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[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 741.      SATURDAY, MARCH 9, 1878.      PRICE 1½_d._]




IN THE GLOAMING.


To us Northerners few expressions convey such a sense of peace and
beauty as this of ‘in the gloaming.’ The twilight hour has had its
singers and idealisers ever since poetry found a voice and made
itself a power over men; and so long as human nature is as it is
now—impressionable, yearning, influenced by the mystery of nature and
the sacredness of beauty—so long will the tenderness of the gloaming
find its answering echo in the soul, and the sweet influences of the
hour be repeated in the depth of the emotions and the purity of the
thoughts.

Between the light and the dark—or as we have it in our dear old local
tongue, ‘’twixt the gloamin’ an’ the mirk’—what a world of precious
memories and holy suggestions lies enshrined! The French _entre
chien et loup_ (between dog and wolf) is a poor equivalent for our
‘gloaming;’ and going farther south the thing is as absent as the
expression. To be sure the sweet Ave Maria of the evening is to the
pious Catholic all that the twilight is to us; when the church bells
ring out the hour for prayer, and the sign that the day’s work is done,
and the hurrying crowd stands for a moment hushed, with uplifted hands
and reverent faces raised to heaven, each man bareheaded as he says
his prayer, calling on Madonna to help him and his. But in the fervid
countries which lie in the sunshine from winter to autumn and from dawn
to dark, there is no gloaming as we have it. The sun goes down in a
cloudless glory of burnished gold or blazing red, of sullen purple or
of pearly opalescence; and then comes darkness swift and sudden as the
overflowing of a tidal river; but of the soft gray luminous twilight—of
that lingering after-glow of sky and air which we Northerners know and
love—there is not a trace. Just as with the people themselves it is
brilliant youth and glorious maturity, but for the most part an old age
without dignity or charm. Nothing is so rare in southern climates as to
see an old woman with that noble yet tender majesty, that gloaming of
the mind and body, which makes so many among us as beautiful in their
own way at seventy as they were at twenty. They fade as suddenly as
their twilight; and the splendour of the day dies into the blackness of
the night with scarce a trace of that calm, soft, peaceful period when
it is still light enough for active life and loving duties, after the
fervour of the noon has gone and before the dead dark has come.

The gloaming is the hour for some of the dearest circumstances of life;
when heart grows nearer to heart, and there seems to be almost another
sense granted for the perception of spiritual things. It is the hour
when young lovers wander through the green lanes between the hawthorn
and the clematis, while the nightingale sings in the high elm-tree, and
the white moths flit by like winged ghosts or float like snow-flakes in
the dusk. Or if it is in the winter-time, they sit in the bay of the
window half hidden by the curtains, half revealed by the dying light,
as is their own love. They have no need of speech. Nature and the
gloaming are the voices between them which whisper in sigh and o’ercome
all that the one longs to tell and the other yearns to hear; and the
silence of their lips is the truest eloquence of their hearts. In the
full blaze of daylight that silence would be oppressive or chilling.
It would tell either too much or not enough; but in the twilight,
when speech would be intrusive and commonplace, the mute influences
of the hour are the best expressions of the soul. In meadow and wood
and garden the scents of flowers and sprouting leaves, of moss and
ferns and bark and bud, are more fragrant now than in the freshness of
even the early dawn—that childhood of the day! They too come like the
voices of Nature, telling softly secrets which the day cannot reveal.
Everything is dreamy, indeterminate, and full of possibilities not
yet realised. The moon is only a disc of unsubstantial vapour hanging
softly in the sky, where the sunset tones still linger; the stars are
faint uncertain points scarcely visible through the quivering chromatic
haze; but gradually all this mystery will sharpen into the confessed
beauty of the night, when the pale pure splendour of the moon, the
glorious brightness of the stars, will take the place of the gloaming.
As yet it is all softened colour and chastened tenderness; all silence
yet eloquence; and the young lovers wandering by the scented hedgerows,
or sitting in the bay of the window—they in the soft glow of the
twilight, while the ruddy firelight floods the rest of the room—are in
that perfect harmony with the circumstances round them of which the
other name is happiness. Yes, the gloaming is the hour of love, as
which of us does not know who has ever loved at all! Look back over
the lapse of years, and see now what you saw then. You are walking on
that broad path up the lone fell-side. The young bracken is sending
out its rich scents, mixed with the odour of thyme and the sweetness
of the golden gorse; the swallows are wheeling for their last rapid
flights; the homing rooks are straggling wearily to the elms; the lark
is singing faintly in his descent; and the honey-laden bees fly heavily
to their hives. Do you not remember the thoughts, the emotions which
made life for you at that moment a heavenly poem such as an angel might
have written? Do you not remember the love which swelled your heart,
and lifted it up from earth to the very footstool of God? Never can
you forget the exquisite delight, the unfathomable revelations of that
hour! It was in the gloaming when you told your love and knew that you
were beloved, when the rack and the pain of doubt were finally set
to rest, and the joy of certainty was established! That hour shaped
your life for weal—alas! sometimes for woe to follow after! But in
all the woe of the loss, you have the imperishable weal of the gain,
and are richer by the love that you gave as well as by that which you
received—by the memories that will never die, and the emotions which
you can never forget!

The gloaming is the children’s hour, when mamma sings sweet songs,
or plays for them brisk and lively music, to which they dance like
shadowy sprites in and out from the dusk to the light. Or what is still
dearer, she gathers them all close about her, the elder ones touching
her knees, clinging to her shoulders, while the little one of all is in
her arms half asleep in a cloud of fairy dreams of vague delight, as
its curly head rests on her bosom, and the sweet soft voice lulls its
senses into a state of enchantment, to which no opiate of after-time
gives aught that is like. Then she tells them stirring tales of bold
knights and lovely ladies, and how faith and courage conquered all the
dangers that beset them, and brought them to good issues through evil
paths. Or in a lower voice, she speaks to them of the great God in
heaven, who through all His supreme might and majesty, can condescend
even to the wants of a little child; and she tells them of the sinless
angels; and of that dear Lord who came on the earth to save weak men
from the consequences of their own wilful wickedness. She speaks to
them of His purity, His love, His tenderness, and of the pattern left
us in His life, by which we may all walk if we will. And to the end of
their lives they remember those lessons of the quiet gloaming. One may
go out into wild lands and live there with graceless men and Godless
companions; but in the midst of all the evil which surrounds him, the
mother’s words spoken when he was a little lad at her knee, come back
like cool rains in the parching drought; and the crust of carelessness
and something worse breaks from his soul as memory leads him back into
what was the truest and holiest Church of his youth. Or the girl—she
who now sits with her big blue eyes fixed on her mother, shining with
pitying tears for the sorrows of the divine Son of Man, for the trials
of suffering saint and heroic martyr—when she is thrown into the great
world of fashion and dissipation to become a ‘leader of society,’
surrounded by temptations of all kinds—she too will remember this hour,
and all that she learned and felt at her mother’s side. She will turn
back to the holy lessons of piety and humility, of modesty and honour,
taught her then by one who fulfilled those lessons in her own life; and
she will be strengthened to meet her dangers from the memory of those
pure defences. The mother’s influence never wholly dies; and never is
that influence more powerfully exerted, its traces more deeply engraved
than in the gloaming, when the sweet, sad Bible stories are told in a
low and loving voice, till the whole heart is stirred, and the deepest
recesses of spiritual consciousness are reached.

The gloaming is the hour of the highest thoughts of which we may be
capable; the hour when the poet sings his song in his own heart before
he has written down the words on paper; when the painter sees his
picture completed by the divine artistry of the imagination before he
has set his palette or sketched in the outline; when the unformed and
chaotic thought long floating in the brain, clears itself from the
mists and takes definite shape, soon to become embodied in creation.
The youth dreams of that splendid achievement which is to win the great
game of fortune; he sees himself going up for his degree in advance of
the rest, cheered by his companions, congratulated by the ‘dons’ as he
comes out Double-first, or the Senior Wrangler of his year. Or he is
pleading before the judge at a very early stage in his legal career,
and winning the most important cause of the term—winning it by sheer
hard work and strength of brain—with ‘silk’ and perhaps the woolsack to
follow. Or he is in the House arguing for humanity against statecraft,
for justice against oppression, for truth against falsehood, and
carrying the majority with him—making men’s hearts to burn within them
by reason of his eloquence, his daring, and the intrinsic justice of
his cause, for the first time indubitably proved by him. Or he has
written his book, and wakes to find himself famous, the world lifting
its cap to him in recognition of his success, and the critics united
in praise, with not a surly note of blame in all the pack. Or he has
painted his heroic picture—his art of the highest, his theme the most
heroic—and the Royal Academy opens its doors with a clang to let him
through. Or he has built his cathedral, and is not ashamed to look
up at the lines of the old Abbey. Or he has invented his new engine,
discovered his new planet, demonstrated the hidden law which so many
suspect and no one has proved. It is the hour for all these grand
dreams of ambition, all these fairy tales of hope; and if impossible at
times to realise, yet they are good for the young mind to entertain; as
it is good for the young athlete to try his strength against superior
forces, and for the young bowman to aim higher than he can strike.

It is the hour when greatness, yet inchoate and undeveloped, grows
within its husk—the seed-time of future excellence through the
fermentation of thought. There must be intervals of preparation, and
this is one of them. The quiet spell of the gloaming, when the fairest
visions are seen, the boldest wishes framed, the loftiest points
reached—how useful it is if taken as the spring-board for the true
leap—harmful enough if accepted as sufficient in itself; as if the
hope, the wish, the incoherent intention were enough, and realisation
always put off till the morrow, did not count. For there is ever the
danger that day-dreaming should become a habit, and that a man should
be contented with fashioning a thought in his brain without caring to
embody it in deed. But there is always danger of misuse in all things;
and the fear of falling is no bad help towards keeping one’s footing
firm when the path is slippery and the way-marks treacherous.

The gloaming is the hour for quiet retrospection of the hours that
are past, for fearless onlooking to those which are to come, and for
closer communing with God and one’s own soul. The day is flowing into
the night through the golden gate of the twilight, just as fervid youth
and fragrant womanhood, the strength of manhood and the leader’s power,
are passing through the calm rest of old age into the stillness of
death. In the gloaming, the soul seems to see the right value and the
true shapes of things more clearly than it did when the sun was high,
and the eyes were dazzled with its shine and the blood fevered with
its heat. Then passion was strong, and with passion, self-will, false
aims, false beliefs—and disappointment as the shadow lying behind. If
the power was there to create, to resist, to combat, to subdue, so also
was the bitter smart and the cruel blow. And there was the inevitable
deception of the senses. Then the sunlight fell on the stagnant waters
of the deadly swamp and turned them into lakes of purest gold, which a
wise man would spend his time well to seek and his strength to possess.
Now in the twilight the false shine has faded from the low-lying pools,
and the dank and deadly mists creep up to mark both their place and
quality. If only he had known the truth of things in time! If only he
had not believed that marsh-lands were living lakes of golden waters,
which a man would do well to give his life to gain!

