence in Media Practice
Bournemouth University Bournemouth University
Poole, Dorset, UK Poole, Dorset, UK
This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature
Switzerland AG.
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
Acknowledgements
Karen and Julian have enjoyed collaborating on this edited volume and wish to
thank all the chapter authors who responded so brilliantly to this challenging
invitation. They would also like to thank Jon Sopel and the team at Penguin
Random House for granting permission to republish from his book
UnPresidented (2021).
v
Contents
1 Civic
Distance: Digital Culture’s Intrusion on Trust,
Engagement, and Belonging 5
Paul Mihailidis
2 The
Civic Media Observatory: Decoding Information
Networks with Narrative Analysis 15
Ivan Sigal
3 Upholding
Digital Rights and Media Plurality: Does Self-
regulation by Social Media Platforms Contravene Freedom of
Expression? 31
Ursula Smartt
4 Fake
News Deconstructed Teens and Civic Engagement: Can
Tomorrow’s Voters Spontaneously Become News Literate? 45
Katerina Chryssanthopoulou
5 Peace,
Public Opinion and Disinformation in Colombia:
Social Media and Its Role in the 2016 Plebiscite 63
Jesús Arroyave and Martha Romero-Moreno
6 Radical
Interventions: Archaeology, Forensics and Montage 79
Pablo Martínez-Zárate
vii
viii Contents
7 SAVE
ME WHITE JESUS! Conspiracy and the Spectre of a
Folkloric, Alt-right Masculine Ideal101
Phil Barber
8 Fake
News: Problems with—and Alternatives to—the Media
Literacy Project109
Adrian Quinn
9 Fact-Checking
in Hong Kong: An Emerging Form of
Journalism and Media Education Amid Political Turmoil121
Masato Kajimoto
11 Gaslighting:
Fake Climate News and Big Carbon’s
Network of Denial159
Antonio López
12 Using
Disparagement Humour to Deal with Health
Misinformation Endorsers: A Case Study of China’s
Shuanghuanglian Oral Liquid Incident179
Xin Zhao and Yu Xiang
13 Citizens’
Networks of Digital and Data Literacy191
Simeon Yates and Elinor Carmi
14 Re-thinking
Media Literacy to Counter Misinformation207
Peter Cunliffe-Jones
15 Combatting
Information Disorder: A South Asian
Perspective221
Dipak Bhattarai
Contents ix
16 The
Unhealed Wound: Official and Unofficial Journalisms,
Misinformation and Tribal Truth233
Graham Majin
18 The
Agenda-Setting Power of Fake News265
Fran Yeoman and Kate Morris
19 Can
We Rebuild Broken Relationships? Examining
Journalism, Social Media, and Trust in a Fractured Media
Environment279
Patrick R. Johnson and Melissa Tully
20 Images,
Fakery and Verification297
Susan Moeller and Stephen Jukes
21 Civic
Intentionality First: A Tunisian Attempt at Creating
Social Infrastructure for Youth Representation319
Habib M. Sayah
22 S
outh Island School—The Agence France Presse Affiliated
News Unit333
Iain Williamson
23 Intergenerational
Approaches to Disinformation and
Clickbait: Participatory Workshops as Co-learning-Based
Spaces343
Maria José Brites, Ana Filipa Oliveira, and Carla Cerqueira
24 Digital
Media Literacy with Sati (Mindfulness): The
Combining Approach Underlying the Thai Contexts357
Monsak Chaiveeradech
25 Media
Literacy in the Infodemic371
Julian McDougall and Karen Fowler-Watt
Index381
Notes on Contributors
xi
xii NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
Dead or Alive? (2011) and Naming & Shaming: Drawing the Boundaries of
Disclosure (2012). He has also written for Open Democracy and The Times
Higher Education.
Martha Romero-Moreno is a lecturer at the Universidad Autónoma del
Caribe in Barranquilla, Colombia, and the Departmental Educational Fund of
Sucre. She has a bachelor’s degree in journalism and in modern languages, a
master’s degree in Communication. She is currently a PhD candidate in
Communication at Universidad del Norte. She has worked as a radio and print
journalist, designer and coordinator of media and technology training projects
for the Colombian Ministry of National Education. She has also been a pro-
moter of school communication initiatives, workshop leader of courses for
journalists covering the conflict of the International Committee of the Red
Cross. [email protected]
Habib M. Sayah is a consultant with Rhizomics, based in Tunis, Tunisia,
delivering strategic support to international development actors and INGOs
operating in the MENA region. He has 8 years’ experience in the design, deliv-
ery, monitoring and evaluation of technical assistance programmes and inter-
ventions in the fields of youth empowerment, strategic communications, media
development, and preventing violent extremism, and security sector reform.
Habib is Chevening Scholar and has graduated with distinction from the War
Studies Department at King’s College London where his research explored the
mobilisation strategies of Tunisian violent extremist organisations. He also
holds a master’s degree from Sorbonne Law School (France). habib@rhi-
zomics.io
Ivan Sigal is the executive director of Global Voices, a transnational, multilin-
gual community of writers, translators and rights activists who work to build
understanding across borders. He is based in Washington D.C. in the United
States. Sigal is also a photographer, media artist and writer known for his long-
term explorations of societies undergoing conflict or political transition, and
collaborative projects with communities to depict their own experiences. He
was Kluge Fellow at the Library of Congress in Washington D.C., a fellow at
the Berkman Klein Center for Internet & Society at Harvard University and is
a visiting fellow at Bournemouth University’s Centre for Excellence in Media
Practice. [email protected] or [email protected]
Ursula Smartt is Associate Professor of Law, New College of the Humanities
at Northeastern, London, UK. She specialises in media and entertainment law,
specifically in the regulation of online harm and safety, internet libel, UK court
reporting and music sampling and streaming. She holds a research fellowship
from the University of Surrey in media and entertainment law and lectures on
law degrees programmes at Northeastern University Boston, USA, and its
London Campus—New College of the Humanities. She is the author of Media
and Entertainment Law and Media Law for Journalists. ursula.smartt@nchlon-
don.ac.uk
NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS xvii
Jon Sopel is a broadcast journalist, presenter and writer. He was most recently
the BBC’s North America editor (2014–2021), and previously Paris corre-
spondent, chief political correspondent and the main presenter of Global on
BBC World News. He is the author of several books on the presidency of
Donald Trump and co-presenter of the highly successful podcast Americas
with Emily Maitlis. In 2022, he announced that he was leaving the BBC to join
the London-based broadcast news organisation, Leading Britain’s
Conversation (LBC).
Melissa Tully (PhD, University of Wisconsin-Madison) is an associate profes-
sor in the School of Journalism and Mass Communication at the University of
Iowa, Iowa City, USA. Her research focuses on news literacy, audiences, misin-
formation, African media studies and civic participation. She has published
widely in these areas in journals like New Media & Society, Communication
Theory, Journalism, Mass Communication and Society, among others. mtlly@
uiowa.edu
Iain Williamson is the Head of Film and Media, as well as the Digital Literacy
Coordinator at South Island School, Deep Water Bay, part of the English
Schools Foundation in Hong Kong. Iain has been teaching since 1997 having
been Head of Media Studies at Kings Norton Girls’ School between 1998 and
2000. He completed 2 years with Voluntary Services Overseas in Nepal
between 2001 and 2003 working as a teacher trainer and a gender equity media
skills consultant before taking up his current post in 2004. More recently, Iain
qualified as an International Society for Technology in Education (ISTE) ‘cer-
tified educator’ in 2021. [email protected]
Yu Xiang is Assistant Professor of Media Studies at the School of Journalism
and Communication of Shanghai University in Shanghai, China. Her current
research interests lie in the fields of international communication, digital jour-
nalism and cultural studies. Her recent publications include: ‘Dual Anxieties of
Technology and Labour: An Ethnographic Analysis of a University’s WeChat
Groups in China’ in The Political Economy of Communication (co-authored
with Ying Zhou) and ‘CCTV in Africa: Constructive Approach to Manufacturing
Consent’ in the Journal of African Media Studies (co-authored with Xiaoxing
Zhang). [email protected]
Simeon Yates is based in Liverpool where he is Professor of Digital Culture
and Associate Pro-Vice-Chancellor Research Environment and Postgraduate
Research at Liverpool University in the UK. He has undertaken research on
the social, political and cultural impacts of digital media since 1990. Since
2004 he has mainly focused on projects that address issues of digital inclusion
and exclusion. He is currently completing a project exploring citizens data lit-
eracy and has just commenced a project to explore a ‘Minimum Digital Living
Standard’ for UK households—both funded by the Nuffield Foundation.
[email protected]
xviii NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
xix
List of Graphs
xxi
List of Images
xxiii
List of Tables
xxv
Introduction
A Challenging Context
The Palgrave Handbook of Media Misinformation combines work originating
from and/ or investigating different continents; it brings together academic
research, media industry perspectives and the work of educators and of activ-
ists. The idea for this edited collection shaped in the throes of a global pan-
demic, an event that, in the wake of the Trump presidency and the Brexit vote
in the UK, amplified existing issues around ‘fake news’. An ‘info-demic’ of
coronavirus misinformation, conspiracy theories and online abuse have com-
pounded distrust in the media, mirroring social trends that tend towards divi-
sion and lack of cohesion. There was brief respite in the heart of the COVID-19
crisis, when publics seemed to be turning to mainstream media (TV news in
particular) for information, but the issues around trust and active engagement
persist. In the early part of 2022, the final drafts of chapters came together, as
Russia invaded Ukraine, a shocking act of aggression that adds another chill-
ing dimension to the current phase of ‘information disorder’ (Wardle &
Derakshan, 2017). Clare Wardle and her fellow verification experts at First
Draft define information disorder as the toxic environment created by “the
many ways in which our information is polluted”—and conspiracy theories
have exacerbated the problem; societal fissures aggravated by the global pan-
demic that has further eroded social cohesion and underlined socio-economic
disparities. “Without truth, democracy is hobbled … those seeking democracy
must recognise it” notes Michiko Kakutani in her prescient The Death of Truth
(2018, 173).
xxvii
xxviii Introduction
We live in an age in which we have too much information, but little knowledge,
and even less wisdom. These three concepts are completely different. In fact, an
overabundance of information, and the hubris that comes with it, is an obstacle
to attaining true knowledge and wisdom. (Shafak, 2022: 33)
Shafak was writing about Western apathy towards the plight of Uyghurs in
China, citing such as the biggest threat to democracy, a matter of days before
Russia’s invasion of Ukraine.
