[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.

Fourth Series

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.

NO. 753.       SATURDAY, JUNE 1, 1878.       PRICE 1½_d._]




BIANCONI.


Charles Bianconi was altogether a very remarkable person, and not less
for his energy and perseverance than for his public services, ought
to be kept in remembrance. He was by birth an Italian—not, however,
an Italian of the lethargic south, but of the northern mountainous
district bordering on the Lake of Como. We might call him an Italian
highlander. Belonging to a respectable though not affluent family,
he was born on the 24th September 1786. At school he made so little
progress as to be thought little better than a dunce. People did not
quite understand his character. His impulse was to work, not to study.
He wanted to have something to do, and if put on a fair track, was not
afraid of being left behind in the ordinary business of life. With
this adventurous disposition, and with a good physical stamina, he was
bound for eighteen months to Andrea Faroni, who was to take him to
London, and there learn the business of a dealer in prints, barometers,
and small telescopes. Faroni did not strictly fulfil his part of the
contract. Instead of proceeding to London, he took the boy to Dublin,
at which he arrived in 1802; so there he was started in a business
career in Ireland when sixteen years of age. Helpless, friendless,
without money, and ignorant of the English language, his fate was
rather hard; but his privations only served to strengthen his powers of
self-reliance. Like a hero, he determined to overcome all difficulties.

Faroni, his master, seems to have made a trade of getting Italian
boys into his clutches. Besides Bianconi, he had several others, whom
he daily turned out to the streets to sell prints in a poor kind
of frames, always making a point that they should set off on their
travels without any money, and bring home to him the proceeds of
their industry. At first, Bianconi was at a loss how to carry on his
dealings. The only English word he was made acquainted with was ‘buy,
buy;’ and when asked the price of his prints, he could only count on
his fingers the number of pence he demanded. In a short time, he
picked up other words; and gave so much satisfaction to his employer,
that he was sent off to the country every Monday morning with two
pounds worth of pictures, and a munificent allowance of fourpence in
his pocket as subsistence-money until he returned on Saturday evening.
How he contrived to live on less than a penny a day, is not mentioned.
We daresay, he often got a warm potato as well as a night’s lodging
from the kind-hearted peasantry to whom he exhibited his wares. Opening
his pack was as good as a show. He carried a variety of Scripture
pieces, pictures of the Royal family, and portraits of Bonaparte and
his distinguished generals, all which were profoundly interesting,
and found willing purchasers. On one occasion, an over-zealous
magistrate, thinking there was a treasonous purpose in selling effigies
of Bonaparte, arrested the young pedler, and kept him all night in a
guard-room without fire or bedding, and only in the morning was he
liberated, almost in a perishing condition. Every Saturday night,
Bianconi returned to Dublin to deliver the money he had gathered, and
this he did with an honesty which commanded that degree of confidence
and respect which led to his professional advancement.

Bianconi’s rambles during three to four years took him chiefly
in a south-western direction from Dublin, towards Waterford,
Carrick-on-Suir, and Clonmel, in which neighbourhood he made many
friends in respectable circles, who were anxious to help him with their
countenance and advice, of which as a foreigner he stood in need. So
encouraged, he dropped the trade of pedler, and set up as a carver
and gilder in Carrick in 1806. Not long afterwards, he removed to
Waterford, and issued cards intimating that he was ‘a carver and gilder
of the first class.’ It was a bold announcement; but he resolved to
make up for deficiencies by incessant industry; and with the exception
of two hours for meals, he worked from six o’clock in the morning until
past midnight. Hear that, ye false friends of the working classes—ye
preachers of the gospel of idleness! Bianconi remained two years in
Waterford, and having improved in means and mechanical knowledge, he
removed to Clonmel, in which he settled down for a permanence. Clonmel
is a thriving borough of some importance, on the river Suir, chiefly in
the county of Tipperary, and fourteen miles south from Cashel. We shall
not go into any account of his growing trade in mirrors and gilded
picture-frames; it is enough to say that Bianconi, by his suavity,
integrity, and diligence in his calling, laid the foundation of his
fortunes, by which he was enabled to project and carry out a very
stupendous undertaking.

A grand thought burst on Bianconi. He conceived the idea of
establishing a system of cheap and commodious travelling through
Ireland. The only public conveyances were a few mail and day coaches
on the great lines of road. Across the country there was no means of
transit between market-towns, except by private or specially hired
carriages. The plan fallen upon was to start public cars, each with two
wheels, drawn by a single horse, and carrying six passengers—three on
each side, sitting with their faces outward, in the Irish fashion, with
the driver on an elevated seat in front. The attempt was made in 1815,
beginning with a car from Clonmel to Cahir, and subsequently extended
to Tipperary and Limerick. The thing took. A grievous public want was
supplied, and supplied by a foreigner. From town to town, this way and
that way over hundreds of miles, Bianconi’s cars spread, and became a
great institution. On certain routes, cars with four wheels drawn by
two horses, with accommodation for twelve passengers, were established;
and latterly there were cars drawn by four horses, accommodating
sixteen passengers. At Clonmel there was a gigantic establishment, the
centre of the organisation, and at the head of the whole was Bianconi,
like the general at the head of an army—his carving and gilding
business, of course, being given up, and nothing thought of but cars,
horses, drivers, and way-bills.

Bianconi’s head was not turned by his surprising success. He was
not one of your foolish persons who, having hit upon a successful
enterprise, leave it to its fate, and heedlessly take their ease. His
genius for organisation was exercised now only for the first time. The
smallest as well as the greatest matters occupied his attention; yet
Bianconi was not a mere business monster, set on making money. He was
generous in his gifts for pious objects and the support of schools;
nor was he less noted for his profuse and genial hospitality. He
had, however, higher claims to the character of a public benefactor.
When his cars were generally established, he realised the pleasure
of seeing the good they were doing. In a paper read by him at the
British Association meeting in 1857, he speaks of the many advantages
arising from the speedy and free communication he had set on foot.
‘As the establishment extended, I was surprised and delighted at its
commercial and moral importance. I found, as soon as I had opened
communication with the interior of the country, the consumption of
manufactured goods greatly increased. In the remote parts of Ireland,
before my cars ran from Tralee to Cahirciveen in the south, from
Galway to Clifden in the west, and from Ballina to Belmullet in the
north-west, purchasers were obliged to give eight or nine pence a yard
for calico for shirts, which they afterwards bought for three or four
pence. The poor people, therefore, who previously could ill afford
to buy one shirt, were enabled to buy two for a less price than they
had paid for one, and in the same ratio other commodities came into
general use at reduced prices.’ The introduction of railways naturally
deranged the car traffic. But in 1857, Bianconi had still nine hundred
horses, working sixty-seven conveyances, and travelling daily four
thousand two hundred and forty-four miles. There was in fact as much
car traffic as ever, only changed in many places into cross-roads, and
running short distances in connection with railway stations—a fact
which verifies what is obvious to everybody; for railways, instead
of diminishing the number of horses in the country, as short-sighted
people prognosticated, have greatly increased them. Bianconi felt a
pride in thinking how through the agency of his cars the fisheries on
the west of Ireland had been largely promoted, thereby contributing to
the comfort and independence of the people; and he was prouder still to
say, for the sake of Ireland, that his conveyances, though travelling
night and day, and many of them carrying important mails, had never
once been interrupted by any social disorder, and never suffered the
slightest injury.

From prudential considerations, Bianconi continued a bachelor
until he was well established in the car business, and was in good
circumstances. When, as he thought, the proper time had come, and
he had a handsomely furnished house in Clonmel into which he might
introduce a wife, he in 1827 married a young and amiable lady, Eliza
Hayes, daughter of a stock-broker in Dublin. Of this marriage there
was a family of a son and two daughters. The son died while still a
young man, and the eldest daughter, Kate, died unmarried. The youngest
daughter, Mary Ann, was married to Morgan John O’Connell, M.P. for
Kerry, and nephew of the famous Dan. O’Connell. Surviving her husband,
this lady has lately given to the world a memoir of her father,
‘Charles Bianconi, a Biography’ (Chapman and Hall, London, 1878), to
which we have been indebted for a number of interesting particulars.
Mrs O’Connell’s recollections picture her father in his early married
life as a man who gave little heed to home affairs. His time was
divided on his cars, electioneering, and getting into the corporation
of Clonmel. He was fond of his children, but too busy to think much
about them. ‘For a man of such excellent common-sense in most things,’
says his daughter, ‘he was not a judicious father. He suffered my
handsome brother to grow up without a profession.’ This is not said
disrespectfully, but to present a type of men in married life, who,
with excellent abilities and good intentions, habitually neglect the
rearing of their sons to any useful purpose. Who could not point to
lamentable instances of this indiscretion, and the unhappy consequences
which follow?

Bianconi had an ambition. It was to be Mayor of Clonmel. Some will
think this a weakness, but it was excusable. One who had begun life
as a poor alien boy struggling with poverty, and cared for by nobody,
wished to shew that by the revolution of fortune he was qualified for a
position of honour and dignity. His ambition was gratified. In 1844, he
was unanimously elected Mayor of Clonmel for the ensuing year; and such
was the satisfaction he gave as a magistrate, that he was elected for
a second term of office. For a position of this kind he was eminently
qualified. He had learned to speak English with perfect fluency, and
from observation was able to act his part in a manner equal to that of
any native-born citizen. Intuitively he had caught up the fervour of
the Irish character, as well as a knowledge of the legal disabilities
which had hitherto exasperated the majority of the nation. A friend to
justice and toleration, and on all sides desirous to promote peace and
good-will, it is not surprising that he attained to popular favour.

