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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 16, Vol. I, April 19, 1884

Author: Various

Release date: June 7, 2021 [eBook #65543]
                Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 16, VOL. I, APRIL 19, 1884 ***

[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 16.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, APRIL 19, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




SUDDEN FORTUNES.


Few things are so fascinating to read as stories of fortunes suddenly
made. They lend to the adventures of miners in gold or diamond fields
an interest possessed by enterprises of no other kind; they also
impart a most seductive glamour to accounts published in continental
newspapers of prize-winners in big lotteries. When the French annual
state lotteries were abolished in 1837, a writer of some distinction,
M. Alphonse Karr, protested energetically against what he called a
hardship for the poor. His defence was curious. ‘For five sous,’ he
said, ‘the most miserable of beings may purchase the chance of becoming
a millionaire; by suppressing this chance, you take away the ray of
hope from the poor man’s life.’

Almost any man can relate from his own experience tales of suddenly
acquired wealth; and by this we do not mean the riches that may be
inherited through the death of a relative, or those which are won by
speculation. The professed money-hunter who succeeds on ‘Change is like
the sportsman who brings home a good bag—his spoils, though they may be
large, are not unexpected. But there is the man who goes out without
any thought of sport, and returns with a plump bird that has dropped
into his hands; or the man who, wandering on the seashore, picks up a
pearl. It is with persons of this description that we may compare those
lucky individuals who, awaiting nothing from fortune, are suddenly
overwhelmed by her favours. A few examples of such luck may induce
the reader who sees no signs of wealth on his path just yet, never to
despair.

At the beginning of 1870, the Hôtel des Réservoirs at Versailles was
for sale. It was the largest hotel in the city; but as Versailles had
become a sleepy place, almost deserted in winter, and only frequented
in summer by casual tourists and Sunday excursionists, the landlord had
scarcely been able to pay his way. The hotel was disposed of in January
for a very low figure, and the new proprietor entered upon his tenancy
on the first of April. He soon repented of his bargain. The season of
1870 brought fewer excursionists than usual; and when, in the middle
of July, war was declared against Germany, all the landlord’s chances
of recouping himself during the months when foreign tourists abound,
seemed gone, so that he had serious thoughts of reselling the house.
Within eight weeks, the whole of his prospects were altered. The French
were defeated, Paris was invested, Versailles became the headquarters
of the invading armies, and suddenly the Hôtel des Réservoirs entered
upon a period of such prosperity as doubtless could not be matched
by the records of any other hostelry. From the middle of September
till the following February it was the lodging-place of Grand Dukes
and Princes, as many as it would hold; whilst its dining-rooms were
resorted to by all the wealthiest officers in the German forces. As
the siege operations kept troops in movement at all hours, meals were
served at every time of the day and night. Three relays of cooks and
as many of waiters had to be hired; and the consumption of wines,
spirits, and liqueurs beggars all reckoning. Princes and rich officers
going into action or returning from victory are naturally free with
their money; every triumph of German arms was a pretext for banquets
and toasts. In fact, from the 1st of October to the date when the
occupation of the city ceased—a period of about one hundred and thirty
days—the average number of champagne bottles uncorked every day
exceeded five hundred! As the Prussians held Rheims, the landlord was
enabled to renew his stock of champagne as often as was necessary; but
he could not renew his stock of Bordeaux—the Bordelais being in French
hands, so that towards the end of the war he was selling his clarets at
fancy prices.

The Germans marched away in February; but still the Hôtel des
Réservoirs’ marvellous run of luck continued. In March the Communist
insurrection broke out; the National Assembly transferred its
sittings to Versailles, which was proclaimed the political capital
of France; and during the second siege of Paris the hotel was crowded
with ministers, foreign ambassadors, deputies, and other persons of
note. The result of all this and of the steady custom which the hotel
received so long as Versailles remained the seat of government, was
that the landlord, who was at the point of ruin in 1870, retired in
1875 worth one hundred and twenty thousand pounds, after selling the
hotel for three times what he had paid for it. We may add that in 1870
other very fine hauls of money were made by hotel-keepers in cities
which the German armies occupied, and at Tours and Bordeaux, which were
successively the seats of the French Government of National Defence.

But it will be objected that such fortunes as war, revolutions, and
other great commotions bring to the few, in compensation for the
ruin which they scatter among the many, are not to be met with in
lands enjoying profound peace like England. Well, there are local
convulsions too in England. An obscure village becomes the scene of a
murder or a railway accident; an inquest is held; reporters are sent
down from London; idlers by the trainful come to view the spot where
the mishap occurred; and the village public-house, which had been
doing a poor business, all at once finds itself taking gold and silver
like a first-class London _buffet_. Such things happen pretty often;
indeed, Fortune now and then knocks at houses whose inmates, from sheer
bewilderment or stupidity, do not know how to take advantage of her
unexpected visit. We have the recollection of a publican in a village
on the Great Western line who positively spurned a chance of handsome
gains thrown into his way by a snowstorm. An express train had got
snowed up in the night; with infinite difficulty, by reason of the
darkness, the passengers crawled out, and made across the fields for a
public-house about a mile distant; but on arriving there, they met with
anything but a hospitable reception. The landlord had been roused from
sleep; he could not serve drink, he said, because it was past hours; he
had no spare-room for travellers; there was only one ounce of tea in
his house; and so forth. In the end, most of the benighted party found
a refuge at the vicarage. Had the landlord been a more astute fellow,
he might have secured some valuable patrons that night, for there were
wealthy people among the passengers; and two of them had to linger for
more than a week in the village, having fallen ill.

Let us now leave publicans, and come to stories of sudden professional
advancement. All young doctors know what uphill work it sometimes
is to establish a practice. Years will often elapse before a doctor
gets any return for the money which his friends invested in obtaining
his diploma. On the other hand, a single fortunate case may bring
patients by the score. About twenty years ago, a young doctor who
had been established three years in London without making an income,
lost heart, and determined to emigrate to Australia. He sold his
small house and furniture, paid his passage-money, and a week before
his ship was to sail, went into the country to say good-bye to his
parents. Having to change trains at a junction, he was waiting on the
platform, when a groom in a smart livery galloped up to the station,
and calling excitedly to a porter, handed him a telegraphic message
for transmission. From some remarks exchanged between the two men, the
young doctor understood that the Duke of ——, a member of the Cabinet,
had fallen dangerously ill, and that an eminent physician in London was
being telegraphed for. The groom added that he had ridden to the houses
of three local doctors, who had all been absent, and that ‘Her Grace
was in a terrible way.’

The young doctor saw his opportunity, and at once seized it. ‘I am a
medical man,’ he said to the groom; ‘and I will go to the Hall to offer
my assistance till another doctor arrives.’

The groom was evidently attached to his master, for he said: ‘Jump on
my horse, sir, and ride straight down the road for about four miles;
you can’t miss the Hall; any one will tell you where it is.’

The doctor went, was gratefully received by the Duchess, and happened
to be just in time to stop a mistake in treatment of the patient,
which might have proved fatal if continued for a few hours longer. The
Duke was suffering from typhoid fever; and when the eminent physician
arrived from town, he declared that the young doctor’s management of
the case had been perfect. The result of this was, that the latter was
requested to remain at the Hall to take charge of the patient; and
his name figured on the bulletins which were issued during the next
fortnight, and were printed in all the daily newspapers of the kingdom.
Such an advertisement is always the making of a medical man, especially
when his patient recovers, as the Duke did. Our penniless friend
received a fee of five hundred guineas; took a house at the West End,
and from that time to this has been at the head of one of the largest
practices in London.

Curiously enough, his sudden rise was indirectly the means of bringing
another needy young doctor to great fortune. Having abandoned his
emigration scheme, our friend had made a present of his ticket to
a former fellow-student of his, a shiftless sort of young man, who
was loafing about town, with no regular work or prospects. This
ne’er-do-weel had never thought of leaving the mother-country, and he
accepted the ticket rather with the idea of making a pleasant voyage
gratis than of settling at the antipodes. But on the way out, an
epidemic of smallpox occurred among the passengers; the ship’s surgeon
died; and the emigrant doctor, stepping into his place, displayed such
skill and devotion that he won golden opinions from all on board. As
often happens with men of good grit, the sudden call to noble work and
great responsibilities completely altered his character, and he became
thenceforth a steady fellow. On landing at Sydney, he was presented
with a handsome cheque by the agents of the Steamship Company for his
services, and soon afterwards was, on their recommendation, appointed
physician to the quarantine depôt. This position put him in the way of
forming a first-rate private practice and of winning municipal honours.
He is now one of the most prosperous men in the colony, and a member of
the colonial legislature.

Talking of sea-voyages reminds us of a barrister who has owed
professional success to the mere lucky, or let us say providential,
hazard which sent him out on a trip to China. Having lived three
or four years in chambers without getting a brief, he was almost
destitute, when a friend of his who was in the tea-trade offered him
a free passage to Shanghai and back on condition of his transacting
some piece of business there. On the passage out, the barrister had
many conversations with the captain, who chanced to have lately given
evidence at Westminster in a lawsuit which was of great importance to
the shipping interest. But he had been disgusted with the ‘stupidity,’
as he called it, of the judge and counsel in the case, when talking of
maritime and commercial customs; and he exclaimed: ‘Why don’t some of
those lawyers who mean to speak in shipping cases, study our ways a
little?’ These words struck the young barrister, who, after thinking
the matter over for a few days, resolved to live at sea for a while.

On his return to England, he sought for a situation as purser or
secretary on board one of the great ocean steamers, and in this
capacity made several trips. Then he successively tried expeditions
on board whalers, vessels engaged in the cod and herring fisheries,
&c.; in fact, he led a sailor’s life for rather more than three years,
picking up a full acquaintance with the manners, customs, grievances,
and wants of those who had their business in the great waters. On going
back to the bar, he almost at once got briefs in the Admiralty Court;
and becoming known to solicitors as an expert on shipping questions,
his professional fortune was made.