In the daytime, clouds obscured the sun, so that the impatient and
sore-hearted said in his bitterness that the god had turned his face
from the earth and from him, and that to-morrow’s glory would never
rise. Now in the gloaming the hope of that morrow has already lessened
in anticipation the evil done by the clouds of to-day, and trust and
hope come in the place of sorrow and despair. The worst has been—make
room now for the better. No more false seeming and no more blinding by
the deceived and flattered senses; no more mis-diversion of energy,
and taking for pure and beautiful waters of life deadly morass and
stagnant marsh. The gloaming of life sets a man straight not only with
himself but with things, and gives him a truer knowledge than he ever
had before. He stands full face to the west and looks into the light,
which now he can bear, and which he no longer finds bewildering or
blinding. That time of tumult and passion, of heat and strife, through
which he has passed, how glad he is to leave it all behind him while
waiting, watching for the quiet peace of the night through the tender
softness of the gloaming! How near and yet how far off seem to him the
unfulfilled hopes of the morning, the mistaken endeavour of the noon,
the hard labour and fierce struggle of the day! If he had only known
in time the things which were best for him, how differently he would
have acted—and now: God’s will be done, and God pardon all his sins! He
must take things as they stand, trusting in the unfailing mercy; for if
repentance is good, regret is vain, and the gloaming is for peace, not
strife.

Slowly the last rays of the sun fade out of the sky, and the lingering
light as slowly follows. The world lies hushed as a tired sleeper,
and the moon and the stars come out as watchers—as signs too of other
worlds and other lives. But the old man sitting pale and peaceful in
the house-porch knows now what he no longer sees; for the gloaming of
his life has passed into the deep stillness of something beyond, as
the day has flowed into the night, and both lie in the hollow of God’s
right hand.




HELENA, LADY HARROGATE.


CHAPTER XIV.—THE SHARING OF THE SPOIL.

The name of Mr Enoch Wilkins, Solicitor in the High Court of Chancery,
and Attorney-at-law, before, according to the polite legal fiction,
the Queen herself at Westminster, was deeply inscribed, in fat black
engraved characters, on a gleaming brass plate which formed the chief
adornment of the dark-green door of his City office. If this brass
plate really did gleam, as it did, like a piece of burnished gold, its
refulgence was due to unremitting exertions on the part of the office
lad, whose objurgations were frequent as at unholy matutinal hours he
plied the obdurate metal with rotstone, oiled flannels, and chamois
leather. For the atmosphere of St Nicholas Poultney (so named from the
hideous effigy of a begrimed saint, mottled by frost and blackened
by soot, which yet decorated the low-browed doorway of a damp little
church hard by) was not conducive to brilliancy, whether of glass,
brass, or paint, being heavily charged, on the average of days, with
tainted air, foul moisture, and subdivided carbon, with rust, dust,
and mildew. Nevertheless Mr Wilkins, who was a master to be obeyed,
contrived that his plate-glass windows should flash back whatever rays
of light the pitying sun might deign to direct on so dismal a region,
girt in and stifled by a wilderness of courts, lanes, streets, and
yards, and also that door-handles and bell-pulls should be shining and
spotless as a sovereign new-minted, the door-step a slab of unsullied
stone, and passage, staircase, and offices as trim and clean as the
floors of some lavender-scented farmhouse among the cabbage roses of
Cheshire. These praiseworthy results were not attained without labour,
sustained and oft renewed, on the part of Mrs Flanagan, the so-called
laundress, whose washing was effected by the vigorous application
of scrubbing-brush and Bath-brick; of a melancholy window-cleaner
from Eastcheap, whose bread was earned by perpetual acrobatic feats
on narrow sills and outside ledges; and of the office lad already
mentioned, whose main duties, though he called himself a clerk, were
those of keeping the externals of his master’s place of business at the
utmost pitch of polish.

In very truth, although there was a messenger, fleet of foot and
cunning in threading his way through the labyrinthine intricacies of
the City, always perched on a leather-covered stool in the antechamber,
to supplement the services of the office lad, Mr Wilkins had no clerk.
A great deal of his business was transacted by word of mouth; he
answered his own letters; and when much of the scribe’s work became
requisite, some civic law stationer would send in one or two red-eyed
men in mouldy black, with finger-nails indelibly stained by the ink
that had become their owners’ element, and a sufficient quantity of
draught folio paper would be covered with legal copperplate.

The outer office was neatness itself, from the bright fire-irons in
the fender to the maps on the wall and the rulers and pewter inkstands
on the desks. And the inner room, where the lawyer himself gave
audience, was almost cheerful, with its well-brushed Turkey carpet,
sound furniture, well-stored book-shelves, and general aspect of
snug comfort. There were those who wondered that Mr Wilkins, whose
reputation did not rank very high in the learned confraternity to which
he belonged, should so pointedly have deviated from the tradition which
almost prescribes dirt and squalor and darkness for the surroundings
of those who live by the law. There were, not very far off, most
respectable firms, the name of whose titled employers was Legion, yet
through whose cobwebbed panes was filtered the feeble light by which
their bewildered clients stumbled among ragged carpets and rickety
furniture to reach the well-known beehive chair. But Mr Wilkins was
a man capable of attending to his own interests, and probably he had
found out what best chimed with the prejudices of those for whose
custom he angled.

There was nothing in the room itself to shew that it was a lawyer’s
office. It might have been that of a surveyor or a promoter of
companies, for there was nothing on the walls but a set of good maps
and four or five excellent engravings. Not a deed-box, not a safe,
was to be seen, and if there were law-books on the shelves they held
their place unobtrusively amongst other well-bound volumes. Mr Wilkins
sitting in his usual place, with one elbow resting on the table before
him, seemed to be indulging in a reverie of no distasteful character,
to judge by the smile that rested on his coarse mouth as he softly
tapped his front teeth with the mother-of-pearl handle of a penknife,
as though beating time to his thoughts. At last, warned by the striking
of the office clock, the hour-hand of which pointed to eleven, Mr
Wilkins shook off his preoccupation of mind, and rang the hand-bell at
his elbow.

The office lad, who called himself a clerk, was prompt in answering the
tinkling summons of his employer.

‘Any one been here yet?’ demanded the lawyer.

‘Touchwood and Bowser’s articled clerk with notice of new trial in case
of Green (in holy orders) _v._ Gripson—the bill-stealing case, you
know, sir, that the country parson chose to go to a jury about.’

‘Ah, yes,’ rejoined Mr Wilkins, again tapping his front teeth with
the pearl-handled knife, while a look of intense amusement overspread
his face. ‘Wants another shot at the enemy, does he, the Rev. James
Green! It was grand to see him in the witness-box, indignantly
insisting on the fact that not one sixpence ever reached him in
return for his promissory-note despatched per post, on the faith of Mr
Gripson’s advertisement and fair words. Then some Mr Jenks, a total
stranger, happens to give valuable consideration, at third or fourth
hand, for the stamped paper with the clergyman’s signature, and, Rev.
Green objecting to cash up, gets a _fi. fa._—a neat contraction of
_fieri facias_, which, as we lawyers know, is a term which directs
an execution to be levied on the goods of a debtor, ha, ha!—has it
backed in Wiltshire, and sells up every bed and chest of drawers in the
vicarage. Mr Green brings an action against Gripson, who is comfortably
out of the way, but retains me. We traverse everything, demur to
everything, put in counter pleas and rebutters, change the venue, and
play Old Gooseberry with the too confiding Green, whose counsel elects
to be nonsuited. Now, like a Briton, he is ready for us again.’

Mr Wilkins laughed, and the juvenile clerk re-echoed the laugh.
Sharp practice, such as that so lovingly narrated by the attorney,
apparently for lack of a better audience, was congenial to the mind
of this keen-witted young acolyte of Themis, with whom the proverbial
distinction between Law and Equity seemed to be very clearly defined.

‘Nobody else called?’ asked Mr Wilkins.

‘Yes. Stout sporting-looking gent, who said he’d make shift, when I
told him you had stepped out to the Master’s chambers, to come again
to-morrow. Name of Prior,’ returned the youth.

‘Ah, Nat the bookmaker, wanting to know how near the wind he may sail
without getting into the sweep-net of a criminal indictment,’ said the
lawyer placidly. ‘Nothing else, hey?’

‘Only Mr Isaacs of Bowline Court, Thames Street, sent round to say he
would look in between eleven and twelve,’ was the reply.

‘I’ll see him and any gentleman he may bring with him,’ rejoined Mr
Wilkins, taking up the newspaper, as the office lad retired; but in
five minutes returned, ushering in three gentlemen, whose hooked noses,
full red lips, jet-black hair, and sloe-black eyes gave them a strong
family resemblance. They were old acquaintances doubtless, for the
greeting which they received from Mr Wilkins was a familiar one.

‘How do, Moss? How goes it, Braham, my buck? You’re all right, Isaacs,
I can see for myself.’

Nothing could well be more unlike what, during the regency of the late
King George IV., was called a buck than was Mr Braham, who was simply
a corpulent Jew, ineffably greasy in appearance, and who wore a faded
olive-green greatcoat that might have passed for a medieval gabardine,
and carried an empty blue bag over his left arm. Mr Moss, his junior
by some years, was better dressed, but his raven locks fell upon a
shirt collar of dubious whiteness, and his dingy finger-nails were in
unpleasant contrast with the splendour of the heavy rings he wore, and
of the huge emerald in his satin necktie. The youngest of the three, Mr
Isaacs, a hawk-eyed little man, bejewelled and florid of attire, was by
far in dress and person the least unclean of the three.

There was a little conversation as to weather and other general topics,
and then Braham the senior of the three Hebrews pulled out a watch
as round and almost as big as a golden turnip, and compared it with
the office clock. ‘Letsh get along,’ he said genially: ‘bushinesh,
bushinesh, my dears, waitsh for no man.’

‘You’re right, Uncle Jacob,’ chimed in Mr Moss, who could scarcely
have been, otherwise than figuratively and in oriental fashion, the
nephew of his stout kinsman, but who was certainly a Jew of a much more
modern pattern. He, at anyrate, coquetted with soap and water, and had
discarded the shibboleth in his speech; but it might be doubted whether
the elder Israelite, for all his repellent exterior, was not the better
fellow of the two.

