The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 742, March 16, 1878
    
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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 742, March 16, 1878

Author: Various

Editor: Robert Chambers
        William Chambers

Release date: August 4, 2020 [eBook #62849]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, NO. 742, MARCH 16, 1878 ***




Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net









[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 742.      SATURDAY, MARCH 16, 1878.      PRICE 1½_d._]




STORY OF GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.


A passing sigh of regret has noted the recent demise, at the good old
age of eighty-six, of one of the most remarkable men of our time.
Seldom has it been our lot to record in the pages of this _Journal_
the story of one whose genius was of so wild and fantastic a character
as that of this veteran artist, who won his maiden fame in the days of
George III., and has passed away in the latter part of the reign of
Queen Victoria.

George Cruikshank, who was of Scotch parentage, was born in London
on September 27, 1792. His father was an artist of the caricature
order, contemporary with Gilray; and his elder brother Robert was a
draughtsman who, though of no great ability, had a strong Cruikshankian
manner about him. George began to sketch at a very early age; and at
the commencement of the present century he got a living by making
etchings for the booksellers. His father had originally intended to
train up his son for the stage; but perceiving that his inclinations
lay in quite another direction, he allowed him to cultivate those
artistic talents which were afterwards to be a source of delight to
himself and to the public. In 1805 the lad sketched Lord Nelson’s
funeral car; and his illustrations of the ‘O. P.’ riots at Covent
Garden Theatre in 1809 attracted considerable attention at the time.
Some of his earliest sketches depict characters who were the centre of
interest at that period, but whose names have now quite an ancient ring
about them.

Before the reign of George III. was over, the young artist had made
a conspicuous name as a caricaturist and comic designer. His first
designs were in connection with cheap songs and children’s books; and
after that he furnished political caricatures to the _Scourge_ and
other satirical publications, besides doing a good deal of work for Mr
Hone’s books and periodicals during several years. Indeed this famous
publisher was the first to perceive the talents of the artist, and to
introduce his rather eccentric sketches to the public. It is related of
the young Cruikshank that, having a desire to follow art in the higher
department, he endeavoured on one occasion to study at the Academy. The
schools at that period were restricted in space and much crowded. On
sending up to Fuseli his figure in plaster, the Professor returned the
characteristic but discouraging answer: ‘He may come, but he will have
to fight for a seat.’ Cruikshank never repeated his attempt to enter
the Academy, although he afterwards became an exhibitor. His pencil
was ever enlisted on the side of suffering and against oppression, and
it is therefore not surprising to find that the cause of the ill-used
Queen Caroline was greatly benefited by its scathing satire. Some
special hits were made by the artist on this occasion, for it was a
subject on which the public mind was very much excited, and one design
which was entitled ‘The Queen’s Matrimonial Ladder’ ran through fifty
editions.

In 1830, when the government had determined to suppress the agitation
for parliamentary reform, Cruikshank, at the request of his old patron
Hone, produced some political illustrations, which are said to have
convulsed with laughter the ministry at whom they were directed, and to
whom they did incalculable damage. One of these, called ‘The Political
House that Jack Built,’ was particularly good, and within a very short
time one hundred thousand copies of it were sold. A few years later
George abandoned political caricature and gave himself up to the
illustration of works of humour and fancy, to the exposure of passing
follies in dress and social manners, and to grave and often tragic
moralising on the vices of mankind.

In the year 1821 he illustrated—and indeed originated—the celebrated
‘Life in London’ of Pierce Egan, a work better known by the title
of ‘Tom and Jerry.’ The book was published in sheets and enjoyed
an enormous success, establishing the name of George Cruikshank as
the first comic artist of the day. The plates for this work were in
_aquatint_, and though not in Cruikshank’s best manner, they exhibited
that variety of observation and marvellous fullness of detail for
which the designer was always remarkable. The letterpress of the work
was, however, written in too free a manner for the moral intention
with which the plates were drawn; and offended at the gross use to
which his illustrations were applied, the great artist retired from the
engagement before the work was completed.

It was related to the writer of this article by Cruikshank himself
that, when a very young man, he was one day engaged in hastily
sketching a work of rather questionable character. While he was doing
it, his mother and another lady entered the room, and he quickly hid
the sketch away. The act, however, so disturbed him that he resolved
never to allow his pencil to produce any work in the future at which a
virtuous woman could not look without a blush. The pure moral tone of
all his works attests how well he kept so noble a resolve.

From 1823 down to many years later, George Cruikshank was the most
highly esteemed of English book illustrators. Work poured in upon him
at a prodigious rate; but being a man of singular energy and tireless
industry, he was always equal to the demand. His designs for ‘Italian
Tales,’ ‘Grimm’s German Stories,’ the ‘Wild Legend of Peter Schlemihl
the Shadowless Man,’ ‘Baron Munchausen,’ and Sir Walter Scott’s
‘Demonology and Witchcraft,’ are amongst his best and highest works. He
also illustrated some of Washington Irving’s works of fiction, Fielding
and Smollett’s books, beside Maxwell’s graphic history of the ‘Irish
Rebellion.’ It would, however, be impossible, in this brief notice of
his life, to mention one tithe of the works that have emanated from the
untiring pencil of this remarkable man. But the generation which is
passing away cannot fail to remember his celebrated ‘Mornings at Bow
Street,’ a series of sketches which depicted and ruthlessly exposed the
dark and savage side of London life.

The genius of Charles Dickens, as we formerly had occasion to remark,
received invaluable assistance from Cruikshank’s pencil, which
illustrated the first writings of the young author, and thus paved the
way for him to a larger audience than he might otherwise have had.
In the first month of 1837 appeared the opening number of ‘Bentley’s
Miscellany,’ edited by ‘Boz’ (Charles Dickens), then in the flush of
his ‘Pickwick’ success, and illustrated by Cruikshank. In the second
number of the ‘Miscellany,’ Dickens commenced ‘Oliver Twist,’ a work
not only illustrated by Cruikshank, but for which the latter it appears
had himself supplied, unwittingly, some of the characters.

George used to say that he had drawn the figures of ‘Fagin,’ ‘Bill
Sikes and his Dog,’ ‘Nancy,’ the ‘Artful Dodger,’ and ‘Charley Bates’
before ‘Oliver Twist’ was written; and that Dickens seeing the sketches
one day shortly after the commencement of the story, determined to
change his plot, and instead of keeping Oliver in the country, resolved
to bring him to town, and throw him (with entire innocence) into the
company of thieves. ‘Fagin’ was sketched from a rascally old Jew whom
Cruikshank had observed in the neighbourhood of Saffron Hill, and
whom he watched and ‘studied’ for several weeks. The artist had also
conceived the terrible face of ‘Fagin in the Condemned Cell’ as he sits
gnawing his nails, in the curious accidental way we lately narrated to
our readers. He had been working at the subject for some days without
satisfying himself; when sitting up in bed one morning with his hands
on his chin and his fingers in his mouth, he saw his face in the glass,
and at once exclaimed: ‘_That’s it! that’s the face I want!_’

Nobody who has seen the sketches to ‘Oliver Twist’ can ever forget
them, and two at least of the series are perfect _chefs-d’œuvre_ of
genius, namely the death of Sikes on the roof of the old house at the
river-side, and the despair of Fagin in his cell. In fact some of
Cruikshank’s best work in the delineation of low and depraved life
and the squalid picturesqueness of criminal haunts, appeared in the
above-named book. His illustrations to Harrison Ainsworth’s works were
also for the most part charming specimens of what may be appropriately
termed the ‘Cruikshankian’ art. At the same time he sketched the
designs for some of the ‘Ingoldsby Legends’ as they appeared from time
to time in the ‘Miscellany.’ In 1841 he set up on his own account a
monthly periodical called the ‘Omnibus,’ of which Laman Blanchard was
the editor; and subsequently joined Mr Ainsworth in the magazine which
that gentleman had started in his own name; the great artist, in a
series of splendid plates of the highest conception, illustrating the
‘Miser’s Daughter’ and other works from the pen of the proprietor. For
several years Cruikshank had been publishing a ‘Comic Almanac,’ which
was a great favourite with the public, and was always brimming full of
fun and prodigal invention. In 1863 a ‘Cruikshank Gallery’ was opened
at Exeter Hall, in which were exhibited a great number of his works,
extending over a period of _sixty_ years. The exhibition originated
from a desire on the artist’s part to shew the public that they were
all done by the same hand, and that he was not, in fact, _his own
grandfather_; some people having asserted that the author of his later
works was the grandson of the man who had sketched the earliest ones.

He will perhaps be remembered most affectionately by the great
industrial portion of the people as the apostle as well as the artist
of temperance. Perceiving drunkenness to be the national vice, he
depicted its horrors from the studio, and denounced its woes from the
platform. It was about the year 1845 that he joined the teetotalers;
and in 1847 he brought out a set of plates called ‘The Bottle,’ a kind
of ‘Drunkard’s Progress,’ in eight designs, executed in glyphography
with remarkable power and tragic intensity, not unlike some of the
works of Hogarth. The success of these extraordinary engravings was
enormous. Dramas were founded on the story at the minor theatres, and
the several tableaux were reproduced on the stage. He soon published a
sequel to ‘The Bottle,’ and did a great deal of work for the temperance
societies; but it was observed that his style suffered somewhat by the
contraction of his ideas and sympathies, and his reputation declined
amongst the general public in proportion to the increase of his
popularity amongst the teetotalers. He remained, however, the staunch
friend and ally of the temperance leaders up to the day of his death;
and he used to say that for years before he became a total abstainer
he was the enemy of drunkenness with his pencil, but that later
experience had taught him that precept without example was of little
avail. There is no doubt that, though the good he was able to do by
persuading others to whom drink was a positive injury, brought great
satisfaction to his mind, it alienated from him to a great extent the
friendship, to their loss, of his former companions. But to know his
duty was for George Cruikshank to do it, and nobly did he stand by the
cause which he had espoused. His advocacy of temperance is also said to
have been a great pecuniary loss to him; and the writer of this article
remembers having heard him say, a few years since, that he had lost a
commission to paint the portrait of a nobleman, because somebody had
told the latter that since George Cruikshank had become a teetotaler he
had lost all his talent! The hearty laugh which accompanied the recital
of the story rings in the writer’s ears still.