We might quote several cases similar to this one where special
knowledge, sometimes acquired by accident, has put men in the way of
getting highly honourable and well-paid positions on the newspaper
press. A gentleman who is now a distinguished leader-writer on one of
the London dailies, got his situation in consequence of having broken
his leg while travelling in Germany. He was laid up for months in
lodgings, and there became intimate with a Russian refugee, who taught
him the Russian language and instructed him thoroughly in Muscovite
politics. This occurred at the beginning of the Eastern imbroglio in
1876; and when the patient was getting better, he sent to a London
paper a series of letters which exhibited such a familiarity with
Russian affairs, that they attracted general notice. He was soon asked
to go to St Petersburg as special correspondent; and from that date all
things prospered with him. At the time when he broke his leg, he was
about to accept a clerkship in a merchant’s office, where he would have
had small chance of making any figure in the world.

But we fancy we can hear people exclaim that talent well directed is
pretty sure to make a man’s fortune, so that it is never surprising
to hear of clever men growing rich. True; but nevertheless there are
chances for those who are _not_ clever. We have heard of a man who had
two thousand pounds a year left him because he was civil to an infirm
old lady in church, finding the hymns for her, setting her hassock,
&c. He did not know her name; but she took care to ascertain his, and
when she died, he found that she had bequeathed to him the bulk of
her property ‘as a reward for his patient kindness.’ A clergyman of
our acquaintance obtained a living of good value from a baronet in
Norfolk for no other reason than that he was the only curate within
ten miles round who had not applied for it when it fell vacant. And
another clergyman whom we know got a still better living for having
refused preferment offered to him under circumstances derogatory to
his dignity. He was a fair singer; and a vulgar plutocrat who had
invited him to dinner promised to give him a living if he would sing
a comic song at dessert. The quiet rebuke which the young clergyman
administered made the plutocrat ashamed of himself, so that the next
day he proffered the living with a letter of apology; but the living
was refused, the clergyman stating that it would be impossible for him
to forget the circumstances under which it was first tendered. This
was the more honourable, as the clergyman was very badly off. Another
patron, hearing of what he had done, appointed him to a benefice, as a
testimony of his admiration.

We may conclude with a story of a man who was suddenly made rich
because of his great stupidity. He was the only dull man in a
bright-witted family, and going to dine with a wealthy relative who
had a horror of fools, he made so many silly remarks, that the old man
cried in exasperation: ‘I must do something for you, for you’ll never
do anything for yourself. If I don’t make a rich man of you, you’ll
become a laughing-stock to the world and a disgrace to your family.’




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER XXIV.—THE WORK.

Philip spoke lightly to Madge about the ‘chambers in town;’ but he was
not quite satisfied with the arrangement, when she told him frankly
that she did not like it. He confessed that the idea pleased him
chiefly because it would give him a sense of independence, which he
could never experience so long as he remained at Ringsford and the
family continued to be in the same mood as at present. Very little
had been said to him there, beyond a few expressions of curiosity
on the part of the girls, and a cunning question from Coutts as to
what guarantee Uncle Shield could give for the wealth he professed to
possess.

‘The amount he promised to place at my disposal is in the bank,’ Philip
answered; ‘and that, I fancy, would be sufficient, Coutts, to satisfy
even you.’

Coutts nodded, was silent, and began privately to speculate on the
possibility of ingratiating himself with this mysterious relative, who
seemed to have discovered the mines of Golconda.

Nothing more was said. Mr Hadleigh enjoined silence on the subject
until he should please to speak; and he had done so with a sternness
which effectually checked the tongue even of Miss Hadleigh, who,
being ‘engaged,’ felt herself in some measure released from parental
authority.

The consequence was that there had grown up a feeling of constraint,
which was exceedingly irksome to the frank, loving nature of Philip;
and yet he could not divine how he was to overcome it. He could not
tell whether this feeling was due to his own anxiety to reconcile two
opposing elements, or to the unspoken irritation of the family with him
for having leagued himself with their enemy. It never occurred to him
that any one of them could be jealous of his good fortune.

However, this new arrangement seemed to offer an opportunity for making
the position clear. Standing apart from the influence of his family, he
would be able to consider all the circumstances of his position with
more calmness and impartiality than would be otherwise possible.

At the same time, he was a good deal perplexed by the conduct of Mr
Shield, and was gradually beginning to feel something like vexation at
it. There was the difficulty of seeing him, and then the impossibility
of getting him to discuss anything when he did see him. Mr Shield was
still at the _Langham_; and if Philip called without having made an
appointment, he was either sent away with some excuse, which he knew to
be nothing more than an excuse, or there was a great fuss of attendants
entering and leaving the room before he was admitted. On these
occasions Philip was conscious of an atmosphere of brandy-and-soda;
and several times his uncle had been served with a glass of this
potent mixture during their interviews, brief as they were. It was to
this weakness Philip had been about to refer, when speaking to Dame
Crawshay, and to it he was disposed to attribute much of his uncle’s
eccentricity of conduct.

But he was always the same roughly good-natured man, although short of
speech and decided in manner.

‘Once for all,’ he said gruffly, when Philip made a more strenuous
effort than usual to induce him to discuss the scheme he was
elaborating; ‘I am not a good talker—see things clearer when they
are put down on paper for me. You do that; and if there is anything
that does not please me, I’ll tell you fast enough in writing. Then
there can be no mistakes between us. Had enough of mistakes in my time
already.’

And notwithstanding his peculiarly jerky mode of expressing himself
in talking, his letters were invariably clear and to the point. They
formed, indeed, a bewildering contrast to the man as he appeared
personally, for they were the letters of one who had clear vision and
cool judgment. But as yet Philip had not found any opportunity to
approach the subject of a reconciliation with his father. He kept that
object steadily in view, however, and waited patiently for the right
moment in which to speak.

Wrentham was well pleased that Mr Shield should keep entirely in
the background; it left him the more freedom in action; and he was
delighted with his appointment as general manager for Philip. His first
transaction in that capacity was to sublet his offices in Golden Alley
to his principal. This saved so much expense, and there were the clerks
and all the machinery ready for conducting any business which might be
entered upon. Wrentham had agreeable visions of big prizes to be won on
the Stock Exchange. He was confident that the whole theory of exchange
business was as simple as A B C to him; and only the want of a little
capital had prevented him from making a large fortune long ago. His
chance had come at last.

Here was this young man, who knew almost nothing of business, but
possessed capital which he desired to employ. He, Martin Wrentham, knew
how to employ it to the best advantage. What more simple, then? He
should employ the capital; instead of dabbling in hundreds, he would be
able to deal in thousands, and in no time he would double the capital
and make his own fortune too!

But when the time came for Philip to unfold the project which he had
been quietly maturing, the sanguine and volatile Wrentham was for an
instant dumb with amazement, then peered inquiringly into the face of
the young capitalist, as if seeking some symptoms of insanity, and next
laughed outright.

‘That’s the best joke I have heard for a long time,’ he exclaimed.

‘Where is the joke?’ asked Philip, a little surprised.

‘You don’t mean to say that you are serious in thinking of investing
your capital in this way?’ Wrentham’s hilarity disappeared as he spoke.

‘Perfectly serious; and Mr Shield approves of the idea.’

‘But you will never make money out of it.’

‘I do not know what you may mean by making money; but unless the
calculations which have been supplied to me by practical men are
utterly wrong, I shall obtain a fair percentage on the capital
invested. I do not mean to do anything foolish, for I consider the
money as held in trust, and will do what is in my power to make a good
use of it.’

‘You want to drive Philanthropy and Business in one team; but I never
heard of them going well in harness together.’

‘I think they have done so, and may do so again,’ said Philip
cheerfully.

‘You will be an exception to all the rules I know anything about, if
you manage to make them go together. If you had five times the capital
you are starting with, you could make nothing out of it.’

‘I hope to make a great deal out of it, although not exactly in the
sense you mean.’

Wrentham passed his hand through his hair, as if he despaired of
bringing his principal to reason.

‘What do you expect to make out of it?’

‘First of all, beginning on our small scale, we shall provide work for
so many men. By the system of paying for the work done, rather than by
wages whether the work is done or not, each man will be able to earn
the value of what he can produce or cares to produce.’

‘You will not find half-a-dozen men willing to accept that arrangement.’

‘We must make the most of those we do find. When the advantages are
made plain in practice, others will come in fast enough.’

‘The Unions will prevent them.’

‘It is a kind of Union I am proposing to form—a Union of capital and
labour. Then, I propose to divide amongst the men all profits above,
say, six or eight per cent. on the capital, in proportion to the work
each has done. I believe we shall find plenty of workmen, who will
understand and appreciate the scheme.’

Wrentham was resting his elbows on the table and twisting a piece of
paper between his fingers. He had got over his first surprise. The one
thing he understood was, that Philip would hold obstinately to this
ridiculous ideal of a social revolution until experience showed him how
impracticable it was. The one thing he did not understand was, how Mr
Shield had agreed to let him try it.

‘I admire the generous spirit which prompts you to try this experiment;
it is excellent, benevolent, and all that sort of thing,’ he said
coolly; ‘but it is not business, and it will be a failure. Every scheme
of the same sort that has been tried has failed. However, I shall do my
best to help you. How do you propose to begin?’

Philip was prepared for this lukewarm support; he had not expected
Wrentham to enter upon the plan with enthusiasm, and was aware that men
of business would regard it as a mere fancy, in which a good deal of
money would be thrown away. But he was confident that the result would
justify his sanguine calculations.

‘I am sorry you cannot take a more cheerful view of my project,
Wrentham; but I hope some day to hear you own that you were mistaken.
We shall begin by buying this land—here is the plan. Then if we get it
at a fair price, we shall proceed to erect two blocks of good healthy
tenements for working-people. We shall be our own contractors, and so
begin our experiment with the men at once. Take the plans home with
you, and look them over; and to-morrow you can open negotiations for
the purchase of the land.’

Wrentham’s eyes brightened.

‘Ah, that’s better—that’s something I can do.’

‘You will find that there are many things you can do in carrying out
the work,’ said Philip, smiling.

The general manager was restored to equanimity by the prospect of a
speculation in land. The young enthusiast went his way, contented with
the thought that he had taken the first step towards a social reform of
vast importance.

The same afternoon the agents for the land in question received a
communication from a solicitor inquiring the terms on which it was to
be sold.