In Mrs O’Connell’s memoir of her father we have a glimpse of a few
of his eccentricities. So anxious was he to be helpful when his
interference could be of any use, that while acting as Mayor of Clonmel
he did not mind clambering on the top of his cars to pack the luggage
of passengers; and he would give himself any amount of trouble to get
situations for young men in whom he had confidence. While generous
in his charities, he was scrupulous to parsimony when there was a
chance of making a good bargain. This trait of character, however, is
not uncommon. We have heard related the anecdote of a wealthy London
banker, who one day saw his coachman taking home a pie of tempting
appearance for dinner. Inquiring the price of the pie, he learned that
it cost half-a-crown. ‘If you please, James, I’ll take the bargain
off your hands; there is half-a-crown for you, and you can easily get
another pie for yourself.’ So saying, the banker secured the pie,
which would last him for dinner for a week. Bianconi was equally acute
in trying to turn the penny. ‘One day, in Fleet Street, just after
he had engaged a four-wheeled cab, my father saw a stout gentleman
walking very quickly towards him, and who was evidently in distress at
not being able to find a conveyance. The spirit of Charles Bianconi,
carman, woke up too strongly to be suddenly quelled. “I have a cab,
sir,” he said. “If you will give me your fare, I will set you down
where you like.” The stout gentleman was profuse with thanks, and said
he wanted to go to the Exchange. When they were in the cab, he begged
to be allowed to know to whom he was indebted. “My name is Bianconi,”
said my father. “The great Bianconi?” replied the gentleman. “And what
is your name, sir?” replied my father, without half the politeness of
his companion. “My name, sir, is Rothschild.” My father, in telling me
the story, admitted that he was so much overawed by the presence and
the affability of so famous a man, that he had not presence of mind to
return the compliment and say, “The great Rothschild?” This was by no
means a singular instance of my father’s eccentricities in this way;
often at home, in Ireland, when he was driving in his own carriage
along the high-road, he would take in a traveller who would otherwise
have gone by the car, provided that he paid the car fare.’

In his broodings over change of circumstances, Bianconi had nourished
another ambition than that of being some day Mayor of Clonmel. He
wished to be a land-proprietor, but not being a natural-born subject,
he was not, according to law, eligible for buying land until he went
through certain formalities in 1831, after which he looked about for a
suitable investment. His first and principal acquisition was Longfield,
a property in Tipperary, extending to about a thousand English acres.
On it was a large and cheerful house, overlooking the Suir, and
well-wooded pleasure-grounds sloping down to the river. Here, with
splendid views of distant mountains, Bianconi took up his residence—at
his arrival on taking possession there being a grand flare-up of
tenantry with no end of cheering, for the new landlord’s beneficence
and means of disbursement were pretty well understood. Bianconi did
not disappoint expectations. When famine, from the failure of the
potato crops, spread over the land in 1848, he employed all who would
work, and no one died from want at Longfield. His many improvements in
fencing, draining, and building cottages with slated roofs gave some
offence to neighbouring proprietors of the old school; but he did not
mind being looked coldly upon, and by his independence of character
gained general esteem and respect.

Advancing in life, Bianconi disposed of his interest in the car system
which he originated, several new proprietors taking his place. In 1851,
he revisited Italy with his family, but found himself out of unison
with all that fell under his notice. Some family property that devolved
on him, he presented to several poor relations. It was a pleasure for
him to return to Ireland, with which all his feelings were identified,
and where he had made numerous warmly cherished acquaintances—among
others, Daniel O’Connell, with whom he was in frequent correspondence.
His daughter speaks of the immense mass of letters and papers which
he left behind him, and presents us with a few specimens from persons
of note, all in a complimentary strain. Referring to what he had
effected by his ingenious enterprise, Lady Blessington writes to him
from England—‘I thank you for discovering those noble qualities in
my poor countrymen which neglect and injustice may have concealed,
but have not been able to destroy. While bettering their condition,
you have elevated the moral character of those you employ; you have
advanced civilisation while inculcating a practical code of morality
that must ever prove the surest path to lead to an amelioration of
Ireland. Wisdom and humanity, which ought ever to be inseparable, shine
most luminously in the plan you have pursued, and its results must win
for you the esteem, gratitude, and respect of all who love Ireland.
The Irish are not an ungrateful people, as they have too often been
represented. My own feelings satisfy me on this point. Six of the
happiest years of my life have been spent in your country [Italy],
where I learned to appreciate the high qualities of its natives; and
consequently I am not surprised, though delighted, to find one Italian
conferring so many benefits on mine.’

In 1865, when seventy-nine years of age, Bianconi suffered a serious
misfortune. When driving a private car, part of the harness snapped,
and he was thrown violently to the ground. His thigh-bone was broken;
and rarely at his advanced age does any one recover from the effects
of such accidents. In a moment of time he had been made a cripple for
the remainder of his life. He now only moved about with crutches,
or was wheeled about in a Bath-chair; yet he undertook journeys, of
course with proper attendance, and did not lose his characteristic
cheerfulness. ‘When long past eighty, when he got to be stout, lame,
and helpless, he would visit the boys’ Reformatory in the Wicklow
Mountains,’ and encountered other risks inappropriate to his age and
infirmity. By the governing authorities in Ireland he was held in
much esteem for the benefits he had conferred on the country. ‘That
amiable, accomplished, and deservedly popular Viceroy, Lord Carlisle,
never failed to single out Mr Bianconi at the Royal Dublin shows, or
at the other places of public resort, when he happened to be present
in his wheeled chair, for they were great friends, and Lord Carlisle
esteemed him very highly. At first it was hardly expected he would have
lived long after his mishap; but by God’s grace he remained with us for
nearly another ten years.’

Afflicted with paralysis and confined to bed, poor Bianconi passed
peacefully away after a long and useful career. Mrs O’Connell, who was
attending on him at the last, strangely omits to give the date of his
decease, which was September 22, 1875, when within two days of being
eighty-nine years of age. His body was interred in a mortuary chapel,
which he had prepared for himself and family within the grounds at
Longfield. Although he had latterly been unable to appear in public
affairs, his loss was felt to be national. Looking to the manner in
which he self-reliantly rose from obscurity to distinction, and to the
success of his vast undertakings, his memory cannot but be endeared
to his adopted country, which stands particularly in need of men with
his sound common-sense and commercial enterprise. In conclusion, we
might almost be warranted in saying that Charles Bianconi did more
practically to advance the civilisation and the prosperity of Ireland
than all its professed patriots and politicians put together.

    W. C.




HELENA, LADY HARROGATE.


CHAPTER XXXI.—TO REMIND.

‘Gentleman—that is, person—wanted most particularly to know—please to
see him, Sir Sykes!’ deferentially hinted the under-butler, sliding on
noiseless feet up to the angle of his master’s library table. ‘He was
very pressing—send in card,’ continued the man, slurring over the words
he uttered with that inimitable slipperiness of diction of which the
English, and indeed Cockney man-servant possesses the monopoly, and
which seems obsequiously to suggest rather than boldly to announce. Sir
Sykes looked up in some surprise.

‘Did he mention what he wanted?’ he asked.

‘No, Sir Sykes,’ replied the under-butler, edging the emblazoned tray
on which lay the card, a little nearer, as an experienced angler might
bring his bait within striking distance of the pike that lay among the
weeds.

‘You may shew him in—here,’ said Sir Sykes, as, without taking the
card, he read the name upon it, and which was legibly inscribed in a
big, bold, black handwriting. With a bow the under-butler withdrew to
execute his master’s orders.

Great people—and a baronet of Sir Sykes Denzil’s wealth and position
may for all practical purposes be classed among the great of the
earth—are proverbially difficult of access. It is the business
of those about them to hedge them comfortably in from flippant or
interested intrusions which might ruffle the golden calm of their
existence; and suspicious-looking strangers by no means find the door
of such a mansion as Carbery, as a rule, fly open at their summons.

The man who had on this occasion effected an entry was not one of those
whose faces are their best letters of recommendation. The card he had
given bore the name of Richard Hold, and under ordinary circumstances,
such a caller as the mariner would never have succeeded in being put
into communication with a higher dignitary than the house-steward
or the groom of the chambers. However, by a judicious mixture of
bribing and bullying, the visitor had induced the under-butler to do
his errand. Under certain circumstances, half a sovereign is a sorry
douceur, even to an under-butler, but when tendered in company with
enigmatical threats of ‘starting with a rope’s end,’ by a seafaring
personage of stalwart build and resolute air, such a coin becomes
doubly efficacious as a persuader.

Richard Hold, master mariner, came in with a curious gait and mien,
half-slinking, half-swaggering, like a wolf that daylight has found far
from the forests and among the haunts of men. He was dressed in very
new black garments, ‘shore-going clothes,’ as he would himself have
described them; and the hat that he carried in his hand was new and
tall and hard. He had even provided himself with a pair of gloves, so
desirous was he to omit no item of the customary garb of gentlemen; but
these he carried loose, instead of subjecting his strong brown fingers
to such unwonted confinement.

‘I cannot say that I expected this honour, Mr Hold,’ said the baronet,
stiffly motioning his unwelcome visitor to a seat.

‘’Tis likely not,’ coolly returned the adventurer, as he took a survey
of the apartment. ‘This sort of place, I don’t mind admitting, is a
cut, or even two cuts above me. Still, business is business, Sir Sykes
Denzil, Baronet, and has got to be attended to, I reckon, even in such
a gen-teel spot as this is, mister!’

There must be something in the American twang and the American forms of
speech which all the world over hits the fancy of British-born rovers
of Hold’s caste, for in every quarter of the globe our home-reared
rovers affect the idiom, and sometimes the accent, of Sam Slick’s
countrymen.

‘I am scarcely aware, Mr Hold,’ said the baronet with cold politeness,
‘what business it can be to which I am indebted for the favour of your
company, to-day.’

‘Aren’t you, though, skipper?’ echoed Hold, whose natural audacity,
for a moment repressed by the weight as it were of the grandeur around
him, began to assert itself afresh. ‘Well, let every fellow paddle his
own canoe and shoe his own mustangs. The question is, Are you dealing
fairly by me or are you not, Sir Sykes Denzil, Baronet?’

‘I assure you that you are talking Greek to me,’ said the master of
Carbery Chase, with a tinge of colour rising to his pale face.

‘A nod,’ persisted Hold, ‘is as good every bit as a wink—you know the
rest of it, mister. But since you want plain speaking, you shall have
it. You can’t have forgot, no more than I can, that our bargain was
just this: A certain young lady was to be married to a certain young
gentleman.’

‘I apprehend that you allude to—to my ward—Miss Ruth Willis,’ said the
baronet hesitatingly.

‘You’ve hit it exactly,’ exclaimed Hold, with a slap of his hard hand
upon the crown of his hard hat, which sounded like a muffled drum,
somewhat to the discomfiture of its proprietor, who eyed its ruffled
surface ruefully. ‘When is the wedding to come off?’

Sir Sykes contemplated his ruffianly visitor with a disgust which it
required all his prudence to dissemble.

‘In civilised society,’ he said coldly, ‘events of that sort do not
take place with quite so expeditious a disregard of difficulties as
your very apposite question suggests. In the backwoods it is perhaps
otherwise.’

‘In the backwoods,’ roughly retorted Hold, ‘we don’t shilly-shally
about righting a wrong, no more than about the marrying of a young
couple that hev made up their minds to it. And let me tell you, Sir
Sykes Denzil, Baronet, the superfine Saxony you fine gentlemen wear
covers bigger rogues, often, than ever did the deerskin hunting-shirt
with its Indian embroidery of wampum and coloured quills. Backwoodsmen!
I’ve been in white-fisted company less to be trusted than theirs.’