Perhaps his greatest work in the cause of temperance, as it is
certainly his most extraordinary one, is the large oil-painting called
‘The Worship of Bacchus,’ which now hangs in the National Gallery. It
represents the various phases of our national drinking system, from
the child in its cradle to the man’s descent to the grave. There are
many hundreds of figures depicted on the canvas, engaged in all the
different customs of so-called civilised life; and the sad lesson it
reads is well deserving the attention of all who love their country,
and would prefer to witness its increased prosperity rather than its
decline. Cruikshank had the honour of describing the picture to Her
Majesty the Queen at Windsor in 1863; and since then it has been
exhibited in all the principal towns and cities of the United Kingdom.
Finally, it was presented by the teetotalers to the nation, having been
purchased from the artist by means of a subscription. The time spent
in the preparation of this work must have been very great, indeed it
might well have been the study of an ordinary lifetime. An engraving of
the picture was published some time ago, in which all the figures were
outlined by the painter and finished by Mr Mottram.

In his own way, George Cruikshank was a philanthropist, and to the end
of his life it was his proud boast that he put a stop to hanging for
forging bank-notes. The story, as told by himself, is so interesting,
that we need not apologise for placing it before our readers. He lived
in Salisbury Square, Fleet Street; and on his returning from the Bank
of England one morning he was horrified at seeing several persons, two
of whom were women, hanging on the gibbet in front of Newgate. On his
making inquiries as to the nature of their crime, he was told that they
had been put to death for forging _one-pound_ Bank of England notes.
The fact that a poor woman could be put to death for such a minor
offence had such an effect upon him, that he hurried home, determined,
if possible, to put a stop to such wholesale destruction of life.

Cruikshank was well acquainted with the habits of the low class of
society in London at that time, as it had been necessary for him to
study them in the furtherance of his art, and he knew well that it was
most likely that the poor women in question were simply the unconscious
instruments of the miscreants who forged the notes, and had been
induced by them to tender the false money to some publican or other.
In a few minutes after his arrival at his residence he had designed and
sketched a ‘Bank-note not to be Imitated.’ Shortly afterwards, William
Hone the publisher called on him, and seeing the sketch lying on the
table, he was much struck with it.

‘What are you going to do with this, George?’ he asked.

‘To publish it,’ replied the artist.

‘Will you let me have it?’ inquired Hone.

‘Willingly,’ said Cruikshank; and making an etching of it there and
then, he gave it to Hone, and it was published; the result being, that
‘I had the satisfaction of knowing that no man or woman was ever hanged
afterwards for passing forged one-pound Bank of England notes.’

In 1863 he published an amusing pamphlet against the belief in ghosts,
illustrated by some weird fantastic sketches on wood. But his public
appearances now became less frequent. During the later years of his
life he gave considerable attention to oil-painting, and he used
greatly to regret that he had not received a more artistic education,
stating that when he first saw the cartoons of Raphael he felt
overpowered by a sort of shame at his own comparative deficiencies.
He has, however, left some good specimens of his power in oil in ‘Tam
o’ Shanter,’ ‘A Runaway Knock,’ and ‘Disturbing the Congregation;’
the last-named having been bought by the late Prince Consort, and
afterwards engraved. The design of the Bruce Memorial, which has been
so much admired, was also from the pencil of George Cruikshank; and the
last contribution from his pen to the public press was a letter on this
subject.

His personal appearance was no less remarkable than his works. Rather
below middle stature, and thick-set, with a rather sharp Roman nose,
piercing eyes, a mouth full of lurking humour, and wild elf-locks
flowing about his face, he at once attracted attention as a man of
genius, energy, and character. He was always famous for great courage
and spirit, which added to his muscular power, made him very capable of
holding his own everywhere.

Though accustomed to depict life in its shadier phases, Cruikshank
was of a naturally joyous disposition. In social life his humour was
inimitable; and his readiness to add to the amusement of his host and
his host’s guests was only equalled by the unique way in which he
played the part of actor, singer, and dancer. The fact of his being a
teetotaler in no way interfered with his honest natural merry nature;
with old and young alike he was a deserved favourite. Young folks were
especially fond of the dear old man. Dining with some other guests
at the London house of a friend of the writer’s some five-and-twenty
years ago, Mr Cruikshank, when asked to favour the company with a song,
struck up the comic ditty of _Billy Taylor_, that brisk young fellow,
and danced an accompaniment, much to the amusement of the good folks
present. ‘Not so bad for one of your teetotalers,’ quoth the veteran as
he returned to his seat.

In his earlier years he ventured alone into the worst dens of criminal
London, and since he had grown old he actually captured a burglar in
his own house and with his own hands. In many ways he contributed to
the public amusement and the public good; and during the later years
of his life he was in receipt of a government pension, for though he
helped to make fortunes for others, he made very little money for
himself. He was a Volunteer so far back as 1804; and in our own days he
commanded a regiment of citizen soldiers of teetotal principles.

There is on view at the Westminster Aquarium at the present time a
splendid collection of Cruikshank’s works, each of which is a study in
itself, while the whole, consisting of about five hundred sketches,
forms a unique monument to his skill and genius.

As an artist he will be certain of lasting fame, for he managed his
lights and shades with a skill akin to Rembrandt, while his delineation
of low life in its every phase was marvellous. His illustrations to
fairy and goblin stories were also beyond praise, as they could not
be surpassed in strangeness and elfin oddity; and in this respect he
was popular with young and old. His sketches must be innumerable, for
he was, like all true men of genius, a great worker, and he must have
toiled unceasingly through at least _seventy_ years of his long life.
He was attacked with bronchitis a few weeks previous to his death, yet
with great care he was actually enabled to recover from this disease;
but alas! only to succumb to an older complaint from which he had been
free for years. He died painlessly, on the evening of the first of
February last, at his residence in Hampstead Road, London; and while
to comparatively few was given the inestimable privilege of the great
artist’s friendship, the grief of a nation for his loss attests the
universality of his fame.




HELENA, LADY HARROGATE.


CHAPTER XV.—THE STOLEN LETTER.

Jasper Denzil, his arm, bruised and crushed as it had been beneath the
weight of the fallen horse, still needing the support of a sling, and
his pallid cheek and dim eye telling that he had not wholly regained
his strength, lounged among the cushions of a sofa in what was called
the White Room at Carbery. This room, which owed its name to the colour
of its panelled walls, sparely relieved by mouldings of gold and pale
blue, overlooked the park and adjoined the billiard-room; and Jasper,
with an invalid’s caprice, had chosen it for his especial apartment
during the period of his compulsory confinement to the house.

Time hung more heavily than ever on the captain’s hands since his
accident had cut him off from his ordinary habits of life. Of
intellectual resources he had few indeed, being one of those men (and
they are numerous amongst us) to whom reading is a weariness of spirit,
and thinking a laborious mental process, and who undergo tortures of
boredom when thrown helpless into that worst of all company—their own.
His sisters’ affection, his sisters’ innocent anxiety to anticipate
his wishes and soothe his pain, bored him more than it touched him. He
was not of a tender moral fibre, and barely tolerated at best those of
his own blood and name. He would very much have preferred as a nurse
bluff Jack Prodgers, to Blanche and Lucy. With Prodgers he had topics
and interests in common; the minds of the two captains ran nearly in
identical grooves; whereas his sisters did not fathom his nature or
partake his tastes. So dreary was the existence to which this once
brilliant cavalry officer was now condemned, that he had actually come
to look forward with a sort of languid excitement to the professional
visits of little Dr Aulfus from Pebworth, whose gig, to the great
disgust of Mr Lancetter, the High Tor surgeon, was daily to be seen
traversing the carriage-drive of Carbery Chase. With his father,
Jasper’s dealings were coldly decorous, no fondness and no trust
existing on either side. Sir Sykes had announced to Jasper that his
debts—of which the baronet, through a chance interview with Mr Wilkins
the attorney from London, had been made aware—had been paid in full.

‘I must ask you, Jasper,’ Sir Sykes had said, ‘for two assurances: one
to the effect that no more secret liabilities exist to start up at
unexpected moments; and the other, that you will never again ride a
steeplechase.’

‘For my own sake, sir, I’ll promise you that last willingly enough,’
said Jasper, with a sickly smile. ‘I didn’t use to mind that kind of
thing; but I suppose I am not so young in constitution as I was, and
don’t come up to time so readily. And as for more snakes in the grass,
such as those which that impudent cur Wilkins wheedled me into signing,
for his own benefit and that of his worthy allies, I give you my word
there’s not one. Some fresh tailor or liveryman may send a bill in one
day. A gentleman can’t always be quite sure as to how many new coats
and hired broughams may be totted up against him by those harpies at
the West End; but that is all. I should have won a hatful of money the
other day if anybody but Hanger had been on The Smasher’s back, when
that savage brute rushed at the wall; but I don’t owe any, except a
hundred and fifty which Prodgers lent me, and every farthing of which
I paid to the bookmakers before the race, in hope of receiving it back
with a tidy sum to boot.’

Sir Sykes had forthwith inclosed a cheque for a hundred and fifty
pounds to Captain Prodgers, with a very frigid acknowledgment of the
accommodation offered to his son.

‘I could wish that you had other friends, other pursuits too,’ he said
coldly to Jasper. ‘However, I will not lecture. You are of an age to
select your own associates.’

Captain Denzil then, being on terms of chilling civility with his
father, and an uncongenial companion for his sisters, yielded himself
the more readily to the singular fascination which Ruth Willis could,
when she chose, exert. Sir Sykes’s ward had a remarkable power of
pleasing when it suited her to please. She had at the first conciliated
the servants at Carbery—no slight feat, considering the dull weight
of stolid prejudice which she had to encounter—and had won the regard
of the baronet’s two daughters. Then Lucy and Blanche had felt the
ardour of their early girlish friendship for the Indian orphan cool
perceptibly, perhaps because the latter no longer gave herself the
same pains to win their suffrages. And now she laid herself out to
be agreeable to Jasper. Nothing could be more natural or befitting
than that a young lady, under deep obligations to the master of the
house, should shew her gratitude by doing little acts of kindness to
her guardian’s son when a prisoner; and without any apparent effort
or design, Ruth seemed to appropriate the invalid as her own. She
talked to him—she was by far better informed than the average of her
sex and age, and had a rare tact which taught her when to speak, and
of what—and she read to him. A more fastidious listener than Jasper
might have been charmed with that sweet untiring voice, so admirably
modulated that it assumed the tone most suited to the subject-matter,
be it what it might. The captain, whose boast it was, that with the
exception of racing calendars and cavalry manuals, he had not opened
a book since he left school, cared for nothing but newspapers, and
especially newspapers of a sporting turn, and such literature is not
generally very inviting to a feminine student; but Miss Willis shewed
no symptoms of weariness as she retailed to her hearer the cream of the
turf intelligence.