THE HOMING PIGEON.

BY GORDON STABLES, M.D., R.N.


‘Let it off at Leicester, sir.’

My train had already started, when the speaker—an earnest-faced,
enthusiastic-looking working-man—breathless with running, leapt on to
the step, and after a hurried glance round the compartment, popped a
paper bag into my arms and disappeared.

‘Let it off at Leicester?’ What did the man mean? Did he take me for
one of the Fenian brotherhood? Had he handed me an ‘infernal machine’
with which to destroy Leicester railway station? I was taken aback for
a moment, but only for a moment, for something rustled inside the bag,
and I ‘keeked’ in at a corner.

‘You’re there, are you?’ I said _sotto voce_, as the bright, inquiring
eye of a blue homing pigeon met my gaze.

The man’s meaning was plain enough now. Leicester was our first
stopping-place. I was to throw the bird up there—which I duly did—and
knowing the hour the train was due there, its owner could thus judge of
its flying powers from the time it took to regain the loft in London.

By many people, it is believed that the homing pigeon is guided in
its wonderful flights by some _special instinct_; others think that
sight alone is the bird’s guide. In the far-distant past, long before
railways, telegraphs, or telephones were dreamt of, pigeons were used
to convey intelligence of all kinds from distant quarters; and even in
our own day and in times of peace, homing or carrier pigeons are found
exceedingly useful as message-bearers in a hundred ways needless to
name.

In time of war, their utility can hardly be overrated. The ‘Paris
pigeon-post’ of the Franco-German War of 1870-71 is well known. During
the siege, when the gayest city in the world was closely beleaguered
by the Prussians, and all communication with the outside world was
totally cut off, homing pigeons brought to Paris by balloons, found
their way back to Tours and other places, bearing with them news of
the beleaguered city. How welcome they must have been to the thousands
of people who had friends and relatives in Paris at that time!
The messages carried by the pigeons were written or printed, then
photographed on thin paper, the words being so reduced in size that it
required the aid of a powerful magnifier to decipher them. These tiny
documents were carried in small sealed quills, carefully fastened to
the centre tail-feathers. From the very moment of the arrival of the
first homing pigeon, the Paris pigeon-post was firmly established as
an institution; and in times of war among all civilised nations, the
aërial _voyageur_ will in future doubtless play a most important part.

We have already in England a large number of clubs devoted to
pigeon-flying or pigeon-racing; but it is in Brussels that the sport is
carried out to the fullest extent. In Belgium alone, there are at this
moment nearly twenty-five hundred clubs, and every town, village, or
district in the whole country goes in for its weekly race. The birds
are sent off on the Friday or Saturday by special trains, and are
liberated in clouds of thousands on the Sunday mornings, two, three,
four, or even five hundred miles from home.

I know many people in this country who have as their special hobby the
breeding and flying of pigeons in a private way, quite independent of
clubs—people who never go very far away from home without taking a
pigeon or two along with them, to send back with news of their safe
arrival, or their success or non-success in matters of business. I
had the following told me by a friend, and have no reason to doubt
the truth of it. A gentleman of rather shy disposition came down from
London to a town not a hundred miles from Warwick, bent on proposing to
a young lady, with whom he was greatly in love. She was the daughter
of a well-to-do landowner, and a fancier of Antwerp carriers. The
Londoner, however, lacked the courage or opportunity of popping the
question. He was bold enough, though, before taking leave, to beg the
loan of one of his lady-love’s pets, just ‘to tell her of his safe
arrival in town.’ The bird returned from London the same day; and in
the little quill, it bore to its mistress a message—that, after all,
might more simply and naturally have been conveyed by lip—to wit,
a declaration and a proposal. A more artful though innocent way of
getting out of a difficulty could hardly have been devised. It was
successful too.

The homing pigeon of the present day is not only remarkably fond of
the cot and scenes around it wherein it has been bred and reared, but
fond of its owner as well, and exceedingly sagacious and docile. The
power of wing of this bird is very great, and emulates the speed of the
swiftest train, over five hundred miles being done sometimes in less
than twelve hours.

Now, although, in our foggy and uncertain climate, we can never hope
to attain such results in pigeon-flying as they do in Belgium or sunny
France, still, the breeding and utilising of these useful birds deserve
far more attention than we in this country give them. It is in the hope
that some of the readers of this _Journal_ may be induced to adopt the
breeding and flying of these pigeons as a fancy or hobby, that I now
devote the rest of this article to a few practical hints about their
general management.

I should say, then, to a beginner, join a club, by all means, if there
be one anywhere near you. If there is not, and you are energetic
enough, why, then, start one; or, independent of all clubs, make your
hobby an entirely private one. Now, before doing anything else in the
matter, you must have a proper loft or pigeonry for your coming pets.
This should be placed as high as possible, so that the birds, from
their area or flight, may catch glimpses of the country all round, and
thus familiarise themselves with it.

The loft should be divided into two by means of a partition with a
door in it, each apartment having an outlet to the area in front. The
one room is devoted to the young birds, the other to the old. Without
illustrations, it is somewhat difficult to describe the area or trap
and its uses, but I will try. In its simplest form, then, it is a
large wooden cage—with a little platform in front of it—that is fixed
against the pigeons’ own private door to their loft. At the back of the
cage is a sliding-door, communicating with the loft, and in command of
the owner of the pigeons; and another in the front of the cage. It is
evident, then, that if you open the back-door, the bird can get into
the area from the loft; and if you open the front one as well, he can
get out altogether, to fly about at his own sweet will. Returning from
his exercise when tired, if both trap or sliding-doors are open, he
can pass right through the cage into the loft; if only the front-door
is open, he can get no farther than the interior of the cage or area.
But independent of these trap-doors, there are two little swing-doors,
called bolting-wires—one in front of the cage, and one behind, that is,
betwixt the area and the loft. The peculiarity of these swing-doors is
this: they are hinged at the top, and open _inwardly_, being prevented
from opening outwardly by a beading placed in front of them at the
foot. Well, suppose a bird to have just arrived from off a journey, and
alighting on the little platform, found the sliding-door shut, it would
immediately shove against the door, which would swing open, permitting
the bird’s entrance, and at once shut again against the beading, and
prevent its exit. In the same way, through the back bolting-wires,
a pigeon could enter the area, but could not return to the loft in
that way, nor get out through the bolting-wires in front. When a bird
returns home from a journey, the exact time of its arrival may even, by
a very simple contrivance attached to the external bolting-wires, be
signalled to the owner.

The breeding compartment should have around the walls nesting-boxes,
I might call them, or divisions, four feet long, two and a half feet
high, and about two feet wide; these ought to be barred in front, with
a doorway, to put the pigeons through for breeding purposes, and two
earthenware nest-pans in each, hidden from view behind an L-shaped
screen of wood. In the loft are pigeon-hoppers and drinking-fountains,
as well as a box containing a mixture of gravel, clay, and old mortar,
with about one-third of coarse salt; the whole wetted and made into a
mass with brine.

About twice a week, a bath is greatly relished by the birds; but care
should be taken not to leave the floor of the loft damp. Old lime and
gravel should be sprinkled about. The food of the homing pigeon is not
different from that of any other pigeon, and consists chiefly of beans,
small gray peas, with now and then, by way of change, a little wheat,
tares, rice or Indian corn. Soft food may sometimes be given also, such
as boiled rice or potato, mixed with oatmeal.

The drinking-water should be changed every day, and the fountain
frequently well rinsed out. The greatest cleanliness should prevail
in the loft. Everything should be clean and sweet and dry, and there
should never be either dust or a bad smell. Green food may be given
when the birds cannot get out to supply themselves. It should be given
fresh, and on no account left about the loft to decay. Never let the
hoppers be empty, and see that the grains are not only good, but free
from dust as well.

Next as to getting into stock. There are two or three ways of doing
this. It is sometimes possible to get the eggs, which may be placed
under an ordinary pigeon. Good old birds may be got—a few pairs;
but they must, of course, be kept strict prisoners, else they will
fly away. The best plan, however, of getting into stock is that of
purchasing young birds as soon as they are fit to leave the mother.
These must be put in the loft, but not let out for a week or two,
although they should be permitted to go into the area and look around
them, to get familiar with the place. After some time, they may be
permitted to go out and fly around. If good, they will return; if of
a bad strain, they are as well lost. But training should not begin
until the bird is fully three months old, and strong. The young birds
are first ‘tossed’ two or three hundred yards from their loft. If they
have already become familiar with their home surroundings, they will
speedily get back to the cot. Toss them unfed, flinging them well up
in an open space; and repeat this day after day for some time; then
gradually increase the distance, to a quarter of a mile, half a mile,
and a mile, and so on to five, ten, up to fifty or a hundred miles of
railway. The tossing should be done on a fine day, at all events never
on a foggy one.

Birds may be sent to station-masters at different distances along the
line to be tossed, the basket in which they have been carried being
sent back as a returned empty, with the exact time at which the birds
were let out marked on the label by the station-master or porter.
When this plan is adopted, it is of course necessary to write to the
station-master first, and get his permission to send birds to him for
the purpose of being tossed.

I have purposely avoided saying anything about the points and
properties of homing pigeons; it is good wing you want, more than shape
of head or face, although there ought always to be a skull indicative
of room for brains. It is wing you want, I repeat, strength, health,
and _strain_. Why I put the last word in italics is this: I consider
that it is essential to success, and cheapest in the long-run, to breed
from a good working strain. The rule holds good in the breeding of
all kinds of live-stock. So the reader, if he intends to take up the
homing-pigeon hobby, will do well to see that he gets birds of a _good
working stock_ to begin with.

A pigeon is not at its best till it is two years of age; care should be
taken, therefore, not to attempt too much with them the first year of
training. When a bird returns, treat it to a handful of nice grain, or
even hemp; but during training, give nothing that is too fattening in
large quantities. Great care and attention are required all the year
round; exercise should never be neglected; they should be permitted to
get out frequently during the day, or indeed, to have their liberty
all day, taking precautions against the tender attentions of vagrant
cats. The moulting season is a somewhat critical time, and so is the
breeding-time; but this class of pigeons is, on the whole, hardy. Treat
your birds with universal kindness, and they will certainly reward
you.[1]


FOOTNOTES:

[1] [An excellent article on the subject, with drawings of loft, &c.,
will be found in _The Field_ for 23d Feb. last.—ED.]