‘Business by all means,’ cheerily responded Mr Wilkins. ‘We’ve done
it together before to-day, and we’ll do it again, I hope, gentlemen,
for many a day yet to come. It is a very pleasant occasion on which we
now assemble—nothing less, if I may say so, than the dividing of the
profits, the sharing of the spoil.’

There was a hearty laugh.

‘Sharing of the shpoil!’ chuckled elderly but still vigorous Mr Braham.
‘What a boy he ish, thish Wilkinsh, what a boy he ish!’

‘And now for it,’ said Mr Wilkins, rustling over a bundle of papers
that lay before him. ‘Here we have it in black and white, worth all
the patter and palaver in the world. These are the baronet’s first
and second letters, the second inclosing an uncommonly stiff cheque.
Here are Captain Denzil’s bills—pretty bits of kites they are, renewed
here and renewed there—and here are our old agreements, notes, and
memoranda, duplicates of which I’ve no doubt are in all your pockets.
Pass them round, Isaacs, and take a good look at them first. You’re an
attorney, you know, and that’s why you’re here, though I don’t believe,
my friend, that you “pull off” a clear five hundred out of the haul.’

‘Yesh, yesh, he’sh an attorney, ash Wilkinsh saysh,’ said Mr Braham,
whose laughter was very ready, as that of fat people often is; ‘and sho
we have him here. Shet a thief to catch a’——

Here a warning kick or other practical exhortation to caution on the
part of his kinsman appeared to cut short the over-fluency of the bulky
Hebrew, and he became as mute as a mouse, while Mr Isaacs read aloud in
a high shrill voice the contents of Sir Sykes Denzil’s letters and also
a brief summary which Mr Wilkins had prepared.

There was some discussion, but there really was not room for much. Here
was no compromise, no handing over of so many shillings in the pound.
Sir Sykes Denzil had paid his son’s liabilities without the abatement
of a guinea. Mr Braham was to receive what he called ‘shix thoushand
odd;’ Mr Moss, two thousand eight hundred and seventy-two; four hundred
and thirty were for Mr Isaacs; and the residue was for Enoch Wilkins,
Esquire, gentleman.

It was a strange sight when the rolls of bank-notes were produced, to
see the actual partition of the Bank of England’s promises to pay, the
vulture beaks bending over the crisp paper, the wary inspection of
water-mark and number and signature, and the stuffing of pocket-books
and cramming of purses and stowing away of what seemed to be regarded
rather as plunder than as lawful gains. Two odd things during this
transaction were to be noticed—first, that Mr Braham, who was
incomparably the shabbiest Jew present, met with deference on every
hand save from irreverent Wilkins; and secondly, that all the Jews
seemed to take up their money grudgingly, like hounds that have chopped
their fox in covert.

‘Well done, Shir Shykesh!’ exclaimed the heavy Hebrew with the green
gabardine and the blue bag. ‘If they wash all of hish short, there
might be the moneysh, but there wouldn’t be the fun!’

‘We’ll drink Sir Sykes’ health, at anyrate,’ briskly put in Mr
Wilkins.—‘Sims!’ and he tinkled the office hand-bell as he spoke,
‘glasses and cork-screw.’

It was good amber-hued sherry, none of your modern abominations, but
a real Spanish vintage, long mellowed in its dusty bin, that gurgled
into the glasses under the careful handling of Mr Wilkins. The Hebrews
sipped, appraised—where could be found judges so critical!—and drank.

‘I’m shorry for the poor young man,’ said Mr Braham, in a sort of
outburst of sentiment, at mention of Captain Denzil’s name.

‘So that he gets his victuals,’ remarked the Jew attorney curtly, ‘I
don’t see why he’s to be pitied.’

‘It _ish_ a shelling out!’ was the mild rejoinder of the stout
Israelite with the blue bag, who seemed to be by far the
softest-hearted of the company. ‘Of courshe, when I thought he would
do me, I didn’t care; but now I remember he didn’t get much, not above
sheven-fifty cash. All the resht wash pictures, wine—not like yoursh,
Wilkinsh—cigars, and opera-tickets.’

‘He went through the mill, I suppose,’ said Mr Moss, ‘as others have
done before him, and others will do after him; eh, Uncle Jacob?’

‘Eh, eh, grisht to the mill!’ chuckled the stout proprietor of the
empty blue bag; and the quartette of confederates soon separated.

Mr Wilkins, left alone, purred contentedly as he poured out and tossed
off another glass of the sherry so deservedly lauded, and then, rising
from his chair, took down a Baronetage, bound in pink and gold, and
fluttered over the leaves until his finger rested on the words:
‘Denzil, Sir Sykes; of Carbery Chase, county Devon; of Threepham Lodge,
Yorkshire; Ermine Moat, Durham; and Malpas Wold, Cheshire, succeeded
_his_ father, Sir Harbottle Denzil, August 18—; married, May 18—;
formerly in the army, and attained the rank of Major. Is a magistrate
and deputy-lieutenant for Devonshire. Unsuccessfully contested the
county at the election of 18—.’

‘To think,’ said the attorney, stroking the book with his fleshy
hand, ‘how much one can read between the lines of these plausible
announcements, almost as blandly eulogistic as the inscriptions which
chronicle on their tombstones fond wives, faultless husbands, and
parents worthy to be immortalised by Plutarch! How trippingly the
name of that needy old reprobate Sir Harbottle rolls off the tongue.
He to be described as of Threepham and Malpas! Say, rather, of any
foreign lodging or foreign jail, of the Isle of Man while it was yet a
sanctuary for the debtor, of the Rules of the King’s Bench. But Carbery
is very genuine anyhow.’

Mr Wilkins paused for a moment, and then mused: ‘I could spoil your
little game, Sir Sykes—spoil it in a moment, and compel you to exchange
your D. L.’s uniform of scarlet and gold for—never mind what! So long
as the goose lays the golden eggs, it would not be the part of a wise
man to twist her neck.’ Having said which, Mr Wilkins brushed his coat,
drew on his gloves, and taking up his hat, sallied out. ‘Taxing office;
back in an hour,’ he said to the office lad as he went out. ‘If I am
detained, you need not wait for me after two o’clock.’

‘Ten to four, he don’t shew up,’ said the youth, who was accustomed to
the professional figments which served to beguile credulous clients,
but who congratulated himself at the prospect of a speedy release from
duty. ‘If the governor doesn’t put in an appearance by 1.30, I’ll make
myself scarce, or my name is not Sims!’

Meanwhile, Mr Wilkins made his way through the jostling crowd that
roared and seethed among the busy streets of the City, until he reached
an office, resplendent with plate-glass and French-polished mahogany,
in Cornhill, on the door of which was inscribed, ‘Bales and Beales,
Stock and Share Brokers.’

There were a good many customers in the outer office, a few of whom
were quiet men of business, while the others, nearly half of whom were
anxious-eyed ladies who had reached middle life, seemed flushed and ill
at ease as they perused and reperused the written and printed memoranda
with which they all seemed to be provided, and glanced impatiently at
the ornamental clock on its gilded bracket. The lawyer, as an _habitué_
of the place, sent in his name, and gained speedy admittance to the
inner den, where Mr Bales himself, tall, thin, and with a thatch of
bushy eyebrows projecting in pent-house fashion over his steady blue
eyes, held out a cool white hand to be grasped by the hot red hand of
Mr Wilkins.

The head of the firm of Bales and Beales was pre-eminently a cool man,
and nothing could be in stronger contrast than was his unimpassioned
bearing and the flutter and flurry of his customers.

‘How about my Turks?’ unceremoniously demanded Mr Wilkins. ‘Of course I
know they’re down again—confound them!’

‘The fall continues. They have receded, let me see, two and
seven-eighths since this morning,’ returned the broker, pointing to
the official bulletin in its frame on the wall beside him. ‘Probably
they are falling as we speak, for the Bourses of Paris, Amsterdam, and
Vienna opened heavily.’

‘Well, you _are_ a Job’s comforter, Bales,’ said the lawyer, wiping
his heated brow. ‘Will this sort of thing go on, hey? Shall I sell, or
stick to my colours like a Briton? Can’t you give a fellow your advice?’

‘I never advise,’ answered Mr Bales, with his cold smile. ‘Life would
be a burden to me if I did. I prefer to lay the facts before those who
do me the favour to come to me, leaving to their unbiassed judgment the
course to pursue. Here are some Stock Exchange telegrams, part of which
you will see presently, no doubt, in the evening papers. They help to
explain the rush on the part of the public to sell out.’

The attorney took the half-dozen square pieces of hastily printed
paper, yet damp from the press, some of them, which Mr Bales
courteously proffered him, and at a glance mastered their contents.

‘Can rascally fabrications like this,’ asked the attorney, in a glow of
something like honest indignation, ‘impose upon the veriest gull in
Christendom?’

‘Ah!’ answered the unmoved Mr Bales, scrutinising the despatch which
his irate client held between his finger and thumb, ‘you mean the
rumour about the sale of the six Turkish ironclads to the Russian
government? Popular credulity, my dear sir, would swallow more than
that. You have overlooked the other telegram, which mentions that
Adamapoulos and Nikopolos, the Greek bankers of Galata, have declined
to advance to the Porte at twenty per cent. the wherewithal to meet the
next coupon of the Debt. That report has more weight with business-men
than the nautical one. Will you give me instructions to sell?’

‘No; but to buy!’ rapped out Mr Wilkins, with suddenness. ‘There must
come a reaction soon. I’ll take another ten thousand of the Imperial
Ottomans. I know what you would say, Bales,’ he added irritably: ‘the
cash I left on deposit won’t cover the margin. Here’—and he produced
the bank-notes that had fallen to his share in the division of that
day—‘are funds, and to spare.’

As the lawyer quitted the stock-broker’s office he muttered between
his set teeth: ‘I stand to win; but at anyrate I know of back-play of
a safer sort. Sir Sykes Denzil of Carbery, you are a sponge well worth
the squeezing!’




SENSATIONAL REPORTING.


Scarcely a week passes in which the newspaper press is not the medium
of attracting the attention of the public to a _cause célèbre_ of
one kind or another. Crimes of brutal violence, of gross immorality,
of wholesale fraud, have been so terribly prevalent of late, that we
might almost believe that civilisation and crime are going hand in
hand; certainly the horrors of the latter go a considerable way towards
neutralising the blessings of the former, and cause us to pause in our
self-congratulation upon the progress and enlightenment of the age in
which we live. At but too frequent intervals some villain is held up
before the public, and becomes, so to speak, fashionable for the period
over which his trial extends.

Every class of society provides its recruits now and again for the
ranks of the infamous, and no matter to which stratum the criminal
belongs, one newspaper or another is sure to be ready to report—with
a minuteness which could not be more detailed if it were inspired
by personal animosity—every stage and incident of his crime, and if
procurable and sufficiently sensational, to supply an epitome of his
antecedent career.