‘I don’t half like her. There are times when I could almost say, I hate
her!’ thought Jasper to himself once and again; ‘but she’s clever, and
has something about her which I don’t understand, for she never bores a
fellow.’

It was a burning day in early August. The windows of the White Room
were open, and the heavy hum of the bees, as they loaded themselves
with the plunder of the blossoms that clustered so thickly without, had
in itself a drowsy potency. Jasper, overcome by heat and lassitude, had
fallen asleep among his cushions, and Ruth Willis, who had been reading
to him, laid down the paper and slipped softly from the room, closing
the door behind her. She met no one, either on her way to her own
chamber or as, having donned her garden hat and jacket, she descended
the stairs. It was her practice on most fine days to leave the house
for a solitary ramble either in the park or among the woods that sloped
down to the river.

It was Ruth’s custom, when thus she sallied forth alone, to take with
her a book, which she could read when seated on some granite boulder
against which the swift stream chafed in vain, or amidst the gnarled
roots of the ancient trees in the Chase. Nor did she, like the majority
of young ladies, consider nothing worth her study save the contents
of the last green box of novels from a London circulating library,
preferring often the perusal of the quaint pretty old books that are
usually allowed to sleep unmolested on their shelves, here the verses
of a forgotten poet, there perhaps some idyl unsurpassed in its simple
sweetness of thought and diction.

With works of this description, well chosen once but now voted
obsolete, the library at Carbery Chase was richly stored; and Sir Sykes
had willingly given to his ward the permission which she asked, to
have free access to its treasures. He himself spent most of his time
while within doors in this same library, and there Ruth fully expected
to find him, when she entered it, accoutred for her walk. She had in
her hand a tiny tome, bound in tawny leather, and with a faded coat of
arms, on which might still be deciphered the De Vere wyverns stamped
upon the cover. To replace this and to select another volume, she
should have to pass Sir Sykes’s writing-table, in front of the great
stained glass window; but he would merely look up with a nod and smile
as the small slender form of his ward flitted by.

Sir Sykes, however, contrary to his habit at that hour, was not in the
library. He must but recently have quitted it, however, for the ink
in the pen that he had laid aside was yet wet, and the note which he
had been engaged in writing was unfinished. On a desk which occupied
the right-hand corner of the writing-table, a large old desk, the queer
inlaid-work of which, in ivory and tortoise-shell, had probably been
that of some Chinese or Hindu mechanic, lay an open letter, the bluish
paper and formal penmanship of which suggested the idea of business.
Now, it may seem trite to say that a regard for the sanctity of another
person’s correspondence is not merely innate in every honourable mind,
but so strongly inculcated upon us by education and example, that there
are many who are capable of actual crime, yet who would be degraded in
their own esteem by any prying into what was meant to meet no eyes but
those of the legitimate recipient. Yet Ruth Willis, the instant that
she perceived herself to be alone in the room, unhesitatingly drew near
to the table and took a brief survey of what lay upon it. As she caught
a glimpse of the letter, her very breathing seemed to stop, and a
strange glittering light came into her large eyes, and a crimson flush
mantled in her pale cheek.

‘I must have it!’ she exclaimed passionately. ‘At any risk I must know
all, must realise the extent of the danger, and whence it threatens.
There is not a moment to lose!’

Quick as thought the girl snatched up the letter from the desk on
which it lay, and darted towards the French window nearest to the now
empty fire-place. The window stood open. As she neared it, she heard a
man’s tread in the passage, a man’s hand upon the door of the library.
To avoid detection, her only chance was in her own promptitude and
coolness. She had but just time to pass through the opening and to
conceal herself among the rose-trees and flowering shrubs, before Sir
Sykes entered the room that she had so lately left. She thrust the
letter into her pocket and cowered down close to the wall, terror in
her eyes and quick-moving lips, for she knew but too well that in such
a case as this no social subterfuge, no fair seeming excuse could avail
her.

From her lair among the fragrant bushes Ruth could see the baronet
tossing over the papers that lay neatly arranged on his table, then
hurrying to and fro in evident excitement. That he was seeking for the
missing letter was clear.

‘Sooner or later,’ she murmured to herself, ‘he _must_ remember the
window, and should he but see me, all is lost. In such a plight,
boldness is safest.’

With a stealthy swiftness which had something feline in it, Ruth
Willis made her way past shrubs and sheltering trees and black hedges
of aged yew, trimmed, for generations past, by the gardener’s shears.
There were men at work among the lawns and flower-beds, men at work
too among the hothouses and conservatories. It would not be well,
should suspicion be rife and inquiry active, that these men should have
seen her. There was one place, however, where the trees of the garden
overhung the fence dividing it from the park, and here there was a
wicket, seldom used. To reach it she had to traverse one short stretch
of greensward exposed to the observation of the under-gardeners at
their work. Watching for a favourable moment, Ruth glided across the
dangerous piece of open ground, unseen by those who were busy at that
mowing and rolling, and weeding and pruning, which never seems to be
finished in a rich man’s pleasaunce. With the speed of a hunted deer
she threaded her way amidst the trees, opened the gate, and skirting
the southern angle of the park, fled through the new plantations to her
favourite resort, the woods beside the river.

No more peaceful and few prettier spots could easily have been found
than that which Ruth now sought, a place where the swift stream,
rushing down from its birthplace among the Dartmoor heights to end
its short career in the blue sea—of which, between the interlacing
boughs, a view could here and there be obtained—brawled among the
red rocks that half choked up the deep and narrow ravine. A welcome
coolness seemed to arise from where the spray of the pellucid water
was sprinkled over boulders worn smooth by time; and clefts where the
delicate lady-fern and many another dainty frond grew thickly. But
Ruth Willis for once was blind to the beauty of the scene, deaf to
the silvery music of the stream among the pebbles or to the carol of
the birds. With dilated eyes and lips compressed, but with trembling
fingers, she drew forth the stolen letter, and beneath the shadow of
the overhanging boughs, eagerly, almost fiercely, read and re-read the
words that it contained.




FIRES IN AMERICA.


The exceeding dryness of the atmosphere in the United States produces
such an inflammability in buildings, that when a fire breaks out it
proceeds with surprising velocity. Owing to this circumstance Americans
have organised the most perfect system in the world of extinguishing
fires, though all their efforts are often in vain. A stranger in New
York or Boston would be astonished at the immense uproar caused by an
outbreak of fire. Bells are rung, gongs sounded, and steam fire-engines
rush along the streets regardless of everything. The unaccustomed
stranger is apt to make a run of it when he sees the engines coming;
the American simply steps on to the ‘side-walk’ or into a ‘store’ for
a moment. It is provided by the city government that ‘the officers and
men, with their teams and apparatus, shall have the right of way while
going to a fire, through any street, lane, or alley,’ &c.; and most
unreservedly do the said officers and men make use of this permission.
If any old woman’s stall is at the corner of a street round which the
steamers must go, there is no help for it; over it goes. If a buggy
is left standing at a corner, the owner must not be surprised if but
three wheels are left on it when he returns. Accidents of this latter
kind, however, are rare; people recognise and yield willingly the right
of way; and the quicker the engines go to a fire, the better pleased
everybody is. It is quite a point of rivalry among the firemen who
shall get the first water on a fire, and is mentioned always in the
report of the engineer.

This is how it looks from the outside; but the greater part of those
who see the engines go to a fire have no idea of the inner working of
the system. All they know is that when there is a fire the engines
go and put it out. We shall therefore now proceed to shew, first,
the means for communicating alarms of fire; and second, the means for
extinguishing fires when discovered.

There are in Boston (Mass.), which we may take as an example of a
well-protected city, about two hundred and thirty-five alarm-boxes,
which are small iron boxes placed at street corners, on public
buildings, and in any convenient and necessary locality. Each box is
connected by two wires with the head office at the City Hall, and has
its number painted in red, and a notice stating where the key is kept,
which is generally the nearest house. The authorities usually confide
the key to some person whose premises are open all night, such as
the proprietor of an hotel, an apothecary, or a doctor. When the box
is opened, nothing is seen but a small hook at the top, the interior
being concealed by another iron lid. Under this second lid is a steel
cylinder with pieces of ebony let into its circumference to correspond
with the number of the box. This cylinder is connected with one of the
telegraph wires; and a steel spring which presses against it, with the
other. When the hook is pulled down a clock-work arrangement causes the
cylinder to revolve four times; the steel spring consequently passes
over the entire surface of the cylinder four times, and contact is
broken at the points where the spring touches only the non-conducting
ebony. For instance, if the circumference of the cylinder in box 125
could be unrolled, it would present an appearance something like
this: I II IIIII. Let us now follow the wires to the top of the City
Hall, where, night and day, sits an operator watching the recording
instrument. Here in a small room are numerous electrical instruments
of all sorts, gongs, switches, keys, levers, and wires. In an attic
overhead are the batteries. As soon as a box is opened and ‘pulled’ a
bell strikes, and a recording instrument in front turns out a slip of
paper, on which is printed the box number; thus

    —  — —  — — — — —

would mean box 125. It prints this four times—the number of revolutions
made by the cylinder in the box—to avoid any error.

On the other side of the operator are three clock faces bearing
numerals from one to nine, and a pointer. The one to the right is for
the units, the middle one for the tens, the one to the left for the
hundreds. Under them is a lever working horizontally. Immediately the
operator receives the box number, he sets these pointers to correspond
with it—namely, the left one he puts at 1, the middle at 2, the right
one at 5—thus making 125—and then moves the lever underneath.

Now let us see what is the result of this manœuvring. Wires connect
these machines with various church bells and gongs in all parts of
the city, which ring out the alarm as the operator moves the lever.
There are thirty-eight such bells in Boston. When there is a church
bell in the neighbourhood, the fire department affixes an electrical
hammer to it; if, however, there is no public bell in the right place,
a large gong is erected. The machine at City Hall is automatic when
once started, and causes the bells to sound the alarm three times as
follows. For box 125 they would strike once; then a pause and strike
twice; another pause and strike five times; then a much longer pause
and repeat twice. For box 218 they strike 2—1—8, always sounding the
number three times with intervals between. So quickly is all this
managed that in half a minute after a person opens and ‘pulls’ a box he
hears the bells begin to respond.

