1884 ***




[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 1.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, JANUARY 5, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




BY MEAD AND STREAM

A STORY.

BY CHARLES GIBBON,

AUTHOR OF ‘ROBIN GRAY,’ ‘QUEEN OF THE MEADOW,’ ‘THE GOLDEN SHAFT,’ ETC.


CHAPTER I.—THE OVERTURE: ‘MUCH VIRTUE IN IF.’

The sun still bright on the hilltop; figures rising to its crest, and
there halting, with hands shading their eyes, to take a glad or sad
look backward. Then, impelled by the master Time, they move downward
through deepening shades to join the great crowd in the bosky glen at
the foot of the mountain. Mingling in the crowd, they become themselves
shadows, making strange shapes in the beautiful garden ground where
they find rest.

But in that pause on the bright hilltop, in that look back along the
slope which has been climbed, there falls a mist from the eyes. There
is the straight easy road up to the height which we might have taken,
and there are the devious paths like the mazy involutions of the lines
on a railway map, which we have taken, and which have made the journey
appear so wearisome to many, so short to the happy few.

But all see what a much pleasanter road they could travel if they might
only start afresh with this new vision.

Old friends meet and exchange compliments about birthdays—some
accepting them contentedly, others regarding them as grim jokes which
would be honoured in the omission. But gay or sad, every one has in the
heart a plaintive note which sounds that monosyllable ‘IF!’

‘If I had only been advised at the right moment, how different it would
be with me now,’ sighs the pallid invalid, closing his eyes in vain and
trying to forget.

Then the sad-faced maiden:

‘If he had only trusted me a little more—if I had only doubted him
a little less, how sweet it would have been to have gone down this
hillside hand in hand together.’

‘If I could only have persuaded him not to make that last journey,’
murmurs the widow.

‘If my son had been spared,’ moans the childless.

‘If I had known his falsehood,’ bitterly exclaims the betrayed.

‘I wish the guv’nor’s cash had not gone so fast,’ mutters the
spendthrift, ‘and it might have lasted long enough to have made this an
easy slide, if I had only thought about it. Now I suppose it will be a
regular plunge.’

‘If I had only left off play before my luck turned,’ growls the gambler.

‘If I had left those shares alone I would have been all right,’ says
the bankrupt.

‘Looking back, sir, is seldom pleasant,’ says the successful man with
a complacent smile and with a wave of his hand patronising the whole
past, ‘but to me it is agreeable enough. The struggle was hard, sir,
hard; and if it had not been for untiring energy on my part—well, I
should not be where I am. But if I had it all to do over again, why, I
could double my fortune.’

But he is content enough to go gently down the slope in his carriage,
whilst others are tumbling or creeping down the same course bearing
that burden ‘If.’ The miserable ones know that their state would have
been more gracious if they could have seen the way more clearly; but
they have no wish to go back; they crawl voiceless over the hilltop, in
haste to reach the end of the journey.

‘Cheated of my due,’ the man of ambition cries; ‘but if there had been
a fair field for me I would have accomplished all my aims, and the
world would have been the gainer.’

‘Let us walk steadily on,’ says the philosopher gently, ‘and our
memories of the sunlit streaks on the other side will cheer us on our
way downward. There is no life that has not some pleasant memory that
will bring a sense of happiness to the most desolate—if it be not
thrust aside by vain repining. All men and women may be happy, if’——

Oh, that infinite ‘If!’


CHAPTER II.—WHAT MIGHT BE.

The place was the garden of Willowmere. The time was the middle of
August, when trees and fields and bracken were faltering into that full
ripeness which bodes decay. At that period, note the gradation of hues
in the forest land—from deep watery green to pale, sensitive yellow,
every leaf trembling in the sunlight with ever-changing shades. In the
garden the forward apples were showing ruddy cheeks, and the late pear
presented a sullen gray green.

The persons were Madge Heathcote, niece of Richard Crawshay, the sturdy
yeoman farmer of Willowmere, and Philip Hadleigh, son of the master of
Ringsford Manor.

She was somewhat pale and anxious: he was inclined to hustle her
anxiety aside with the blissful hopefulness of youth and indifference
to consequences.

‘I am going to give you very bad advice, Madge; will you listen to it?’

‘Is it very bad?’ she asked, lifting her eyes, in which there was an
expression curiously compounded of pathos and coquetry.

‘Very bad indeed,’ he responded cheerfully, ‘for I am going to tell you
that you are not to mind your uncle at all, but be guided by me now, as
you will be, I hope, at no very distant date.’

‘But you know he always liked you, Philip, and you must have done
something—something awfully bad to have made him turn so suddenly
against you.’

But although she tried to make him believe that she was quite sure he
had done something very wicked, she somehow failed to impress the youth
with any deep sense of her indignation.

‘I cannot measure the degree of my iniquity until you give me some hint
as to what it is.’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘On my honour I do not. My conscience is as clear of it as your own.
Now speak—tell me my crime.’

‘If you don’t know what it is,’ she said slowly, whilst she studied
intently a weed that had grown in the path and which now sprouted at
her restless foot. ‘If you really don’t know what it is—I think we had
better say nothing about it.’

‘Very well and with all my heart. Still I can’t help thinking that your
uncle might have come to me, or allowed me to go to him, before he made
up his mind that we should never pull together.’

‘He did not say that exactly’——

‘Would you have believed him if he had?’ he interrupted, with an
under-current of laughter in his voice and yet with a shade of
curiosity in his expression.

She looked at him. That was enough. The pale blue eyes, which seemed
in extreme lights quite gray, had that wistful, trustful expression
of a dog when being chidden by a loved master for some offence of
which it is innocent. But presently the expression changed to one of
thoughtfulness, the flush faded from her cheek, and she again sought
inspiration from the weed at her foot.

‘How can I tell you what I might believe about the future? All that I
know is—I trust you, and am content’——

‘That’s my Madge,’ he said in a low glad tone, as he clasped her hand.

‘At the same time,’ she went on gravely, ‘you must remember that Uncle
Dick has not only been good and kind to me; but he has, besides, shown
himself wise in the advice he has given to others, and it would be very
wrong of me not to think seriously over anything he may counsel about
my future.’

‘Now you are playing Miss Prim, and I don’t admire you in that
character. I like your uncle and respect his judgment—except of course
in the present instance’—— Then, suddenly checking himself: ‘But what
_did_ he say?’

‘Not very much, but he was in earnest. He told me that if I cared for
myself or cared for him, I was to have nothing more to do with any of
the Ringsford Manor people.’

‘That was when he came home from the market yesterday?’

‘Yes—but you must not think’——

‘No, no—I was not suspecting him of having stayed too long at the
_King’s Head_, although I daresay he might not be so cool as when he
started in the morning. I know that he would be out of humour with our
people, for he had some dispute with my father, old Cone tells me.
Whether it was about the price of corn, or a pig, or the points of a
horse, is known only to themselves, but they parted in a bad temper.
You will see that your uncle will not bear me malice on that account.
Did he say anything else?’

‘Yes.’ Her lips trembled a little and she did not seem disposed to
continue.

‘Well, out with it,’ he exclaimed cheerfully.

‘He said—that—he wished he saw you fairly off on your wildgoose chase.’

Philip understood now why the lips had trembled and why the words came
from her lips with so much effort.

‘Poor Madge,’ he said gently as he drew her arm under his own and
patted the hand which rested on his wrist.

Then they walked together in silence.

He was a broad-shouldered, stalwart fellow, with short, curly, brown
hair, a moustache of darker hue; chin and cheeks bare. His was a frank,
sanguine face—Hope flashing from the clear eyes and brightening all
the features. The square brow, the well-defined lines of nose and
jaws, were suggestive of firmness; the soft curves of mouth and chin
dispelled all hints of hardness in the character. A resolute but not an
obdurate man, one might say.

She was tall and graceful, age between twenty-three and twenty-five,
but in certain moods she appeared to be much older; and in others
no one would have thought that she was quite out of her teens. Long
regular features; silken hair that had once been very fair but had
darkened as she grew in years; a quiet, self-possessed manner which
made all comers easy in her presence, instantly inspiring confidence
and respect. Some people said she had more influence over the labourers
in the parish than the parson himself. The parson’s wife—although a
kindly woman in her way—never had anything like the success of ‘Missie’
Heathcote, as she was affectionately called by the working-folk, in
persuading Hodge to give up his extra pot of a Saturday and inducing
Hodge’s ‘old woman’ to keep her cottage and her children neat.

To Philip Hadleigh in his calmest ravings about her she was the most
beautiful creature in all woman-nature. He had learned Wordsworth’s
lines about the ‘noble woman nobly planned’ who was yet ‘not too bright
or good for human nature’s daily food,’ and he was never tired of
repeating them to himself. They presented a perfect portrait of Madge.
She, too, was beautiful in mind and body—true, earnest, devoted. She
would die for the man she loved; she could never be false to him. And
he had won that love! He did not know how, or why or when. He was dazed
by his great fortune. He could not realise it; so he shut his eyes and
was happy.

