The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 28, Vol. I, July 12, 1884
    
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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 28, Vol. I, July 12, 1884

Author: Various

Release date: July 20, 2021 [eBook #65881]
                Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: William and Robert Chambers

Credits: Susan Skinner, Eric Hutton and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 28, VOL. I, JULY 12, 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. 28.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, JULY 12, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




ON MOOR AND LOCH.


About eight o’clock of a June morning the train draws up at a small
station within a short run south of the Scottish metropolis. It is not
a typical June morning. There has been a fortnight’s drought, followed
by two days of rain—the latter rejoicing the heart of the agriculturist
and the angler; but yesternight the rain ceased, and its place has
been taken by a gray mist, or _haar_, which the east wind is bringing
up from the German Ocean. No angler loves mist. Is it not set down in
the angler’s book of common-law precedents, that in the case of Man
_versus_ Trout, this obscure element is to be construed in favour of
the defender? The station at which we alight is situated in an upland
valley, shut in on the north and west by the mounded Pentlands; but
this morning their outline shows only like a denser and darker bank
of clouds in a gray waste of cloudland. Down into the valley also,
thin streaks of mist are creeping dismally and slow, groping their way
forward with long dripping fingers, like a belated band of midnight
ghosts which the morning light has struck with sudden blindness. To
the south-west, the Peeblesshire hills are less obscured, but there
is floating over them the dull glaze, the leaden hue, which makes my
companion sadly prognosticate thunder—and thunder to the angler’s sport
is as fatal as mist.

It is indeed very far from being a typical June morning. The earth is
gray, and the sky is gray; and the trees and hedgerows that flank the
fields and overshadow the cottages and the little inn, are not musical
with the song of any bird. There is even in the air a touch of the
east wind, that fiend of the North Sea who comes to us annually with
the crocus and the primrose, and spends at least three months of his
baneful existence in tying innumerable knots upon human nerves. His
sublime excellency the Sun is doubtless up, as his custom is, long ere
now, but this morning he wilfully persists in keeping his chamber. All
this is marked in the time we take to alight at the railway station,
give up our tickets, and, shouldering basket and rod, set out towards
our destination for the day, which lies over this long ridge to the
right.

Everything is very still—with the soft stillness of a misty summer
morning. Except for the noise of the train we have just left, as it
goes coughing hysterically out of the station, one might almost hear
the grass growing. The recent rain has washed the dust from leaf and
flower, and the fields of young grain are in the reawakened freshness
of early growth. The pastures have drunk in the moisture; and the cows
that stop feeding for a moment to gaze on us with large soft eyes as we
pass, return with fresh zest to their juicy morning meal. The watchdog
at the farm salutes us, as is his wont, with a little gruff language;
not meaning any great harm perhaps, but only in the way of duty.
‘You are not beggars,’ he seems to say, ‘and don’t want any strong
measures to be taken with you. But you are strangers, and I dislike
strangers. Don’t stand and look at me so, for that only irritates me.
Good-morning, and be off with you!’ In a few minutes we reach the top
of the ridge, and see the long line of the Moorfoot Hills girdling the
south and east. They are much clearer than the Pentlands behind us,
and we have hopes that a southerly breeze may spring up; for along the
south-eastern horizon, between the hills and the low mist-cloud above,
there is a clear line of light—the _weather-gleam_, as the Border
shepherds poetically name it—showing where the wind is breaking through
the haze and uncurtaining the hills.

Our road for three or four miles lies straight before us; for the
most part, through a bleak barren moorland. The ditches at the sides,
which serve to drain off the stagnating black bog-water, have an
abundance of bright green mosses and water-plants on their shelving
sides and marshy bottom. There is a broad waste of peat-moss all round,
cracked and broken with black fissures, the higher patches covered
with bent-grass, hard and wiry, brown and dry, and only here and
there showing thin blades of green. One wonders what those straggling
ewes find to eat amid the general barrenness, and how they manage to
maintain themselves and their merry lambs, tiny, black-faced, and
black-footed, that frolic around them. Yet this wild waste bears
promise of beauty ere the winter is on us; for the upper margins of
the ditches and the tops of the knolls are crested with thick bunches
of heather, which, though scarcely noticeable now, will one day shake
out fragrant bells in the autumn wind, and flush the moorland with
a purple glory. Far away to the left we hear the jangling call of
a bird—‘liddle-liddle-liddle’—rapid, bell-like, long-continued. It
is a familiar sound during the summer months to the wanderer among
the hills, arousing, as it does, all the other birds far and near as
if with an alarum-bell. The call is that of the sandpiper—in some
places known, from its cry, as the ‘little fiddler,’ in others as the
‘killieleepie.’ It is one of our migratory birds, reaching us from the
south in the month of April, and starting on its travels again, with
its young family, in the autumn. Among the other bird-calls which its
wild, startling cry has awakened, is a plaintive ‘tee-oo, tee-oo,’
sounding eerily over the heath. It is the voice of the graceful
redshank, which has left the seashore, as it does every spring, and
come up with its mate to the moors to spend their honeymoon and rear
their young brood; and by-and-by it will lead back to the sandy shore
a little following of red-legs, who will learn to pick crustaceans
from the shallow pools, and prepare for a journey to the hills on
their own account next spring. On before us, in a clump of firs on a
distant height, we hear the deep note of the cuckoo, booming out with
its regular cadences, calling to mind the oldest lyric in the English
tongue:

    Summer is i-cumin in,
      Loud sing, cuckoo!
    Groweth seed,
    And bloweth mead,
      And springeth the wood noo.
          Sing, cuckoo!

All this is very well, but it is not the business of the day. These are
but the accidents, or rather the pleasant incidents, of the journey;
and as we reach once more an oasis of cultivation, we know that the
water for which we are bound lies close at hand. The day is gradually
losing its misty moodiness, is indeed slowly brightening up. There is
now a light but decided breeze from the direction in which we lately
saw the weather-gleam appear, and when we come in sight of the lake we
find its surface shaken with a thousand laughing ripples. The sun has
not yet looked out, but we can see, from the transparent whiteness of
the clouds at a certain spot, that his majesty may soon be expected to
show himself. The mist has quite lifted, and save that the higher peaks
of the Moorfoots are each capped with a misty cloud, there is little
trace here of the haze which still hangs thick on the northern hills
behind us.

At the water’s edge, our interest in the scenery becomes of secondary
moment. We are intent on other things. We look anxiously across the
surface of the brightly rippling water, but not a trout rises to the
surface, and not a plash is heard or a ring seen to tell that the finny
tribe are there. Knowing, from mournful experience, what it is to be
left at the edge of a loch when a dead calm settles down upon it, and
your flies are no longer of use, we have brought some worm-bait with
us; and so, in order to lose no time while the preliminary work of
making up ‘casts’ and donning waders is going on, we put on a Stewart
tackle baited with a nice red-bodied, black-headed worm, which we plant
in that part of the water where worm has already been known to us to
kill. As we make preparations for the further work of the day, we cast
quick glances from time to time towards the uplifted end of our rods
where they rest over the water; but, alas, they moved not nor ‘bobbed.’
Worm was evidently not in demand with the Fario family as a breakfast
commodity. At length, a sudden plash; and there, about fifty yards out
from the shore, we see a fine trout just dropping back into the water.
The ‘feed’ has begun! The sun had indeed been out for a short time, and
this was a signal for the night-chilled insects to come out also, and
these in their turn, dropping upon the surface of the water, signified
to Master Fario that breakfast was on the table, and he presently piped
all hands to the repast. In a few minutes more the lake was dimpled and
ringed with the plash of the feeding trout.

There is no time to lose now. The Stewart tackle is discarded, a cast
of flies is presently made fast to our line, and we are ready to
begin. My friend goes a little further afield—if this term may be used
in water parlance; and I am left to do what I can on my own account.
Stepping into the water, and moving gradually forward till I get deep
enough, I cast carefully from side to side, in hope of attracting the
attention of some one of the trout that are rising everywhere before
me. Five minutes pass, ten minutes pass, but without success, and I am
beginning to doubt if my selection of flies is good. By-and-by I see
a trout rise out there in the place where my flies should be; and the
quick touch along the line, as if something had suddenly grazed it,
tells me that a trout has rushed at the lure, and missed. There is hope
in this, and I go on with fresh vigour. A few casts made over the same
spot with as much adroitness as is possible to a clumsy fly-fisher,
brings its reward. There is a sudden tightening of the line, and at the
same moment, a dozen yards ahead, a big yellow trout springs curved
like a bow from the water, and falls back again with a heavy flop. He
is on! An aged countryman on the point of the bay opposite, waiting
to see if perchance his worm-baited rod will bob, has witnessed the
plunge of my captive, and is all intent on the issue. ‘Gie him time!’
he shouts across the water. ‘Canny wi’ him for a bit, and play him
weel. Dinna hurry, dinna hurry.’ The advice is not unneeded, for I
am nearly fifty yards from the shore, and there is moreover midway a
bank of sand only slightly covered with water, through which the green
rushes are springing up. How will I get him over that reef? I wind up
slowly, while the captive makes vigorous attempts to free himself
from the deadly hook—now springing out of the water, now curling and
twisting serpent-like along the surface, then plunging for a moment
into the deep black water, his yellow side gleaming like a sword-blade
as he shoots below. It is the supreme moment. In a little his efforts
slacken, and he comes oftener to the surface. I make slowly for the
shore, still winding in. I am over the sandy reef with its dangerous
reeds, which I fear may strip him from the hook. At last I have him
safely through them, and he allows himself to be drawn quietly over
the remaining shallow to the shore, and there he now lies—on dry
land—a speckled beauty of three-quarters of a pound, his spotted sides
gleaming like gold in the sunshine.

