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[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 746.      SATURDAY, APRIL 13, 1878.      PRICE 1½_d._]




OTTOMAN GIPSIES.


Independent and savage, unrecognised by the people in whose midst he
lives, and whose society and civilisation he has ever learnt to shun,
the Ottoman gipsy—of whom there are some two hundred thousand souls—has
neither political nor literary history of his own, and is at once the
most brutal and degraded of all the wandering races. Religious because
it suits his convenience to be so, submissive to law because he fears
punishment, he leads a wild and wretched life, scarcely earning by
his industry the wherewithal to satisfy even the most frugal demands
of nature. Yet secure in his tent he defies the world, and hates with
an undying enmity all strangers to his race. Can it then be wondered
at that neither Christian nor Mussulman bears any great love for his
unsociable neighbour, nor cares to enter into commercial relationship
with him? Even those gipsies who have abandoned tents for fixed
dwellings have but little ameliorated their condition, and are no
less heartily despised on that account. Their superficial religion,
their inclination to theft, their skill in deception, and their brutal
debaucheries, cause them to be distrusted wherever they may chance to
settle, and exclude them for ever from participation in the benefits of
a more civilised state of society.

To deal firstly with the veritable wandering gipsy, who knows no
settled home, whose tents dot the sunny landscapes of European Turkey,
Roumania, and Asia Minor, who is here one day and there the next, the
question arises, whither goeth he and whence cometh he? We shall see.

About the middle of April, sooner or later according to the season, he
quits his winter’s residence, or _gyshla_ as he terms it, and begins
to roam the surrounding country. Some of his kind descend from the
north of the Balkans and pass into Asia Minor; others mount where
their brethren descended, only to return about the commencement of
October; whilst some—and these, in our humble opinion, by far the
most sensible—confine themselves, in their migrations, to one single
province, where they know the wants of all and are known by all.

When cold and frost cut short their wanderings, and warn them to beat
a retreat, they unfailingly return to their old quarters, where in
the vicinity of some open spring they dream away the wintry hours,
little molested by their Turkish neighbours. Sometimes they enliven the
monotony of this season by a clandestine hunt, but it is more from a
desire to rob with impunity than from any wish to nourish themselves on
the game they thus slay.

With black shaggy hair, bronzed weather-beaten face, and dark brilliant
eyes, the stalwart Mussulman gipsy is by far the best type of his
race. He detests and distrusts all but the dwellers in tents. Although
familiarised with village life, and often half frozen under his frail
covering, he prefers to die beneath his well-patched canvas, to living
restricted by the narrow walls and low ceiling of a chamber. Nothing
ever seems to rouse the stolid indifference of one of this race. He
lives and dies as a beast. The habits of his civilised neighbours, the
garments of their women, the cleanliness of their homes and children,
and their usually happy appearance, all have no effect whatever upon
him. At night-time he retires to his tent to rest, and everything he
has seen is forgotten or looked upon as an idle dream; and he works
mechanically on from day to day, without the slightest desire to enter
into the joyous stream of life with which he finds himself surrounded.

Some few of his kind are so poor as to be unable to purchase even a
tent, and these are compelled to dwell as they best may in hollow
tree-trunks or chasms in the rocks; whilst others, chiefly those of
Bosnia, have wooden bark-covered cabins, which they remove from place
to place, on unwieldy wagons, drawn by from ten to a dozen oxen at
a time. Some work in iron, some are basket and sieve makers. They
are often oppressed, and seldom if ever find defenders. Books and
newspapers are quite unknown to them, and the commonest of domestic
utensils find no place in their tiny tents. About their origin they
know little, though the prophet Job, they say, taught their ancestors
the trade they now follow; and they have some slight suspicion that
they formerly came from Persia to the country they at present occupy.

The Turks call them _Tchinganés_; whilst the term they know one another
by is _Rom_, the title which binds the whole of the widely scattered
nomad tribes together. Their language itself is styled Romany.

There is not the slightest allusion to a deity in any of their most
ancient songs and legends, and they have no religious observances
peculiar to themselves alone. They have but one festival, during which
for three whole days they abandon themselves to feasting and merriment.
The fatted lamb is slain by those who can afford it, the tent decorated
with flowers, and passers-by freely invited to join their repast; all
litigations and legal processes are temporarily adjourned, and their
annual tax is then paid to the Turkish government. One branch of their
race, the _Zapari_, are the most ferocious of their kind. They are
to be found at the village fêtes and large fairs, whither they go to
earn a few coins by the display of their dancing bears or performing
monkeys. Some few of them are blacksmiths in winter. The Zapari are all
Mussulmans; and from their ranks the Sublime Porte finds its supply of
hangmen. They form quite a distinct class of themselves, being held
in abhorrence even by their savage brethren. Outcasts of outcasts,
they stop short of no crime, and are fitting companions for the
much-talked-of Bashi-Bazouks or wild marauders of the late disastrous
war.

But now to turn to the renegade or housed gipsy. Still retaining the
inherent desire for liberty so common to his race, he avails himself of
his dwelling as a shelter only by night, traversing the streets by day,
tricked out in dirty gaudy clothing, or seated with wife and family
just without the threshold of his hut, there frittering the precious
hours away. His children, if sent to school at all, are only despatched
there to be out of the way, and his home is as devoid of furniture
and well-nigh as comfortless as the ragged tent of his more Esau-like
brother. Little by little he forgets his old language, but not his
vicious habits, and very often ends by intermarrying with some poor
Greek family whose members are as lazy and apathetic as himself.

Their language—descended from the old Sanscrit—has besides giving the
only real clue to their origin, also shed some rays over the dark
period between the first emigration of the gipsies from India and
their appearance in Europe. Originally the distinct mode of speech of
a single and special border tribe of Northern India, it has, during
the many wanderings of the race, appropriated words from nearly every
country through which they passed; while on the other hand it lost
many of its own words, and still more of its own inherent power and
elegance; and much also of its resemblance to the mother tongue. These
adopted foreign words, their relative number, and their more or less
corrupted state, point plainly to the gipsies having passed from India
first into Persia, to their having remained there a considerable time,
and to their having wended their way to some Greek country, perhaps
Asia Minor, and to their descent thence into their present European
homes.

It is worthy of further remark, as proof of their Indian origin, that
the speech of the English gipsies has been found on comparison most
marvellously akin to that of the natives of Bombay, though some of
their words have, strangely enough, entirely changed the meaning they
at first possessed.

The speech of the Tchingané is rude, sharp, strongly accentuated, and
somewhat difficult to comprehend. Properly spoken it is harmonious
enough, though rendered hoarse and almost distasteful by the wild
tribes who employ it. ‘We speak,’ say they themselves, ‘as the birds
sing, but we sing as the lions roar!’ With them _papa_ signifies an
apple, _cat_ scissors, _rat_ night, _Devel_ God, whilst _dad_ seems to
be the only word exactly synonymous with any in our own language.

Heroic in suffering, the true Ottoman gipsy never sheds a tear. On his
legs to the last, he only betakes himself to his couch when death is
too surely nigh, and departs without a murmur from the life that has
been so full of unhappiness and misery to him. Buried apart from the
rest of humanity, and unwept even by his own, his low moral nature is
apt to be forgotten in his sad end, though the unsuccessful efforts of
more than one philanthropical European Society testify to the fact,
that whatever else you may do with the Ottoman gipsy, you will never
succeed in even partially civilising him.




HELENA, LADY HARROGATE.


CHAPTER XX.—AS GOVERNESS.

The establishment at High Tor was by no means on so sumptuous a scale
as that which the much larger revenues of Sir Sykes Denzil maintained
at Carbery Chase. Indeed, while for a baronet Sir Sykes was rich, for
an earl Lord Wolverhampton was almost poor. There are poorer earls
than he, no doubt, dwelling in cheap watering-places or in outlying
London squares, and exhibiting their pearl-studded coronets on no more
pretentious equipage than a brougham. But for a man of his degree, and
a De Vere withal, the Earl was not wealthy. It was much to his credit
that he was popular in spite of the comparative slenderness of his
annual rent-roll, since a poor lord, like an impoverished government,
is apt to be regarded with a sort of unreasoning contempt by those who
are very likely worse off, but in a less conspicuous station.

To be rich is, after all, a very uncertain distinction; that which
is opulence to the Squire implying mere substantial comfort when it
belongs to Sir John, and but a moderate income when it has to meet the
calls which charity, duty, and custom make on ‘my lord’s’ bank balance.
Are there not nobles of princely rank who declare that they are stinted
of pocket-money, of actual jingling sovereigns and rustling notes, by
the prudent administrators of their vast nominal fortunes? And have
we not heard of mighty financiers who feel a positive pang at any
encroachment on the colossal capital on which is reared the fabric of a
world-wide credit?

Lord Wolverhampton had been known to say more than once among his
intimate friends, that a step in the peerage would to him prove a
ruinous boon; and that to keep his head above water, difficult as an
Earl, would be impossible were that honest head overweighted by the
strawberry-leaved coronet of a Marquis. Such expensive promotion was,
however, unlikely, for High Tor now sent forth no legislators to the
more stirring of the Houses of Parliament. Some two years before, Lord
Harrogate had been returned for a west-country borough, and had earned
some praise and much good-will during the brief tenure of his seat.
But the session came to a close, and with it the corporate life of the
moribund House of Commons; and the Earl could not bring himself again
to face the costly struggle of a contested election, even on behalf of
a son so promising as his heir.

Thus the fine old house of High Tor, though lacking no adjuncts or
appliances that should appertain to the mansion of a plain country
gentleman who happened to have a handle to his name (such was the
Earl’s favourite way of describing himself among those who knew
him well, though it may be doubted whether any patrician in Europe
cherished in secret a stronger sentiment of family pride), was not kept
up with quite so ostentatious a lavishness as the neighbouring dwelling
of Carbery, the red gables of which gleaming in the westering sun,
never met Lord Wolverhampton’s eyes without suggesting the remembrance
that it had been built and, till recently, owned by a De Vere.