Apathy towards atrocities, or the more active complicity of silence in return
for the maintenance of economic relations, is combined with a casual accep-
tance of populists’ ‘alternative facts’, each authoritarian regime or Western
populist gaining confidence from the other, while the neoliberal world observes
with mild concern but little urgency. In 2019, leading thinkers from 21
European countries who considered themselves to have been ‘too quiet’ to
date were prompted by a sense of looming crisis to craft a manifesto mourning
the loss of liberal values, warning against the rise of populism and declaring
that Europe as an idea was “coming apart before our eyes”. As Brexit took hold
Introduction xxix
in the UK and Europe witnessed a wave of political victories for the right, these
philosophers, historians and Nobel laureates urged that:
We must now will Europe or perish beneath the waves of populism. We must
rediscover political voluntarism or accept that resentment, hatred and their cor-
tege of sad passions will surround and submerge us.
The manifesto presented a wake-up call, in which the intelligentsia and the
philosophes claimed to discern challenges greater than anything seen since the
1930s in the prevailing ‘noxious climate’ that set the landscape for what they
perceived to be a “battle for civilisation”.
Russia, after accusations of publishing ‘fake news’—the whipping boy for pop-
ulist leaders from east to west.
‘Fake News’
What is common to the Brexit campaign, the US election and the disturbing
depths of Youtube is that it is ultimately impossible to tell who is doing what, or
what their motives and intentions are. It’s futile to attempt to discern between
what’s algorithmically generated nonsense or carefully crafted fake news for gen-
erating ad dollars; what’s paranoid fiction, state action, propaganda or Spam;
what’s deliberate misinformation or well-meaning fact check. (Bridle, 2018: ch
9, para 51)
Back in 2018, a long time ago now for this topic, Bridle and many others
were challenging the notion of ‘fake news’ being either something new or any-
thing that Western democracy hadn’t been complicit in as ‘collateral damage’
from the economic benefits of platform capitalism. The business model has a
moral panic around fake news ‘baked in’ to a logic which invites us to blame
The Kremlin (justifiably, of course, as things have developed) but not Google
or the ‘mainstream media’:
The term ‘Fake News’ came to widespread public attention during the 2016
US presidential campaign when inaccurate social media posts were spread to
large groups of users, a form of ‘viral’ circulation later attributed to sources in
Veles, Macedonia, leading to concerns about the automated trolling from fac-
tories of ‘bots’. The idea of ‘fake news’ was immediately both the subject of
rapid response research and challenged as an oxymoron. False information can-
not be categorised as news as defined by journalistic codes of practice, and thus
affording it the oxygen of academic attention plays into the hands of those who
wish to undermine mainstream media but also reproduces the ‘false binary’
between real and false that this handbook’s broader assessment of misinforma-
tion problematises.
Fake news is often presented as an aspect of a temporal ‘post-truth’ condition,
accelerated by the impact of the economic crash of 2008 and the failure of neo-
liberal politics to respond, whilst at the same time it has succeeded in dismantling
traditional conceptions of ‘the public sphere’, putting the workings of the market
in its place. The impact of the crash and the rise of new forms of digital and sur-
veillance capitalism on democracy, politics and the public sphere are assessed in
contributions by Moore (2018) and Zuboff (2019), whilst a comprehensive situ-
ating of post-truth in the history of globalised conspiracy discourse is provided
Introduction xxxi
It’s like a driver going past a car wreck; we’re transfixed by it, but we have no idea
what to do about it. We’re just at the beginning of recognizing the scale of this.
We’re in the middle of a huge transition, the fourth great communications transi-
tion after speech, writing and printing. And even breaking up Facebook is not
going to save us from this, it’s so much bigger than that. (Cadwaller, 2019: 13)
A Question of Trust
Journalists are often bemused as to why they are not the answer to fake news,
since journalism is traditionally seen as a fact-based route to distinguishing
truths from untruths. But as former editor of The Guardian Alan Rusbridger
(2018) laments in his memoir, the problem here is that journalists are not
themselves trusted: “If only people trusted journalism more, society would
have a system in place for dealing with fake news” (Rusbridger, 2018: 373). In
the first half of February 2022, the latest Edelman Trust survey revealed that a
majority of people around the world are worried that journalists are lying to
them: 67% of respondents said that they believe reporters intentionally try to
mislead with gross exaggeration or falsehood—an increase of 8% on its findings
in 2021. Trust levels in media across the world had fallen, with concern over
‘fake news’ at an all-time high (Majid, 2022) and 76% fearing information
could be weaponised—prophetic in the light of Putin’s ‘hybrid war’ waged in
Ukraine later that month.
Demagogic narratives feeding fear and spawning distrust in a media fash-
ioned by Trump as ‘the opposition’ have combined with audience disengage-
ment from mainstream media, turning instead to personalised social media
feeds, to create a heady cocktail. The result? Plummeting trust levels and rising
scepticism. This is not to say that a healthy dose of scepticism is a bad thing, as
Buckingham (2019) reminds us, critical evaluation of all information is crucial
for robust democratic discourse—but the so-called post-truth context is a chal-
lenging one, in which truth is an endangered species (Kakutani, 2018), trust
levels touch rock bottom—despite a temporary reprieve in the pandemic—and
indifference and/or lack of awareness hold sway. In 2016, Trump used his first
press conference as president to “wage war on journalism”; it rapidly became a
toxic relationship, as one of our contributors to this book, the BBC’s North
America editor Jon Sopel observed:
We were all inveterate liars, he said, while standing on a podium and claiming that
the number of electoral college votes was the highest since Ronald Reagan. One
of the journalists at this unforgettable news conference pointed out that both
Barack Obama and George H.W. Bush had won way more, and the president just
shrugged and blamed it on duff information. (Sopel, 2017: 321)
The Problem
So, to assume a comprehensible distinction between information and its dis-
torted variants is problematic, at best. Indeed, if we accept we live in an age of
‘information disorder’ then the entire point of such an awareness is that the
distinction has been lost, in more or less Baudrilardian terms and with the
Wachowski brothers as prophets of this moment, of this ‘vertigo of
interpretation’.
In advocating for an ‘ethics of difference’, the philosopher Jean Francois
Lyotard (1988) offered a reading of Herzog’s Where the Green Ants Dream as
an example of his ‘differend’, a state of thinking where two completely irrecon-
cilable language games come into conflict, with it being impossible to judge
either without recourse to the idioms of the other. In this case, the story is
about an Australian mining company wishing to dig, for profit and in the name
of progress, into land occupied by Aborigines who believe, without doubt, that
the green ants who live in the land dream, and it is their dreaming that main-
tains the universe. Lyotard offers this as, we can probably assess, a positive
example of how western metaphysics, scientific rationalism and colonial episte-
mologies need to give ground to alternative, hitherto marginalised truth-
claims, advocating his micro-politics of ‘parology’, an ethical process where
justice is the outcome of different rules for each differend, different, shifting
and fluid notions of truth and knowledge, changing every time they are
enacted, locally situated and contingent and de-centred.
This is a seductive discourse, and has been influential in the kinds of post-
structuralist, deconstructive thinking that media, cultural studies and commu-
nication scholars on, broadly speaking, ‘the left’ have put to work in their
research, writing and partnerships with activists. But we can see where this is
going. The differend has ‘come true’, as with Baudrillard’s hyper-reality and
Foucault’s truth-knowledge-power, in, for these communities, a very bad way.
For today’s protectors of the green ants, look to Q Anon, the Brexit campaign,
Trump and Putin. Most theses on the ‘decline of the West’ cite the acceptance
of relativist truth and ‘culture wars’ as a significant factor, and—to return to
Lyotard—the jury is very much out with regard to the efficacy of fact-checking,
media and information literacies for the preservation of democracy if publics
are insufficiently inclined to protect it. As Biesta puts it, “Democrats are not
born, they are made” (2018).
The ‘groundwork’ for the kinds of ontological upheaval we have been wit-
nessing first-hand during this project, as we moved through Brexit and Trump
to Covid and now Ukraine, is often understood as politically strategic. Attacking
experts and intellectuals, claiming to speak for the disenfranchised, working the
xxxiv Introduction
We are living through a period of pop-up populism, where each social and politi-
cal movement redefines ‘the many’ and ‘the people’; where we are always recon-
sidering who counts as an ‘insider’ or an ‘outsider’; where what it means to
belong is never certain, where bubbles of identity burst, crack and are then
reformed as something else. And in this game the one who wins will be the one
who can be most supple, rearranging the iron filings of disparate interests around
new magnets of meaning. (Pomerantsev, 2019: 215)
And yet, we also live in a time where it is not only possible, but required, for
philosophers to try to help us understand the conditions of possibility for our
existential working through of ‘Reality+’ (Chalmers, 2022). This is a moment
in which attempting to distinguish between real and simulation, a la The Matrix
and postmodernism, even for the purpose of arguing that we cannot, is out-
moded. Facebook’s ‘Meta’ may not be the tipping point, but, argue Chalmers
and others, we are already in a state of extended reality, beyond any sense of
virtual which requires a relation with what it simulates. If so, then, in looking
for the kinds of educational response, to equip emerging citizens with the criti-
cal capacity to read this environment as free agents and thrive in it with others
in public and civic spaces, then the kind of media literacy people will need to
learn is going to need to involve reading reality itself as textual, as a genre (Ahn
& Pena, 2021). But this will also require a critical understanding of the ‘archi-
tecture’ of ‘deceitful media’ (Natale, 2021) we now not only tolerate but
enthusiastically adopt in our everyday lives. As we live with artificial intelli-
gence, virtual and augmented, extended realities, we will need to be at one ‘in
the affordance’ and at the same time critically engaging with it:
Our vulnerability to deception is part of what defines us. Humans have a distinct
capacity to project intention, intelligence, and emotions onto others. This is as
much a burden as a resource. After all, this is what makes us capable of entertain-
ing meaningful social interaction with others. But it also makes us prone to be
deceived by non-human interlocutors that simulate intention, intelligence and
emotions. (Natale, 2021: 132)
Those consequences are far more than mere skills or competences, they
require an active desire for our media to promote equality and social justice. If
this sounds like an inevitable result, then that assumption is the crux of the
problem, part of the same crisis of complacency, the same walking in our sleep,
that has enabled and energised the protagonists of misinformation as the lack
of accredited, resourced and sustainable media literacy education on ‘home
fronts’ has been coupled with a detached ‘watching brief’ on misinformation
on a global scale.