With cast put once again in order, I am into the water for a second
trial. This time I avoid the sandy reef with its reeds, and keep clear
water between me and the shore. The lake is deep here, and I cast
slowly, letting the flies sink a little, that the deep-feeding trout
may have a chance to see and seize them. I have succeeded in raising
one or two, but they do not seem to be in earnest; and am in the act
of withdrawing my line preparatory to casting again, when I find that
a trout has taken it. But his tactics are not the same as those of
the former one. He does not leap out of the water, and I only know by
the strain on the line and the curve of the rod that he is on. This
is only for a moment, however; for I have caught a brief glimpse of
him as he dives down into the deep water, making straight for his old
lurking-place under a steep bank a few yards in front of me. As he thus
rushes towards me, the line slackens, the rod straightens itself, and
I reel up hastily, fearing that he is off. But no; he is only sulking;
for as the line shortens, the tension is resumed, and presently he is
obliged to rise once more to the surface; and there he is now, gyrating
and whirling in coils of glittering beauty. He is not so vigorous as
his predecessor, and in a little his strength is exhausted, and he
moves quietly to the shore alongside of me, not above a yard from my
foot. He is as large as the first trout, but not in quite such fine
condition, being flatter about the shoulders, and having a slight
suspicion of lankiness in the sides. Another fortnight of fly-diet and
he might have scaled a pound.

I fish on for another hour or two, with always some occasional success,
and have, angler-like, begun to estimate the weight of my basket at the
day’s end—counting, of course, my trout before they are caught—when,
alack and well-a-day! I begin to be cognisant of the sad fact that
the breeze is gradually dying down, and that the glorious ripple on
the water is gliding away into a soft glittery waviness, not more
pronounced than the zigzags on watered silk. In a short time the breeze
has actually died off, and the water of the little bay in which I
stand lies smooth and clear before me like a sheet of polished steel.
Alas, what can angler do in such a strait? You may deceive the trout
with your artificial flies when the breeze is blowing and the ripple
is strong; but the advantage is all on the side of the finny ones when
the wind falls and the ripple ceases. You may cast your flies with as
gentle a hand as may be; but his quick eye sees something more than
your flies, and he knows from experience that a respectably born and
bred insect, fresh from its pupa-case, does not come out for a sail on
the water with a yard or two of shining gut trailing behind it, or go
about leading three or four other of its fellows after it in a string.
No, no; trout have learned a thing or two under the operation of the
law of heredity, just as we, his human—or, if you will, inhuman—captors
have done. We may therefore reel up and take to dry land, till it
pleases Eolus again to send us a prospering breeze.

As we sit on the soft grass and eat our lunch, we can note the aspect
of things around us. The sun is shining steadily down with all his
summer brightness and fervour, and the still air feels sultry and
close. As you look along the surface of the calm water, you can see
the heated air radiating from it like a shimmer of colourless flame.
The white farmhouse on the opposite side basks serenely at the foot
of the hills that overhang it; and a warm dusky haze floats over the
neighbouring ravine, where an ancient stream has cut its way down
through the lofty range. Not a sound breaks the stillness of the air,
not a wavelet disturbs the glassy line of the beach. By-and-by there
arises a low buzzing sound, gradually increasing in intensity, till
you almost think it must be some far-away railway engine blowing off
steam. You look up, and there, on either side of you, a yard deep
as far as you can see, is a colony of innumerable midges disporting
themselves in the hot air. There must be millions of those tiny
creatures, the combined action of whose little wings can send such a
hissing through the stillness. Shoals of them whisk round your head,
poking into your eyes and ears, and tickling your face and hands. A
whiff or two of tobacco-smoke comes in as a handy expedient to drive
off the insignificant troublers; and the pipe, besides, is wonderfully
soothing as you rest your tired shoulders on the grass. But, hark! what
is that long low rumble coming up to us from the far south-west—over
there where Dundreich raises his brown summit in the hot haze, with a
leaden-coloured sky in the distance behind him? My trusty comrade was
right in his morning prognostication: we are in for thunder.

There is in reality no wind; but, as frequently happens in mountainous
districts even in still days, occasional cold currents of air gravitate
from the hills to lower levels; and yonder is one playing over the
surface of the lake now, just round the corner of this land-locked
bay. We cannot afford to miss even this temporary ripple; for if the
thunder comes near there will be an end to sport for a few hours to
come. As I step along through the patches of rushy grass that grow by
the margin of the lake, I see a small bird glide quickly out of one
of those patches and disappear with suspicious celerity and quietness
behind another a few yards off. I have not lost in middle manhood the
bird-nesting instincts of boyhood’s years, and I am certain, from that
bird’s quick, low, quiet mode of flight, that it has just risen from
its nest. A few minutes’ search confirms this; for there, beneath a
patch of long grass, is the little cavity, lined cosily with dry grass
and hairs and five small oval dusky eggs, mottled with reddish-brown
dots and blotches. It is the nest of the yellowhammer. I lift one of
the eggs, which feels smooth and warm, and think for a minute how
best I might carry it home with me to little town-bred bairns that
scarce ever saw a bird’s nest. But I conclude that I cannot possibly
carry the egg home unbroken, and so return it to its place beside the
other four; where, in due course, if boys and rats and weasels let it
alone, it will produce its gaping addition to the family of yorlings. A
little further on, I descry a small sandpiper flitting before me along
the shore, poking with its lance-like bill into the sand, and wading
leg-deep through the shallow creeks, occasionally flying a yard or two,
just to show me its long pointed brown wings and its breast of snowy
white. It is the dunlin, a gay, active little fellow; and I can see
that its mate is waiting for it a short way ahead, and when they meet,
they make a dip or two to each other, by way of familiar courtesy, and
then disappear together round the bend of the shore.

I have reached the point of the promontory beyond which the water
shows a temporary ripple, and am into it in a trice. My success is
greater than I had anticipated, for I scarcely expected a rise. At the
third cast, and just as I am drawing out slack from my line in order
to make a longer throw, my lure is seized, and a bright bow of silver
shoots up a yard above the water. It is not a yellow trout this time,
but one of the Lochleven variety, with some thousands of the fry of
which the noble proprietor of these fishings stocked the lake a few
years ago. They are vigorous fellows these Lochleven trout. Five times
did this one leap straight out of the water before I had him on the
shore; and even then, he nearly escaped. He was being guided through
a shallow creek running into the lake, when I noticed that he had
succeeded in unhooking himself. Had he not had the strength played out
of him, he would have been off into the deeper water like a streak of
light. But now he is weak and confused, and aimlessly pokes his nose
into the bank, giving me just sufficient time to get between him and
the lake and throw him out with my hands. He is a beautiful specimen
of half-a-pound, finely spotted, his gleaming sides of a rich creamy
whiteness, with a subdued pink flush shining through.

But why prolong the story? The thunder came nearer, though it did not
break over us; and by the time the hour arrived for us to re-cross the
moor, under the westering sun, to the little station we had left in the
morning, my companion and myself had—not _big_ baskets, as some baskets
are counted—but baskets big enough to send us home well pleased and
contented.

       *       *       *       *       *

There are two ways of going home from a day’s fishing (we do not refer
to roads or means of travel, but to moods of mind). The one is as we
come home now; the other is when we come home ‘clean’—that is, with
nothing. In the morning we have started with no idea but what relates
to the fish we are to catch, hope being naturally in the ascendant. But
in the evening, if we have had a bad day’s work, we are in a different
mood, with our ideas much enlarged beyond that of merely catching
trout. We suggest and enumerate to each other, with extraordinary
facility, the compensating advantages of our position. We have had a
day in the open air; we have had vigorous healthy exercise for the
shoulders and arms (which are sore enough, perhaps, in all conscience,
though we would not for our lives admit it); we have enjoyed the sights
and sounds of nature, and have something like a triumphant feeling of
superiority over our poor town companions who have been all the day in
chamber or workshop, with nothing better to inflate their lungs than
the smoky city atmosphere, and nothing more to delight their ears than
the monotonous jingle of tramcar bells and the rattling of cabs over
the stony street. Our compensating advantages are immense! Sorry we
have not caught more trout? Pooh, nonsense! What have trout to do with
it, except as an inducement to go out for a day to moor and river? Do
you take us for fishmongers?

And so, self-consoled, and weary enough, we regain the city with its
flaring lamps and crowded streets, and go home to tell our experiences,
and dream of alder-shaded banks and silver streams, and the landing of
bigger trout than are ever likely to charm us in our waking hours.




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER XXXVII.—DOWN BY THE RIVER.

They were silent until they reached the stile at the foot of the
Willowmere meadows, where they were to part.

The information which Mrs Joy had given them was a source of special
anxiety to Madge, apart from her considerations on Pansy’s account.
If Caleb had really determined to leave the country at once, Philip
would lose his most able assistant in carrying out the work, which was
already presenting so many unforeseen and unprovided-for difficulties,
that it was severely taxing the strength of body and mind. Besides, the
few men who still maintained a half-hearted allegiance would take alarm
when they found that even Caleb the foreman had deserted, and abandon
their leader altogether. Madge was afraid to think of what effect this
might have on Philip. Although he had striven hard to hide it from her,
she had detected in his manner undercurrents of excitement, impatience,
and irritability under which he might at any moment break down. His
mind was much troubled; and the knowledge that it was so had been the
main inspiration of her earnest appeal to Mr Beecham to help him.

She sympathised with Caleb, and understood the bitterness of his
disappointment by the resolution he had so hastily adopted. He was
casting aside what promised to be an opportunity to rise in the
world in the manner in which he would most desire to rise—with his
fellow-workers; and abandoning a friend who needed his help and
who, he was aware, held him in much respect. On Pansy’s account she
was grieved, but not angry; for although she had been misled by her
conduct towards Caleb, as he had been, she would not have the girl act
otherwise than she was doing, if she really felt that she could not
give the man her whole thought and heart, as a wife should do. But
there was the question—Did she understand herself? The sulky insistence
that she would not have him seemed to say ‘yes;’ but the pale face and
quivering lips when she heard that he was about to emigrate seemed to
say ‘no.’ A few days’ reflection would enable her to decide, and in
the meanwhile some effort must be made to induce Caleb to postpone his
departure.

‘You will think about all this, Pansy,’ she said when they halted by
the stile; ‘and to-morrow, or next day, perhaps, or some time soon, you
will tell me how you have come to change your mind about him.’

‘It is better he should go,’ answered the girl without looking at Madge.

Pansy did not take the shortest way home. She passed between the
dancing beeches—their bare branches had no claim to that festive
designation, unless it might be a dance of hags—and under the blackened
willows which cast a shadow over the little footpath by the river-side.
Lances of light crossed the path, and seemed to be darting out towards
the silver shields which the sun made on the running water. The lances
of light dazzled her eyes, and the shadows seemed to press down on her
head; whilst the sharp tinkle made by the rippling water in the clear
atmosphere sounded discordantly in her ears. She saw no beauty anywhere
and heard no pleasant sounds.