A WITNESS FOR THE DEFENCE.


IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.

To say that there was a ‘sensation’ would feebly describe what
followed. Every one in court sprang to his feet. The prisoner looked as
if he had seen a ghost. There was a perfect hubbub of voices, as bar
and jury talked among themselves, and my brethren at the solicitors’
table poured questions upon me—to none of which I replied. Silence
being restored, the voice of the judge—grave and dignified, but with a
perceptible tremor—descended like vocal oil on the troubled waves of
sound. ‘Who instructs you, Mr Clincher?’

‘Mr Bentley, my lord.’

The judge looked more astonished than ever. My name was familiar enough
to him as a judge, and he had known it even better when, as a leading
barrister, he had held many a brief from me.

‘I am persuaded,’ said he, ‘that a gentleman of Mr Bentley’s repute and
experience has good reason for what he does. But so extraordinary and
unheard-of—— I will ask Mr Bentley himself if he really considers that
duty requires him to offer himself as a witness, and when and why he
came to that conclusion?’

‘My lord,’ I replied, ‘I am certain that, believing what I have had
cause to believe within the last five minutes, I should be greatly to
blame if I did not testify on oath to certain facts which are within
my own knowledge. But if the prisoner chooses to call me as a witness,
your lordship will presently understand why it is that, with all
submission, I cannot at this moment, or until I am in the box, give my
reasons. And I must add that the value of my evidence to the prisoner
will greatly depend on his answers to certain questions which I wish,
with your lordship’s sanction, to put to him in writing. And if he
answers me as I expect, I believe my evidence will put an end to the
case against him.’

‘Really, gentlemen of the jury,’ said his lordship, ‘this matter is
assuming a more and more remarkable aspect. I hardly know what to say.
That a prisoner on trial for his life should answer questions put to
him in private by the prosecuting solicitor is the most extraordinary
proposal, I am bound to say, which ever came under my notice. It is
the more difficult for me to decide because the prisoner has not the
advantage of counsel’s assistance.—Prisoner, is it your wish that this
gentleman should be called as a witness on your behalf? You have heard
what he has said about certain questions which he wishes to put to you
beforehand. Of course you are not bound to answer any such questions,
and may nevertheless call him. What do you say?’

‘I am in God’s hands, my lord,’ answered the prisoner, who was quite
calm again. ‘It may be that He has raised up a deliverer for me—I
cannot tell. But I know that if He wills that I should die, no man can
save me; if He wills to save me, nought can do me harm. So I am ready
to answer any questions the gentleman wishes.’

‘I propose,’ said the judge, ‘before deciding this extraordinary point,
to consult with the learned Recorder in the next court.’

All rose as the judge retired; and during his absence I escaped the
questions which assailed me from every side by burying myself in a
consultation with my counsel. When he heard what the reader knows, he
fully upheld me in what I proposed to do; and then threw himself back
in his seat with the air of a man whom nothing could ever astonish
again.

‘Si-lence!’ cried the usher. The judge was returning.

‘I have decided,’ said he, ‘to allow the questions to be put as Mr
Bentley proposes. Let them be written out and submitted to me for my
approval.’

I sat down and wrote my questions, and they were passed up to the
judge. As he read them, he looked more surprised than ever. But all he
said, as he handed them down, was, ‘Put the questions.’

I walked up to the dock and gave them into the prisoner’s hands,
together with my pencil. He read them carefully through, and wrote his
answers slowly and with consideration. With the paper in my hand, I got
into the witness-box and was sworn.

My evidence was to the effect already stated. As I described the man
I had seen under the lamp, with my face averted from the prisoner and
turned to the jury, I saw that they were making a careful comparison,
and that, allowing for the change wrought by twelve years, they found
that the description tallied closely with the man’s appearance.

‘I produce this paper, on which I just now wrote certain questions,
to which the prisoner wrote the answers under my eyes. These are the
questions and answers:

‘_Question._ Were you smoking when you came up to the corner of Hauraki
Street?—_Answer._ No.

‘_Question._ Did you afterwards smoke?—_Answer._ I had no lights.

‘_Question._ Did you try to get a light?—_Answer._ Yes, by climbing a
lamp at the corner; but I was not steady enough, and I remember I broke
my hat against the crossbar.

‘_Question._ Where did you carry your pipe and tobacco?—_Answer._ In my
hat.

‘Those answers,’ I concluded, ‘are absolutely correct in every
particular. The man whom I saw under the lamp, at eight o’clock on the
night of the murder, behaved as the answers indicate. That concludes
the evidence I have felt bound to tender.’ And I handed the slip of
paper to the usher for inspection by the jury.

‘Prisoner,’ inquired the judge, ‘do you call any other witness?’

‘I do not, my lord.’

‘Then, gentlemen,’ said the judge, turning to the jury, ‘the one remark
that I shall make to you is this—that if you believe the story of the
prisoner’s witness, there can be little doubt but that the prisoner was
the man whom the witness saw at the corner of Hauraki Street at eight
o’clock on the night in question; and if that was so, it is clear,
on the case of the prosecution, that he cannot have committed this
murder. I should not be doing my duty if I did not point out to you
that the witness in question is likely, to say the least, to be without
bias in the prisoner’s favour, and that his evidence is very strongly
corroborated indeed by the prisoner’s answers to the written questions
put to him. Gentlemen, you will now consider your verdict.’

‘We are agreed, my lord,’ said the foreman.

‘Gentlemen of the jury,’ sung out the clerk of arraigns, ‘are you all
agreed upon your verdict?’

‘We are.’

‘And that verdict is?’

‘Not guilty.’

‘And that is the verdict of you all?’

‘It is.’

There followed a burst of cheering which the usher could not silence,
but which silenced itself as the judge was seen to be speaking. ‘John
Harden—I am thankful, every man in this court is thankful, that your
trust in the mercy and power of the All-merciful and All-powerful
has not been in vain. You stand acquitted of a foul crime by the
unhesitating verdict of the jury, and most wonderful has been your
deliverance. You go forth a free man; and I am glad to think that the
goodness of God has been bestowed on one who has repented of his past
sins, and who is not likely, I hope and believe, to be unmindful of
that goodness hereafter.—You are discharged.’

Had he been left to himself, I think the prisoner’s old master would
have climbed into the dock, with the view of personally delivering
his servant out of the house of bondage. But he was restrained by a
sympathetic constable, while John Harden was re-conveyed for a short
time to the jail, to undergo certain necessary formalities connected
with his release from custody. I volunteered to take charge of Mr
Slocum, and took him to the vestibule of the prison, overwhelmed during
the short walk by thanks and praises. We were soon joined by Harden,
whose meeting with his master brought a lump into the throat even of
a tough criminal lawyer like myself. I saw them into a cab, and they
drove off to Mr Slocum’s hotel, after promising to call on me next day,
and enlighten me on certain points as to which I was still in the dark.

As strange a part of my story as any, has yet to be told. I had hardly
got back to my office and settled down to read over the various letters
which were awaiting my signature, when my late client (Harden’s
prosecutor) was announced. I had lost sight of him in the excitement
which followed the acquittal. He did not wait to learn whether I was
engaged or not, but rushed after the clerk into my room. He was ashen
white, or rather gray, and his knees shook so that he could scarcely
stand; but his eyes positively blazed with wrath. Leaning over my
table, he proceeded, in the presence of the astonished clerk, to pour
upon me a flood of abuse and invective of the foulest kind. I had sold
him; I was in league with the prisoner. I was a swindling thief of a
lawyer, whom he would have struck off the rolls, &c.; until I really
thought he had gone out of his mind.

As soon as I could get in a word, I curtly explained that it was no
part of a lawyer’s duty to try and hang a man whom he knew to be
innocent. As he only replied with abusive language, I ordered him
out of the office. The office quieted itself once more—being far too
busy, and also too well accustomed to eccentric people to have time
for long wonderment at anything—and in an hour I had finished my
work, and was preparing to leave for home, when another visitor was
announced—Inspector Forrester.

‘Well, Mr Forrester, what’s the matter now? I’m just going off.’

‘Sorry if I put you out of the way, sir; but I thought you’d like to
hear what’s happened. The prosecutor in Harden’s case has given himself
up for the murder!’

‘What?’ I shouted.

‘He just has, sir. It’s a queer day, this is. When I heard you get
up and give evidence for the man you were prosecuting, I thought
curiosities was over for ever; but seems they ain’t, and never will be.’

‘How was it?’

‘Well, he came into the station quite quiet, and seemed a bit cast
down, but that was all. Said fate was against him, and had saved the
man he thought to hang in his stead, and he knew how it must end, and
couldn’t wait any longer. I cautioned him, of course—told him to sleep
on it before he said anything; but make a statement he would. The short
of it all is, that the idea of murdering the old lady for her money
had come into his mind in a flash when he saw that poor drunken fool
exhibiting his knife in the tavern. He followed him, and picked his
pocket of the knife, and then hung about the house, meaning to get
in after dark. Then he saw the girl come out and go off, leaving the
door closed but not latched, the careless hussy! Then in slips the
gentleman, and does what he’d made up his mind to—for you see the old
woman knew him well, so he couldn’t afford to leave her alive—gets the
cash, and slips out. All in gold it was, two hundred and fifty pounds.
When he heard that Harden couldn’t be found, he got uneasy in his mind,
and has been getting worse ever since, though he did well enough in
trade with the money. Seems he considered he wasn’t safe until some one
had been hanged. So, when he recognised Harden, he was naturally down
on him at once, and was intensely eager to get him convicted—which I
noticed myself, sir, as of course you did, and thought it queer too,
I don’t doubt. He took too much pains, you see—he must employ you to
make certain, instead of leaving it to us; whereas if he hadn’t come to
you, your evidence would never have been given, and I think you’ll say
nothing could have saved the prisoner.’

It was true enough. The wretched man had insured the failure of his own
fiendish design by employing me, of all the solicitors to whom he might
have gone!