In case that the engines which go on the first alarm are not
sufficiently numerous to extinguish the fire, a second alarm is given
by the operator striking ten blows on the bells, which brings several
more engines. If the fire is very serious, a third alarm brings still
more engines with hose and ladder companies. This is given by striking
twelve blows twice. If the conflagration is becoming very serious
indeed, the entire fire department is summoned by striking twelve blows
three times. This, of course, very rarely happens. Indeed so efficient
are the men and apparatus, that even a second alarm is quite unusual.
The second and third alarms are communicated to the City Hall operator
by simply ‘pulling’ the same box a second and third time; or if the
pulling apparatus should have been destroyed at an early stage of the
fire, by transmitting a request by a Morse telegraph key, which is
placed in every box for the use of the employés when out testing the
circuits. Every one knows the number of the box situated near to his
residence or place of business; so, if awakened by the bells in the
night, he simply counts the box number, and if it is not near him,
turns over and goes to sleep again reassured; whilst if it chance to be
his number, he is at once ready to render any assistance.

The fire telegraph is also made use of by the city authorities for
calling out the police or the military in case of a disturbance, and
also for informing the parents who send their children to the public
schools when there is to be no class, on account of bad weather or
other reasons. Each of these circumstances has its special number.
There is also a gong placed in every police station, which is struck
directly from the boxes, and it frequently happens that the police have
a flaming building barricaded by a rope, before the engines arrive.

Next, the means for extinguishing fires when discovered. In the city
of Boston there are twenty-nine steam fire-engines in actual service,
and seven held in reserve; eight chemical engines, throwing water
impregnated with soda and sulphuric acid, which also serves as the
motive-power; one steam self-propelling engine; one fire-boat to defend
the water-front of the city; nearly forty hose carriages, about seventy
thousand feet of hose, and twelve hook and ladder companies; besides
other apparatus of various kinds, such as hand-engines, coal-wagons,
sleighs for carrying the hose in winter, and several aërial ladders.
The engines weigh from seven to nine thousand pounds, and cost about a
thousand pounds each.

One of the most interesting features in the American fire-system is
the extreme ingenuity that is exercised to insure the speedy arrival
of the apparatus at a fire. As has been said, in less than a minute
after the alarm-box has been pulled the bells are ringing out the alarm
all over the city; and—incredible as it may seem—sometimes in _ten
seconds_ after the alarm is rung, the engines have left their stations
with steam up and every one prepared for work! Perhaps the best way to
give a general idea of how this wonderful celerity is attained is to
describe the interior arrangements of an engine-house.

Usually an engine and a hose-carriage are kept in one house. This is
a two-story building with a small tower or look-out. In the cellar
are kept the steam-heaters and coal; on the first floor in front are
the engine and hose-carriage, at the back the stables; on the second
floor the sleeping-room of the men, their smoking and reading room,
and a small tool-shop. There is a sort of wooden tunnel running up by
the side of the stairs from the cellar to the top of the house, in
which are hung the lengths of spare hose. In the front of the building
is a large gateway, kept closed, for the entrance and exit of the
engine. The engine stands facing the door, and by the side of it the
hose-carriage. The firemen’s helmets and coats are hung on these; and
in the engine the materials for getting up the fire are laid at the
bottom; and close by is a sort of tow-torch soaked in oil, which is
lighted and thrown on the fire by the engineman when they start. So
inflammable is the material laid in the engine-furnace that the fire is
lighted instantaneously. Coming up through the floor, and connecting
with two pipes at the rear of the engine, are two tubes from the
steam-heater mentioned above. This is simply a small boiler by which
the boiler of the fire-engine is kept filled night and day with hot
water, so that steam is up immediately after the fire is lighted. By
the side of the engine is a large gong, on which the alarm is sounded
by the same current that causes the strokes on the bells outside. Under
this is a lever holding back a powerful spring, which, when released,
opens the stable-doors without any attention from the firemen!

There are three horses—two for the engine, and one for the
hose-carriage. They are kept in small stalls, and face the door of the
house, with the door of the stall just in front of them, so that when
the door is opened, the horses, on stepping out, stand by the side of
the engine in readiness to be harnessed. And not only this, but the
horses, without exception, are so well trained, that the instant the
door is opened they run out and stand by the side of the engine-pole.
They are always completely harnessed, and their harness is so
constructed that in order to attach them to the engine only the joining
of a few snap-hooks is necessary.

One fireman is always on patrol on the ‘floor,’ whose duty it
is to count and register the alarm; another is on patrol in the
neighbourhood. They sleep with everything on but their coat and boots,
and each has a distinct place assigned to him, which he takes on the
striking of an alarm. So the gong strikes, the stable-doors open, the
horses rush out, the men tumble down-stairs from their rooms above, the
horses are harnessed; and if the alarm calls for them, the doors are
thrown open, and they are gone, occasionally, as was said, in ten or
twelve seconds from the striking of the alarm.

The city of Boston is divided into ten fire districts, and each
district placed under the charge of an assistant-engineer. Usually
about five or six engines, with their accompanying hose-carriages, two
hook and ladder companies, a coal-wagon, and one of the wagons of the
protective brigade—carrying tarpaulins and rubber blankets, to protect
property from injury by water, supported by the insurance companies—go
to every fire. The entire force of the Fire department in 1876 was six
hundred and sixty-seven men, controlled by three fire commissioners,
one nominated by the mayor, and confirmed by the city council every
year.

Such are the means possessed by a city of rather more than four hundred
thousand inhabitants for protection against fire; and with such a
splendid system and such a force of men and machines, it is difficult
to understand how a fire could attain such awful proportions as that of
1872, when the loss amounted to four millions sterling.

Boston always took great pride and felt much confidence in her
granite-fronted places of business, but her recent fire has relieved
her of that misplaced confidence. The blocks of granite crumbled away,
cracked and fell apart, and even exploded. Of course this was an
exceptionally great heat, but one sees fewer warehouses fronted with
granite now than before the fire.

Even during so terrible a calamity as this fire the characteristic
wit of the American did not desert him. No sooner were the flames
extinguished in the burnt district, than the occupiers of the premises
put up notices on their lots stating their present residences and
future plans. Usually, in the larger cities of the United States, a
value is put upon time of which we have no conception in England. When
a house is burnt down in London or Edinburgh, half a year may elapse
before arrangements are made to build it up again. On the morning
after a fire in New York, we were amused in observing that workmen
were already engaged in preparations for a new building. Owing to
this species of energy in the American people, the two half-destroyed
cities of Boston and Chicago are built up again, handsomer and stronger
than ever. And still the work of improving the fire department goes
on. There are in the newspapers almost daily accounts of the trial
of new engines, improved ladders, longer fire-escapes, and surer
fire-extinguishing compounds, and nothing is spared in checking the
tyranny of what has been so aptly termed a ‘good servant but bad
master.’




MONSIEUR HOULOT.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.


CHAPTER I.—YESTERDAY—BONDAGE.

I was sitting one day looking disconsolately out of window at a
landscape almost blotted out by rain and mist, a landscape almost
hatefully familiar to me. My mind was as cheerless as the prospect,
as blank as the sheet of paper stretched before me to receive its
impressions. I looked on that sheet of paper with disgust, with
loathing. There was no idea in my head, and I felt that anything I
might attempt to write would turn out meaningless verbiage. But my
invisible task-masters were behind me—I heard the crack of their
many-thonged whips—I saw Messrs Butcher and Baker sitting joyfully on
the car which was destined to crush me if I once slackened the rope.

Yes, I was a writer; neither a successful one nor the reverse. I
made a living by it, but it was an irregular living. Sometimes I was
comparatively rich, at others I was superlatively poor. At the date of
which I write I was decidedly in the latter condition. In purse and in
health I was at the lowest of low-water; one reacted on the other; my
poverty increased my physical weakness, which in its turn prevented
any effective effort to fill the exchequer. Everything I wrote somehow
missed fire. A rest and a change might have set me up. I had no means
of taking either. Nor was I the only sufferer in the house. My wife was
ill and depressed; the children were out of health. Everything was out
of gear.

Under these doleful conditions I was sitting in a sort of comatose
state, brooding over all the uncomfortable possibilities of existence
or non-existence—without a friend to take counsel with, or even an
acquaintance who might help to move the stagnant waters of life—when
I was aroused by the unwonted sound of wheels. A fly drove up to the
gate, horse and driver shivering and dripping with wet. The man jumped
down and rang the bell. The servant brought up a card; ‘Mrs Collingwood
Dawson.’

I knew the name well enough. Dawson was a successful writer of fiction,
a man whose novels were in demand at all the circulating libraries.
But what could his better-half want with me? Time would shew. The lady
entered.

Mrs Collingwood Dawson was a pleasant-looking woman of uncertain age,
not much over thirty probably, and certainly under forty, with dark
luminous eyes and an expressive face.

‘It is rather bold of me,’ she said, ‘to come here and take you
by storm, without introduction or anything. I can only plead the
fellowship of the craft.’

I replied in an embarrassed way with some meaningless commonplace; and
after a few preliminary civilities, she came to the real purpose of her
visit.

‘My husband is,’ she said, ‘a very ill-used man. Everybody is worrying
him to write this and that and the other. If he had a dozen pairs of
hands he could keep them going. Unfortunately, he is a sad invalid, and
is really incapable of undertaking more than the little he has in hand.’

I expressed a decent grief at the ill-health of Mr Collingwood Dawson.

‘I have long been urging him,’ she went on, ‘to take a partner, a
coadjutor, a _collaborateur_, some one who will relieve him from the
laborious part of the business, who will work in his style and on his
ideas, and whose work should in effect be his, and appear under his
name.’

‘You will have difficulty,’ said I, ‘in finding a competent person who
would be willing to sacrifice his literary identity.’

‘Yes; there is a difficulty certainly; but I have taken the liberty
of hoping that you would help us to obviate it. You are yet young
comparatively, and have ample time hereafter to gather a crop of bays
on your own account.’

‘What induced you, madam, to think of me in the matter?’

‘Simply a study of what you have written, the style of which seemed
suitable to our purpose. If I am offending you, say so, and I will
apologise, and go no further.’

I replied that I was willing to hear her offer; that I had no opinion
of literary partnerships, but that my means would not allow me to
reject point-blank any advantageous proposal.

‘There is nothing derogatory at all, you will acknowledge, in working
on other people’s lines; the greatest authors have done it.’

‘Oh, if I can do it honestly, I shall have no scruples on any other
score.’