The challenges of curation are significant and this handbook can only pres-
ent a snapshot, but we hope it makes a useful contribution in difficult times.
Through the five parts, we group the work into overlapping and interesting
themes and share perspectives on media misinformation from a deliberately
eclectic blend of approaches, from journalism, the outcomes of research, prac-
titioner interventions, lived experiences and experimental responses. The writ-
ing brought together in this handbook is global, with case studies from or
about Colombia, Mexico, Thailand, Hong Kong, China, Nepal, Tunisia, sub-
Saharan Africa, the US, Europe and the UK.
pandemic, but equally harnessed for political ends by populist campaigners and
subsequently presidents and prime ministers, conspiracy thinking is another
configuration of elements—false equivalence, fake authority, patterning coinci-
dences, the invisible ‘other’, intuition over reflection, reassurance in times of
uncertainty and confusion through socially constructed expertise (see Robson,
2020), we can see this play out frequently in these times:
Citizens are at increased risk of contracting a dangerous illness, and their usual
freedoms are heavily constrained by governmental lockdown measures to reduce
the spread of the virus. In their minds, conspiracy theorists have connected these
dots. (Van Proojen, 2020)
with the gaslights in their home and denies seeing the changes in the light this
causes. In time, she comes to doubt her own perception of reality, hence the
application of the phrase to describe the function of misinformation in sowing
confusion.
This climate change gaslighting is perpetuated by an alliance of ‘Big Media’
and Big Carbon as opposed to extreme conspiracy thinkers at the margins of
public discourse. Media Lens accuse the mainstream media of complicity in the
climate crisis to the extent that “the major news media are an intrinsic compo-
nent of this system run for the benefit of elites. The media are, in effect, the
public relations wing of a planetary-wide network of exploitation, abuse and
destruction. The climate crisis is the gravest symptom of this dysfunctional
global apparatus” (Edwards & Cromwell, 2018: 208).
During the pandemic, the intersection of the health of the media and infor-
mation ecosystem and public health itself was highly charged. What we know
at this point (2 years into the pandemic at the time of writing) is that the politi-
cal nature of public health decisions is widely accepted as the order of things
and whilst this may have been ever thus, publics were rarely aware of it to this
extent. But also, we know that individual and societal responses to public
health decisions being made in urgent real time are ideological, with the same
epidemiological data used for competing arguments. In the middle ground,
between those claiming ‘covid hoax’ or anti-vax demonstrators on the one
hand, and those in favour of stringent measures to protect the vulnerable, often
claiming the moral high ground, were many shades of more complex and
nuanced ‘truth-claims’ about health, economy, science, data and political com-
munications. Everything was up for grabs in the media and information space,
but this was not only about the science, it was also about ‘capitalist realism’
(Fisher, 2009). Every argument about working from home, online education
and the future of human interaction in the ‘normal new’, as Bennett and
Jopling describe it (2021), oscillated around the media representation of the
‘essential worker’ and the precarious under-class who were expected, or not, to
put their livelihoods at risk for the greater public good, a discourse of ‘subsidis-
ing normalcy’, described by Rubin and Wilson (2021) as “the expectation that
the working class would ultimately suppress their concerns about the coronavi-
rus and lay their lives on the line to sustain the illusion that capitalism will
revert to its prior successes” (2021: 56). Returning to Bennett and Jopling,
their ‘normal new’ observes the understandable, but ultimately sobering, desire
of people to retreat from the brave new world futuring we mobilised at the
start of the pandemic, in favour of this very reversion to what we now see as
stability, even though some 2 years ago we were embracing its disruption:
The pandemic is made up of both the virus and our responses to it. In fact, the
promise of a return to ‘normal’ manifests as both a forlorn hope and a consider-
able threat: being lost is ever more attractive than being found. (Bennett &
Jopling, 2021: 1)
Introduction xxxix
surveillance. The ultimate goal of media literacy, with all these things com-
bined, is to increase awareness of all conditions in which all media, information
and data are produced and circulated to the extent that information disorder is
reduced through the development of ‘critical antibodies’.
To these ends, this part explores, from an evidence-base, media literacy as a
response to misinformation from a range of approaches and international con-
texts. We include a meta review of media literacy work during the COVID-19
infodemic; accounts of youth-led alternative media in Tunisia; media literacy
linked to Thai mindfulness; a cross-EU project to promote social media resil-
ience across and between generations and a school programme in Hong Kong.
The work in this part is very much ‘beyond solutionism’, in favour of a set of
nuanced, situated and ‘living’ media literacies. These literacies are not sug-
gested as neutral skills or competencies, assumed to be in themselves always-
already positive and innately beneficial to the project of reducing information
disorder. Rather, in their more ethnographic ‘g/local’ modalities, they directly
link media literacy to positive change in the media ecosystem.
In focusing on diagnosis and response, the chapter authors in this volume
bring a wide range of expertise, backgrounds and reference points—cultural,
political and socio-economic—to their contributions. Each has considered
context, current research in the field and provided a case study, before drawing
some tentative conclusions.
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PART I
digital literacy method called the Civic Media Observatory. In his talk, Chap. 2,
Sigal describes how this approach can develop the contextual knowledge
required to understand, assess and respond to emerging events around
the world.
Prevailing disorder is often sourced back to the big tech giants, but their—
arguably tardy and merely palliative—self-regulatory response of blocking and
censoring content brings other problems in its train. The problem is diagnosed
in Chap. 3. Ursula Smartt is a law professor in the UK who asks whether plat-
forms such as Facebook and Twitter are breaching freedom of expression by
regulating and blocking content on their platforms and de-listing individuals
such as Donald Trump. She asks whether this amounts to self-regulatory cen-
sorship by the big US tech companies: Are they right to ban the promotion of
self-harm, suicide, bullying and incitement to racial hatred? In this chapter, the
Facebook Oversight Board is also assessed, the meaning of media plurality is
explored as well as the re-examination of fake news and disinformation on
social media platforms. Case law is presented, looking at the meaning of “pub-
lishers” in relation to ISPs and operators of websites in both US and UK law.
Legislative steps taken by the EU Commission as well as the UK government
in relation to “online harms and safety” end the discussion, leaving the unan-
swered questions whether it is possible to legislate the internet or whether it
should be left to the big social media tech giants to self-regulate content on
their platforms.
Social networks constituted young people’s information source of choice,
even before the pandemic. Chapter 4 takes us to Greece for an analysis of the
levels of civic engagement of teenagers, emerging from consecutive lockdowns,
that dramatically reduced their social spaces, making screens their main chan-
nels for communication and self-expression. In this chapter, Katerina
Chryssanthopoulou, a PhD researcher in Media and News Literacy based in
Athens, acknowledges the close connections between civic engagement, power
and information in her exploration of teen attitudes to social media and news.
Teenagers care about the world, she argues, and want to act to cure inequalities
and injustice, but usually function within family, school or online environ-
ments. With reduced social opportunities in the pandemic, the danger was
exacerbated that they were growing up, lacking suitable information struc-
tures, in a vacuum of meaningful content about how society is organised or
how to get involved. She asks whether today’s teens, as voters and decision
makers of tomorrow, are sufficiently empowered to get civically engaged? Can
they spontaneously become news literate or should they be educated to navi-
gate the ‘fake news’ environment, to sort truth from fiction?
The next two chapters focus on misinformation and disinformation in Latin
America: The first of these assesses the impact of disinformation on political
processes in Colombia in the 2016 plebiscite in a so-called post-conflict con-
text. Chapter 5 is authored by Colombian academics, Jesús Arroyave and
Martha Romero. After more than half a century of civil conflict, the saying that
“the first casualty of war is the truth” rings true, they assert, in a media
Democracy, Disruption and Civic Crisis (Diagnosis) 3
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CHAPTER 1
Paul Mihailidis
Around the world today, the automobile is ubiquitous. Roads built for the
automobile dominate our urban, suburban, and rural landscapes. The car, long
the enduring symbol of independence, flexibility, and autonomy, persists in
Western culture, and increasingly around the world. The evolution of the car
has led to vast development, and created dependence on fossil fuels and other
finite natural resources. The impacts of the automobile on society are complex
and well documented. The car has played a central role in the evolution of
society and contemporary life. Amongst the largest impacts of cars on society,
it has contributed to one constant that now pervades communities and societ-
ies: distance.
Distance, here, takes on a dual meaning. In one sense, distance refers to the
physical expansion of our lived space. As cars improve, they are able to take us
further to facilitate our daily lives, expanding the places we can reach. In
another sense, they create distance within and around our communities, as we
rely less on our immediate surroundings to meet our needs and engage with
those directly around us. We are able to move beyond our immediate
P. Mihailidis (*)
School of Communication, Emerson College, Boston, MA, USA
Emerson Engagement Lab, Boston, MA, USA
Salzburg Academy on Media and Global Change, Washington, DC, USA
e-mail: [email protected]
reason motivates them. The distance created by the metal and glass that encases
us in cars forces us into judgments, for better or worse, about those around us.
People don’t engage in rigorous human dialogue as we facilitate our daily
lives. But we often use cues and human signals to negotiate, passing others on
sidewalks, or in the supermarket. We have the opportunity to apologise, to
physically signal to others, and to ignore or adjust to certain scenarios where
negotiations are needed. In cars, these cues are largely unavailable. In cars, we
are bound to a set of rules and regulations that allow us to assume a semblance
of order and safety. In cars, distance has been normalised in our lives.