But ‘Missie’ Heathcote herself knew that she was capable of saying and
doing very foolish things. She feared that she was capable of Hate as
passionate and fierce as her Love.

So far all had gone smoothly with them. True, their engagement was
between themselves; there had been no formal asking of the sanction
of her uncle and guardian’s leave, or of his father’s approval. But
everybody knew what had been going on and no objection had been raised.
In his easy way Philip took for granted that those who had any right
to their confidence understood everything and did not require him
to go through the conventional explanations. She had not considered
explanations necessary until they should come to the arrangements for
the wedding-day.

Their elders did understand: Mr Hadleigh of Ringsford was indifferent
or too proud to proffer even to his son advice which was not asked:
Crawshay of Willowmere was content to let Madge please herself. He
thought her choice a good one, for he liked Philip and believed in
him. Of course in the way of money and position she might have done
better. (Was there ever a parent or guardian of a girl who did not
think that ‘she might have done better?’) Hadleigh was a wealthy man,
but his ownership of Ringsford was of recent date, and although he
was doing everything in his power to secure recognition as one of the
county families, all his riches could not place him on a level with
Dick Crawshay, whose ancestors had been masters of Willowmere from a
period before the arrival of the Conqueror—going back to the time of
the Romans, as was sometimes asserted.

Crawshay was not a man of prejudice when he considered things calmly.
So, in this matter of his niece’s choice of a partner, he was content
since she was satisfied.

In this way it happened that the heads of the houses had given no
formal consent to the proposed marriage; and now that a quarrel had
arisen, each felt free to approve or disapprove of it in accordance
with his own humour.

Madge regarded the quarrel—as she was inclined to regard most
matters—with serious eyes. Philip was convinced that it was nothing
more than a petty squabble—a few angry words spoken in a moment of
temper, which both men were no doubt ashamed of and would be glad to
have forgotten. He was not disturbed about that unpleasant little event.

What elicited that sympathetic whisper ‘Poor Madge’—and what had kept
them silent so long as they passed down by the dense old hawthorn
hedge to the orchard, was a matter of much more importance than the
falling-out of their elders. At length, he continued:

‘Would you like me to give up this business of mine altogether?... We
can do without it.’

‘No; I should not like that at all,’ she answered with prompt decision.
‘You believe the result will be of great advantage to your father’s
firm and to yourself; the experience will certainly be valuable to you;
and when you come home again!’——

‘Ah, when I come home again—that will be a glad day,’ he said with
subdued enthusiasm. ‘Let me take up the picture where you laid down the
brush.... When I come home again there will be a little conversation
with the vicar. Then two young people—just like you and me, Madge—will
march into the church on a week-day. The parson will be there and a few
friends will be there, and we shall all be very merry. Next will come a
sweet month when these selfish young people will hide themselves away
from all the world in some out-of-the-way nook, where they will make a
joyful world of their own in being together, knowing that only death is
to part them now. Won’t that be good fun? Do you think you will like
it?’

‘I think so,’ she answered, smiling at his fancy and blushing a little
at the happy prospect.

‘Next they return to their cottage by the wood; and the lady is busy
with her housekeeping, and the man is busy admiring her more and more
every day, finding new beauty in her face, new love in her heart as the
years go on. They will not be always alone, perhaps; and when they are
old she will be a sweet-faced dame with beautiful white hair, and there
will be strong young arms for her to lean upon as she goes to church on
Sunday. The old man will totter by her side, resting on his staff, and
still her lover—her lover till death do them part.... What do you say
to that fine forecast?’

‘Ay—if it might be, Philip,’ she said with a bright smile—a hint of
tears in its brightness, for she had followed his vision of the future
with tender sympathy throughout.

‘Will you try to make it what I have so often dreamed it may be, should
be—must be?’

‘I will try.’

His arm was round her waist: they were sheltered by the apple-trees and
the great hedge: he kissed her.

‘Then that’s all right,’ was his glad comment; ‘and now I am going
to hunt for Uncle Dick, and have it out with him for playing such a
wicked joke upon us. I won’t say good-bye, for I shall be coming back
with him. I don’t think I shall say good-bye until—— Why are you so
troubled about this trip, Madge? It is really nothing more than a trip,
and there is still time enough to give it up altogether.’

‘You are not to speak of that again,’ she replied with playful
reproach. ‘It was your mother’s wish.’

‘So be it. But here is a new idea!’

‘Are you sure it is new?’

‘Quite. Suppose we pay that visit to the church before I start, and
then we could travel together? That would be capital.’

She shook her head.

‘You know it would never do. You would either neglect the purpose of
your journey, or neglect _me_—and that would be a terrible crime!’

‘I am not likely to commit it, and if I did you would forgive me.’

They had reached the stile at the end of the orchard, and he vaulted
over it. His foot slipped as he descended, but he saved himself from
falling by clutching the top bar of the stile.

‘That is not a good omen,’ said Madge, laughing gently; ‘you ought to
have been content to clamber over like other people.’




MONASTIC ENGLAND.


A traveller, visiting any of the monastic ruins which adorn the
loveliest of our valleys, cannot but be impressed by the changes
time works on institutions and systems. These piles, stately in
their desolation, remain as landmarks of a system, which, after
holding sway for centuries, was suddenly swept away. Like all social
institutions, the monastic orders supplied a public want, and when
it was no longer needed, the system disappeared. Many institutions,
after having fulfilled their purpose, develop into abuses, and so to
some extent counteract the good effect they had formerly produced,
and this doubtless applies to the case of the monasteries. The noble
architecture and great extent of these ruins show us the skill and
enthusiasm displayed by the early workers of these orders; their utter
ruin, while it has made the whole appear more picturesque, shows the
inevitable end of institutions which outlive their usefulness.

As long ago as the fifth century, it was the custom for devout men to
form themselves into societies, apart from the world, that their lives
might be untainted by its evil influences. The leader in this movement
was St Benedict, an Italian monk, whose followers, naming themselves
after him, gave to their order the name of Benedictines. These men,
spreading themselves over France and England, were the pioneers of the
later monastic orders. They lived in the most extreme poverty, choosing
the most forsaken and barren regions for their homes. Thus, we find
them in the days of the Saxon, founding in a marsh beside the Thames
the abbey of Westminster; in the district of the Fens the abbey of
Crowland; in the swamps of the west the abbey of Glastonbury; whilst
farther north, on wild headlands overlooking the North Sea, rose the
abbeys of Whitby and Lindisfarne. But our knowledge of the life passed
by the inmates of these sanctuaries is extremely scanty. The times were
too turbulent to allow the monks much time for study, and although
Cædmon and Bede have left glimpses of this age in which they lived,
their scanty records are only as flashes in the darkness. The Danes
harassed the land incessantly; and the monasteries, as representing
a religion they hated, were with them especial objects of attack.
Crowland Abbey was given to the flames, and the abbeys of Whitby,
Lindisfarne, and Tynemouth were sacked and destroyed.

After the Conquest, the Norman abbots gave a new energy to a system
which was becoming somewhat stagnant, and by the twelfth century,
this new impetus had reached its climax. Then rose the monasteries
whose ruins make Yorkshire scenery doubly attractive. The abbeys of
Fountains, Bolton, Rievaux, and Kirkstall, were all commenced in this
period, amid surroundings far different from those which make these
districts so attractive to the modern traveller. One consideration in
choosing the site of the abbey is worth notice. It was always near to
a running stream, from which the brethren might obtain their supplies
of fish. Thus, we never think of Bolton Abbey without the Wharfe, or of
Melrose without the Tweed.

In every monastic establishment, the principal feature was the abbey,
or chapel, consisting of nave, chancel, and transepts, built on the
plan of a cross. Here, the monks assembled for prayers, which seem to
have been of such wearisome length that artificial means were invented
to counteract their soporific effect. In the chancel of Westminster
Abbey may be seen the seats ingeniously contrived to throw on to the
floor any monk who allowed himself to be overcome by the monotonous
routine of prayers. Adjoining the abbey was the chapter-house, where
the abbots from the neighbouring monasteries formed a chapter to
discuss matters of church interest, and to sit in judgment on those of
their brethren who had transgressed. And although it is well known that
the origin of the dispute between Becket and the king was the leniency
shown by these chapters to their own priesthood, when the plaintiff was
a layman, yet in cases where the interests of the church were at stake,
these priestly judges did not hesitate to inflict even death itself on
the delinquent. Readers of _Marmion_ will be reminded of the fate of
Constance; and the discovery within recent times of a skeleton immured
in a vault of Coldingham Abbey in Berwickshire, may perhaps serve to
suggest that this was not an uncommon method of inflicting death.