There was space enough and to spare in the picturesque old mansion; and
the chamber which had been assigned to Ethel Gray, and which had been
formerly tenanted by that Miss Grainger whose desertion of her post
as governess to try the experiment of wedded life we have heard the
Countess deplore, and which was next to the great rambling school-room,
commanded a noble prospect over hill and dale, over wood and water.
From the ivy-framed windows, in clear weather, Dartmoor might be seen
for miles and leagues, rolling away in giant waves of purple heather
and gray and green; while here and there rose up defiantly the naked
crags, known locally as Tors, frowning like natural fortresses on the
invader of the wilderness.

Nearer, the two parks were visible, with all their wealth of huge old
trees and matchless turf, browsed by hereditary deer, that couched
contentedly amid the tall fern that had screened the antlered herds
for centuries past, and the red roof and gleaming vanes of stately
Carbery, and the peaceful waters of its ornamental lake, in which the
silver-white swans that floated there were imaged back as from the
polished surface of a mirror. It was a pretty room this, wherein Miss
Grainger, its last occupant, had passed perhaps the happiest years of
her governess-life; and now it had received a new tenant in the person
of Ethel Gray. A new tenant, but for how long? That was a question
which Ethel asked herself, without being able to give a satisfactory
answer to her own query. The school-house of High Tor, with the modest
dwelling of its mistress, lay in ugly heaps of blackened ruin; and
it must be long before the little flock of scholars could again be
gathered together in any building large enough to hold them, and longer
before the village instructress could have a home to replace that
which the fire had made desolate. There were at the best of times no
lodgings in High Tor fit for the abode of an educated girl such as
Ethel, and now every house that remained unharmed was overcrowded by
the burned-out inhabitants of those which the conflagration had swept
away.

It so chanced, however, that on the very day following Ethel’s arrival
the question as to the prolongation of her sojourn at High Tor House
was conclusively settled. Lady Alice, a quick-witted impulsive child,
came swiftly down-stairs to the room where her mother and sisters were
sitting. ‘Pray, come, Maud!’ she said breathlessly; ‘Gladys, you come
too; and you, mamma. It’s worth while, indeed it is, only to listen for
a moment!’

‘What is to be listened to?’ asked the Countess, amused at the eager
manner of her youngest child.

‘Miss Gray’s singing, her wonderful, wonderful singing!’ returned the
child impetuously. ‘I heard it by accident as I passed the door of the
school-room, where she is all alone at the piano; and I could hardly
tear myself away that I might tell you not to lose the treat.’

The Countess laughed good-humouredly.

‘All Alice’s geese are swans,’ she said; ‘and I am too old to climb so
many stairs on the strength of this young lady’s recommendation. You
are young, Maud, yourself, and I see you cannot resist the temptation;
nor you either, Gladys.’

And indeed the two elder of the Ladies De Vere had allowed themselves
to be convinced, or at least rendered compliant, by the pleading eyes
and the energetic ‘Do come, please,’ of their child-sister. It was some
little time before they returned.

‘Mamma, Alice was right; and you have lost a treat worth a longer
pilgrimage than that,’ said frank Lady Gladys, coming down, with Alice,
radiant with delight, skipping at her side. ‘This Miss Gray (Maud, who
is really getting fond of her, addresses her as “Ethel” already) has a
voice that might make her fortune if she were less timid, and so sweet
and liquid that one might fancy it the carol of a bird. Such a touch
too on the keys! That jangling wheezy old school-room piano, on which
excellent Miss Grainger used to pound so distressingly, gives out real
music beneath those fingers of hers, and becomes full-toned and mellow.
What a shame to throw away talent such as that upon the A B C work of
teaching urchins the rudiments of knowledge!’

‘I never heard of these high musical attainments of Miss Gray’s, I am
sure,’ said the puzzled Countess; ‘and I am almost as certain that
your father never heard of them either. She was strongly recommended,
I know, by an old college friend of my lord, a clergyman somewhere,
and that is all I have learned concerning her. But if she is such a
performer as you describe, I should like to hear her too.’

Lady Gladys shook her head. ‘I am not sure,’ she said, ‘whether so
shy a song-bird can be coaxed into warbling before an audience of
strangers. She really did seem quite startled and distressed when Alice
began to clap her hands and Maud and I broke in upon her. She had no
notion, she said, that her singing could be heard by any of us in that
out-of-the-way corner of so large a house, and seemed to think she had
taken a great liberty and infringed rules of social decorum. And it was
all that even Maud, whom she likes, could do to persuade her to sing
again, only a little bit of a ballad; but it all but brought tears into
my eyes, hackneyed girl of the world as I am, you know.’

In explanation of which last speech, it may be mentioned that Lady
Gladys, the beauty of the family, had gone through two London seasons
under the chaperonage of her mother’s sister, the Marchioness of
Plinlimmon, and that it was supposed that if she had remained unmarried
still, it was not for want of offers matrimonial.

‘I was thinking, mamma,’ said Lady Maud, who had lingered longer with
Ethel than her sister had done, ‘that you could scarcely do better than
to engage Miss Gray, if it suits her, as a governess for Alice, instead
of writing to every point of the compass in hopes that some friend will
recommend some treasure. It’s not only that Ethel Gray is really too
good for the routine of plodding tuition in a village school, but that
she knows everything, or nearly everything, that Miss Grainger knew,
and French and German quite as well as it is possible to acquire them
in England. Gladys has told you, I am sure, what a musician she is. I
do not know how you could do better.’

The Countess too did not know how she could do better than to engage
such a successor to the oft-quoted Miss Grainger, provided she
possessed the accomplishments with which she was credited, and were
willing—which Lady Wolverhampton could scarcely doubt—to exchange
her rustic pupils for the post of governess at High Tor House. And
as, on inquiry, it seemed that Ethel’s acquirements had not been
overrated, and that her magnificent voice and musical proficiency
fully merited the encomiums of the girls, while Alice was a vehement
partisan of the governess-elect, the Countess was ready to propose the
formal installation of Ethel in that capacity, subject to ‘my lord’s’
approval, when he should return from some magisterial business at
Pebworth.

It was, however, necessary, in the Countess’s opinion, to ask a
question or two on other matters than that of competence to teach.
The office of mistress of the village school was one thing; that of
governess to an Earl’s youngest daughter was another. It would be
satisfactory, the Countess thought, to know a little more of Miss
Gray’s birth, parentage, and antecedents than any of the De Vere family
did as yet know. Ethel’s simple frankness saved Lady Wolverhampton—who
did not like to put direct questions, and was eminently unfit for the
delicate operation of extracting by subtle talk and veiled inquiry
what she wished to learn—a great deal of trouble.

‘My father is in Australia,’ she said, raising her clear eyes to meet
those of the Countess. ‘He is, I believe, a merchant there; but even
_that_ I do not know with any certainty, though he has been living
there for many years, and I have always been told that I was born in
the colony. I came with him to England, I know, when I was a little
child, and he returned there; and I have not seen him since then, and
cannot remember him at all.’

Ethel’s story was a brief one. She had little to relate, save of her
early youth, spent at Sandston, a minor bathing-place on the Norfolk
coast, where Mr Gray, a widower, who had paid but a short visit to his
native country, had left his only child under the care of an excellent
woman, one Mrs Linklater, a widow and mistress of a lodging-house.
Ethel’s eyes grew dim as she spoke of good motherly Mrs Linklater, at
whose death, three years before, she had been received into the house
of the clergyman, who had been a college friend of the Earl, and to
whose wife she had been a sort of companion.

‘Dear Mrs Keating,’ said Ethel simply, ‘quite, I am afraid, spoiled
me. For years and years, when Mrs Linklater was alive, I spent much
of my time at the vicarage; and Mrs Keating, who was herself very
accomplished, taught me almost all the little that I know. She was fond
of music, and understood it as few understand it, and it is through her
kindness that I learned to sing and play. She had no children living
except the three sons who were making their way in the world; and I
believe that she thought I was like a little daughter she had lost, and
whose name, like mine, was Ethel, and so’——

‘And so she took you to live with her, when this worthy Mrs—yes,
Linklater died,’ said the Countess encouragingly. ‘But how came you to
leave her?’

Ethel’s explanation of that was clear enough. Mrs Keating’s health,
always frail, had given way, and she had been ordered to a warmer
climate. Dr Keating, who had accompanied his wife to Mentone and
Bellaggio, had a curate to pay and heavy expenses to meet. It was
necessary that Ethel should get her own living; and it was at her own
suggestion that Dr Keating had sought for her that appointment as
mistress of a village school which his acquaintance with the Earl had
enabled him to obtain for her at High Tor.

‘But your father?’ said the Countess, full of sympathy, for she liked
the girl better and better for all that she saw or heard of her.
Ethel smiled somewhat sadly. Mr Gray, it appeared, seldom wrote,
and then very curtly, from Australia. For nearly two years the
customary remittance, sufficient to defray the cost of his daughter’s
maintenance, had not reached Sandston. That he would one day come
back to England, Ethel hoped. He had been, she feared, of late less
prosperous in his affairs than was formerly the case. Dr Keating held
the address in Sydney to which letters to the widower had been hitherto
addressed.

The matter was settled; the proposal that Ethel should become governess
to Lady Alice, and as such should be permanently domiciled at High Tor,
was graciously made and gratefully accepted.

‘I shall have to look out for another schoolmistress, it seems,’ said
the good-natured old Earl; ‘but never mind that. Alice is pleased, and
Maud is pleased; and as Miss Gray seems to like it too, I think we may
say that some good came of our luckless fire, after all.’




SOME PHYSIOLOGICAL ERRORS.


One of the notable examples of popular delusions regarding bodily
structure and functions, is exemplified by the belief that the third
finger was selected as the bearer of the wedding-ring because a
particular nerve placed this member in direct communication with the
heart. Over and over again has this belief been expressed, and in
the belief is found an apparently satisfactory reason why the third
finger is thus honoured. The slightest acquaintance with physiological
science shews that the supposition referred to has not even a germ of
probability to shew on its behalf. The ring-finger is supplied with
nerves according to the rule of nervous supply in the body generally,
and, it need hardly be said, without the slightest reference to the
heart; the nerves of which in turn are supplied from an independent
source and one quite dissociated from that which supplies the nerves of
the hand.