The automobile is a metaphor for our mediated lives today. Cars are like
platforms. They offer the chance to feel engagement, to connect amongst a sea
of others, without the real-time rigour of human connection. Mobile technolo-
gies and social media platforms are so embedded in our daily lives they now
occupy the majority of daily information and communication routines, and
have impacts on how we see the world (Mitchell et al., 2020), and on how we
process information, understand our world, and engage with those around us
(Pew Research Center, 2021). Just like cars, media platforms expand our
worlds. They provide us with more access to the world through ubiquitous
information flow, the ability to connect across distances, and to have more
information readily available to us than ever before. They increase the possibil-
ity space for new knowledge, expand our ability to advocate for causes, support
initiatives, and exchange information around issues that we care about
(Weinberger, 2019). They expand our knowledge production, from how much
we write, listen to stories, express ourselves, and engage with the vast informa-
tion architecture (Thompson, 2013).
Social media, like automobiles, expand our surroundings, and offer the pos-
sibility of a bigger world around us. But they also evoke distance. Distance that
poses grave risks to the social fabric that makes up our communities, our pub-
lics, and our democracies.
We often oscillate between seeing the opportunities that our new techno-
logical realities provide for connections, while lamenting their encroachment
8 P. MIHAILIDIS
into our lives and the tactics they use to create dependence. The increasing
commodification of our social media spaces, combined with a lack of regula-
tory oversight, has created a whirlwind of information disseminated at faster
and faster speeds, with the intention of driving users to engage often, deeper,
and with less control (Wu, 2016).
Like automobiles, “digital technologies have so deeply embedded them-
selves into everything we do,” writes Deibert (2020), “it is unrealistic to expect
that we can turn the clock back entirely” (265). Unlike cars, however, in our
digital spaces there are little to no regulations that limit, for example how fast
we can drive, the efficiency standards necessary for cars to exist, or the policies
that limit how many cars we can have on roads at any given time. In the United
States in particular, very few regulations exist around the extent to which our
main information platforms can share information, and with little regard to the
civic or environmental impact of such messaging. The more time we spend in
these unregulated information ecosystems, the more distance grows between
us and our physical surroundings. And the more we are immersed in spaces
that design to usurp our attention (Marantz, 2019), to engage in manipulative
and inequitable information dissemination (Noble, 2018), and to maximise the
extraction of data from users to maximise profits (O’Neil 2016).
One of the largest impacts of these platformed norms is on what media
scholar Douglas Rushkoff (2020) calls an “anti-human agenda” which is
“embedded in our technology, our markets, and our major cultural institu-
tions, from education and religion to civics and media. [this anti-human
agenda] has turned them from forces for human connection and expression
into ones of isolation and repression” (3). This anti-human agenda, Rushkoff
argues in his book Team Human (2020), emerges with intentionality amongst
the vast array of communication technologies that are now at the centre of our
daily lives:
Turkle (2016), exploring the loss of connection that our technologies cre-
ate, references studies that find markers for empathy in young people to be in
decline, and connects to their increasing time spent in digital ecosystems. Like
the automobile, social platforms shield us, with smaller sized metal and glass,
from those around us. They offer us compelling reasons to forgo the efforts of
human engagement, for distracting tidbits of information that we return to
again and again to fill the voids that we feel. In her visual treatment on loneli-
ness, Radtke (2021) reminds us that with every new technological evolution,
we “harken back” towards some more idyllic past. “By now it’s clear that waves
of cultural nostalgia are so often geared towards reclaiming what never quite
existed,” argues Radtke (2021, 202). Radtke, however, does believe that the
sheer ubiquity of media in our lives, and its ability to distort our self-identities,
creates new challenges for how we exist in the world alongside others. We may
have always been a lonely people, but Radtke now sees little time to process
that loneliness, and embrace it.
Where distance exists, trust wanes. Research has shown declining trust in
our media and public institutions for some time now (Brenan, 2021), and
while new research shows that echo chambers and filter bubbles may not be as
prevalent as assumed (Arguedas et al., 2022), what’s clear is that our digital
ecosystems allow for the insertion of disinformation and misinformation that
cast doubt on our ability to trust, connect, and be together in the world. Like
cars passing each other on highways, messages on social media pass us at
increasingly fast speeds, forcing us to make assumptions, to react without
thinking, and to make decisions in information vacuums. This reality, com-
bined with the intentional design of platforms to prioritise that which receives
the most attention, offers a landscape for misinformation and disinformation to
spread and sustain itself online. One recent case where, around the globe, the
spread of misinformation is having significant impacts on public health, com-
munity health, and civic life: the Covid-19 pandemic.
In his book, New Dark Age, James Bridle (2018) interrogates the idea that
supported the enlightenment period: “more knowledge—more information—
leads to better decisions” (p. 10). Instead, Bridle (2018) articulates what he
calls a “darkness” that has enveloped our society in the digital age:
The challenges, then, perhaps lay not in the reform of our media systems,
which will never match the pace of technological innovation, but rather how we
choose to understand the ways in which we engage in the world with others, and
how we combat the distance that our technologies have placed in between us
and those around us. The factionalisation of media and information, in the case
of the Covid-19 infodemic, creates significant risk for our collective well-being.
Donovan and Wardle (2020) note, “Some of the most engaging disinformation
efforts tap into people’s deepest fears about their own safety and that of their
loved ones. That’s in part why the Covid-19 pandemic features the latest swarm
of bad and misinformed actors pushing dangerous narratives” (Para. 9).
automobiles and more time in our local communities, where work and life bal-
ances can be improved.
In our digital culture, we will need to explore what incentives and regula-
tions are needed to focus to reclaim our media for more equitable and robust
civil societies. A renewed focus on community, and how that relates to a human
agenda, how Rushkoff sees a renewed commitment to belonging in our medi-
ated world. “Our personal contributions,” writes Rushkoff, “have greater
effect when they are amplified by a network of peers working in solidarity”
(p. 213). Contributions, amplified by networks, occur frequently in digital cul-
ture. This type of transactional support is beneficial. Online, however, it’s often
designed with groups who think alike and act alike, with little engagement
across ideas, and across differences. A human agenda allows us to be in the
presence of others, connected and engaged. The physical proximity of our
communities creates meaning, value, and purpose. In our mediated spaces, we
imagine such meaning, but it is easily distorted amongst the lack of human
engagement and the abundance of information that we are asked to navigate.
Raghuram Rajan, writing in The Third Pillar, (2019) sees reinvigorated physi-
cal communities as a path to more robust and inclusive belonging:
When members are in close proximity and work together for the community, they
build a stronger community. As people run into one another, as they have to work
with one another for local projects, social capital—as embodied in mutual under-
standing, empathy, and reservoirs of goodwill—accumulates. (p. 328)
Society and solitude are deceptive names. It is not the circumstance of seeing
more or fewer people, but the readiness of sympathy, that imports; and a sound
mind will derive its principles from insight, with ever a purer ascent to the
sufficient and absolute right, and will accept society as the natural element in
which they are to be applied. (Para 16)
In our present digital culture, in which distance pervades our digital lives,
we must see our belonging as necessarily human first, and technological
thereafter.
1 CIVIC DISTANCE: DIGITAL CULTURE’S INTRUSION ON TRUST, ENGAGEMENT… 13
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the flowers in May, Mr. Laird—and there's a fireplace in your room in the
attic. I may be wrong, but it's always seemed to me if a fellow's got a
welcome and an open fire, the attic's just as good as the parlour."
"Where's Moses?" said my uncle; "he'll take your valise up for you. It's
plain, but it's comfortable, Mr. Laird. And if you like it, there's just one way
I want you to show it."
"Don't be in any hurry about leaving," said my uncle with serious air.
"No, we'll think you don't like it if you are," chimed in my aunt.
"I don't know where Moses is," said the Reverend Gordon Laird, his face
as sober as a judge, "but one thing I do know—I've heard of Southern
hospitality, and the half was never told."
"What have you been up to now? You certainly did get out of the way in
a hurry—you've been up to the attic yourself, haven't you, now?" for
mother saw that I was flurried and out of breath when I returned.
It was a little while before I owned up. But I reckoned they'd find out
sooner or later anyhow. "Well," I said at last, "yes, if you will know. I ran up
and put my silver toilet set on the dresser—it helped ever so much to make
things look decent. And I took up those roses from the library—they make
the whole room look different."
"Those roses!" my mother echoed; "why, child, Mr. Giddens sent you
those roses just this morning—they're American beauties, Helen."
"I know it," I answered calmly, "so they'll be something new—to him.
Besides, there's some respect due a clergyman from Edinburgh."
VI
The first thing that caught his eye—after me—was the clerical hat that
hung between two of uncle's broad-rimmed grays. He put it on and made
very merry over it. It was decidedly too large for him too; as soon as he
noticed that, he tipped it jauntily to the back of his head—even then it
looked big. The Reverend Gordon's attic was certainly the best room in his
bodily edifice.
I nodded.
"Up-stairs right now?"
"Yes."
Charlie returned the hat to its peg. Then he took off his overcoat,
disclosing a faultless evening dress, for the theatre was our objective point
that night.
"Nice?"
"How does your mother like him—has she looked him over?"
"I really don't know—he's only been here an hour or two. You certainly
do look nice to-night, Charlie."
"I don't know. I heard uncle telling him to stay as long as he could."
I introduced the two men to each other. They stood talking a little in the
hall—and I watched them while I listened. Charlie was in full dress, as I
have said, with diamond accompaniment; Mr. Laird was in his clericals.
They stood close together, chatting very pleasantly; I thought I had never
seen two finer types of men, both strong and straight and tall—though
Charlie wasn't quite so tall. The Southerner had the keenest face, I thought,
bright and animated, with eager, penetrating eyes, and his whole bearing
was that of a high-minded and successful man of the world. They were
discussing "futures" at the time, I think, suggested doubtless by preliminary
remarks about the weather and the prospect of the cotton crop. I know I was
surprised to observe that the Reverend Gordon Laird was by no means
ignorant of the subject; strange subject, too, when you come to think of it—
futures, which comprise a great deal more than cotton!