The refectory, which in many ruins shows least signs of decay,
corresponded to the modern dining-hall, and was often a noble and
spacious apartment. But the most important of the abbey buildings, in
our eyes, was the Scriptorium—the abbey library and study. Here were
preserved and copied the writings of the times, and the greater part of
our history, prior to the sixteenth century, is owing to the work of
these priestly scribes.

The monks formed independent colonies, asking, and indeed needing,
no help from the world around them. At first, their lands in many
instances were small in extent, and their poverty was amply sufficient
to deter any but devout men from casting in his lot with them.
Poverty and work they considered the two great antidotes against sin.
Even in those early times, they were fully acquainted with the adage
which connects mischief with idle hands. Their employments were as
various as their tastes. The building of the abbey must have furnished
employment for several generations of monks. The stained-glass windows
and the bells of their churches were their own handiwork. Visitors
to the Patent Museum at South Kensington are attracted by the loud
ticking of a clock, still said to be a capital timekeeper, although the
three centuries of its infancy were passed in measuring time for its
makers, the monks of Glastonbury. As further instances of the versatile
occupations of the monks, it will be remembered that Roger Bacon, the
inventor of the common lens, was a Franciscan. Gardening, too, occupied
much of their time, and we even read of Becket and his monks tossing
hay in the harvest-field.

But as time went on, the abbey lands became extensive, by the grants of
men who thought to compensate for their misdeeds by becoming liberal
in their dying hours to mother-church. In the course of time, the
abbots had become in reality great landowners, and monks only in name.
From a glimpse left us of the state of affairs round the abbey of St
Edmonsbury, it is plain that the abbot was held more in awe by the
surrounding tenantry than the king himself. The abbot of Furness was
virtual lord over the country north of Morecambe Bay from the Duddon to
Windermere; and the estate of the abbey of Fountains stretched to the
foot of Penygant, a distance of thirty miles.

As numerous instances have shown, wealth is a power, which, if not
wisely used, may not only demoralise individuals, but communities and
nations. The abbeys, whose walls had been raised to encircle piety and
poverty, became in time the abodes of indolence and luxury. Indeed,
it is probable that the scanty knowledge we possess of our country’s
history during the two centuries prior to the destruction of the
monasteries, is owing to the fact that the monks, who had formerly been
our chief historians, had thrown aside a task which few others were
then competent to take up. The new learning, which carried knowledge
outside the monasteries, had not yet sprung into being, and the only
learned sect in the land had become idle.

The monastic system, had it been allowed to live on, would certainly
have met with a severe check, if not destruction, in the religious
reforms which took place in the reigns of Edward VI. and Elizabeth.
As it was, the end came before its time, and like all premature
reforms, the dissolution clashed with the spirit of the age, and was
regarded by the common people as an injustice. The monks had never
driven hard bargains with their tenants, and their popularity as
landlords was great. Even when their dissolution was discussed in
parliament, the members showed themselves averse to extreme measures,
and compromised the matter by striking at the smaller monasteries only.
But the insurrection known as the Pilgrimage of Grace soon gave Henry
VIII. a pretext for their total suppression, and in 1539, the work
of dissolution was finished in a most ruthless manner. The abbots of
Fountains and Jorvaulx were hanged together at Tyburn, and the abbot
of Glastonbury shared the same fate. The abbot of Furness, to escape
death, was compelled to sign a deed conveying his whole estate to the
king.

The abbeys were for the most part despoiled by the people of the
district. A stained-glass window of Furness Abbey was carried off to
adorn Bowness Church, on the banks of Windermere. An oriel window from
Glastonbury Abbey was used in the building of a neighbouring inn;
whilst the houses of the village owed great part of their building
materials to the destruction of this noble church. In the case of
Crowland, the abbey seems to have suffered little until the time of
the Civil War, when a band of the Parliament army destroyed it, after
using it as a shelter. In those instances where man has not wreaked his
vengeance, time and the elements have effected a slow but sure ruin.

Such was the sudden collapse of these powerful and at one time useful
institutions. Whatever may have been the faults and drawbacks of their
later existence, they were in earlier periods of immense service to the
country, as they conserved within them all that was best and highest
in literature, arts, and civilisation. They kept the lamp of knowledge
burning throughout the dark ages, ready for a time when its light could
be more generally diffused among the nations. And one thing they did
which ought to be held in grateful remembrance: they were the chief
promoters of the abolition of serfdom, and the manumission of the
slaves, both in England and Scotland. When giving the rites of the
church to the dying landowner, the monks, although anxious for their
own share of his property, never forgot to plead for the slaves. And
so it came about that, by the close of the fifteenth century, slavery
was virtually abolished, not by Act of Parliament, but by the monastic
Orders.




TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.

A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.

BY T. W. SPEIGHT.


CHAPTER I.

On a certain sunny morning in the pleasant month of June, in a pleasant
room, the French-windows of which opened on to a terraced garden,
with the gleaming waters of the Channel heaving and falling no great
distance away, sat Mrs Bowood, wife of Captain James Bowood—formerly
of the mercantile marine, but now of Rosemount, The Undercliff, Isle
of Wight—busily engaged with her correspondence. Mrs Bowood was a
pleasant-looking woman of some forty summers, whose brown hair was
already tinged with gray. She had never been accounted a beauty, and
she made no pretensions to a gift with which nature had failed to endow
her. But her dark eyes looked the home of kindliness and good temper,
with now and then a glint of merry humour breaking through them; and
she possessed the gift—so precious in a woman—of a voice at once soft,
clear, and persuasive. The verdict of every one who knew Mrs Bowood
was, that the more you saw of her the better you grew to like her.

All women, whether married or single, like to have one particular
friend to whom they can open their minds without fearing that their
confidence will be betrayed, to whom they can tell things that they
will tell to no one else, not even to their husbands. Mrs Bowood’s
particular friend and confidante was a certain Miss Dorothea Pennell,
who, being a lifelong invalid, and consequently debarred from playing
any active part on the world’s stage, welcomed all the more eagerly
every scrap of news which her correspondent could send her, and
responded all the more sympathetically, whenever sympathy was looked
for at her hands. It was to Miss Pennell that Mrs Bowood was this
morning inditing her fortnightly budget of news. As she turns over the
first page and begins on the second, let us take the liberty of peeping
over her shoulder and of reading what her pen puts down.

‘We are rather more than usually lively at Rosemount just now,’ she
writes; ‘in fact, I should be justified in saying that we are decidedly
uproarious. You will know, my dear Dolly, what I mean when I tell you
that my sister’s two youngsters, Freddy and Lucy, are here on a visit.
Maria wanted to go to Paris for a few weeks, so I gladly offered to
take charge of them. Their sweet childish laughter makes pleasant music
in the old house. I know I shall have a good cry to myself when the
time comes for them to leave us. They are at once the pride and the
torment of their uncle. You know that my dear old Bow-wow has a fine
natural irritability of temper, which really means nothing when you
come to know him, and is merely a sort of safety-valve which, I verily
believe, saves him from many a fit of gout. So, when the youngsters
steal his pocket-handkerchief or hide his spectacles, he stamps—not
with his gouty foot—and storms, and his red face grows redder—which
is quite unnecessary—and he threatens condign punishment. Then the
children pretend to be frightened, and hide themselves for a quarter of
an hour; after which they go hand in hand and stand a little distance
away from him and rub a knuckle in a corner of their eyes. Then of
course they are called up, scolded for half a minute, and forgiven.
Then come lollipops. But all the time I feel sure that the young
monkeys are laughing at him in their sleeves. Dear old Jamie! he is as
transparent as a sheet of glass, and the children’s sharp eyes read him
through and through.

‘The other day they found a quantity of coloured paper, which they
persuaded Biggles, their nurse-maid, to cut up and fashion into
so-called “roses.” Of these paper flowers they made festoons, with
which they decorated themselves; but by-and-by, seeing their uncle’s
white hat on the table in the hall, the temptation was too much for
them, and forthwith the _chapeau_ was decorated with a wreath of paper
flowers. Then the young imps hid behind the half-open library door,
waiting till their uncle should set out for his afternoon stroll, about
which he is generally as regular as clock-work. Presently, out he
came, humming some old sea-song to himself, and took his cane out of
the stand and clapped his hat on his head, never perceiving—you know
how short-sighted he is—that there was anything amiss with the latter
article, and so went his way; and very comical he must have looked. As
soon as he had disappeared, the children came out of their hiding-place
and performed a war-dance on the veranda. Meanwhile, my dear old boy
marched gaily on his way towards Ventnor. He told me afterwards that
he could not make out why people turned and stared so at him. Before
long, he had quite a gathering of urchins of both sexes following at
his heels—but at a respectful distance, having probably the fear of
his cane in their eyes. Then a butcher’s boy, as he drove past, called
out: “Hi! Bill, here’s another guy!” This bewildered the Captain. He
turned and glared at his following, and examined his coat-tails, for
fear anything might have been pinned surreptitiously behind him; but
he never thought of looking at his hat. It was not till he reached the
outskirts of the town that some one who knew him stopped him and told
him what was the matter. He came back in a great fume, on castigatory
thoughts intent; but of course the culprits were not to be found,
nor did they venture to put in an appearance till bedtime, when they
sneaked up-stairs under the wing of Biggles, without venturing into the
drawing-room to bid either their uncle or me their usual “good-night.”
After this, you will perhaps be surprised to learn that on peeping into
the children’s room about half-past nine, I found the candles alight,
the urchins sitting up in their beds, and their uncle seated on a
chair between the two, telling them a sea-yarn and stuffing them with
chocolate creams. What is a poor woman to do with such a husband?