She was walking against the stream: thinking about nothing: stupid
and unhappy: figures seemed to flit before her without conveying any
meaning to her senses. She neither knew nor asked herself why she had
chosen this way by the stream, instead of taking the straight road home
through the forest. Some instinct had suggested that by taking this way
she was less likely to meet any one.

Walking quickly, the keen wind made her cheeks tingle and seemed
gradually to clear the fog out of her head. She had heard girls, and
women too, boast about the number of men who had ‘asked’ them, and she
knew that some of them had even multiplied the number for their own
exaltation. They all considered it a thing to be proud of, and the more
disappointments they had caused, the merrier they were. Why, then,
should she take on so because she had been obliged to say ‘no’ to one
man? She ought rather to be sorry that it was only one. Of course there
was something in Caleb different from the other lads who had come about
her, and who would have been ready enough to put the great question if
she had shown any willingness to listen to it. She had not done so, and
they had caused her no bother. But then she could not deny to herself
that she had given Caleb reason to think that she was willing; and she
liked him—liked him very much. That was why she was distressed, as she
had told Madge.

And what was the phantom in her brain which had rendered it necessary
to cause so much worry to Caleb and herself?... She would not admit
that there was any phantom. She was quite sure of it (and there was
an unconscious toss of the head at this point); and her refusal meant
no more than that she did not care enough for him. Surely that was
reason enough for saying ‘no’ without seeking for any other. And yet
this satisfactory answer to her own question made her the more uneasy
with herself, because she was conscious that she was shirking the whole
truth.

She passed out from under the shadow of the willows at a point where
a broken branch of a huge old elm had formed an archway, and a little
farther on was the ford, where a shaky wooden foot-bridge crossed the
water leading to the door of the squat white alehouse where thirsty
carriers felt bound to halt. Unlike most other wayside inns, its glory
had not been completely destroyed by the railways. The walls were kept
white. The old thatch-roof was neatly trimmed and carefully patched
wherever age or the elements rendered patching requisite, so that it
presented a fine study of variegated greens and browns, with here and
there a dash of bright yellow. The inside was clean and tidy; and in
cold weather there was always a cheerful blaze in the big fireplace.
The secret of this pleasant condition of the _Ford Inn_ was that the
tenant farmed a bit of the contiguous land, on which he depended more
than on the profits of his excellent ‘home-brewed.’

The road southward from the ford passed the gates of Ringsford Manor.
Going in that direction, Coutts Hadleigh was crossing the foot-bridge
when Pansy reached the elm, and at sight of him she halted under the
broken branch. The colour came back to her cheeks for an instant and
left them paler than before. She had often heard of the pitfalls which
beset the steps of maidens who lift their eyes too high; but she was
incapable of nice arguments about the proper level of sight for one in
her position. He had said many pretty things to her, always asked a
flower from her, and at the harvest-home he had danced with her more
than with any of the other girls. She was pleased; and now she owned
that she had more than once wondered, when the Manor carriage with the
ladies passed and she was courtesying by the wayside, how she would
look if sitting in their place.

But that admission under the light of this day’s experience revealed an
ugly possibility, and taught her the alphabet of a disagreeable lesson
in life.

She waited until Coutts had got some distance from the ford; then she
crossed the road, and entering a ploughed field, hurried homeward,
keeping close by the hedge, as if afraid to be seen.

Her father was kneeling on the hearth lighting the fire, his thin
cheeks drawn into hollows as he blew the wood into flame.

‘That you, Pansy?’ (poof). ‘What ails you the day’ (poof), ‘that
there’s neither fire nor’ (poof) ‘dinner for me when I come in frae my
work?’

A series of vigorous ‘poofs’ followed. Pansy, whilst quickly relieving
him of his task and arranging the table, explained what had happened in
the washhouse, and how Miss Heathcote had taken her to the doctor.

‘Oh, you were wi’ her,’ said the gardener, paying little attention to
her accident. ‘I thought you might have been awa wi’ some other body,
for I never knew women-folk neglectin’ the dinner exceptin’ in cases o’
courtin’ or deein’.’

Most men would have been in a temper on returning hungry from work and
finding that the fire had to be lighted to heat the food; but Sam
having been rarely subjected to such an experience, and being under the
impression that he was soon to be left to look after himself entirely,
accepted the present position calmly, as a foretaste of what was coming.

‘And you have had nothing yoursel’, Pansy. Aweel, I’m no astonished.
I daresay your mother whiles wanted her dinner when she was thinking
about me.’

Sam, finding dinner a hopeless achievement, began, with customary
deliberation, to fill and light his pipe. His daughter’s short answers
he attributed to the natural shyness in the presence of her father of a
maiden who was expecting soon to become a wife.

‘I ken what you are thinking about, Pansy; but I’m no going to say a
word on the subject at this time of day. There’s another matter to
speak about.’

What relief she felt! How gladly she put the question:

‘What’s that, father?’

‘There’s news come of your gran’father. He is bad wi’ the rheumatics
again, and no a creature to look after him. I’m thinking we’ll have to
make a journey over to Camberwell, and see what can be done for him,
since he’ll no come to us here.’

‘I will go to him to-day,’ she ejaculated with surprising energy; ‘and
I can take that stuff the doctor sent for you; and I can stay with him
and nurse him until he is able to get about again.’

‘Hooly, hooly,’ cried Sam, taking the pipe out of his mouth and staring
at his daughter. ‘Kersey doesna bide in the town, though he works
there.’

‘I don’t want to see him at all; I want to go to grandfather,’ she
answered. But it was not entirely anxiety on account of that relative
which prompted the desire to visit Camberwell, although her affection
for the old man was strong enough to make her eager to nurse him.
She also saw in this temporary exile the opportunity to escape from
surroundings which were threatening to mar all her chances of happiness.

‘And what am I to do when ye’re awa?’

‘You can go up to the House for your meals, or you can get them ready
for yourself, as you have done before. We cannot leave grandfather
alone.’

‘True enough, true enough, my lass; and I suppose you’ll need to go.
You’ll maybe do the auld man some good. It would be the saving o’ him,
body and sowl, if you could get him to sup parritch and drink a wee
thing less. You can take him some flowers; but it’s a pity that you
cannot have ane of the new geraaniums for him.’

So that was settled; and Pansy had never thought there would come a day
when she would prepare eagerly to leave home.

When Madge heard of the mission which called Pansy away from the
cottage for a time, she felt as well pleased as if fortune had bestowed
some good gift upon her. She saw in it something like a providential
rescue of the girl from a dangerous position; and the readiness with
which the summons had been obeyed was a guarantee that no great
mischief had been done yet. Away from Ringsford, with change of
scenes and faces, and with new duties of affection to perform, the
best qualities of her nature would be brought into action, whilst she
would have leisure enough to arrive at a clear understanding of her
own feelings. It was a pity that the old man should be ill; but it was
lucky for Pansy—and probably for Caleb—that this call should have been
made upon her.

She had made no sign to her friend; and it was not until Madge arrived
at the gardener’s cottage on the following afternoon that Pansy’s
sudden departure became known to her. It was odd that she had not even
left a word of good-bye with her father for one who, she was aware,
would be anxious about her. But the folly, whatever it might be, which
had for the time so altered the girl’s simple nature would be the
more easily forgotten if there were no speech about it. Evidently Sam
was still ignorant of the fact that Caleb had spoken and received a
refusal. Madge hoped that they would soon have good news of Pansy and
her patient.

‘I daresay we’ll hear about them in twa or three days; but it’s little
good she can do her gran’father. He’s a stupid auld body; and as soon
as he gets on his feet again, he’ll just be off trailing round the
town, making-believe to be selling laces and things; but that’s no what
takes him about.’

‘What, then?’

‘Singing bits o’ sangs and making a fool of himsel’ at public-houses,
for the treats he gets from folk that ought to know better,’ replied
the gardener, shaking his head gloomily. ‘I havena much hope for
him; but I was aye minded to gie him another chance; and as it was
to be given, the sooner the better. Besides that, Pansy was most
extraordinary anxious to get awa to him. If she could just fetch him
here, something might be done for him.’

Madge sympathised with this kindly wish, and hoped it might be realised
in spite of Sam’s misgivings. Then she went on to the Manor.




ROYAL PERSIAN SHERBET.


Under this sounding title, most of us have a remembrance of a white
effervescing powder, flavoured with essence of lemons, which in the
summer-time was sold to us as children; a large spoonful was stirred
into a tumbler of water, cool or the reverse, and known to boys as
a ‘fizzer.’ It is not to this mawkish draught we wish to draw the
reader’s attention, but rather to the real thing as used in Persia and
throughout the East. Persian sherbet is a very comprehensive term, and
there are many varieties of it. Before we come to what it is, it may
be as well to explain when and how it is drunk. Sherbet is used as a
thirst-quencher, and a cooling drink in hot weather; it is either the
drink taken at meals, or it is handed to visitors in warm weather in
lieu of coffee. As a drink at meals, it is placed in Chinese porcelain
bowls, there being usually several varieties of the sherbet, more or
less, according to the size of the party and the position of the host.
Each bowl stands in its saucer; and across the vessel is laid one of
the pear-wood spoons of Abadeh, famed for their carving and lightness
throughout the Eastern world.