Perhaps Charlie had the keener face, as I have said, but there was more
of insight in Mr. Laird's. His were the more wistful eyes, as if they were
looking for something not to be found on the surface. And really, of the two,
the Scotchman seemed to be doing the most of the inspecting; I mean, by
that, that Charlie didn't appear to have the slightest chance to patronize him,
as business men are so apt to do with clergymen. For the minister, his
clerical coat and collar to the contrary notwithstanding, impressed one as
having a certain order of business that was just as important as the other's;
and he seemed to pride himself on it, too, in a reserved sort of way. In fact, I
should hardly say this at all, since I don't know exactly how I could defend
it—but there was an undefinable something about him that made one feel
Mr. Laird reckoned his work quite as necessary to the world's good as that
of any prosperous business man, even of a wealthy ship-owner from
Savannah.
"Have you been long in our country, sir?" Mr. Giddens took advantage of
the first pause to enquire.
"No," said the other. "I'm quite a tenderfoot—it's only two weeks since I
landed at New York. I came straight South to see Dr. Paine; he took a post-
graduate session in Edinburgh, and I met him there. We scraped up quite a
friendship—and that's how I came to visit him."
"Do you sail from New York, returning, Mr. Laird?" I ventured, thinking
I ought to bear some part in the conversation.
"That's what I have heard," said Mr. Laird; "and I'd like to lend a hand,"
he added quietly, the earnestness of his eyes interpreting his words. But
Charlie evidently did not understand him.
"Yes," said the Reverend Gordon Laird; "yes, I guess that's it—yes,
investment."
It was delightful to watch the interest and surprise of our clerical guest,
so new and different did everything appear to him. For our dear Southland
has fashions all its own, each one of them more delicious than another.
Perhaps this is especially true of what we eat, and of how we go about it.
We had a coloured boy with a long feather fan whose duty it was to guard
us from the flies. This amused him vastly; especially once when my aunt
motioned him to look—the dusky Washington was almost asleep, leaning
against the wall. And so many of our dishes seemed to strike the foreigner
as the newest and most palatable things on earth. We had the savoury rock
in little fish-shaped dishes—they looked all ready to swim—and sweet
potatoes and corn bread and fried chicken, and hot biscuits too, and a lot of
other things Scotchmen never see. It was lovely to watch Aunt Agnes' face,
brightening with every recurring exclamation of surprise or pleasure from
our visitor.
On the other hand he was hardly less interesting to us. A really new type
is something to which a little Southern town is seldom treated—we are so
fearfully native-born. And Gordon Laird (the Reverend can't be always
used) seemed to bring with him the flavour of the world without. His accent
was so different, as I have said; and many of his terms were so unfamiliar to
us. For instance, we soon remarked that he referred to the Episcopal church
as the Church of England; and once or twice he spoke of the "Kirk
Session," which had to be explained; and he rarely used the term "pastor,"
or "preacher," as we did—it was always "minister" with him. It was most
interesting, too, to hear him talk of Edinburgh, of its castle, its Holyrood, its
Princes Street, its Scott's monument, its haunts of Knox and memories of
Burns.
"Fo' de Lawd, Miss Helen, dat new preacher, he's got a heap o' learnin',"
Lyddie said one day, "an' he knows how to let it out, dat's sho'."
That very first night, that first supper, I mean, found us all listening with
great intentness to his description of much we had hardly ever heard of
before. I remember he spoke of higher criticism, giving the names of two or
three great Scottish scholars, and he seemed a little disappointed to find we
had never heard of the latter and but little more than heard of the former. He
spoke, it seemed to me, as if this higher criticism were a matter of great
importance, almost as if it were troubling his own soul—but this I did not
understand till long after.
The discussion ran so steadily along church lines that even Charlie, who
was not very strong on matters ecclesiastical, contributed a question.
"What church does your Queen belong to, Mr. Laird?" he asked.
"To the Presbyterian," replied our guest, looking very candidly at the
questioner; "when she is in Scotland, that is."
"Oh," said Charlie, "I always thought she belonged to the State church."
"So she does," replied the other, "and that is the State church of
Scotland."
"Miss Helen thinks that's fine," broke in my uncle. "I'm sure her far-off
ancestors must have been Scotch Presbyterians, Mr. Laird. She's a regular
Puritan—in theory."
I was silent, not knowing just what to say. Yet I felt that uncle's statement
was quite just all the time. For, ever since a child, I had had a kind of
passionate devotion to the church of my fathers; yet it is only fair to add
that if there was one girl in all our town who would not have been called
religious, who would, in fact, have been called a gay society girl—what a
poor garish definition that seems to me now!—I was that very one.
"What her uncle says about Helen reminds me of something I must tell
you, Mr. Laird," began my mother, breaking the silence that had followed
his rather pointed question. "I always taught her the Shorter Catechism
when she was a little girl—made her learn it, at least—and one Sunday
afternoon I was following her around the yard trying to get her to answer
what is Sanctification; well, she suddenly turned to me, and what do you
think she said?"
"'What's the use, mother,' she said, 'of teaching me all this—when
perhaps I won't marry a Presbyterian at all?'"
"All the more need of it then," replied our guest amid the laugh that
followed; "it won't be wasted anyhow, whoever the lucky man may be. It's
wonderful how that catechism stays with you, when once it gets in the
blood. I learned it on the hills of Scotland," he went on, his deep eyes
brightening as if the memory gave him joy, "and I hardly ever wander now
in wild or lonely regions without its great words coming back to me. They
go well together, I always think—they're both lofty."
"On the hills?" echoed Mr. Giddens, who had never lived outside the
city; "did your father send you there to learn it?—pretty hard lines, I should
say."
"Oh, no," Mr. Laird answered simply, "my work lay there. I used to take
care of sheep on the hills—I was a herd laddie, as they call them in
Scotland. My father is a shepherd."
I felt, rather than saw, the consternation that came on every face.
"What did you say about your father?" my uncle asked involuntarily,
looking up impulsively from his plate. Now, uncle was a gentleman, if ever
one was born, but this intimation fairly swept him off his feet. "You were
speaking about your father, were you not?" he amended, thinking the
question more delicate in this form.
"Yes, yes, I see," rejoined my uncle. "Have some more of the ice-cream,
Mr. Laird. Washington, pass the ice-cream to the gentleman." It was funny,
had it not been so real, to see uncle's consternation. This was something
new to my patrician relative.
"Do let me help you to a little more of this chocolate cake," broke in my
aunt.
"And your coffee cup is empty," added my mother. Both showed the
sudden perturbation that had laid hold of uncle, for which the only outlet
was this sudden freshet of hospitality.
"No, thank you," our guest answered quietly, "I've had quite enough—
you Southerners would soon kill a man with kindness. Yes," he went on,
resuming the interrupted theme, "the catechism goes well with the
shepherd's crook; if there's any one calling in the world that's been
productive of plain living and high thinking, it's the shepherd's."
"But it's a fact," our Scotch visitor went on quite earnestly; "it's
wonderful the difference there has been, as a class, between the shepherds
and the ploughmen, in Scotland. The shepherds have been so much
superior; their eyes were constantly lifted to the hills, you see, and the
others had to keep theirs on the ground. Besides, their work developed a
sense of responsibility—and it took a tender man to make a good shepherd.
Oh, yes, the shepherds of Scotland have been a noble race of men."
"I'd sooner see the shepherds on the hills," cried I. "I'd love to see the
heather—and the mists rolling back over the mountains, like I've read about
in Scott."
"Have you never been to the old world, Miss Helen?" our guest enquired
of me.
"No, never," I replied; "I've never been from under the stars and stripes."
"But she's contemplating a European trip, Mr. Laird," Mr. Giddens broke
in, looking very knowingly at me.
Mr. Laird turned and looked at me. I know my face betrayed me. But if
he put two and two together he didn't give us the result. "I hope you'll bring
your mother with you when you come," was all he said.
"Then you must choose a fair-weather season for your voyage," pressed
Charlie, maintaining an excellent gravity.
"But you can't always tell," said I. "Often the storms don't come till you
get out to sea."
VII
We went to the theatre that night, Charlie and I, as we had arranged. But
one-half of us didn't enjoy it very much. The play was a light, frivolous
thing, and I so defined it to Charlie before the second act was through.
"I thought you liked the gay and festive sort," he said; "I do believe this
preachers' convocation is having a depressing influence on you," which
remark I resented not a little; whatever my weaknesses were, I knew
susceptibility to the clergy was not one of them.
"Nothing of the sort," I retorted; "but the thing isn't true to life—life was
never one long cackle like that. Besides, they haven't any fire on, and it's
cold—and I'm going home after the next act."
Which I did, sure enough, and took Charlie with me. Our seats were near
the front; and I must confess I did enjoy our procession down the aisle. I
could see the looks of admiration on every hand—of envy, too, from some
maidenly and matronly eyes.
Charlie was so tall and straight and handsome, and had such an original
head of hair. Besides, most of our townspeople knew he was an aristocrat—
our little city made a specialty of aristocracy—and absolutely all of them
knew that he was rich. The darkies had a good deal to do with this, I fancy.
My admirer had come from far away, from a city, too, and all the sons of
Ham invest the stranger from a distance with the glory of wealth untold.
But white folks aren't so very different after all; it's a very odd sort of girl
that doesn't take some satisfaction out of these far-travelled pilgrims that
come hundreds of miles, and stay several days at the best hotel, just to
worship at her feet. A local sweetheart is all very well in his way—but the
whole town doesn't know when he comes. Besides, it's so convenient for the
local to pay his homage that it may mean very much or very little. But when
a lover comes across a couple of states, leaving behind him a big city—and
all the girls that are sorry to see him go, that's the best of it—that is
something else, as we used to say in the South. It means his temperature
must be about a hundred and twenty in the shade, as I have heard Uncle
Henry say many a time.
Yes, I was proud enough of Charlie as we walked the full length of the
theatre that night, he keeping close behind and carrying my white opera
cloak on his arm. I remember an old maid—and they are the best authority
on such matters—telling me that Charlie had a very caressing way of
carrying a cloak, as if it were a sacred thing. I have thought quite a little
over this, and I believe there's something in it.
I cannot say I was sorry when I heard voices in the library as we came in
the house. And that's a bad sign when a girl's in love. There should be no
such music to a love-lorn pair as dead silence in the library when they come
home through the dark. When the poet sang of voices of the night I'm sure
he meant just two.
The Presbytery meeting was evidently over, for they were all home, Mr.