‘And this reminds me that I have promised my sister to engage a French
governess for her while she is away. Maria has a charming knack of
throwing on to other people’s shoulders any little worry which she does
not care to encounter herself. What would seem more natural and proper
than that she, whose home is in London, should engage a governess on
the spot. But, no; she did not care to face the nuisance of having
to pick and select from among a score or two of candidates, and so
delegated the labour to me, who live here in this out-of-the-way spot.
“You know, dear Caroline, that I lack your firmness in matters of this
sort,” she wrote in that insinuating way of hers. “I cannot deal with
people as you can. I am impulsive; you are just the opposite. I should
inevitably engage the first applicant whose appearance pleased me,
without reference to her abilities or anything else; while you, dear
Caroline”—— And so on. You know Maria’s style.

‘As a consequence of my advertisement, I have been inundated with
letters during the last week—the postman will want an extra half-crown
at Christmas—all of which I have had to wade through; the result being
that I have selected half-a-dozen of the most likely candidates to see
personally. I fervently hope that I shall be able to find one out of
the half-dozen that will meet Maria’s requirements, and so bring this
troublesome business to an end.

‘The day after I posted my last letter to you, Elsie Brandon came to
us on a visit. You will remember her as being at Rosemount when you
were staying with us last summer. She has shot up wonderfully in the
interim. She is now seventeen, and is nearly as tall as I am. You
will remember my telling you that she is a ward in Chancery, and that
she will come into a considerable fortune when she is of age. Her
aunt, Miss Hoskyns, who has charge of her, brought her to Rosemount to
stay for a couple of months. She is a bright intelligent girl, full
of life and high spirits when away from her severely methodical aunt.
Miss Hoskyns—whose dearest wish it is to be looked upon as a _femme
savante_, and who has just started for Italy to decipher some Etruscan
inscriptions which have lately been unearthed there—would fain train
up Elsie to eschew all thoughts of matrimony, and develop gradually
into a blue-stocking like herself. The child is learning Latin and
mathematics, and is to begin Greek next winter, and by-and-by go to
Girton College for a couple of years. But I am afraid that all Miss
Hoskyns’ well-meant efforts will never make a “girl graduate” of Elsie
Brandon. Far dearer to her heart than Latin or mathematics is a game
of lawn-tennis on a sunny afternoon; and young as she is—unless an
old woman is mistaken—she already knows more of the art of flirtation
than she is likely to know of the Greek poets as long as she lives.
Meanwhile, a little gentle repression will do her no harm. I equalise
matters by insisting that her studies shall not be neglected—the Rev.
Septimus Dale comes and coaches her three times a week—but when once
her lessons have been mastered, she is at liberty to do as she likes. I
need scarcely say that she twists Captain James Bowood round her little
finger.

‘Now that I have written so much about Elsie, it seems only natural
that I should tell you the latest news about the Captain’s nephew,
Charley Summers, who was such a favourite with you when you were here.
You know already how he ran through the small fortune which came to
him after his mother’s death; and how, subsequent to that, his uncle
paid his debts twice over. You know also how, as a last resource, the
Captain placed him in a tea-broker’s office in the City, and how, after
a three months’ trial of office-life, he broke away from it, and took
to the stage for a living. This was the last straw; and when James
heard that his nephew had turned actor, he vowed that he should never
darken his doors again, and that he washed his hands of him for ever.
My dear husband had certain prejudices instilled into his mind when
he was young, and there they live and flourish to the present day. It
is his firm belief that in earning his bread as he does at present,
Charley has irrevocably disgraced both himself and his family. And yet,
for all that, he still holds the boy as the apple of his eye. Love and
prejudice have been fighting against each other in his heart, and for
the present, prejudice has carried the day; but if I know anything of
my husband, the victory is only a temporary one. Love will conquer in
the end.

‘This preamble brings me to the particular scrap of news anent Charley
which I wanted to tell you. On taking up the local paper yesterday
morning, I happened to notice the advertisement of a travelling
company who are going to play at the Ryde Theatre during the whole
of this week. Among the list of names mentioned I found that of
Charles Warden—our scapegrace’s _nom de théâtre_. This at once set me
wondering whether, now that he is so close to us, he would venture to
come over to Rosemount, in defiance of his uncle’s express prohibition.
I confess that I should greatly like to see the boy, and yet it would
certainly be better that he should not venture here for a considerable
time to come.

‘But there is another point in connection with Charley about which I am
more curious and anxious. Do you know, Dolly, I almost fancy that there
is something going on between him and Elsie? “How absurd!” you will
probably say to yourself. “Why, the girl is only seventeen.”—True; but
girls of seventeen are often engaged nowadays, and married before they
are eighteen. We live in a precocious age.

‘While Elsie was at Rosemount last year, Charley came down and stayed a
fortnight with us; it was his last visit before he got into disgrace.
He and Elsie gravitated naturally towards each other, as young people
will do. They were out and about a great deal together, and were
sometimes missing from breakfast till dinner-time. I thought nothing
of it at the time, looking upon Elsie as little more than a child,
whereas Charley was already turned twenty-one. But I was certainly a
little surprised when, in the course of conversation a few days ago,
Elsie let out the fact that Master Charles had visited at her aunt’s
house several times during the course of the last winter. By what
occult means he contrived to insinuate himself into the good graces
of that she-dragon, Miss Hoskyns, is more than I can imagine. He must
have found out one of her weak points, for she is very vain in many
ways, and have played upon it to serve his own ends. I know Charley too
well to believe that he would care to visit Miss Hoskyns out of regard
for that lady herself. Could it be because he thought there might be
a chance of now and then seeing Elsie, that he put himself to so much
trouble? That there is some secret understanding between these young
people, I am pretty well convinced; and as an additional proof of the
fact, I may tell you that when I pointed out Charley’s name in the
newspaper to Elsie, her eyes flashed out suddenly, while the wild-rose
tints in her cheeks grew deeper and richer. I had never seen the child
look so pretty before.

‘So, then, here is the first chapter of a little romance working itself
out. Should the opportunity be given me of watching its progress, you
shall hear all about it in due time.’

       *       *       *       *       *

As already stated, the French-windows of the room in which Mrs Bowood
was writing stood wide open this sunny morning. Mrs Bowood had heard
no sound, had seen no shadow; but while she was writing the last few
words, there suddenly came over her a feeling that she was no longer
alone. She looked up, and could not help giving a little start when she
saw a tall figure dressed in black standing close to the open window.
Next moment, she smiled to herself and gave vent to a little sigh.
‘Another applicant for the post of French governess,’ she murmured.
‘How tiresome to be interrupted in the midst of one’s correspondence! I
will never undertake another commission for Maria as long as I live.’

Seeing Mrs Bowood looking at her inquiringly, the woman came a step
or two nearer, and then mused, as if in doubt. ‘What shall I say?—how
introduce myself?’ she muttered under her breath.

She was tall, and with a sort of easy gracefulness about her which was
evidently not acquired, but natural. It was difficult to guess her
age, seeing that her face, nearly down to her mouth, was hidden by a
veil, which was drawn tightly back over her bonnet, and tied in a knot
behind. But the veil could not quite hide two flashing black eyes. She
was dressed entirely in black; not a scrap of any other colour being
visible anywhere about her.

‘You have come in answer to the advertisement?’ queried Mrs Bowood.

‘The advertisement, madame?’ replied the stranger with evident
surprise, as she came a step or two nearer. She spoke with a slight
foreign accent, which only served to confirm Mrs Bowood’s first
impression.

‘I mean for the French governess’s place,’ continued the latter lady.

The stranger looked at Mrs Bowood for a moment without speaking; then
she said: ‘Ah—oui, madame, as you say.’ Then she smiled, showing as she
did so a very white and perfect set of teeth.

‘I am afraid that I shall not be able to attend to you for about half
an hour,’ said Mrs Bowood in a tone that was half apologetic. ‘Perhaps
you won’t mind waiting as long as that?’

‘I am at madame’s convenience. I am in no hurry at all. With madame’s
permission, I will promenade myself in the garden, and amuse myself
with looking at the beautiful flowers.’

‘Do so, by all means. I will send a servant to tell you when I am ready
to see you.’