Sir Sykes had imbibed too much of the spirit of that modern civilised
society of which he spoke, to be readily nettled into a burst of anger
by such taunts as these. Cool, save for one moment, from the first, the
temperature of his calmly flowing blood seemed to grow more frigid as
Hold’s warmed.

‘You have, I assure you, Mr Hold, no cause whatever for irritation,’ he
said smoothly: ‘I mean—to use your own expression, which I willingly
adopt—fairly by you. I neither repudiate nor ignore our tacit compact.
It is my dearest wish that my son should become the husband of the
exemplary young lady in whose prosperity you interest yourself.’

Hold gave a growl such as a bear, suddenly mollified by the gift of a
glittering slice of toothsome honeycomb, might be expected to emit. His
distrustful eye ranged over the baronet’s plausible face, as though to
test the sincerity of the assurance which had just been given.

‘We’re in the same boat,’ he said, in a tone that, if dogged, was less
surly than before. ‘Our pumpkins, I guess, ought to go to the same
market, they ought. But fair words don’t put fresh butter into a dish
of boiled batatas. I’m a British bull-dog of the game old breed,’ he
added gruffly; ‘and I keep the grip, however I’m handled. Is there a
likelihood of the marriage coming off soonish?’

‘I hope so,’ returned Sir Sykes. He would have given much to have
avoided the slight embarrassment which he was conscious that his manner
indicated, and which was not lost upon Hold’s watchful eye.

‘No day fixed? No banns put up—stop! I forgot—you swells marry by
special license of the Archbishop of Canterbury—no cake ordered; no
fal-lals bespoken from the milliner; no breakfast; no orange-flowers,
eh? Well, I wish to be reasonable about it, Sir Sykes, but there must
be an end of this. Do the young people understand one another, or do
they not?’

‘It does not answer to _brusquer_ these things,’ returned Sir Sykes
apologetically.

‘It does not answer to _what_?’ interrupted Richard, to whose nautical
ears the French word sounded odder than would have done a fragment of
linguafranca or a scrap of Eboe or Mandingo.

‘To be too precipitate,’ explained the baronet. ‘I have spoken to my
son. He sees, I hope, the affair in a proper light. He is often in the
society of Miss Willis, but—but’——

Sir Sykes wavered miserably here. All his deportment seemed to fail him
before Hold’s merciless eye, the very gaze of which probed him to the
quick.

‘Aren’t you captain in your own ship?’ asked the adventurer curtly.

The baronet winced at the question. Captain in his own ship, in the
sense that some men are commanders at home, he had never been. His own
house, his own estate, had not from the first been managed in precise
accordance with the views of him who owned them. But he had been a
decorous captain, a captain who walked quarter-deck as solemnly as the
greatest Tartar afloat, and who got lip-service and eye-service as a
salve to his vanity, until quite recently.

Now there was a strong and not altogether an obedient hand on the
helm. A new broom was making, in the person of Enoch Wilkins,
attorney-at-law, a clean sweep of various time-honoured abuses such as
always do grow up about a great estate, and the wails of the indignant
sufferers could not always be kept from reaching the reluctant ears of
Sir Sykes. People who were docked of perquisites came in respectful
bitterness of soul to the baronet, and humbly prayed that he would take
their part as against Wilkins the lawyer and Abrahams the steward.

Captain in his own ship! The word was a telling one, and it hit him
hard. He was only captain in an ornamental sense, because Carbery
was his freehold, and the baronetcy his, and he alone could sign
receipts and draw cheques. He had loved his ease much; and now it was
perpetually invaded. He was sorry for dismissed gamekeepers, and for
tenants whose tenure was to expire on Lady-day. He gave them drafts on
his banker as a plaster for the smart which he nevertheless felt sure
was deserved. An unrespecting City solicitor, and the sharp London Jew
whom Mr Wilkins had inducted into the stewardship, were swelling the
rent-roll in despite of the feeble protests of the nominal lord of all.

‘I can’t compel Captain Denzil to take a wife of my choosing; that is
beyond the power of a modern English father, at least where sons are
concerned,’ said Sir Sykes with a sickly smile.

‘No; you can’t do that, skipper. To knot the ninetailed cat and give
the young fellow six dozen for mutiny,’ said Hold, chuckling over the
imaginary scene, ‘would be too strict discipline for mealy-mouthed days
like these. But you might let him have it, Sir Sykes, though not quite
so downright. Make him understand that his allowances and his liberty
all depend on good behaviour, and then see what comes of it.’

What Sir Sykes suffered during the delivery of this speech, could only
be inferred from the fact that his lips became of a bluish white and
that he drew his breath gaspingly.

‘Believe me, Mr Hold,’ he said in a thin broken voice, which gained
strength somewhat as he proceeded, ‘you may intrust the care of
carrying out your wishes—that is, our wishes—to me. I understand my son
best, and I’——

He stopped again, gasping for breath, and the lines about his mouth,
traced by pain, were visible enough to attract the notice of his
unscrupulous guest.

‘You shall have time, Sir Sykes Denzil, Baronet,’ he said
apologetically; ‘take a fortnight if you like. I’m to be heard
of meanwhile at old Plugger’s;’ and he threw the card of that
establishment on the table.

Then Sir Sykes rang the bell for wine, and the wine was brought. Hold
tossed off a bumper of sherry.

‘Your health, skipper,’ he said; ‘and success to the wedding.’ And so,
with an impudent leer, he picked up his tall shining hat and departed.


CHAPTER XXXII.—A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION.

‘It can’t be done, sir, at the price. I’d do a good deal to meet your
wishes and that, and I don’t pretend to be more sentimental than my
neighbours. But marrying is a serious sort of step, you know. One can’t
cry off and pay forfeit, if one changes one’s mind a bit too late. Miss
Willis is’——

Thus far Captain Denzil; but now Sir Sykes interrupted his son with an
irritation unusual to him: ‘Miss Willis is a great deal too good for
you, I am afraid. Indeed I trust to her sound sense to keep some order
in your affairs, and prevent you from driving at too headlong a pace
along the road to ruin. Of course her pretensions to pedigree are very
slight compared with our own, if that be the obstacle in your way.’

‘Nobody cares much about ancient blood, in a woman at least,
now-a-days,’ languidly replied Jasper. ‘She is lady enough to take the
head of a dinner-table, or figure creditably in a London drawing-room,
after a few weeks of training, and that’s as much as need be looked
for. And I admit that Miss Willis is—very clever.’

Except in the case of an authoress, no one ever applies the epithet
‘Very clever’ to a lady save as a species of covert blame. Sir Sykes
felt and looked uneasy as the words reached him.

‘If you have any personal objection’—— he began.

‘Not the least in the world,’ unceremoniously interrupted Jasper. ‘I’ll
even stretch a point, and say I rather like the girl than otherwise.
She’d go straight, I daresay, once the course was smooth and clear
before her. But I do not think, father, you are treating me quite well.
Carbery ought, you know it ought, to go in the direct line, as such
properties do.’

‘I apprehend your meaning,’ returned Sir Sykes in his coldest tone,
‘to be that you resent as a grievance the fact that the estate is not
entailed upon yourself. You should be more reasonable, and remember the
singular circumstances under which I became master here.’

‘It was a grand coup!’ exclaimed the captain, with an envious little
sigh. ‘Such a stroke of luck does not come twice to the same family.’

‘I got this great gift,’ pursued Sir Sykes, ‘from the hand of one who
thought less of what he gave to me than of what, by making such a will,
he took away from others. The old lord’s self-tormenting mind led him
to exult, in the hopes that his testament extinguished, in the injury
done to kith and kin.’

‘It was a sell for the De Veres,’ muttered Jasper; ‘they didn’t on
the whole take it badly.’ He looked up as he spoke at the glimmering
blazonry of the great stained-glass window, and realised, for the
first time perhaps, the vexation which the caprice of the late lord of
Carbery had inflicted on those of his own race and name.

‘The property,’ said Sir Sykes, ‘having become my own a score of years
ago, is mine to give or to withhold at my death, as in my lifetime I
may judge fitting.’

‘You have told me that, sir, pretty often,’ retorted Jasper testily;
‘of course it’s yours, and you can leave it to the Foundling Hospital
if you like.’

‘Common policy then would dictate,’ said Sir Sykes with deliberate
emphasis, ‘the study of my wishes. And I wish very much indeed that
Miss Willis should become your wife.’

‘I can’t, as I said, do it at the price; really I can’t,’ rejoined
Jasper sullenly, as he thrust his hand into a side-pocket and fingered
the cigar-case that lay there. He did not dare to light a cigar in
the library, much as he longed to seek solace in smoke; but he grew
impatient for the interview to come to an end, and to recover his
freedom.

‘I offered a handsome income,’ said Sir Sykes with an offended look.
‘Had not the sum proposed proved sufficient, that was a difficulty not
insuperable. You had the option of beginning married life with the
revenue of an average baronet.’

‘Yes; but you see, sir, you are a trifle above the mark of an average
baronet’ responded the captain; ‘and I naturally should like when
my turn comes—I hope it will be a long time first—to fill the same
position. A bare allowance, or a lump of settled money, won’t make me
the equal of an ordinary eldest son; and I don’t see why, since by
accident I’m not on a par with other fellows of my nominal rank and
prospects, and I am required to marry without being allowed to choose
for myself, I should not be put on a level with men of my own standing.’

Sir Sykes fidgeted restlessly in his chair, and the lines of pain about
his mouth, which grew more sharply defined every day, deepened almost
perceptibly.

‘Consider what you are asking of me,’ he said with an injured air; ‘to
make myself a mere tenant for life where I have been for twenty years
owner in fee-simple! Sons do not ask their fathers to entail an estate
for their benefit.’

‘I don’t see why I should be in a worse position than other fellows,’
sullenly responded Jasper. ‘I may have been extravagant and that sort
of thing; but there’s no reason why my extravagances should be totted
up against me to a heavier sum-total than those of twenty I could name.
Hookham, now, who let his father in for a hundred and eleven thousand
the year that the French horse Plon-Plon won the Derby, is as safe of
the Snivey estates as he is of the Snivey peerage.’

‘The Earl of Snivey and his prodigal heir Lord Hookham,’ answered Sir
Sykes with cold urbanity, ‘do not present a case, to my mind, precisely
in point. You cannot in reason expect me, after the sacrifices I have
already made on your behalf, to place you in the position, as you call
it, of heir of entail. I am speaking to you less as a father than as a
man of the world.’