Furvell among them. Now I should have said at the outset that Mr. Furvell,
although he was our pastor and much beloved at that, was really quite a
Puritan of a man. And I was sure, as soon as he shook hands with me that
night, that he was concerned about my soul.
"Did you enjoy the play, Miss Helen?" he said, looking as solemnly at
me as though I had spent the evening where Dives was when he asked for a
drop of water to cool his tongue.
"No," said I, "it was a fool play," whereat Mr. Furvell looked a little
comforted.
"We had a beautiful service at the Presbytery," he went on, his solemnity
but little diluted; "the Lord was with us, Miss Helen," with an intonation
that implied a monopoly. "You'd have been more profited if you had been
there. Don't you think so, Mr. Laird?"
Charlie gave a little gasp. "We're at our devotions right now ourselves,"
he said, so low that uncle could not hear. Then we had a swift little debate. I
was for prayers, and Charlie said he believed they had brought that whole
Presbytery together just to convert me. Which, I retorted, would be like
training all the guns of the American navy on one little house fly.
Anyhow, we went in—even Charlie couldn't have done anything else—
and the Reverend Gordon Laird had the Bible in his hand.
"Oh! I mean, do you have singing at family worship? It's a very common
custom in Scotland—they usually go together."
So Mr. Laird spoke a few words about their Scottish Psalmody—I had
never heard the term before—and he said there were no hymns to touch
them, for strength and grandeur. I consider this epoch-making, in a certain
sense; for the psalms of David have been the songs in the house of my
pilgrimage for long years now.
Suddenly uncle asked him to sing one for us. He seemed quite willing,
and we all listened eagerly; except Charlie, who thought, I fancied, that it
was a waste of precious time.
I love to sit and think again of that wonderful experience. Uncle was
there, and my Aunt Agnes, and my precious mother; my promised husband,
too, was of the little company. I can see again the look of expectation,
surprise, and almost wonder as the young minister, with serious mien, sang
us one of the psalms of his native land. He chose the eighty-ninth—I know
them nearly all by number now. Our visitor's voice was not so cultured as
some I have heard, but it was clear and sweet, and his ear was true,—and,
best of all, his whole soul seemed to be in the great words as they rose
slowly from his lips. The words are so noble that I must write them out.
So ran the mighty song. But I think we felt the grandeur of it most when he
sang the next two lines:
which impressed me then, and still impresses me, as the most majestic
union of words I ever heard in any form of religious song.
"So it was," said Mr. Laird. "The martyrs have sung those words—
hundreds of them. That psalm was a favourite with the Covenanters."
"The what?" interjected Mr. Giddens. "The Covenanters, did you say?
Who were they?"
"The Covenanters," replied Mr. Laird. "And I consider that's the greatest
name ever given to a band of men."
"No, sir—they were a religious army," answered Mr. Laird. "And I've
got their blood in my veins. Some of my ancestors laid down their lives for
their faith—and this world never saw an aristocracy like to them." His
cheeks were flushed, his whole face animated with a wonderful light—and
he looked really beautiful. Never shall I forget the expression on the faces
round me; they didn't know what to make of this so unfamiliar kind of man.
But Charlie was not through with the subject yet. "Well, that kind of
thing may have suited them," he began again, "and there certainly is a kind
of strength about it. But I don't like it as well as our church hymns," he
continued, smiling.
"I didn't think you would," replied the minister, not smiling at all.
Then Mr. Laird took the Bible and went on with worship. He first read a
bit from the Scriptures, though what part it was I cannot remember. After
that he prayed. A beautiful, simple prayer—I thought it was so manly,
though that's a strange word to apply to a prayer. But he never did think, as
I came to know well enough later on, that God cares to have us abase
ourselves just for the sake of doing so. Strangely enough, the only one thing
I definitely remember about his prayer is that he said: "Give us a good
night's rest," and it struck me as a beautifully simple petition.
There is one feature of that evening's worship that lingers with me very
vividly. After we knelt down—his chair was a few feet from mine—Charlie
crept over to the sofa where I was kneeling and bowed down beside me. It
thrilled me so—perhaps not in terms of Charlie Giddens exactly—but it was
the first time I ever thought of love and prayer going together. And I recall
how overpoweringly it came to me that there could, surely, be nothing more
sweet than this, that two who loved each other should pray together, and
should feel that even death could never separate them, because their love
was set in the light of the Invisible. Charlie took my hand, too, and I rather
think his eyes were open—I know his face was turned to mine—but I
couldn't be sure of this, for my own were tightly closed.
I went outside the door with Charlie after he had said good-night to all
but me; and I do not think the silent night ever appeared so glorious before.
There was no moon, but the stars were shining calmly overhead, and a
sweet stillness, fragrant with the breath of spring, was all about us. I could
hear the twittering of birds in the magnolia tree, and wondered if they were
the love-lorn pair I had seen taking shelter there.
I fancy I was still thinking of the great words and the great thoughts of
the swelling psalm, but Charlie seemed to have forgotten all about it. He
evidently didn't want anything but me. And his voice was full of tender
passion as he began and pressed his suit again—right away, he said, it must
be right away. And he rang the changes a little on the yacht and Europe—I
wished so much he hadn't mentioned these, for I felt, in a kind of hungry
way, that they had nothing to do with the real case. He told me how much
he loved me, and how empty life would be without me at his side—but this
was in between, and I felt, away down in my heart, that he wasn't putting
things in their proper places. But he put his arm about me, and kissed me,
three or four times, I think. And then he tried again to make me promise—
but I wouldn't.
"When we go abroad, we'll go and see where that parson used to herd the
sheep," he said, and laughed. "It's a wonder he didn't bring his collie with
him, isn't it?" and I felt my cheeks burn with resentment at the jest. But I
didn't let him see it—for I felt I had no right to resent it. Besides, he had
herded sheep on the hills—he said so himself—and that was the worst of it.
I thought something like that then, at least, poor fool.
"Let me see its light again," said Charlie, taking my hand and looking at
my engagement ring; "it makes the whole night radiant, doesn't it?" with
which he kissed it, and held it to my lips that I might do the same. I couldn't
help glancing proudly at it, too, for it was a beauty—and mother said no girl
of our circle had ever had one so valuable.
Then Charlie went away and I went back into the parlour. They were all
there except Mr. Laird.
"Well, I took him to the attic myself," said my Aunt Agnes, "and it was
right amusing to see how he went on over it. I had told Lyn to light the fire,
and it really looked cozy in the dark when we went in. He said it was a
room fit for a king—said he felt sorry for the elder. Oh! he was just lovely
about it."
"You're right there," said my uncle, rising and moving towards the gas
jet, for he was sleepy. "That's the truth all right—he's different enough from
what we usually see. I think he's refreshing, if you ask me. But he had better
go slow about expressing his views on these niggers—if he doesn't want to
get into trouble. That's one thing sure."
"I wish he had told us a little more about his folks," said my Aunt Agnes,
yawning, and winding up her watch. "Did you notice he didn't tell us
anything about his father, except that he was a shepherd—that he is a
shepherd," she revised, "for he's still living. I do wonder if he's engaged,"
she added, placing the screen in front of the fire as she spoke.
No argument could avail against this very easily, and the matter stood as
before.
"Oh!" my uncle suddenly exclaimed, his hand upon the chandelier, "I
forgot to give him this letter—Mr. Furvell gave it to me for him at the
church; it was sent on in care of Dr. Paine. But he can get it in the
morning," as he deposited it on the mantel.
"I wanted to see what the old country stamp is like," I answered calmly,
my eyes still on the envelope. Aunt Agnes was looking over my shoulder in
an instant.
"It's a man's handwriting," said she.
"And it's got Virginia spelled with two n's," she added sorrowfully.
"You don't mean to say so!" said my mother, moving over to join us.
"The more the merrier," said my uncle; "and I'm going to put out the gas,
if it had a dozen. All aboard for the upper deck."
Wherewith we all moved towards the stairs. "The last I saw of your
Gordon Laird," said my aunt to me as we went up together, "he was
standing with his face hidden in those roses."
"Oh!" said I, "did you tell him who it was took them to his room?"
VIII
There's something lovely about having a lovely time. Now I know that
looks like a very foolish sentence when one reads it over after having
written it down. So many sentences are like that; you think they're strong,
beautiful, full of meaning and bright with fancy, while you're getting them
out—then they appear so pale and thin when you look them over. They're
like the fish that you're playing in the water: "What a whopper," you say,
"I've got this time!"—but how thin and small when it lies panting on the
grass.
Yet I venture to repeat, as Mr. Furvell says in his sermons, I venture to
repeat: there's something lovely about having a lovely time. In this, I mean,
that it can never be taken away from you. There will, you know, be cold,
dark days, and bitter disappointments, and burning tears, and emptiness of
heart, till you quite forget that ever you were glad. But, even so, all these
can never rob you of that one hour, or day, or month of pleasure unalloyed.
Mr. Laird used to say something like this in the long happy days that
followed his arrival. It had not been hard to persuade him to prolong his
visit. Fortunately for us, his friend Dr. Paine was engaged to go, the very
next week, to the meeting of the General Assembly at Dallas; so it was
arranged Mr. Laird should tarry with us till he returned, perhaps longer—for
I think it was about decided that he was to take up mission work in Canada.
When I say those days were happy, I mean in a perfectly sane and
unfeverish kind of way, of course, with no thought of—of what every
woman looks for in every book she reads. That is, no calm and courageous
thought of it; although I shouldn't wonder if something of that, more or less
diluted, lies back of all real joy. Anyhow, Mr. Laird said that very thing, and
more than once, about the unloseableness of one hour or day of real
happiness. Whatever has been before of pain, or whatever may be ahead of
sorrow, he said, neither the one nor the other can ever make pure gladness
as if it had never been. It belongs to you forever, said the Reverend Gordon
Laird.
I should have known that I had no right to be so happy. For one thing,
Charlie had gone back to Savannah, and I should have been miserable over
that, if conscience had been half as faithful as it should have been. Then,
besides, he was waiting for my decision about Europe and the yacht—and I
had no claim to happiness till that was settled. And, most of all, I wasn't
sure about my love for him—very far from it—and so I should have been
quite wretched.