‘Merci, madame.’ The stranger in black bowed gracefully, deferentially
even, and smiled again. Then taking up the skirt of her dress with one
hand, she passed out through the French-window. She paused for a moment
in the veranda to put up her black sunshade, and then she passed slowly
out of sight. But as she walked she communed with herself: ‘This is
fortunate—this will give me time. I must find some of the servants, and
ask them to direct me. A great deal may be done in half an hour.’

Left alone, Mrs Bowood took up her pen and dipped it in the inkstand.
‘Really, many of these foreigners have very nice manners,’ she mused.
‘We have much to learn from them—not only in manners, but in the art
of dress. That young person’s gown is made of quite ordinary material;
but the style and fit are enough to make poor Madame Smithson die
of despair.’ Then she took another dip and addressed herself to the
continuation of her letter.

       *       *       *       *       *

‘I have a long budget of news for you this week, my dear Dolly, and as
yet, have by no means come to the end of it.

‘In our many conversations together, I think you must more than once
have heard me mention Laura Dimsdale’s name, although you may possibly
have forgotten the fact. Well, she has been staying at Rosemount for
the last ten days. But in order that you may better understand the
position of affairs, I will give you a brief résumé of her history.

‘You know, of course, that my father was a country doctor, and that
after my mother’s death I kept his house for many years. When I first
knew Laura Langton—that was her name before her marriage—she was a girl
of ten, home for her holidays. Her father was vicar of the parish, and
he and my father were well acquainted. Well, years went on, and Laura
grew up into a very charming young woman. Although there was quite
ten years’ difference in our ages, she and I were always the best of
friends; and whenever she was at home, I used to have a good deal of
her company. But by-and-by her school-days were over; and as she was
like me, without a mother, she thought that she could not do better
than follow my example, and become her father’s housekeeper. Soon after
this took place, my father’s death sent me abroad into the world, and
I left Chilwood for ever. But during the last summer I lived there,
a certain Sir Frederick Pinkerton, a man about forty years old, used
frequently to ride over to the vicarage—he was on a visit at some
country-house in the neighbourhood—and village gossip would have it
that he was in love with my pretty Laura. But if such were the case,
nothing ever came of the affair. By-and-by, Sir Frederick went his way,
and was no more seen in those parts.

‘Some two or three years later, I heard that Laura was married, and
that her husband was Sir Thomas Dimsdale, a wealthy London merchant,
forty years older than herself. I said to myself, when I heard the
news, that I never could have believed Laura would have married merely
for money or position. Later on, I heard the explanation. It appears
that her father had been deluded into mixing himself up with certain
speculations which were to make a rich man of him, and enable him to
leave his daughter a big fortune; but instead of doing that, they
simply ruined him. In this crisis, Sir Thomas came to the help of the
ruined man. The vicar was extricated from his difficulties, and his
daughter became Lady Dimsdale. Such bargains are by no means uncommon
in society.

‘Sir Thomas died two years ago; and Laura found herself a widow at
thirty-three years of age, with an income of something between three
and four thousand pounds a year. So far so good. But note the sequel.
Should Laura marry again, her income goes from her, all but about four
hundred a year. What a poor contemptible creature this Sir Thomas must
have been!

‘Whether Laura will ever marry again, is of course more than I can
say. I hope with all my heart that she may do, and this time for love.
She was a very pretty girl, and she is now a very charming woman, and
still very youthful-looking. And then, too, her life is a very lonely
one. She has no children; her father died years ago; and she has no
near relations left alive. For all she is so rich, she is by no means a
happy woman.

‘I have made mention of a Sir Frederick Pinkerton. Would it surprise
you to hear that the individual in question is a neighbour of ours,
and a not unfrequent visitor at Rosemount? He has taken a house at
Bonchurch for a year, on the recommendation of his doctor. It seems
that he and Captain Bowood met somewhere abroad; and they have now
renewed their acquaintance. Sir Frederick is a bachelor, on the wrong
side of fifty, I should imagine, but young-looking for his years. He
is said to be very rich; but he has also the reputation of being very
stingy. He comes of a very old family, and is a thorough man of the
world. Remembering that he had known Lady Dimsdale when she was Laura
Langton and a girl of twenty, I told him one day, when we met him out
driving, that we were expecting her here on a visit. He coloured up,
on hearing the news, like any young man of five-and-twenty, a thing
which I should scarcely have believed of an old ex-diplomatist like
Sir Frederick, had I not seen it with my own eyes. From that moment, I
became suspicious.

‘Since Laura’s arrival, Sir Frederick’s visits to Rosemount have been
much more frequent than before. That he admires her greatly, is plainly
to be seen; but whether he will propose to her is quite another matter.
I hope he will do nothing of the kind; or rather, I hope that if he
does, she will refuse him. I feel sure that she does not care a bit for
him; and he is not at all the sort of man that would be likely to make
her happy. But when a woman is lonely, and feels the need of a home and
a settled place in the world for the remainder of her days, one can
never tell how she may act. Can either you or I tell how we should act
under the same circumstances? At present, however, this is beside the
question. Sir Frederick has not yet proposed.

‘But during the last few hours, matters here have assumed an altogether
different complexion. Last evening, there arrived at Rosemount, on
a short visit, a certain Mr Oscar Boyd, a civil-engineer of some
eminence, who has been out in South America for several years, engaged
in laying down certain new lines of railway in that country. Captain
Bowood met Mr Boyd for the first time some two months ago, at his
lawyer’s office in London. It appears that Mr Boyd is possessed of
a small estate, which he is desirous of selling; and as the estate
in question adjoins certain property belonging to my husband, it
follows as a matter of course that my dear old Bow-wow is desirous
of buying it. Some difficulty, however, appears to have arisen with
regard to the price, or the conveyance, or something; so, in order
to bring the affair to an amicable settlement and, as Jamie said, to
save lawyer’s expenses, Mr Boyd has been invited down here for a few
days. The Captain is persuaded that if he and Mr Boyd can talk over
the affair quietly between themselves, they will be able to arrive at
some agreement which will be satisfactory to both; and I think it not
unlikely that Jamie will prove to be right.

‘But mark now what follows. When I introduced Mr Boyd to Lady Dimsdale,
soon after his arrival last evening, judge my surprise to see them meet
as old friends—that is to say, as friends who had known each other long
ago, but who had not met for many years. A few words of explanation
elicited the fact that Mr Boyd had made the acquaintance of Laura
and her father during the time that he was employed as sub-engineer
on the Chilwood branch-line of railway. This, of course, was after I
left the neighbourhood. From the conversation that followed, I rather
fancy that Mr Boyd must have been a pretty frequent visitor at the
vicarage. There’s something else, too, I rather fancy—that in those old
days there must have been some flirtation or _tendresse_, or something
of that kind, between the two young people, the sweet fragrance of
which still lingers in the memory of both of them. Of course, I may
be mistaken in my idea, but I don’t think I am. More than once last
evening, I said to myself: “Laura is a widow, Mr Boyd is a widower, why
should they not”’——

       *       *       *       *       *

But at this moment a servant flung open the door and announced: ‘Sir
Frederick Pinkerton.’




SLEDGE-DOGS.


The inestimable value of the dog, which, as Sir Charles Lyell informs
us, has been the companion of man ever since the Neolithic age, is
nowhere more apparent than in the countries encircling the Arctic
Ocean. Besides exercising his powers in the chase, and defending his
master’s person and cabin from the attacks of rapacious animals,
he fulfils the laborious duty of a beast of burden, performing the
task with an intelligence not displayed by any other draught animal.
Attempts were formerly made to utilise dogs in this capacity in various
parts of Europe; and it is well known that in London and many of our
provincial towns, certain breeds were once harnessed to butchers’
carts, costermongers’ flats, and other light conveyances, until the
cruelty involved in compelling soft-footed quadrupeds to draw laden
vehicles along macadamised roads was at length recognised, and the evil
suppressed.

The legitimate sphere for the employment of our canine friends for
the purposes of draught is undoubtedly to be found over the frozen
wastes of northern latitudes, where the summer shows too brief a sun
for the growth of much fodder, and the yielding snow is incapable of
supporting heavier animals. Endowed with remarkable intelligence, with
great powers of endurance, and with the capability of adaptation to
extreme conditions of climate and various kinds of food, they seem
peculiarly fitted to aid man where his existence is attended by the
severest hardship. Dogs will exist and labour where other quadrupeds
would perish, and their marvellous instinct often proves the means of
saving life amidst the dangers which beset the inhabitants of those
inhospitable regions. In Northern Siberia, Kamtchatka, Greenland,
and countries of a similarly rigorous climate, they are essential
alike for the transport of articles of commerce and for procuring the
necessary means of subsistence. As early as 1577, Frobisher recorded
the fact that Eskimo sledges were drawn by teams of dogs, and they have
repeatedly proved the indispensable reliance of modern explorers.