‘And as a man of the world, sir,’ said the incorrigible Jasper, ‘I
trust you will excuse my saying that I scarcely care to be huddled and
hustled into marrying I don’t know whom, unless at a very heavy figure,
as my stock-broker, when I was fool enough to go on the Exchange, and
burned my fingers over time-bargains, used to say. I can’t think why
you should mind my coming next, as concerns Carbery Chase here.’

This was a home question which, if arraigned before the stern tribunal
of Minos and Rhadamanthus, Sir Sykes would not have found it easy to
answer. He was in the habit of telling himself that Jasper was not a
successor to whom the honour and welfare of a great family could with
prudence be intrusted. Were he master, the old oaks in the Chase might
soon be gambled down from their prescriptive loftiness, and mortgages
might spring up like mushrooms. Here was a noble estate unencumbered,
like some big diamond without a flaw to mar its lustre, and he was
asked to let his spendthrift son inherit as of right. There were Lucy
and Blanche to be provided for. They would marry, doubtless, and their
husbands would probably expect that the brides’ hands should be heavy
with much gold. The bulk of the property would devolve on Captain
Denzil; but then it might be tied up with an ingenious testamentary
rigour that should keep the future baronet in legal leading-strings
through life. Sir Sykes cherished too lively a recollection of the
shifts and straits of his own outlawed progenitor Sir Harbottle,
to wish the reins of government to pass unreservedly into Jasper’s
unsteady hands.

But Sir Sykes had an unavowed motive for rejecting his son’s
proposition. He was by no means sure how Enoch Wilkins of St Nicholas
Poultney would receive such a suggestion. Mr Wilkins, that over-zealous
pilot, who had insisted on assuming the guidance of affairs, might be
furious at hearing that Jasper was to be promoted from heir-presumptive
to heir-apparent. There was no alliance between the captain and the
shrewd turf lawyer, from whom so much of his lightly expended cash had
been extracted. Jasper by no means relished the elevation of Mr Wilkins
to be his father’s Mentor and right-hand man. Mr Wilkins might guess
that Sir Jasper would send his japanned deed-boxes elsewhere than to
St Nicholas Poultney. And yet Sir Sykes could not venture to offend Mr
Wilkins.

The conversation was protracted for some half-hour or more, since Sir
Sykes was sincerely desirous to carry his point; but it languished by
degrees, and involved, as conversations on important topics are in real
life apt to do, frequent repetitions of some stock phrase or threadbare
argument. Sir Sykes essayed threats, veiled ones of course, and not
very comprehensible even to himself. Jasper, however, was very little
moved by such threats. There are things that a gentleman cannot do, and
assuredly one of them is to turn his only son out of doors because he
declines a wife of the parent’s choosing. And to no other menace was
the captain amenable. He should probably, as a result of his father’s
displeasure, get no cheques for the next few months; but this stoppage
of pocket-money could not much affect the happiness of a graceless
prodigal who, had he once got a sufficient sum in his possession, would
have turned his back at once on Carbery and all that belonged thereto.

Jasper, then, was singularly stubborn. He was in general as morally
pliable as a jelly-fish, after the fashion of most so-called men of
pleasure, but now he seemed for the nonce to have developed a backbone,
and to be hard to bend. There was really some lurking sense of injury
at his heart, and he felt on better terms with his own conscience
than was often the case, as he resisted his father’s instances that
he should marry Miss Willis, commence housekeeping on five thousand a
year, and be a reformed character as well as a Benedict. He felt that
all was not right, and was assured that a bride worth the taking would
not be urged on his acceptance with such pertinacity.

‘I do not see,’ repeated Jasper again and again, ‘why I should be in a
worse position than other fellows.’

From that formula, behind which, as behind a breastwork, he strongly
intrenched himself nothing could drive him. It was not, as he explained
with almost unnecessary candour, that he had any undue delicacy with
regard to mercenary marriages; but that what he stipulated for was to
be on a level with other spendthrifts of his own degree and set, with
young Lord Hookham, with Lionel Rattlebury, and wild Lord Viscount
Squandercash, and the rest. Entail the estate, so that it _must_ pass
to him, Jasper, and post-obits would become practicable, and money be
easily raised; and then Miss Willis was welcome to be the partner of
his joys and sorrows—such was Jasper’s simple train of reasoning. It
was a heavy price, but he stood out for it.

Sir Sykes was not willing to pay the price, at the cost, it might be,
of a second contest with Mr Enoch Wilkins, and the negotiation with his
son came to no satisfactory conclusion. What was to be done? Hold had
named a fortnight as the period of grace that he was disposed to grant;
but the baronet was of opinion that it would not be politic to allow
the time to expire without communicating with this man—who was in some
sense his master. He would inform Hold of Captain Denzil’s unexpected
obstinacy, and plead for a further delay, and—yes—he would send money.
Money has often a wonderfully lenitive effect upon the temper, and its
softening effects should be tried upon this buccaneering fellow.

Sir Sykes penned his letter, touching as lightly as he could on
Jasper’s recalcitrancy, and expressing sanguine hopes for the future.
He said nothing about the entail, which had been the subject of the
haggling debate between himself and the captain. It would hardly be
prudent to tell Hold of that, lest Jasper should find an unexpected
ally to back his demand.

‘We had better, under the circumstances, give him, as I believe
whale-fishers say, a little more line,’ wrote Sir Sykes in his
confidential communication to Richard Hold, and he was weak enough to
pride himself on his neat use of a nautical metaphor sure to tell with
a seafaring man. And he signed a cheque for two hundred and fifty
pounds, payable to Mr Richard Hold, or order, and inserted it in the
letter, which he despatched by that night’s post. He could scarcely
have done a more foolish thing.




OUR VOLUNTEERS.


Some persons are old enough to remember the Volunteer system which
prevailed in the early years of the present century. It was an
enthusiastically patriotic movement, for the country was threatened
with invasion by Bonaparte, who, however, as is well known, never
got beyond preparations at Boulogne, and by the victory of Nelson at
Trafalgar received an effectual check. Volunteering at that time,
though very hearty, was at best never anything else than playing at
soldiering. The members of the various corps were only civilians in
uniforms. Discipline was imperfect. At any fancied affront, a man sent
in his gun and walked off.

We can mention a case in point, which occurred about 1807. The colonel
in command of the Westminster Volunteers, one day lost his temper on
parade, and struck a member of the corps with the flat of his sword.
Such was the general indignation at the outrage, that the greater
number of both officers and men at once sent in their resignation,
and the regiment was broken up. This anecdote was related to us by
one of the sergeants, who resigned and sent in his sword and musket.
Evidently, there could have been no solid reliance on a body of
Volunteers so ill governed and held together so feebly. The whole
fabric was at length dissolved, and was succeeded by militia regiments
strictly under the articles of war.

The volunteering system of our own day has step by step attained the
character of a Landwehr, or reserve force, liable, if the occasion
arises, to support the army of the line and the militia. It embraces
infantry, cavalry, and artillery, and is constructed on a proper
military basis. As in former times, each town or district has its own
regiment of Volunteers, which may be concentrated at a short notice
by telegraph. In the infancy of the present movement, the peer and
the artisan, the gentleman and the shopkeeper, all ‘shouldered arms’
together and marched gaily side by side. Dukes, earls, marquises,
and cabinet ministers joined the ranks—Lord Palmerston (then
Prime-minister) himself donning the uniform and learning his drill
as a private in the London Irish Rifle Corps; while in the London
Scottish, the Marquis (now Duke) of Abercorn did the same thing. This
was all well and good; but it could not last long, nor did it. Liberty
is the precious possession of all classes in this country, but perfect
‘equality’ and ‘fraternity’ such as the above incidents indicated
are virtues which have not yet attained to any very great degree
of perfection amongst us. And so it came to pass that these noble
recruits, whose support at that time to the Volunteer cause cannot of
course be over-estimated, were among the first who ‘fell out,’ to make
way for those who really meant ‘soldiering.’

Royal reviews and Easter-Monday field-days attracted to the ranks
of our citizen army all those who loved volunteering for the sake
of making a show; but now that the movement has settled down into
real earnest military work, the _true_ manhood of Britain is to the
fore—the spirit which looks upon hard work with as light a heart as
it looks on pleasure, when there is a lesson to be learned or a great
object to be gained.

The new movement was national in all its phases. The different corps
adopted titles and mottoes which had some distinct connection or other
with their country’s history, or with the local traditions of the
counties in which they were raised. In the former category are the two
national corps we have already named; and in the latter may be reckoned
the ‘Robin Hoods,’ with their uniform of Lincoln green, which is the
only thing about them, however, that reminds one of the days of Robin
Hood and his jovial band.

Though for some cause which we have never heard properly explained,
there are no ‘colours’ or ‘standards’ in our Volunteer corps, each
regiment has a motto, the favourite ones being _Defence, not Defiance_
(which is the motto of the National Rifle Association), _Pro Aris et
Focis_ (For our Hearths and Firesides), and _Pro Rege et Patria_ (For
King and Country). If ever our Volunteers are used at all it will be in
battalion formation, like the regular army, for an army of two hundred
thousand men cannot all act as skirmishers, and their colours would be
to them as much the embodiment of their country’s honour as those of
the line are to the regiments of the regular army. The Volunteers of
1804 possessed honourable emblems in the shape of banners or standards,
many of which still adorn the walls of London’s historic fortress—the
Tower.

In the year 1860 the Volunteer movement received the patronage of Her
Majesty the Queen, in a manner as practical as it was generous and
graceful. The National Rifle Association, which may be said to be the
mainspring of the whole affair, and which has since become one of
our most popular institutions, had decided to hold the first annual
contest in rifle-shooting at Wimbledon Common, and the great ‘Tir
National’ of England was successfully inaugurated by the Queen firing
the first shot. The rifle was laid for her, and Her Majesty pulled the
trigger. By the aid of the ‘mechanical rest’ the bullet struck the
bull’s-eye, and thus with an omen of happy import was commenced the
series of contests which to-day has given us an army of sharpshooters
ready to ‘do or die’ for Britain. The Queen then announced that she
would give a prize of two hundred and fifty pounds to be shot for
annually, the winner having the choice of receiving it either in money
or in a souvenir of the same value. This prize, which is called the
‘blue-ribbon’ of Wimbledon, can only be shot for by Volunteers; and to
it are also attached the gold medal and badge of the National Rifle
Association. The Prince Consort also gave an annual prize to be shot
for, and this has been continued to the meeting by the Prince of Wales.

