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[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 737.      SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 1878.      PRICE 1½_d._]




THE CIVIL SERVICE SUPPLY ASSOCIATION.


Within the last few years the progress of the Civil Service Supply
Association in London has been so extraordinary that a few words
concerning it may not be uninteresting to our readers.

The object of the society is ‘to carry on the trade of general dealers,
so as to secure to members of the Civil Service and the friends of
members of the society the supply of articles of all kinds, both
for domestic consumption and general use, at the lowest possible
price,’ on the principle of dealing for ready-money. Co-operation on
the broadest scale of retail shop-keeping is brought into play. The
organisation consists of three classes of purchasers: the holders of
shares of the value of one pound each, and from whom the committee of
management is chosen; ordinary members, who being connected with the
Civil Service, pay two shillings and sixpence a year; and outsiders,
or mere supporters of the concern (who, however, must be friends of
members or shareholders), who pay the sum of five shillings annually.
All have the same advantages in the purchase of goods, but members of
the Civil Service have the privilege of having goods above a certain
amount delivered carriage free. As the thing stands, the number of
shareholders is limited to four thousand five hundred.

The constitution is a little complex, and to the non-initiated, perhaps
not very rational; let it, however, be remembered that it is not
so much a business concern, as what may aptly be termed a ‘benefit
society;’ and if the objects of the society when it was started in 1866
have in late years been deviated from, it is more from the excessive
growth of the institution than from any other cause. The Association
has from less to more assumed truly gigantic proportions, and now
takes rank as one of the wonders of the metropolis. The headquarters
of the Association consist of huge and handsome premises in Queen
Victoria Street, ‘City,’ the lease of which, subject to a ground-rent
of one thousand four hundred pounds, has been purchased, and which,
together with certain additions to the building, has cost no less a
sum than twenty-seven thousand pounds; but such is the increased value
of property in this locality that they have recently been valued at
thirty-two thousand pounds. On the ground-floor of this building,
groceries of all kinds, wines, spirits, provisions, cigars, and tobacco
are sold, forming three departments. On the first, all goods which come
under the terms of hosiery, drapery, or clothing, besides umbrellas and
sticks, are the articles of sale, forming two departments; and on the
second floor, commerce is strongly represented by stationery, books,
fancy goods, drugs, watches, and other miscellaneous goods, forming
three departments. The third floor is appropriated for the offices of
the clerks of the Association, who form a large staff, and for storage.

For the accommodation of West-end customers, an emporium in Long Acre
was until recently used; but that becoming too small for an increasing
trade, the Association has built commodious premises in Bedford Street,
Covent Garden, costing twenty-five thousand pounds, whither the Long
Acre business has been removed, and the arrangements of which are
the same as at Queen Victoria Street. Not content with these, the
Association has taken large premises at the back of Exeter Hall for
storage purposes, as well as for the sale of various new articles and
the carrying on of the tailoring department.

It is not a little astonishing to know that a society which originated
in a very humble way indeed, has developed its business so much within
little more than ten years that it requires more than six hundred
_employés_ for the furtherance of the concern. The secretary, who is
the chief of this staff, has several clerks under him; and besides
there are accountants, a treasurer, several storekeepers, clerks,
assistants, cashiers, &c.—a body which costs the Association nearly
fifty thousand pounds annually! The direction of the whole concern is
vested in the hands of the committee, which numbers fifteen; and the
shareholders participate in the management so far as they are the
constituents, so to speak, of the committee-men, the election taking
place once a year, when five of the body go out in rotation. It may be
added that there are likewise auditors, bankers, and other officials
requisite to a society of this kind; and that the necessary managerial
business is transacted at the ordinary meetings of the Association,
twice a year.

The Civil Service Supply Association is said to take rank now amongst
the largest buyers and sellers of this country, a circumstance we need
not be surprised at when it is stated that the sales from the first
year of the society’s establishment to August 1877 amounted to upwards
of six million pounds sterling; and the wonderfully rapid increase
of the business may be judged by the fact that the sales of the
Association, which in the first year (1867) amounted to L.21,322, in
the year ending August 1877 reached the large sum of L.1,041,294. These
figures are valuable in demonstrating the unprecedented success of this
extraordinary Association, a success mainly due to the large body of
members by which the Association is supported. Last year the number
of clients was twenty-five thousand, including the four thousand five
hundred shareholders already referred to. Last year each shareholder
had the privilege of nominating two persons for membership, by which
nine thousand outside members or subscribers will be added. We are
further told that there is always a mass of applicants for admission to
the Association, many of whom have been on the books of the society for
years, unable to procure tickets.

Cheap goods being the main object of co-operative associations, we
will now say a few words regarding the prices charged. At first the
benefit in this respect was very appreciable; but as the society has
increased, the benefit has, as a natural consequence of a corresponding
increase in working expenses, to a certain extent decreased, and it may
be added, is in many cases very variable. While on certain articles,
such as fancy goods, drugs, perfumes, and the like, the reduction is
considerable; on others again, such as tea, sugar, butter, and the
like, which are of more common use, there is but a trifling difference
between the Association’s prices and those of the retail trade. This
seems rather to defeat the true objects of co-operation, which are
expected to convey benefit more in respect of articles of general
consumption than of those much less necessary for common existence. The
variableness of reduction arises probably from the fact that goods sold
at little profit by shopkeepers are also not to be sold much cheaper
at the stores; while the goods on which most gain is made at shops are
those on which the Association can afford to make large reductions;
but by a strange fatality, they are, as a rule, the very articles less
required than any others by the members of the society.

In calculating prices the committee deem it necessary to act so as
to be on the safe side in case of any error that might arise. On an
average, the prices charged to members are at the rate of ten per cent.
above the wholesale prices, thus allowing a profit to defray working
expenses, which are about seven and a half per cent. This allowance
has always proved a generous one, for besides covering the annual
expenditure, there has always been an important surplus.

For some years this surplus was allowed to accumulate, it being thought
that it might probably prove useful as a reserve fund; but when it
reached the large sum of nearly one hundred thousand pounds, it was
plainly apparent that steps should be taken to dispose of it and all
future surpluses. As concerned the foregoing sum, the rules of the
society according to the act of parliament under which the Association
is incorporated, rendered appropriation of it in any way impossible; it
was therefore set apart as a reserve fund, invested in the buildings,
stock, &c. of the Association; but a new set of rules was formed by
which all profits accruing thereafter were to be divided amongst the
shareholding body, and placed annually to the credit of each, to be,
however, only withdrawable by their relicts after death, or when the
accumulations on any share shall amount to one hundred and seventy-five
pounds, when, in order to comply with the provisions of the Provident
Societies Act, which limits the funds any member may have in a society
enrolled under its provisions to two hundred pounds, the excess must be
withdrawn. This arrangement, which was duly legalised, and came into
force in March 1874, naturally gave the shares a far greater value
than they had hitherto possessed, as will be seen from the fact, that
from the date mentioned to August last there has accrued very nearly
one hundred thousand pounds. If the profits continue at this rate, the
shares will of course increase in value each year, and already—since
recent alterations in the rules have made them transferable and
saleable—shares have been disposed of for sums varying from twenty to
thirty pounds each; hardly a bad investment, comparatively speaking,
for the sellers, to whom they cost but ten shillings, the rate of
interest being eleven hundred per cent. per annum! This large profit
is, however, considered by many to be a really objectionable feature,
and at variance with the principles of the Association, namely, ‘to
supply articles at the lowest possible price.’ We believe this view is
entertained by the Committee of Management, who are about to take steps
to have the high rate of interest reduced.

Seeing that a large annual profit accrues to the Association, and
causes an embarrassment, the inquiry naturally arises—why not lower
the prices of articles so as to leave no profit whatever? There are
various reasons, as we understand, why prices cannot be lowered beyond
an assigned limit. The profit on small quantities of articles is, as
has already been stated, so infinitesimally meagre as to admit of no
sensible reduction. And in many cases it is important not to make such
reductions as would trench on the business of wholesale dealers; there
being, indeed, an apprehension that customers might purchase articles
not for their own use, but to sell at some advance to retailers and
others. After all, the profits arise more from the average gain than
from a charge on the respective articles.

It was to be anticipated that retail dealers would be bitterly
antagonistic to the Civil Service Supply Association; and so steady and
sturdy was their opposition, that in its first years the Association
experienced considerable difficulty in persuading wholesale houses to
deal with it. Indeed large orders were the only inducement by which
these houses could be got to supply the goods required, and even now
we believe some firms hang back. The transactions of the Association
have, however, operated upon members of the retail trade, who finding
their business affected, have in self-defence been forced to reduce
their prices to the general public. It thus becomes apparent that the
Civil Service and other kindred co-operative associations have directly
benefited the masses, by inducing a general lowering of the cost of
many articles of daily necessity.

As an instance of the difficulties and jealousies which have from time
to time beset this beneficent institution, the committee for a long
time found it difficult to get and retain good tailors, who as a rule
disappeared in a mysterious manner. These difficulties have, however,
with patience and perseverance, been overcome, and the tailoring branch
has become very successful.

It may here be mentioned that all goods purchased at the stores must
be described in the form of an order, which has to be examined and
checked, and payment always made to properly constituted cashiers
(never over the counter), before the receipt of the goods. Large orders
undergo a thorough and strict examination, to see that the goods are
for the legitimate use of the applicant member or shareholder, with the
view of defeating any improper interference from retail dealers.

In its present successful condition, to which the Civil Service
Association has so rapidly attained—the clear assets amounting in
August 1877 to one hundred and ninety thousand pounds, after all
liabilities had been paid—there are few things which cannot be obtained
at or through the medium of the stores. It were a futile task to
attempt even an approximate estimate of the goods that may be bought in
this manner; suffice it to say that each and all are duly chronicled
in the Association’s Price List. This list, which is issued once
every quarter, is no bad criterion of the success of the institution.
When it was first issued, the contents covered no more than a small
single sheet; now, however, it is a thick book of nearly three hundred
pages. It is not only a record of all goods sold at the stores, but
also contains the names and addresses of the various firms which have
entered into arrangements with the society for selling their goods to
members at a discount varying from five to twenty-five per cent.; and
besides, a large portion of the volume is occupied with advertisements,
which doubtless form no inconsiderable source of profit to the Civil
Service Supply Association.




HELENA, LADY HARROGATE.

CHAPTER VIII.—FRIENDS IN COUNCIL.