Both the Eskimo and the Siberian sledge-dogs are large and powerful
animals, and, while differing sufficiently to constitute separate
varieties, they agree in bearing a close resemblance in their aspect,
the tone of their howling, and in other characteristics to the wolves
of the arctic circle. They stand from thirty to thirty-one and a half
inches in height at the shoulder, possess a pointed muzzle, sharp and
erect ears, and a bushy tail. Their compact and shaggy coat forms an
admirable protection against the cold, and is therefore much prized
among the Eskimo for clothing. Their colour is variable, the Eskimo dog
presenting almost all shades; but the predominating hue of this and
also of the Siberian variety is gray or a dingy white.

They subsist principally on fish, walrus-hide, the flesh or the refuse
of seal, and all kinds of offal. On the arctic shores of Asia, small
fish, cleaned and dried in the open air, are reserved for the dogs,
and form an excellent spring diet. During winter journeys, the food is
usually served on alternate days, and consists of fresh frozen fish,
or about two pounds of seals’ flesh, or its equivalent in walrus-hide,
which is often frozen like plates of iron, and has to be chopped or
sawn to pieces. They are never permitted to eat salt junk, except
through dire necessity, and then only sparingly, for a full meal of it
would in many cases be fatal. In summer, they are turned loose to shift
for themselves, and live partly on field-mice.

Before entering on long expeditions, sledge-dogs require a careful
preparation, very similar to that which the plundering Turcomans give
their horses. For some time beforehand, their food, exercise, and
rest are strictly regulated. In the last fortnight, they are driven
from seven to twenty miles daily, halting at stated intervals, until,
like the Turcoman steeds, they are capable of running from seventy
to a hundred English miles in a day, if the cold be not very intense
and the strain of brief duration. Wrangell states that when the dogs
are pursuing game, they will cover fifteen versts, and even more, in
an hour, a verst equalling two-thirds of an English mile. This is
confirmed by the experience of Dr Hayes, who occasionally amused an
enforced leisure by taking an excursion with a team of a dozen dogs,
which would traverse six miles in twenty-eight to thirty minutes. Their
performances over long distances are even more surprising. On one of
his return journeys, Wrangell sometimes accomplished a hundred versts
per day, and maintained a mean daily speed of thirty-four miles over a
distance of two hundred and fifty leagues, despite the fact that the
dogs went several days without food, the stone-foxes and wolverines
having destroyed the provision depôts. Dr Kane’s team, although worn
by previous travel, carried him, with a fully burdened sledge, between
seven and eight hundred miles in a fortnight, at the astonishing
average rate of fifty-seven miles per day!

When subjected to severe and protracted exertion, the dogs are liable
to become footsore. They should then be protected by fur-boots, the
paws being washed frequently in strong brandy, and if the weather be
sufficiently mild, bathed in sea-water. A similar foot-covering is
necessary when the snow is frozen into hard crystals, which cut the
feet; or when a team is driven rapidly over sea-ice formed at a low
temperature, which, besides cutting the paws, occasions acute pain from
the brine expressed, sometimes even causing the animals to fall down in
fits. When the cold is unusually severe, the dogs require clothing for
the body.

Living almost entirely in the open air, these useful assistants give
their masters little trouble in the provision of kennels. During
summer, they scratch holes in the ground for coolness, or lie in water
to escape mosquitoes. In winter, when the thermometer is exceptionally
low, they are occasionally sheltered in an outhouse adjoining the
cabin; but even then are more frequently tethered outside, and curl
themselves up in their burrows in the snow. For the comfort of the
dogs attached to the _Fox_, while engaged in the search for Sir
John Franklin, some twenty-five holes were excavated in the face of
a snow-bank alongside the vessel, and ‘in them they spent most of
their time. Under the lee of the ship, they could, when their fur was
thick, lie out on the snow without apparent inconvenience, although
the temperature was minus forty degrees, and the mists gave a raw
and keen edge to the cutting blasts.’ Dr Kane erected a doghouse on
Butler’s Island; but the animals would not sleep away from the vessel,
preferring the bare snow within sound of human voices to a warm kennel
on the rocks. Wrangell says that they relieve their solitary watches
and interrupt the arctic silence with periodical howling, which is
audible at a long distance, and recurs as a rule at intervals of six or
eight hours, but far more frequently when the moon shines.

The _narti_ or sledge of Northern Siberia is nearly two yards long,
about twenty-one inches broad, and ten high. The best are built of
seasoned birchwood, free from knots, except the bed, which is formed of
woven shoots of the sand-willow. No iron is used in the construction,
all the parts being bound together by thongs cut from the skin of
the elk, ox, or walrus, of which a great number are required. Eskimo
sledges vary considerably both in form and material, and are from four
to fourteen feet in length; an ordinary specimen measures ten or twelve
feet, and weighs upwards of two hundred pounds. A large party of Eskimo
who once visited Dr Kane arrived in sledges ‘made of small fragments
of porous bone, very skilfully fastened together by thongs of hide;
the runners, which shone like silver, were of highly polished ivory,
obtained from the tusks of the walrus.’ One of Dr Kane’s sledges,
named ‘Little Willie,’ was constructed of American hickory, thoroughly
seasoned, and well adapted for strength, lightness, and a minimum
amount of friction. Another, styled the ‘Faith,’ which was built in
a stronger fashion, after models furnished by the British Admiralty,
measured thirteen feet long, and four broad, and would carry fourteen
hundredweight of mixed stores. The natives moisten the soles of the
runners with water, often obtained by dissolving snow in the mouth,
which insures a thin shield of ice that glides over a frozen surface
with incredible ease.

When the sledge is laden, the whole is covered by thin sheets of
deerskin, so as to prevent displacement of the load by the rapid speed
or the frequent overthrows. Under favourable circumstances, a team will
draw from a thousand to twelve hundred and sixty pounds, or from nine
to eleven and a quarter hundredweight, in addition to the driver, at
the rate of seven or eight miles an hour; but during intense frost,
when the snow is rendered granular, and ‘almost as gritty as sand,’
the load may have to be limited to three hundred and sixty pounds.

A good team consists of about twelve dogs. Their harness is composed
of bearskin, and when tethered, it is by bear or seal skin traces
fastened to spears plunged into the ice. The foremost sledge is
furnished with an additional dog to act as leader, which receives a
careful training, for on him the safety of the whole party frequently
depends. If reliable, no difficulty turns him aside, but he selects the
track which presents the least danger. On dark nights, or when the wild
waste is obscured by a tempest, an impenetrable mist, or a blinding
snowstorm, and the sheltering _powarna_ is scarcely discoverable by
man, a good leader will be sure to find it, if he has ever crossed the
plain before, or once rested at the habitation; while, if the hut be
buried in snow, he will indicate the spot where his master must dig.
When successfully trained, he rarely runs astray on scenting game; and
often excites the admiration of travellers by his persistent efforts
to keep the rest of the team to their work, barking and wheeling round
at intervals, as if he had come upon a new scent, in order to induce
them to follow him. If the leader swerves from duty, the driver not
unfrequently finds himself powerless on such occasions to prevent them
from rushing madly off in pursuit of prey.

At all times, the task of driving these half-tamed wolfish dogs is one
of considerable difficulty, requiring both skill and determination.
The sleighman seats himself on one side of the sledge, with his feet
on the runner, and must be ready to spring off at any moment when his
safety may be imperilled, or to dig his heels into the snow, if the
fierce and unruly animals refuse to stop when they are required. A long
staff, furnished with iron at one end and bells at the other, serves
the double purpose of assisting him to maintain his precarious seat on
the rocking sledge, and aids his voice in giving animation to the team
by the tintinnabulation of the bells. A far more formidable instrument
is the driver’s whip. The lash measures twenty feet in length, or four
feet more than the traces, and is made of raw seal or walrus hide,
tipped with a ‘cracker’ of hard sinew. Attached to a light stock only
two and a half feet long, no little practice is necessary to roll such
a lash out to its full length, and when blown in all directions by an
arctic gale, will tax the powers of the most experienced hand.

But sledge-dogs need no urging with the whip when their instinct
informs them that they are on unsafe ice. They flee onwards at the
speed which alone can save, and, as was experienced repeatedly by Dr
Hayes, instead of keeping the sledges together in a compact body, they
diverge and separate, so as to distribute the weight over as large an
area as possible. When they begin to find themselves menaced by this
danger, and the prospect ahead appears to them unusually threatening,
‘they tremble, lie down, and refuse to go further.’ Most arctic
explorers tell of hairbreadth escapes from treacherous ice, when they
have owed their preservation to the sagacity of their dogs. Wrangell
relates an incident of this nature: ‘Our first care was to examine
the possibility of further advance; this, however, could only be done
by trusting to the thin ice of the channel, and opinions were divided
as to the possibility of its bearing us. I determined to try; and
the adventure succeeded better than could have been hoped for, owing
to the incredibly swift running of the dogs, to which doubtless we
owed our safety. The leading sledge actually broke through in several
places; but the dogs, warned, no doubt, of the danger by their natural
instinct, and animated by the incessant cries and encouragement of the
driver, flew so rapidly over the yielding ice, that we reached the
other side without actually sinking through. The other three sledges
followed with similar rapidity, each across such part as appeared to
be the most promising; and we were now all assembled in safety on the
north side of the fissure. It was necessary to halt for a time, to
allow the dogs to recover a little from their extraordinary exertions.’