When the influence of the press is properly taken into consideration,
the responsibility of writing for it is a very serious one. To many
thousands even in great centres of human life like London, Liverpool,
Glasgow, or Edinburgh, the daily paper is almost the sole intellectual
food sought for and within reach; and when we further consider the
immense circulation of some of our newspapers, nearly approaching a
quarter of a million a day, and when we think that each copy becomes
the centre of an ever-increasing circle of information, we may
reasonably assert that the penny paper, once held in contempt, is
one of the most potent agents for good or evil which our generation
possesses; and in proportion to the influence which it exerts, is the
necessity of that influence being exerted in a right direction. So far
as regards politics, theology, and social problems, each paper may
legitimately represent a particular party or sect, and inculcate its
particular views; but upon certain broad principles of morality, and
as far as regards general rules for the inculcation and protection of
public morals, there ought to be no difference of opinion at all.

Without question, the newspapers of our day are animated by a laudable
desire to act for the moral as well as material welfare of the people,
and we could not accuse any one of them of voluntarily inserting matter
having a tendency subversive to morality; but as to what is and what
is not calculated to taint the public mind, the opinion of the press
seems to be very undecided. Particularly is this the case with regard
to the record of crime, which it is part of their duty to publish.
It is unquestionably advisable that the public should be informed of
every crime that is discovered; but the scope of the information to be
given becomes a matter for careful consideration, and upon which some
difference of opinion may reasonably be expected to exist.

What, it may be asked, is the object of a public report of the trial
of a criminal? Presumably that by the knowledge of what has occurred
the public may be on their guard against similar crimes, and that the
story of detection and punishment may act as a deterrent; the first
of these objects applying more particularly to what we may call the
respectable classes, and the latter to the criminal, vicious, or
viciously disposed. The story of crime should legitimately produce
in the public mind a sense of indignation against the criminal, of
pity for the victim, of personal caution; the criminal should not be
considered a sort of social scapegoat, and the indignation should not
be Pharisaical, but should have its origin in an abhorrence of the
crime rather than of the criminal. To the viciously inclined the story
of detected crime should be a warning and a deterrent, both on the
score of fear of detection as also upon higher moral considerations.
The history of crime or of a criminal career is invariably pitiable
enough; but it is possible in some instances to invest it with a
spurious interest, and even a sort of meretricious brilliance which is
calculated to work an immense amount of harm among a certain class of
people.

The principal object of a newspaper report nowadays would seem to be to
present the public with an exciting and dramatic narrative, rather than
a calm, unimpassioned statement of facts; to write, in short, rather
for their amusement than information. Undoubtedly few things increase
the sale of a newspaper more than a graphic account of heart-rending
‘Scenes in Court,’ and the demeanour, for instance, of ladies who have
been accommodated with seats on the bench! a style of reporting which
seems to us to be little short of a breach of trust, inasmuch as it is
pandering to that which it ought to suppress.

It may be said that in criminal cases it is well that the public should
have the fullest possible details of the proceedings, so that they may
follow them closely, and perhaps aid in the administration of justice;
but as public comment upon cases _still under trial_ is not recognised,
the value of full reports is nullified so far as this consideration is
concerned. But if a judge, a man of eminent experience in human nature,
learned in the law, and accustomed to the consideration of every
variety of evidence; and twelve jurymen, well meaning, unprejudiced, of
business habits and unimpassioned judgment, cannot be trusted to decide
a case upon its merits, surely it would be unreasonable to suppose that
the outside public could do better, reading as they do simply in print
the words which may have had their significance increased immeasurably
in either direction by the tone in which they were uttered, by the
bearing of the speaker, and the voluntary or involuntary gestures which
may have accompanied them.

When we read detailed accounts of the appearance of prisoners, verbatim
reports of their most insignificant utterances; when we are given
details of their meals; when we are told that one prisoner is dressed
with scrupulous care, and that the affection existing between two other
prisoners was very apparent to those in court; when we have a picture
of the judge passing sentence amidst sobbing women; when piquant
details of past careers are dragged to light, and the various amiable
or vicious points commented upon, although having absolutely no bearing
whatever upon the case under consideration—then we cannot avoid the
conclusion that the main object of all the report is to sell the paper.
It would be impossible to give the public such information regarding
the demeanour and tone of witnesses or prisoners as to enable them to
form a really just and reliable idea; while it is quite possible and
a very frequent practice to be just graphic enough to make the public
fancy that they are in a position not only to criticise and speculate,
but to dogmatise, and even to protest vehemently against the verdict
of a jury and the sentence of a judge, deliberately given after a long
and careful inquiry, in which the prisoner had the benefit of counsel
learned in every intricacy and subtlety of the law. The practice of
giving detailed descriptions of the personal appearance and social
habits of criminals, which are now acknowledged features of newspaper
reporting, has a tendency to invest the prisoners with something of a
meretricious glory, which ought to be condemned by all properly minded
people.

If crime has been committed, it is surely injurious to the public
morals to write or publish anything calculated to elicit misplaced
sympathy, and it is a poor trade to pander to morbid curiosity. If
people fairly appreciated not only the wickedness and horror of
crime, but its almost invariable meanness, pettiness, and misery, its
feverish restlessness, its ever-haunting dread of detection—crime would
be robbed of much of its semi-heroic character, and would cease to
prove so attractive a bait to those who gloat over its every detail.
It is common to speak of ‘great’ criminals as distinguished from the
vulgar herd; but there is never anything great in crime. Graphic pens
pandering to vulgar curiosity may produce a passing interest of even
absorbing intensity; the crime and the criminal may form a nine days’
wonder; but the end comes; and as soon as the convict dress is donned,
the erstwhile man is degraded into a mere automaton, a mere numeral,
and is utterly dead to the outside world; while if the scaffold should
be his destined finale, the only thing which survives the wretched
criminal is his infamy.

Sensational reporting pays, for papers with a reputation for ‘Special’
descriptions are at a premium whenever there is a _cause célèbre_
before the public; but it is eminently prejudicial to public morality.
The remedy rests solely with the proprietors, on whom lies also the
responsibility of purveying garbage to an unhappily large section of
readers; but until public opinion forces upon them the fact that they
are deliberately lowering themselves to the level of the vendors of
‘Penny Dreadful’ literature, sensational reporting of criminal trials
is likely to flourish, inoculating the public mind with an unwholesome
craving for details which should be banished from the pale of
discussion among people with any pretensions to refinement, good taste,
or common decency.




THE BONE-CAVE INSCRIPTION.


The pleasant town of Q——, among its other attractions, possesses a
bone-cave. The cave, situated in a little valley close by the sea, had
not long been discovered to contain bones before it was invaded by an
army of geologists, who dug deep holes in the floor, and unearthed the
remains of prehistoric fires, of ancient knives and needles, and of
even a man’s jaw buried in stalagmite. And every year the fashionable
people of Q—— made an excursion into the windings of the cavern, under
the guidance of gnome-like guides with torches.

Within a certain period of its modern history, the Q—— bone-cave,
like the sacred caves of India, had a high-priest, an exponent of
its mysteries. He did not, however, dwell in its recesses, but in a
smart villa overlooking Q—— Bay. He was a local celebrity, and the
most active member of a committee appointed to examine the cavern. The
cavern was his hobby, and as it was of tolerably uniform temperature,
there was no time of year when he did not take delight in exploring
its mysteries. Every fresh discovery was a joy to Mr Grope; and though
a sceptical few laughed at him, and even called some of his flint
knives in question, his researches had thrown much light on geology and
archæology. One thing alone was wanting—he had found no dates in the
cave. There were dates and inscriptions in caves belonging to other
places, and he did not like Q—— to be behind them.

Prefacing, for the benefit of the reader, that stalac_tite_ is the
substance that hangs to the roof of caverns, like icicles, and
stalag_mite_ the substance that has fallen to the floor, a concretion
of carbonate of lime—we proceed with the story. One day, as Mr Grope
was examining a wall in one of the passages, he thought he detected a
weakness in the rock, and working at it with his great hammer he found
that it speedily crumbled away. Soon he had made a hole through which
he was able to pass, and presently he stood in a small apartment full
of large stalagmitic blocks, and with a very moderate amount of water
dripping from the roof. As he flashed his lantern about, his keen eye
caught sight of artificial markings on the smooth surface of one of
the blocks. His heart leaped within him. Here of a certainty was at
last an inscription which, composed of several well-formed letters
carved on the block but interrupted by breaks, ran as follows:

    F . . ll . . . to . . . Nor.
          Capt T . . ck
         r . . m  20  Br
      15 . . 71  k . . to ret

Mr Grope carefully copied the interesting record into his note-book.
He looked about for more inscriptions, but this was apparently the
only one; however, there might be other unexplored caverns beyond. At
present he must devote himself to deciphering these letters. He had a
clue in the date 1571, for though there was a break between the ‘15’
and the ‘71,’ it was only caused by a slight inequality in the block.

That evening, in the seclusion of his study, he devoted himself with
ardour to the inscription. He did not doubt that it was intended for
abbreviated Latin. In the sixteenth century every one who could write
knew Latin, and wrote Latin too when he or she wished to be succinct.
There were, it is true, only scraps of words on which to proceed, but
this circumstance did but occasion a pleasing exercise of Mr Grope’s
ingenuity. The conquest would have been too easy had the words been
given at length. The very uncertainty had in it that excitement which
is dear to the hearts of all true antiquaries.

Before he thoroughly set to his task, Mr Grope balanced in his mind
whether he should treat the inscription as private or political. He
inclined to the political aspect. If it were private, nothing could
be made of it, and it was unlikely that a gentleman should carve his
personal remarks in the depths of a subterranean cave. No doubt the
letters referred to public matters. For a moment Mr Grope could not
recollect who reigned in England in 1571; for though he took a great
interest in history, he was somewhat oblivious about dates. Soon,
however, a vision of Queen Elizabeth in ruff and farthingale rose
before him, and then he attacked the first line in good earnest.

    F . . ll . . . to . . . Nor.