A sherbet spoon is from one to two feet in length; the bowl, cut from a
solid block, holds from a claret-glass to a tumbler of the liquid. This
bowl is so thin as to be semi-transparent, and is frequently ornamented
with an inscription, the letters of which are in high-relief. To retain
their semi-transparency, each letter is undercut, so that, although
standing up an eighth of an inch from the surface of the bowl, yet the
whole is of the same light and delicate texture, no part thicker than
another. One-half of the surface of the spoon-bowl is covered by two
cleverly applied pieces of carved wood, which appear to be carved from
one block. But this is not the case—they are really cemented there.
These pieces are carved in such a delicate manner as to be almost filmy
in appearance, resembling fine lacework. The handle of the spoon—at
times twenty inches long—is formed in a separate piece, and inserted
into the edge of the bowl in a groove cut to receive it. This handle is
also elaborately carved in delicate tracery; and a wonderful effect is
produced by the rhomboid-shaped handle, at times four inches broad at
the widest part, and only a tenth of an inch thick. The groove where
the handle is inserted into the edge of the bowl of the spoon, and the
point of junction, are hidden by a rosette of carved wood, circular in
shape, only a tenth of an inch thick. This, too, is carved in lacelike
work, and it is cemented to the shaft of the spoon. A kind of flying
buttress of similar delicate woodwork unites the back-part of the
shaft to the shoulder of the bowl. The spoon, which when it leaves the
carver’s bench is white, is varnished with _Kaman_ oil, which acts as
a waterproof and preservative, and dyes the whole of a fine gamboge
yellow similar to our boxwood. The weight of the spoon is in the
largest sizes two ounces.

The tools used by the carver are a plane, a rough sort of gouge, and a
common penknife. Each spoon is of a separate and original design, no
two being alike, save when ordered in pairs or sets. The price of the
finest specimens is from five to fifteen shillings each. These sherbet
spoons are really works of art, and are valued by oriental amateurs.
Many of the merchants are very proud of their sherbet spoons; and
being wood, they are ‘lawful;’ for a metal spoon, if of silver, is an
abomination; consequently, the teaspoons in Persia have a filigree hole
in the bowl, and thus can be used for stirring the tea only, and not
for the unlawful act of conveying it to the mouth in a silver spoon.
Of course, these high-art sherbet spoons are only seen at the houses
of the better classes, a coarser wooden spoon being used by the lower
classes. The spoons at dinner serve as drinking-vessels, for tumblers
are unknown; and the metal drinking-cups so much in use are merely for
travelling, or the pottle-deep potations of the irreligious.

During the seven months of Persian summer, it is usual to serve sherbet
at all visits, in lieu of coffee, for coffee is supposed to be heating
in the hot afternoons, at which time formal visits are often made;
and as the visitor must be given something—for he is never sent empty
away—sherbet in glass tankards or _istakans_—a word borrowed from the
Russian term for a tumbler—is handed round. These _istakans_ are often
very handsome, being always of cut or coloured glass, often elaborately
gilded and painted in colours, or what is termed jewelled—that is,
ornamented with an imitation of gems.

And now, what is Persian sherbet? A draught of sweetened water
flavoured to the taste of the drinker. The only exception to this
definition is the _sherbet-i-kand_, or _eau sucrée_, which is simply
water in which lump-sugar has been dissolved. The varieties of sherbet
may be divided into those made from the fresh juice of fruit, which are
mixed with water and sweetened to the taste; and those made from sirup,
in which the juice of fruit has been boiled.

It will be thus seen that the effervescing qualities of royal Persian
sherbet only exist in the imagination of the English confectioner.
But there is one all-important point that the English vendor would do
well to imitate: Persian sherbet is served very cool, or iced. Blocks
of snow or lumps of ice are always dissolved in the sherbet drunk in
Persia, unless the water has been previously artificially cooled. Fresh
sherbets are usually lemon, orange, or pomegranate; and the first two
are particularly delicious. The fresh juice is expressed in the room in
the presence of the guest, passed through a small silver strainer, to
remove the pips, portions of pulp, &c.; lumps of sugar are then placed
in the _istakan_; water is poured in till the vessel is two-thirds
full, and it is then filled to the brim with blocks of ice or snow.

The preserved sherbets are generally contained in small decanters of
coloured Bohemian glass similar to the _istakans_ in style. They are
in the form of clear and concentrated sirup. This sirup is poured into
the bowl or _istakan_, as the case may be; water is added; the whole
is stirred; and the requisite quantity of ice or snow completes the
sherbet.

When bowls are used—as they invariably are by the rich at meals, and by
the poor at all times—the spoons are dipped into the bowl, and after
being emptied into the mouth, are replaced in the bowl of sherbet.
Thus the use of glass vessels, until lately very expensive in Persia,
is dispensed with. Probably with the continuous introduction of the
ugly and cheap, but strong and serviceable, Russian glass, the dainty
sherbet-spoon of Abadeh will gradually disappear, the more prosaic
tumbler taking its place.

One kind of sherbet is not a fruit-sirup, but a distilled water; this
is the _sherbet i-beed-mishk_, or willow-flower sherbet. The fresh
flowers of a particular kind of willow are distilled with water; a
rather insipid but grateful distilled water is the result. Of this, the
Persians are immoderately fond, and they ascribe great power to it in
the ‘fattening of the thin.’ It is a popular and harmless drink, and is
drunk in the early morning, not iced, but simply sweetened.

Persians are very particular as to the water they drink, and are as
great connoisseurs in it as some Englishmen are curious in wines.
The water they habitually drink must be cool, and if possible, from
a spring of good repute. It is often brought long distances in skins
daily from the favourite spring of the locality. Given good water, and
pleasant, grateful beverages of all sorts, it is easy to refrain from
the strong drinks which Mohammed so wisely forbade his followers to
indulge in, making drunkenness a crime, and the drunkard an object of
disgust and loathing to his fellow-man. Undoubtedly, strong drinks in
hot climates, or even in hot weather, are incompatible with good health.

The varieties of the preserved sirups are numerous: orange, lemon,
quince, cranberry—the raspberry is unknown in Persia—cherry,
pomegranate, apricot, plum, and grape juice; while various combinations
of a very grateful nature are made by mixing two or even three of the
above.




TERRIBLY FULFILLED.


IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.

The auctioneer looked at his watch. Past three o’clock in the morning.
He went into the hall, put on his hat, softly opened the front-door,
and went out. He was going to make a visit of inspection which no
amount of distress would have induced him to omit before retiring
to rest. The house was a corner one, turning a dead wall to the
side-street which ran out of the square. Turning down this street, he
stopped at a low door at the further extremity of the house, having a
massive iron handle and a small keyhole. Taking a key from his pocket,
he turned it in the lock, twisted the handle round, and, exerting
his strength, drew the door towards him. It was then to be seen that
this door, though to outward view consisting of nothing stronger than
wood, was of massive steel within—was, in fact, a thief-proof door.
The idea was an original one. Our brethren who follow the honourable
profession of burglary find, we are told, little difficulty in dealing
with matters of this nature, however skilfully constructed and widely
advertised, if only they can be secure from interruption. The mere
fact that safes and strong-room doors are always to be found _inside_
a building, affords to the burglar this very security. Once within
and alone, with the long hours of night before him, he can go about
his work in a leisurely and scientific fashion, with at least a fair
chance of success. But it had occurred to the auctioneer that if the
door were made to open directly upon the street, it would be extremely
difficult for the most daring and experienced cracksman to prosecute
to a successful conclusion, at the momentary risk of detection, a
labour of several hours, requiring the employment of numerous tools.
Besides which, the police being aware of the existence of the door, the
constable on the beat was accustomed to examine it carefully whenever
he passed; so that if any attempt to force it had been made since the
last inspection, he could not fail to detect the fact immediately.

The auctioneer stepped through the doorway and shut the door behind
him. Striking a match, he lit the candle in a small lantern which he
carried; and it was then evident that, supposing our burglar to have
forced the outer door, he would so far have found little to reward
his pains, for a second strong-door at some distance from the first
required to be opened also. This done, the interior of the safe was
seen. It was a small room, about ten feet square, entirely without
access to the house, the walls and vaulted ceiling strongly constructed
of stone. Its only furniture was a small table and chair, and a nest of
drawers clamped to the wall. Close by this, reaching from the floor to
the spring of the arch, was what appeared to be a dingy, full-length
portrait of a gentleman of the time of Charles II., in a tarnished
gilt frame. On inspection, this picture looked as if painted on panel;
but if sounded with the knuckles, it was found to be of a different
material—solid metal.

Most men, especially rich men, have a hobby. Mr Cross had two. They
were, first, diamonds; secondly, mechanics. His trade was not of the
ordinary class; and he, with one or two other firms, had practically a
monopoly of it in London. He dealt only in precious stones, jewellery,
valuable pictures, and such-like articles. To his rooms, pawnbrokers
sent their unredeemed pledges of this kind for sale by public auction,
as the law directs. Where it was necessary, under the terms of a
will, to dispose of family plate and jewellery, the executors were
generally advised to retain the services of Mr Cross. Should the more
valuable and less bulky effects of the Right Honourable the Earl of
Englethorpe ever come to the hammer, as sometimes appeared to that
nobleman to be a not quite impossible occurrence, it was by no means
unlikely—such is the irony of fate—that Mr Cross would wield the fatal
hammer. In this way it happened that the auctioneer, being brought into
business contact with dealers in precious stones, enjoyed opportunities
of gratifying his passion for diamonds at a cost which would have
astounded the general public, who are accustomed to shop-window prices.
During some twenty years, he had expended in this way over thirty
thousand pounds, and had destined his collection to form a parure for
his daughter on her marriage, which should at least equal that of any
duchess in the three kingdoms. And it contributed not a little to his
grief, that the possibility of her ever coming to wear those diamonds
seemed to be but a very remote one.

For the protection of the fruits of his first hobby, his second had
come into play. In his youth, when the choice of a trade or profession
had been offered to him by his father—also an auctioneer with a large
business—he had elected to be a mechanical engineer. He had accordingly
been apprenticed to an eminent firm, and had gone through the drudgery
exacted from all, without distinction of class or means, who enter
that profession, in which there is no royal road to learning. He had
developed such ingenuity and ability, that there would have been no
difficulty about a future partnership, when his father died suddenly.
It was highly advisable that the business, a large and lucrative one,
should be carried on. Young Cross, with that decision of character
which marked him through life, instantly determined to abandon
engineering and adopt his father’s trade, which prospered in his hands
until it reached its present dimensions. But he never wasted anything;
and he turned his mechanical knowledge and skill to such purpose by
way of recreation, that amongst other sources of wealth he was the
owner of several valuable patents of his own invention. He had a small
workshop and forge fitted up in the rear of his house, and here he was
accustomed often to occupy himself in the evening and early morning. It
was his only amusement; for of books he was wont to say, and believe,
that they were but the brains of other men, and of little use to a man
who had brains of his own.