I learned next morning, how Harden, after trying in vain to light his
pipe on that memorable evening, had wandered for hours through the
hard-hearted streets, until at daybreak he had found himself in the
docks, looking at a large ship preparing to drop down the river with
the tide. How he had managed to slip aboard unseen and stow himself
away in the hold, with some idea of bettering his not over-bright
fortunes in foreign parts. How he had supported his life in the hold
with stray fragments of biscuit, which he happened to have in his
pockets, until, after a day or two of weary beating about against
baffling winds, when they were out in mid-channel, the usual search for
stowaways had unearthed him. How the captain, after giving him plenty
of strong language and rope’s-end, had at length agreed to allow him
to work as a sailor on board the vessel. How on landing at Sydney he
had gone into the interior, taken service with his present master—under
another name than his own, wishing to disconnect himself entirely with
his former life—and by honestly doing his duty had attained his present
position.

By the light of this narrative, that which had puzzled me became
perfectly clear—namely, how it was that he had contrived not only to
get so entirely lost in spite of the hue and cry after him, but also to
remain in ignorance of his aunt’s fate.

My client was tried, convicted, and executed in due course; his plea of
guilty and voluntary surrender having no weight against the cruel and
cowardly attempt to put an innocent man in his place.

When I last saw John Harden, he was married to a serious lady, who had
been his late master’s housekeeper, and was possessor of a prosperous
general shop in a country village, stocked by means of the money which
Mr Slocum had generously left him.




COIN TREASURES.


Man is a collecting animal. It would be absurd to ask what he collects;
more to the point would it be to ask what he does _not_ collect.
Books, pictures, marbles, china, precious stones, hats, gloves, pipes,
walking-sticks, prints, book-plates, monograms, postage-stamps,
hangmen’s ropes; the list might be increased indefinitely.

What is it that impels us to heap up such treasures? We say ‘us,’
because we are convinced that few escape untouched by the disease. It
may be dormant; it may possibly never show itself; but it is there, and
only wants a favourable conjunction of circumstances to bring it to
life.

Of all the forms of the collecting mania, few have been so long in
existence as that of coins, and few seize us so soon. The articles are
portable, nice to look at, and of some intrinsic value. Every one knows
what a coin is, and when a lad happens to get hold of one struck, say,
two hundred years ago, he naturally is impressed by the fact. Every one
knows how easily the very young and the ignorant are taken by the mere
age of an article. The writer dates his acquaintance with numismatics
(the history of coins) from his receiving in some change a half-crown
of Charles II. when he was eleven years old. It was worn very much, but
it was two hundred years old, and that was enough. After that, a good
deal of pocket-money went in exchange for sundry copper, brass, and
silver coins, with the usual result. The collection was discovered to
be rubbish; but experience had been gained, and that, as is well known,
must be bought.

The numismatist can head his list of devotees by the illustrious name
of Petrarch, who made a collection of Roman coins to illustrate the
history of the Empire. He was followed by Alfonso of Aragon; Pope
Eugenius IV.; Cosmo de’ Medici; Matthias Corvinus, king of Hungary;
the Emperor Maximilian I. The man dear to all book-lovers, Grolier,
had his cabinet of medals; Politian was the first to study them with
reference to their historical value. Gorlaeus succeeded him. Early in
the sixteenth century, Goltzius the engraver travelled over Europe
in search of coins, and reported the existence of about one thousand
cabinets. Our own collections appear to have begun with Camden; he was
followed by Sir Robert Cotton, Laud, the Earl of Arundel, both the
Charleses, the Duke of Buckingham, and Dr Mead in the early part of
last century. Later on, we come to the celebrated William Hunter—not
to be confounded with his still greater brother, John—who left to
the university of Glasgow his magnificent collection of Greek coins.
Archbishop Wake, Dr Barton, Dr Brown, and Dr Rawlinson formed cabinets
of considerable extent and value, all of which found a resting-place in
the colleges of Oxford. All these, however, were surpassed by Richard
Payne-Knight, who was born in the middle of the last century, and
formed the finest collection of Greek coins and bronzes that had ever
been brought together. It was valued at fifty thousand pounds, and he
left it to the nation. The catalogue drawn up by himself was published
in 1830 by the Trustees of the British Museum.

At the date of this magnificent legacy, our national collection of
coins was of no importance; but since then, by purchase and bequest,
it has so greatly increased its stores, that it undoubtedly stands on
an equality with the French national collection, long above rivalry.
Donations during the lifetime of the owner, too, are not unknown. In
1861, Mr De Salis made the nation a present of his extensive cabinet of
Roman coins. In 1864, Mr E. Wigan called one morning on Mr Vaux, the
keeper of the coins and medals, and producing a case, told him that was
his cabinet of Roman gold medals. Would he be good enough to examine it
carefully, and choose for the Museum what he thought best? Needless to
say, no scruples were made by the head of the department; consultations
were held with the staff, with the result that two hundred and
ninety-one were chosen, representing a value, at a modest computation,
of nearly four thousand pounds. In 1866, Mr James Woodhouse of Corfu
left to the nation five thousand six hundred and seventy-four specimens
of Greek coins, mostly in the finest preservation; of these, one
hundred and one were gold, two thousand three hundred and eighty-seven
silver, three thousand one hundred and twenty-eight copper, and
fifty-eight lead. That year was particularly fruitful in acquisitions,
for no fewer than eleven thousand five hundred and thirty-two coins
were placed in the national cabinets.

But it is impossible that mere donations could be depended on. In
every sale, the British Museum is a formidable competitor, and if, as
not unfrequently happens, it is outbidden by a private collector, it
has the advantage of an institution over a person, in that it lives
longer, and often has the opportunity of acquiring what it wants at
the dispersal of the cabinet of its rival. One of the most important
purchases ever made was that of the collection of the Duc de Blacas
in 1867, for which government got a vote of forty-five thousand seven
hundred and twenty-one pounds. Amongst its treasures were some two
thousand Greek and Roman coins, chiefly gold.

All good and rare specimens gravitate naturally to the chief museums
of Europe, which would thus stand in the way of a private individual
forming a cabinet, were it not for the fact, that finds are continually
taking place, either unexpectedly or in consequence of excavations in
ancient countries. Only the other day, we noticed the sale of a large
lot of medieval coins at Paris, which had been discovered when pulling
down some ancient buildings. During the German excavations at Olympia,
extending over six years, some six thousand pieces of all ages from
500 B.C. to 600 A.D. were brought to light. These, however, became the
property of the Greek government, and are not likely to come into the
market. Some of the finds are most extraordinary. In 1818 were fished
up out of the river Tigris two large silver coins of Geta, king of
the Edoni; a Thracian people of whom we know only the name, and whose
king’s name is all that we have to tell us of his existence. These are
now in the British Museum, and are especially interesting as being
the earliest pieces we have stamped with a monarch’s name. Their date
is placed prior to 480 B.C. We have seen a coin of Philip Aridæus,
successor of Alexander the Great, struck at Mitylene, which was found
in the roots of a tree which was being grubbed up in a park in Suffolk.
The incident was inquired into at the time, and no doubt seems to have
arisen as to the fact of its having been found as alleged. Nearly
twenty years ago, General Philips discovered at Peshawur twenty milled
sixpences of Elizabeth. There was a tradition in the place that an
Englishman had been murdered there a very long time before, and the
tomb was shown. It is naturally inferred, therefore, that the coins had
belonged to him, or how else explain the find? When the railway was
being made from Smyrna to Aidin, a few dozen very ancient coins were
turned up, which were all sold at once at a few shillings each; but the
dealers hearing of this, soon appeared on the spot, and the original
buyers had the satisfaction of reselling the coins at four or five
pounds apiece.

Smyrna is, as the most important city of Asia Minor, naturally the
headquarters of the dealers in Greek antiquities. Mr Whittall, a
well-known merchant there, had formed a very fine collection of coins
which was dispersed in London in 1867, and fetched two thousand seven
hundred and twenty-nine pounds. When excavating at the base of the
colossal statue of Athena, in her temple at Priene, Mr Clarke found
five tetradrachms of Orophernes, supposed to be the one who was made
king of Cappadocia by Demetrius in 158 B.C. These were absolutely
unique. In Cyprus, some years ago, the British consul at Larnaca
obtained a large hoard, which had been discovered during some building
operations. This was a particularly rich find, as amongst them happened
to be no fewer than thirty-four undescribed pieces of Philip, Alexander
the Great, and Philip Aridæus. Mr Wood, when excavating on the site
of the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, came upon a lot of more than two
thousand coins of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. In 1876,
some workmen, when digging, came upon a vase containing, amongst
other relics of antiquity, some fifty electrum staters of Cyzicus and
Lampsacus, all of the end of the fifth century B.C. Only a few years
ago, in that most out-of-the-way part of Central Asia, more than a
hundred miles beyond the Oxus, was discovered a hoard of coins chiefly
of the Seleucidæ, dating from the third century B.C.—showing how far,
even in those early days, trade had been carried. A few of them, too,
were unknown pieces of Alexander the Great. Without being prepared to
go into exact particulars, we should imagine that a find in 1877 of
twenty-nine thousand eight hundred and two Roman coins in two vases in
Blackmoor Park, Hampshire, was one of the most extensive ever known.

That coins are interesting, as giving us portraits of those who have
made some show in the world, is undoubted. It is equally true that by
their means we are made acquainted with the existence of kings and
kingdoms of whom history has left no records. The fact of a Greek
kingdom of Bactria occupying that even yet comparatively unexplored
region, half-way between the Caspian and the Himalaya, was revealed to
the world only some fifty years ago by the finding of coins bearing
portraits and legends of the Greek-speaking rulers. An extremely large
silver piece in the British Museum, supposed to belong to a period
anterior to 480 B.C. and struck by the Odomanti of Thrace, a tribe of
whom we know nothing, was found at Ishtib. In the same collection is
a large silver coin of the Orrescii, an unknown Macedonian people,
which was found in Egypt, along with a very early drachma of Terone,
and a large decadrachm of Derronikos, a king unknown to history. These
are supposed to have been carried to Egypt by some of the soldiers of
Xerxes, during their retreat from Greece after the battle of Platæa.