‘Now, Denzil, let us understand one another. I shall take it very
kindly, dear boy, if you will do as I ask you in this matter. After
all, it is no such extraordinary service that I crave at your hands.
You have ridden a horse of mine, if my memory be good for anything,
before to-day.’ The speaker, who, for the convenience of a more
distinct articulation, had withdrawn the cigar from between his lips,
leaned back in his easy-chair, as if to mark the effect of his words
upon the visitor to whom he had addressed them. He was himself a
gentleman of a portly presence and rubicund face, much taller and much
heavier than his former friend and brother-officer. And whereas Jasper
wore a civilian’s suit of speckled tweed, Captain Prodgers shewed by
his gold-laced overalls and braided tunic that he was still in the army.

The famous Lancer regiment to which Jasper had once belonged having
changed their quarters from Coventry to Exeter, Captain Denzil had
called upon his old comrades. There had been a champagne luncheon
in honour of the late commander of No. 6 Troop; and on leaving the
mess-room, Jasper had gone with his former intimate Jack Prodgers, to
smoke a quiet cigar in his, Jack’s room.

‘We’re old friends, sure enough,’ returned Jasper meditatively, as he
watched the spiral wreaths of smoke curling upwards—‘and I do not like
to be disobliging; but I can but repeat that I would rather not ride.
My father would be vexed if I did.’

‘And you are a very good boy, as we know; quite a pattern of filial
decorum!’ growled out the big man in the gold-laced overalls.

‘That style of argument has no weight with me, Jack,’ returned Jasper,
with imperturbable good-humour. ‘I am no stripling, like one of your
newly joined, pink-faced cornets, to be goaded by a sneer into acting
contrary to my judgment. And I don’t mind owning that I am on my
good behaviour at Carbery just now, and would rather not, please, do
anything of which Sir Sykes would disapprove.’

‘It would be well worth your while,’ urged his host, striking his
spurred heel into the ragged carpet; ‘worth any man’s while who
was not, like young Mash the brewer, my new subaltern, born with a
gold-spoon in his mouth. There are sixty-seven horses entered for the
race, and we could share the stakes between us, if we win.’

‘Yes—_if_ we win!’ returned Jasper with a laugh that was almost
insolent. ‘I have pretty well made up my mind, though, to renounce the
character of gentleman rider for some time to come.’

‘And quite right too; but there may be an exception—may there not—to
so strict a rule?’ cheerfully replied the other captain, as he arose
and busied himself in the concoction of some curious beverage, in which
transparent ice and dry champagne, powdered sugar and sliced cucumber,
strawberries and maraschino, were amalgamated into a harmonious whole.
‘I shan’t as yet take “No” for an answer, or give up the hope that you
will stand by an old friend like myself in a matter which that old
friend has very much at heart. With you in the saddle, I should feel
victory certain.’

Confidence is strangely infectious. Jasper knew by the ring of his
friend’s voice that he was very much in earnest, and began for the
first time to consider that there must be some hidden reason for the
cavalry officer’s unprecedented pertinacity.

Captain John Prodgers was in his own line a typical officer of a class
to be found in more than one fashionable regiment. Living as he had
always done amongst men of rank and fortune, he had thriven somehow by
dint of better brains and readier assurance than fell to the lot of
his companions. No one knew whence he came. His origin seemed to date
from the gazetting of his commission, and indeed he might be presumed,
like a sort of regimental Minerva, to have sprung booted and armed into
existence. Nobody had known him as a boy, but the grandest doors in
London opened to let him in. Related to nobody of Pall-Mall repute, he
was ‘Jack Prodgers’ to a dozen of Lord Georges and Lord Alfreds. The
earthen pot swam gaily down the stream along with those of double-gilt
metal, and it was certainly not the former that had suffered from any
casual collisions.

‘It certainly is queer,’ remarked Jasper, sipping his first glass of
the newly brewed compound, ‘that sixty-seven horses should be entered
for a quiet insignificant affair like our local steeplechase. Pebworth,
it strikes me, must blush to find itself famous. I for one am quite at
a loss to account for the sudden interest which we Devonshire folks
appear to have inspired in what is generally a tame rustic contest.’

Jack Prodgers, as he slowly sipped the cool contents of his huge green
glass, smiled with an affable pride in the possession of superior
knowledge, which was not lost upon his friend.

‘You are not the only one, rely on it, Denzil, to make that remark,’ he
said complacently. ‘Many a youngster who thinks he shews a precocious
manliness by studying the sporting papers and talking of matters
of which he knows as little as I do of Greek, is marvelling at the
attention paid to a petty race at your father’s park-gates.—Look here,’
he added, handing to Jasper a newspaper carefully folded down: ‘you see
in that paragraph the latest intelligence. Two of the finest horses in
England—The Smasher and Brother to Highflyer—are positively to appear
at Pebworth. They are the favourites of course. Nobody condescends to
give a thought for the present to the humble chances of my Irish mare,
whose name you may notice near the bottom of the list. Now, will you
ride Norah Creina?’

‘She’ll never gallop with Brother to Highflyer,’ said Jasper decisively.

‘Umph! perhaps not,’ was her owner’s dry answer, and there was
something in the tone which made Jasper arch his languid eyebrows.

‘I say Prodgers,’ said Jasper, after a pause for reflection, ‘what do
you want me for in particular? I can ride, but so can others. Why not
choose a heavy-weight jockey; or if you prefer it, some first-rate
amateur like Sandiman or Lark, or Spurrier of the Hussars, men who make
a living by putting their necks in jeopardy?’

‘Because a professional rider would betray my confidence,’ answered
Prodgers frankly; ‘and as for your gentlemen riders, well, well! It is
a fine line, imperceptible sometimes, that separates the amateur from
the hired jockey. Spurrier is as honest as the day—that I admit; but
then he is one of those impracticable men who disregard hints and will
not be dictated to. I don’t exactly wish to be brilliantly beaten, and
to draw a big cheque by way of payment for the beating. No. My hope is
in yourself.’

‘I haven’t seen the mare, you know,’ said Jasper, hesitating.

‘She is not a beauty,’ replied Prodgers; ‘nor will you like her better
for seeing her, as you can of course before you leave. A great ugly
fiddle-headed animal she is, Jasper. The man who sold her to me at
Kildare, candidly admitted that there was not a single good point about
her. You will not be pleased with her heavy head, awkward joints, and
straggling build. No wonder that the notion of her success is scouted.
_Will_ you ride Norah Creina?’

Jasper, himself no novice, was excessively perplexed. He had a high
esteem for the shrewdness of his knowing friend, and he liked Prodgers
too as much as it was in his nature to like any man. While still in the
regiment and in the heyday of his brief prosperity, the elder captain
had been kind to him, warning him against some at least of the snares
that beset careless youth, and winning but very little of his money.
And here was his former Mentor actually importunate in his solicitude
that Jasper should ride a hideous and under-valued quadruped, on the
defects of which its proprietor expatiated with incomprehensible
delight.

‘The Irish mare is fast then?’ said Jasper, bewildered.

Prodgers smiled mysteriously. ‘Why, we’ve finished the cup,’ he said.
‘Here, Tomkins; get some more ice, and’——

‘No, no; thank you,’ said Jasper, rising with flushed cheeks. ‘I have
had enough, and it is time for me to be moving. But before I go to
the railway station, I will take a peep at this phenomenon of yours,
Prodgers, if you please.’ The stable was visited accordingly; and
Jasper, who had been prepared to see something ugly, found the reality
to surpass his imagination.

‘Queer-looking creature, isn’t she? Lengthy as a crocodile, clumsy, and
rough-coated in spite of grooming,’ remarked Prodgers. ‘I think I never
saw a thoroughbred shew so few signs of breeding. Why, the white feet
alone would disgust most judges of a horse.’

All this the owner of the Irish mare said in cheerful chuckling tones,
rubbing his hands together the while, as if he spoke in jest. But
Jasper Denzil, who knew enough of his friend to be aware that he was
altogether incapable of an expensive joke, such as sending a worthless
animal to the starting-post would be, and who was sufficiently
experienced in horses to know how little can be known about them, began
to entertain a profound distrust of his own judgment.

‘About fit, after all, for a railway omnibus,’ said Prodgers. ‘Here we
are at the station. Your train, eh? We’ve just saved it.’

‘Well, I’ll ride for you, Jack,’ said Jasper as he took his seat.

‘All right, dear boy. I’ll send you a line about arrangements,’ was the
answer.

And so the confederates parted.

Jasper Denzil’s heart was lighter as he drove briskly through the
grand avenue at Carbery Chase (he had left his groom and tandem at
Pebworth to await his return) than it had been of late. The stagnation
of his recent life in the Devonshire manor-house had been agreeably
disturbed. He seemed for a time to have again a share in what was to
him the real world of thought and action—of no very elevated thoughts
or noble actions, but such as suited him—and to be again something more
than heir-apparent to a baronetcy and heir-presumptive to an estate.

‘I wonder now,’ muttered Jasper, as he brought his equipage at an easy
swinging trot up the smooth road, ‘what is the peculiarity of yonder
ugly animal, or why I, of all men, should be chosen out to ride her?
The whole thing is a riddle. However, my father won’t so much object to
my wearing the silk jacket once more, to oblige an old brother-officer.’

The captain alighted in excellent spirits. On his dressing-table,
however, lay two or three letters, the sight of one of which, in its
pale bluish envelope, checked the current of his complacency in full
tide. A glance at the handwriting confirmed Jasper’s worst suspicions.

‘Wilkins it is!’ he said, taking it up between his finger and thumb, as
a naturalist might handle a small snake the non-venomous character of
which was as yet imperfectly ascertained.

Amongst the paraphernalia of Captain Denzil’s dressing-table, the
ivory-backed brushes, the gold-stoppered jars and scent-bottles of red
Bohemian glass, was a silver hunting-flask, the top of which being
unscrewed became a silver drinking-cup. Jasper filled the cup twice and
tossed off the cherry-brandy almost fiercely, as a hungry dog snaps
up a morsel of meat. Then he opened the letter. This was short, and
was signed ‘Enoch Wilkins, Solicitor.’ It is not, I am told, usual for
solicitors-at-law to append ‘Solicitor’ to their names. But Mr Wilkins,
whose clients were of a slippery and shifty sort, deemed it to his
advantage to remind his correspondents of his profession.