Now it seemed clear as noonday that Nor was the first syllable of a
proper name, or at least the name of a place; for Mr Grope remembered
that in the sixteenth century it was not the custom to begin every noun
with a capital letter, as it was in the eighteenth. Could it refer to
Norwich? Norwich was a long way from Q——; but the gentleman in the cave
might have been mixed up in a conspiracy which embraced the capture of
several towns. Mr Grope took down Mr Froude’s _History of England_,
and turned over the pages referring to Elizabeth’s reign in search of
names beginning with Nor. Then a great light broke upon him, and he
wondered that he had not remembered his history better. The name of
Norfolk occurred several times in connection with what Mr Froude calls
the ‘Ridolfi Plot,’ and the ‘Ridolfi Plot’ was going on in 1571. The
course of his investigation seemed to flow almost too smoothly now. He
soon found that the first line ran: ‘Fallete tollite Norfolk’ (Betray
and take Norfolk); whence it was evident that the man in the cave had
played false to all parties, and after engaging in the conspiracy,
had leagued with some fellow-conspirators to betray their chief, the
unhappy Duke who preceded Mary of Scotland to the scaffold instead of
sharing her throne. ‘Betray and take Norfolk!’ It was not good Latin
certainly, but good enough for an inscription where there were so many
breaks, which imagination could fill up with the elegances of language;
and the morality was characteristic of the sixteenth century.

The second line of the inscription puzzled Mr Grope more.

    Capt T . . ck

The two words composing it were carved in larger letters, and stood
by themselves, as if specially important. ‘Capt’ of course meant
_caput_, a head, and might hint at the approaching loss of Norfolk’s
own; but the ‘T . . ck’ puzzled Mr Grope sorely, and was evidently
another cognomen. It puzzled him so much that he resolved to finish the
remainder of the inscription

    r . . m  20  Br

first, and see if _it_ threw any light on the subject.

The ‘20’ evidently indicated the day of the month; but to what month
could ‘r . . m’ refer? Could it mean _rosarum mensis_—the month of
roses? Might not a poetical conspirator thus paraphrase the month of
June? Norfolk certainly was not beheaded till June 1572; but it was
possible that a fellow-plotter might have decided on betraying him a
full year before that date. ‘Br’ perhaps stood for _brevi_, by way of
urging that the deed should be accomplished summarily; and 1571 spoke
for itself. The ‘k’ which followed might be either a small or a capital
‘k,’ but Mr Grope concluded that it was the initial of another proper
name; and he had soon persuaded himself that the sentence ‘K .. to ret’
ran: ‘K—— tollite retinete,’ and was intended as an injunction to take
and retain K——. Who or what K—— was did not much signify, since there
was no doubt about Norfolk.

It was the second line which continued to puzzle Mr Grope. He brooded
over it when he went to bed, and could not sleep because of it; but in
the small-hours of the morning, that season of daring inspirations,
it flashed across him that ‘Capt T..ck’ meant neither more nor less
than ‘Caput Turci,’ a Turk’s head. ‘The man may have written _k_ for
_i_ by inadvertence. But why should a Turk’s head be written about in
the cave near Q——?’ It struck Mr Grope that the battle of Lepanto had
been fought in 1571, and that the conspirator might be alluding to
an invasion of England which was to take place, when the Turk’s head
should be figuratively cut off. On the following morning, a Dictionary
of Dates accompanied the ham and toast on Mr Grope’s breakfast-table;
and he ascertained that the battle of Lepanto had been fought in
October, whereas he had decided that the inscription was written in
June, and that it had something to do with English refugees and the
Turkish fleet. This interpretation certainly gave a wider and more
European interest to the writing in the Q—— bone-cave. But on further
consideration, it seemed to Mr Grope that he would hardly be able to
maintain it in printed controversy with the learned. The Turk’s head
was pitchforked with so much abruptness among the directions to secure
Norfolk and K——, that unless it were supposed to be a watchword among
the conspirators, it seemed impossible to dovetail it in.

The antiquary did not go out that morning; he retired to his study
and reflected on the difficulties of the Turk’s head. At last another
light came in upon him, reminding him that there were many inns in the
country with the sign of the Saracen’s Head, relics of the medieval
time when the Saracens were the bugbears of Europe. Very likely there
had been inns called the Turk’s Head in the sixteenth century, when
Europe was always in terror of the Turks, and Mr Grope even fancied
that he remembered seeing one with that sign in a village in the east
of England. Looked at in this new light, the meaning of the inscription
appeared to be: ‘Betray and take Norfolk at the “Turk’s Head” inn, on
the 20th of June 1571, with all possible haste. Take and retain K——.’

Writing this out at full length, Mr Grope read it over with fond pride.
He had thoughts of sending a letter on the subject to that scientific
paper the _Minerva_ at once, but prudence intervened, and he determined
that he would first consult Sir H—— T——, the great archæologist, whom
he had helped to lionise at Q——. It would be as well to say, when he
wrote to the _Minerva_, that his friend Sir H—— T—— agreed with him as
to the solution of the mystery; and he accordingly despatched a full
account of the matter to the great man. That evening Mr Grope dined
out, and could not refrain from imparting his triumph to a select
circle of his acquaintances. Mr Grope was generally admitted to be
the most intellectual resident at Q——. If a strange fish was caught
in the bay, a strange fossil found in a quarry, or a coin dug up in
a field, it was always referred to Mr Grope; and there were only one
or two people who ever presumed to smile at his conclusions. And now
when Mr Grope dilated on the conspirator and the inscription in the
newly-found cavern, addressing in his drawling tones the small audience
in the drawing-room after dinner—for he had kept the sensation for the
benefit of the ladies—no one arose to dispute his explanation. The
conspirator’s mention of the month of roses was especially attractive
and convincing.

But it came to pass that Sir H—— T—— was not quite convinced. That
savant thought it not impossible that the inscription might have
something to do with the Ridolfi Plot, as the date was 1571; but as to
the rest he differed from Mr Grope, courteously but decidedly. He did
not believe in the Latin, and especially in Mr Grope’s Latin. He did
not believe in the poetic paraphrase of June. He had read a good deal
of sixteenth-century correspondence, and had never found a conspirator
or any one else who spoke of June as the month of roses. ‘Nor’ might
stand for Norfolk, though such was not Sir H—— T——’s opinion. Did Mr
Grope think that the inscription was either partly or wholly written in
cipher?

To say that Mr Grope was not disappointed, would not be adhering to
the truth. He had arranged the matter in his mind, and had foreseen
a triumphant career for his inscription among the archæologists and
historians. It seemed impossible that Sir H—— could doubt such
inevitable conclusions. The whole thing, as Mr Grope made it out,
had fitted together like a Chinese puzzle. Yes, he almost resolved
to persevere in his own view. To hold a controversy with Sir H—— T——
might make him nearly as great a man as Sir H—— himself. But he felt
in his heart that no one would side with the Turk’s Head and the month
of roses when Sir H—— was against them. Mr Grope was convinced of the
truth of his own interpretation; but he would collect another possible
meaning or two, and while pronouncing in favour of the first, submit
the others to the learned public. After all, the idea of a cipher
opened out a pleasing vista of conjecture. Much conjecture there must
of course be, when conspirators would write in disjointed fragments. In
the Ridolfi Plot he possessed at least a basis of operations.

It so happened that our antiquarian friend had some acquaintance with
a gentleman who was now searching the archives at Simancas for facts
to confirm a favourite theory, and who had on one occasion dined with
him at Q——; and to him Mr Grope now conceived the happy thought of
writing, with a request that he would send him a few of the ciphers
used by Philip II. and his correspondents. In due time he received
the keys of five or six ciphers, inclosed in a courteous note. The
historian himself had sympathy with Mr Grope’s efforts in the cause of
archæological science, and had besides, a lively recollection of Mr
Grope’s ’47 port.

And now Mr Grope spent a long morning in his study with the ciphers
before him, labouring to make them fit in with the inscription. If
cipher really had been used, it seemed probable that English would have
been used also. On this assumption, therefore, he proceeded; but the
first few keys which he applied unlocked nothing but sheer nonsense.
The next especially attracted Mr Grope, inasmuch as the historian told
him that it had been used by Mary Queen of Scots. He had reserved it
as his last hope; and on further investigation he found that in this
cipher, London was termed Norway, and thus written plainly without
further disguise. With regard to words which were not proper names, the
fifth and sixth letters from the one intended _were used alternately_.
When Mr Grope applied this key to the inscription, he came to the
conclusion that it suited it admirably, with the exception of that
unfortunate second line, which had puzzled him so much before. He
really thought, that as those two words ‘Capt T..ck,’ were written in
larger letters than the others, and conspicuously placed by themselves,
they might be actually put down as a watchword; Why not, after all,
‘Caput Turci?’ The rest of the inscription he transposed as follows:

      h..rr yu Lon
    w . . . s 20 g w
     1571  p yu wky.

The sequence of letters was not kept up in the second ‘yu,’ the fifth
being used where the sixth ought to be; but as the word was apparently
the second person plural, Mr Grope thought it probable that the
conspirator would not be particular in his counting where so small a
word was concerned. It is convenient in such matters to allow for a
little negligence. In its new aspect Mr Grope saw the inscription thus:

        hurry you Londonwards
    with speed twenty great wagons
        1571.  pay you weekly.

Mr Grope’s head now absolutely ached with his efforts, and he drew his
hand down his long gray beard with a feeling of relief as he leaned
back in his chair. He nevertheless believed that this last labour
was in a measure thrown away, and that the first solution was the
right one. Still there was an air of probability about that ‘pay you
weekly,’ a matter-of-fact air such as he remembered to have observed
when reading a printed volume of _Domestic State Papers_; and it would
sound well to have tried five ciphers on the inscription and found
a possible solution at last. That same day Mr Grope wrote at length
to the _Minerva_, describing his discovery of the new cavern and the
inscription, and giving his two explanations. For himself, he said,
he believed in the Latin version, though he was aware that he had the
disadvantage of differing from his learned friend Sir H—— T——. In
deference to that gentleman’s opinion, he had compared the writing with
many ciphers in use in the sixteenth century, and now submitted the
result to the attention of the scientific world.

The learned were only too willing to discuss it, and several letters
on the subject appeared in the next number of the _Minerva_. One
gentleman approved the deciphered version; others proposed solutions
of their own, much more absurd than any which Mr Grope had thought of.
Next week a letter from Sir H—— T—— himself was printed, in which he
expressed his opinion in favour of Mr Grope’s second explanation. Mr
Grope and his new cavern had become famous. The intellectual world at
Q—— itself was greatly impressed with the erudition of his researches.
Fashion and science ran into each other a good deal at Q——; and there
were some needlessly pretty toilets among the party of friends whom
Mr Grope conducted to visit the muddy recesses of his new cavern.
There was also a geologist, but he rather despised the inscription as
being too recent, and talked chiefly about eyeless fish. The young
ladies, knowing little of either the Duke of Norfolk or the eyeless
fish, explored the gloomy recesses, and filled them with the sounds of
laughter and fun. Only one young lady observed to her companions: ‘I
shouldn’t wonder if Mr Grope is wrong after all.’