The greatest sale of coins by public auction, we should imagine,
was that of Lord Northwick, in December 1859, and April 1860. The
former consisted of Greek coins only, and produced eight thousand
five hundred and sixty-eight pounds; the latter, of Roman and later
pieces, fetched three thousand three hundred and twenty pounds. The
Greek coins were especially fine and rare, and some of them unique.
One, a large piece of Camarina, bearing as reverse a nymph carried by
a swan, a specimen of highest Greek art, went for fifty-two pounds to
the British Museum. A splendid piece of Agrigentum, with reverse of the
monster Scylla, fetched one hundred and fifty-nine pounds. A coin of
Cleopatra, queen of Syria, daughter of Ptolemy VI. of Egypt, and wife
successively of Alexander I., Demetrius II., and Antiochus VII., and
mother of Seleucus V., and the sixth and seventh Antiochi—all kings
of Syria—was bought by the British Museum for two hundred and forty
pounds. It is said to be the only one known. Altogether our national
collection obtained one hundred specimens at a cost of nine hundred
pounds. Lord Northwick had lived to a great age; but up to the last
he preserved his faculties, and indulged his passion for ancient art
by buying and exchanging objects. His pictures, statuary, everything,
in fact, came to the hammer after his death. The years between
1790 and 1800 were spent by him in Italy, and he gained his early
initiation into antiquities under the eye of Sir William Hamilton,
the well-known ambassador at Naples. His first purchase is said to
have been an after-dinner frolic in the shape of eight pounds for a
bag of Roman brass coins. He and Payne-Knight bought and divided the
fine collections of Prince Torremuzza and Sir Robert Ainslie—for the
latter of which they gave eight thousand pounds. Since his lordship’s
sale, there has been nothing to approach it. Fine though small cabinets
have not been wanting, however, and the enthusiast can always find
something with which to feed his passion. At Huxtable’s sale, in 1859,
the collection fetched an unusually large sum. Hobler’s Roman cabinet
of brass coins was sold for one thousand seven hundred and fifty-nine
pounds; Merlin’s, containing one hundred and forty-one lots of Greek
and Roman, produced eight hundred and seventy-eight pounds; Sheppard’s
Greek, nineteen hundred pounds; Huber’s, containing some hundreds of
unpublished Greek, three thousand; Ivanoff’s, three thousand and eight
pounds; Bowen, one thousand five hundred and fifty-three pounds; Brown,
three thousand and twelve pounds; Sambon, three thousand one hundred
and forty-eight pounds; Exereunetes, containing several supposed to be
unique, one thousand four hundred and twenty-one. The Sambon sale is
memorable for the fact that a brass medallion of Geta, of the intrinsic
value of twopence, was knocked down at five hundred and five pounds!

Every one who has read the _Antiquary_, whether bibliomaniac or not,
can enjoy the glowing description by Monkbarns: ‘Snuffy Davie bought
the _Game of Chess_, 1474, the first book ever printed in England, from
a stall in Holland, for about two groschen, or twopence of our money.
He sold it to Osborne for twenty pounds and as many books as came to
twenty pounds more. Osborne resold this inimitable windfall to Dr Askew
for sixty guineas. At Dr Askew’s sale, this inestimable treasure blazed
forth in its full value, and was purchased by royalty itself for one
hundred and seventy pounds.—Could a copy now occur,’ he ejaculated with
a deep sigh and lifted-up hands—‘what would be its ransom!’

The progress of intelligence has affected coins in these days no less
than books. It is only in the very out-of-the-way places that coins
are to be picked up for a song. The chief hunting-ground, Asia Minor,
is well looked after by the dealers, and the private collector has, of
course, to pay them their profit. The increase in value may be gauged
by the following instance: A gold coin of Mithridates, the size of our
half-sovereign, fetched twenty-five guineas in 1777. In 1817 it came
to the hammer, and was knocked down at eighty pounds to a well-known
collector. Unfortunately for him, a duplicate soon afterwards appeared
in a sale, and he had to pay ninety pounds for that. Later on still,
a third turned up, and that fell to his bid at a hundred pounds. Yet
a fourth came to light in 1840. The owner of the three bid up to a
hundred and ten pounds, but had to give in to a bid of a hundred and
thirteen pounds from a rival. Fancy his feelings! The rare brass
medallions of Commodus, intrinsic value twopence or threepence, fetch
up to thirty pounds, and the large pieces of Syracuse, the finest coins
perhaps that we know of, regularly run up to fifty and sixty pounds.
It is evident, therefore, that it is not every one who can indulge the
passion for coin-collecting. At a little expense, however, electrotypes
which are absolute facsimiles can be obtained from the British Museum,
and this fact, which is not generally known, should result in the
spread of a knowledge of Greek art; for it must not be forgotten that
in the early coinage of the Greek race the progress of art can be
traced as completely as in any now existing remains.




MY FELLOW-PASSENGER.


IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER I.

To say that the real zest of an Englishman’s delight in England and
English home-life is only attained after residence or travel in other
countries, is to quote something like a truism. To this influence at
least was owing in great measure the feeling of quite indescribable
pleasure with which, after a not altogether successful six months of
big-game hunting in the interior of Africa—a very far-away country
indeed in those days, when no cable communication existed with
England—I found myself on board the good ship _Balbriggan Castle_
(Captain Trossach), as she steamed slowly out of the Cape Town Docks
on a lovely June evening in 187-, homeward bound. I had come from one
of the eastern ports of the colony in sole occupation of a cabin;
and though I knew we had taken on board a large number of passengers
that afternoon, I was not a little put out to find, on going below,
that the berth above mine had been filled, and that the inestimable
blessing of solitude was to be denied me for the next twenty days
or so. However, there was no help for it; and with the best grace I
could command, I answered my fellow-traveller’s courteous expressions
of regret with a hope that the voyage would be a pleasant one. The
new-comer was a tall, slightly-built, and strikingly handsome man, of
about thirty, remarkable for a slow deliberative manner of speech, with
which an occasional nervous movement of the features seemed oddly at
variance. On a travelling-bag, as to the exact disposition of which he
was especially solicitous, I caught sight of the letters P. R. in big
white capitals. These being my own initials, the coincidence, though
commonplace enough, furnished a topic of small-talk which sufficed to
fill up the short time intervening before dinner, and ended, naturally
enough, in the discovery of my new friend’s name—Paul Raynor—given, as
I afterwards remembered, with some little hesitation, but producing a
much finer effect of sound than my own unmelodious Peter Rodd.

At dinner, I found my place laid opposite to Raynor; and thus,
notwithstanding the claims of an excellent appetite and the desire
to take stock of other passengers, I had again occasion to observe
the painful twitching of the fine features, recurring with increased
frequency as he, too, looked round at those about him, and seemed
to scan each in turn with more than ordinary deliberation. The man
interested me greatly; and as I listened to his conversation with some
Englishmen near, and noted the dry humour with which he hit off the
peculiarities of the worthy colonists we were leaving behind, I saw at
once that here at least was promise of relief to the monotony of the
voyage, of which I should be constantly able to avail myself.

A sea like glass, and a temperature of unusual mildness for a June
evening in those latitudes, drew every one on deck, and ensconcing
myself in a pleasant corner just behind the too often violated
legend, ‘No smoking abaft the companion,’ I proceeded to illuminate
a mild Havana cigar, when I was joined by Raynor, with whom, after
a good-humoured joke anent my unsuccessful attempt to obtain that
solitude which the cabin could no longer afford, I renewed our
conversation of the afternoon, passing from generalities to more
personal matters, and sowing in a few hours the seeds of a friendship
destined to grow and ripen with that marvellous rapidity only to be
attained by the forcing process of life on board a passenger-ship.

Nothing could exceed the frankness of Raynor’s own story, as he told
it me in brief before we turned in that night. One of a large family
of sons, he had conceived an unconquerable dislike to the profession
of teaching, to which, in lieu of one of a more lucrative nature,
he had found himself compelled to turn. The suggestion of a friend,
that he should try his luck in the colonies, was hardly made before
it was acted upon; and a few weeks found him in an up-country town
at the Cape, where his letters of introduction speedily brought him
employment in a well-known and respected house of business. Here he
rose rapidly; and having, by care and occasional discreet speculation,
saved a few hundreds, was now on his way home, with four months’ leave
of absence, professedly as a holiday trip, but really, as he admitted
to me, to see what chances presented themselves of investing his small
capital and procuring permanent employment in England. In answer to my
question, whether his absence after so short a time of service might
not conceivably affect his prospects in the firm, he replied, that his
intention of remaining at home had not been communicated to any one;
and that, should no suitable opening offer in England, he would, upon
returning to the colony, resume his former position with Messrs ——,
whose word to that effect had been given.

‘Do you know any one on board?’ said I carelessly, when his short
narration was over, and after I had in turn imparted to him a few dry
and unrefreshing facts as to my own humble personality.

‘Why do you ask?’

I was taken aback at the sharp, almost angry voice in which the words
were uttered; but, strong in the harmless nature of my question, I
replied: ‘Because I thought I saw a man at the next table to ours at
dinner trying to catch your eye, as if he knew you.’

‘Daresay he did. One gets to know such an unnecessary lot of skunks in
the colonies!’ Uttering these remarkable words hurriedly and in a tone
of intense irritation, Paul Raynor strode away, and I saw him no more
that night.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our cabin was on the starboard side of the ship, and the morning sun
streamed in and laid his glorious mandate upon me and all sluggards
to be up and stirring. Raynor, who had the berth above me, seemed
to have obeyed the call still earlier, for he was gone. Mounting, a
little later, to the poop-deck, I arrived just in time to find him
in conversation with the odd-looking little Dutchman I had noticed
watching Raynor at dinner, and to hear the former say, in that
queer-sounding Cape English, which, at a few paces distant, is hardly
to be distinguished from Cape Dutch: ‘My name is Jan van Poontjes; and
I remember better as anything ’ow I met you six or five months ago by
Pieteraasvogelfontein with young Alister of the Kaapstadt Bank, eh?’
To which Raynor replied: ‘I can only assure you again, sir, that you
are mistaken. My name is Paul Raynor, and I have never had the honour
of seeing you in my life before.’ Turning on his heel, Mynheer van
Poontjes shuffled away, expressing _sotto voce_ his readiness to be
immediately converted into ‘biltong,’ if he wasn’t right about the
‘_verdomd Englischmann_.’