These royal acts at once put the seal of popularity upon the Volunteer
cause, and prizes of all kinds were offered for competition. Things
were at first somewhat chaotic at Wimbledon; but as time wore on,
the common changed its fair-like aspect, in which refreshment booths
occupied the most prominent place, to the spectacle which it now always
presents on these occasions—namely that of a neat and well-ordered
encampment where, while the meeting lasts, the strictest military
discipline is understood to prevail. Competitors from all parts of the
world meet there annually, for many of the prizes are of a cosmopolitan
nature. The Dominion of Canada and Australia send teams of marksmen,
for whom special ‘challenge cups’ are prepared; while the Army and
Navy, the two Houses of Parliament, and our great Public Schools also
exhibit their skill in the use of the rifle.

Our Volunteers had a good deal to put up with in the first few years
of the movement from the street arabs and other idlers, who could find
no better employment than to fling all kinds of rough sarcasm and what
may appropriately be termed ‘gutter criticism’ at the members of the
different corps. An unfortunate Volunteer, for instance, was fined
for shooting a dog on Blackheath Common as he was going to drill, and
almost immediately every Volunteer was hailed in the London streets
with the cry of ‘Who shot the dog?’ Again, when the Volunteers met in
the public parks for drill they were closely surrounded by a critically
tantalising crowd, which obstructed their movements and laughed
heartily at their mistakes. The comic papers were also filled with
amusing caricatures of our citizen soldiers; and a great deal was done
even in high places to throw cold-water upon this patriotic and popular
movement. It has now, we are glad to record, outlived all this, and has
become enthroned in the hearts of Englishmen as one of our greatest
institutions. It numbered at first some two hundred thousand men,
but this included persons of all ages, sizes, and classes; and after
the first flush of enthusiasm passed off, the motives which actuated
many of them were not so much military zeal or any of the more solid
military virtues, as a love of novelty and a taste for good-fellowship.

The Volunteers are now organised upon a somewhat different footing.
No one is accepted as a recruit who is not physically able to
undergo military work and marching; but should the Volunteer wish to
quit the service, he must comply with the following rules as laid
down in _Regulations for the Volunteer Force_. He must give to the
commanding-officer of his corps fourteen days’ notice in writing of his
intention to quit the corps. He must deliver in good order—fair wear
and tear only excepted—all arms, clothing, and appointments that may
have been issued to him. And he must pay all money due or becoming due
by him, under the rules of the corps, either before or when he quits
the corps. When the above regulations have been observed, the Volunteer
is free to bid adieu to the ranks. His uniform is supplied to him free,
but only on condition that he shall make himself an ‘efficient;’ a
condition which if fulfilled, will earn for the funds of his corps the
government capitation grant of thirty shillings per year. Efficiency is
gained by attending a certain number of drills and parades and gaining
a regulated score of marks for rifle-shooting.

Thus at a small cost to the state the different corps are made
self-supporting, the Volunteer himself being put to no expense beyond
the time which he gives up to the necessary drills and parades. The
Volunteers have now learned what military discipline is, and have, by
their attending the exercises and manœuvres of the regular army, shewn
themselves willing to submit to it. Most Volunteer officers also take
a pride in knowing their duty, and are no longer helplessly dependent
on the adjutant and the drill-instructor. Instead of being regarded in
the light of a novelty, volunteering is now looked upon as a serious
business by all engaged in it, and as a task which in its perfect
fulfilment will render them worthy citizens of a great and widely
extended empire.

The service which the Volunteer movement has rendered to Britain is of
incalculable value, for besides giving us a defending army of nearly
two hundred thousand ‘efficient’ men, trained to the use of every
weapon known in warfare, it has been a school in which, during the
twenty years of its existence, thousands have learned those elementary
principles of military life which, in the case of an invasion, would
enable them again to come forward in defence of their Queen and
country. The very fact of Great Britain possessing such an army would
deter, and for aught we know to the contrary, may have deterred hostile
nations from invading her shores.

The two largest Volunteer corps are Scotch—namely the 1st Lanarkshire
Artillery with seventeen batteries, and the 1st Edinburgh (Queen’s)
Rifle Brigade with twenty-five companies; these being the only two
corps whose strength entitles them to two adjutants each. The militia
and yeomanry trainings of 1876 were attended by seventy-six thousand,
and nine thousand five hundred officers and men respectively; while
the annual inspections of the Volunteers for last year resulted in an
attendance of 159,378 men of all ranks.

We find by reference to the Annual Returns of the Volunteer corps,
that no fewer than 16,306 officers and sergeants obtained Certificates
of Proficiency in 1877. These are facts which it is consoling for the
public to know, for they ought to dispel in the future any fear of the
consequences of foreign invasion.

The Civil War in America shewed us what a Volunteer army could do; and
it behoves this country now to see that this magnificent force which it
has at its disposal should be placed on such a footing in relation to
the other forces as will for ever secure its services. Our Volunteers
constitute a force to which no other country can present a parallel;
and as such, irrespective of its being the means of doing away with the
evils of conscription, is worthy of all the support which the state can
give it, for certain events within the past few years have shewn us to
what straits a country is driven, and how great is the misery of its
people when it has been successfully invaded. As a sign of the times
too, we may note with satisfaction the patriotic feeling which has,
in the present crisis of our national history, induced many Volunteer
corps to offer their services to the government for garrison duty at
home, in the event of our army proceeding abroad, one regiment—the
London Irish—even going so far, we learn, as to place itself at the
absolute disposal of the government for service either in or out of the
United Kingdom.

Long may it be ere these shores are ever again approached by an enemy
bent upon our destruction as a people; but we cannot shut our eyes to
the fact that such an enterprise would perchance ere this have been
effected if it had not been for the patriotic conduct of our youth, who
have enabled Britain to cover herself with an impenetrable shield,
and to find in the arms and hearts of her own sons that indomitable
strength which is best and most appropriately expressed in the peaceful
words that form the motto of our citizen army—namely _Defence, not
Defiance_.




MONSIEUR DE BOCHER.


Badly as the streets of Paris were lighted at the close of the reign
of Louis XV., the art of illuminating ballrooms was as well understood
then as it is in the latter half of the nineteenth century. The guests
who flocked to the receptions of M. de Bocher, after passing through
streets in which a few flickering oil-lamps scarcely succeeded in
making darkness visible, found themselves in the centre of floods of
dazzling light, and surrounded by all that was bright, fashionable, and
gay in the pleasure-loving city of Paris.

Times had much altered since the days of the Grand Monarque, and the
hard and fast lines of society, then so rigidly observed, were now
well-nigh obliterated. A precursor of the great Revolution which was
hereafter to overthrow the state, was to be found in the invasion of
the saloons of the nobility by financiers and capitalists, who were
received with open arms by those who wished either to borrow money from
them, or to recruit their shattered fortunes by alliances with the
money-bags of the period. Nor was this all; for the poets and writers
of the day, anxious to secure the support of well-known and wealthy
patrons, flocked to these reunions, which they enlivened with their
geniality and wit.

Monsieur de Bocher could lay but little real claim to the patrician
prefix which he had for some years adhibited to his otherwise plebeian
name. But he held a quasi-official appointment, which, although
outside the Cabinet, gave him almost the dignity of a minister; while
his well-known wealth and splendid entertainments attracted the best
society in Paris. He was, moreover, a man of wit and learning, and
as he possessed the somewhat rare faculty of playing the host to
perfection, had an excellent cook and a cellar of first-class wine,
his mansion in the Faubourg St Germain was one of the most popular in
Paris. Dukes and peers, ambassadors and foreigners of distinction, the
simple gentleman, the poet, the literary man, the barrister, and the
capitalist, all found here a common ground for the display of their
various talents. Fools were rare, for they soon found that the climate
was not congenial; and the conversation was not only remarkable for its
piquancy, but its intellectual character. Each guest, after paying his
respects to Madame de Bocher, mixed at once in the throng, and was soon
busied in discussing the last news of the day, or deep in the question
which agitated Paris. Marmontel and Diderot, La Harpe and Helvetius,
seldom missed a reception; but here, as indeed throughout Paris,
Voltaire was the presiding genius. It was a hopeless struggle for any
young author to attempt to hold his own against so powerful a clique.
Voltaire denounced him before his face; Diderot caricatured him at the
Café Procope; he was jeered and laughed at everywhere, and ended by
submitting to his tormentors. The result of such a censorship was not
difficult to foresee; and in a short time no literary effort which did
not contain at least a covert attack upon religion, in accordance with
the principles of the fashionable philosophy, had a chance of success.
Let us now tell the story of M. de Bocher’s acquisition of wealth.

His origin indeed was of the lowliest, for his father was but a working
mason in the days of the Grand Monarque. One evening, as the father was
returning home with his work-basket on his shoulder and trowel in hand,
a man wrapped in a long brown cloak, and closely followed by a carriage
without any armorial bearings or ciphers, tapped him on the shoulder
and asked him whether he would like to earn five-and-twenty louis. The
mason eagerly acquiesced; and having entered the carriage, his eyes
were bandaged, and the horses started off at a great rate. For several
hours the carriage was driven rapidly about the streets of Paris, with
the obvious intention of making the occupant lose all trace of the
route he had traversed; and when the object had been accomplished, the
carriage stopped suddenly in the court-yard of a large mansion. Bocher
was then desired to alight; and was at once conducted, his eyes still
bandaged, into a kind of cellar, where his eyesight was restored to
him. Here he found two men, both armed, and with their faces concealed
by masks. The poor man was in an agony of terror, believing that his
last hour had come, but was somewhat reassured by the gestures of his
companions, who, fearful of trusting their voices, made signs to him to
make some mortar of the lime which was lying on the floor. A hole in
the wall disclosed a recess; and the two men raising with difficulty
a weighty strong box, placed it in the interior, and made signs to
the mason to build up the wall afresh. Bocher, seeing that nothing
was required of him but the legitimate exercise of his craft, quickly
recovered his self-possession; and guessing that the proprietors of the
treasure were obliged to quit the country, and had hit upon this device
for concealing it until better times should dawn upon them, the notion
of appropriating it to his own use flashed like lightning across his
brain.

When he concluded his work, as if intending to give a last polish to
its completion, he placed his hand, thickly covered with wet mortar,
on the new wall, and thus left the distinct impression of his five
fingers on the hiding-place of the treasure-deposit. The promised
five-and-twenty louis were then faithfully counted out into his hand;
his eyes were again bandaged, and he was re-conducted to the carriage,
which after following the same course of deception for three long
hours, at last deposited him in the same street as that in which the
man in the brown cloak had found him.