Equally curious and erroneous beliefs intrude themselves into the
domain of medicine and surgery. Thus for instance it is a matter of
ordinary belief that a cut in the space which separates the thumb from
the forefinger is of necessity a most dangerous injury. The popular
notion regarding this region is that an injury inflicted thereupon is
singularly liable to be followed by tetanus or lock-jaw. There exist
not the slightest grounds for this supposition. Lock-jaw it is true
might follow an injury to this part of the hand, as it might supervene
after a wound of any of the fingers. But physiology and medicine alike
emphatically dispel the idea that any peculiarity of structure which
might predispose to the affection just named, exists _chiefly_ in the
region of the thumb. It may be that the difficulty experienced in
securing the healing of wounds in this portion of the hand—owing to the
amount of loose tissue and to the free movements of the part which it
is almost impossible to prevent—might favour or predispose to an attack
of tetanus. But as the same remark may be made of many other portions
of the body, it follows that the thumb-region possesses no peculiarity
whatever in this respect over any other part of the frame.

One of the points which has been most hotly contested in technical as
well as in popular physiology is the use and functions of the _spleen_.
This organ, as most readers are aware, is a gland, of somewhat oval
shape, lying close to the left side or extremity of the stomach. It
is one of the so-called ‘ductless’ glands of the body—that is, it
possesses no duct or outlet, as do the liver, sweetbread, and other
glands concerned with the formation of special fluids used in digestion
and other functions. In olden times philosophers puzzled themselves
over this mysterious organ; nor was its nature rendered any clearer by
the discovery of the fact that it may be removed from the bodies of the
higher animals without causing any great or subsequent inconvenience,
and without affecting in any perceptible degree the health of the
subject operated upon. One classical authority went so far as to allege
that he could find no use whatever for the organ; whilst another
maintained that possibly it was intended to serve as a kind of packing
for the other organs around it, and that it kept them from getting
out of their places in the movements of the body. The idea, however,
which obtained most credence was that which regarded the spleen as
the fountain and origin of all the vile ‘humours’ which rankled the
blood and soured the disposition of man. We can still trace in the
metaphorical expressions of our literature this ancient belief; so that
what at first were regarded as literal and true ideas of the spleen and
its use, have come in modern days to do duty simply as metaphors.

Modern science, in dispelling those antiquated notions, has now
assigned to the spleen a very important part in our internal mechanism.
The part it plays may be thus described. The blood, as every one who
has looked at a thin film of that substance through a microscope will
know, is in reality a fluid as clear as water, and derives its colour
from the immense number of little red bodies the ‘corpuscles,’ which
float in it. These red corpuscles of human blood do not attain a
greater size than the 1/3500th part of an inch—that is, three thousand
five hundred of these little bodies placed in a line would make up an
inch in length. In addition to the red bodies, there exist in the blood
a much smaller number of ‘white corpuscles,’ each containing a little
central particle which the red ones want. From the results of the most
recent researches it would appear that the red corpuscles are produced
by the partial destruction of the white ones; and that the little
central particles of the white globules, when coloured, appear before
us as the red corpuscles of the blood. Now the spleen is to be regarded
as the great manufactory or _depôt_ in which the red corpuscles are
thus produced from the white ones, and in which also many of the white
corpuscles are themselves developed. And it would also appear highly
probable, that when the red globules of the blood have served their
turn in the economy of the body they are broken down in the spleen;
their material being doubtless used for some wise purpose in the
maintenance of our complicated frame.

A very common idea, but one founded on no certain or feasible grounds,
is that which maintains that our bodies undergo a complete change and
renewal of all their parts every seven years. The ‘mystical’ nature of
the number seven, has had an unquestionable effect in originating this
opinion; and although the age of fourteen and again that of twenty-one
may be regarded as marking the attainment of youth and manhood or
womanhood respectively, yet physiology gives no countenance to the
popular opinion that of necessity these periods are those of sweeping
bodily change. On the contrary, it might be shewn that the periods at
which full growth of body is attained vary with climate, race, and
constitution—that is, with the personal nature, and with the physical
surroundings of individuals, communities, and nations. The true state
of matters as disclosed by physiology, leads us to contemplate actions
and changes which are of infinitely more wondrous kind than those
involved in the idea of septennial change. For if there is one axiom
which physiology maintains more constantly than another, it is that
which teaches that constant and _never-ceasing_ change is the lot of
life from its beginning to its end.

No part of the body of a living being is free from these changes of
substance, through which indeed every act of life is carried on. Every
movement of a muscle—the winking of an eyelid or the lifting of a
finger—implies waste of the organs and parts which move. The thinking
of a thought implies wear and tear of the organ which thinks—the brain
itself. Were it possible to spend existence even in a perfectly still
and rigid condition, there are still actions to be performed which are
necessary for the maintenance of life, and which necessitate continual
waste and wear of the tissues. Thus the beating of the heart, the
movements of our chest in breathing, and the very act of receiving
and digesting food—actions which are in themselves concerned with the
repair of the frame—can only be performed through the intervention of
processes of work, and waste of body. So that a living being is to be
regarded as passing its existence in a constant state of change. Its
particles are being continually wasted, and as incessantly renewed;
and although the growth of our bodies may be said to culminate at
various periods of our life, yet it is anything but correct to say
that there are marked epochs of change in human existence. The truth
is that change and alteration are our continual heritage; and it is
strange indeed to think that not an organ or part of our bodies exists
which has not repeatedly in its history been insensibly and gradually,
but none the less perfectly, renewed in all its parts. Our particles
and substance are being dissipated in very many ways and fashions.
Chemically and physically, we are in a state of continual break-down;
whilst on the other hand, it may be shewn that the forces of life are
enlisted powerfully on the side of renewal and repair.

In connection with the exercise of our senses there are not a few
points on which popular ideas stand in need of correction. When we
speak of ‘seeing’ or ‘hearing,’ the exercise of these or any other of
our senses indeed, is usually referred to the organ concerned—eye, ear,
nose, or tongue, as the case may be. A little consideration, however,
will shew us that we make a very grievous mistake in referring the act
of sensation or perception to the organ itself. Let us consider for
a moment what happens when we acquire ideas regarding the form of an
object through the sense of touch. We may in the first place ‘will’ to
touch the object in question; the act of ‘volition’ as it is termed,
originating in the brain, being transformed into nerve-force, and being
further directed along the particular nerves which supply the muscles
of one finger or along those which supply all the fingers. The muscles
are thus stimulated to action, and through their agency the fingers
are brought into contact with the desired object. Leaving the sense of
sight out of consideration for a moment, we know that we can through
the sense of touch gain ideas regarding the form, size, hardness, and
other qualities of the object. Our nervous system is thus bringing us
into relation with the outer world and specially with that portion of
it represented by the object we have touched. But how have we gained
our knowledge? The reply to this question leads us at once to perceive
that the tips of the fingers do not represent the seat of knowledge.
And a further consideration makes it equally clear that the brain
must be credited not only with the task of perceiving, but also with
that of appreciating what has been perceived. Hence we are forced to
conclude that just as the first nervous impulse shot through the nerves
to the fingers, so a second impulse has passed from the fingers to the
brain. Our sense of touch has given origin to a subtle force which
has passed upwards to the brain, and has there become transformed,
through a mechanism—of the working of which we know as yet absolutely
nothing—into perception and thought. Similarly with the work of the
eye, of the ear, and of other senses.

When we talk of seeing or hearing, we are in reality speaking of
the act of the brain, not of the eye or ear, which are merely the
‘gateways’ through which the brain obtains its knowledge. And that
the brain is the true seat of the senses, may be proved to us from
the side of pathology—the science which makes us acquainted with the
causes and nature of disease. Cases are well known in which injury of
the brain as the seat of sense has given origin to depraved sensations.
Post-mortem examinations of persons who were continually conscious
of a disagreeable odour have proved that these persons had laboured
under brain-disease; whilst one case is on record in which, after a
fall from a horse, and for several years before his death, a person
believed that he smelt a bad odour. So also the sense of sight may
be altered from internal causes, and on this ground may be explained
the real nature of many cases of so-called ghost-seeing and spectral
illusions. One well-known case, in illustration of this latter point,
was that of Nicolai, a Berlin bookseller, who, neglecting to be bled
in accordance with his usual custom, began to see strange persons in
his room, and faithfully described the appearance of the figures. The
figures disappeared when he had been bled once more. Thus in all such
cases we must believe that those parts of the eye or ear which would
have been concerned in seeing the supposititious objects or hearing
the supposititious sounds—had either existed—were irritated from the
brain and produced the delusive sensations. Thus the common phrase
that ‘seeing is believing’ is in one sense literally true; for the act
of sight apparently exercised in the person who suffers from optical
illusions is in reality performed by the brain and is thus an act of
belief, even if it be one of unconscious kind. The entire subject of
physiological errors teems with valuable applications, but with none
more practical or worthy of remark than that which would insist on the
advantages, in the ruling wisely of our lives, to be derived from even
an elementary acquaintance—such as should be included in the curriculum
of every school—with the science of life.




MR ASLATT’S WARD.


IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.

I did not then know what I afterwards learned, the full extent of
her obligations to Mr Aslatt, nor the sentiments of love which that
gentleman came to entertain for his beautiful ward. A pretty child of
six, singing in the streets of a foreign city, she had first attracted
his notice; and her sad lot had so touched his heart, that he could not
rest till he had rescued her from it. The itinerant musicians in whose
company he found her spoke of her as an orphan, the child of a former
comrade, and made no objection when Mr Aslatt proposed to adopt her and
provide for her future. He was a lonely man, with no near relatives
to resent this action on his part; and the child became the delight
of his life and the idol of his heart. He was but a young man when he
took the little orphan under his protection, and his friends thought
it an alarming proof of the eccentricity which had already marked
him. But a bitter disappointment had blighted his life, and made it
impossible, he then thought, for him ever to have a happy married life,
such as he had once anticipated. He determined to spend his wealth in
giving brightness to the existence of the little fairy-like creature,
who seemed made to live in the sunshine; and in the effort to promote
little Rose’s happiness he found his own. When it was that his paternal
fondness for her passed into a warmer more passionate emotion, and he
experienced a longing to bind her to himself by the closest of all
ties, I could not know; but that such was the nature of his regard for
her when I went to reside at his house, was beyond doubt.