Directly he caught sight of me, Raynor left his seat, and coming
hastily forward, said: ‘Mr Rodd, I owe you many apologies for my
unpardonable rudeness of last night. I am blessed with the vilest of
tempers, which, after years of effort, is not yet under my control.
Will you forget the episode? Believe me, I shall not offend again.’

My answer need not be recorded. But it struck me as odd at the time,
that when our reconciliation was complete, and we were pacing the
deck for the short half-hour before breakfast, my companion made no
reference whatever to the Dutchman’s mistake, not even evincing the
slightest curiosity to know whether Poontjes was the same man whose
regards I had observed so intently fixed upon him. Possibly he was
not aware that I had been a witness of the interview, or, as seemed
more probable, he avoided alluding to a subject so directly tending to
recall his extraordinary outburst of the previous night.

The voyage was a quiet one enough, in spite of the very large
number of passengers. Three really charming sisters were undergoing
a well-sustained siege at the hands of a dozen or so of the most
presentable young men, and at least one engagement was shortly
expected. Theatricals were projected; but fortunately the ‘company’
would _not_ attend rehearsals, and we were spared. One or two
concerts were got up, at which feeble young men complacently rubbed
fiddle-strings with rosined bows, and evoked flat and melancholy
sounds, expressing no surprise when subsequently complimented on their
‘violin-playing.’ An opulent but unlovely Jew from the Diamond Fields
created a diversion by singing, without notice given, a song of the
music-hall type—refrain, ‘Oh, you ridic’lous man, why dew yer look so
shy!’ &c.; and was genuinely hurt when the captain suggested his ‘going
for’ard next time he wanted an audience for _that_ song.’ Several
ladies, of several ages, displayed their varied musical acquirements;
and Raynor surprised everybody one day by giving us the _Village
Blacksmith_ in a round clear baritone, of which no one imagined him to
be the possessor.

During these first ten days at sea, Raynor had, apparently without
any striving after popularity, established himself as a universal
favourite. The children adored him from the first, thereby securing him
a straight road to the mothers’ hearts, who in their turn spoke warmly
in his praise to the younger ladies on board. These last felt strongly
his superiority to the other very ordinary young men, enjoyed his
conversation greatly, and were perhaps the least bit afraid of him.

Raynor’s fondness for and influence with children were altogether
remarkable. Early in the voyage, a tiny trot of four had tripped
and fallen sharply on the deck at his feet. As he lifted her ever
so tenderly in his arms and stroked the poor little hurt knee, the
child looked up at him through her tears and asked: ‘Is you _weally_
sorry?’ ‘Yes, indeed—I am, Nellie.’ ‘Then me’s better,’ came the
little sobbing answer; and forthwith she nestled closer to him, and
was comforted. This incident evidently produced a profound effect upon
the other children playing near, who thereafter lost no opportunity of
showing ‘the tall man’ that he might consider himself entirely one of
themselves.

My own intimacy with him grew daily stronger, and our mutual friendship
became so firm that we began to project various plans of business and
pleasure for months to come in England. How often, in after-days, did
I stop to think wonderingly of the man’s earnestness, the intense
absorption with which he would ponder upon the relative merits of
different undertakings, each more certain than the last to make our
fortunes! Was he for the moment actually deceiving himself? or did
the habit of concentrated thought forbid him to discuss otherwise
than gravely, projects of whose very initiation he alone knew the
impossibility?

Raynor spent his money freely, though without ostentation; and I hardly
knew whether to be surprised or not when he applied to me one day for a
loan of twenty-five pounds, explaining that he had lost rather heavily
at cards during the past few days, and having only brought a limited
supply of ready cash for the voyage, he found himself for the moment
rather inconveniently short. Fortunately, I was in a position to supply
his needs; and when we went ashore at Madeira the next afternoon, he
invested a small fortune in sweets, toys, and native gimcracks for his
army of little friends on board, including an exquisite model of one
of the quaint little Funchal carts, destined for a poor crippled lad
amongst the passengers in the fore-part of the ship.

       *       *       *       *       *

Four or five days later, and signs of the approaching end began to be
visible in the shape of Railway Guides on the saloon tables, great ease
in the procuring of hitherto impossible luxuries from the stewards, and
the appearance on the scene of certain towzled officials not previously
observed, but with ‘backsheesh’ writ plain on each grimy feature.
Raynor and I had during the last few days matured our plans for the
immediate future. These were to include a week in town, another on the
river, some visits to friends, and, if possible, a few days with the
grouse towards the end of August. After this, a tentative negotiation
with a City House with a view to the fruition of a certain scheme upon
which my friend built great hopes.

Musing pleasurably upon these and other prospective delights, I turned
in at ten o’clock, determined to get a few hours’ good sleep before
reaching Plymouth—where we expected to put in at four or five o’clock
in the morning, to land mails and some few passengers—the rest going on
with the ship to Southampton. I had not slept more than an hour or two
at most, when I was awakened by a sensation, known to even the soundest
of sleepers, as if something were going on near me of which I ought to
know. Looking out half-dreamily from my berth, I saw that Raynor was
standing in the cabin, a lighted taper placed on a small shelf near
him. I was about to close my eyes, when I became aware that there was
something unusual in his appearance and actions. Instead of undressing
himself for the night, he stood half bent over a locker opposite, upon
which was lying open the travelling-bag I have referred to as being
the object of his special care at the outset of the voyage. From this
he drew one after another a number of small brown packets, in size
and look not unlike gun-cartridges—which, indeed, in the dim light of
the taper, I took them to be—hurriedly passing them into the various
pockets of a light overcoat I now noticed him to be wearing. Still
drowsily watching his movements, I was surprised to see him unroll from
a bundle of wraps a thick heavy ulster, and putting it on, proceed to
transfer more of the queer little brown-paper parcels to the pockets
of this second garment. I was now fairly awake, and with a perhaps
rather tardy recognition of the unfairness of my espionage, I coughed
an artfully prepared cough, so toned as to convey the impression that I
had that moment come from the land of dreams.

‘Hullo!’ I said, with the uneasy drawl of somnolence, ‘is that you?’

He started, and made a movement as if trying to stand full between me
and the valise, as he answered: ‘Yes; I am just putting away one or
two things.’ Then, after a moment’s pause, during which I heard him
lock and fasten the bag, ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘you will think me a
terribly shifty fellow, Peter, but the fact is, I know those old people
in Cornwall will never forgive me if I don’t go and see them whilst I’m
at home; and I’m equally positive that if I put it off now, I shall
never get anywhere near them’——

‘And so you’ve suddenly made up your mind to get out at Plymouth, and
leave me to go on to town alone,’ said I, interrupting, with a feeling
of keener disappointment than I cared to show. ‘I see it all. Never
mind. I can bear it. I was born to suffer.’

‘So you will say when I have finished,’ was the laughing reply. ‘After
all, though, it is only putting off our little jaunt for a few days.
Meanwhile, will you do me a favour? I cannot descend upon the old folks
with a heap of luggage; and besides, this concern’—pointing to the
valise—‘holds everything I am likely to need. Therefore, I want you,
like a good boy as you are, to pass through the Customs with your own
things, my two portmanteaus which are in the hold, and take them up to
town with you. Go to the rooms you spoke of, and I will join you in a
week from to-day.’

‘All right, you unblushing deserter. Have it as you will. But remember,
if you are not at No. 91 Savile Street by Thursday evening next, I
shall “cause your goods to be sold to defray expenses, and reserve to
myself the right of deciding what to do with the proceeds,” as the
Tipperary lawyers have it.’

‘Do; only keep something to remind you of the biggest scoundrel you are
ever likely to know,’ he replied, laughing again, but with a curious
ring in his voice, of which, I think, I shall never quite lose the
memory. Its effect at the moment was to set me thinking whether this
new move of Paul’s might not portend the upsetting of all our schemes.

‘Here, Peter,’ he went on—‘here is what I owe you, with many thanks.
You don’t mind having it all in gold, do you? Those fellows have been
giving me a very decent revenge at loo the last night or two, and this
is the result!’ holding up a handful of sovereigns, and proceeding to
pour twenty-five of them with a horrible clatter into my washing-basin.

‘Haven’t you got any English notes?’ I asked, wondering sleepily what
I should do with all these sovereigns in addition to an existing small
supply of my own.

‘Not one,’ answered Raynor. ‘Now, go to sleep; and I’ll come down
and awake you when we’re within anything like reasonable distance of
Plymouth. It’s no use turning in for the short time that’s left, so I
shall go up and smoke a pipe and watch for the first sight of the land
of my birth.’ He then went out into the soft air of the July night,
looking strangely uncouth in a superfluity of wraps such as no man
would throw about him only to meet the light breeze that just precedes
a summer dawn.

A few hours afterwards, I was leaning over the taffrail waving good-bye
to my friend as he stood near the wheel of the little tender that bore
him and some half-dozen others to the shore. There had been a deep
sadness in his eyes at parting; and the foreboding of the night before
changed now to a chill conviction that Paul Raynor and I should meet no
more.

       *       *       *       *       *

‘So your friend has just now landed already, eh?’ said the voice of
Mr van Poontjes, a gentleman with whom I had not exchanged a dozen
words during the voyage, but who now, planting himself heavily on the
deck-chair next mine, gave evidence of his intention to put a full stop
to my enjoyment of the book which I was struggling to finish before
delivering it to its owner that evening.

‘Yes,’ I replied wearily, wondering a little whether this worthy but
slightly repulsive individual was going to stay long, and mentally
laying plans of escape to meet the contingency.

‘Well, now,’ he continued, ‘I dessay you consider your Mister Raynor a
jolly fine feller, eh?’

Suppressing the instantaneous impulse to take the little boer by the
collar and shake him, I answered: ‘Mr Raynor is a friend of mine, as
you are aware; and as I am not in the habit of discussing my friends
with strangers, perhaps you will leave me to my book!’