His next proceedings will show how he had turned his mechanical genius
to account for the safe keeping of his diamonds. Any person opening
the drawers in the nest would have found them full of old papers, and
would also have found that they would not come entirely out of their
places. Opening, however, the third drawer from the top, the auctioneer
pulled at it strongly, until it came out with a sharp snap, exposing
the opening into which it fitted. The back of this drawer was a movable
flap, working on hinges, and retained in its place by a powerful
spring, so that it required a considerable exertion of strength to
extract the drawer from the nest. Putting his hand into the aperture,
Mr Cross grasped an iron semicircular handle which fitted into a niche
in the wall at the back of the drawers, and drew it towards him. As he
did so, the seeming picture glided noiselessly away, leaving its frame
surrounding a dark opening. Through this he passed into what was in
effect a huge inner safe; a closet about four feet square by six in
height, lined throughout with inch-thick steel, and within that again
with four inches of fire-resisting composition contained in an iron
skin. The sliding door was steel, very thick and massive, fastening
with half-a-dozen spring catches, moving in a groove four inches in
depth, and absolutely impervious to any one not acquainted with the
machinery.

Every portion of this latter apparatus had been devised and constructed
by the auctioneer with his own hands, and placed in position by him
after the safe—made to his order by a famous maker—had been set up. The
rest was a mere matter of stone-masonry, completed by ordinary workmen
under his own eye; so that the secret was with him alone. Even now the
whole has not been revealed. Prior to withdrawing the semicircular
handle, it was necessary to turn it to the right, from a perpendicular
to a horizontal position. Unless this were done, the act of pulling
out the handle set in motion a clockwork apparatus, which at the end
of thirty seconds released a heavy counterpoise, the effect of which
was to close the sliding door of the inner safe smartly, and to throw
out of gear the machinery which worked it. It could then only be opened
by means of a second mechanical arrangement, connected with another
handle which was concealed behind a block of stone in the wall near the
roof. It is evident that any person entering the safe after opening
the door, unless in possession of the second part of this secret,
would be effectually trapped. His comrades, if any, would be unable to
deliver him, and he would have to abide an ignominious capture. This
device the auctioneer considered superior to any system of spring-guns
or such-like vulgarities, which are almost as likely to injure the
owner as the thief. Against each side of the safe were piled ordinary
deed-boxes, containing the various securities representing the bulk of
his fortune; but against the side opposite to the door was an iron box
weighing perhaps five hundredweight, and clamped firmly to the floor.

The auctioneer knelt down, and with a small key fastened to the handle
of the larger one, opened the box, disclosing a number of jewel-trays.
As he lifted them out one after the other, the light of the lantern
twinkled upon the rare and valuable gems, of all sizes and shapes,
which lay loose upon the satin cushions. He looked at them long and
earnestly, counting them over and over again, and flashing the more
precious of them to and fro against the light.

‘Ay!’ he muttered—‘all for her—for little Amy. What use in them now?
It’s all over—all over and done with for ever.’ But again came the
thought that if Amy were to become a widow, she might wear the diamonds
after all.

He closed and locked the box, rose from his knees, and went back to
the nest of drawers outside. As he forced the handle into its place,
the picture reappeared, and the sliding-door shut to with a click.
Pushing back the movable flap, he insinuated the drawer into its place,
replaced the papers taken from it, and closed it. Then, closing the
inner strong-door, he stepped again into the street, shutting the outer
door after him; and having satisfied himself that it was securely
closed, went into the house and to bed, where he slept heavily, being
quite tired out, until nearly ten o’clock in the morning.

       *       *       *       *       *

Despite his vigils of the night before, Mr Cross was tolerably punctual
to his eleven o’clock appointment at the rooms occupied by Captain
Ferrard and his wife in Duke Street. That gentleman received him with
smooth looks and fair words, for it was by no means his cue to be the
first to quarrel. So he courteously hoped that Mr Cross was well,
invited him to a seat, making no allusion to the fact that this was the
first time they had met since the marriage, and then left his visitor
to state the reason of his call.

‘I’m a plain business man, sir,’ said the auctioneer after a moment or
two; ‘and I’ve got little time to spare, so I’ll come to the point at
once. It seems, from what my daughter told me last night, that you and
she don’t get on quite so well together as you should.’

‘Ay, ay!’ said the captain carelessly. The demon within him was being
aroused. He had not the slightest intention of allowing this tradesman
to lecture him. The latter waited for some further remark, but none
came.

‘That isn’t as it should be between man and wife, you know,’ said he at
last, somewhat nonplussed.

‘I’ll be as plain with you, Mr Cross, as you can possibly be with me,’
said the captain, turning round suddenly so as to face his visitor. ‘My
wife has been complaining to you, it seems. Well, I suppose we have
our trifling disagreements, like other couples, and scarcity of money
does not tend to sweeten the temper—does it? I quite agree with you
that this is not as it should be; but then, how few things are! Am I to
suppose that it is only on this subject that you wish to speak to me?’

‘Don’t be hasty,’ replied Mr Cross. ‘I’m not saying it’s your fault,
nor anybody’s fault. I come to you in a friendly way, not to have words
about it. I’ve been thinking the matter over a good deal since last
night, and I’ve come to fancy things might somehow be arranged between
us, after all.’

Ferrard pricked up his ears. ‘Very good of you to say so,’ he said
politely.

‘I don’t say that I’ve quite thought it out, and I don’t say what I
will do, you understand, or what I won’t. But no doubt there’s a good
deal of truth in your remark about money and temper. I’m a rough,
cross-grained sort of fellow, and perhaps I may have been too quick
over this affair. I’m afraid I wasn’t too civil to you that day; and
you must own _you_ were a bit aggravating too. I only want my girl to
be happy.’

‘I assure you, Mr Cross,’ said the captain, with engaging frankness,
‘that in that respect we are entirely at one. I have every desire
for your daughter’s happiness—and, I may add, for my own; of course,
in a secondary degree. But I have already pointed out to you, and
you have been good enough to agree with me, that good temper and
easy circumstances are intimately allied; and I think you will also
admit that bad temper and happiness are entirely incompatible. And
considering our respective tastes and habits, five hundred a year can
scarcely be considered affluence.’

For all his desire to be conciliatory, he could not entirely repress
the slight sneer which pervaded his tone and manner.

The auctioneer looked steadily and gravely at him as he replied: ‘I
daresay we shall find some way of getting rid of the inconvenience,
sir. But I’m due in the City long before this, so I’ll only say that I
hope we shall be better acquainted, and we can’t be that without seeing
more of one another. What do you say to a bit of dinner at my house on
Thursday and staying the night? Then you and I can talk this little
matter over by ourselves, between man and man. I’m going out of town
for a week on Friday; and if you don’t mind, I’ll arrange for Amy to
meet me at London Bridge and keep me company—she looks as if a whiff of
the sea wouldn’t hurt her—and then, you know, you could think over any
proposal I might make to you, alone and quietly; and tell me what you
say to it, when we come back.’

The captain’s heart leaped within him at these proposals. Pressing
claims were at this moment hanging over him, which it seemed that he
might now be able to meet. He could ask no fairer opportunity for
captivating his father-in-law and so turning his dearth into plenty. So
he responded to the invitation with great heartiness, professed himself
delighted at the prospect of so pleasant a trip for his wife; and they
shook hands and parted.

Mr Cross stood on the doorstep for a moment, deep in thought. His mind
sadly misgave him. He mistrusted his power of dealing with this cool,
sarcastic, easy-mannered vagabond, as he would have dealt with one of
his own class. He shook his head as he walked away. If the man would
but die!

That night, feeling weary and worn out, he thought he would indulge in
a little tinkering of some sort in his workshop—to him a never-failing
source of relaxation. For some time past he had been engaged in
making a duplicate set of keys for the doors of the strong-room and
the iron box which held the diamonds, as a useful precaution in case
the originals should be lost or mislaid. So, after dinner, he put on
his leathern apron and again set to work, pipe in mouth. When he had
finished the work, he paid the usual evening visit to his diamonds,
using the new keys. With a touch or two of the small file which he
carried in his hand, he found that they fitted perfectly.

Amy had been the same day to her father in the City, all anxiety to
learn the result of the interview, as her husband declined to tell her
anything. Mr Cross had, as we know, but little to tell; he could only
bid her, as before, keep a good heart, and it would all come right.
He informed her of the arrangements which had been made for Thursday
and Friday next, named the hour at which she was to meet him at London
Bridge, and sent her away a little perplexed, but rejoicing greatly
at the prospect of the trip, and trusting implicitly in her father’s
wisdom.




THE ART OF CONVERSATION.


Certain things are supposed to come by the grace of nature and the
free gift of providence; and the Art of Conversation is one of them.
No one dreams of cultivating this art, either in its perfected form or
in those rudiments which stand as a ‘grammar in use for beginners;’
that is—correct diction, just expression, that inflection of the voice
which shall be eloquent without being theatrical, and that emphasis
which shall be indicative without being exaggerated. People drawl out
their words into long tails or clip them into docked stumps; they loop
them on to the other with a running chain of ‘_er_s,’ or they bite them
off short, each word falling plumb and isolated, disconnected from
all the rest; they let their labials go by the board, and bury their
_r_s in the recesses of their larynx; they throw the accent on the
wrong syllable, and transform their vowels according to their liking;
they say ‘wuz’ for ‘was,’ ‘onnibus’ for ‘omnibus,’ and ‘y’ are’ for
‘you are;’ they shoulder out all the middle aspirates and some of
the initial, and forget that words ending in ‘ing’ have a final _g_
which is neither to be burked out of existence nor hardened into a
ringing _k_. All which lingual misdemeanours they commit with a clear
conscience and a light heart, because ignorant that they have committed
any misdemeanour at all.

Even people of birth and breeding, who should be without offence in
those matters, fail in their grammar, and say the queerest things in
the world. ‘These sort of things;’ ‘Who have you asked?’ ‘Every one of
them know you;’ ‘Between you and I;’ ‘Neither men or women;’ ‘No one’
as the antecedent, and ‘they’ as the relative—these are just a few of
the commonest errors of daily speech of which no one is ashamed, and
to which were you to make a formal objection, you would be thought a
pedant for your pains, and laughed at when your back was turned. If
these things are done in the green tree of method, what may not be
looked for in the dry of substance? And sure it is that we find very
queer things indeed in that dry of substance, and prove for ourselves
how the Art of Conversation is reduced to its primitive elements,
which few give themselves the trouble to embellish, and fewer still to
perfect.