A few days later the antiquary met at an evening party, the son of
an old inhabitant of Q——, who had been dead for some years, but whom
Mr Grope had formerly known. He had known the son too, who was now a
Fellow of his college. He was a little blunt, bullet-headed man, and
when presently the subject of the Q—— bone-cave came up, he said what
he thought without any preface.

‘I fancy, Mr Grope, you’re wrong about that inscription after all. I
suppose you never heard my father speak of old Truck the smuggler?’

‘No; I did not,’ said Mr Grope, concealing his feelings, which were not
of the most comfortable description.

‘Old Truck the smuggling captain,’ continued the little man, ‘used that
cave pretty freely. That was before the geologists had appropriated
it, and the barrier was put up. I should not wonder if he sometimes
wrote hints to his friends on the walls.’

‘But I should not imagine that your father knew any one who lived in
1571,’ said Mr Grope.

‘Ah! but is the 1571 a date at all? That’s the question,’ said the
Fellow. ‘My father took an interest in that old sinner, and saw
something of Truck in his last days in the cottage. The sea has
encroached now and washed most of it away. And Truck left him his
curiosities—stuffed birds and china, and his old order-books and
log-books. I’ll look them out. I would lay a wager that he wrote that
inscription.’

‘It will take very strong evidence to make that believed,’ said Mr
Grope. Nevertheless he felt uneasy, and heartily wished that the
Fellow had not happened to take the matter up. Meanwhile the Fellow
searched for Truck’s relics, which were now in the possession of his
brother; and the next morning saw him in Mr Grope’s study together with
an antique volume, not bound in ‘brass and wild boar’s hide,’ but in
dilapidated leather, with a musty-fusty odour half a century old. With
a sinking heart, Mr Grope felt, when first he looked at it, that the
historical grandeur of his inscription was about to fall to the ground.

‘This was Truck’s note-book,’ said the Fellow. ‘Look here, Mr Grope.’
And there, on the first page, written in a manner which implied that
the paper had been rather greasy from the first, were the words ‘Capt
Truck.’

‘And the cave at Q—— is mentioned pretty often among his
hieroglyphics,’ said the ruthless Fellow, turning over the dirty pages.
‘“Directions to be left in the Q—— cave.” I expect there are others
there besides the inscription you found. Look here; don’t you think
this must be the identical one?’ And he pointed to some lines which
ran obliquely across a page: ‘Directions left for Scroggs. Follow to
Normandy. Rum 20, brandy 15, 71 kegs to return.’

Mr Grope stood stricken to the soul, but not a muscle of his face
moved. He silently compared this newest discovery with the copy he had
made in his note-book, in the first flush of his hopes.

There was no denying that this was the true solution of the mystery,
and that the Ridolfi Plot was nowhere. It was singular that neither
he himself, nor Sir H—— T——, nor the other gentlemen who had written
on the subject, had thought of the possibility of the man in the cave
using straightforward English. At least Mr Grope erred in good company;
but still he felt that he should have to bear most of the ridicule, as
the originator of the historical theory, and the investigator who had
attacked the smuggler’s prosaic inscription with five ciphers used by
queens and princes in the sixteenth century. However, he was determined
not to shew his chagrin, and even asked the Fellow to dine with him
that evening.

Mr Grope wrote honourably to the _Minerva_ to explain the true state of
the case. He acknowledged that further research proved both himself and
his friend Sir H—— T—— to be mistaken on the subject of the writing in
the cave at Q——. Then he mentioned Truck and the smugglers, and gave
the new interpretation, not without a groan as he wrote ‘rum’ where
formerly he had written ‘_rosarum mensis_.’ He also communicated with
Sir H—— on the subject, and Sir H—— dryly replied that he wondered
the writing should look as if it were three hundred years old, when
it was really only sixty or seventy. No more was said about it in the
_Minerva_. And as to the Q—— people, of course they politely refrained
from letting Mr Grope see that they laughed at him, all except a
bluff old personage who exclaimed: ‘So your conspirator against Queen
Elizabeth turned out to be an old smuggler after all!’

The wounds of Mr Grope’s vanity began to heal in time. They smarted
somewhat when the course of winter lectures at the Q—— Athenæum was
opened, for he had intended to hold forth triumphantly on the bone-cave
and the historical inscription. And they bled afresh in the following
spring when the annual fashionable pilgrimage to the cave took place.
Still the high-priest has not deserted the temple, for Mr Grope is not
easily put down; and he often repairs to his old subterranean haunts
and picks up bones and flint implements. But the entrance to the new
cavern containing the inscription has been mysteriously filled up
again; and the gnome who is the nominal custodian of the cave whispers
to a subordinate official of the Q—— Athenæum: ‘’Twas Mr Grope, he
closed it ’imself, I’ll warrant. You see, he couldn’t abide it, after
that there mistake of ’is that they laughed at so. Smugglers ’iding
there; and Mr Grope, he takes the writin’ for summut to do with grand
folks that lived three ’undred year ago!’

Poor Mr Grope! That was all that came of the inscription in the Q——
bone-cave.




THE ‘HEARTS OF OAK’ SOCIETY.


One of the oldest and perhaps the largest of the Friendly Societies for
the benefit of the operative classes, is the ‘Hearts of Oak,’ which
at the present time numbers over eighty thousand members, and has a
reserve fund of nearly a quarter of a million. Such extraordinarily
large proportions has this society of late years assumed, and so
widespread is its influence and usefulness, that we feel sure a short
account of its origin and working system will not be without interest,
and maybe profit to the reader.

Thirty-five years ago—in 1842—the ‘Hearts of Oak Benefit Society’ was
started at the _Bird-in-Hand_ Tavern, Long Acre, London. Of its history
for the next twenty years little can be said, save that, although its
progress was not anything remarkable, it worked steadily and honestly
at the object it had in view, and thus firmly established itself, if
it did not produce any extraordinary success. In 1863 the number of
members had reached eight thousand, a circumstance which rendered a
removal to more commodious premises necessary; and these were purchased
freehold in Greek Street, Soho. Notwithstanding, however, this
increase of business the amount transacted was not considered by the
promoters of the society in satisfactory proportion to the justifiable
expectations of such an undertaking, the total number of members having
in 1865 only reached ten thousand, and this was attributed to the
result of bad administration on the part of the existing management.
A change was made in consequence; when the present form of government
was inaugurated, which had at once the beneficial effect of materially
increasing the society’s business. So perceptible and rapid indeed
was the progress of the ‘Hearts of Oak’ after this event, that in the
year 1874 another removal had to be undertaken; and for this purpose,
noble premises in Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square, W., were bought and
adapted at a cost of twenty thousand pounds, and have since served for
all the business requirements of the society.

Having said so much for the history of the ‘Hearts of Oak,’ let us now
briefly turn to the main features and working of the system pursued by
this huge benefit society.

The predominating principle upon which the system acts seems to
be a complete reliance upon actual merits and on them alone. As a
consequence, a total absence of all external show and attraction
will be found in the administration of the society. It clings to the
term ‘society’ in opposition to ‘club’ with a most jealous tenacity,
although we confess to seeing very little difference between the
strictly lexical significance of the two words. Mr Marshall, the
able secretary to the society, is of a different opinion, however,
and holds that the associations which are respectively bound up with
each term differ considerably; a club being generally looked upon as
a meeting for social purposes, held as a rule at a public-house. ‘It
involves,’ he goes on to say, ‘the glass, the pipe, the song, and
other incidents of what is called good-fellowship; and also in many
cases regalia, processions, dinners, suppers, and other devices for
wasting money and weaning men from their homes and their families.’
Whether such ‘incidents’ are the associations attached alone to a club
or not, it is not necessary here to determine, it being sufficient
to know that at all events the ‘Hearts of Oak’ does not rely upon
any of these things—although it is common to think that only by such
inducements and attractions can the working classes be brought into
habits and ways of thrift and saving—and in so doing, the society is
a standing contradiction to all such opinions. It has never had to
resort to any such extraneous aid. It does not make use of either
public-houses or lodges; it indulges in no dinners or suppers, no
regalia or processions, no pipe, glass, or song; it employs no agents,
canvassers, or collectors; and it spends no money in commission nor yet
in advertisements, generally so indispensable an aid to institutions
of all kinds. Notwithstanding all this, the ‘Hearts of Oak’ has of
late years admitted more new members than the increase shewn by the
Odd-fellows, who possess lodges and branches in every part of the
civilised world.

As already stated, the society now numbers more than eighty thousand
members, and these are formed into divisions of one thousand each; and
each of these divisions holds a meeting at the society’s house once
every month for the transaction of business, &c. Every candidate for
membership must earn not less than twenty-two shillings per week, and
his age must not be more than thirty-six; while before election he
has of course to satisfy the committee upon certain points relating
to himself and (if married) his wife, and has finally to be generally
approved of by them. There are certain trades and occupations which
are considered dangerous and injurious by the society, and persons
belonging thereto are therefore held ineligible for membership. Each
member has to pay on entrance a fee of two shillings and sixpence if
under thirty-two years of age; and three shillings and sixpence if over
that age and under thirty-six, the highest limit for admittance. The
periodical contributions amount to about nine shillings and sixpence
each member per quarter; this sum having been found, however, rather
more than the total average payment for the last six years. The
separate items consist of two and twopence a month to the society’s
stock; and at each quarterly meeting an equal proportion of the claims
met by the society during the preceding quarter on account of the
various benefits (not including sickness) it has during that period
conferred. In fact, each quarter every member is required to clear
the books of all demands. After having belonged to the society for
twelve calendar months, a member who up to that time has paid all his
contributions, can by the payment of an additional fee of two shillings
and sixpence, become what is termed a _free member_, such members
having the right to participate in all the benefits which the society
affords.

The benefits offered by the ‘Hearts of Oak’ are: (1) Sick-pay at the
rate of eighteen shillings a week to _free members_ for twenty-six
weeks; and should the illness continue beyond that period, half that
amount for a further twenty-six weeks; after which the sick member
becomes entitled to relief from further contributions, and to a pension
payable at a rate in accordance with the length of his membership.
_Non-free_ members participate in this benefit, but of course on a
smaller scale, which, however, is very liberal. (2) Funeral benefits;
being the allowance of a sum of ten pounds on the death of a _free
member’s_ wife, and double that amount to the survivors of a free
member upon his death. Certain proportionate rates are granted on the
death of a _non-free_ member, half such rates being allowed in the
event of such a member’s wife dying. (3) Lying-in benefit; which is
the grant of a sum of thirty shillings on the confinement of a _free
member’s_ wife; the marriage and birth certificates, duly signed,
requiring of course to be produced on such occasions. And (4) Loss
by fire; being a compensation allowance of not more than fifteen
pounds in the case of any _free member’s_ tools or implements of trade
getting destroyed or damaged by fire. There are besides these some
miscellaneous benefits to which _free members_ are entitled, such as
allowances for imprisonment for debt contracted under circumstances
that are in a sense justifiable, or allowances to help towards
defraying the cost of a substitute to _free members_ who are drawn and
liable to serve in the militia.