‘Strangers, eh! Stranger to you, per’aps, yes! but not stranger to
Mister—what do you call ’im?—Raynor! Eh, I could tell you something’——

‘Now, look you here, Mr van Poontjes,’ I burst out; ‘you have
courageously waited to speak like this until Mr Raynor is no longer
here to answer you. But I happen to have heard that gentleman inform
you with his own lips that he had never set eyes on you until the day
you met on board this ship; and therefore to say that you are not a
stranger to Mr Raynor is equivalent to the assertion that Mr Raynor has
told a lie. You had better not dare to repeat that statement either to
me or to any other passenger on board.—Now, good-morning; and take care
that mischievous tongue of yours doesn’t get you into trouble yet!’

As the little crowd that these angry words had brought about us moved
away, a few clustering inquisitively round the little Dutchman, my
reading was once more postponed by Jack Abinger, the second officer,
a man with whom Raynor and I had struck up something of a friendship.
‘Hullo, Rodd,’ he said, strolling up to where I sat, ‘what’s all the
row about? I saw you from my cabin standing in the recognised attitude
of the avenger, apparently slating Mynheer van Poontjes as if he were a
pickpocket.’ After listening to my story of what had occurred, he said:
‘Ah, a clear case of mistaken identity! But, I say, talking of Paul
Raynor, it was a pity, as far as he was concerned, that we couldn’t
have got to Plymouth a day or two earlier.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked surprisedly.

‘Only, that he would have gone ashore a richer man by a good bit.
Surely he told you what a bad time he’s been having of it lately?
Anybody else would have been stone-broke long ago. And last night, by
way of a finish, that unspeakable little reptile, Barnett Moss, took a
lot of money out of him at écarté. Never saw a man hold such cards in
my life!’

‘It’s a good thing Paul was able to pay the little beast,’ I said,
trying to speak easily, and miserably failing, as I recalled what had
passed between us the night before.

‘Pay!’ replied Abinger; ‘I believe you! Why, Paul must have brought a
perfect bank on board with him! I only hope he hasn’t lost enough to
spoil his holiday.’

‘Never mind, Jack; he’ll be all right. He has gone to stay with friends
in Cornwall for a week—to economise, I expect.’

‘A week!’ shouted Jack. ‘Why, I know I shouldn’t be able to go ashore
for the next year or two, if I had had his bad luck!’ And he ran off on
some duty or other, leaving me in perplexed and restless cogitation.
If, as Abinger said, Paul had ‘brought a perfect bank on board with
him’—the words ran in my head—what could have been his object in
seeking to produce exactly the opposite impression upon myself—even
going so far as to borrow money during the voyage ostensibly to
replace his losses—repaying the amount, too, at the very moment when
his ill-luck had reached a climax, with a few light words about the
‘revenge’ which, as it now appeared, he had been so very far from
obtaining? The whole affair was inexplicable and disquieting; and I
was glad when the necessity for making my final preparations left me
little further time for thoughts which, do what I would, kept crossing
the border-line into the hateful regions of doubt.




A SKATING REGIMENT.

BY A NORWEGIAN.


The following account of a Norwegian corps of soldiers, called in
their language _skielober-corpset_, as they existed some years since,
will no doubt be interesting to readers of your _Journal_. Whether any
changes have been made of late years, the writer is unable to say. The
denomination _skielober_ (skater) comes from _skie_, which signifies a
long plank, narrow and thin, fastened upon the feet for sliding on the
snow.

It is well known that during four or five months of the year Norway is
covered with snow, which at a few leagues’ distance from the borders
of the sea is driven into such heaps as to render it impossible for
the traveller to go out of the beaten track, either on foot or on
horseback. It is even found necessary to clear this road after every
fall of snow, which is done by means of a machine in the form of a
plough, pointed at the front, and of a triangular shape. It is drawn by
horses. It pierces and levels the snow at one and the same time, and
thus opens a passable road. Notwithstanding these difficulties, hunting
has at all times been the great sport and exercise of that country,
formerly abounding in fierce animals, and still in deer and most kinds
of smaller game. Hunting is indeed an occupation which appears to be in
a peculiar manner prescribed to the inhabitants by the shortness of the
days and the length of the winters. It is therefore natural that the
Norwegian should have occupied himself from the earliest period about
the means of quitting his hut and penetrating into the forest in every
direction and with all possible speed. The _skier_ or skates presented
these means.

Let us figure in our minds two planks of wood as broad as the hand, and
nearly of the thickness of the little finger, the middle underneath
being hollowed, to prevent vacillation, and to facilitate the advancing
in a direct line. The plank fastened under the left foot is ten feet
in length; that intended for the right is only six, or thereabouts;
both of them are bent upwards at the extremities, but higher before
than behind. They are fastened to the feet by leather straps, attached
to the middle, and for this purpose are formed a little higher and
stronger in that part. The plank of the right foot is generally lined
below with the skin of the reindeer or the sea-wolf, so that in drawing
the feet successively in right and parallel lines with skates thus
lined with skins, and very slippery in the direction of the hair, the
skater finds them nevertheless capable of resistance, by affording
a kind of spring when he would support himself with one foot in a
contrary direction, as by such movements he raises up the hair or
bristly part of the skin. It is affirmed that an expert skater, however
loose and uncompact the snow may be, will go over more ground in an
open place, and will continue his course for a longer time together,
than the best horse can do upon the trot over the finest and best
paved road. If a mountain is to be descended, he does it with such
precipitation, that he is obliged to moderate his flight, to avoid
losing his breath. He ascends more slowly, and with some trouble,
because he is compelled to make a zigzag course; but he arrives at the
summit as soon as the best walker or foot-soldier, with this advantage,
that however little consistence the snow may have acquired, he can
never sink into it.

Experience has proved that in spite of the multiplied obstacles
produced by the rigour of the winter, the Norwegians have often been
attacked by their enemies in precisely such seasons; and from the above
manner of going out to hunt, and undertaking long journeys, it was
not at all surprising that the forming of a military corps of skaters
should be thought of. The whole body consisted of two battalions,
one stationed in the north, the other in the south. Its strength was
nine hundred and sixty men. The uniform consisted of a short jacket
or waistcoat, a gray surtout with a yellow collar, gray pantaloons,
and a black leather cap. The skater’s arms were—a carabine, hung in a
leather belt passing over the shoulder; a large _couteau de chasse_;
and a staff three yards and a half long, to the end of which is affixed
a pointed piece of iron. At a little distance from the extremity it
is surrounded by a circular projecting piece of iron, which serves
principally to moderate his speed in going down-hill. The skater then
puts it between his legs, and contrives to draw it in that manner; or
he drags it by his side; or uses it to help himself forward, when he
has occasion to ascend a hill; in short, he makes use of it according
to the occasion and the circumstances in which he may be placed.
Besides this, it affords a support to the firelock, when the skater
wishes to discharge its contents. With such a rest, the Norwegian
peasant fires a gun dexterously, and very seldom misses his aim.

The corps of skaters, to this service adds that of the ordinary
chasseurs, of which they might be considered as making a part; they
fulfil all the functions of those troops, and only differ from them
by marching on skates. This gives them a considerable advantage over
others. The skaters, moving with great agility, and, from the depth
of the snow, being out of the reach of the pursuit of cavalry as well
as infantry, are enabled with impunity to harass the columns of the
enemy in their march, on both sides of the road, running little or no
danger themselves. Even cannon-shot could produce little effect upon
men spread here and there at the distance of two or three hundred
paces. Their motions are besides so quick, that at the moment when it
is believed they are still to be aimed at, they have disappeared, to
come in sight again when least expected. Should the enemy be inclined
to take his repose, this is the precise time for the skater to show
his superiority, whatever may have been the precautions taken against
him. There is no moment free from the attack of troops which have
no need of either roads or bypaths; crossing indifferently marshes,
lakes, and rivers, provided there be but ice and snow. No corps could
be more proper in winter for reconnoitring and giving accounts of the
enemy, and, in short, for performing the functions of couriers. It
may be conceived, however, that they find great difficulty in turning,
on account of the length of their skates. This, however, is not the
case; they make a retrograde motion with the right foot, to which the
shortest plank is attached, and put it vertically against the left.
They then raise the left foot, and place it parallel to the right, by
which movement they have made a _half_-face; if they would face about,
they repeat the manœuvre.

In the ordinary winter exercise, the skaters draw up in three ranks, at
the distance of three paces between each file, and eight paces between
each rank, a distance which they keep in all their movements—whenever
they do not disperse—in order that they may not be incommoded in the
use of their skates. When there is occasion to fire, the second and
third ranks advance towards the first. Their baggage—kettles, bottles,
axes, &c.—is conveyed upon sledges, or carriages fixed on skates, and
easily drawn by men, by the help of a leather strap passing from the
right shoulder to the left side, like that of a carabineer.




ECHOES.


    Ofttimes when Even’s scarlet flag
      Floats from the crest of distant woods,
    And over moorland waste and crag
      A weary, voiceless sorrow broods;
    Around me hover to and fro
    The ghosts of songs heard long ago.

    And often midst the rush of wheels,
      Of passing and repassing feet,
    When half a headlong city reels
      Triumphant down the noontide street,
    Above the tumult of the throngs
    I hear again the same old songs.

    Rest and Unrest—’tis strange that ye,
      Who lie apart as pole from pole,
    Should sway with one strong sovereignty
      The secret issues of the soul;
    Strange that ye both should hold the keys
    Of prisoned tender memories.

    It maybe when the landscape’s rim
      Is red and slumberous round the west,
    The spirit too grows still and dim,
      And turns in half-unconscious quest
    To those forgotten lullabies
    That whilom closed the infant’s eyes.

    And maybe, when the city mart
      Roars with its fullest, loudest tide,
    The spirit loses helm and chart,
      And on an instant, terrified,
    Has fled across the space of years
    To notes that banished childhood’s fears.

    We know not—but ’tis sweet to know
      Dead hours still haunt the living day,
    And sweet to hope that, when the slow
      Sure message beckons us away,
    The Past may send some tuneful breath
    To echo round the bed of death.

            L. J. G.

       *       *       *       *       *

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 16, VOL. I, APRIL 19, 1884 ***


    

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