And it was equally plain that Rose entertained for him a very different
feeling. She looked upon him as her dear guardian and friend, one
who had been as a father to her; but I do not think the possibility
of any other relationship had ever crossed her mind. Indeed it was
pretty evident to me that another was frequently in her thoughts to the
exclusion of Mr Aslatt, who was so untiring in his efforts to win her
love. I was grieved to see how often she wounded him by her thoughtless
wilful conduct; and the patience with which he bore with her capricious
moods, fully enlisted my sympathies on his behalf. If any word of
mine could have influenced my wayward charge to value more highly her
true-hearted friend, it would have been spoken; but from what I knew of
her, I judged that I should better serve Mr Aslatt’s cause by silence
than by speech.

On the day following that of our excursion to Ashdene, Rose took me
for a drive in her little shell-shaped chaise, drawn by two pretty
Shetland ponies. We drove through narrow country lanes with hedges
gay with wild-flowers, and across a breezy common covered with golden
furze-bushes, returning by a road which led us through the village.

‘This is the school-house,’ said Rose as we approached a rather
imposing-looking structure in red brick; and without another word she
pulled up her ponies and alighted.

I followed her into the large school-room, which at that hour was
deserted. Mr Hammond, however, had heard our entrance, and almost
immediately came in from an inner room. The bright flush which tinged
Rose’s cheek as he appeared, and the somewhat conscious manner in
which she greeted him, seemed to confirm my previous surmises. He was
certainly a very handsome man; and his manner and bearing were in
striking contrast to his position. I could not wonder that a girl like
Rose should be fascinated by his appearance and address, even while, in
spite of his efforts to please me, the feeling of distrust with which
I had at first regarded him, deepened. From what I observed during
that interview, I felt pretty certain that some private understanding
already existed between him and Rose. I dared not question my wilful
charge, knowing well how her proud spirit would resent any interference
from me. Yet I longed to do something to prevent this man from
obtaining a fatal influence over her heart. But I could only wait and
watch for what time might reveal, resolved meanwhile to accompany
Rose whenever she paid a visit to the school-house. I saw that this
precaution of mine afforded satisfaction to Mr Aslatt.

The summer weeks passed away swiftly and pleasantly with me. But the
signs of secret sorrow became more plainly visible on Mr Aslatt’s
countenance, and I felt sure he was tortured with anxiety on account of
Rose’s intimacy with the schoolmaster. I sometimes wondered that he did
not dismiss Mr Hammond from his post, but I suppose he dreaded Rose’s
reproaching him with injustice; for in truth the schoolmaster appeared
most exemplary in the discharge of his duties, and no reasonable ground
of complaint could be found. I became anxious also, as I saw every week
fresh proofs of Rose’s attachment to Mr Hammond. At last a day arrived
when my suspicions as to the existence of a secret understanding
between the two were confirmed in a most unexpected manner. It was a
warm September evening. Rose, complaining of a headache, had retired
early to rest, and I was about to follow her example, when looking from
my window at the calm beauty of the garden as it lay in the clear light
of the moon, I was tempted to take a stroll. Wrapping a shawl about
me, I went down the steps leading into the garden, and slowly walked
down the green alley bordered by tall laurel bushes. It was almost as
light as day until I reached the end of the walk, where some large
trees obscured the moonbeams. As I passed into their shadow I thought
of the warning Rose had given me on the night of my arrival. I smiled
at the remembrance; and in order to prove to myself that I had no fear
of supernatural encounter, I turned into the path which led towards
that part of the house said to be haunted. Here the gloom deepened, for
the shrubs and trees in this portion of the garden had been neglected,
and suffered to grow at will, until they intertwined their branches
overhead, forming a leafy covering.

‘How frightened Rose would be, if she were here,’ I thought; but the
next moment I became conscious that my own bravery was not worth
much. A sudden rustling amongst the leaves close at hand startled me,
and involuntarily I turned to go back. But ashamed of my cowardice, I
almost immediately turned round again, and peering through the bushes
in the direction from which the sound had come, tried to discover its
cause. ‘It was merely some dog or cat straying amongst the shrubs,’ I
said to myself, trying to shake off the fear which had taken possession
of me. But again I heard the sound more distinctly than before, and
it seemed to me that some one must be walking along the path on the
other side of the shrubbery. But I could see nothing, and my heart
began to beat violently in dread of I knew not what. A cloud had passed
over the moon, and the wind was rising and making a mournful ‘sough’
amongst the trees, which was not reassuring. I shivered; and drawing
my shawl closely around me, again turned to leave the garden. But once
more the sound fell upon my ear, and at the same moment my eyes were
arrested by the appearance of a white ghost-like figure standing on the
steps leading from the haunted room. In spite of my boasted disbelief
in supernatural appearances, for an instant I really thought that the
shadowy form I beheld must be the denizen of another world. I stood
motionless, rooted to the spot by fear. It was but for a moment that
the figure was visible; as I gazed upon it, it glided slowly down
the steps and disappeared in the gloom. I can smile now to think how
terror-struck I was as I watched its disappearance. Suddenly I heard
again the sound which had at first awakened my fears, now close at
hand, and almost immediately I felt something cold touch my hand. I
uttered a faint cry, and should have swooned, I verily believe, if a
low familiar whine had not assured me that Nero was by my side, and had
thrust his nose into my hand. Hitherto, I had regarded Rose’s rough
pet with some trepidation, but now his presence was most welcome, and
I laid my hand on his shaggy head, in order to keep him by my side.
But he would not be retained, and breaking from me, ran down the
path towards the spot where my supposed ghost had vanished. The next
minute I heard him barking loudly, and the sound of his hearty voice
dissipated my absurd fears. ‘Nero evidently has no fear of ghosts,’
said I to myself, as with growing courage I advanced to discover the
cause of his excitement.

As I approached the end of the path, Nero’s barking ceased, and to
my astonishment, I heard a well-known voice gently coaxing him to be
quiet. I turned a corner, and beheld Rose standing by a door which
led from the garden into the road. She wore a dress of gray alpaca,
and had a white shawl of flimsy texture twisted around her shoulders.
She carried her hat and a small travelling-bag in her hand, and had
evidently been about to unlock the door, when Nero had arrested her
movements. In a moment I was at her side, and laying my hand on her arm
inquired: ‘What is the meaning of this, Rose?’ She had not heard my
approach, and my sudden appearance startled her so much, that even in
the dim light I could perceive that her face grew very pale.

For a few moments she could make no reply, then shaking off my grasp,
she exclaimed: ‘Let me alone; I must and will go!’ She took hold of
the key, and strove to turn the lock, but her hand trembled so that she
could not manage it.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I wrenched the key from her grasp and
put it into my pocket. ‘You shall not leave the garden at this hour,’ I
said, ‘if it is in my power to prevent it.’

Just then a low whistle was heard from the other side of the wall. Rose
started at the sound, and wrung her hands in grief and dismay. ‘Do not
stop me, Miss Bygrave!’ she implored. ‘I assure you, it is better I
should go now. We are acting for the best.’

‘How can it be for the best, Rose,’ I exclaimed indignantly, ‘that
you should deceive and pain your kind guardian, for the sake of an
unprincipled man? But you have not reflected on what you were about to
do. Thank God, I was led here in time to prevent your taking a step
which would entail lifelong misery!’ So saying, I took her hand, to
lead her back to the house. Seeing that I was resolute, she made no
opposition. We went at once to her room, which was not far from my
own. It was in great disorder, various articles lying scattered about
on the floor and chairs. On the dressing-table lay various articles of
jewellery and other presents from Mr Aslatt, and a note directed to him
in Rose’s handwriting.

‘And so, you thought by returning these, you could escape from some of
your obligations to Mr Aslatt,’ I remarked, somewhat scornfully, as I
pointed to the pile of gifts. ‘I am surprised at you, Rose!’

Overpowered by shame and vexation, she could make no reply,
but throwing herself as she was upon the bed, gave vent to her
mortification in passionate sobs. I sat down by her side and let her
weep unchecked, hoping that no more words would be needed to move her
to contrition. After a while she grew calmer, and ceasing to sob, lay
still, with her eyes shut. Occasionally her eyelids moved, and I knew
that she was not asleep; but I would not be the first to break silence.
About an hour passed thus, and then she opened her eyes, and raising
herself on her elbow, and shaking back the fair hair that was hanging
loose over her face, turned towards me. ‘Shall you tell Cousin?’ she
asked in a faint voice.

‘I fear it will be my duty to do so,’ I replied; ‘though I shrink from
the thought of the pain I shall inflict.’

Rose’s lip quivered, and tears again gathered in her eyes. ‘I know you
must consider me very wicked,’ she said; ‘but indeed I am not so bad as
you think. I am fully conscious how much I am indebted to Mr Aslatt,
and I am grateful to him for the kindness he has always shewn me.’

‘How can you say so,’ I interrupted, ‘when you have deliberately
planned what would cause him the bitterest sorrow?’

‘I know, I know!’ exclaimed Rose passionately. ‘Do you suppose I have
ignored the sorrow my flight would cause my dear guardian, or that
I would willingly appear so ungrateful? But I had to consider the
happiness of another.’

‘What other can have stronger claims upon you than Mr Aslatt?’ I asked.

Rose coloured, and hesitated for an answer. ‘If I had a husband,’ she
said in a low voice with downcast eyes, ‘he would have a higher claim
upon me than any one else.’

‘Of course,’ I returned. ‘But you are not married, so I do not see what
that has to do with it.’

‘This much,’ said Rose—‘that I have promised to marry Mr Hammond, and
would have been married to-morrow if you had not stopped me; therefore
he is more to me than any one else.’

‘I am very thankful that I did stop you,’ I said. ‘How could you
expect, Rose, to find any happiness in a union so hastily and wilfully
contracted? How could you think of fleeing by night from the home
where you have been sheltered since your childhood, where your every
wish has been gratified, and ample provision made for your happiness,
by one whose noble love you are incapable of appreciating? You have
been strangely deluded to think of trusting your life to one who could
propose so base a scheme.’

‘But what else could we do?’ said Rose, trying to defend her lover.
‘All things are fair in love and war. We knew that Mr Aslatt would
never consent to our marriage. But if he heard that we were actually
married, so that it was out of his power to separate us, he must then
have forgiven us.’

‘So I have no doubt Mr Hammond thought,’ I remarked. ‘But Rose, do you
positively think that Mr Aslatt would withhold his consent to your
marriage if he were convinced that it would promote your happiness?’