‘Is there any difference between working for us and say for a magazine
which publishes your work anonymously? Or in writing under a _nom de
plume_. If there is any deceit in the matter, it rests with us, not
with you. But if it be a deceit, then all the old masters were cheats,
when they sold as their own, pictures which were in parts done by their
scholars, or sculptors who sell as their work, statues of which all
the rough work has been done by pupils or workmen. No, indeed; it is
your own pride that stands in the way. And pride you know is a sin, and
ought to be repented of.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘let me hear the terms.’

The terms were liberal enough. A certain sum per sheet at a higher rate
than I could earn elsewhere, and with the certainty of a market for
all I wrote, which at that time I did not possess. But the bait which
finally took me was the offer of an immediate cheque for fifty pounds
on account and to bind the transaction.

I took counsel of my wife.

‘Can you hesitate?’ she said. ‘Here we hardly know where to look for
to-morrow’s food, and you are offered a certain income and fifty pounds
as earnest-money.’

I closed with the offer and accepted the retaining fee; and I felt as
Dr Faustus might have done when he sold his soul to the Evil One.

Mrs Collingwood Dawson seemed pleased at my compliance, and sketched
out to me the part she wished me to take. We were to manufacture novels
solely—about three a year. The plot was to be drawn out for me with
indications of the points to be worked out. I was to fill in dialogue
and description. The ‘author’ was to be at liberty to add, cut out,
amend, and put in finishing touches.

‘I shall give you,’ she said, ‘a packet which I have left in the fly,
containing the various works of my husband. Read them over critically,
and adapt your style to his. I know you are a skilful workman, and will
have no difficulty in the matter.’

Business over, my employer joined our family dinner. She was bright and
cheerful, and her gaiety was infectious. My wife was charmed with her;
the children could not make enough of her. Her presence had all the
effect upon me of sparkling wine. When she was gone, I sat down to read
Mr Dawson’s works with as little appetite for their perusal as a grocer
has for figs. But I was surprised to find that though uneven in quality
and often carelessly written, there were abundant traces of a vivid
imagination, and an intimate knowledge of the workings of the human
heart in morbid and unhealthy developments. These qualities, I may say,
appeared only by fits and starts, and were overlaid by a good deal of
very commonplace work. The strong point of his fiction, and that which
gained, no doubt, the approval of the public, was the plot. His plots
were always ingenious and well combined, and kept the interest going to
the very fall of the curtain.

Time passed on. I got fairly to work on my new business. I had no fault
to find with my employers, and they on their part seemed well satisfied
with my services. I had as much work as I could manage; but I found
it much easier than of old, inasmuch as I had definite lines to work
upon and a distinct object in view. Then the payment was regular, and
in virtue of that, our household assumed an aspect of comfort and
tranquillity to which it had long been a stranger. As it was no longer
necessary for me to live within reach of London, I determined to carry
out a plan that had been in my head for some time, and settle for a
while in some quiet place in Normandy, where one could have good air,
repose, and tranquillity, without the appalling dullness that mantles
over an English country town.

All this time I had never seen Mr Collingwood Dawson, and the only
address I knew was at his chambers in the Temple; but all business
matters were arranged with a Mr Smith, who, I understood, was his
agent. My removal involved only a trifling extra cost in postage, and I
had work on hand that would keep me going for several months.

We settled in a pleasant picturesque little town on the banks of
the Seine, and after giving myself a few weeks’ holiday, to make
acquaintance with the neighbourhood, I began to plod on steadily at my
task.

I had just despatched a parcel of manuscript, and was strolling
homewards from the post-office along the quay, when I stopped to watch
some people fishing from the steps that lead down to the water-side.
The tide was low, the evening tranquil. The setting sun was blinking
over the edge of the wood-crowned heights behind; but all this side of
the view was in shadow, while the aspens and poplars on the further
bank were glowing in golden light. A little brook that escapes into
the river hereabouts through a conduit of stone was splashing and
bubbling merrily. In the eddy formed by the brook and the big river
were swimming the light floats of the fishermen, every now and then
pulled down, more often by some drowning weed or twig, but sometimes by
a fish, whose eager darts from side to side, and struggles as it was
hauled in by main force, afforded great amusement and excitement to
some half-dozen boys.

A more than commonly vigorous pluck at one of the floats, and a
strenuous tug at the line belonging to it, which made the rod curve
and wave under its strain, shewed that a big fish had been hooked.
The sensation among the spectators was great. It is always an awkward
matter to land a fish of any size when the river-bank is perpendicular
and there is no landing-net. Our friends here, however, were not
disposed to create unnecessary difficulties. A companion of the
successful fisherman seized the line and began to haul it in hand over
hand. It is a capital way this if everything holds and the fish is
hooked beyond possibility of release. In this case, however, although
the line was pulled in vigorously, all of a sudden the resistance
ceased and the hook came naked home. The baffled fisherman bowed
and smiled politely at his friend. It was a little _contre-temps_
inseparable from the amusement of fishing.

‘Clumsy!’ growled a voice close to my elbow in good English. I turned
round quite startled, for there were no English residents in the
town, and the accents of my native tongue were becoming unfamiliar.
A man stood by my side of somewhat strange appearance. He was short
and thick-set, and had a massive strongly marked face, with bushy
overhanging eyebrows, a heavy gray moustache, and stubbly beard of only
a few weeks’ growth. His arms were folded, the left one over the other;
but as he changed his position, I saw that he had lost his right hand,
and that its place was supplied with an iron hook. He was dressed in
a blouse made of some kind of coarse blanket-stuff of a huge cheque
pattern, trousers of dirty-white flannel, stuffed into boots that came
halfway up his calf. A Turkey-red handkerchief was twisted carelessly
round his throat, there being no sign of any shirt beneath; and a
bonnet of the Glengarry shape was cocked rather fiercely on his head.
In his hand he held a packet of whity-brown paper, made up as it seemed
for transmission by post. I could not help seeing that the packet was
addressed ‘London’ in a bold rough hand.

He seemed to wince at the look full of curiosity that I gave him. His
face, which had been lighted up with interest in watching the progress
of the fishing, now turned dull and dark. He went off at a short
shambling trot in the direction of the post-office, and I saw no more
of him just then.

I was not long, however, in finding out something about him. His name
it seemed was Houlot, and although eccentric, he was inoffensive,
and was on the whole rather respected by the townspeople. He was a
_savant_—a character, in their eyes, that excused a good deal of
moroseness and roughness of manner. He had resided in the neighbourhood
for some years, and occupied a single room in a house upon the hill
overlooking the town. Here he lived—hermit-fashion—keeping no domestic,
buying his own provisions in the market and cooking them himself. His
kitchen, however, I was given to understand, was the least important
part of his establishment; and the juice of the grape or of the apple,
or of the potato haply, distilled into strong waters, formed the
chief of his diet. For many weeks at a time he would scarcely stir
from his room, only coming out when his bottle of brandy was empty,
or on market-days to buy provisions. After this period of seclusion,
he would be seen walking about the country with a pipe in his mouth,
a thick oaken stick under his arm, and a book in his solitary hand,
still morose and unsociable. There was yet a third stage, during
which he would haunt the cafés and wine-shops, drinking a good deal,
and chatting away with all comers. At these times he was apt to get
quarrelsome, and he was known in consequence to be on bad terms with
the inspector of police.

I daresay that if I had chosen to apply to the last-named functionary,
I should have got still more ample information; but there was nothing
to justify me in pushing inquiry any further. It was generally
thought that Houlot was English in origin; but his French was not
distinguishable as that of a foreigner, and he spoke German as well as
he did English.

A week or two afterwards I met Monsieur Houlot walking on the heights
overlooking the Seine, with his pipe and stick, and with his nose in
a tattered volume. I raised my hat in passing; but he turned his head
away with a scowl, and did not return my salute. Decidedly, I said to
myself, he is English.

One morning the postman brought me a registered letter containing a
remittance from England, and placed before me his book to receive my
signature. When I had signed, he handed me a letter; but it was not for
me, it was for M. Houlot; and yet, curiously enough, the address was in
the handwriting of Mr Smith, the business agent of Collingwood Dawson,
from whom I was expecting a remittance.

‘Ah, I have given you the wrong letter,’ said the postman. ‘They are
both just alike, and I have made a mistake; pardon, Monsieur;’ and he
handed me a similar letter addressed to myself.

I noticed that from this date Houlot seemed to assume his third stage
of habits—that in which he haunted the cafés and wine-shops. Every one
agreed that he was much less inaccessible at such times, and could
even make casual acquaintanceship with strangers. I had a great desire
to know more about him, and took a little pains to throw myself in
his way. I ascertained that he usually spent his afternoons in one
particular café—the _Café Cujus_—thus called from the name of its
proprietor; and I made a point of taking coffee there every day at the
hour at which he was usually to be met with. But I did not advance my
purpose by that. He would bury his head in the _Journal de Rouen_,
turn his back persistently upon me, and leave the café at the earliest
possible moment.

‘You will come and visit us this evening?’ said Mademoiselle Cujus
graciously to me one day, as I paid my score at the counter of the
elegant little platform whence she dispensed her various tinctures. ‘We
shall have a very genteel concert tonight.’

Mademoiselle is a charming little Frenchwoman, with a piquant retroussé
nose, a full and softly rounded chin, and dark eyes with a veiled fire
about them, most attractive. She wears the prettiest little boots in
the world, and is always charmingly dressed. It is difficult to refuse
Mademoiselle Cujus anything, and I undertook to be present at the
concert. Admission was free, and thus I did not commit myself to any
great outlay.

When I entered the café that evening, I found it well filled with
a miscellaneous but respectable company. Everybody is talking,
coffee-cups and glasses are clinking, dominoes are rattling. At one
end of the room, on an extemporised platform, formed of a few rough
boards, the prima-donna, a rather bony lady in a very low dress,
stands with a roll of music in her hand, and surveys the company in a
somewhat dissatisfied way. She has cleared her throat once or twice,
and the pianist bangs out an opening chord or two. Her voice is a
little husky—perhaps with the singing of anthems; but she has plenty of
confidence and ‘go’ about her, and the wit to please her audience.

When the rattle of applause that greeted the end of the lady’s song
had ceased, there followed a comic man dressed as a peasant, carrying
a tobacco-pipe, which he was always trying, though ineffectually, to
light with a match from his trousers-pocket. He counterfeits the Norman
peasant in a state of semi-intoxication excellently well, and his song
is much applauded and called for again.