These benefits seem to anticipate the chief emergencies that may happen
in the course of one’s life, as well as providing for the expenses
always attendant upon death; and the allowances made in respect of them
are, it must be admitted, very liberal, and are doubtless the means of
causing so many poor persons to save in this simple manner against the
occurrence of such untoward incidents.

The success of the ‘Hearts of Oak’ is largely due, however, to other
causes. Principally, we think, it may be attributed to the great
economy in its management; as, for instance, it saves a large sum by
the fact of its not being what is commonly known as a ‘collecting
society.’ On the contrary, the members bring or send their money quite
of their own accord; the consequence being that, while the managerial
expenses of some collecting societies vary from 25 to 70 per cent. on
the annual income, the expenses of the ‘Hearts of Oak’ amount only to
3¾ or 4 per cent.

Another favourable point in the system pursued by this society is, that
all members pay alike. Technically of course this must be considered
unscientific, but in the aggregate the system is found to pay; just as
the same charge for a telegram whether it be to Aberdeen or to the next
street is also unscientific, but practically answers well. The great
argument in favour of the system seems to be the fact that it promotes
business—and what more is wanted? Our large insurance companies
report about one thousand policies as good work for one year; whereas
the ‘Hearts of Oak’ on its system reports over sixteen thousand new
members during the same period. On some such system as this it were not
impossible, we think, for the whole life-insurance business of the city
of London to be done by one well-conducted office; in which case the
insured would certainly derive one great benefit—namely, that of having
to pay very much less, perhaps only one-half of the usual premium.

Another counterpoise to the disadvantage of charging all members alike
is, that a lying-in benefit of thirty shillings—as already shewn—is
allowed. To young men this has a great attraction; and the result is
that the average age of joining the society is only twenty-seven.
So rapid indeed has been the growth of the ‘Hearts of Oak,’ that an
average age of the whole society, which ten years ago was nearly
thirty-four years, is now only about thirty-three years.

One other circumstance which we fancy may have something to do with
the success of the society is worth mentioning—it is the business-like
manner in which the system adopted is carried out. Perfect discipline
among the members is maintained, and a strict adherence to the rules
that have been made enforced. Every infraction of a rule is promptly
visited by the imposition of a fine on the offending member; and
so stringent is the society in this respect, that the amount which
annually accrues under this head is very large. In the accounts of the
‘Hearts of Oak’ for 1876 we notice that this item reaches the large
sum of L.6949, 13s. 6d.; which not only served to defray the year’s
expenses of the society (namely, L.5819, 9s. 7d.), but left a balance
of L.1130, 3s. 11d. It can hardly be considered as exactly any merit
of the society that it is thus able to pay its expenses; yet there
stands the fact, whatever we may think of it. It is only fair, however,
to state that the greater part of this large amount arises from a
fine of ninepence imposed upon members who fail to clear the books
by their quarterly night. This is levied more as a sort of interest
for a month’s longer use of the money; and it is a striking instance
of innate want of thrift on the part of the working classes, that so
many are willing to pay ninepence for the use of ten shillings for
the month, rather than arrange to be prompt in their payments. The
revenue derived from this fine alone is about four thousand pounds a
year. It is a curious fact too, that of the total number of members
on the books at any one time, it is always found that just one-third
will not pay at the quarter, and have therefore to be fined. In thus
deferring their payments, these members are the means of allowing both
the monthly and quarterly payments being reserved entirely for the
purposes of the benefits already enumerated, and for profit; under
which head the surplus now amounts to forty thousand pounds per annum;
in point of fact, the cost of management has always been paid for by
these miscellaneous receipts. This substantial advantage is probably
caused unwittingly on the members’ part, but it is not the less felt or
beneficial for all that.

Having briefly pointed out the main features and benefits of the
‘Hearts of Oak,’ it only remains for us to add one word as to the
great usefulness of such societies. Notwithstanding the great success
of the Post-office savings-banks and such other banks as are intended
for the deposit of small sums, it is our belief that they are not so
conducive to permanent saving and thrift among the poorer classes as
may be supposed. The number of deposits in the postal banks in any
one year is no doubt very great; but on the other hand, the number
of withdrawals is also great; and from this fact we infer that the
larger part of the sums placed there is more for the sake of temporary
safety than with any view of permanent saving. Hence then the great
usefulness of societies which yield ultimate benefits for present
contributions. As already pointed out, the difficulty of persuading
the poorer classes to save in this manner is by no means great; and
once, therefore, a working man has become a member of such a society,
he knows he must pay regularly; which when he becomes accustomed to it,
he only feels as a natural duty, like the house-rent he has to pay,
or any other such tax. A further advantage of societies too is, that
his contributions cannot be regained, except indeed at a considerable
loss; but in the savings-banks it is always at his own discretion to
draw out his deposits; a discretion often not very wisely used. In
this comparison, however, it is by no means our wish to suggest the
slightest disparagement of savings-banks, which in their way are most
useful to all who are really anxious to lay by. We have only desired to
shew more forcibly the benefits of societies like the ‘Hearts of Oak,’
that thereby those whom it may concern may be induced—if they have not
already done so—to become members.




THE DALESFOLK.


Before the spinning-jenny and the steam-engine revolutionised our
manner of living, there existed among the hills and dales of the Lake
countries a little community which had its own peculiar manners, laws,
and customs, and which was something unique in its way, for it seemed
to be a kind of republic existing in the midst of a great empire. The
people were what are now called peasant proprietors, but in Cumberland
and Westmoreland they have always been named ‘statesmen.’ A few of
these ancient land-owners still exist, and their tenure of the land
which they possess is not feudal but allodial, in so far as that they
acquired their estates at a very remote period, either by establishing
themselves on unoccupied lands like the ‘settlers’ in Australia or
America, or by conquering previous possessors. Several of these
statesmen possess estates which have descended uninterruptedly in
their families since the time of Richard II., and always as ‘customary
freeholds;’ while one family, the Holmes of Mardale, have inherited
their land in unbroken succession since the year 1060, when a certain
John Holme came from Norway and settled in the district.

When James II. came to the throne he set up a claim to all those small
estates, on the plea that the statesmen were merely tenants of the
crown. But his claim was met by the sturdy Dalesfolk in a manner which
he little expected. They met to the number of two thousand, at a place
called Ratten Heath, and publicly declared that ‘they had won their
lands by the sword, and by the sword they would keep them.’

Owing to the smallness of the estates, there was not sufficient
employment in farm-work at all times for a statesman and his family,
and carding, spinning, and weaving formed the employment for the winter
months. The men carded, and the women spun the wool yielded by the
previous clipping. Nearly every household had its weaving-shop, where
one or two looms were kept, and many of the men were able to weave the
cloth which served for their own wear and that of their families. The
linsey-woolsey dresses worn by the women were homespun, and they also
manufactured linen for domestic purposes.

The process of preparing the cloth was a curious one, and deserves
mention. After a web of woollen cloth was turned out of the loom, it
was taken to the ‘beck’ or stream and soaked in the water; then it was
placed on a flat stone called the ‘battling-stone’ and well pounded
with a wooden mallet. This primitive operation served instead of the
elaborate processes through which woollen cloth now passes at the
fuller’s mill.

The costume of the Dalesmen was rather picturesque, being composed of
homespun fleeces of white or black, with occasionally a mixture of the
two colours to save the expense of dyeing. This homely material, which
is still made in some parts of Scotland and Ireland, has lately become
fashionable, and is pronounced to be superior for country wear to the
most finished products of our steam-looms. The coats were ornamented
with brass buttons, as were also the waistcoats, which were made open
in front to shew a frilled shirt-breast. Knee-breeches were the fashion
for centuries, and these were worn without braces, which are quite
a modern invention. Those used on Sundays or holidays had a knot of
ribbon and four or five bright buttons at the knee, and those who could
afford it had them made of buckskin. Their stockings, which were of
course a conspicuous part of their dress, were also made from their own
wool, the colour being either blue or gray. Clogs were their ordinary
‘shoon,’ but when dressed in holiday costume they had low shoes
fastened with buckles, which were often of silver.

At the present day this picturesque costume is nearly obsolete, but
some of the old Dalesmen still adhere to the fashion of their youth.
About five or six years ago a few of them happened to meet at Grasmere
Fair and stood chatting together for some time without noticing what
many other persons were remarking, namely, that all of them were
dressed in the old costume. When they did notice it they all agreed
that it was a somewhat singular coincidence, and a proper occasion
for a friendly glass in honour of ‘auld lang syne.’ They were the
connecting link between the old times and the new, and would probably
be the last of the Dalesfolk to wear the costume of the bygone age.

The dress of the Daleswomen was not less primitive than that of the
men. They wore homespun linsey-woolsey petticoats and gowns, a blue
linen apron completing their attire. The statesman’s daughter who first
communicated to her native place a knowledge of the glories of printed
calico is said to have created a great sensation, and was more than
a nine days’ wonder. The clogs worn by the women were pointed at the
toes and were clasped with brass instead of iron. Their bonnets were
made of pasteboard covered with black silk, and in shape resembled a
coal-scuttle, with the front projecting about a foot beyond the face of
the wearer.

The houses of the Dalesfolk were not of the most comfortable kind, and
were similar to those which exist at the present day in many of the
southern counties of England. Badly constructed with rough-hewn stones,
and joined with clay instead of mortar, they did not always shelter
the inmates from the ‘cauld blast;’ while it was no uncommon thing for
the roofs to be in such a state that when a snow-storm took place in
the night, people in bed would often find several inches of snow on
their bed-clothes the next morning. The wood used in the construction
of the houses was oak; doors, floors, and window-frames being all
of that sturdy material. The beams were made of whole trees roughly
squared, while the smaller rafters and joists were split. Most of these
old buildings had a porch before the outer door, the latter being of
massive oak, two planks thick, and fastened together with wooden pegs
(for the carpenters in those days used very few nails), which were put
in parallel rows about three or four inches apart and left projecting
about three-quarters of an inch on the outside. About six hundred
of these pegs were used in its construction, and the making of them
occupied as much time as it would take to make a dozen doors in our
busier times. A degree of sanctity was, however, attached to a door by
these simple folk, and certain charms to be used only at the threshold
are remembered even now in the Dales.

In dwellings of the usual size there were not more than three rooms
on the ground floor, namely the living-apartment, the dairy, and the
parlour, the last being generally used as the bedroom of the master and
mistress. In some cases there was an out-kitchen, but not in all.