The writer ‘begged to remind Captain Denzil’ that certain acceptances
were now overdue, and could not, to the great regret of Mr Enoch
Wilkins, be again renewed. This being the case, a prompt settlement
of outstanding accounts became urgent; and Mr Wilkins, aware of the
inconvenience and misunderstanding to which a correspondence by letter
too often gave rise, desired a personal interview with Captain Jasper
Denzil, and would therefore wait on him at Carbery Chase, or meet
him, if preferred, at Pebworth or Exeter, on say July 28th, a day on
which Mr Enoch Wilkins could absent himself from his London office.
Finally, Mr Wilkins requested a reply from Captain Denzil as to the
trysting-place that would best tally with the captain’s engagements.

‘July 28, eh?’ said Jasper thoughtfully. ‘Odd, isn’t it, that my legal
friend should have chosen the very day of the steeplechase! Well!
If Jack’s confidence is but justified by the result, I may come off
victorious in one encounter, however I may do in the other.’

He then caught up a pen and proceeded to indite, painfully and
slowly—as is the wont of so-called men of pleasure when compelled
to write—an answer to the lawyer’s letter, wherein he declared his
willingness to await Mr Wilkins at the _De Vere Arms_ at Pebworth, at
four in the afternoon of July 28.

Having sealed and addressed the envelope, Jasper tilted into the silver
top of the flask what little of the cherry-brandy the latter still
held, drank it off at a draught, and proceeded to dress for dinner;
quite unaware that he was the unconscious instrument in the forging of
another iron link in the dread chain from Fate’s own anvil.




THE ORIGIN OF SOME SLANG PHRASES.


Slang seems to have acquired a certain kind of vulgar popularity
not only among the lower orders, but even in the higher ranks of
our society. Try to banish it as we may from polite society and
pretty mouths, it is a radical breed that defies proscription and
seems to laugh at conventionality. If we regard grammar and style as
representing the aristocracy of language, slang asserts itself as
the necessary and important agent of a predominant proletariat, that
refuses to be ignored. It is a power, though a vulgar power, in speech.

The word slang itself had a very low origin. It was derived from the
Norman _slengge-or_, slang, or insulting words; and this when connected
with the Latin word _lingua_ (tongue), signified the bad language our
forefathers supposed the gipsies indulged in. It then became synonymous
for every word used in a thief’s vocabulary; but as both gipsies and
thieves are not without a great deal of mother-wit, the word slang,
originally their property, was borrowed from them by their respectable
neighbours, and applied to all phrases of a pithy and familiar nature,
whether coarse or refined, that expressed in one or a few brief words
a definite unmistakable meaning, which brought a picture before the
mind, and there fixed the impression it was desired to convey. When
it was found that slang phrases could be so useful, then slang rose
in the world, and from being the monopoly of thieves and gipsies, it
passed into other and respectable hands, who made it subservient to
their wants. Its claim to popularity rests on the fact that it meets
an urgent want—that of enabling people to say a great deal in a few
incisive words; and so long as man is busy and ‘time is fleeting,’ it
will doubtless hold its own as a power in speech.

Having thus briefly established the reasons for existence, it will
not be uninteresting to trace a few popular slang phrases to their
origin. Dr Brewer, in his interesting _Dictionary of Phrase and Fable_,
enables us to do this. Our difficulty is to know where to begin—for
a dictionary is a dictionary, and with two thousand facts to choose
from, we feel rather like the ass among the bundles of hay, at a loss
which to attack first; and the bundles at our command being so many and
tempting, we feel no ordinary sympathy for the animal thus similarly
tried. However, we open the book at random, and determine to seize the
first that comes, which happens to be, _You cannot say Bo! to a goose_.
How often have we relieved our feelings of irritation at the weakness
of others by hurling this phrase at them! Had they only known its
origin, they could have paid us back in our own coin, and made us feel
very small indeed. But though we almost hesitate to arm them with a
weapon which they may turn against ourselves, we must be conscientious,
and do what we have undertaken. The story is this: ‘When Ben Jonson the
dramatist was introduced to a nobleman, the peer was so struck with
his homely appearance that he exclaimed: “What! you are Ben Jonson?
Why, you look as if you could not say Bo! to a goose.” “Bo!” exclaimed
the witty dramatist, turning to the peer and making his bow.’

From geese we pass on to cats, which are very emblematic in slang, and
in the phrase _Letting the cat out of the bag_ we are reminded of its
thievish ancestry. ‘It was formerly a trick among country folks to
substitute a cat for a sucking-pig, and bring it in a bag to market.
If any greenhorn chose to buy a pig in a poke—that is, a blind bargain
without examining the contents of the bag—all very well; but if he
opened the sack “he let the cat out of the bag,” and the trick was
discovered,’ And so the phrase passed into common use as applying to
any one who let out a secret. _Who will bell the cat?_ became another
popular phrase, and is taken from the fable of the cunning old mouse
who suggested that they should hang a bell round the cat’s neck, so
that due warning might be had of her approach. The idea was approved
of by all the mice assembled; there was only one drawback to it: ‘Who
was to hang the bell round the cat’s neck?’ Or in shorter words: ‘Who
was to bell the cat?’ Not one of them was found ready to run the risk
of sacrificing his own life for the safety of the others, which is now
the recognised meaning of the proverb. _Fighting like Kilkenny cats_ is
another slang simile, taken from a story that two cats once fought so
ferociously in a saw-pit that they left nothing behind them but their
tails—which story is an allegory, and supposed to represent two towns
in Kilkenny that contended so ‘stoutly about boundaries and rights to
the end of the seventeenth century that they mutually impoverished each
other.’

How common is the expression, _Oh! she is down in the dumps_—that is,
out of spirits. This is a very ancient slang phrase, and is supposed to
be derived from ‘Dumpos king of Egypt, who built a pyramid and died of
melancholy;’ so that the thieves and the gipsies are not all to blame
for having given us a few expressive words!

We next come upon a word full of pathetic meaning for many of us: it
is the ghost that haunts us at Christmas-time, and pursues us more or
less throughout the new year—it is the word _dun_. It is a word of
consequence, for it is at once a verb and a noun, and is derived from
the Saxon word _dunan_, to din or clamour. It owes its immortality—so
tradition says—to having been the surname of one Joe Dun, a famous
bailiff of Lincoln in the reign of Henry VII., who was so active and
dexterous in collecting bad debts, that when any one became ‘slow to
pay,’ the neighbours used to say: ‘Dun him;’ that is, send Dun after
him.

_Draw it mild_ and _Come it strong_ have their origin in music, being
the terms used by the leader of an orchestra when he wishes his
violin-players to play loud or gently. From this they have passed into
synonyms for exaggerators and boasters, who are requested either to
moderate their statements or to astonish their audience.

The word _coach_ in these days is a painfully familiar one, as parents
know who have to employ tutors to assist their sons to swallow the
regulation amount of ‘cram’ necessary for a competitive examination.
The word is of university origin, and can boast of a logical etymology.
It is a pun upon the term ‘getting on fast.’ To get on fast you must
take a coach; you cannot get on fast in learning without a private
tutor—ergo, a private tutor is a coach. Another familiar word in
university slang is ‘a _regular brick_;’ that is, a jolly good fellow;
and how the simile is logically deduced is amusing enough. ‘A brick is
_deep red_, so a _deep-read_ man is a brick. To read like a brick is
to read until you are deep _read_. A deep-read man is, in university
phrase, a “good man;” a good man is a “jolly fellow” with non-reading
men; ergo, a jolly fellow is a brick.’

_I have a bone to pick with you_ is a phrase that is uncomplimentary
to the ladies at starting. It means, as is well known, having an
unpleasant matter to settle with you; and this is the origin of the
phrase. ‘At the marriage banquets of the Sicilian poor, the bride’s
father, after the meal, used to hand the bridegroom a bone, saying:
“Pick this bone; for you have taken in hand a much harder task.”’ _The
gray mare is the better horse_ comes well after this last aspersion
upon the fair sex, to shew that woman is paramount. The origin of this
proverb was that a man wished to buy a horse, but his wife took a fancy
to a gray mare, and so pertinaciously insisted that the gray mare was
the better horse, that her husband was obliged to yield the point.
But then no doubt he saw that she was right in the end, and in all
probability boasted afterwards of _his_ selection.

_To be among the gods_ at a theatre is a common phrase applied to those
who are seated near the ceiling, which in most theatres is generally
painted blue, to represent the sky, and inhabited by rosy-faced Cupids
sitting on clouds.

The proverb, _Those who live in glass houses should not throw stones_,
dates back to the Union of England and Scotland, at which time
London was inundated with Scotchmen. This did not please the Duke of
Buckingham, who organised a movement against them, and parties formed,
who went about nightly to break their windows. In retaliation, a party
of Scotchmen smashed the windows of the Duke’s mansion, which stood in
St Martin’s Fields, and had so many windows that it went by the name of
the Glass House. The Duke appealed to the king, who replied: ‘Steenie,
Steenie, those wha live in glass houses should be carefu’ how they
fling stanes.’

_First catch your hare_ is the result of a mistake. It was supposed to
be in a cookery-book written by a certain Mrs Glasse, and was evidently
caught hold of by some wag, who read it for, ‘First scatch or scradge
your hare;’ that is, skin and trim it—an East Anglian word; or else,
‘First scotch your hare before you jug it;’ that is, cut it into small
pieces, as the sentence as it is now quoted is nowhere in the book.
But the wag was a clever one who gave it the precautionary turn, as
the phrase has done good service in warning many to secure their prize
before they arrange how to dispose of it.

When people talk of having nothing but ‘common-sense,’ they very often
mean that they have good sense only; while the real meaning of the word
lies in having the sense common to all five senses, or the point where
the five senses meet, supposed to be the seat of the soul, where it
judges what is presented to the senses, and decides the mode of action.
Another common expression is, _I was scared out of my seven senses_.
The origin of this goes very far back. According to ancient teaching,
the soul of man or his ‘inward holy body’ was compounded of the seven
properties which were under the influence of the seven planets. Fire,
animated; earth gave the sense of feeling; water, speech; air, taste;
mist gave sight; flowers, hearing; and the south wind, smelling.
Hence the seven senses were—animation, feeling, speech, taste, sight,
hearing, smelling.