To begin at the beginning, how seldom people pay undivided attention to
the conversation on hand, and how often their thoughts wander and stray
everywhere but where they should be! The most absurd, the most trivial,
thing distracts them. A spider on the wall breaks the thread of an
enthralling narrative, and a butterfly on the lawn breaks into the
gravest, or the most poetic, talk as ruthlessly as the proverbial bull
smashes into the proverbial china-shop. Another alumnus in the same
school, though of a different class, will not let you speak without
interruption. Like a cockerel, spurring and springing at its brother,
this kind dashes at you with an answer before you have half stated your
case. ‘You mean this?’ he says, performing that feat called ‘taking
the words out of your mouth.’ And forthwith he begins his refutation
of that which you have not said and probably had no intention of
saying. Another will not wait until you have finished. His words cross
and intermingle with yours in hopeless confusion of both sound and
sense. You both speak together, and neither listens to the other—you,
because you ‘have the floor,’ and he, because he wishes to have it.
Conversation with such is impossible. It is a battle of words—mere
words—like a heap of loose stones shot pell-mell out of a cart; and
not that orderly interchange of ideas which is what true conversation
should be.

Others, cousins-german to these, interfere in talk with which they
have no business. They do not join in; thus enlarging the basis and
enriching the superstructure; but they break in with something quite
irrelevant, destroying the most interesting discussion on the most
puerile pretence, as a feather whisk might knock down a Sèvres vase.
This form of bad-breeding is much in use among women when they are
jealous, and want to make themselves unpleasant to each other. The
poet or the lord, the bishop or the general, that grand name or this
great fortune—the man who is the feminine cynosure and whose attention
confers distinction—is talking to some one singled out from the rest.
He has to be detached and made to transfer himself. Accordingly, one of
the boldest of the discontented outsiders goes up to the charge, and
in the midst of a talk on literature, art, politics, on his travels or
her experiences, cuts in with a question about the next flower-show or
the last murder; with Who? What? When? How? no nearer to the subject
on hand than the moon is near to Middlesex. This is an offence of
daily occurrence, even among well-bred people—human nature having the
ugly trick of breaking out of the delicate swaddling-clothes in which
education and refinement would fain confine it.

Sometimes your interlocutor is a mother abnormally occupied with her
children, and unable for two consecutive minutes to free her thoughts
from the petty details of their lives. She does not even pretend to
listen to what you are saying. All the time you are speaking, her eyes
are wandering about the room, to make sure that Tom is not forgetting
his manners, and that Jane is not making holes in hers—that Frank is
where he should be, and Sarah not where she should not be—that Edith
is not talking too much, and that Charley is not talking too little:
it does not matter what she is anxious about, seeing that if it be not
one thing it will be another. And you need not be offended, nor take
her inattention as a slight special to yourself. The Golden-mouthed
himself could not fix her thoughts, wandering as they always are over
the pathless spaces of her maternal fear. She is one of the most
disagreeable of the whole tribe of the conversational awkward-squad.
You have nothing for it but to stop dead—in the midst of a sentence,
if need be—until she has brought her roving eyes back to the point
which presupposes attention, and appears to be conscious that you are
speaking to her.

Others yawn in your face with frank and undisguised weariness; and
some put up the transparent screen of a fan or two fingers; others,
again, make that constrained grimace which accompanies the eating
and the swallowing of the yawn, and think that their sudden gulp and
hesitation will pass unobserved. Some give wrong answers, with their
eyes fixed on yours, as if listening devoutly to all you say, and
absorbed in your conversation. They have mastered this part of the
form, and can look as if drinking in to the last verbal drop. The
reality is analogous to that condition of Baron Münchhausen’s horse
with which we are all familiar, and which we express by the phrase:
‘Going in at one ear and out by another.’ One who had learned this art
of looking attention without giving it, once fell into a pit whence was
no possible extraction. ‘Do you call gentlemen in England It?’ said
an English-speaking German who thought his sweet companion had been
entirely interested in his talk. Her eyes—and what eyes they were!—had
been all he could desire—fixed, listening, interested. Meanwhile, her
ears had been occupied elsewhere. At her back, on the ottoman where
she was sitting, was being carried on a conversation in which she was
deeply interested. Before her sat her German, labouring heavily among
the stiff clay-clods of his imperfect English. Her answer to his remark
betrayed the absence of the mind underneath all the steadfastness
of her bewildering eyes. ‘Do you call gentlemen in England It?’ he
repeated with mingled reproach, sorrow, and—enlightenment. That random
answer to his previous question cost her the offer of a spray of orange
blossom—and him the pain of its refusal.

Beyond these rudiments comes the higher art reaching into grace, and
needing enlightened intelligence for its perfection. The section which
we have been considering belongs only to the grammar, the beginning,
the mere infancy of things, like the New Zealander’s tattoo for
personal decoration, or his hideous idol for representative art. Beyond
the good-breeding of attention comes the supreme art, we had almost
said the science of conversation—of all things the most difficult, to
judge by its rarity at least in England. It is more common in France,
where it is better understood, and where a good conversationalist
is prized as a Master in his own degree. And be it observed—a good
conversationalist is not the same thing as a good anecdotist, a good
debater, a good talker—this last too often sinning with Coleridge in
monopolising all the talk to himself, and granting only some ‘brilliant
flashes of silence’ wherein the ruck may have their innings. A good
conversationalist, on the contrary, is essentially reciprocal. He
flings his own ball, but he catches the return and waits for its throw.
He has a light touch, and that kind of skill which glances off rather
than hits fair and square. He has also the power of suggestiveness
and direction, as perfect in its way as the skill with which certain
adepts can make a ball wind in and out of stumps and stakes by the
clever twist of their first throw off. He is not one of those who run
a subject to earth and finish it all the same as one would finish a
fox; but he keeps it alive and going with the neatest, deftest, little
fillips possible—as the Japanese keep up their paper butterflies
with airy puffs of their flimsy fans, or as a thaumaturgist guides
his spinning-plates with the tip of his forefinger. When it is all
over, and you ask yourself what you have got by it, you are forced
to confess, Nothing. You have been superficially amused, and for the
moment interested; but you have learned nothing, and are no richer
mentally than you were before the verbal butterfly began to flutter and
the wordy plate to spin.

We in England, however, know but little of this kind of talk. We have
men who argue, and men who assert; and we have men, and women too,
who come down with a thud on the toes of all whom they encounter in
the various walks of conversation. But of the light bright thrust and
parry, the brilliant quarte and tierce, the flashing ‘pinked’ and quick
_riposte_ characteristic of the palmy days of Parisian society, we have
but very little. For foils we use bludgeons; for paper butterflies,
leaden bullets. We are too much in earnest to be graceful, and too
anxious about our subject to be careful of our method. Hence we have
better dialecticians than conversationalists, and better fighters than
fencers. But really, say, at a dinner, or in the crowded corners of a
fashionable soirée, you cannot go into the mazes of ‘evidences,’ nor
discuss the value of esoteric Buddhism, nor yet winnow your sheaf of
political economy, beginning with Adam Smith and ending with Henry
George. You can only play with words and toss up airy bubbles of ideas.
And he who can play with most dexterity, and whose airy bubbles have
the brightest iridescence, is the hero of the moment and the master of
the situation.

As a rule, authors are but dull dogs in conversation. They keep their
good things for their books. Those who expect in literary society the
feast of reason and the flow of soul, find themselves for the most part
wofully disappointed. More is to be got out of the amateurist set—that
fringe which would be if it could, and which hangs on to the main
body as the best thing it can do in the circumstances. But authors
of the professional and bread-winning class will talk only of things
already known, repeating what they have written, but taking care not to
forestall what they have not yet printed. They, and all professionals
of any denomination whatsoever, are also given to talk shop among
themselves; and shop is usually disagreeable to the outsider.

We might do worse than cultivate Conversation as an Art. Time has room
for all things in his hand, and life has need of variety. Desperately
busy and terribly in earnest as we may be, blowing bubbles has yet
its value. Moreover, the true art of conversation is a lesson in
good-breeding, which, in its turn, is the _fine fleur_ of civilisation;
and thus, from the rootwork of manner to the efflorescence of matter,
there is something to be gained by the perfection of the art.




IN QUEER COMPANY.


IN TWO PARTS.—PART I.

If the following account of what happened to me a few years ago serves
no other purpose, it may pass muster as an illustration of two old
sayings, namely, that ‘One half of the world does not know how the
other half lives,’ and that ‘Truth is often stranger than fiction.’

It was late on a very cold afternoon during the winter of 1876-77,
that I was hurrying westward along the Marylebone Road, congratulating
myself upon having turned my back upon the bitter east wind, and
comparing the climate of London towards the end of December with that
which I had been enjoying exactly twelve months previously, when
at Calcutta, as one of the Special Correspondents with the Prince
of Wales. I had got nearly as far as the Edgware Road, when a man
touched his hat to me and asked me for the wherewith to get a night’s
lodging. He did not look like an ordinary or a professional beggar.
His clothes, although very shabby, were evidently well made. He looked
so pinched and weary, that I stopped and fumbled in the ticket-pocket
of my overcoat for a sixpence to give him. He stared at me very hard
indeed whilst I was getting the money, and as I handed it to him, broke
out with an exclamation of wonder, asking me whether my name was not
so-and-so. I replied that it was; and asked him where he had ever seen
me before. To make a long story short, this poverty-stricken man asking
alms on the public streets turned out to be a gentleman I had known
many years before, when he was a captain in one of our crack lancer
regiments, and had a private fortune of his own of more than fifteen
hundred a year. When I had last seen him, he was a man of little over
thirty; but was now on the wrong side of fifty; and owing to want,
care, hunger, cold, and dirt, looked very much older. He had always
been a very fast man. Betting, cards, and doing bills at sixty per
cent., had worked out their legitimate ends upon him. I had lost all
sight of him for fully twenty years, but remembered having heard that
he had been obliged to sell out on account of his many debts. All this,
and much more too, he related when he came to my house, as I had told
him to do, and helped him as far as it was in my power, with a little
money and some old clothes.