Some authorities, including Dr Hayes, pronounce these dogs to be
insensible to kindness; but the assertion has been stoutly disputed.
The fact appears to be that sledge-dogs, like all others, bark as they
are bred, or, in other words, are what their masters make them. When
they receive humane treatment, instead of the systematic and revolting
brutality which is too commonly their portion, they rarely fail to
evince a warm attachment to those with whom they are associated.
‘Daddy,’ the Eskimo dog which served for three years in the search for
Sir John Franklin, ‘won all hearts by his winning manner both afloat
and ashore.’ A lithograph of this cherished animal is preserved in the
British Museum. Similar testimony in proof of the friendly and often
affectionate disposition of these dogs, when properly treated, is borne
by various explorers.

No greater calamity could befall the inhabitants of such regions than
to be deprived of the services of the dog. To avert such a disaster,
human mothers will nurse pups with their own offspring, if, through
the death of the natural mother, there appear danger of the family
being left without the preserving dog. It was once proposed in
Northern Siberia to prohibit the keeping of dogs, because their large
consumption of food was believed to lessen the quantity available for
the inhabitants; but the enforcement of such a prohibition would have
robbed the people of one of their chief means of subsistence.

The reindeer may be turned to a greater variety of uses than the dog,
but, on the other hand, is more difficult to maintain. Over immense
tracts of country, almost all articles of food and of commerce,
together with the abundant supplies of fuel and oil necessary to impart
warmth, light, and cheerfulness to the hovels in which the inhabitants
seek refuge from their inconceivably severe and sunless winters, are
obtained by the help of dogs. They convey their masters to and from
fishing-grounds more distant than could otherwise be visited. They
discover the lurking-places of the wary seal. Harnessed to light
sledges, and guided by keenness of scent, or by visible traces on the
freshly fallen snow, they fly over hummock and hollow in pursuit of
the elk, the reindeer, the fox, sable, squirrel, the wild-sheep, and
the bear, thus bringing hunters within reach alike of the fleetest,
the craftiest, and the most formidable prey. In a word, the dog is
as indispensable to the settled inhabitants of such climes, as the
reindeer is to the nomad tribes, as the horse is in England, the
sure-footed mule on the mountain-paths of Spain, the llama on those
of South America, or as the camel in the sandy deserts of Africa and
Arabia.




A KING OF ACRES.

BY RICHARD JEFFERIES, AUTHOR OF THE ‘GAMEKEEPER AT HOME,’ ETC.


I.—JAMES THARDOVER.

A weather-beaten man stood by a gateway watching some teams at plough.
The bleak March wind rushed across the field, reddening his face;
rougher than a flesh-brush, it rubbed the skin, and gave it a glow
as if each puff were a blow with the ‘gloves.’ His short brown beard
was full of dust blown into it. Between the line of the hat and the
exposed part of the forehead, the skin had peeled slightly, literally
worn off by the unsparing rudeness of wintry mornings. Like the early
field veronica, which flowered at his feet in the short grass under the
hedge, his eyes were blue and gray. The petals are partly of either
hue, and so his eyes varied according to the light—now somewhat more
gray, and now more blue. Tall and upright, he stood straight as a bolt,
though both arms were on the gate and his ashen walking-stick swung
over it. He wore a gray overcoat, a gray felt hat, gray leggings, and
his boots were gray with the dust which had settled on them.

He was thinking: ‘Farmer Bartholomew is doing the place better this
year; he scarcely hoe’d a weed last season; the stubble was a tangle of
weeds; one could hardly walk across it. That second team stops too long
at the end of the furrow—idle fellow that. Third team goes too fast;
horses will be soon tired. Fourth team—he’s getting beyond his work—too
old; the stilts nearly threw him over there. This ground has paid for
the draining—one, at all events. Never saw land look better. Looks
brownish and moist; moist brownish red. Query, what colour is that?
Ask Mary—the artist. Never saw it in a picture. Keeps his hedges well;
this one is like a board on the top, thorn-boughs molten together; a
hare could run along it (as they will sometimes with harriers behind
them, and jump off the other side to baffle scent). Now, why is
Bartholomew doing his land better this year? Keen old fellow. Something
behind this. Has he got that bit of money that was coming to him?
Done something, they said, last Doncaster; no one could get anything
out of him. Dark as night. Sold the trainer some oats; that I know;
wonder how much the trainer pocketed over that transaction? Expect
he did not charge them all. Still, he’s a decent fellow. Honesty is
uncertain—never met an honest man. Doubt if world could hang together.
Bartholomew is honest enough; but either he has won some money, or he
really does not want the drawback at audit. Takes care his horses don’t
look too well. Notice myself that farmers do not let their teams look
so glossy as a few years ago. Like them to seem rough and uncared
for—can’t afford smooth coats, these hard times. Don’t look very glossy
myself; don’t feel very glossy. Hate this wind—hang kings’ ransoms.
People who like these winds are telling falsehoods. That’s broken’ (as
one of the teams stopped); ‘have to send to blacksmith; knock off now;
no good your pottering there. Next team stops to go and help potter.
Third team stops to help second. Fourth team comes across to help
third. All pottering. Wants Bartholomew among them. That’s the way to
do a morning’s work. Did any one ever see such idleness! Group about a
broken chain—link snapped. Tie it up with your leathern garter—not he;
no resource. What patience a man needs, to have anything to do with
land. Four teams idle over a snapped link. Rent!—of course they can’t
pay rent. Wonder if a gang of American labourers could make anything
out of our farms? There they work from sunrise to sunset. Suppose
import a gang and try. Did any one ever see such a helpless set as that
yonder! Depression—of course. No go-ahead in them.’

‘Mind opening the gate, you?’ said a voice behind; and turning, the
thinker saw a dealer in a trap, who wanted the gate opened, to save him
the trouble of getting down to do it himself. The thinker did as he was
asked, and held the gate open. The trap went slowly through.

‘Will you come on and take a glass?’ said the dealer, pointing with the
butt-end of his whip. ‘_Crown_.’ This was sententious for the _Crown_
in the hamlet; country-folk speak in pieces, putting the principal word
in a sentence for the entire paragraph.

The thinker shook his head and shut the gate, carefully hasping it. The
dealer drove on.

‘Who’s that?’ thought the gray man, watching the trap jolt down the
rough road. ‘Wants veal, I suppose; no veal here, no good.—Now, look!’

The group by the broken chain beckoned to the trap; a lad went across
to it with the chain, got up, and was driven off, so saving himself
half a mile on his road to the forge.

‘Anything to save themselves exertion. Nothing will make them move
faster—like whipping a carthorse into a gallop; it soon dies away
in the old jog-trot. Why—they have actually started again! actually
started!’

He watched the teams a little longer, heedless of the wind, which he
abused, but which really did not affect him, and then walked along
the hedgerow down hill. Two men were sowing a field on the slope,
swinging the hand full of grain from the hip regular as time itself,
a swing calculated to throw the seed so far, but not too far, and
without jerk. The next field had just been manured, and he stopped
to glance at the crowds of small birds which were looking over the
straw—finches and sparrows, and the bluish gray of pied wagtails. There
were hundreds of small birds. While he stood, a hedge-sparrow uttered
his thin pleading song on the hedge-top, and a meadow-pipit which had
mounted a little way in the air, came down with outspread wings with a
short ‘Seep, seep,’ to the ground. Lark and pipit seem near relations;
only the skylark sings rising, descending, anywhere; but the pipits
chiefly while slowly descending. There had been a rough attempt at
market-gardening in the field after this, and rows of cabbage gone up
to seed stood forlorn and ragged. On the top of one of these, a skylark
was perched, calling at intervals; for though classed as a non-percher,
perch he does sometimes. Meadows succeeded on the level ground—one
had been covered with the scrapings of roads, a whitish, crumbling
dirt, dry and falling to pieces in the wind. The grass was pale, its
wintry hue not yet gone, and the clods seemed to make it appear paler.
Among these clods, four or five thrushes were seeking their food; on a
bare oak, a blackbird was perched, his mate no doubt close by in the
hedgerow; at the margin of a pond, a black-and-white wagtail waded in
the water; a blue tit flew across to the corner. Brown thrushes, dark
blackbird, blue tit, and wagtail, gave a little colour to the angle of
the meadow. A gleam of passing sunlight brightened it. Two wood-pigeons
came to a thick bush growing over a gray wall on the other side; for
ivy-berries, probably.