It is interesting to notice how by the progress of time words become
convertible; thus _baron_ has for long years been held as a title of
honour, while that of _slave_ applies to the lowest of menials. Now the
real meaning of baron is _dolt_, and is derived from the Latin word
_baro_, a thorough fool. It was a term applied to a serving-soldier
in the first instance; gradually it rose in estimation, and military
chiefs were styled barons; finally, lords appropriated the title, which
is now one of high distinction. On the other hand, the word slave is
derived from a Slavonic word _slav_, meaning illustrious, noble. But
when the Slavs were conquered by the Romans, they were reduced by them
to become ‘hewers of wood and drawers of water.’ _Idiot_ is another
word that originally had a much more respectable meaning than the one
it now bears. It was used to distinguish private people from those
who held office, or courted publicity in any form. Thus Jeremy Taylor
says: ‘Humility is a duty in great ones as well as in idiots’ (or
private persons). The term became corrupted at last into a synonym for
incompetency, owing to the inability of idiots or private persons to
take office.

A _cub_ is an ill-mannered lout that needs _licking into shape_. The
simile was taken from the cub of a bear, that is said to have no shape
until it has been licked into form by its dam. The only difference lies
in the process of licking being so much pleasanter for the animal than
for the human cub, who finds nothing maternal about the cane that beats
him into shape.

Before lead-pencils were common, chalk served the purpose of marking.
Thus I _beat him by long chalks_ refers to the ancient custom of
scoring merit-marks in chalk. _Walk your chalks_, or get out of the
way, is the corruption of an expression: ‘Walk; you’re chalked.’
When lodgings were wanted in any town for the retinue of any royal
personage, they were arbitrarily seized by the marshal and sergeant
chamberlain; and the inhabitants were turned out and told to go,
as their houses had been selected and were _chalked_. Hence the
appropriateness of the peremptory dismissal: ‘Walk; you’re chalked.’

A ‘bull’ or blunder is a native of Ireland, and is derived from one
Obadiah Bull, an Irish lawyer of London, in the reign of Henry VII.,
whose blunders were proverbial. ‘The pope’s bulls take their name from
the capsule of the seal appended to the document. Subsequently, the
seal was called the _bolla_, and then the document itself was given the
name.’

And now we come to a very pet word; what ladies would do without it, is
hard to say, it is such a safety-valve to the feelings in moments of
irritation. We have heard some gentlemen declare it was the ladies’ way
of swearing; but then there is nothing profane in the word BOTHER! It
is a wholesome blessed word, however it is used, as it allows of women
being irritable without being _very_ sinful! One looks out for its
etymology with interest, and finds it is of Hibernian origin, capable
of a soothing inflection, as when bother becomes botheration, which
is a magnified form of bother, and suggests an ebullition of feeling
that might be serious but for the relieving expletive. ‘Grose,’ we are
told, ‘suggests _both-ears_ as the derivation of the word, and defends
his guess by the remark, that when two persons are talking at the same
time, one on one side and one on the other, the person talked to is
perplexed and annoyed.’ We quite believe him, and feel inclined from
experience to adopt his view of the derivation.

We all know what blarney is—that soft sweet speech in which the sons
and daughters of Erin excel; those sugared words that are so pleasant
to the ear, though false to the heart. Such speech is well named
blarney, and carries us back to the hero that made it a household word.
He was one ‘Cormuck Macarthy, who held the castle of Blarney in 1602,
and concluded an armistice with Carew, the Lord President, on condition
of surrendering the fort to the English garrison. Day after day his
lordship looked for the fulfilment of the terms, but received nothing
except protocols and soft speeches, till he became the laughing-stock
of Elizabeth’s ministers and the dupe of the lord of Blarney.’ The
Blarney Stone is a triangular stone lowered from the castle about
twenty feet from the top, containing on it the inscription: ‘Cormuck
Macarthy fortis me fieri fecit, A.D. 1446.’ Whoever kisses this stone
is supposed to be endowed with irresistible powers of persuasion.

We began this paper by likening ourselves to the ass among the bundles
of hay, not knowing where to begin; so we have nibbled a little
everywhere, and have had sufficient for to-day’s meal, although we
are greedy enough to regret many tit-bits left untasted from sheer
incapacity to consume any more at one sitting.




FISHING FOR PEARLS.


Pearls differ from any other kind of precious gems in requiring no aid
from art to bring out their beauty. While diamonds and sapphires and
rubies require to be cut and polished before they flash forth their
lustrous light, pearls may be said to be ready-made wherever they are
found.

Those who wear and admire them probably give little thought to the
circumstances attending their production and collection; but there are
few industries more interesting than that of ‘fishing’ for pearls,
as practised in the most important pearl-producing districts. Pearls
of an inferior quality to that of the true Oriental are found in a
species of fresh-water mussel inhabiting Britain and other temperate
countries: an important field for their production is being developed
on the coasts of Queensland and Western Australia; and at the Cape of
Good Hope specimens are occasionally found. But the great centres of
the industry are the banks around the south and west coasts of the
island of Ceylon, from which districts all the most celebrated pearls
have been derived. The banks or _paars_ there are under government
supervision, and fishing is only allowed under the immediate inspection
of the officials, who issue stringent regulations on the subject.

For some years the produce of the _paars_ has been falling off, and a
series of experiments has recently been carried out, and is now in
course of completion, with the object of discovering whether, instead
of allowing them to be fished every year, an interval of one, two, or
three years between each season will not afford a better opportunity to
the bivalves to spat and develop into pearl-bearers.

The last great fishing took place during the month of March in 1877;
and, as the results are said to have exceeded those of any previous
season for many years past, a short account of the manner in which
the operations were carried out, together with a review of the system
adopted for protecting the beds from exhaustion, may be interesting.

In the first place, it will be well to remove a misapprehension which
exists as to the identity of the so-called pearl-‘oyster.’ This mollusc
is not an oyster properly so called, but a species of mussel, and is
easily distinguished from an oyster by the squareness and length of the
shells at the ‘hinge.’ Like the common mussel of our own shores, it
attaches itself to stones and rocks by means of certain fine but strong
cords or _byssus_, which it spins at will; and not, like the oyster, by
a secretion of shell-matter. These cords are very tough when the animal
is young, but decrease in strength as it increases in age, till at last
they rot away altogether, leaving the creature at the mercy of tides
and storms.

While the pearl-oyster is still young, and before it has finally
attached itself to a suitable rock, it often breaks away from its
anchorage; so that it not unfrequently happens that a pearl-bank well
filled with oysters suddenly disappears altogether. Some authorities
assert that the pearl-oyster has the faculty of casting its byssus
and voluntarily migrating; but whether this is the fact or not, it
is certain that the above circumstances demand the serious attention
of the authorities, and have led to the adoption of a system of
half-yearly inspection of the banks, in order to determine two
important points, namely whether the young brood has forsaken its
birthplace, or the full-grown oysters are, through old age, breaking
away and being destroyed.

The duration of the life of the oyster is another necessary point to
determine; and various suggestions have been made, with the double
object of ascertaining the age of an oyster without the necessity of
continually watching its growth, and of shewing when a bed is fit to be
fished. The weight of the mollusc affords some clue to the elucidation
of this problem, but there is an obstacle to the adoption of this
method in the difficulty of accurately weighing a number of specimens
in an open boat at sea, even if the scales and weights should be at
hand. One of the government officials, however, has suggested a method
of ascertaining the age of the mollusc by the weight of the shells,
cleaned and dried with the animal removed. This can be done at any
time; and a series of experiments conducted by him gives the following
results. The shells of an oyster one year old, with the body of the
animal removed, weigh four drachms; those of an oyster two years old
weigh twelve drachms; three years old, nineteen drachms; and four years
old, twenty-five drachms. This scale of weights will apply of course
only to pearl-oysters from the Ceylon banks; as a difference in the
food, in the composition of the water and soil, and the temperature in
other parts of the world, would no doubt affect the rate of growth
and the deposit of the calcareous matter forming the shell. Empty
shells have been found weighing as much as forty drachms, thus giving a
probable age of about eight years.

The question arises, What _are_ pearls? Are they a morbid concretion
of matter produced in the endeavour to heal a wound or to cover some
irritating body that cannot easily be ejected from the shells? Are
they the result of a disease, or are they simply an over-production of
the matter forming the shell of the creature? Whatever they are, it is
only in the adult oyster that they are found of any size. The rate of
growth in the size of a pearl cannot of course be actually ascertained;
but by a series of averages, taken from the produce of a large number
of oysters from the same bed in different years, it is proved that
after the fourth year, the yield of pearls both in quantity and quality
rapidly increases. It is in the hope of a bed of oysters which produces
say five hundred rupees’ (L.50) worth of pearls per thousand oysters
one year, so improving as to yield double that value next year, that
many a fine bank has been left to perish from the causes referred to
above, as well as from the attacks of enemies or sickness.

The whelk has lately been discovered to be a serious enemy to the
pearl-oyster, just as it to the edible oyster of commerce; and a
curious disease occasionally manifests itself among the inhabitants
of the banks. The fatty portion of the animal, under which pearls are
usually found, and which is usually of a pale cream colour, assumes a
yellow tint, denoting sickness of some sort, the exact nature of which
has not yet been ascertained.

Pearl-fishing is at the best only a gigantic lottery, the prizes in
which bear a very small proportion to the blanks. But in this as in
many other uncertain pursuits, hope always tells a flattering tale, and
keeps awake the energies of thousands of interested operators. First
there are the divers, who perform the actual operations of fishing
for pearls. Arrayed in Nature’s garb, and provided with a knife and a
small bag of netting in which to collect the gathered oysters, and with
a rope tied round their waists, and a heavy stone attached to their
feet, they are let down into the water, taking first a deep breath, and
remaining there till forced to rise again. Expert divers will remain
beneath the water for sixty, ninety, and even a hundred and eighty
seconds. This period they occupy in detaching the mussels from the
rocks, a matter frequently of much difficulty. Those of very small size
they do not attempt to gather, for, as we have shewn, the larger the
shells the more chance of their containing a pearl. The native divers
are able to guess at the age of the oyster by the resistance it offers;
and, as explained above, the older the oyster the more easily it is
detached, and the greater the chance of its producing a large pearl.

On banks not over thickly populated, there is barely time to gather
half-a-dozen oysters at a dive—a dozen is an extra good haul; in more
favourable circumstances from fifty to one hundred may be collected by
one man. The diver then detaches the stone from his feet, gives a tug
at the rope, and is rapidly hauled up; the stone, attached to another
line, being afterwards pulled up for use again. His gleanings are then
placed on board the boat; and from it he descends again on another
venture. It may be imagined that life among men who so overstrain their
natural functions is very precarious; for though they are brought up to
the practice from their boyhood, a diver seldom lives to see old age or
even maturity.