From that day forth Bocher abandoned the use of the hammer and
trowel, and passed his time in wandering about Paris inspecting the
houses advertised to be sold, directing his attention especially to
the cellars and lower regions of the buildings; seeking everywhere,
but without success, that imprint of his hand which would point the
way to unlimited wealth. In the pursuit of this phantom, not only the
twenty-five louis but all the little savings of his hard work rapidly
melted away, and misery and hunger began to knock loudly at the mason’s
door. One after another he sold the petty articles of furniture which
had embellished his humble home, to procure the bread which was
necessary to sustain life; and pale and in rags he wandered about
Paris, reading every new announcement of vacant houses, and became a
nuisance to the porters intrusted with the care of shewing them.

Two years thus passed away—two long years, occupied day by day in
seeking a fortune, and night by night in dreaming that it was found. He
was returning home one evening, sad and dispirited, with the proceeds
of the sale of the bed upon which his mother had died, and which had
been one of the very last articles of furniture he possessed, when
his eye was caught by a large posting-bill announcing the sale of a
magnificent mansion belonging to the Duc de Cairoux, in the immediate
vicinity of his own dwelling. He recollected the story of the sudden
disappearance of the Duke, and on reading the bill, found that the
property was sold under a legal decree, which constituted the heirs
proprietors with a power of sale. A last hope crossed poor Bocher’s
mind, and he at once proceeded to the house, and knocked hastily at the
door. It was almost dark, and no one paid any attention to his eager
summons. After a sleepless night he again made his appearance at the
portal of the Duke’s mansion; but although it was now opened, another
difficulty presented itself, for the porter hesitated to admit a man so
ragged and dirty as the poor mason had become. At length, however, he
agreed to do so upon the understanding that a servant accompanied the
strange visitor during his survey of the premises. The powdered lackey
was scarcely more courteous than the porter, and scornfully exhibited
the rich furniture, pictures, and priceless china which adorned the
apartments, to his humble companion. But these were not what Bocher had
come to see, and at last he induced the man to shew him the cellars.
Whilst the footman was descanting upon the quantity and quality of the
wines around them, Bocher was anxiously scrutinising all the walls,
in hopes of finding that print on the mortar which was to open to him
the door to untold wealth. It was all in vain; and deaf to the man’s
insolence, Bocher was on the point of leaving, convinced that his
last hope had vanished like its predecessors, and that this could not
have been the house he had visited on that eventful evening, when he
suddenly perceived a small cellar situated in an angle of the wall,
which had hitherto escaped observation. He turned back and examined it
closely, his technical knowledge as a mason at once shewing him that
the mortar in one part of the wall was much fresher than elsewhere. He
approached the spot, and there—yes, there was no doubt about it—there
were the marks of the five fingers, plain and distinct!

‘At last, at last!’ he murmured to himself; and to make assurance
doubly sure, he traced out each of the impressions with a trembling
hand. There could be no doubt whatever about it. At last his long
search was ended.

Eight days afterwards the property was to be sold by auction, and
numbers of the aristocracy of Paris sent their stewards to bid for it.
It was put up at fifty thousand louis d’or, and two thousand louis were
at once added by the steward of the Duc de Berri.

‘Sixty thousand louis,’ said a voice from a corner; and the audience
turning round to look at the man who had the audacity to outbid the
richest man in Paris, discovered a poor man whom they had supposed to
be a beggar.

‘Sixty thousand louis,’ said the auctioneer; ‘sixty thousand louis are
bid, and this fine property is going for only sixty thousand louis!’

The steward added five thousand louis, and the offer was at once capped
by the mendicant who bid seventy thousand louis. Thus the war was
carried on until one hundred thousand louis were offered, and people
were aghast at this extraordinary duel between the steward of the
wealthy Duke and a miserable-looking beggar.

‘One—hundred—and—ten—thousand—louis,’ slowly, but with emphasis,
shouted the steward with a withering look at his ragged opponent.
Bocher hesitated, for although he well remembered how heavy the strong
box was, it was doubtful whether it contained so large a sum as
this, and he was well aware that the penalty for non-payment was the
Châtelet prison for life with all its horrors. There was not much time
for reflection, for already the ‘Going, going’ of the auctioneer was
sounding in his ears.

‘One hundred and twenty thousand louis,’ he shouted; and ‘One hundred
and twenty thousand louis are bid,’ repeated the auctioneer amidst a
breathless silence. This time there was no advance on the bidding; and
after waiting the stipulated time, the property was knocked down to
Bocher; and the discomfited steward of the Duke quitted the field of
battle, revenging himself with a bitter jest as he passed his conqueror.

Bocher, with the penalty of non-payment of the enormous purchase-money
staring him in the face, handed over the required sum within
twenty-four hours, receiving in return the necessary title-deeds.

The mason became a dealer in monopolies, and finished by leaving an
immense fortune and a patent of nobility to his son.

       *       *       *       *       *

Not contented with the house in Paris which had satisfied his father’s
aspirations, the son built himself a splendid château at Montigny,
where he had the honour of entertaining amongst other important
personages, Louis XV. and M. de Voltaire. The château was built on a
hill; and puffed up with the vanity of his riches, M. de Bocher had
the presumption to attempt to surpass the great work of Louis XIV. at
Versailles, by bringing the water from a greater distance and throwing
it to a greater elevation. He had a theatre attached to the château,
and lived the life of great land-proprietors in England, a state of
things quite unknown in France. His museum of natural history, his
collection of pictures by the old masters, his stud of horses, were all
unrivalled, and moreover he had the luck to enjoy his good fortune to
the last, for he died on the eve of the great Revolution, leaving two
sons behind him to enjoy his mysteriously acquired wealth.




FACTS WORTH KNOWING.


From inquiries made among French hatters by Dr Delaunay, some curious
facts concerning heads have come to light. In families developing
towards a higher intellectual standard, heads increase from generation
to generation; while families failing intellectually, shew a regular
decrease in size. The men who made the Revolution of 1789 had bigger
heads than their fathers; while the sons of the present ruling families
in France are craniologically so deficient that hats have to be made
specially for them. In Paris the largest heads are to be found in the
quarter of the schools, and among the schools themselves the secular
stand above the ecclesiastical.

As flies are said to eat the animalcules in impure air, thus removing
the seeds of disease, leanness in a fly is _primâ facie_ evidence of
pure air in a house, while corpulency indicates foul wall-paper and bad
ventilation. Talking of a foul and fresh atmosphere, there has lately
been adopted in India a novel method of giving change of air to people
who cannot afford to leave home. Patients go up in a balloon, which
ascends to a certain height, and is there made captive. It seems that
a few days passed in this atmosphere, which is quite different from
that on the plains beneath, temporarily braces up the most languid
of invalids. The importance to health of a free perspiration no less
than of fresh air, and what dangers arise from perspiration being
suddenly checked, has been proved by the fact that a person covered
completely with a compound, impervious to moisture, will not live over
six hours. On the occasion of some papal ceremonies, a poor child was
once gilded all over with varnish and gold-leaf to represent the Golden
Age. No wonder that it died in a few hours, when we consider that the
amount of liquid matter which passes through the pores of the skin in
twenty-four hours in an adult person of sound health, is about sixteen
fluid ounces, or one pint. Besides this, a large amount of carbonic
acid—a gaseous body—passes through the tubes; so we cannot fail to see
the importance of keeping them in perfect working order by frequent
ablutions or other means.

It has often been stated that ocular weakness and diseases in various
forms appear to have been rapidly increasing in recent times. Dr
Loring, in discussing before the New York County Medical Society the
serious question, ‘Is the human eye gradually changing its form under
the influence of modern civilisation?’ confirms the opinion, so far at
least as short-sightedness is concerned. Constant study, now incidental
to the lives of so many, has, he says, a tendency to engender this
derangement of the eye, and it is often transmitted to descendants. In
his opinion, near-sightedness is a disease of childhood, and rarely
develops itself after the fifteenth or eighteenth year. On examining
the eyes of over two thousand scholars in the New York public schools,
Dr Loring found that the proportion of those in a healthy condition
were eighty-seven per cent. among children under seven years, while
between that age and twenty-one, the proportion of normal eyes
was but sixty-one; which shews, he thinks, that near-sightedness
increases directly with the age to which schooling is extended.
In Königsberg, Germany, he found considerably more than half the
population were short-sighted; and in America it is more commonly met
with among the older eastern cities than the new ones of the west.
Among the most prominent causes of the disease are, in his opinion, a
sedentary life, poor food, bad ventilation, and general disregard of
hygienic requirements—all conducing to a laxity of tissue, of which
near-sightedness is an indication.

The experiments of Mr G. F. Train on himself would seem to give some
corroboration to the reports of fasting girls that crop up from time to
time. In an attempt to prove that eating is merely ‘an acquired habit,’
he persisted in going without food for six days, and expects in time
to be able to do without nourishment for a much longer period! His
experiments, he asserts, prove three things: First, that all stories of
terrible agony in starvation are nonsense; second, that fasting really
improved his intelligence; and third, that a person who has fasted
six days has no ravenous appetite. This, however, we should think is
accounted for by the sufferer feeling quite past eating at a certain
stage of starvation.—The problem of how to live on sixpence a day has
been elucidated by a London physician, who writing in advocacy of
vegetarianism, affirms that he knows many persons who keep themselves
strong and well on that sum. He further says: ‘I have myself lived and
maintained my full weight and power to work on threepence a day, and
I have no doubt at all that I could live very well on a penny a day.’
The ‘penny restaurant’ lately announced in New York, where a small cup
of coffee, bread and butter, pork and beans, a slice of corned beef,
oatmeal, and boiled rice, may be obtained at a cost of one cent for
each item, offers the very means of carrying out this theory. What
kind of ‘living’ could be enjoyed on that insignificant sum, is not
explained by the learned experimenter; but without pushing theory to
such an extreme, it is evident that a more careful and judicious outlay
of small incomes would enable many unthinking persons to live well and
economically, who may now deem such a thing impossible.

The use of horse-flesh as an article of food has made great progress
in Paris, where about a thousand horses per week are said to be
slaughtered, the animals even being imported for that purpose. It is
said that during the Exhibition, the hippophagists of Paris intend
giving a banquet once a month to the journalists of all nations, where
horse and ass flesh prepared in every seductive form will be served
up.—The snail is becoming another fashionable article of diet in
France, and for some time past a particular place has been appropriated
for their sale in the Paris fish-markets. Snails, says one of the
French journals, were highly esteemed by the Romans, our masters
in gastronomy, and are now raised in many of the departments with
success. In the sixteenth century the Capuchins of Fribourg possessed
the art of fattening snails—an art not lost in our day, for in Lorraine
and Burgundy they raise excellent snails, which find sure demand in
the Paris market. There are now more than fifty restaurants and more
than a thousand private tables in Paris where snails are accepted as a
delicacy by upwards of ten thousand consumers; the monthly consumption
of this mollusc being estimated at half a million. Frank Buckland tells
us that snails are becoming scarce in the neighbourhood of London,
where for some time snail-collecting has been a regular trade.