When I asked him what he intended to do for the future, he said that
if he could only get a decent outfit and a few pounds for travelling
expenses, he had an opening in Paris that would soon put him on his
legs again. It so happened that I knew slightly two or three men who
had been in the same regiment with this individual; and of these there
was one who was very well off. I therefore wrote out an appeal for the
poor fellow, sent it to the different parties; and was greatly pleased
when I found that instead of realising, as I had hoped, some ten or
fifteen pounds, the contributions sent me came to upwards of thirty
pounds. With this money I first got the unfortunate man a fairly good
outfit of clothes, and then made over to him the balance left, about
six pounds, to use as he liked. He was exceedingly grateful; and asked
me to express his thanks to those who had responded so generously to my
letters. It was about a fortnight after I had met him on the Marylebone
Road that he called to bid me farewell, and to thank me again for all I
had done, which, after all, was merely having written some half-dozen
letters, and taken a little trouble in getting his clothes as good and
as cheap as I could. He told me that he was leaving for Paris that
evening.

For five or six months I neither saw nor heard anything about him. At
the end of that time I received a note from this individual, telling
me he was in London, saying he would like to see me, and giving me
his address at a respectable hotel near Leicester Square. I wrote an
answer; and as I happened to be going into the neighbourhood, called at
the hotel, intending to leave it there. But as the waiter told me that
the gentleman was at home, and was then writing in the coffee-room, I
went there, and found my former acquaintance, who seemed delighted to
see me. He had evidently prospered since I last saw him. He was well,
if perhaps somewhat flashily dressed; had what seemed to be a valuable
pin in his neck-scarf, a thick gold chain from one waistcoat pocket to
another, and two or three rings on his fingers. He looked more like a
Frenchman than an Englishman; and would certainly have passed a better
muster at Brebant’s or in the _Café du Helder_ than he could have done
in a London club. But what showed more plainly than anything else that
he had done well, and what pleased me greatly, was that he there and
then pulled out a roll of bank-notes and insisted upon repaying me what
I had collected for him from his former friends. It was in vain that I
protested that those gentlemen had parted with their money as a gift
and not as a loan; that I did not know where to find them at present;
and that I begged he would not think of repaying me the small portion I
had contributed to the amount. No; nothing would serve him but to make
me take the money and to give it back as best I could to those who had
assisted him in his great distress.

As a matter of course, I was very curious to know by what means he had,
in some measure at anyrate, recovered his position in the world; or
how he had managed to fill his empty purse. But to all my questions he
gave the most evasive answers. Remembering what his pursuits used to
be long ago, I felt certain that he had got into some lucky vein of
play or of betting, and that he was making a living either by cards or
on the racecourse. But after a few days’ observation of what he did,
I was sure that I was labouring under a mistake. Just at that time of
the year several of our great race-meetings were in full swing; but he
never went near any of them; nor did he ever attempt to go back amongst
the men who had been his companions long ago. I offered to get his name
put down as an honorary or visiting member of one or two good clubs;
but he invariably declined. When he asked me, as he often did, to dine
with him, it was always at one or other of the best foreign restaurants
in London. When I called on him at his hotel, he seemed to be always
busy either writing or receiving letters. One night I looked him up
about eleven P.M. on my way back from the theatre. But they told me at
the hotel he always went out between nine and ten P.M., and seldom came
back before the small-hours of the morning.

In London, a busy man has little or no time to think of any one’s
affairs except his own; but I confess that this gentleman used often
to puzzle me not a little. His seeming prosperity in money matters as
compared with his former circumstances, and the singular life he led,
caused me often to wonder what were the sources whence he derived his
income, my curiosity being not a little increased by his evident desire
to keep me in the dark as to the truth of the case. But the solution of
a difficult social problem almost invariably comes to hand when least
expected, and this case was no exception to the rule.

I had not seen my friend for some two or three weeks, when I received
a note asking me to call upon him, as he had met with a bad accident
and was confined to his bed. I accordingly went to see him; and found
that he had slipped upon the street, had injured his knee somewhat
severely, and was suffering great pain. He had called in a surgeon, who
had ordered the most perfect rest for at least ten days or a fortnight;
and having no other friend in London of whom he could ask a favour, he
begged me to help him in certain matters of business which could not
be neglected. As a matter of course, I offered to be of any service I
could to him; and he said that the first favour he would ask of me was
to go to a small news-agent near Soho Square and ask for any letters
directed to ‘T. D.; to be left till called for.’

I did so; and found there four letters so addressed, all bearing
French post-marks, and took them to him at the hotel. He opened them
with evident eagerness, and read them with an anxiety which he could
not disguise from me, although he very evidently tried his best to
do so. The contents of these communications seemed to give him great
annoyance. After a short time, during which he seemed deep in thought,
he wrote out a curious, mysterious advertisement, such as we read
almost every day in the ‘Agony column’ of the _Times_, and asked
me to get it inserted in three of the chief morning papers. I read
what he had written, and wondered not a little what he meant. In the
advertisement, ‘Adventure’ was requested to ‘keep dark until Phillip
wrote.’ The sick man saw me smile as I read it, and looked very anxious
and embarrassed, assuring me that there was no harm whatever in the
hidden meaning of the notice. Having work of my own to attend to, I
left him, saying I would call again the next day. But he begged so
earnestly for me to come before post-time, that I consented to do so.
He told me that he did not like intrusting his letters to the people
of the hotel, who were either very curious or extremely neglectful on
all such matters. I therefore returned in the afternoon, when he handed
me two letters, which he asked me to post. They were both addressed to
Paris, to persons with French-like names, and were to be left _poste
restante_ at different post-offices. The next day but one he asked me
to go to the same small news-agent near Soho Square and ask for any
letters that might be there for him. I found two, and brought them to
him. He read them with great eagerness; and again wrote two letters,
which he asked me to post for him, evidently not caring to trust the
people of the hotel with his correspondence. This went on almost every
day. On one occasion, he took out of one of the letters I brought him
a draft from a Paris bank upon one in London for one hundred pounds
payable to ‘T. C. Dane, or order.’ He indorsed it, and asked me to get
it cashed for him, which I did. He evidently saw that I was not only
puzzled as to what his mysterious business could be, but that I had
serious thoughts of not coming near him again until I found out whether
my doing so would compromise myself. And apparently acting upon a
sudden impulse, he all at once opened out and made what I may call his
confession to me.

‘For some time past,’ he began, ‘I have seen that you wonder what my
business is, and why I am so mysterious with regard to what I do and
what I write. Well, I will now make a clean breast of it.’

He then told me that some two or three years previously, he had got
into what he called ‘worse than a mess’ in Paris. He had somehow
got mixed up with a gang of card-sharpers, without knowing to what
an extent they carried on their dishonest practices, and had so far
compromised himself, that the French police had him at their mercy.
They had, however, let him off, holding over him the power they had
to prosecute him at any future time, should they think he deserved
it. But they made certain conditions with him; and these were, that
he should go to London, and furnish them from time to time with all
the information he could gather respecting certain receivers of goods,
stolen in France, who resided in this metropolis. In order to do this
the more effectually, he had managed not only to get acquainted with
the leaders of a gang which worked for their friends in Paris, but
he had also got himself received as one of them, and used to go to
their meetings almost every night. The work, as he told me, had been
most unpleasant, but it was nearly at an end; and the French police
had promised that he should very soon be altogether free from his
engagements with them.

To mix with people of whom little or nothing is known, and to penetrate
into places which are hidden from the generality of mankind, has
always had a great charm for me. Mr Dane was not a little surprised
when, instead of leaving him after I had heard his story, I told him he
would do me a great favour if he took me to a meeting of his dishonest
friends; and that I would pledge myself never to give any information
that might lead to a single member of the band getting into trouble.
After making some objections to my request, he at last consented; and
said that the first night he could get out he would go to the meeting
of the gang by himself, but would then make arrangements for me to
accompany him the following evening. And thus it was that I managed to
get into very ‘queer company.’

If any one was to offer me one hundred pounds to show him where the
place in which the thieves and receivers of stolen goods is or was
situated, I could not do so, even if it was honourable to divulge what
I had promised faithfully to keep secret. This much I may say, that
having dined in the Strand, we walked up Catherine Street, and turned
to the right when we came to the court that flanks the south side of
Drury Lane Theatre. Here my companion stopped, took out of his pocket
a pair of spectacles, and said I must put them on before he could take
me any farther. I did as he desired; and found the glasses to be so
dark that I could not see an inch beyond my nose. My friend laughed;
and linking his arm in mine, said he would conduct me safely; but that
he was obliged to make it a point I should not be able to recognise
the streets we passed through, even if I wanted to do so. As near as I
could guess, we took some ten minutes to reach our destination, after
I had put on the glasses. My companion then stopped, knocked in a
peculiar manner at a street door, told me to take off the spectacles,
and led me through what seemed to be a coffee-shop of the most humble
kind. In a large room beyond this, there were seated six or seven
men, who were not by any means all of the same type. Two or three
were evidently Frenchmen, and were talking together with the usual
volubility of their nation. The rest were scattered here and there.
All were smoking. Some had cups of tea or coffee before them, whilst
others seemed to be indulging in spirits-and-water. My companion was
greeted by all present as a friend they had been waiting for and were
glad to see. He introduced me to the party assembled as ‘one of us,
just come from Paris.’ No questions were asked, nor, beyond one or two
civil inquiries, was any particular notice taken of me. I was asked
what I would drink, offered my choice of cigars or cigarettes; and then
the meeting commenced to discuss, in an informal kind of manner, the
business which had brought those present together.

From what I could gather, it seemed that there had been, a few days
before, a robbery of valuable jewels in Paris; and that the difficulty
of those connected with the affair was to get the plunder safely over
to the United States. The London police had been put on the alert; but
the thieves—or shall I call them the agents and helpers of thieves?—did
not seem to fear them. They discussed very freely the relative merits
of the French and English detective systems; saying, that in cases
of housebreaking and murders, the latter rarely failed to bring the
offenders to justice; but that in cases of clever ‘plants,’ the former
were much more to be feared.