The weather is an important factor in the calculation of the
pearl-fisher. ‘Pearl-fishing weather’ is a proverb in Ceylon, and has
much the same relation to the meteorological conditions of that island
as ‘harvesting weather’ bears to our own climate. A light steady breeze
from the north-east is the most favourable for fishing the _paars_ on
the south and west coasts of Ceylon, as the sea is sheltered by the
island, enabling the boats to sail and manœuvre easily. Sometimes the
wind will suddenly shift, and a squall will drive the boats home with
no little danger to the crews; or a heavy thunder-storm, such as only
the tropics can produce, will fall like a bomb-shell upon the scene
of the industry; and the wonder is that the frail habitations fitted
up for the accommodation of the fishers and others are not literally
washed away.

Besides the actual divers, there are the working crews of the boats,
the men employed in ‘washing’ the oysters on shore, the carrying boats,
the provision-merchants, purveyors of arrack and other liquors, bazaar
owners, the petty _chetties_ or traders in pearls, the large merchants
who buy thousands of oysters with a nod of the head, the police—and
they form no small proportion of the whole population—and other
government officials.

The boats are manned with a crew of one or two men, and frequently
a ‘counter’ to take reckoning of all the oysters brought up. The
boats are usually worked over the ground in circles, being ranged in
line some yards apart, and each taking a small circle and advancing
gradually over a certain assigned area. Sometimes they are placed close
together and advance in line across the bed. But before the boats
are permitted to start, the beds, having been examined by government
officials, are buoyed off, and no boat is allowed to go beyond the
limits thus defined. When the number of boats entered is very large—and
sometimes as many as five or six hundred collect together for the
prosecution of the industry—they are placed in separate divisions of
eighty to a hundred each, and lots are cast for the order in which
the divisions shall proceed, each division taking a day or a tide in
rotation.

For the accommodation of the large numbers of people brought
temporarily together by the fishery, large villages, the houses
of which are composed of bamboo, wood, furze, mud, and any light
material, suddenly spring up along the seashore, the population being
further increased by the arrival of the buyers and merchants. From
China, Japan, and all parts of the East, connoisseurs in pearls and
pearl-oysters are attracted to the scene of operation, and the activity
and excitement are often intense. A sample of five or six thousand
oysters is examined by the government, and from the results of this
sample the sales proceed. The government take three-fourths of every
boat-load brought in, and special officials are appointed to dispose
of these shares as soon as possible and at the best possible price.
A daily auction takes place, and the lots are knocked down to the
highest bidder. The method of valuing is so much per thousand oysters,
the prices ranging from forty rupees (L.4) to one hundred and twenty
rupees (L.12) per thousand.

The fishermen, who sell their own share on their own account, generally
receive higher prices than those fetched by the government sales; for
the small traders, buying by the dozen, naturally pay more dearly
than if they bought several thousands at a time; besides, the fishers
can afford to wait longer till a good offer occurs. Sometimes the
_chetties_ will buy a dozen at a time and open them, repeating their
purchases dozen after dozen, in the hope of finding a good gem, which
they either sell on the spot or take away with them into the interior.
The occurrence of a good pearl always sends prices up; and a man may
sell an unusually fine specimen for seven or eight hundred rupees, and
see it change hands for twice and three times the amount.

The collection of so many thousand natives, with very rudimentary
ideas of the laws of health and cleanliness, and with facilities for
drinking arrack and other ardent liquors which are as regularly to be
met with on the shores of Ceylon as they are in the crowded fairs and
race-courses of our own country, is often the cause of an outbreak of
cholera, smallpox, or other zymotic disease. The greatest precautions
are, however, taken to prevent such a catastrophe, and all cases of
illness are at once isolated.

The operation of opening the pearl-oysters is also conducive to
disease. To open each oyster when fresh would be a work of infinite
labour; they are therefore packed together in large vessels called
_ballams_, where, under the tropical heat, the animals soon die and
putrefy, and the shells, gaping open, are easily washed and examined.

The greatest watchfulness has to be exercised over the natives employed
in this work, where the owners do not perform the operation themselves.
A pearl is very easily secreted either in the folds of the scanty
dress, or in the mouth or ears, or even swallowed; and the Singhalese
and indeed all the natives of the East are adepts in the art of
thieving. To cheat the government out of their shares of the spoil, it
is no unusual thing for the boatmen to throw large packages of oysters
overboard, buoying them, so that they may be recovered under cover of
darkness or on the last day of fishing, which is usually devoted to a
general _sanjayan_ or scramble. All boats, whether belonging to the
authorised divisions or not, are then allowed to go out and keep what
they can get.

These divers render essential service in discovering and reporting the
existence of unrecorded rocks and shoals; and many a permanent record
of their operations is left in the shape of a warning buoy, stationed
to warn the navigator of a treacherous reef.

When, from the diminished daily results of the fishing, a sign is given
that the bed is being exhausted, the order is given to stop fishing.
The _sanjayan_ over, the bed is deserted, save by the government
launch appointed to remove the buoys which marked off the limits of
the ground; the boats gradually make off as wind and weather permit,
for their respective ports; the merchants pack up their purchases and
take their departure for the great towns and cities; the government
officials, having completed the records of the fishery, are gradually
recalled; the temporary huts are burnt to the ground; and the place
assumes its normal state of peaceful repose, disturbed only, or rather
intensified, by the presence of some wandering native bird, or by the
occasional visit of a roaming elephant or jackal.




A PERILOUS POSITION.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.


Having committed that murderous and suicidal act, Marmaduke Hesketh
crept back to the coping and seated himself directly opposite me, with
the opening of the chimney between. For a long while we gazed upon
each other in silence, then with an exultant laugh he burst forth:
‘You look agitated, my good sir, and yet I scarcely think you have
taken in the full significance of the performance you have witnessed.
Your intellect, unless I do you injustice, is somewhat obtuse. I will
therefore make clear our position to you. You and I are alone upon this
chimney-top, and for any particular choice in the matter, we might
just as well be in our tombs. Neither of us will ever again tread the
earth beneath; for all connection with it being, as you perceive, cut
off, it can only be reached by a leap, upon which, I fancy, we shall
not be inclined voluntarily to venture. Attempts, I have no doubt,
will be made to rescue us; but they will of necessity only be of such
a character as can be easily frustrated—and _I_ shall frustrate them.
My own life, I assure you, is perfectly valueless to me. I have brought
you here to die, and to die of a slow lingering death, aggravated by
mental torture. It is a felicity I have long anticipated, and I am not
likely to allow myself to be balked of it.’

‘O man, man!’ I cried in mortal agony, ‘are you indeed a human being,
or a fiend in human shape?’

‘A highly melodramatic question, upon my word,’ he sneered.
‘Nevertheless, with my wonted good breeding, I will endeavour to
answer it. I am, I believe, gentle youth, a man; and yet, to own the
truth, I have been impelled to my present course of action by certain
sentiments popularly attributed to the Enemy of mankind—to wit,
hate, jealousy, and despair. Yes, Mr Frederick Carleton, I hate you,
and I have hated you from the very first hour of our acquaintance!
Your death had been determined upon by me long before this plan for
securing it, with an additional piquant flavour of enjoyment to myself,
had suggested itself. You have not, as I have before hinted, a very
active or capacious mind; but possibly your imagination may have been
sufficiently stimulated by alarm to have already suggested to you that
it was _I_ who sent, or caused to be sent, that telegram which so
opportunely prevented our friend Mr Middleton from accompanying us to
this elevated and delightful spot. So far as I am aware, you will be
relieved to hear that Captain Middleton is in perfect health.’

‘Oh, can this horrible iniquity be permitted?’ I groaned, raising
my hands in frenzied supplication. ‘Can this monster be actually
permitted to carry out his fiendish purpose?’

‘Curious, isn’t it, the selfishness of the human heart?’ meditated
my tormentor, affecting to regard me with a studious air. ‘This
individual, I dare to aver, thinks that this act of mine is the very
worst act ever committed. The individual in question has read, of
course, of the painful deaths of thousands of his fellow-mortals by
famine, pestilence, and war; of the sufferings of his own countrymen
in the Black Hole of Calcutta; and of other terrible atrocities. But
of all atrocities, the most atrocious and unequalled is the one that
aims at depriving the world of his presence, of extinguishing the puny
spark of his life, even though he has the consolation of knowing that
his enemy will perish in his company! A very curious exhibition of
selfishness indeed! Fie, fie, young man; I am ashamed of you!’ With
these words and with a sneer upon his lips, Mr Hesketh turned his face
from me and fell into silence.

By this time the men who had worked the windlass, and several others
engaged about the adjacent building, had gathered below, and were
excitedly gesticulating and shouting. Of what they said I could not
distinguish a syllable; but from their gestures, I gathered that they
were inciting me to courage, and that they knew Mr Hesketh to be the
cause of our calamitous situation—no doubt deeming him mad. And with
the conviction that they so far comprehended the state of affairs, and
would use endeavours to rescue me, hope sprang up in my breast. It was
impossible, I thought, that I should be going to perish, to be cut off
in this awful manner in the midst of youth and bliss. _I_, who loved
and was beloved; who, that very afternoon, had been so full of ecstatic
happiness, and had thought myself the happiest of God’s creatures. No;
it wasn’t in the nature of things. It couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t be!
Repeating to myself this assurance, I watched with eager attention the
further proceedings of the workmen below, and noted presently that
several of them were running off in the direction of the town, whilst
others were making across some fields by a footpath which led to Holm
Court.