‘No, not if he believed that,’ replied Rose. ‘But nothing would
persuade him that Fritz Hammond could make me a good husband; he is
dreadfully prejudiced against him. And he would never overlook Mr
Hammond’s inferior position or forgive him for being poor, although he
comes of a good family, and no one can say anything against him.’

‘It is strange,’ I remarked, ‘that being of good family he should be in
his present position.’

‘There now; you are going to find fault with him!’ exclaimed Rose
pettishly. ‘He is not to be blamed for his position, for great
misfortunes have reduced him to it.’

‘How long is it since you promised to marry Mr Hammond?’ I inquired,
after a pause.

‘A little while before you came here,’ was the reply. ‘At first we
meant to tell Mr Aslatt all, and ask his consent; but he seemed so much
opposed to Mr Hammond, that he—I mean _we_—feared to do so. We thought
that if we settled the matter ourselves, it would cause Cousin less
pain in the end.’

‘Less pain to find that you had been deceiving him, and putting more
confidence in a comparative stranger, than in one who has befriended
you all your life! It was by strange reasoning you arrived at such a
conclusion, Rose!’

She made no reply.

‘I suppose you have been in the habit of meeting Mr Hammond
clandestinely in the garden,’ I continued; ‘you gaining access to it
unobserved by means of the so-called haunted rooms, against which you
were so careful to warn me. I could not have believed you so skilled in
subterfuge.’

Rose coloured deeply, and her head drooped in shame. ‘I am very sorry,
Miss Bygrave,’ she said penitently, after a long pause; ‘I see now that
I have acted wrongly. I have felt very unhappy all along at the thought
of deceiving my good Cousin, for indeed I love him truly; but I could
not bear to think of giving up Mr Hammond. I have often longed to
confess all to you, and I asked Fritz once if I might; but he said it
would be most imprudent, and would lead to his being parted from me for
ever. And now that will come to pass, I suppose. O dear me! what shall
I do? I am the most miserable girl in the world!’ So saying, Rose again
buried her face in the pillow and sobbed aloud.

‘Do you know what I should advise you to do?’ I said, when her emotion
had somewhat exhausted itself.

‘What?’ she asked in a smothered voice, without raising her head.

‘I think the best thing—the right thing for you to do is to confess all
to Mr Aslatt, and beg his forgiveness. He will accord it, I have no
doubt. It will give him great pain to hear of your folly; but it will
grieve him less to learn it from your lips than from mine.’

‘Oh, I cannot, Miss Bygrave! I cannot tell him! I don’t know what he
would do or say. He would be so angry with Mr Hammond!’

‘And he has just cause to be,’ I could not help saying. ‘But surely,
Rose, your past experience of Mr Aslatt’s goodness should lead you to
put more trust in his kindness of heart. You must know that he seeks
your happiness in everything. He will undoubtedly feel indignant
with the schoolmaster on account of the underhand manner in which he
has acted. But if he is convinced that you are sincerely attached to
each other, he will not, I believe, oppose your union; unless he has
grave reasons for thinking Mr Hammond unworthy of the place he holds
in your heart. You cannot expect that he will all at once consent to
your marrying a man who may be a mere adventurer, for all that we know
to the contrary, and who has certainly acted towards Mr Aslatt in a
dishonourable manner, which the hopelessness of his suit does not seem
to me to excuse.’

Rose made no reply; and I trusted my words would have their influence.
She lay still for some time, evidently engaged in deep and painful
thought. Gradually, however, the cloud passed from her brow, and
as morning was beginning to dawn, she fell into a sound sleep. I
watched her for a while; but by degrees weariness overcame my mental
excitement, and I also fell asleep.




BRITISH GUIANA.


On the vast extent of the South American continent the far-reaching
empire of Great Britain has planted its flag in one place only; it
possesses one-fifth of the country of Guiana, which lies within the
Torrid Zone, and forms the northern portion of South America. Of that
fifth section of Guiana, which is called Demerara—the capital of which
is George-town—only the civilised and cultivated part is known to
the dwellers in the colony, or to its chance visitors. The remaining
portion of the country was, however, a terra incognita to all but a
very few, until Mr Barrington Brown, in his _Canoe and Camp Life in
British Guiana_ (London: Edward Stanford), published the results of his
explorations.

The civilised and cultivated portion of the colony of British Guiana
consists of a narrow strip of sea-coast. Immediately behind this lies
a broad expanse of swampy ground, then comes rising wooded land, and
finally mountains and savannas which stretch westward, and are still
in their primitive condition, inhabited by little-known Indian tribes
and various species of wild animals. It is owing chiefly to the ‘Coolie
Labour Question’ that public attention has been of late years at all
directed to British Guiana; and as the colony is likely to become of
increased importance, an opportunity of learning particulars about
the hitherto mysterious territory which lies _behind_ the utilised
strip of coast belonging to it, yet utterly unreckoned in the sum
of civilisation, is one to be welcomed. This wild region is called
vaguely ‘the Interior,’ and with the exception of a few settlements
on the banks of the Lower Berbice, Demerara, and Essequibo rivers, a
traveller penetrating its recesses at the present time would behold the
same condition of things there which existed in the days of Sir Walter
Raleigh. Mr Barrington Brown visited and explored a considerable extent
of this ‘Interior’ while he was engaged on the government geological
survey of the West Indies. He accomplished his journeys by means of
canoe-travelling; a method preferable to any other, as affording
opportunities for close observation, for obtaining picturesque aspects,
and in itself very agreeable.

His first voyage was up the Essequibo to the penal settlement of the
colony, where his Indian boatmen refused to remain even for one night,
such is their timid dread of the very notion of a prison. They would
not hang their hammocks in the empty sheds, but crossed the river and
camped in the forest, though one of them was suffering severely from
fever. At the penal settlement boats were purchased, and a crew hired
for the navigation of the Cuyuni, which afforded the Indians ample
opportunities for exhibiting their skill. ‘They worked splendidly in
the cataracts, swimming, diving, and wading in the strong currents
from rock to rock, while leading out the tow-ropes and hauling the
boats up.’ During the journey up this river the traveller encountered
in many parts a succession of rapids and cataracts. The difficulties
thus entailed, and the graphic account of how these difficulties were
surmounted, afford some notion of the laboriousness of nearly every
river voyage made by Mr Brown in the course of his explorations.

The scenes through which he passed were of rich and varied beauty.
Nothing terrible or threatening met his sight in that unknown land,
which seems to bear upon its face one broad beaming smile, answering
with fidelity to the smile of the sun. Rocky islets bearing clusters
of low trees, whose stems and branches are covered with orchids and
wild pines, rise from the broad bosom of the river, while its banks
are clothed with forest trees; and on the rocks under its waters is a
luxuriant growth of water-plants, bearing exquisite flowers. When the
sun is high, gorgeous butterflies, yellow, orange, and azure blue,
frequent the water’s edge in clusters, or flit over the open spaces
near the cataracts; and the river abounds in deep-bodied silvery-scaled
fish of various kinds.

The character of the scenery along the banks of the rivers, which form
a kind of network over the face of the country in Guiana, is chiefly
of the kind described above; but there is no monotony in it, and the
traveller is kept constantly amused by the birds and the insect life.
Morning and evening are marked by bands of screeching parrots crossing
the river to and from their feeding-grounds, and all along the banks
the kingfisher and the ibis abound. The Indian villages are generally
within a short distance of the river, and the harmless people are
unusually smart in their attire. The women wear an apron called a
_queyon_, formed of cotton and bead-work, ingeniously manufactured,
each bead being slipped on the cotton thread in its proper place as
it is being woven. The traveller frequently halted at the villages
while the natives prepared cassava bread for him, and he had a fair
opportunity of forming a judgment upon their intellectual status and
social condition. Both are superior to those of the average ‘natives’
with which books have made us acquainted, and Mr Brown notes as a
‘pleasing feature’ of the British Guiana Indians, that, as a rule, they
treat their women well, regarding them as equals and not as slaves.
The planters of the civilised portion of the country, kidnappers and
tyrants of the ‘coolie,’ might learn lessons of humanity and justice
from the ‘savages’ of the ‘Interior.’

A march through primeval forest to the Puruni was a less pleasant
experience than the river voyage; for the ‘ticks’ which infest the
forest took possession of the travellers. Of the numerous kinds
of pestilent insects Mr Brown gives a horrid description; but he
counterbalances it by that of the birds, the trees, the flowers, the
skies, and the wonderfully exhilarating influence of the climate.

The many mysterious sounds which proceed from primeval forest in all
countries where such forest exists, have given rise to superstitious
beliefs and fears. On their return journey to the penal settlement, Mr
Brown was made acquainted with the legendary ‘Didi’ of those remote
realms of forest and river. ‘The first night after leaving Peaimah,’ he
says, ‘we heard a long, loud, and most melancholy whistle proceeding
from the depths of the forest; at which some of the men exclaimed in
an awed tone of voice: “The Didi!” Two or three times the whistle was
repeated, sounding like that made by a human being, beginning in a
high key and dying slowly and gradually away in a low one. There were
conflicting opinions amongst the men regarding the origin of these
sounds. Some said they proceeded from the wild hairy man or Didi of
the Indians; others that they were produced by a large and poisonous
snake which lives in one tree from its youth up, where it attains a
great size, living on birds which are so unfortunate as to alight near
it, and thus become victims to its powers of fascination. The Didi is
said by the Indians to be a short, thick-set, and powerful wild man,
whose body is covered with hair, and who lives in the forest. A belief
in the existence of this fabulous creature is universal over the whole
of British, Venezuelan, and Brazilian Guiana. On the Demerara River I
afterwards met a half-bred woodcutter, who related an encounter that he
had with two Didi, a male and female, in which he successfully resisted
their attacks with his axe.’

The main object of the explorer’s most important voyage up the
Essequibo was to obtain a sight of the great Roraima Mountain, which
has been seen by few white men.