Long after the use of coal and fire-grates became general throughout
England these people still continued to burn peat and wood upon the
open hearth, and it was not until half the present century had elapsed
that, railway communication making coal cheaper, and the increased
value of labour making peat dearer, coal finally triumphed and open
fire-places gave place to grates. The old chimneys had no flues, and
were very wide at the bottom, gradually contracting towards the top,
and in these chimneys hams, legs of beef, flitches of bacon, and whole
carcases of mutton were hung up to dry for winter consumption.

The food of the Dalesmen was confined almost wholly to the simple
products of their own farms. They consumed a large portion of
animal food, and as sheep and cattle were in the best condition for
slaughtering in autumn, it was then that the Dalesfolk stocked their
wide chimneys with a supply of meat for the winter and spring. Tea,
coffee, and wheaten bread were very little known in the Dales; oatcake
(Anglicè), or ‘haver-bread’ as it was termed, being used. The people
brewed their own beer and drank it at nearly every meal. Such, with
milk, butter, and cheese, was the food of these honest folk, and they
seemed to have thriven well on it. When tea, coffee, and sugar came
into general use, an old Dalesman remarked that he wondered ‘what t’
warl’ wod cum tew after a bit when fowk nooadays couldn’t git their
breakfast without hevvin stuff fra baith East and West Indies.’

Until the middle of last century the roads of the two counties were in
a wretched state; and instead of wheeled carriages, pack-horses and in
some cases sledges were used for conveying things from one place to
another. There is an old man now living in Grasmere whose grandmother
could remember the present church bells being brought thither by
sledges along the old road over the top of White Moss, then the main
road between Ambleside and Grasmere. A man and his wife often rode to
market together on the same horse, the woman sitting behind on what
was called a pillion. But the Dalesfolk were not very particular as to
their turn-out, for a piece of turf dried and cut into the proper shape
often served them as a saddle. Other saddles were pads of straw; and
on market-days, after business was over, such of the farmers as were
convivially disposed stayed on at the public-house or inn, holding a
‘crack’ and drinking till a late hour; and while a spree of this kind
was going on, it often happened that the poor hungry horses would break
loose and eat up all the straw pads, thus leaving their owners to ride
home bareback!

The Dalesfolk were rather superstitious; and there is an old story in
the local records about the way in which the first lime was introduced
to the district. It was carried on the back of a horse, and as they
neared Borrowdale a thunder-storm came on, and the lime in the sack
began to smoke. Thinking the sack was on fire, the man in charge went
and filled his hat with water from a ditch, and threw it into the sack.
As this made things worse, he grew terribly alarmed, and thinking the
Evil One had something to do with it, he pitched the lime into the
ditch, and leaping on to the horse, galloped home as fast as he could
go.

Ploughing was attended with hard labour to those employed, and it
required at least three men and three horses to work one plough. The
horses were yoked one before another, and it was as much as one man
could do to drive them. A second man held the plough-beam down, to
prevent the plough from slipping out of the earth; while it was the
work of a third to guide the whole concern, this part of the business
requiring the most skill. Sometimes a fourth man was employed with
pick and spade to turn up the places missed by the plough. Very little
skill or labour was expended in the making of the implement, and it was
nothing unusual for a tree growing in the morning to be cut down during
the day, and made into a plough, with which a good stroke of work was
done before night.

These good people worked much harder than their descendants of the
present day. Their hours of labour were much longer, and much of
what they did by hand is now done by machinery. Though ignorant and
unrefined, they were honest and hospitable, and possessed a great deal
of sound shrewd common-sense. In those days many of them followed
several handicrafts, for the division of labour was not such as it is
now; and a remarkable instance of this diversified ability is to be
found in the life of the man who was the parish priest of Wordsworth’s
poem, _The Excursion_. This worthy man—whose history we have slightly
alluded to in an article in this _Journal_ on the Lake Country—was the
son of a poor statesman, and was the youngest of twelve. At the age of
seventeen he became a village schoolmaster, and a little later both
minister and schoolmaster. Before and after school-hours he laboured
at manual occupation, rising between three and four in the summer,
and working in the fields with the scythe or sickle. He ploughed, he
planted, tended sheep, or clipped and salved, all for hire; wrote his
own sermons, and did his duty at chapel twice on Sundays. In all these
labours he excelled. In winter-time he occupied himself in reading,
writing his own sermons, spinning, and making his own clothes and those
of his family, knitting and mending his own stockings, and making his
own shoes, the leather of which was of his own tanning. In his walks he
never neglected to gather and bring home the wool from the hedges. He
was also the physician and lawyer of his parishioners; drew up their
wills, conveyances, bonds, &c., wrote all their letters, and settled
their accounts, and often went to market with sheep or wool for the
farmers.

He married a respectable maid-servant, who brought him forty pounds;
and shortly afterwards he became curate of Seathwaite, where he
lived and officiated for sixty-seven years. We are told that when
his family wanted cloth, he often took the spinning-wheel into the
school-room, where he also kept a cradle—of course of his own making.
Not unfrequently the wheel, the cradle, and the scholars all claiming
his attention at the same moment, taxed the ingenuity of this wonderful
man to keep them all going. To all these attainments Mr Walker—or
‘Wonderful Walker,’ as he was called—also added a knowledge of fossils
and plants, and a ‘habit’ of observing the stars and winds. In summer
he also collected various insects, and by his entertaining descriptions
of them amused and instructed his children. After a long and extremely
useful, nay we might say heroic life, which extended over nearly
the whole of the last century (he having been born in 1709), this
remarkable Dalesman died on the 25th of June 1802, in the ninety-third
year of his age. In the course of his life he had, besides bringing up
and settling in life a family of twelve children, amassed the sum of
two thousand pounds, the result of marvellous industry and self-denial.

The chapel where this celebrated man entered upon his sacred duties was
the smallest in the Dales, the poet Wordsworth, Mr Walker’s biographer,
describing it as scarcely larger than many of the fragments of rock
lying near it. Most of these small chapelries were presided over by
‘readers,’ men who generally exercised the trades of clogger, tailor,
and butter-print maker, in order to eke out their small stipend. The
livings were not worth more than two or three pounds a year, and the
ministers were dependent upon the voluntary contributions of their
parishioners. Their stipends, beside the small money-payment mentioned
above, comprised ‘clothes yearly and whittlegate.’ The former meant
one suit of clothes, two pairs of shoes, and one pair of clogs; and
the latter, two or three weeks’ victuals at each house according to
the ability of the inhabitants, which was settled among themselves; so
that the minister could ‘go his course’ as regularly as the sun, and
complete it annually. Few houses having more than one or two knives,
he was obliged to carry his own knife or ‘whittle.’ He marched from
house to house, and as master of the flock, had the elbow-chair at the
table-head. Some remarkable scenes were often the result of this droll
arrangement, and many good stories are current with reference to it.
A story is told in Whythburn of a minister who had but two sermons,
which he preached in turn. The walls of the chapel were at that time
unplastered, and the sermons were usually placed in a hole in the
wall behind the pulpit. On Sunday, before the service began, some wag
pushed the sermons so far into the hole that they could not be got out
with the hand. When the time for the sermon had arrived, the minister
tried in vain to get them out. He then turned to the congregation and
said that he could touch them with his forefinger, but couldn’t get
his thumb in to grasp them. ‘But however,’ said he, ‘I will read you a
chapter of Job instead, and that’s worth both of them put together!’

There was a curious custom at one time in the Dales of holding market
at the church. Meat and all kinds of things were displayed at the
church doors, and it often happened that people would make their
bargains first and hang their goods over the backs of their seats.
Though such practices have long been discontinued, there are still
people living who have heard the clerk give out in the churchyard
the advertisements of the several sales which were to be held in the
neighbourhood. One good custom there was, however, which might be often
practised now with advantage in small towns and villages, namely, that
of the churchwardens going round the village during divine service and
driving all the loungers into church.

The Dalesfolk had their sports too, the chief of which was the one
for which Cumberland and Westmoreland have ever been famous, namely
wrestling. They were also keen hunters; and until quite a recent period
a few couples of hounds were kept in every dale, and when the presence
of a fox was betrayed by a missing lamb or a decimated hen-roost, all
the dogs and nearly all the men in the parish entered in pursuit of the
depredator, and were seldom balked by their victim.

Some songs that were in vogue in the Dales a hundred years ago are
still sung, chiefly at fairs by itinerant ballad-mongers. Some of the
tunes are very antique, as for instance, _St Dunstan’s Hunt’s Up_,
mentioned by Sir Walter Scott as lost and forgotten, but which is still
played on the fiddle every Christmas-eve. The festivals held from time
to time in the Dales were such as were very common in all parts of
‘Merrie England’ when our forefathers worked hard, and money was much
scarcer than it is now. That they worked harder on the whole is a thing
which admits of two opinions; but one thing is certain, namely, that
their work was of a steady, careful, easy-going kind, whilst now it
is all bustle and drive, in the endeavour to cram into a few fleeting
hours as much as they could do in a whole week. Such as we find the
world, however, we must put up with it, content, like them, to keep
pegging away, and meeting the storms and buffetings of life with the
same courageous spirit which enabled them to add their mite towards the
honour, glory, and welfare of our common country.




A SPRING MORNING.


    When sparrows in the brightening sun
    Chirped blithe of summer half-begun
    And sure to prosper—over-bold
    With rifled stores of crocus gold—
    When lilacs fresh with morning rain
    Tapped laughing at my window pane,
    And soft with coming warmth and good
    Mild breezes shook the leafy wood:

    Then, ere the first delight was spent,
    Adown the sunny slope I went,
    Until the narrowing path across,
    Soft shadows flickered on the moss
    Of beechen buds that burst their sheath,
    And twining tendrils, while beneath,
    Where twisted roots made hollows meet,
    Grew budding primrose at my feet.

    There all the riddles of a life
    Which vexes me with aimless strife;
    The broken thoughts, that not with pain
    Nor patience ere will meet again,
    Were laid aside, nay, seemed to drop
    As, when loud jarring voices stop,
    The waves of silence rise, and spread,
    And meet in circles overhead.

    How life might grow I seemed to guess;
    Life knowing no uneasy stress
    Of partial increase; strong in growth,
    Yet ever perfect, dawning truth
    Which swayed each hour that took its flight
    An added empiry of light,
    That neither cloud nor mist might stay,
    Slow brightening to the perfect day.

    Though autumn hours will come again,
    And leafless branches drip with rain
    On sodden moss, yet having seen,
    I keep my faith: each spring-tide green—
    When drooping life puts off its gloom,
    And burned roots bear scented bloom—
    With tender prophecy makes sure
    My heart to labour and endure.

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

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