I was trying to think what means could be adopted for our salvation,
when my cruel foe again addressed me. ‘I hope, my friend,’ he said,
‘that you are not allowing yourself to be buoyed up by false hopes.
The fools below (who no doubt consider me demented) think, perhaps,
that they may succeed in helping you down again to _terra firma_—but
you and I know better. By-the-bye, I wonder that you have not yet had
the curiosity to inquire in what way you have earned my by no means
impotent ill-will. Another proof, I fear, of defective phrenological
development—Wonder and Acquisitiveness very small. However, you shall
hear, if you will kindly favour me with your attention. I will give
you in a few words the history of my life. At a very early age—don’t
let the fact distress you—I was left an orphan, and was brought
up by a maiden aunt, who, I fancy, was not very fond of boys. At
anyrate she did not exhibit her fondness for me in such a manner as
to inspire me with any return of affection, and at twenty-eight I had
never known what it was to care for, or to be cared for by, any of
my fellow-creatures. At that age I paid a first visit to my distant
relative Mr Middleton, and saw his daughter, then about fifteen
years old. With her I fell in love, as it is called; that is, I gave
her the strong concentrated devotion of a wild passionate nature. I
determined to marry her; but I was poor and her father was mercenary.
I would not ruin my cause by speaking _then_, and in another week I
was upon my way to America, bent, with iron purpose, upon making a
fortune. Of my life in America I will not trouble you with an account,
lest, mayhap, I might shock your virtue and sensibility. Suffice it
to say, that during the seven years I remained in that country, I
was by turns a gold-digger, a back-woodsman, and a merchant. During
those seven years I heard regularly from Miss Middleton’s maid, who
received from me an annual honorarium for keeping me informed of all
that concerned her mistress. At different times I had sent me by that
young woman a lock of Clara’s hair and a likeness, and by her I was
constantly assured—false jade!—that Clara had as yet had no _affaire
de cœur_. So, full of hope, I toiled on towards the accumulation of
wealth, praying night and morning one simple prayer, namely, that my
darling might be kept for me. And at length, with a fortune of one
hundred thousand pounds, I returned to lay it and myself at the feet
of her I loved—loved with a love which you, weak beardless boy, cannot
even comprehend—a love which, compared with yours, is as the restless
tossing ocean to a placid mill-pond, the fierce flames of a burning
forest to the feeble flicker of a lucifer-match! And what did I find
when, full of joyous anticipation, I arrived at her father’s house?
Why, I found her for whose sake I had gone through incredible labours,
for whose love I had yearned night and day for seven long years,
engaged, and upon the very point of marriage with an empty-headed,
aristocratic stripling, six months her junior! And worst of all, I
found that she absolutely loved the noodle! And now, Mr Frederick
Carleton, do you wonder that I determined to frustrate your marriage?
Do you wonder that I hate you with a mortal hatred? Do you wonder that
I regard my own life as of no more worth than a withered autumn leaf?’

‘O Hesketh, I am very, very sorry for you!’ I said, as he ceased to
speak; for his story and the agony of his face as he related it, had
touched me. ‘But you are mistaken in asserting _your_ love to be
superior to mine. It is inferior—_infinitely_ inferior. For I tell you,
man, that if Clara had loved _you_, I would not have stirred a finger
to injure you; and that rather than rend her heart, as it will be rent
by the knowledge of what has happened, I would willingly suffer the
cruel death you have designed for me, but which I feel confident will
somehow be prevented.’

‘You do, do you? Well, wait and see. I imagine your confidence will
soon die out. And in the meantime, keep your snivelling pity to
yourself. Don’t speak another word to me unless you are spoken to!’

‘I will not,’ I replied; my compassion vanishing, and giving place to
the horror with which I had previously regarded him. And averting my
face from this dreadful companion, I awaited in my perilous position
the issue of events. It declared itself thus. In what must in reality
have been an incredibly short period, although to me it appeared of
immense duration, a large crowd had collected around the chimney, and
I presently saw a kite ascending from its midst. Slowly it rose into
the air, higher and higher, borne by a gentle breeze in the direction
of the chimney. The object of its flight I had readily guessed; but Mr
Hesketh, to my extreme astonishment, did not appear to have noticed it.
He had taken a cigar from his case, lighted it with a fusee, and was
now calmly smoking with his eyes in a contrary direction. At length the
kite was upon a level with us, and by a dexterous movement on the part
of the man who held it, it fluttered to my feet. I stretched out my
hand and seized it. A thrill of pleasure passed through my frame as I
felt the string tugging from beneath, and knew that, though only by a
line of twine, a communication was established between me and those who
were planning my rescue.

But my gratification was not of long continuance. Glancing furtively
the while at Mr Hesketh, I commenced rapidly to draw in the string,
to which, as I guessed, a rope would be attached, wondering if it
were really possible that he had not observed what was taking place.
For a moment or two he smoked on in affected ignorance or unconcern,
then knocking the ashes from his cigar, and replacing it in his
mouth, he approached me, deliberately opened a penknife, and with a
satirically polite, ‘Allow me,’ held out his hand for the string. At
imminent danger of a fatal slip from my seat, I struggled to prevent
the accomplishment of his purpose, but in vain; and having severed the
twine with a sardonic laugh he retreated to his former position. A cry
of execration rose from below, so loud and wrathful and prolonged, that
I thought, as directed against himself, it must surely make my foe
tremble. But no; his composure, real or pretended, remained, I saw,
unruffled.

And now, with what intensity of solicitude I waited for the next
movement below! With what maddening impatience I watched the crowd
continually augmenting, noted groups consulting together, saw people
running hither and thither, gesticulating, looking upwards, shouting
constantly but doing nothing! And with what unutterable misery I
presently perceived on the outskirts of the crowd, a form, which by
the instinct of love I could have picked out from a larger assembly
and at a greater distance. Her arms stretched upwards, as though to
lessen the dreadful gulf which divided us, Clara stood upon a little
mound of débris; and by the agony of her attitude I could judge, though
I could not distinguish her features, of the agony of her face. Mr
Hesketh saw her too; for I heard him groan deeply, as though in pain,
and glancing towards him, I perceived his eyes fixed in the direction
where she stood. But from the expression of his countenance, I knew
well that the sight of her anguish had not shaken by one iota his
pitiless resolve. Twilight fell, after a period of indefinite duration,
shrouding Clara from my view; but not before I had seen her joined by a
man, who had taken her in his arms and strained her to his bosom, and
whom I conjectured to be Mr Middleton, returned from the fool’s errand
upon which he had been sent.

Upon the night of horror which succeeded I shall not dwell. All through
its interminable hours, my horrid companion and I sat sleepless and
silent, watching the red bonfires which blazed below, illuminating the
base of the huge chimney and the figures of a considerable number of
people who remained around it. By dawn the crowd had reassembled more
numerously than upon the previous day, and again and again attempts
were made to convey to me a rope by means of a kite, but only to be
each time defeated by my powerful antagonist. Then one by one, other
means of reaching us were tried; but all proved to be either infeasible
in themselves or impracticable for lack of co-operation from above. By
degrees every hope of rescue was extinguished in my breast, and I could
only resolve to meet my fate like a man, and to pray that Clara might
not suffer too keenly upon the consummation of the event. That she
suffered keenly now, I could not avoid seeing, as with my despairing
gaze riveted upon her, I faced the spot where with her father and
mother she remained for most part of the day.

At length—it was getting towards the close of the afternoon, and unable
longer to bear the sight of my beloved one’s torment—I turned away,
and as my eyes fell upon the crowd, I noticed within it a movement of
renewed excitement. I remarked, moreover, that Mr Hesketh had also
observed it, for I saw him remove his cigar (he had been smoking almost
unintermittingly since daybreak), and I heard him murmur: ‘What are
they up to now?’ They were the first words he had spoken that day, and
as they left his lips he started violently, for a bullet had whizzed
past his ear, actually grazing it. The rifle had been discharged from
behind him, and from the top of a wall belonging to the mill in process
of building, and which stood quite separately and at some distance from
the chimney.

‘Oh, that’s the game, is it?’ exclaimed my reckless and now sullen
enemy, speedily recovering his nonchalance of bearing. ‘Well, that can
easily be put a stop to. My dear fellow, I must seek protection beneath
your wing. They won’t shoot at me now.’ And resuming his smoking, he
offered me a cigar. ‘Better take one,’ he said sulkily, as I refused
the weed with disgust. ‘Smoking is a good preventive of hunger; and I
daresay you are beginning to feel hungry.’

I was not hungry in the least; but I had for some hours been consumed
with a terrible thirst; and as it presently occurred to me to produce
an increase of saliva, by chewing a corner of my handkerchief, I felt
for it in my pocket. But instead of my handkerchief, my hand lighted
upon another object, cool and round, and in an instant my heart ‘leaped
into my throat.’ I managed, however, to remain motionless, though the
blood tingled through my veins with excitement, and I was obliged to
keep my face turned from him, least the inspiration of hope upon it
should be visible to my intended murderer. But he had fallen again into
the sullen, brooding taciturnity which he had preserved all day, and
did not even glance in my direction.

Thus we sat together till the slow hours had dragged themselves away,
and the second night had fallen upon us in that awful situation.
Then Mr Hesketh spoke again. ‘Carleton,’ he said, in a tone equally
determined with any he had yet used, but not so expressive of hate
and satire—‘Carleton, I am tired of this, and I think you have now
suffered enough. Your hair, I have observed, has turned quite gray. I
shall therefore put an end to your torture and my own sooner than I
had intended. To-morrow morning, as soon as the gaping crowd below has
re-assembled in sufficient numbers to give zest to the exhibition of
our agility, we will take a leap together into their arms. Meantime,
I purpose to spend this last night of my existence in sleep, and with
this object shall now retire to the opposite side of our airy castle.
Do not, however, delude yourself with the hope, which I fancy I detect
in your quickened breathing. I am a light sleeper, having long been
accustomed to sleep with one eye open, for fear of wild Indians, or
worse; and at a touch, or even a movement on your part I should awake.’

If ever I prayed in my life, I surely prayed upon that awful night
when I saw Marmaduke Hesketh stretched out around the parapet of the
chimney, with his head resting upon one arm, doubled under it for a
pillow. And surely I may believe that it was in answer to that prayer,
and to the prayers for my safety of one dearer to me than myself, that
the sound sleep was sent which I presently perceived to have fallen
upon him. Down below flickered the red bonfires, and faint from the
distance came the sound of voices; but above that sound I heard the
sweet music of heavy breathing. And now, with the utmost caution,
I commenced to creep round towards my enemy’s head—pausing at each
step to listen if he still slept. Upon the success of the plan I was
about to try depended my life, and in each moment of uncertainty which
intervened until I was assured of that success, I lived an eternity. At
last I was quite close, and he had _not_ awaked! I drew from my pocket
the bottle of chloroform which I had bought for Mrs Middleton—_could_
it have been only two days ago!—and saturating my handkerchief with it,
held it before his mouth. The breathing grew quieter. I pressed the
handkerchief closer, and it became inaudible. I touched him, and he did
not move. I grew bolder, and shook him, yet he did not awake. And now
I was assailed with a strong temptation to hurl him over the chimney’s
side. I could have done it, I felt, easily; and I know the act would
have been justified in the eyes of most people. But I resisted the
temptation—for which I shall be thankful all my life—and carried
out instead my original plan of disarming him as far as possible
for the present, and waiting, until absolutely compelled to it in
self-preservation, before I would attempt to cause his death. My method
of disarming him was to bind together as firmly and tightly as I could
his arms and legs, using for this purpose the two large balls of twine
which Master Charlie had so urgently impressed upon me not to forget
to purchase for him. Ah, how little I had thought when selecting them
to what a use they would be employed!