He began to ascend from the river-bank, under the guidance of an
Indian, at the valley of the Cotinga; and first he saw, rising two
hundred feet above the level of the plain, the great Waetipu or Sun
Mountain, formed of horizontal beds of sandstone (this formation is
as peculiar to the region as the strange level hill-tops are to the
Cape district of South Africa), the alternate hard and soft layers of
which produced most singular traces on its sides, while near it stood
two curious conical peaks. He rested that night in an old mud-walled
palm-thatched house, situated on a great lonely elevated land, and
early next forenoon the travellers rounded the end of the Sun Mountain,
and a glorious view of Roraima burst upon them, with the sun’s rays
lighting up its curious details. ‘Turn,’ says our author, ‘in any
direction I would, most wonderful scenery was presented to my view,
from the great pink precipiced Roraima in the north-west, looking like
a huge fortification surrounded by a gigantic glacis, to the great
undulating plain stretching southward as far as the eye could reach,
where at the horizon land melted into sky.’

This wonderful mountain is one of the greatest natural curiosities on
the face of the earth, and it is much to be regretted that Mr Brown
was not able to inspect it more closely, and examine its structure
and individual features more in detail. This was, however, rendered
impossible by that prosaic but irresistible obstacle, want of food! In
the vicinity of the mountain he found only deserted villages, and the
scanty supply of provisions which he and his guide had carried up from
the plain was speedily exhausted. Our traveller succeeded in ascending
the sloping portion of the marvellous mountain—in which Nature seems to
have furnished Art with a perfect model of a fortress—to a height of
five thousand one hundred feet above the level of the sea. Between the
highest point reached by him and the foot of the great perpendicular
portion, towering high above, is a band of thick forest. ‘Looking up at
the great wall of rock,’ says the writer, ‘two thousand feet in height,
I could see that a forest covered its top, and that in places on its
sides where small trees or shrubs could gain a hold with their roots,
there they clung. The great beds of white, pink, and red sandstone of
which it is composed are interbedded with layers of red shale, the
whole resting upon a great bed of diorite.’

One tries in vain to picture to one’s fancy this wondrous mass of
upheaved earth, stone, and forest, looking like a fortress reared
by Titans against the assaults of all the forces of Nature besides.
Science tells us that Roraima and its surrounding similarly shaped
neighbours once stood as islands in the ocean; but at what period of
the earth’s history, how far back in the awful lapses of time, who can
say? ‘If,’ says the author, ‘any mammals then lived upon them, when the
sea washed the bases of their cliffs, the descendants of those mammals
may live there still, for all communication with their tops and the
surrounding country has been ever since effectually cut off by their
perpendicular sides.’

The length of Roraima is about twelve miles; and its top is perfectly
level. ‘The area of the surface,’ says Mr Brown, ‘must be considerable,
for Sir R. Schomburgk, who visited its southern end, to the westward of
the point to which I ascended, describes some beautiful waterfalls as
leaping from its sides, forming the drainage of part of its top, and
when viewing it from a mountain on the Upper Mazaruni, I distinctly
saw, at a distance of thirty miles, an enormous waterfall on its
north-east side, of very considerable width and extraordinary height.’

Next in importance to the great mountain Roraima is the great Kaieteur
Fall, which the traveller reached by the difficult ascent of Kaieteur.
The very existence of this beautiful Fall was previously unknown to the
dwellers in George-town, the capital of Demerara, who were astonished
to learn that their colony possessed such a gigantic natural wonder;
and indeed received Mr Brown’s account of it with some incredulity.
On a subsequent journey, undertaken by command of the governor Sir
John Scott, Mr Brown and some other English gentlemen made a thorough
examination and a scientific report of the Fall.

The Kaieteur Valley is of great extent; bounded by gloomy mountains,
whose outlines are broken by gaps and gorges, whence noisy cascades
pour down the sides of the great sandstone steeps, while in the far
distance is seen the upper portion of the Kaieteur pouring its foaming
water over the precipice edge into the depths below. The journey from
the landing-place on the river to the head of the Fall is difficult,
the way lying through blocks of sandstone and through tangled forest,
where it is necessary to cut away the mass of vines, bushropes, shrubs,
and undergrowth which obstruct the path. The regular forest ends in a
confused mass of rocks at the water’s edge, covered with shrubs and
mosses, and directly facing the Fall at a distance of a quarter of a
mile from its foot. A more perfect position from which to contemplate
this wonder of Nature could not be conceived. The travellers stood on
the verge of the rock reef, and before them thundered the Kaieteur
Fall, from a height of eight hundred and twenty-two feet, in a cataract
four hundred and twenty-two yards wide, fed by the stream at a velocity
of four miles an hour; its contact with the water of the basin being a
confused scene of fleecy masses of tossing waters, spurting high in the
air in front of the downpour, and giving birth to mist-clouds, which
rose continuously upwards and over the precipice on the right.

Two of the exploring party swam across the foaming river and visited
the edge of the basin on the eastern side; after which they returned to
the landing, accompanied by all the Indians but three. The others did
not like to pass the night in such a mysterious place. Mr Brown and one
of his friends had poles rigged up and lashed together under a large
rock, which formed a sort of cave, where they slung their hammocks
for the night. That must have been a night never to be forgotten,
when, in the primeval wilds of that unknown land, the traveller lay in
his swinging couch and watched and listened to the eternal fall and
multitudinous roar of the mighty waters. ‘A subdued light,’ he says,
‘penetrated even into our valley of shadows, and I knew that the moon
must have risen above the eastern horizon. By this light I could make
out the brink of the Fall against the sky; and as I gazed upon it two
bright stars rose slowly beyond, looking as if they had emerged from
the water itself. Then the first rays of the moon, as it rose above the
mountain in the east, shed a silvery light across the Fall’s crest, and
lit up a portion of the descending fleecy column.’ During the day the
sun’s rays, shining on the mist, produced a lovely rainbow, reaching
from the top to the foot of the Fall, which, moving slowly outwards
with the mist, faded gradually away, while with each accession of mist
a new one was formed.

After they had thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle from opposite the foot
of the Fall, the travellers proceeded to its head, camped in the bush
on the river’s brink, about fifty feet above the edge of the Fall,
and there made their measurements. On both evenings of their stay
they watched with interest the swallows’ homeward flight to their
roosting-places in a cave _behind the Fall_. The birds came late in the
afternoon in large flocks from all quarters of the compass, and wheeled
round in great circles at different altitudes. Gradually one flock
amalgamated with another, till at last near sundown they had gathered
into two or three immense bodies, which kept wheeling round in a
compact mass about one hundred yards above the heads of the travellers.
Mr Brown asked his friend how he would describe their numbers, and he
replied that he thought ‘myriads of millions’ would about do it.

While the travellers were wondering how the birds would get into
the cave behind the giant sheet of falling water, the question
was solved in an extraordinary manner, and the intruders on that
wonderful scene beheld a spectacle which in itself would have made
the occasion memorable. ‘Suddenly a portion of the mass swooped down
with incredible, with extraordinary velocity to the edge of the Fall,
seemingly close to the face of the column of water, and then being lost
to our view. The rushing sound of their wings in their downward flight
was very strange, and produced the feeling that birds of ill omen were
about. Approaching the edge of the precipice we waited to see the next
lot go down, so as to observe how they managed to get behind the water.
We had not to wait long before down dropped a cloud of them over the
edge, past the face of the Fall, for about one hundred feet; then, with
the rapidity of lightning, they changed their downward course to one at
right angles, and thus shot through the mist on either side into the
gloomy cave. Their motions were so rapid that we could hardly make out
how they were executed. It appeared to me that, as they swooped down,
their wings were but half spread, and their heads downwards; but after
passing the edge they turned their bodies in a horizontal position,
descending by gravity alone until they arrived at the required level,
when they again made use of their wings and flew off at right angles
into the cave. Just before dusk the greater portion descended in
a continuous stream for a considerable time, but small flocks and
single birds kept arriving until it was quite dark. When a single bird
shot down, its velocity was so great that it seemed to form a short
continuous black line against the sky.’ This gives the reader a vivid
idea of the speed with which a bird can cleave the air while on the
swoop.

At all times the valley of the Kaieteur is beautiful, but it is most
beautiful when, in the afternoon, great shadows are flung across it,
and the opening is lit up by the golden reflection of the sky over
the great plains beyond. On the Upper Essequibo—which is inhabited by
caymans of great size ‘and fearfully tame,’ there are also several
beautiful Falls; and as for a great portion of its extent the banks of
the river are totally devoid of human population, the birds and mammals
are as tame as the caymans. Jaguars, whose prey are the wild hogs,
abound, and large tigers are tolerably numerous. It is curious that
they should not be more numerous, for no animals prey upon them, and
the few killed by wandering Indians would not affect their number in
any sensible degree. Not until the thirtieth day of their voyage on the
Upper Essequibo did the travellers see any ‘natives;’ then they fell
in with a tribe of redskins with artificially elongated and flattened
heads, who were terrified at the sight of white men. They proved to
be harmless and friendly people. It is said that in this wild region,
farther to the south, near the head-waters of the Trombetas, there
is a tribe who have ponds of water encircled by stockades, to which
they retire for the night, sleeping with their bodies submerged. This,
however, the author holds to be an Indian ‘yarn.’

The reader cannot weary of the details of the numerous river-journeys
by which Mr Brown has succeeded in exploring the unknown ‘Interior’ of
British Guiana. In the course of them he has penetrated into recesses
of nature untrodden previously by any human foot, and made acquaintance
with plants, animals, birds, and fishes of which only the names had
previously been known to a few of the specially learned in such
matters. Our insufficient sketch of the nature of the book in which he
has narrated his experiences, is not designed to satisfy, but to excite
curiosity on the subject, and to direct the attention of such readers
as are interested in the revelation of nature, for which our age will
be celebrated in the history of intellectual labour, to Mr Barrington
Brown’s monograph of British Guiana.




ROBERT BRAMLEIGH’S WILL.


Last will and testament! Words of solemn import—and of unreasonable
terror to some people. How foolish and even culpable is it to leave
a matter of so much importance to the last hours of life, when the
strongest intellect must be incapable of fully considering and well
weighing the final disposition of our worldly goods and effects—a
disposition which is to affect the welfare and perhaps the happiness of
those we love the best.

Most people have heard the well-worn aphorism which tells us that the
man who is his own lawyer has a fool for his client. In the incident I
am about to relate, a woman—I suppose the aphorism applies to either
sex—proved to the contrary. It is the exception, however, that proves
the rule. Had she remained her own lawyer, instead of consulting me,
the probability is that she would have succeeded in her designs upon a
large fortune, designs which I happily succeeded in frustrating.