But I wasn't. I was shamefully happy. We were all happy, I think, to see
our visitor so thoroughly delighted with everything about him. After all is
said and done, American people take it as a compliment when old-country
folks seem to like them. I don't think we ever forget, even the most
democratic of us, that they have dukes and lords across the sea. And Mr.
Laird did seem so perfectly happy. For one thing, the weather was
delightful, and morning after morning found him and me—there was no one
else to act as cicerone—walking or driving about the lovely haunts that
surrounded our quiet little city. Everything was in the glory of bud and
blossom; fragrance was wafted on every breeze; the wistaria and the yellow
jasmine were gathered from a thousand trees. Sometimes we had picnics
too, making our way on our asthmatic little launch up the winding river;
sometimes we went together to the oyster market at the wharf, where he
seemed to be quite enchanted with the negroes' singing. "On the other side
of Jordan," I remember, was a great favourite of his, and he used to get
them to sing it again and again.
One day we were all on the piazza, engaged in that most delightful
occupation of waiting for dinner to be announced, catching savoury whiffs
the while that betokened its near approach. All of a sudden a coal-black
negress came through the back gate and stood at the foot of the porch steps.
Beside her stood a little curly-headed boy, about three years of age, clinging
to his mother's hand. She had been asking for something at the kitchen door,
I think—they were always asking for something, those darkies. Of course
we simply looked at her; I don't believe uncle quite did that—I think he
pretended to be reading a newspaper. But Mr. Laird, in his impulsive way,
went right down the steps and began talking to the woman. It was really
aggravating to see how flattered she seemed to be by his attention. And
then, to our horror—clergyman as he was and in full ministerial dress—Mr.
Laird actually took that pickaninny up, and flung him onto his shoulder,
pretending to be a horse or something of that sort. And the little negro dug
his hands into Mr. Laird's ruddy locks, while his Anglo-Saxon steed made
an exhibition of himself, galloping once or twice around the flower bed.
The mother grinned with delight in a way that I knew fairly maddened
uncle.
When Mr. Laird finally returned, panting, to his chair, uncle had quite a
time controlling himself to speak.
"Do you know who that child is, sir?" said my uncle, keeping his voice
under fine control.
"No," said Mr. Laird, innocent of everything; "no, I never saw him
before—do you, Mr. Lundy?"
Uncle threw his newspaper on the floor without a word. Mr. Laird, still
all unconscious, meekly stooped and picked it up. "I guess I'd better go and
fix my hair before dinner," he said, running his fingers through the startled
thatch.
"You'd better wash your hands, sir," said my uncle sternly, oblivious to
muttered appeals from both Aunt Agnes and my mother; "I'll tell you who
that child is, sir—it's a coon."
"Well?" said Mr. Laird, looking uncle very steadfastly in the eye.
"Well," echoed my uncle, "yes, well." Then he paused, but soon gathered
fresh strength. "And I hardly need to tell you, I presume, sir, that it's not our
custom to fondle darkey babies—they're supposed to soil white hands, sir,"
he declared, waxing warm.
Mr. Laird looked innocently at his own. "It hasn't injured mine any, Mr.
Lundy," he said simply. "I don't quite understand what caused the—the
panic," he concluded, still looking very steadfastly at uncle.
"Well, then, sir, I may as well tell you plainly that such an action as
yours would be considered quite—quite improper, to say the least. We don't
take familiarities like that with negro children."
"They're harmless enough while you keep them in their place, sir,"
retorted my uncle. "But you must know that our people down here have
their own way of doing that. And you don't understand the situation, sir, you
don't understand the situation," repeated Uncle Henry, employing the
favourite formula of the South. "For instance, I heard you express surprise
at something the other day. You remember when Smallwood, the rector of
the Coloured Episcopal Church, called to ask Mrs. Lundy for a subscription
—you seemed horrified that he went to the back door, because he was a
preacher and dressed up like a bishop."
"I don't think any more of them for that," was the quiet retort of Mr.
Laird.
"That may be, sir. They'll stand your contempt, sir—but they won't let a
pack of negroes walk all over 'em," my uncle's gorge rising again. "And I
hope to God none of our neighbours saw you on the gallop round our back
yard with a negro brat astride of you. You'd be finished here, sir, if they did.
Just before that wench came in here with her young 'un, I was going to tell
you that I met Mr. Furvell, and he asked me to give you an invitation, for
him, to preach in our church next Sunday. Well, sir, I hope it'll stand all
right—but if it got round town that you made a saddle-horse out of yourself
for a nigger whelp to ride, you'd have the church to yourself, sir; I reckon a
few old women might go to hear you, but you wouldn't have enough men
there to take up the collection."
"I can't do it, Mr. Lundy," said the minister, with amazing quietness.
"Can't preach for your friend," replied the other. "I'm engaged."
"Engaged to preach."
"Where?" said uncle, quite forgetful now of the debate. I think the same
question came in the same breath from my mother and Aunt Agnes.
"In the Coloured Methodist Church—I think they call it Zion," Mr. Laird
informed us calmly. "I was there the other day at a funeral—pretty
boisterous funeral it was, too—and the preacher got hold of me. They took
up a collection," Mr. Laird laughed, "and that was how they located me. I
didn't have anything but a shilling—a quarter, you call it. Well, he invited
me to preach for him next Sabbath, and I agreed. So I won't be able to
oblige Mr. Furvell."
"Good God!" said my Uncle Henry. My uncle was not a profane man—
but this was something extra.
"Don't get excited, Henry, don't," began my mother; "Mr. Laird can
easily change all that—he can get released from his engagement. He didn't
know we wanted him in our church."
"I'm not excited, ma'am," puffed my uncle; "I was never calmer in my
life—but the thing's preposterous, madam. It's utterly absurd—it's
ridiculous."
"Yes, yes," broke in my Aunt Agnes, "of course, it's the easiest thing in
the world to arrange. All Mr. Laird has to do is to explain to that coloured
preacher that——"
"But I can't," interrupted Mr. Laird; "that is, I won't." The word fell
strangely on the ears of Southern ladies. "I gave him my promise—and
that's the end of it. I'll preach in Zion Church—or whatever they call it—
next Sabbath morning. If the Lord will," he added, with what appeared to us
all quite superfluous piety. I didn't know then that Scotch people never take
any chances.
"But you don't realize what you're doing, sir," remonstrated my uncle;
"you fail to realize——"
"I'm doing what no man will prevent," broke in our visitor, and his eye
was flashing like the diamond on my finger; "I'm going to preach the
Gospel to them, if I get the chance."
"That's all right," began my uncle, "that's all right in its way, but——"
"What's all right in its way?" demanded the Reverend Gordon Laird, his
voice quite resounding now.
"Thank you," gave back Mr. Laird, his strong Scotch lip trembling,
"you're very magnanimous, sir."
"But you don't know what you're exposing yourself to," pursued my
uncle, apparently deaf to Mr. Laird's retort. "They'll make a fool of you in
the pulpit, sir. I'll tell you something, sir. Your sermon will be wasted. We
had a man here once—a white man—an evangelist, who expected to move
on anyhow. And he tried this little trick of yours—he preached to those
coons in their own church one day. And I heard later how they made a fool
of him. He preached about folks having to use the means. Good sermon,
too, sir. But he was no sooner through than the nigger preacher got up after
him—and he said he'd give them a little illustration. Then he told them a
ribald yarn, sir, right in the church; said he and his ten-year-old brother
were in bed once, and they heard their mother telling their father of some
devilment they'd been up to; and the father said he'd go up-stairs when he
had finished his supper. Well, this nigger preacher went on to say he got up
to pray—but his brother—his brother believed in using the means; and so
he said he wouldn't pray, but he'd get up and put something on. That's what
he told them, sir—an indecent tale—and the white preacher had to sit and
hear it," concluded my uncle, his cheeks burning with indignation.
"I won't give the black brother a chance to illustrate," said Mr. Laird
stolidly; "I'll close the service when I'm through." Then he laughed.
"You're trifling with me, sir," said my Uncle Henry chokingly, rising as
he spoke. I saw the quick pallor come to the cheek of my Aunt Agnes; as for
my mother, she was fairly trembling. As for me—well, I was terrified.
But just at this crisis a remarkable thing occurred. Mr. Laird didn't seem
to notice my uncle's movement at all. Indeed, he was not looking in his
direction, but sat gazing intently out towards the road that ran down to the
river and the bridge. Involuntarily my eyes followed his, and a moment
sufficed to reveal the object of his interest. For down the road towards us
there crept a fragile figure, swaying unsteadily, overborne with weakness
and her heavy load. This too was a negro woman, but cast in finer mould
than the stalwart black who had disappeared from view. The one who had
just hove in sight, as I could see even at that distance, was a comely
creature, more white than black, but yet bearing the fatal hue.
She was heavy laden, as I have implied. One arm bore a great bundle
enclosed in a white sheet—laundry, doubtless—while on the other she
carried a plump and complacent infant, crowing as it came, in that fine
oblivion of weight which marks the procession of the heaviest babies
everywhere. The young mother was pressing towards the river; a rusty skiff
lay beside the bridge, in which, no doubt, she was to make her way to the
negro settlement on the farther shore. She seemed ready to faint from the
fatigue of her double burden, yet she pressed on with almost rapid steps, as
if she must keep up till she reached the boat.
It was this that had attracted the attention of Mr. Laird, so rapt in
observance that he evidently did not mark my uncle's movements. For the
latter had hardly risen before our visitor sprang quickly to his feet—I can
see him now, the tall black-robed figure, with high brow and auburn hair—
and strode down swiftly towards the road. Another moment brought him
alongside of the exhausted negress, whose white eyes could be seen wearily
surveying him as he approached. Without a word he seized both burdens
from her arms, the baby held high aloft as he led the way down to the boat.
The mother straightened herself and followed closely, as if she had taken a
new lease of life—it was not all due to the burdens she had lost, I'm sure—
and the heavy baby crowed with delight at this improved style of
locomotion. When, lo—miserabile dictu! as I learned in Virgil—this second
pickaninny, with that tonsorial instinct which seems to mark the race,
plunged its pudgy fingers where those of its predecessor had held high revel
one brief half hour agone, squealing for very joy as it clutched the auburn
mane of the Reverend Gordon Laird.