‘Yah!’ growled a voice behind me in an angry tone; and looking round I
saw M. Houlot standing by the doorway, his thick stick under his arm.
He seemed to be a little obscure in his faculties, and to have resented
the last performance as a personal insult to himself. His brows were
knitted, and his eyes gleamed angrily whilst he grasped the thin end
of his stick in a menacing way. Mademoiselle Cujus saw him at the same
moment as myself, and descended quickly from her Olympus to appease
him, laying her hand upon his arm as if to beg him to retire. He shook
it roughly off; and Mademoiselle looked imploringly at me, as being the
only one of the company who had noticed this little scene. At the sight
of beauty in distress I at once came forward. I took Houlot kindly
but firmly by the arm, and led him out into the kitchen at the back,
where, among the many brightly shining vessels of tin and copper, we
endeavoured to pacify him and explain matters.

No one could possibly withstand the winning ways of Miss Cujus. Houlot
was appeased, and went quietly out into the street. I had had enough
of the concert, and followed him. He lurched a little in his gait,
and every now and then stopped and looked fiercely round at the stars
overhead, as if he objected to their winking at him in the manner they
did. I accosted him once more, and in English, saying that I understood
that he spoke the language perfectly, and would he favour me with his
company for half an hour. He made no reply at first, but wrinkled his
brows and puckered his lips.

‘Come along!’ he said at last with a suddenness that startled me. ‘Let
me have a talk with you, then.’

I occupied a furnished house, with a little pavilion in the garden
looking out on the river, which I used as my writing and smoking room;
and to this pavilion I took my friend and called for lights and cognac.
He seemed restless and disturbed at the idea of being my guest. He
would not sit down, but as soon as he had swallowed a glass of brandy
he grasped his stick once more to take his departure.

‘If you would like any English books,’ I said, ‘I have some magazines
and so on.’

He shook his head. ‘I never read English; I have read none for ten
years,’ he said. ‘I like to get things at first-hand; so that if I want
to know anything, I go to the Germans; if I want to feel anything, to
the French. But what have you here?’ taking up a book. It was a volume
of Dawson’s last novel, which had been sent over to me.

‘Hum!’ he cried. ‘Is this a good author?’

‘A popular one,’ I replied, modestly remembering the share I had, if
not in his fame, at least in his fortunes.

‘I’ll take this, if you’ll let me have it,’ he said.

‘Take the three volumes.’

‘No; I’ll only take one. I don’t suppose I shall get through the first
chapter.’

Next day, however, he came back to borrow the second volume, and the
day after the third. I felt a little flattered that a work in which I
had taken so good a share had the power to captivate such a dour and
sullen soul.

‘What do you think of it?’ I said, when he brought back the last
volume. He was standing leaning against the doorway with his stick
under his arm. He would never sit down; he seemed to have made a vow
against it.

‘Think of it?’ he cried. ‘Why, it is my own—my own story!’

‘Yours!’ I said astonished. ‘How do you make that out?’

‘It is mine! the framework, the skeleton of it. Some fool has been at
work upon it and taken out all the beauties of it! The burning fiery
dialogue, the magnificent glowing descriptions, all are gone, and in
their stead some ass has filled it all up with pulp!’

This was pleasant for me to hear. My blood boiled with indignation,
but I was obliged to smother my rage and put on a sickly smile. ‘You
must be mistaken,’ I said. ‘How could he possibly have got hold of your
story?’

‘How? He must have got it from a man named Smith, to whom I sent it.
Write? Yes, I have written ever since I was breeched! It is a disease
with me; I can’t help it. Romances, novels, all that trash!’

‘And you send what you write to London?’

Houlot nodded. But he seemed all at once to have repented of his
freedom of speech, and took refuge in his usual taciturnity. Then once
more hugging his stick, he started off at his usual shambling trot.




THE CAT—ANCIENT AND MODERN.


Cruel and treacherous, a lover of the night and darkness, the cat,
with its distrustful gaze and marked attachment to localities, was
very naturally the animal selected, in the middle ages of superstition
and witchcraft, to represent the familiar companion, in which was
embodied the evil spirit supposed to attend all those who practised
the black art in former times. Long before this time, however, as some
people are probably aware, the cat was one of the most highly favoured
animals living; petted, pampered, carefully protected, and actually
worshipped by the then most civilised people in the world, the ancient
Egyptians. How this reverence came to be paid to the cat in particular
by this extraordinary people it is quite impossible to determine; but
by some it is supposed to have originated from the benefits conferred
on mankind by its destruction of vermin and reptiles; at anyrate,
if the Egyptian cats were as useful as they are represented to have
been, the care taken of them is easily accounted for. Though it seems
somewhat difficult to understand how the sportsmen of the Nile trained
their cats not only to hunt game but to retrieve it from the water, the
hunting scenes depicted on walls at Thebes and on a stone now in the
British Museum, afford proof of the Egyptian cat’s services in this
respect. In one of these representations Puss is depicted in the act of
seizing a bird that has been brought down by the marksman in the boat;
while in the other scene, as the sport has not begun, the cats are seen
in the boat ready for their work. Thus it appears from these ancient
illustrations of field and other sports, that the Egyptians were able
to train their domestic cats to act in the same way as our modern
retriever dogs do.

It is generally supposed that nothing will induce a cat to enter
water; but this is clearly a fallacy, like many other popular notions
about the animal world. The tiger is an excellent swimmer, as many
have found to their cost; and so the cat, another member of the tiger
family, can swim equally well if it has any occasion to exert its
powers, either in quest of prey, or to effect its escape from some
enemy. As cats are exceedingly fond of fish, they will often drag them
alive out of their native element whenever they get the chance. They
have even been known to help themselves out of aquaria that have been
left uncovered; and on moonlight nights they may be seen watching
for the unwary occupants of a fish-pond, during the spawning season
especially. Again, a cat will take the water in the pursuit of a rat,
a fact that was proved by a friend of ours a few years ago. On one
occasion being accompanied by one of his pets, a rat was started,
which the cat not only pursued, but chased into the water close by,
eventually swimming to an island some little distance from the bank,
where it remained a short time and then swam back again.

Diana or Pasht, as that goddess was called in Egypt, was the tutelary
deity of cats. Various reasons are assigned for this curious selection
of the cat as the animal worthy of being dedicated to the moon. We find
that according to Plutarch, the cat was not only sacred to the moon,
but an emblem of it; and that a figure of a cat was fixed on a sistrum
to denote the moon, just as a figure of a frog on a ring denoted a man
in embryo. And further, it was supposed that the pupils of a cat’s eyes
always dilated as the moon got towards the full, and then decreased as
the moon waned again. This has been given by some as the reason why
cats were held sacred to the goddess Diana.

As before stated, the Egyptians treated these animals with unusual
care and attention during their lifetime; hence it is not surprising
to find that the death of a cat was regarded as a family misfortune,
in consequence of which the household went into mourning. Their regret
for the defunct cat was displayed then by the curious custom of shaving
off the eyebrows before attending the funeral, which they invariably
conducted with great pomp. Previous to interment, the bodies of these
pets were embalmed, and then, when it was possible, conveyed to the
city of Bubastis, where they were placed in the temples sacred to Pasht.

The wilful destruction of a cat in Egypt is looked upon as a very
serious offence even now; but in the good old days (for cats) at
Bubastis the offence, even supposing it to have been accidental, was
punished with prompt severity. The unfortunate offender, as in the case
of a Roman soldier whose story is told by Diodorus, was taken prisoner,
tried, condemned, and sentenced—to death. Puss had fine times of it in
those early years of superstition and animal worship; but unfortunately
for her, other people formed very different notions concerning her
character and occupations generally; for in the middle ages cats got
the reputation of being the only animals that ill-famed old women could
induce to live in their houses; consequently they naturally became
associated with witchcraft and all that was diabolical and uncanny by
the credulous people of those times. In the Isle of Thanet a carving
still exists on one of the _misereres_ of the church which represents
an ugly old woman sitting in a chair and holding a distaff in her
hand, while two cats sit close to her, one of them indeed in the chair
itself, looking as if it wished to spring on to her shoulder. It seems,
however, that old women did not monopolise the cats even in those days,
for it is known that in the thirteenth century one of the rules of the
English convents was, that the nuns should keep no other ‘beast’ but a
cat; hence we may infer that cats were looked upon more favourably by
the religious orders than by the people generally.

The cat has been connected with many curious superstitions in various
parts of the world. In some localities, for instance, it is believed
that witches in the shape of cats are in the habit of roaming about
the roofs of the houses during the month of February; hence they are
promptly shot. In Germany also a similar notion prevails respecting
black cats; in consequence of which they are never allowed to go near
the cradles of young children; though it is not easy to understand why
the young should be more exposed to danger from these supposititious
witches than those more advanced in years. But numerous instances
might be given of the incredible nonsense that has been believed, and
is believed still in some places about the diabolical attributes of
the cat, especially a black one. In Sicily, where the cat is looked
upon as sacred to St Martha, there is a superstition that any one who
wilfully or accidentally kills a cat will be punished by the serious
retribution of seven years’ unhappiness. So if any credit is attached
to this, the life of Puss in Sicily must be as secure from harm as in
the palmy days of Egyptian cat-worship. In Hungary there is a curious
superstition that before a cat can become a good mouser it must be
stolen. The familiar nursery story of Whittington and his Cat, as well
as the favourite children’s fable of Puss in Boots, can be traced some
hundreds of years back.

It is perhaps an unfortunate thing that the habits of cats are not
more carefully observed, as it is by no means certain that their
peculiarities are fully understood. By some their intelligence is very
much underrated, and they are often looked upon as lazy uninteresting
animals, only to be tolerated in a house so long as they devote
themselves to nocturnal raids against mice or rats, as the case may
be. However, they cannot be put on a par with the dog, for as far
as present as well as past experience shews, the cat, with certain
honourable exceptions, is neither as useful, as faithful, nor as
intelligent as our canine friend.

The dog knows its owner, and will always make itself comfortable in any
place that the owner chooses to take it, provided he is there himself.
The cat, on the other hand, knows its owner’s house and furniture,
attaches itself to them, and seldom troubles itself at all about
the presence or absence of its owner; hence the great difficulty of
removing cats from one home to another. Sometimes they may be induced
to take kindly to new quarters, but very rarely. If Puss be taken to
a strange house, it will first of all examine and smell every article
of furniture in the rooms it is allowed to enter; if it finds the
same things that it has been accustomed to, perhaps the discovery may
reconcile it to remain; but if all is strange, the creature exhibits
symptoms of positive distress, and will even make efforts to return
to the old home; and this may perhaps account for the stories told of
Egyptian cats rushing back into blazing houses after they had been once
brought out of them with difficulty; for it has been gravely asserted
that the Egyptian cats preferred to perish with their homes when fires
broke out, rather than abandon them.