‘You never know,’ said one Englishman present, with a round oath,
‘where or when you may come across those horrible French spies. Why, we
might have here, in the very midst of us, some one who is in their pay.’

I thought to myself how little these fellows knew that my friend who
had introduced me into the room belonged to the very tribe whom they
feared so much. But of the United States they spoke in the highest
terms; or in very much the same manner that an artisan who could not
earn the wherewith to pay for dry bread in this country, might praise
some place in the Far West where industry was certain to gain an honest
living. From what I gathered, it would seem that whenever a robbery on
a large scale is carried out, the first object of those concerned is
to get ‘the swag’ out of the country as soon as possible. Thus, the
produce of a plunder in Paris is almost invariably taken to London,
and _vice versâ_. If the thieves can so arrange beforehand as to get
away from where the theft has been committed within a few hours of the
completion of their handiwork, they believe themselves to be all but
safe, or at least the chances are about five to one in their favour. If
they have the luck to get clear of Europe and safely land in America,
the chances are that they will get clear altogether, realise a good
price for their plunder, and make things pleasant all round. The United
States, as I said before, is a capital country to go to; but South
America is still better. In neither of these parts are many questions
asked; but in the latter country the prices given are higher than in
the north, and sales are more readily effected. In London, the market
for jewelry is by no means good; for, as a rule, the stones have to
be taken out of the setting; and the latter has to be secreted or
instantly melted, else the police are pretty certain to get scent of
the affair.

It must not be thought that those composing the very singular company
amongst whom I found myself were at all in the burglar line. I don’t
believe that there was a single housebreaking implement to be found
amongst them. From all I gathered, they were the receivers, and not the
actual robbers, of valuable goods. They talked together of their common
pursuit much in the same manner that so many brokers might converse
respecting the fluctuations of the Stock Exchange, or a party of
farmers might give their opinions respecting the coming corn or other
crops. What surprised me most was the manner in which the company,
one and all, spoke of what they called their ‘business,’ as if it was
of the most legitimate kind; and I feel certain that they would have
resented warmly the words of any one who threw the shadow of a doubt
upon the propriety of their occupation. In what they said of things in
general, they all appeared to be very much of the same way of thinking;
or, at anyrate, they expressed themselves as holding very much the same
views. On one subject only did I hear strong language expressed, and
that was when one of them—who, from what he said, seemed to have come
from France very recently—gave an account of the manner in which the
Paris detectives had found out a certain robbery, and had brought those
who had perpetrated the same to justice. For individuals in the pay of
the police, or rather who belonged to the same, to disguise themselves
and mix with the individuals who were more or less ‘wanted,’ they
regarded as ‘low’ and ‘sneaking’ in the extreme. They were unanimous in
their opinion that if the French system of detecting robberies was ever
introduced into England, this ‘would no longer’—as one of the party
expressed himself—‘be a country for any honest man to live in.’




HINTS FOR HOUSEWIVES.


So much information about everything is now so easily obtainable,
that there is little excuse for enduring many of the small domestic
worries to which housekeepers and others are often subjected. Why,
for instance, need any one be inconvenienced by damp cupboards, when
we read that a bowl of quicklime placed therein will speedily absorb
the moisture? Some of us are nervous about beds not being well aired,
and yet we have only to fill a large stone bottle with boiling water
and put it into the bed, pressing the bolster and pillows round it in
a heap. By this simple contrivance, it is comforting to learn, no one
need fear giving a friend a damp bed, even if this is done only once a
fortnight.

Flies are a familiar nuisance; but we are told of a foreign remedy in
laurel oil, which, better than glass fly-catchers and others, will
not only rid us of these pests, but preserves looking-glasses and
picture-frames when coated with it. Jane the ‘help’ should derive
satisfaction from the assurance that beetles may be effectually got rid
of by sprinkling once or twice on the floor a mixture of pure carbolic
acid and water, one part to ten.

It is not frequenters of restaurants only who wonder why the simple
precaution of throwing red pepper pods or a few pieces of charcoal into
the pan—said to prevent odours from boiling-ham, cabbage, &c.—is not
oftener observed. Cooks are further reminded that in roasting meat,
salt should not be put upon the joint before it is put in the oven, as
salt extracts the juice; and that lime-water will improve the condition
of old potatoes in boiling.

Eggs could be purchased with greater confidence if the German method of
preserving them by means of silicate of soda was generally followed. A
small quantity of the clear sirup solution is smeared over the surface
of the shell. On drying, a thin, hard, glassy film remains, which
serves as an admirable protection and substitute for wax, oil, gums, &c.

Economy in housekeeping would be facilitated by the better observance
of what are known in common parlance as ‘wrinkles.’ For example, why
purchase inferior nutmegs, when their quality can be tested by pricking
them with a pin? If they are good, the oil will instantly spread around
the puncture. It is worth recollecting that bar-soap should be cut
into square pieces, and put in a dry place, as it lasts better after
shrinking. If we wish to keep lemons fresh for some time, we have
only to place them in a jar of water and change it every morning. In
selecting flour, we are advised to look to the colour. If it is white
with a yellowish straw-colour tint, we should buy it; but if it is
white with a bluish cast, or with black specks, we should refuse it.

Broken china can be mended with a useful glutine made with a piece of
old cheese mixed with lime; and the wooden palings of the garden may be
preserved from the weather by coating them with a composition of boiled
linseed oil and pulverised charcoal, mixed to the consistence of paint.
In this way wood can be made to last longer than iron in the ground.
If we consult our health, we should plant the garden with odoriferous
plants such as wall-flowers, mignonette, and other old English flowers
and herbs, which have a remarkable power of developing ozone and
purifying the atmosphere from miasmatic poisons.

Amateur joiners may derive comfort from the knowledge that nails and
screws if rubbed with a little soap are easily driven into hard wood.
The same household commodity, of a fine white quality, if rubbed over
new linen will enable it to be more easily embroidered, as it prevents
the threads from cracking.

A deal of breakage amongst glass and crockery can be prevented by the
simple precaution of placing lamp-chimneys, tumblers, and such articles
in a pot filled with cold water to which some common table-salt has
been added. Boil the water well, and then allow it to cool slowly. When
the articles are taken out and washed, they will resist any sudden
changes of temperature.

Crape may be renovated by thoroughly brushing all dust from the
material, sprinkling with alcohol, and rolling in newspaper, commencing
with the paper and crape together, so that the paper may be between
every portion of the material. Allow it to remain so until dry.

A better plan for removing grease-spots than by applying a hot iron is
to rub in some spirit of wine with the hand until the grease is brought
to powder, and there will be no trace of it. Every schoolboy is not
aware that ink-spots can be removed from the leaves of books by using
a solution of oxalic acid in water; nor does every housemaid know that
‘spots’ are easily cleaned from varnished furniture by rubbing it with
spirit of camphor.

The elasticity of cane-chair bottoms can be restored by washing the
cane with soap and water until it is well soaked, and then drying
thoroughly in the air, after which they will become as tight and firm
as new, if none of the canes are broken.

Marks on tables caused by leaving hot jugs or plates there will
disappear under the soothing influence of lamp-oil well rubbed in with
a soft cloth, finishing with a little spirit of wine or eau-de-Cologne
rubbed dry with another cloth. When the white pianoforte keys become
discoloured, we should remove the front door, fall, and slip of wood
just over them; then lift up each key separately from the front—do not
take them out—and rub the keys with a white cloth slightly damped with
cold water, and dry off with a cloth slightly warm. Should the keys be
sticky, first damp the cloth with a little spirit of wine or gin. Soap
or washing-powder must not be used. It is worth while keeping a supply
of ammonia in the household, in case we wish to remove finger-marks
from paint, or require to cleanse brushes or greasy pans. A teaspoonful
in a basin of warm water will make hair-brushes beautifully white; but
care must be taken not to let the backs of the brushes dip below the
surface. Rinse them with clean warm water, and put in a sunny window to
dry.

Egg-shells crushed into small bits and shaken well in decanters three
parts filled with cold water, will not only clean them thoroughly, but
make the glass look like new. By rubbing with a damp flannel dipped in
the best whiting, the brown discolorations may be taken off cups in
which custards have been baked. Again, are all of us aware that emery
powder will remove ordinary stains from white ivory knife-handles, or
that the lustre of morocco leather is restored by varnishing with white
of egg?

Nothing, it is said, is better to clean silver with than alcohol and
ammonia, finishing with a little whiting on a soft cloth. When putting
away the silver tea or coffee pot which is not in use every day, lay a
little stick across the top under the cover. This will allow fresh air
to get in, and prevent the mustiness of the contents, familiar to hotel
and lodging-house sufferers.




A BLACKBIRD’S NEST.

BY ALEXANDER ANDERSON.

    [In the month of May might be seen, at the Forth Bridge Works,
    South Queensferry, a blackbird sitting on her nest, which was
    built on an elevated projecting beam in the engineering shed,
    in close proximity to the driving-shaft, and immediately above
    a powerful steam-engine.]


    She sits upon her nest all day,
      Secure amid the toiling din
    Of serpent belts that coil and play,
      And, moaning, ever twist and spin.

    What cares she for the noise and whir
      Of clanking hammers sounding near?
    A mother’s heart has lifted her
      Beyond a single touch of fear.

    Beneath her, throbbing anvils shout,
      And lift their voice with ringing peal,
    While engines groan and toss about
      Their tentacles of gleaming steel.

    Around her, plates of metal, smote
      And beat upon by clutch and strain,
    Take shape beneath the grasp of Thought—
      The mute Napoleon of the brain.

    She, caring in nowise for this,
      But, as an anxious mother should,
    Dreams of a certain coming bliss,
      The rearing of her callow brood.

    Thou little rebel, thus to fly
      The summer shadows of the trees,
    The sunlight of the gracious sky,
      The tender toying of the breeze.

    What made thee leave thy leafy home,
      The deep hid shelter of the tree,
    The sounds of wind and stream, and come
      To where all sounds are strange to thee?

    Thou wilt not answer anything;
      Thy thoughts from these are far away;
    Five little globes beneath thy wing,
      Are all thou thinkest on to-day.

       *       *       *       *       *

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. 28, VOL. I, JULY 12, 1884 ***


    

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