Having effected my purpose, and finding my foe still motionless and
unconscious, I returned to my former position, and bending downwards,
shouted with all my might to attract the attention of those below.
But the effort was fruitless. I could not make myself heard, neither
could I, in the darkness, be descried from below. It was only when
the faint streaks of coming day began to appear in the horizon that
my figure could be made out standing alone and defined against the
gray sky; and then I could see that a rapid search was made inside and
around the chimney for the body of the man who was supposed to have
fallen thence; for in his recumbent position and hidden by the low
parapet, my companion could not be discerned from beneath. At length I
had the happiness of perceiving that the gesticulating figure above,
wildly imploring aid, was recognised as mine; and then once more I
saw ascending towards me on that early summer morning a white-winged
messenger of salvation. And still my dreaded enemy slept. He slept on,
when I had seized the kite, and whilst I drew in with eager rapidity
the string. He slept on, whilst with growing excitement I hauled up a
slender rope, and then a stouter one attached thereto, dropping them
both into the interior of the chimney. He slept on whilst I pulled
up, hand over hand, a strong iron chain, at the end of which, when
it reached me, I found affixed a horizontal iron bar. And he still
slept on whilst I passed this iron bar beneath my legs as a seat, and
feeling the chain held firmly from below, grasped it with both hands
and let myself over the side. Then, whether or not he slept I thought
no more, as with closed eyes and heart full of thanksgiving, I felt
myself gradually lowered against the chimney’s smooth side, down, down,
down, until in the end I touched the firm earth, saw a sea of faces
gathering around me, heard a hubbub of congratulation, and sank into
unconsciousness.

When I recovered from an illness which supervened, and which lasted
several weeks, I found myself in the chamber I usually occupied when
visiting at Holm Court, with Clara by my side, pale and worn with
anxiety and watching. My nerves had been so unstrung by the mental
shock I had endured, that for a long time no allusion was permitted
in my presence to the events I have recorded. But eventually, on my
insisting on being informed of Mr Hesketh’s fate, I was told, that
after waiting several hours for any movement on the part of the
supposed madman, a brave bricklayer had volunteered to ascend the
chimney by the same means as I had used in its descent, and had found
him stone-dead, with his limbs bound, and in the position I had left
him. By the administration of the chloroform I had unintentionally
slain him.

Two words in conclusion. The unfortunate man was brought to the ground
in the car in which, two days before, he had ascended with me intent
upon his murderous purpose—a couple of mechanics having ascended by
means of the chain and bar and readjusted the machinery. He was buried.
And six months afterwards I was married—not as the gay, sprightly
youth I had been before that awful adventure, but as a gray-headed,
prematurely aged man. But Clara loves me in spite of my white hairs,
and Time with his healing hand is gradually effacing the mental scar,
and restoring to me my youthful health and spirits.




COFFEYVILLE.


In the Western States of America, wherever the iron trail extends
its path beyond the borders of civilisation, in quest of new fields
for colonisation and commerce, it is accompanied in its track during
construction by a shifting population of camp-followers—mostly the scum
of society—who in their temporary resting-places often unwittingly sow
the seeds of future thriving towns and cities. This result, however,
is the exception rather than the rule, and only happens in cases where
the natural advantages of the site selected are such as to induce
far-seeing men of the right sort to remain and turn them to account.
In most instances the existence of these wooden hamlets, or ‘cities’
as they are invariably called in the West, is but that of a butterfly,
here to-day and gone to-morrow, lasting just as long as they serve
to form depots for the labourers and employés while at work on that
particular section of the road, and then passing on with them to
the next resting-place. These railway creations are commonly called
‘mushroom cities.’

The little town of Coffeyville in the southern part of Kansas, at the
birth of which I chanced to be present, when it sprang up as if by
magic from the surrounding prairie, may be taken as a fair example
of the _modus operandi_ of ‘locating’ a new ‘city’ on the western
frontier. This place is somewhat unlike the general run of mushroom
cities, because, without any peculiar advantages of situation, it
has survived, almost in spite of itself, up to the present day,
in consequence of its being for a long time the terminus of the
Leavenworth, Lawrence, and Galveston Railroad, before legislation
permitted that line to pass through the Indian territory. Though
unlike in this respect, its birth and early life were similar in every
particular. In all, the same extravagant excitement and speculation
in corner lots temporarily prevail; the same scenes of lawlessness
and bloodshed are enacted, and the usual number of lives sacrificed
by knife or bullet in drunken brawls and gambling disputes. Usually
the career of these temporary cities is nipped in the bud as soon as
the railway has advanced far enough to require a fresh depot. Then
if the present site does not possess sufficient qualifications for
the town’s growth to induce any one to remain, the wooden buildings
are taken down, packed on the construction train, and transported
to the next resting-place, for a repetition of the old scenes of
feverish excitement and dissipation. After their removal, nothing
remains to mark the late scene of busy life and revelry except two
or three worthless old shanties, broken bottles and rubbish of every
description, and torn and discoloured playing-cards and scraps of
paper, which are whisked up and whirled far and wide in the eddies
of the prairie breezes. But I was nearly forgetting to mention the
most important souvenirs invariably left behind by these advancing
heralds of civilisation. These are the mounds which mark the final
resting-places of those who ‘died with their boots on’ (as expressed
on the frontier); who met men quicker than themselves at their own
weapons—the revolver and the bowie-knife—and who were carelessly thrown
into their lonely graves, there to remain as silent witnesses of
lawless savagery.

Sometimes the embryo city, either from the natural advantages of
its position, or from other causes (as in the case of Coffeyville),
outlasts the ordinary life of the mushroom genus, and develops into a
quiet-going market-town, which in time assumes such proportions and
attracts such population as its trade with the surrounding settlers
will support. Wood and water, as well as the course of the railroad,
are the prime considerations which determine the site of a new
township. As soon as that is settled upon, the silence and solitude
of the lonely prairie are rudely invaded by a motley throng of
saloon-keepers, speculators, gamblers, traders, and others, who make
it their first business to establish their claim to a town-lot. This
they do by planting a stake in whatever plot of ground they may select,
and inscribing their name and date of entry upon it; this notice of
occupation being respected quite as much as if the owner were standing
guard over his property with a drawn revolver. In a short time the
materials for building their temporary structures are brought along on
the construction train or in wagons, and work begins in such earnest
that it is a common occurrence to see them all erected and fronting the
grass-covered main street of the place in less than twenty-four hours.
In these buildings are sold such articles of merchandise as are most
needed at this early stage of the city’s existence, prominent amongst
them being whisky, of the most villainous quality, commonly called
‘forty rod whisky,’ on account of its being supposed to render a man
senseless before he can accomplish that distance after drinking it.

Now let me endeavour to describe some of the features peculiar to the
budding life and progress of these pioneer settlements. First of all,
there is the hastily improvised hotel, constructed partly of wood
and partly of canvas. Here bed and board, such as they are, can be
obtained for three or four dollars a day. The arrangements of the hotel
are remarkable for their simplicity, and its accommodations unique
in their discomfort. It is neither wind nor water tight, and one can
only pray the elements to be propitious. Trestle-beds are packed as
closely as possible in the sleeping-room, and when the supply of these
is exhausted, the floor has to do duty for them. You cannot now any
longer hope for the comfort of a bed to yourself, nor indeed at any
place on the frontier. The most disagreeable effect of this want of
separate accommodation is the unpleasant feeling of anxiety occasioned
as to what kind of a man your partner for the night may be; whether he
will come to bed tipsy or sober, and whether the revolver which he puts
under his pillow is at full or half cock.

On rising in the morning you look for a place to perform your
ablutions, and find that the lavatory is nothing more than a deal plank
in rear of the dining-room, in the open air. It is furnished with a
tin basin, securely fastened by a chain to a staple in the side of the
building, a very dirty looking towel on a roller, and a small piece of
yellow soap, which seems likely to do duty during the rise and fall
of many a future mushroom city, for by no amount of ingenuity can any
suds be possibly coaxed out of it. There is also a looking-glass, or
rather a piece of one, which it makes you nervous to look in; and a
veteran comb minus several teeth, which nevertheless is considered one
of the most valuable articles in the place, and to avoid appropriation,
is also fastened to the side of the house by a chain. Having availed
yourself of these luxurious surroundings, you go to breakfast, and find
the ubiquitous hot biscuits, tough thin beef-steaks, and poor coffee
awaiting you. Several outsiders, besides those who are staying at the
house, drop in for this meal, each one putting his pistol on the table
at the side of his plate; and breakfast is rapidly despatched under a
sort of armed neutrality, which makes a timid man, new to the thing,
fearful of breaking it by even asking his next-door neighbour to pass
the salt.

Outside, on chairs tilted back against the side of the house, are two
or three frontier doctors, their ears on the alert to catch the sounds
of strife, which may possibly betoken the need of their healing art.
One or two lawyers and real-estate men are also there, with plans of
the city already mapped out, eager to buy or sell, though at very
different prices. Besides these, there are numerous individuals of the
nondescript class known as ‘bummers,’ whose business at this or any
other place is a mystery, but who seem to rub along somehow or other,
and at this minute are retailing the latest bar-room ‘shooting scrape,’
and discussing the city’s chances as if they had great interests at
stake.

All this time the hubbub and excitement in the main street are ever
increasing. If you walk down it, you will find one or two drug stores,
an ironmongery establishment, a store where anything can be obtained
from a sombrero to a set of harness, and a butcher’s shop. With these
exceptions, every building is a bar-room or gambling-house. In these,
the games of faro, keno, roulette, and poker are in full swing day
and night, the dealers at the first-named game being relieved when
tired, or when the cards seem to be persistently running against them.
The professional gamblers who frequent these scenes can be easily
recognised. They are generally the best-dressed men in the place, by
which I mean that they wear black cloth clothes and a diamond solitaire
in their shirt front, which places them in bold relief against the
surrounding roughly clad assemblage. These professional gamblers are
usually styled ‘sporting men’ or ‘sports.’ They have an expression in
their faces peculiar to the fraternity—a watchful, calculating, cruel
look, and an impassive countenance carefully trained not to betray any
signs of their feelings. When off duty, if we may so express it, some
of them are gentlemanly, pleasant enough companions, who might really
be trusted; but on duty they become again the unscrupulous gambler,
ready to fleece his friend, by fair play or foul, without a particle
of compunction. They are ever on the _qui vive_ with their weapons,
although not quarrelsome; nor do they drink much, are coolly brave
and determined as well as excellent shots, and have not much belief in
anything here or, we fear, hereafter.