It is a curious fact that so many dwellings once the homes of poets
should have been public-houses at one time or another. Burns’s native
cottage was a house of this description; the house in which Moore
was born was a whisky-shop; and Shelley’s house at Great Marlow, a
beer-shop. Even Coleridge’s residence at Nether Stowey, the very house
in which the poet composed his sweet _Ode to the Nightingale_, became
an ordinary beer-house. A house in which James Montgomery lived for
forty years at Sheffield was a beer-shop; and the birthplace of Kirke
White is now a house for retailing intoxicating beverages.

Many facts relating to foreign countries, which strike Englishmen
as being curious to a degree, reach us from time to time. A Spanish
soldier, we are told, will fight for a week on an empty stomach,
provided he can look forward to playing his guitar on the seventh day.
In his country, if a bull intended for the fight falls ill, the animal
is sent to an infirmary. The chief toreador Frasculeo has a fortune of
two million francs; his combat costume represents one hundred thousand
francs in diamonds alone; he is courted by the highest society in
Madrid, is a member of the chief aristocratic club; yet his wife is
a fishmonger’s daughter, and still helps her mother in the market.
On days when her husband performs she sits at her balcony with her
children to receive couriers, who come on horseback waving a white flag
as a sign of success in the arena.—The account of how a titled lady in
Russia has discovered to her cost the penalties of expressing in too
emphatic a manner her disapproval of her governess’s behaviour, will,
if true, convey a curious idea of some social customs in that country.
The Princess Manweloff had a habit of striking her governess, a lady
of noble birth, and the latter complained of her to the local justice.
In this instance the law was a respecter of persons, and the Princess
was ordered three days’ detention in her own house. The governess
was dissatisfied, and appealed to a higher court, which sentenced
the defendant to three months’ imprisonment in the common jail.—As
a curious fact, it has been noted by Sir Samuel Baker that a negro
has never been known to tame a wild elephant or any wild animal. The
elephants employed by the ancient Carthaginians and Romans were trained
by Arabs and others, never by negroes. It had often struck Sir Samuel
as very distressing that the little children in Africa never had a pet
animal; and though he often offered rewards for young elephants, he
never succeeded in getting one alive.

A curious instance of the acquisition and rejection of fortune reaches
us from New Orleans. A stableman named Pathier, belonging to an hotel
in that city, suddenly found himself heir to eighty thousand francs
at the death of his mother; yet strange to say refused to accept the
money. The law has in vain endeavoured to induce him to avail himself
of the windfall: his only ambition is to smoke his pipe and groom the
horses. To such an instance of contempt of riches it would be difficult
to find a parallel.

Some curious facts from the world of Nature crop up occasionally, which
are well worthy of consideration. For instance, it has been proved
that the bee may under certain circumstances turn out to be anything
but the pattern of industry it is proverbially supposed to furnish.
Australian colonists have from time to time taken out swarms of bees
to their adopted land, in the hope of deriving practical benefit from
the profusion of flowers with which the whole country abounds. For
some little time the newly imported bees maintained their reputation
for industry, storing up their food in the comfortable hives provided
for them, and supplying the colonists with far superior honey to
that collected by the indigenous honey-producers the ‘mellipones.’
Presently, however, the hives were discovered unstocked at the end of
the autumn, notwithstanding the long summers of the northern parts
of Australia, and it was found that the bees entirely neglected to
lay by a stock of food, as was their wont. Though the bees increased
and the hives were always regularly tenanted, no honey was brought
home. It soon became evident that, finding the perennial summer of the
tropical parts of Australia afforded them abundance of food, without
the intervention of long winters, the bees forsook their old habits,
gave themselves up to a life of happy indolence, and no longer took the
trouble to convey their superabundant supplies to the hives prepared
for them. In short, there being no winters to provide for, the bees
gave up the practice of storing honey.

Tenacity of life in eels and cats is proverbial; but from an instance
that occurred at Flinstow Farm, near Pembroke, it appears that the pig
may claim to rank with other creatures in this respect. For sixteen
days a pig was missed from the farmyard, and as every search failed to
discover it, the conclusion was arrived at that it had been stolen.
Some masons who were repairing a brick kiln on the farm one day
discovered the missing animal, which had fallen into the kiln, and was
unable to extricate itself. Though all that time without food, the pig
when rescued was able to eat, and did not seem much the worse for its
long imprisonment.

An unexpected friend to man has been discovered in a kind of animalcule
engendered by sewage, which prevents the decomposing matter from
becoming a dangerous nuisance. Mr Angell, the public analyst for
Hampshire, having examined the sewage-polluted fluid in Southampton
Water, has discovered that where the suspended matters are thickest
there is going on a silent destruction of the foul matters, through
the agency of millions of the minute creatures, by some held to be
of animal, but by Mr Angell believed to be of vegetable origin. On
examining the muddy fluid through a microscope, it was found to contain
myriads of little brown organisms, surrounded with a gelatinous
substance. Each specimen was found to be active in its movements and
of peculiar shape, being furnished with a belt of cilia round the
centre of the body, and with a long transparent and very flexible tail.
After death, these tiny atoms give off an odour similar to that of
sea-weed, and change to a green colour. During life they evolve bubbles
of oxygen gas, which serve to purify the water from the effects of
the decomposing matter on which they themselves feed. It is a pity,
however, that man, by polluting rivers with sewage, should stand so
much in need of this self-developed scavenger.

Canada, we are told, claims to have produced the largest cheese on
record. It weighed seven thousand pounds, was six feet ten inches in
diameter, three feet in height, and twenty-one feet in circumference;
requiring one milking of seven thousand cows, or thirty-five tuns
of milk to produce it.—Of numerical curious facts, it may not be
uninteresting to state that no less than sixteen different shades of
green are understood to be patronised by the fashionable world; and
that fifteen persons may dine together a billion times without sitting
twice in the same relative position, by merely changing a chair at each
dinner. So much for the combination of numbers.




A CURIOUS ANTIQUARIAN HOAX.


Every one has doubtless read _The Antiquary_, and enjoyed the skill
with which the keenest archæologist of the literary fraternity raised a
laugh against his own favourite studies. The Kaim of Kinprunes and the
‘A.D.L.L.’ furnish the standard jest with which the Oldbucks of every
future age will be assailed, and the bodle that he ‘thocht was an auld
coin’ helps in the attack. Scotland being thus the scene of the most
famous fictional story of this kind, it is curious to find it also the
home of one of the best authenticated antiquarian hoaxes known to have
been practised.

The story which we are about to narrate dates back to the reign of
George the Third; and though now sixty years since, one of the parties
to the hoax then perpetrated has just made the details of the story
public in a letter read before the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland
at an early meeting in the present year. The circumstances which led
to the hoax being perpetrated were that, when the ruins of the eastern
portion or choir of the old Abbey Church of Dunfermline were to be
removed for the erection of what forms now the parish church, great
anxiety was manifested to prove the truth of the statement, which,
although found in the records, was to some extent believed to be
doubtful, that Bruce the patriot king of Scotland was interred there.
It may suffice for the purposes of the present sketch to state that the
evidence that King Robert Bruce was really buried here is stated by the
Rev. Peter Chalmers, in his _History of Dunfermline_, to be ‘clear,
varied, and strong.’ Bruce died at Cardross in Dumbartonshire in 1329;
and although he had confided to his faithful follower Sir James Douglas
the task of conveying his heart to the Holy Land, Dunfermline was
chosen by himself as his place of sepulture. Mr Chalmers quotes various
entries in the Chartulary of Dunfermline in support of this; while in
Barbour’s famous poem the king is spoken of as having been laid

    In a fayr tumb, intill the quer.

In Fordun’s _Scotichronicon_ mention is also made of Bruce being
interred ‘in the middle of the choir’ of the Abbey Church.

When the excavations were being made in 1818 for the erection of the
new church, the operations were watched by many with great interest;
and the Barons of Exchequer in Scotland, in whose custody were the
royal palaces, &c., took some pains to secure that the remains of the
king, if found, should be properly treated. Fulfilling completely the
expectations entertained, a body incased in lead was found by the
excavators, occupying exactly the place which the king’s remains would
be expected to do. It was inwrapped in a double casing of lead; and
some fragments of gold-embroidered linen cloth were also found, shewing
that here at least was the tomb of no common person. The skeleton was
that of a kingly man, six feet in height, with a splendid head, and
in every way worthy of Scotland’s hero. And when the body came to be
examined, previous to its reinterment, it was found that the _sternum_
or breast-bone had been sawn through longitudinally from top to bottom,
this being the method adopted by the anatomists of the fourteenth
century to reach the heart, for separate interment. This fact and the
position of the body seemed to render it all but certain that the
remains were those of Bruce; but still there remained a _possibility_
of mistake.

It was at this point the hoax was perpetrated of which we now proceed
to speak. On the exhumation of the body, it was at once returned to
the earth, and the place where it was found was closed in, flat stones
being placed over the aperture. The discovery was reported to the
Barons of Exchequer, and excited great interest in the minds of all
Scottish people of patriotic or antiquarian feelings. Considerable
delay, however, was made in determining what should be done; and it
was not till November 1819 that, with much ceremony, the skeleton
was recoffined and reinterred. The tomb was filled up with pitch,
carefully built over and inclosed, and an elaborate Latin epitaph was
prepared to the effect that the interesting discovery had been made
amongst the ruins of the old church, &c. But as we have said, there
was a possibility of mistake; and it entered into the heads of two
young men that it would be a capital thing to convince the good folk
of Dunfermline that their town really did contain the body of the
king. One of these was the younger brother of the architect engaged in
the new church, and the other an artist comrade. Their design was to
get an old or old-looking bronze plate, and after inscribing suitable
characters upon it, to find some means of getting it put into the
partially opened grave, so that it would be discovered on proceeding
with the work. Assisted by the gentleman who now tells the story, a
plate was accordingly prepared bearing a device.

When the discovery of the plate was made, its existence jumped so
completely with the public wish, that it was hailed with unquestioning
and extravagant joy. So much delight was manifested and so seriously
was the jest taken, that the perpetrators of it were afraid to confess
what they had done.