Some years ago _The Times_ gave an account of a remarkable incident,
illustrating in a striking way the sagacity and kindness of a dog;
the account had appeared in two other newspapers, but we have not the
means of verifying it. A cat named Dick was one day enjoying a meal of
scraps, when a needle and thread became entangled in his dinner; the
poor animal unconsciously partook of these adjuncts, which stuck in
his throat. Carlo, a dog on very friendly terms with Dick, observed
that something was wrong, hurried up to him, and seemed to receive some
kind of communication from him. The dog and the cat became physician
and patient. Carlo commenced operations by licking Dick’s neck, the
cat holding its head a little aside to give Carlo a fair chance. This
licking operation continued with short intervals of rest for nearly
twenty-four hours, Carlo occasionally pausing to press his tongue
against his friend’s neck, as if trying to find some sharp-pointed
instrument thrust from the inside to the outside. At length Carlo
was seen, his whole body quivering with excitement, trying to catch
something with his teeth. In this he succeeded. Giving a sudden jerk,
he pulled the needle through the hide of the cat, where it hung by the
thread which still held it from the inside. A by-stander then finished
the surgical operation by drawing out the thread; and Carlo looked as
if he were saying: ‘See what I did!’

We have just been told of a very remarkable instance of intelligence
displayed by a cat belonging to one of our contributors. After having
waited in vain outside a rat’s hole for the appearance of the occupant,
puss hit upon the plan of ‘drawing’ her prey, by _fetching a piece
of meat and placing it near the hole as a bait_, after which she hid
behind a box and waited for results. Whether the bait took or not, we
are not informed, but the wily scheme deserved success.

For the following instances of affection and sagacity in cats, we are
indebted to a lady correspondent.

‘Last October,’ she says, ‘I was staying a few days with a friend in
a small country village not many miles from Edinburgh. One morning I
was about to leave my bedroom, and had just opened the window, when I
saw a large yellow cat wandering about in the grass which surrounded
the house. The creature had a timid scared look, as if not much in
the habit of associating with human beings. I spoke to it in a tone
of encouragement, however; on hearing which it leaped up on the
window-sill and began to purr in a friendly way. I told my friend the
lady of the house about the cat, when she gave me the following account
of it. “This poor animal belonged to my deceased father. It came to
our house a very small kitten, and was accustomed from time to time to
receive food from my father’s hand, with now and then a little caress
or kindly word. But my father was not a cat-fancier, and as a general
rule did not take any great notice of the creature. About a year and
a half ago my father grew seriously ill, and after a few weeks of
suffering, died. During his illness the cat went up and down stairs
like a distracted creature, refusing food, and mewing again and again
in a mournful way. Sometimes it came into the sick-room, and jumped
on the bed; but its master was too ill to notice it, and it went away
with a disappointed look. When all was over, and the last attentions
had been paid to my father, and all was quiet in the death-chamber,
the poor cat came in and took up its position on the bed at his feet.
From this place nothing would induce the creature to move; and feeling
astonished at its fidelity and affection, we let it lie during the
day; though strange to say, it manifested a desire to leave the room
at night, returning always about nine in the morning, and if the door
was shut, mewing till it gained admittance. On the funeral-day, the
faithful creature did not seem to understand the absence of its master;
it left the room upon the removal of the body; but the first thing we
saw when the mourners returned was the poor pussie lying at the door
of the chamber. It was long,” said the lady in conclusion, “before the
affectionate animal recovered its usual sprightliness; and I would not
like anything to happen to a creature which has testified such a strong
affection for one so dear to me.”’

Another story is as follows: ‘A cousin of mine had a cat which had
just brought into the world some fine healthy kittens. According to
the usual custom on these occasions, some of the kittens were drowned,
while two were retained for the mother to rear. These were kept in a
compartment of an old kitchen table or “dresser.” This snug retreat had
a little door which was kept closed by means of a bolt. One day a young
visitor desired to see the kittens, which were accordingly taken to the
drawing-room by one of the daughters of the house. During the absence
of the kittens, the cat, which had been in the garden, came into the
kitchen, and went as usual to repose beside her little ones. She looked
into the dresser, and finding no kittens there, _“clashed” to the door_
in a rage, and left the kitchen, her tail thick with indignation! This
fact was told me by one of the young ladies of the household, who was
busy in the kitchen at the time and saw the whole thing. The cat’s
furious manner of slamming the door resembled so closely an irate
housewife’s way of doing so, that my informant was exceedingly amused,
and regarded the cat henceforth as a sort of wonder!’




SPECIMENS OF HINDU ENGLISH.


Among the great changes which are now passing over our gigantic
dependencies in the Indian peninsula, not the least noteworthy is
the rapid spread of a knowledge of the English language among the
native population. In certain districts of the Madras Presidency, this
knowledge of English may almost be said to be extending like wild-fire.
The English civil officer riding through a native village will
sometimes be greeted with a ‘Good-morning, sar,’ from a small boy whose
sole costume may be a string tied round the waist, and whose English
education may have extended no further than a few such interjectional
phrases. But among the school-boys, college lads, and a heterogeneous
collection of half-taught young men in search of employment, we meet
with most extraordinary feats in the use of our language. A well-known
story is told of a native clerk who, being detained at home by a boil,
wrote to his employer to say that he could not attend his duties ‘owing
to the suffering caused by one boil as per margin.’ And in the margin
of his letter was delineated with accuracy the form and appearance of
the offending growth!

The following was the amusing though pertinent answer of a student in
the University of Madras to a question about earthquakes and volcanic
action: ‘A month or two ago, says the _Times_, a violent eruption of
an unusual kind took place in Peru and Chili in South America; smokes,
flames, and hot melted matter were thrown with great violence on the
neighbouring districts from the hollow tops of the volcanic mountains.
Thousands of people of all orders and sexes were destroyed. When this
was the case an abominable earthquake took its part. Magnificent
houses, huge piles, largest trees, splendid temples, different kinds of
people with their relatives, and even large mountains were swallowed up
and goes on.’

The letters of native applicants for employment are often couched in
most comical terms. The writer once received a letter from a clerk who
thought he had not received the promotion he deserved. The missive
began: ‘HONORED SIR—Fathomless is the sea of troubles in which I sail
for 1 year.’ This mixture of poetic fervour and numerical accuracy
is unique of its kind. The following petition speaks for itself; the
style is common enough; but the writer is glad to say that it is the
only instance he has known of such an offer of apostasy as is here
disclosed; the proper names are suppressed: ‘The humble petition of
—— most respectfully sheweth; I am a Tanjorean [that is, native of
Tanjore]. My name is ——. My age is 20. I came here to my uncle’s house.
My uncle is the Police Inspector of ——. I want to be a Christian. There
are two Police Inspectors are vacant. Please recommend me to be one of
these Inspectors. As soon as I received the Inspector’s employment, at
once you may take me in Christian. There is no a single doubt at all.
If you want to see me tell a word to your Head Constable.... I heard
that you are mild, simplicity, and probity. I don’t know to write more
than this to you. Please excuse me if you find any mistakes. Shall ever
pray.—I am your most obedient and humble servant, ——.’

The next letter was sent by a clever hard-working native clerk who had
fallen ill. The signature alone is in his own handwriting, and the
letter was probably dictated to a friend. ‘MOST HONORED SIR—I have been
suffering from severest fever and bile for the last 10 days and I am
quite unable to move or to do anything. I lay quite prostrate on my
bed senseless (now and then)—continually painting—my sight fails—not a
drop of water I drank—no food—and having been under imminent danger day
before yesterday, my lucid intervals are very few, dangerous symptoms
frequently appear and I am not sure whether I will be able to see the
days before me—My case is very doubtful, precarious and dangerous. I
therefore most humbly pray that your Honor will be most graciously
pleased to grant one month’s privilege leave.... I beg to remain, ——.’

The following petition reads somewhat as though Lord Dundreary had
helped to compose it. It is from a pleader or attorney in a petty
civil court applying for the post of cashier in a government treasury.
Such cashiers have to give security in a considerable sum for the
due performance of their duties, and as a precaution against fraud.
It is this security (L.500) which is meant by the word ‘bail’ in the
petition. ‘MOST HONOURED SIR—This application is with great humility
presented to your honour by ——. The gazette reads that such as have a
wish to find themselves suffered to occupy the room of cashier, now in
vacancy, should undergo a greatly advanced bail of Rupees 5000. He is
appointed a pleader on the 11th D. day 1869, and by the civil judge in
character with his petitionally implored request, and he attends since
the heresaid down to the present age very punctually indeed his dearly
bought post.... He is, here he does very hopefully indeed state, ready
no matter at any while to give the here-demanded bail, Rs. 5000. Your
humble and very punctual petitioner implores your of course very widely
diffused charity to point to him his most humbly requested employ, or
otherwise, if ever so, any other one not far below it. Your honour’s
petitioner in requital and in duty bound very closely, will perhaps
never add even a second, while to diligence without bending his whole
heart to pray to the universal God to take care of and to cherish, your
honour together with all your family members for ever and anon. He
remains very affectionately truly yours, humble waiter, ——.’

The following curious epistle was addressed to an officer holding an
important post. It is hardly necessary to add that he was neither
Duke nor Lord. It will be observed that the writer does not directly
ask for monetary aid to relieve him from his difficulties, but simply
his ‘Lordship’s’ protection, and as a relief to his own feelings and
troubles. ‘MY LORD DUKE—I have the honor to inform to your Lordship’s
information that I will always obey your Lordship’s order ten thousand
tims do not be angry my Lord Duke upon me. I beg that your Lordship
that should excuse my faults it is my duty to get your Lordship’s
favor ten thousand times excuse my all faults my Lord Duke. I am much
fearfull I am very poor men my poor family requires to your Lordship’s
favor. My family is very poor family. I got a Mother Grandmother
Daughterinlaw and my family &c. I had a debt twenty-five thousand
Rupees. I am suffering much trouble for debtors. I believe that you
are my father and mother for my part only I want your Lordship’s kind
favour. If your Lordships be angry or even little angry immediately
I and my family must die at once, certainly it is my opinion I have
no protector but your Lordship. If your Lordships angry I must die at
once. I am much fearfull. If I had your Lordship’s favor It is quite
enough for me. You are Governor I am poor men. If your Lordship be
angry upon me it is quite my misfortune and my family therefore do not
be angry. This is not Government memorial. I thought that your Lordship
is my father and mother for my part therefore I have written all my
poor affairs to your gracious informations. Hereafter I never write any
letter to your Lordship nor I did not require any answer. only remember
me with kindness it is ten thousand profits for me. excuse the trouble
I have given your Lordships most valuable time. I have, &c.... _P.S._
I beg your Lordship will continue your favor towards me and my family.
Protect my Lord Duke. This is not memorial only for your Lordships
Gracious information. Protect me my Lord. This is First Mistake.
Execuse me my Lord, hereafter I never do any mistakes. I remain, &c.
——.’