In the distance are the gangs of labourers, mostly Irish, hard at
work on the railroad, who are herded together at night in a movable
frame boarding-house, where they are also fed by a contractor with
the railway company. Here and there are travelling carpenters busily
employed in hammering together a few pieces of timber, to be placed on
lots already claimed, but which are required to present some evidence
of the owner’s intention to build, so as to preserve his title, and
prevent the claim from being ‘jumped.’ These rough-and-ready mechanics
are in great request, and make plenty of money while the early
excitement is prevailing; but few of them are able to withstand the
attractions of the gambling resorts, where in the long-run they are
sure to deposit all their earnings. The ubiquitous quack doctor is also
here with his painted chariot and fantastically attired attendant, and
is the centre of an admiring crowd, to whom he sings (or rather shouts)
in comic rhyme the praises of his ‘Universal Heal All’ or ‘Magic Ague
Cure.’ Beware of the rascal, for likely enough one of his pockets is
full of counterfeit change, which he will palm off on the unwary and
innocent-looking customer. Lounging about at the various bar-room
doors are numerous specimens of the western border-men—hunters and
scouts—tall, angular, bony-looking fellows, with bronzed complexions,
hair trailing over their shoulders, and a brace of revolvers strapped
round their waists. They will probably hang about the new town until
they have gambled their money away, when they will return to their
home, the open prairie, where no finer or more trustworthy fellows can
be found.

See yonder primitive ferry-boat crossing the narrow but deep little
river Verdigris. Its owner you may be sure will reap a rich harvest
from his venture, as it is the only practicable crossing-point on the
road which leads to Coffeyville from the more settled districts. This
ferry is one of the fast disappearing remnants of the rude old frontier
contrivances for crossing a creek. It is a kind of flat-bottomed boat,
capable of transporting one wagon at a time, and is hauled to and fro
by a rope fastened round the trunk of a tree on each bank of the river.
Over this ferry, passengers and vehicles are continually crossing,
and as they arrive at their destination, fresh wooden buildings are
run up with inconceivable rapidity. And when the mushroom city’s
future is assured by undoubted local advantages the work of building
correspondingly increases with the most exaggerated ideas of the
future town’s importance, until a natural reaction sets in to restore
the general equilibrium. Upon my departure from Coffeyville, just two
weeks after the first building was erected, it boasted some two hundred
houses, a three-story hotel completed to its second story, a railroad
station, and stores filled with merchandise, farming implements, and
provisions of all kinds.

In the wonderful growth of these mushroom cities, as in all other
matters of business and speculation, are the pushing and go-ahead
traits of the American character (the infection of which appears to be
soon caught by naturalised foreigners) most strikingly exemplified.
Thus are towns and villages daily bursting into life in the track
of every newly constructed railway, and gradually driving the wild
Indian and the buffalo farther and farther towards the setting sun and
extinction.




THE BEAVERS OF BUTE.


Various newspapers have lately informed us that the Marquis of Bute,
with tasteful munificence, has made a gallant and successful attempt
to acclimatise beavers on his estate in the island of Bute, a few
miles from Rothesay. None but a nobleman with extensive grounds
comprehending a wood with an adjacent stream and other accessories,
could enter hopefully on an adventure of this kind; nor can we omit the
consideration of means for guarding the animals against the acquisitive
intrusion of poachers, to say nothing of hosts of holiday visitors, who
are not usually very particular in satisfying their curiosity. So far,
as we understand, there has been little to complain of. The beavers
introduced have been allowed to conduct their engineering operations
unmolested, and to increase in numbers. The best account we have
seen of this somewhat remarkable undertaking is that given in a late
number of the _Daily Telegraph_, which we condense as follows for the
amusement of our readers.

‘In a solitary pine-wood, a space of ground has been so carefully
walled in by a ring-fence that beavers cannot possibly escape from
the circle. Through the little park thus formed runs a small mountain
stream, and the domain inclosed ought to constitute, when its natural
advantages are taken into account, a beaver’s paradise. Left to
themselves, the beavers have entirely altered the appearance of the
stream. They have built across it no fewer than three dams. The lowest
of these is the largest and most firmly constructed, as if the little
engineers had been aware that it would have to support the strongest
pressure of water. To make it, large boughs and whole trunks of trees
have been cut down, thrown across the stream, wattled with mud, and
otherwise secured. The dam thus erected preserves the water above it
at a regular height; and in the pool which they have fashioned in this
ingenious method the beavers have built their hut. The structure, which
is composed of boughs, driftwood, mud, and stones, resembles nothing so
much as a large thrush’s nest turned upside down; while inside it is
excavated with runs, holes, and quarries made for themselves by Lord
Bute’s little tenants for the purposes of safety and concealment. With
their sharp chisel-like teeth, the small animals have cut down not
a few of the trees in what we may call their beavery. Their mode of
procedure is simple. They first gnaw a wedge-shaped gap into one side
of the tree, and they then attack the other side and gnaw the remaining
half, by which alone the trunk is held upright. Their intelligence
is such that the tree usually falls in the exact direction in which
they wish it to go, and that is generally across the current. Should
it, however, prove too heavy, or should it fall too far from the
water, they will saw it into pieces with their teeth and roll it for
themselves to its proper destination. Left to their own devices, the
beavers have bred and multiplied. Originally they consisted of but two
pairs, which had for some time dwelt in the Zoological Gardens. They
have, however, added to their numbers, and according to the latest
reports, there are supposed to be something like a hundred of them.

‘The beaver is one of the few animals still remaining from which man
can learn a lesson of engineering. Of all natural artificers, the
beaver is confessedly the most ingenious. It is a large species of
water-rat, about the size of a tame rabbit; and its enemies, such
as the fox, the wolverine, and the various other small carnivorous
inhabitants of the river’s bank, must always have pressed it sorely.
Necessity is the mother of invention, and in the great natural struggle
for existence, the faculties of the beaver became sharpened. It gave up
burrowing in the bank, like its little congener the water-rat, and took
to dwelling upon islands. When a natural island was not ready to hand,
it would construct itself an artificial one; and such beavers as took
to artificial islands must, like those early specimens of the human
race who dwelt in houses founded upon piles driven into the lake’s bed,
have soon discovered the necessity of preserving round about them a
permanent water-level. This is of course the one object of the beaver’s
dam. Around the little fortress which the beaver makes for himself in
the middle of a stream, the water is kept at a uniform and regular
height by the action of the artificial barrier below. The entrance to
the house is beneath the surface, and from the bank the wolverine and
the fox watch with disgust their desired prey swimming comfortably
round about his habitation. In winter, when the river is frozen over,
the beaver’s house is no doubt open to the attacks of his enemies;
but it is then itself frozen into a solid mass of masonry, as hard as
the strongest Portland cement, and the little rodent inside is in a
position securely to defy even the strong claws of the wolverine. Lord
Bute’s beavers have built themselves, as yet, but one of these river
fortresses. In a full-sized North American beaver colony, however,
there will be a dozen, a couple of dozen, and sometimes even a hundred
or more beaver nests projecting from the surface of the stream, while
the dam will be as large and strong as an English mill-weir. Should
Lord Bute’s beavers multiply, they will require more ground, and there
is really no reason why they should not be re-acclimatised on the
island of Bute. The experiment would be interesting, although, since
the introduction of silk hats, the skin of the beaver has long ceased
to have much commercial value.’ Still, the fur of the beaver may be
made available as a trimming for ladies’ winter dresses and otherwise.

‘Originally the beaver was a British animal, and the isle of Bute was
as much its native home as the banks of the Mackenzie. It is still
to be found here and there along the unfrequented tributaries of the
Rhone, the Danube, and the Weser. The beaver [if unmolested] would
thrive admirably on our Scotch rivers. The kangaroo would make a
magnificent addition to our larger parks and open waste lands. Indeed
the Duke of Marlborough has at Blenheim a herd of kangaroos which
have flourished for some years past as vigorously, and prospered as
remarkably, as the beavers on the isle of Bute. There are not many
animals, it is true, which could be with advantage introduced, or
for which space could be afforded. But this fact is in itself an
additional reason for persevering in every attempt at all likely to end
in anything short of absolute failure. In the case of the beaver, the
chief objection to him is that he destroys valuable trees by cutting
them down for his engineering purposes. This is no doubt the case; but,
on the other hand, a beaver, if driven to extremities, will construct
both his dam and his dwelling of mud, stones, and stray débris.’ The
writer of the article adds: ‘It is a question whether beaver-farming
might not be carried on at a profit in the wilds of Scotland, as
ostrich-farming is at the Cape. From this particular point of view,
indeed, Lord Bute’s experiment is more interesting than attempts at
acclimatisation can usually claim to be considered.’

We trust that nothing will occur to mar the undertaking, or to
discourage others who have the means from cultivating the beaver in
suitable situations throughout the United Kingdom. In the meanwhile,
the Marquis of Bute deserves thanks for his enterprise.




LINES WRITTEN AFTER PERUSING A LETTER WRITTEN BY ROBERT BURNS.


    Only a scrap of paper, old and worn,
    He wrote one day, when in a mood forlorn;
    Few are the words, and simply do they stand,
    Yet thrill us—they were written by his hand.

    _His_ hand had penned these words on which we gaze;
    The hand that gave the ‘Daisy’ sweetest praise;
    That held a sting for falsehood, and for pride,
    And dared raise _manhood_ o’er all else beside.

    _His_ eyes looked down upon that faded page—
    The eyes that had the vision of the sage;
    The eyes that did with wit and laughter glow,
    Yet had a tear of sympathy with woe.

    His heart impelled these kind words to a friend—
    That full, true heart fast throbbing to its end.
    In life neglected, what avails it now,
    That men would wreathe the laurel round his brow?

    Ah, little dreamed he, as he wrote these lines,
    That hearts would beat, to look upon the signs
    So careless traced one day, in mood forlorn,
    But treasured now, as by the poet born.

        H. K. W.

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