A ludicrous incident occurred at the time. The provost of Dunfermline,
a banker, sent for the artist, who joyfully waited on the chief
magistrate, anticipating employment. This it was indeed, but of
unexpected and unwelcome kind, for it was to make a drawing of his own
plate, for the Transactions of one of the learned societies! His heart
sunk, and his hand was tremulous; and he suggested to the provost that
he could make the drawing better if allowed to take the plate home. The
answer was startling. Amazed at the audacity of the request, the banker
said: ‘I have more money in the bank just now than ever I had before;
but I would rather give you the whole of it than let that plate out of
my custody for an hour, until its destination is decided by the highest
authorities.’ So the young artist had to sit down and make the drawing,
afraid to hint at the ‘solemn mockery’ in which he was engaged. After a
time suspicion fell on the plate, and it was generally believed to be a
fabrication, although the details of the story were not known till now.
The Rev. Mr Chalmers, whose work was published more than forty years
ago, speaks of the plate as having been ‘satisfactorily ascertained
not to be ancient.’ In Black’s _Guide to Scotland_, it is stated that
the plate—of the _bona fides_ of which no doubt is expressed—may be
seen in the Museum of the Society of Antiquaries at Edinburgh. But the
estimation in which this relic (which would have been priceless if
genuine) was held by the Society may be judged from the statement made
by the Secretary at the meeting where the above story was made public,
that he had had to search for the plate in the cellar in order to
exhibit it to the Fellows.

The narrator of the story of which the above is an outline is Mr
John Nimmo, whose name is associated with two journals of widely
different repute. A printer by trade, he left Edinburgh for Paris in
the year 1821, and was for many years one of the principal employés
on _Galignani_. He is now enjoying well-earned repose after a lengthy
life of labour. The cause of Mr Nimmo’s leaving Scotland recalls the
history of a painful event, he having been the printer of the _Beacon_,
a newspaper which gained unenviable notoriety by its virulent personal
attacks on men obnoxious to the government of the day. The newspaper
is memorable in the local history of Scotland from the tragic event in
which Mr Stewart of Dunearn was engaged. Mr Stewart had endeavoured in
vain to ascertain by whom the articles were written, and when the name
of Mr Nimmo was given, he refused to accept him as responsible. After a
while the _Beacon_ was given up, and a successor of the same character
was started in Glasgow. Mr Stewart discovered that some of the articles
in the latter were in the handwriting of Sir Alexander Boswell, the
eldest son of Johnson’s biographer. He challenged Sir Alexander; and in
the duel which ensued the latter was mortally wounded; and Mr Stewart,
who was subsequently tried for the offence, was acquitted. The fact
that Mr Nimmo did not return to Scotland for many years after the
perpetration of the hoax in which he was concerned, and that then he
found the question, if not forgotten, certainly exciting no interest,
may explain why he has only now made public, in a letter to an old
friend in Edinburgh, the above curious story.




VILLAGE VETERANS.


We are somewhat proud of the number of hale old people in our village,
the salubrity of which outsiders are apt to question, on account of
its proximity to the Fens. No doubt ague is still known amongst us
in some degree; but the intending visitor who for that reason equips
himself with stores of quinine, evinces just such an exaggerated dread
as that which inspired Dr Johnson to provide himself with pistols on
his memorable journey to the Highlands. Our death-rate is quite within
the average, and longevity is one of our strong points. We must admit
of course that many of our veterans are placed rather early on the list
by rheumatism or asthma; but it is astonishing how long they contrive
to continue there in spite of coughs and stiff joints. We keep a mental
register of them one and all, know each of them personally, and take a
lively interest in their condition, as becomes a parish doctor. There
is an additional zest to our observations in the marked individualities
amongst them, which a protracted village life has always a tendency
to produce; but over and above local and professional pride in their
length of years and the pleasure which mere character-study yields,
there are certain general and loftier human grounds on which we might
excuse a few remarks regarding our village veterans.

One sunny spot hard by the southern wall of the old bridge forms the
favourite haunt of the old men in fine weather. There they muster in
strength on the balmy summer mornings, and there the hardier of them
forgather whenever there is a blink of sunshine.

Most of them walk by the aid of two sticks, the halest amongst them
requiring the assistance of at least one, and on these they lean as
they rest their backs against the warm red-brick wall. It is curious to
note the heartiness of their morning greetings, and the ‘I’m bravely,
thank ye,’ with which an octogenarian doubled up with suffering will
answer the challenge as to his health. Their next task is to compare
notes as to the past night’s experience, this mutual review of coughs
and other specific ailments being often couched in phrases more quaint
than elegant; as when dear old Jemmy Baxter said to his listeners
the other day: ‘Dash my wig, if I didn’t think I wor agoin’ to die.’
Then follows much babbling of olden times, of strange things which
happened when they were hale and hearty, of the sacks of corn they
could carry, of the acres they could reap, of the hard work and big
pay they had when the great drains were making, and not unseldom of
the merry-makings and junketings of half a century ago. Or they talk
with a keenness of interest, sadly suggestive, of the event of the
day, be it the arrival of a new steam-plough or the latest twin-birth
in the parish. Sometimes a scrap of news from the great world without,
falls among them—a great shipwreck, a fresh battle, or a general
election—and sets them agog with wonder and curiosity.

Old age, like most other inevitable things, is a great leveller, and
our group sometimes consists of individuals who have held very various
positions in life. The chief spokesman and referee in all matters of
gossip is an old man-of-war sailor. He has many a tale to tell of
’board ship, but is best known as the village Zadkiel; a title given,
we fancy, in derision rather than flattery. He has been every inch
a seaman, and is even yet a good type of an old salt, in spite of
rheumatism and crutches. The other veterans have for the most part
been farm-labourers; some have been mechanics; several innkeepers
and tradesmen; and one or two have been farmers in a small way. All
now meet, however, on the common ground of age and infirmity. Old
Dalboys, at one time the hectoring farmer of Longley, smokes the pipe
of equality with Tommy Hill, whom for thirty years he had bullied
as his horse-tender; while the superannuated schoolmaster gossips
amicably with his ancient enemy the now retired sexton. They have
buried old grudges, feuds, and animosities under that wall with the
sunny southern exposure, as thoroughly as they must in any case do
ere long under the chill walls of the old churchyard. No doubt they
have their little childish jealousies still, but these are of a fresh
growth. Sam Payne and Bill Shipley are both fond of the easy position
afforded by the obtuse angle of a bend in the wall, and grumble a
little when the other contrives to secure it. Occasionally John Shore,
in the pride of his practical knowledge, will make a stir in the camp
by doggedly disputing such a statement as that London lies north-east
of Cambridge. At times, too, Billie Wright, who we fear is the butt of
these veteran schoolboys, will totter off in dudgeon, because, being
no smoker himself, some of the more vivacious of his mates get on the
weather-side of him with their pipes. But these tiffs are harmless and
ephemeral, and one can well afford to smile at and forget them in view
of the genuine friendship and good-will that prevail.

There is, by the way, a certain hour on a certain day of every
week—Wednesday, we believe—which never fails to bring a number of our
veterans to the old bridge, wet or dry, cloud or sunshine, westling
wind or downright nor’-easter. On such occasions they have company in
the shape of a limited number of widows, most of them also well up in
years, who, let us remark, deserve a full share of whatever sympathy
we may be disposed to grant to our cronies of the other sex. The
occasion of this special weekly gathering is one which a stranger would
consider eminently sad and painful. They are waiting to receive their
dole from the relieving officer, who, having many districts to visit,
and no sheltered stations at any of them, is compelled to perform his
interesting duty in the open air. The poor old souls, especially in bad
weather, look anxiously down the road for the appearance of the gig
and gray pony which conveys their ‘father,’ as, with a kind of grim
humour, they have styled the official. Knowing them as we do, however,
and their general cheerfulness and contentment, we are not disposed
to claim any undue commiseration for their lot in this respect. The
distressing side of such a scene presents itself to the reflecting
onlooker rather than to themselves. They have drifted gradually—in
almost every case be it said by sheer stress of circumstances—into the
condition of outdoor paupers, and their wants have vanished one by one
with the decrease of their means. Besides, none of them is altogether
dependent on the parochial allowance. One has several grandchildren who
earn a little; another has a married daughter who struggles to spare a
trifle; and a third has a wife, younger and stronger than himself, who
goes out as nurse or charwoman; while all of them are the objects of
many small kindnesses at the hands of their better-off and sympathetic
neighbours. Their actual aliment indeed contrasts favourably with
that of several others, whose pinched incomes, derived from their own
savings, place them outside the pale of both public and private charity.

The humble annals of some veterans of the latter class are, when
rightly read, the record of doughty deeds, of amazing fortitude, and
unwavering self-respect. Their old age is beset with petty cares that
might daunt the hearts of younger men and women. Some are entirely
alone in the world, having outlived kith and kin. They have to pinch
and scrape, in the sternest and least lovely sense of that phrase, to
make ends meet. Their daily anxiety is to keep out of debt; a dinner
here and a supper there are ceded in the struggle, but there is no
thought of surrender while life lasts. One old lady (we use the title
advisedly, although she is only the widow of a jobbing carpenter) is
now in her eighty-second year. She has buried all her family except
one son, who is the village scapegrace and a sad thorn in his mother’s
side. The cottage she occupies is her own; but her entire income from
several other small properties is, when cleared of charges, only some
seventeen pounds a year. She has no word of complaint to make, however,
and her philosophy may be summed up in the few words she said to us
the other day: ‘I am hearty for my years, sir. I have been able to pay
my way all along and, God willing, I shall to the end. My only trouble
is about Harry, and who knows but he may alter yet?’ Brave old heart
and brave old comrades, who thus stand firm and undaunted in the last
assault of the world and its cares!

But whatever their lot and whatever claim some may have to special
interest and regard, the mere fact that they are all veterans in the
great human array, entitles them without distinction to the sympathy of
a younger generation. What need to pry too closely into their careers?
To what purpose the reflection, that this one or that one did not
acquit himself according to the strict standards of thrift, prudence,
or perseverance? Let us accept the helplessness of age, which may have
been reached through failures and weaknesses, in the same tender spirit
that we do the helplessness of childhood, whose inherent weaknesses are
yet untried. They are all under the wall now whose shadow lengthens
across their forms in the setting of the sun. May the light of human
sympathy also linger with them to the end, till veteran after veteran
has quitted the old bridge for his long home, and his earthly haunts
know him no more.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._

       *       *       *       *       *

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

Page 348: beaf to beef—“corned beef”.]