Some years ago a great flood carried away a fine bridge over the
river Tambrapurni, near the chief town of the province of Tinnevelly.
This bridge had been built some thirty years before by a rich native
gentleman named Sulochana Mudaliar, to whom a memorial was erected at
one of the approaches to the bridge. The magistrate and collector—as
the ruler of the province is termed—by dint of great exertions raised
in subscriptions about seven thousand pounds; a sum sufficient to pay
for the restoration of the bridge. When the work was at last completed,
a grand opening ceremony took place, which gave occasion for a number
of poetic effusions in Tamil and in English by native aspirants. The
translation from the Tamil is the work of a native, and the following
is the reply of a great feudal landholder, who had been invited to
attend the opening ceremony: ‘MY DEAR SIR—I received your affectionate
ticket wanting my company on the occasion of the reopening of Sulochana
Mudaliar’s bridge on the 2d December. I was quite pleased to come down
for the occasion but I regret to inform you that I and —— are prevented
from coming from being a little sick. You will I humbly trust possibly
forgive me.—I beg to remain, Sir, Yours most obediently, ——.’

Extract from a translation of a Tamil poem:

    Who is to judge of the might of Mr ——. He and Messrs —— and ——
    of the eminent Tinnevelly District have had the pleasure of
    constructing the bridge so as to be praised by the world and
    allowed the people to pass over it freely. May they live for
    ever.

    The bridge fell down in the evening of Sunday, 18th November
    1869. By the noise of which I swooned away and trouble came
    also.

    How can I describe your pains O Mr ——. You worked as diligently
    at the words of Mr —— as the swinging of a swing and
    constructed the bridge with success and very soon and completed
    it within the fixed time. You beauty!...

    I have sung upon you in my adversity and hunger. I pray you
    eminent men to place your mercy upon me at your pleasure.

    While you are all occupying this eminent world with great fame,
    I undergo troubles like bees that tumbled down in honey. What
    can I do. Cause some employment to be given me without failure
    through the hand of —— with certainty.

We will conclude with a specimen of female composition in the form
of a letter sent home by a good old nurse or ayah named Martha, who
had accompanied her employers to England in charge of a baby, and who
had then been sent back to her native village in India. Both in its
sentiment and diction the missive is extremely touching.

‘To the Presens of —— and —— most Respected and Honored sheweth
The under Signed your Honor’s obediend The Mortha Ayah with due
Respectfully Begs to in form you about my considerations which I hope
will meet of your honor’s kidest aprovall. Respected Master and Misters
I and my Relations are all well By thanks of God and Faver of your
Honor’s while in this Time I hope you will be all right By thanks of
All mighty’s. This Poor and Obediend servend wrote a letter to your
honor when I came to —— I hope you may Receive it, I am doing Nothing
Since I left you by the Reason of no any Respected Place to work. here
is great Chalara in this year and all so Greatest Famine. 3 mesures of
Rice per a Rupee [between three and four times the usual price]. I hope
Dear Baby will speek and Walk at this Time I am very angshes to see her
and I lovely Thousan kisses to the Dear Baby, Respected Madam will you
kindly send me the Picture of the Baby’s to keep with me as you Promist
me. I humbly begs you to say my meny Thanks to the Mr and Mrs —— and
the childrens of them. Please tell my thanks to Miss Lysa and Miss
Looois [servants Eliza and Louise]. I hope I can see you very soon Back
in this Place. Therefore I humbly Begs to Remain Most Honored Madam
and Sir Yours truely most obediend servent Mortha Ayah. Misis —— she
looking to get me a Employmend anywhere. They are all well. The Dobin
[a favourite horse called Dobbin] he all right. Madam That this Poor
widdowe was Very much hapy at the Lost Year By your Exalend honor’s
kindness. But this new year I pased very miserably.’




CURIOUS CASES OF SLEEP-WALKING.


On the above curious subject a retired naval officer obligingly sends
us the following notes.

One bright moonlight night I was on deck, as was frequently my wont,
chatting with the lieutenant of the middle watch. It was nearly calm,
the ship making little way through the water, and the moon’s light
nearly as bright as day. We were together leaning over the capstan,
chatting away, when W—— suddenly exclaimed: ‘Look! H——, at that
sentry,’ and pointing to the quarter-deck marine who was pacing slowly
backwards and forwards on the lee-side of the deck.

‘Well,’ I replied, after watching him somewhat inattentively as he
passed once or twice on his regular beat, ‘what of him?’

‘Why, don’t you see he is fast asleep? Take a good look at him when he
next passes.’

I did so, and found W—— was right. The man, although pacing and turning
regularly at the usual distance, was fast asleep with his eyes closed.

When next the man passed, W—— stepped quickly and noiselessly to his
side, and pacing with him, gently disengaged the bunch of keys which
were his special charge—being the keys of the spirit-room, shell-rooms,
store-rooms, &c.—from the fingers of his left hand, to which they were
suspended by a small chain; he then removed the bayonet from his other
hand, and laid it and the keys on the capstan head. After letting him
take another turn or two, W—— suddenly called ‘Sentry!’

‘Sir?’ replied the man, instantly stopping and facing round as he came
to the ‘attention.’

‘Why, you were fast asleep, sentry.’

‘No, sir.’

‘But I say you were.’

‘No, sir. I assure you I was not.’

‘You were not, eh? Well, where are the keys?’

The man instantly brought up his hand to shew them, as he supposed; but
to his confusion the hand was empty.

‘Where is your bayonet?’ continued W——.

The poor fellow brought forward his other hand, but that was empty
also. But the puzzled look of astonishment he put on was more than we
could stand; both burst out laughing; and when the keys and bayonet
were pointed out to him lying on the capstan, the poor fellow was
perfectly dumfounded. W—— was too merry over the joke, however, to
punish the man, and he escaped with a warning not to fall asleep again.

Sentries and look-outs must be very liable to fall asleep from the very
nature of their monotonous pacing, and this may in some degree account
for the facility with which sentries have at times been surprised and
secured before they could give an alarm. In this instance, the most
curious fact, I think, was the regularity with which the man continued
to pace his distances and turn at the right moment. I have known other
instances of sentries and others walking in their sleep, though the
end has not always been so pleasant to the victims. In one case, the
quarter-deck sentry, in the middle of the night, crashed down the
wardroom hatchway with musket and fixed bayonet, with a rattling that
startled us all out of our cabins. The fellow fell on his back upon
the top of the mess-table, but not much the worse for his exploit.
On another occasion a messenger boy paid us a visit in the night: he
fell upon a chair, which he smashed to pieces, but the sleeper escaped
unhurt.

These can hardly be considered true cases of somnambulism, but shew how
men may continue their occupations when overcome by sleep. Nothing but
seeing his bayonet and the keys lying on the capstan could have ever
convinced the marine that he had been sleeping; no mere assertion to
that effect would ever have influenced him.




POURING OIL ON THE TROUBLED WATERS.


The idea expressed in the above heading, though commonly held to
be of sacred origin, or as merely a poetical manner of expressing
a commonplace occurrence, may nevertheless be taken literally as
well as figuratively, it being, as a matter of fact, a saying which
has satisfactory groundwork in natural facts. It was recently stated
in evidence before the Commissioners appointed to inquire into the
Herring Fisheries of Scotland, that the practice of pouring a quantity
of oil from a boat on to the surface of the sea during heavy weather
had the immediate effect of calming the waters and relieving the
boat from the danger of heavy broken water. ‘But,’ added one of the
witnesses, ‘although the oil has this effect for a time, the sea
becomes rougher afterwards, and so the advantage of adopting the plan
is practically not very great.’ It is more than probable that this
latter statement can be explained by the law of comparisons. The
oil cast out on the weather-side of the boat effectually assuages
the violence of the waves, which instead of breaking over it, glide
smoothly under it. Presently the film of oil becomes dispersed, and
the waves, again unchecked, appear, by comparison with the late calm,
to be still more formidable. A fresh dose of oil would, however,
again prove advantageous, but the experiment is seldom repeated, and
so the efficacy of the remedy is called into question. The best way
of adopting it is to throw overboard a barrel or skin filled with
oil, and pierced in two places, to allow of the gradual escape of the
contents. This reservoir should be secured by a rope, and kept on the
weather-side of the boat, and renewed as often as necessary. The plan
is frequently adopted, with the best results, by native boatmen in the
Persian Gulf and in parts of the Indian Ocean, where sudden squalls are
apt to spring up.




LOVE UNSUNG.


    Glide on, sweet purling stream,
      And mingle with the sea;
    Adown each glen thy waters gleam,
      In merry dance and free.
    Sing on, sweet bird; the blue expanse
      Of heaven’s vault is thine;
    O lap thy soul into a trance;
      Pour forth thy song divine;
    But I must not give forth my strain;
    I love a maid, but love in vain.

    The blithesome bird that haunts the vale
      Will bear but half her grief;
    She floats her sorrow on the gale,
      And gives her soul relief;
    The meanest floweret on the field
      Basks in the noonday sun;
    And every creature hath a rest,
      When daily toil is done;
    I to myself make bootless moan,
    And bear my burden all alone.

    A grief that links two hearts in bliss,
      Is but a hidden treasure;
    What’s but a thorn when singly borne,
      When shared becomes a pleasure;
    The finer feelings of the soul
      Are known by mutual union;
    Each spirit hath its counterpart,
      With whom to hold communion;
    But she is gone, and leaves with me
    The rest of the unsleeping sea.

        Æ. P.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 162: glyphograpy to glyphography—“executed in glyphography”.]







*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, NO. 742, MARCH 16, 1878 ***


    

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