"Don't that beat the—the Dutch?" muttered my Uncle Henry from the
porch, gazing at the tall and supple form, the now laughing and half boyish
face, as our guest strode on towards the river, the baby and the bale like
feathers in his arms. A funny smile was on uncle's face, half of contempt,
half of admiration. "Those two brats both into his hair!" he murmured to
himself—"and I sure enough got into his wool," as the grin deepened on his
face.
"Let him go," said my uncle between his teeth; "he's chosen his company
and he can have it. By heavens," he went on hotly, "I was never so insulted
in my life. What the—the dickens kind of a man is this Scotchman anyhow?
—I've seen men shot for less than this. I remember once in Texas——"
"But, Henry," ventured my Aunt Agnes, "you shouldn't be so hard on
him—he doesn't understand our——"
"Then why the devil doesn't he keep his mouth shut?" snorted my uncle;
"comin' down here—like those infernal Yankees—an' tryin' to teach us how
to run our niggers. I've seen men reach for their hip pockets for less'n that,"
declared my uncle, glaring round the circle.
"Now, now, Henry," said my mother gently, "that'll do, Henry. You're not
much of an assassin—you know that. Besides, you can't help admiring his
pluck, can you, now?"
"He's too —— plucky," muttered Uncle Henry, gazing at the now distant
boat. Then followed a season of calm, broken only by the soft voices of my
aunt and mother as they tried to pour oil on the troubled waters.
"And what do you say? What's your opinion of your Gordon Laird—and
his nigger friends?" uncle suddenly demanded, turning on me as stern an
eye as dear old uncle could ever treat me to. I had not yet spoken.
"I don't know. But I think he's glorious—just glorious," I said, looking
very straight at uncle. "And I don't care who knows it," I added. I believe I
stood up as I spoke—and I could feel my eyes flashing. "And you were
horrid to him," I cried, my voice trembling.
But the latter didn't seem to hear what my mother said. He was staring at
me in a way that let me know the battle was won. He was a true Southerner,
was uncle, and if anything in the world appealed to him, it was courage. Yet
he had by no means surrendered.
"Then you can meet him when he comes back," he said slowly in a
minute, nodding towards the river; "you can meet him and say good-bye for
the rest of us. You'll make our farewells to him, you see. And tell him the
world is wide—you can remember that, can't you, Helen?"
I smiled up into uncle's face. "I won't say good-bye for anybody but
Helen Randall," I replied, speaking just as slowly as he had done, "but I'll
do that—if I have to. And I'll tell him—I'll tell him," I repeated, gazing
down the sunlit river towards the sea, "that the world isn't so wide after all."
And I know not why, but a strange thrill swept over me from head to foot;
for the day was beautiful, and the fleecy clouds were overhead, and the air
was laden with the sweet breath of flowers, and God's sunlight was on the
river—and the river flowed on in silence to the sea.
Uncle Henry turned away and presently began a little pace up and down
the piazza. Fragments of the storm could still be heard: "Preach the Gospel,
indeed—act as assistant to a nigger. A pretty pass, when our guests turn
nurse for darkey coons—the attic's too small for him now," as he crossed
and recrossed the porch's sounding floor.
Presently he stopped and looked out over the river. The rest of us did not
need to look—we had been watching all the time. And, away at the end of
the long bridge—it was one of the longest in the state, nearly a mile—we
could just descry the moving figure, all in black again, of our returning
guest. He was coming back afoot, leaving the skiff to its owners.
Aunt Agnes took advantage of a long silence on uncle's part. "Well," she
said, "I guess I'll order dinner served; we can't wait any longer."
"That's what I say," agreed my mother; "we may just as well go on—it'll
be better anyhow," she added significantly.
"We were just saying we wouldn't wait dinner any longer," was the
explanation, "and anyhow, 'twould be better to go on—ourselves.
Considering everything, you know," and my Aunt Agnes sighed.
Uncle stopped still and straightened himself up. "There'll be no dinner
till he comes," he said firmly, "if it's an hour. I hope I don't forget what's due
to a guest," as he looked gravely round the circle, "and especially a stranger
in a strange land." This was said with the air of a king and a very noble king
at that.
IX
LOVE'S TUTORSHIP
But those were happy days, as I have said already. Neither of us knew, I
fancy, whence came the silent music that was slowly gathering in our
hearts. But it was there, even though it came in secret strains, neither
recognizing, neither declaring. Of course, I was an engaged girl—and I was
trying to live up to it. I flaunted Charlie's ring, sometimes; and I often wrote
to him, sitting in the very same room with Mr. Laird the while, at my own
little desk in the corner. This itself had been one of Charlie's Christmas
presents. And I kept Charlie's letters in the tiny drawer in the top, but I had
so often been careless about it that mother saw to it herself that it was kept
securely locked; I knew where the key was secreted—on the ledge above
the library door. Mother said I really ought to carry it on a little gold chain
around my neck; but I had no chain—and I never could bear to have things
concealed about my person. Mother never glanced at his letters, of course—
but I sometimes used to show her bits of mine after I had written them, and
mother would suggest a word here and there, a little tenderer than the
original, and I would stick them in like plums in a pudding. Indeed—I may
as well tell it—mother rewrote a part of the one in which I kind of finally
renounced any immediate prospect of Europe and the yacht. She said no
member of our family had ever been so gifted with the pen as I—but that I
was a little astray on the facts. So she fixed my letter in a way to prevent it
being very final—for she said if it was ordained that I should go even yet, it
would be wrong to make it impossible. I fancied at the time that this was a
little like lending omnipotence a hand—but mother was an old-time
Calvinist, especially on the subject of me and Charlie, so I presumed it must
be all right to have it as she said.
I don't think any of them, and mother least of all, ever fancied that Mr.
Laird had the remotest connection with my engagement to Charlie. For he
was a minister—and that itself would be supposed to settle it as far as I was
concerned. Besides, he was a minister without a church, a kind of free lance
on a holiday. Then, too, we knew he was poor; he never said so, but there
are always certain signs; and he took great care of his clothes, and seemed
very cautious about money, except when he came across some one who was
very poor. And I'm sure we all remembered, though we almost never spoke
of it, that he had been a shepherd, and that his father was still keeping sheep
on the hills of Scotland—it never seemed to embarrass him a bit to refer to
this, which we all thought very strange.
Then, on the other hand, we hadn't the slightest reason—for a long time
at least—to think he cared a single thing for me. Indeed, I was just a little
piqued about this; one evening I took some fresh flowers to his room in the
attic, and his diary was lying open on the table. I don't know why—I have
no excuses to make at all—but my eye fell on the entry for the first day or
two he had been with us. I only glanced at it—any girl would, I think—to
see what he said about us. And I found references to uncle, and my mother,
and Aunt Agnes—even to Lyn and Moses more than once—but not a single
word about me. I didn't care a straw—only I had a good mind to take the
violets down-stairs with me again. But I didn't.
I have always fancied I would have been a good deal more interested if I
had thought he was engaged. But I soon made up my mind he wasn't,
although I had declared so stoutly to the contrary. For he never seemed to
want to be alone, especially in the twilight—and that's a sure sign; and he
left all his letters lying around after he had written them; and when he sang,
which he did very nicely, he preferred "Scots Wha' Ha'e" to "Annie Laurie";
and he was never melancholy, and never sighed—and he never asked the
price of things you need for house-keeping. So all these signs convinced me
thoroughly.
I have already said he didn't seem to care a thing for me. And yet—and
yet! For one thing, he loved to hear me sing—and he taught me two or three
of the old psalms that were in a leather-bound book he brought down-stairs
one day. Then he seemed so happy when I said I thought them beautiful.
And he talked with me so gently and reasonably about the darkey question
that I finally came to admit he did right in preaching in that coloured
church. And I wondered why he cared for what I thought at all. Besides all
this, he tried to get my promise that I would take a class in the Sunday-
school after he was gone—and I remember the gray kind of feeling I had
inside of me when he spoke of going away. I wouldn't promise, for I was
about as fit to teach a class as I was to be President of the United States—
but I promised to help in the library.
By and by, though I can't tell how, we even came to speaking about
Charlie. And he praised him, said he was such a clever business man, and
handsome. I didn't think much of that; but one evening, when we were
sitting on the shore all alone, he said he thought an engagement was such a
sacred thing—and he urged me, in a veiled kind of way, always to be true to
Charlie. And it was then I began to know—any true girl would know there
was something, when he talked like that.
"I think you should," he said, but his voice was so strange that I
wondered where all his strength had gone to.
"What makes you say that?" I replied, and I don't believe my own voice
was quite natural.
"I'm about as happy now," I answered, "as any girl could hope to be."
"Just like I am, I mean," I hastened to enlarge, "with a lovely house, and
having a lovely time—and uncle and aunt and mother all so good to me."
"The same as love—real love," he answered slowly. "It isn't the same at
all—the other is a new life altogether. That's what makes life holy—and
beautiful," he said, his voice so low I could scarcely hear. "That's the whole
of life—every bit of it," he added softly.
I answered never a word. And in a moment he went on. "Yes, that's my
highest wish for you, Miss Helen—that you may find a sphere worthy of
you. For you'll forgive me, won't you, when I say you haven't found it yet?
You've got a wonderful nature," he suddenly startled me with, "and you've
got gifts and qualities that can be so useful, so wonderfully useful—and
they can give you such deep happiness too," he went earnestly on, "if they
only get a chance—if you only give them a chance; if they're developed, I
mean. And nothing will ever ripen them but—but that."
"But love," he answered gently. "No woman's life ever really ripens
except through love. And—forgive me again, but I must say it—you're not
getting the most out of life, living as you are now, Miss Helen."
"Oh," he began slowly, "I guess you know. Nobody can have a nature
like yours without knowing when it's not being satisfied. You have no work
—no calling, I mean. And you don't have any recreation, except only
pleasure—a little party here, and a picnic there, a card party yonder, and an
afternoon tea somewhere else. You know what I mean—all those things—
and a nature like yours can't live on confections," he added, smiling. "That's
why I'll be glad—when the other happens."
"You know," he said; and the great eyes looked solemnly and wistfully
into-mine.
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