It had been a busy day with me. I had been working hard getting up
evidence in a railway accident case, and was putting up my papers with
a sigh of relief. Another forty minutes and I should be at home. I
could almost smell the boiled capon and oyster-sauce which I knew were
being prepared for me. ‘There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the
lip,’ says the proverb; and in my case it proved only too true; for
just as I was tying up the last bundle of papers, the office boy put
his head in at the door and dispelled the tempting vision.

‘A woman to see you, if you please, sir. She won’t give no name. Says
she’s a stranger.’

‘A stranger!’ I repeated. ‘What is she like? Is she a common person?’

‘Not exactly, sir,’ replied the lad.

‘A lady?’ I asked.

‘O no, sir.’

‘What is she, then?’

Arthur was a droll lad. I had brought him to London from the country,
to oblige an old college friend. I am afraid that he was not of much
use in the office, but he used to keep the other clerks in a good
temper by his amusing ways and dry remarks.

Arthur paused, as if considering, and then, with a look of
intelligence, as much as to say that he had hit the nail on the head
this time, he answered: ‘Well, sir, she’s a sort of betwixt and
between.’

‘Not a bad definition, Arthur. Ask the “betwixt and between” up-stairs.’

A tall middle-aged woman entered and took the seat I placed for her.
She appeared to belong to the class Arthur had so happily designated
as ‘betwixt and between;’ a person, rather than a lady. I rather pride
myself on my power of reading faces, but I confess that hers puzzled
me. It was absolutely void of expression. The features were hard and
immovable, as if carved out of stone. She wore a closely fitting
bonnet, under which the gray hair was neatly brushed in two smooth
bands. I generally form my opinion of any one’s character from the
expression of the eyes and mouth; but here I was at fault. An ugly scar
on the left cheek extended across the lips, distorting the mouth, and
the eye on the same side was sightless. I always feel at a disadvantage
with one-eyed people; I never know what they are driving at. It is so
hard to fathom their thoughts.

My visitor removed her gloves and, carefully smoothing them, placed
them on the table beside her. She then produced from her pocket a
large foolscap envelope, from which she drew a piece of paper folded
longways. This she handed to me, explaining, in a hard monotonous
voice, that she had been sent to me by her master, Mr Robert Bramleigh
of Coleman Street, who was dangerously ill—in fact was not expected
to live many hours. The paper, she said, had been written by his
direction, and signed by him for his will that afternoon. Fearing lest
it should not be in a proper form, he had desired her to take it to
the nearest lawyer, and have one prepared according to the law.

I unfolded the paper, and read as follows:

    ‘In the name of God, Amen. I leave my body to the ground and my
    soul to Almighty God who gave it. Now this is the will of me,
    ROBERT BRAMLEIGH of 559 Coleman Street. I give and leave all
    my houses, lands, money, and everything that I have, to HANNAH
    CHURTON, my housekeeper, as a reward for her long and faithful
    services. Signed by me on Tuesday, December 12th, 1868.

    _Witnesses_—      ROBERT BRAMLEIGH.
    JAMES BURN.
    MARGARET SIMS.’

I examined the writing carefully. The signature ‘Robert Bramleigh’ was
weak and shaky. The will itself was written in a masculine-looking hand
of singular decision and boldness. The characters were large and well
formed.

The will had evidently been prepared by some one who had had but an
imperfect knowledge of the form to be used for such a purpose. The
solemn appeal to the Deity and the bequest of the testator’s body
and soul was an old form, much in vogue with our grandfathers, who
generally headed a will with one or two pious phrases.

The document shewn to me was, however, sufficient to give Hannah
Churton all Mr Bramleigh’s property. There were the requisite number of
witnesses, and the Principal Registry of Her Majesty’s Court of Probate
would have granted letters of administration with the will annexed (the
appointment of an executor having been omitted, the ordinary probate
could not have been obtained), on one of the attesting witnesses making
an affidavit that the will had been executed by the testator in the
presence of himself and the other attesting witness, and that they had
at the same time, and in the presence of each other, subscribed their
names thereto as witnesses.

Now I am always very particular about wills; I think they are too
serious to be settled in a hurry. I never will allow a client to
execute one until I am convinced that its purport is perfectly
understood.

‘You are Mrs Churton, I presume?’ I asked.

‘I am,’ she replied, looking me unflinchingly in the face. Somehow
I felt suspicious that things were not so fair as they should be.
I questioned her rather closely; but the only admission I obtained
from her was that _she_ had written the will, but that it was at her
master’s dictation. I asked her if he had any family, but could get
nothing from her save that he did not care to have his private affairs
discussed by strangers. Worsted, I gave up the contest. I offered to
prepare a more formal document; but before doing so, I declared that
it was necessary I should see Mr Bramleigh. I named the omission of
the appointment of an executor. This seemed rather to nonplus her.
She asked whether _she_ could not be named as executrix. The more
aversion she shewed to my seeing her master the more convinced I felt
that something was wrong; and seeing that I was not to be moved from
my purpose, she at last gave in; proposing, however, that I should
accompany her back, as she greatly feared it would be too late if left
till the morning.

A cab soon took us to No. 559 Coleman Street. It was a large gloomy
old-fashioned house with a spacious entrance-hall. I was taken into the
dining-room, and asked to wait while Mr Bramleigh was being prepared
for my visit. The furniture in the room was old and very massive. Some
handsome oil-paintings graced the walls. I am very fond of pictures, so
raising the lamp, I walked round the room slowly inspecting them. On
the right of the fire-place I came upon a picture with its face turned
towards the wall. I think I must have the bump of inquisitiveness—if
there is such a bump—largely developed, for anything approaching a
mystery is sure to raise my curiosity. I turned the picture. It was
the portrait in oils of a young and very beautiful girl in a dark
riding-habit. Hearing footsteps outside the door, I restored the
picture to the position in which I had found it, and as I did so I saw
written at the bottom of the frame ‘Magdalen Bramleigh.’

The footsteps I had heard were those of the housemaid, who had come
to announce that Mr Bramleigh was ready to see me. I followed her
up-stairs, and was ushered into a large comfortable-looking bedroom.
A cheerful fire burned in the grate. Facing it was a large four-post
bedstead hung with white curtains, and at the head of the bed Mrs
Churton was standing, with a small table in front of her, on which were
placed an inkstand and some paper. She pulled back the curtain, and I
saw an old man propped up by pillows, his face drawn and the eyes very
much sunk. I almost feared that he was too far gone to make a will; but
after speaking with him for a little time, I felt satisfied that the
intellect was quite clear.

Turning to Mrs Churton, I told her that she need not wait; I would ring
if I wanted anything.

‘Yes, go—go, Hannah!’ cried the sick man; and I fancied that I could
detect an eagerness in his voice, as if he desired her absence rather
than her presence. As Mrs Churton left the room I caught sight of the
reflection of her face in the glass over the chimney-piece, but I do
not think she would have scowled quite so much had she known that I
was looking. I began by asking Mr Bramleigh what were his wishes with
regard to his will. In low tones he told me that he desired to leave
everything to Hannah Churton, his housekeeper, as a reward for her long
and faithful services. I will not tire the reader by repeating the
whole of our conversation. After great difficulty I extracted from him
that he had no relatives save an only daughter, whom he had discarded,
her fault being that she had married a young fellow in the army to whom
her father had taken an unaccountable aversion. My own opinion was—and
as the result turned out, it proved to be correct—that his mind had
been poisoned against him by Hannah Churton, whose influence over her
master was evidently very great. I thought of the sweet face of the
portrait I had seen in the dining-room—doubtless that of the discarded
daughter—and deserving or not deserving, I determined to fight a battle
on her behalf.

I spoke gravely to the old man, although without much hope of success,
but at last I got him to confess that he had had no intention of making
his housekeeper his sole heiress until she had herself broached the
subject to him. Her plan had been to artfully insinuate that the love
of the newly married couple would not last very long on a lieutenant’s
pay; and that as he had only married Miss Bramleigh for her money, he
would soon tire of her when he found that she had nothing. She had
then pledged herself to procure a separation, when she would make over
everything left her by Mr Bramleigh, to his daughter. She certainly
must have had great power over the old man to induce him to agree to
such a scheme. I proposed to Mr Bramleigh that he should leave his
property to some one on whom he could rely, in trust for his daughter.
I also volunteered, although I have an aversion to the trouble and
responsibility of a trusteeship, my services as trustee for this
purpose. My arguments prevailed. He assented; and I prepared a will
accordingly, the old man requesting that his medical man, Dr Ramsey,
should be nominated as my co-trustee, and that an annuity of fifty
pounds should be paid to Hannah Churton for life. I inwardly rebelled
at this. My dislike to this woman was now so great that I could
cheerfully have seen her cut out of the will without a farthing. The
doctor arrived just as I had finished, and expressed his willingness to
share the responsibility with me, which seemed to please Mr Bramleigh
very much. Our names were therefore included as trustees.

I read the will to him very carefully, explaining, as I did so, its
full effect. When I had finished, he muttered: ‘Quite right—quite
right; but I am afraid Hannah will not be pleased.’ I counselled him
not to mention it to her; and my advice seemed to satisfy him.

Ringing the bell, I requested Mrs Churton to summon James Burn and
Margaret Sims, the two servants who had witnessed the first will. As
soon as they were in the room, I gave Mr Bramleigh a pen, and placing
the document before him, I said distinctly, so that all might hear:
‘This which I have just read to you is your final will, and you request
James Burn and Margaret Sims to witness your execution of it?’ ‘It is—I
do,’ he solemnly said, as with feeble fingers he wrote his name. The
two awe-stricken domestics then added theirs, and I think their hands
shook more than the testator’s. Hannah Churton was a silent spectator
of the whole of this; but I could not see her face, as she stood in the
background, out of the light of the lamp.

Before allowing any one to leave the room, I placed the will in a large
envelope. Fastening it with wax, I impressed it with Mr Bramleigh’s
monogram and crest by means of a seal that was in the tray of the
inkstand. The old man watched me closely, and when I had finished,
he said: ‘Keep it—till it is wanted;’ thus relieving me of a great
embarrassment, for I did not like leaving it in the power of Hannah
Churton, lest she should tamper with it.

On our way down-stairs, Dr Ramsey told me that his patient was rapidly
sinking, and that he doubted whether he would live another twenty-four
hours.

Taking him into the dining-room and shutting the door, I told him my
suspicions of the housekeeper, and that I felt afraid of leaving Mr
Bramleigh alone with her all night. He agreed with me, and promised to
send his assistant to watch till the morning, when, if Mr Bramleigh
should still be living, he would on his own responsibility place a
trustworthy nurse in charge. The housekeeper opened the door to let us
out.

‘It is all right, Mrs Churton,’ I maliciously said as the doctor wished
her good-night. ‘I am quite satisfied now. The will will be safe in my
keeping. By-the-bye,’ I added, looking her sharply in the face, ‘had
you not better let your master’s friends know of the danger he is in?
Dr Ramsey says he does not think he will last much longer.’

She mumbled something in reply, but I could not catch what it was. I
stayed talking upon indifferent subjects, to while away the time until
the arrival of Dr Ramsey’s assistant. Mrs Churton, however, was, unlike
her sex, remarkably reticent; I could only get the shortest replies
from her. She seemed very much astonished and rather displeased when Dr
Ramsey returned with his assistant. He explained to her that although
there was no chance of saving his patient’s life, yet his last moments
might be alleviated by skilled attendance; and therefore, as he himself
could not stay all night, he had brought his assistant for that purpose.

In one’s experience of mankind we find that it is possible to be
sometimes too clever. Mrs Hannah Churton was very clever, but she
committed two great mistakes. The first was in consulting a lawyer. The
will drawn by her—for so it really had been—might have been upset on
the ground of undue influence. I say ‘might have been,’ for there is
nothing so hard to prove as undue influence. The great point against
her was the ousting of a child in favour of a stranger. Yet it would
have been far from easy to prove that she was responsible for this,
as Mr Bramleigh’s strange aversion to the army was well known; he
often had been heard to threaten to discard his daughter if she ever
should engage herself to a military man—doubtless thereby defeating
his purpose, for the female mind is such that from Eve to the present
generation the thing forbidden is the most desired. I think the
probabilities are that the matter would have been compromised, and
Hannah Churton enriched by a few thousands of her master’s wealth.

Mistake number two was as follows. The doctor had gone up-stairs
to install his assistant, leaving me standing in the hall with
the housekeeper. Fumbling in her pocket she pulled out a roll of
bank-notes; thrusting these into my hands, she told me that it was her
master’s wish that I should take them for my trouble. I unrolled them,
and found two for ten, and one for five, pounds. Twenty-five pounds!

This was sharp, and yet foolish of Hannah. Had I been as great a rogue
as she was—and I suppose by her offering them to me that she thought I
was—she was retaining an important witness on her side, and therefore
there was a certain amount of sharpness about it. On the other hand it
was exceedingly foolish. The sum was so much out of proportion to my
services that it was palpably a bribe. I am afraid that had it come out
in evidence, it would have lost her the case and perhaps struck me off
the rolls.

A long legal experience has taught me that in all dealings with
doubtful people one’s safety lies in having a good witness. I waited
till the doctor came down-stairs, occupying myself by entering the
numbers of the notes in my pocket-book.

‘Look, doctor!’ I cried as he appeared, shewing him the notes. ‘Mr
Bramleigh is a liberal paymaster.’ Turning to Mrs Churton, I said:
‘This will amply repay me.’

Retaining the note for five pounds, I returned her the other two. She
took them from me without saying a word, but a black look came over her
face. I think she began to suspect me. I got home very late that night.
The capon was more than done, and so was the oyster sauce!

Mr Bramleigh died the next morning at ten o’clock. Soon after I had
left he became unconscious, in which state he remained till shortly
before his death, when there was a rally. Opening his eyes with an
eager look, as if he missed something, he threw one arm outside the
coverlet, and crying ‘Magdalen, Magdalen!’ he obeyed the summons which
bade him thole his assize—yea, in that dread court where ‘Not proven’
is unknown. Guilty or not guilty? Who shall say?

The funeral took place on the Saturday, but an engagement prevented me
from following. Mrs Churton had written requesting that I would attend
with the will, which still remained in my possession with the one drawn
by her.

I arrived at the house a little after one o’clock, and was at once
taken into the dining-room, where I found Dr Ramsey, Mr Robson (a
brother-practitioner), and a handsome young fellow, who was introduced
to me as Lieutenant Maitland, the late Mr Bramleigh’s son-in-law.

The door opened, and a young lady entered. It did not require any
introduction to tell me that she was the original of the portrait,
still with its front turned towards the wall. Her face was very
beautiful, notwithstanding its extreme paleness and the tear-swollen
eyelids. She seated herself by the fire, her husband standing behind
her, leaning his arms on the back of the chair.

Mrs Churton had closely followed Magdalen Maitland into the room. She
was dressed in deep mourning, and wore a black crape cap; thus offering
a marked contrast to Mrs Maitland, who was wearing a gray dress rather
travel-soiled. Apparently she had had no time to prepare her mourning.

Dr Ramsey politely pulled forward a chair for the housekeeper. Taking
it from him with a cold ‘Thank you,’ she placed it at the end of the
table, directly facing me. Very stern and forbidding she looked in her
black garments—her features immovable, her hands resting on her knees.

I was about to unseal the envelope containing the will, when Lieutenant
Maitland interrupted me.

‘One moment, if you please,’ he said, placing his hand on my arm.
‘Before this will is read, I wish to say a few words. Mrs Churton tells
me that Mr Bramleigh has left her everything unconditionally. I simply
wish to express my firm belief that Mr Bramleigh could only have been
induced to make such a will by unfair and foul means. Although I have
been the cause of an estrangement between father and daughter, I cannot
think that he could so far forget his love for her as to strip her of
everything. It is my intention, for her sake, to contest this will; and
it is with that view that I have requested my old friend, Mr Robson, to
be present to-day as my legal adviser.’

His frank manly face was flushed with honest excitement as, leaning
over the back of his wife’s chair, he took her face between his hands
and kissed it. ‘For your sake—not mine, dearest,’ I heard him whisper.

Mr Robson bowed when his name was mentioned. Mrs Churton still retained
her position. A painful silence succeeded, unbroken save by the
rustling of the paper as I broke the seal.

Magdalen Maitland had stolen her hand into her husband’s protecting
clasp. I withdrew the will from its cover, and looked at Mrs Churton.
Would that firm face quiver when the lottery proved a blank, and the
fair castle fell because its foundations had been built in the sand? I
could not help admiring the courage of the woman, and certainly felt
curious as to how she would stand the ordeal through which she had to
pass.

I read the will slowly and distinctly. It was very short. Save the
annuity of fifty pounds to Hannah Churton for life, everything was left
to Dr Ramsey and myself, in trust for Magdalen Maitland, to be settled
on her as we in our discretion should think fit.

Astonishment is a mild word to express the feelings of those present,
nor will I attempt to do so. My tale lies with Hannah Churton. Starting
to her feet, she pushed the chair from her, and stretching out one arm,
gave utterance to a fierce torrent of invective. The veil was lifted,
and the native coarseness of the woman’s nature stood revealed. It was
as I had feared. Unmindful of the bounty of but too generous a master,
she heaped obloquy on his memory, and fearlessly asserted that she had
wasted the best years of her life in his service!

Magdalen Maitland covered her ears with her hands, to shut out the
hard words. Her husband led her towards the door; but Hannah Churton
intercepted them. Tearing her cap from her head, she threw it on the
ground before the frightened girl.

‘Trample on it!’ she cried in a frenzied voice. ‘Your father’s victim
has no right to wear it!’ I must admit that she looked grandly tragic
as she declaimed these fierce words. I felt half sorry for the poor
defeated creature.

We had not a little trouble before the will was proved. It was strongly
opposed by a sharp young fellow, who took up the case for Hannah
Churton. It was, however, ultimately settled by an addition of another
fifty pounds being made to the annuity she was to receive.

Lieutenant Maitland sold out of the army; and a rich relative of his
dying soon afterwards, he inherited a large estate in Devonshire, where
he and his wife went to reside.

Nine years have passed since then; and Mrs Maitland declares that there
are ‘silver threads among the gold.’ The cares of a young family have
somewhat marred her good looks, but they will live again in my little
god-daughter Magdalen, who promises to rival her mother in beauty.




THE OLD HOME.


    It is not a castle olden,
    Standing in the sunlight golden,
      Relic of the Past,
    With a deep moat mossed and hoary,
    And a ray from bygone glory
      O’er its ruin cast.

    But a mansion fair and pleasant,
    Known alike of peer and peasant
      For its kindly cheer,
    With its glades and leafy covers,
    Ferny haunts of loitering lovers,
      And the shy wild-deer.

    Crimson blossoms redly glowing,
    Flickering shadows o’er it throwing,
      Veil the lichen’s stain;
    Sunset gleams of rose and amber,
    Where the ivy tendrils clamber,
      Flush each casement pane.

    Lurks no ghost behind the arras,
    Happy midnight dreams to harass,
      Wakes no Banshee’s wail;
    Tapestry, nor antique lumber,
    Doth its sunny hall encumber,
      Shield, nor suit of mail.

    Morning wakes its household noises,
    Busy footsteps, laughing voices,
      As in days of yore;
    Burns its warm hearth too, brightly,
    Where the gay groups gather nightly,
      Though it knows no more

    Hearts, by other loves supplanted;
    Steps, that once its precincts haunted,
      Hushed by mount and sea;
    Only my sad heart remembers
    Flowery Junes and dark Decembers,
      Spent, old home, in thee!

    Shadows pace the garden alleys,
    Wander with me through the valleys,
      Join my woodland walk;
    And by streamlets willow-shaded,
    Where the song-birds serenaded,
      Parted lovers talk—

    Idly talking, idly dreaming,
    With the sunlit waters gleaming
      Golden at their feet,
    While the fair-haired children plunder,
    Rosy-mouthed, with blue-eyed wonder,
      Fruitage wild and sweet.

    When I stretch my hands in greeting,
    Each familiar name repeating,
      Straightway from my sight,
    Back to angel bowers they vanish,
    Even as beams of morning banish
      Visions of the night.

        J. I. L.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._