A cart passed at a little distance, laden with red mangolds, fresh
from the pit in which they had been stored; the roots had grown out
a trifle, and the rootlets were mauve. A goldfinch perched on a dry
dead stalk of wild carrot, a stalk that looked too slender to bear the
bird. As the weather-beaten man moved, the goldfinch flew, and the
golden wings outspread formed a bright contrast with the dull white
clods. Crossing the meadow, and startling the wood-pigeons, our friend
scaled the gray wall, putting his foot in a hole left for the purpose.
Dark moss lined the interstices between the irregular and loosely
placed stones. Above, on the bank, and greener than the grass, grew
moss at the roots of ash-stoles and wherever there was shelter. Broad
rank green arum leaves crowded each other in places. Red stalks of
herb-Robert spread open. The weather-beaten man gathered a white wild
violet from the shelter of a dead dry oak-leaf, and as he placed it in
his button-hole, paused to listen to the baying of hounds. Yowp! yow!
The cries echoed from the bank and filled the narrow beechwood within.
A shot followed, and then another, and a third after an interval. More
yowping. The gray-brown head of a rabbit suddenly appeared over the top
of the bank, within three yards of him, and he could see the creature’s
whiskers nervously working, as its mind estimated its chances of
escape. Instead of turning back, the rabbit made a rush to get under
an ash-stole where was a burrow. The yowping went slowly away; the
beeches rang again as if the beagles were in cry. Two assistant-keepers
were working the outskirts, and shooting the rabbits which sat out in
the brushwood, and so were not to be captured by nets and ferrets. The
ground-game was strictly kept down; the noise was made by half-a-dozen
puppies they had with them. Passing through the ash-stoles, and next
the narrow beechwood, the gray man walked across the open park, and
after awhile came in sight of Thardover House. His steps were directed
to the great arched porch, beneath which the village-folk boasted a
waggon-load could pass. The inner door swung open as if by instinct at
his approach. The man who had so neighbourly opened the gate to the
dealer in the trap was James Thardover, the owner of the property.
Historic as was his name and residence, he was utterly devoid of
affectation; a true man of the land.


II.—NEW TITLE-DEEDS.

Deed, seal, and charter give but a feeble hold compared with that which
is afforded by labour. James Thardover held his lands again by right of
labour; he had taken possession of them once more with thought, design,
and actual work, as his ancestors had with the sword. He had laid
hands, as it were, on every acre. Those who work, own. There are many
who receive rent who do not own; they are proprietors, not owners; like
receiving dividends on stock, which stock is never seen or handled.
Their rights are legal only; his right was the right of labour, and it
might be added, of forbearance. It is a condition of ownership in the
United States that the settler clears so much and brings so many acres
into cultivation. It was just this condition which he had practically
carried out upon the Thardover estate. He had done so much, and in so
varied a manner, that it is difficult to select particular acts for
enumeration. All the great agricultural movements of the last thirty
years he had energetically supported. There was the draining movement.
The undulating contour of the country, deep vales alternating with
moderate brows, gave a sufficient supply of water to every farm, and on
the lower lands led to flooding and the formation of marshes. Horley
Bottom, where the hay used to be frequently carried into the river by a
June freshet, was now safe from flood. Flag Marsh had been completely
drained, and made some of the best wheat-land in the neighbourhood.
Part of a bark canoe was found in it; the remnants were preserved at
Thardover House, but gradually fell to pieces.

Longboro’ Farm was as dry now as any such soil could be. More or
less draining had been carried out on twenty other farms, sometimes
entirely at his expense; sometimes the tenant paid a small percentage
on the sum expended; generally this percentage fell off in the course
of a year or two. The tenant found that he could not pay it. Except
on Flag Marsh, the drainage did not pay him fifty pounds. Perhaps it
might have done, had the seasons been better; but, as it had actually
happened, the rents had decreased instead of increasing. Tile-pipes
had not availed against rain and American wheat. So far as income was
concerned, he would have been richer had the money so expended been
allowed to accumulate at the banker’s. The land as land was certainly
improved in places, as on Bartholomew’s farm. Thardover never cared for
the steam-plough; personally, he disliked it. Those who represented
agricultural opinion at the farmers’ clubs and in the agricultural
papers, raised so loud a cry for it, that he went halfway to meet them.
One of the large tenants was encouraged to invest in the steam-plough
by a drawback on his rent, on condition that it should be hired out to
others. The steam-plough, Thardover soon discovered, was not profitable
to the landowner. It reduced the fields to a dead level; they had
previously been thrown into ‘lands,’ with a drain-trench on each side.
On this dead level, water did not run off quickly, and the growth of
weeds increased. Tenants got into a habit of shirking the extirpation
of the weeds. The best farmers on the estate would not use it at all.
To very large tenants, and to small tenants who could not keep enough
horses, it was profitable at times. It did not appear that a single
sack more of wheat was raised, nor a single additional head of stock
maintained, since the steam-plough arrived.

Paul of Embersbury, who occupied some of the best meadow and upland
country, a man of some character and standing, had taken to the
shorthorns before Thardover succeeded to the property. Thardover
assisted him in every way, and bought some of the best blood. There
was no home-farm; the House was supplied from Bartholomew’s dairy, and
the Squire did not care to upset the old traditionary arrangements by
taking a farm in hand. What he bought went to Embersbury, and Paul did
well. As a consequence, there were good cattle all over the estate.
The long prices formerly fetched by Paul’s method had much fallen off;
but substantial sums were still paid. Paul had faced the depression
better than most of them. He was bitter, as was only natural, against
the reaction in favour of black-cattle. The upland tenants, though,
had a good many of the black, despite of Paul’s frowns and thunders
after the market ordinary at Barnboro’ town. He would put down his
pipe, bustle upon his feet, lean his somewhat protuberant person on
the American leather of the table, and address the dozen or so who
stayed for spirits-and-water after dinner, without the pretence of a
formal meeting. He spoke in very fair language, short, jerky sentences,
but well-chosen words. He who had taken the van in improvements
thirty years ago, was the bitterest against any proposed change now.
Black-cattle were thoroughly bad.

Another of his topics was the hiring-fair, where servant-girls stood
waiting for engagements, and which it was proposed to abolish. Paul
considered it was taking the bread-and-cheese out of the poor wenches’
mouths. They could stand there and get hired for nothing, instead of
having to pay half-a-crown for advertising, and get nothing then. But
though the Squire had supported the shorthorns, even the shorthorns had
not prevented the downward course things agricultural were following.

Then there was the scientific movement, the cry for science among
the farmers. He founded a scholarship, invited the professors to his
place, lunched them, let them experiment on little pieces of land,
mournful-looking plots. Nothing came of it. He drew a design for
a new cottage himself, a practical plain place; the builders told
him it was far dearer to put up than ornamental but inconvenient
structures. Thardover sunk his money his own way, and very comfortable
cottages they were. Ground-game he had kept down for years before the
Act. Farm-buildings he had improved freely. The education movement,
however, stirred him most. He went into it enthusiastically. Thardover
village was one of the first places to become efficient under the new
legislation. This was a piece of practical work after his own heart.
Generally, legislative measures were so far off from country-people.
They affected the condition of large towns, of the Black Country,
of the weavers or miners, distant folk. To the villages and hamlets
of purely agricultural districts these Acts had no existence. The
Education Act was just the reverse. This was a statute which came right
down into the hamlets, which was nailed up at the crossroads, and ruled
the barn, the plough, and scythe. Something tangible, that could be
carried out and made into a fact; something he could do. Thardover
did it with the thoroughness of his nature. He found the ground, lent
the money, saw to the building, met the government inspectors, and
organised the whole. A Committee of the tenants were the ostensible
authority, the motive-power was the Squire. He worked at it till it
was completely organised, for he felt as if he were helping to mould
the future of this great country. Broad-minded himself, he understood
the immense value of education, looked at generally; and he thought,
too, that by its aid the farmer and the landowner might be enabled to
compete with the foreigner, who was driving them from the market. No
speeches and no agitation could equal the power concentrated in that
plain school-house; there was nothing from which he hoped so much.

Only one held aloof and showed hostility to the movement, or rather
to the form it took. His youngest and favourite daughter, Mary, the
artist, rebelled against it. Hitherto, she had ruled him as she chose.
She had led in every kind act; acts too kind to be called charity;
she had been, the life of the place. Perhaps it was the strong-minded
women whom the cry of education brought to Thardover House, that set
ajar some chord in her sensitive mind. Strident voices checked her
sympathies, and hard rule-and-line work like this repelled her. Till
then, she had been the constant companion of the Squire’s walks; but
while the school was being organised, she would not go with him. She
walked where she could not see the plain angular building; she said it
set her teeth on edge.

When the strident voices had departed, when time had made the
school-house part and parcel of the place, like the cottages, Mary
changed her ways, and occasionally called there. She took a class
once a week of the elder girls, and taught them in her own fashion at
home—most unorthodox teaching, it was—in which the works of the best
poets were the chief subjects, and portfolios of engravings were found
on the table. Long since, father and daughter had resumed their walks
together.

It was in this way that James Thardover made his estate his own—he
held possession by right of labour. He was resident ten months out of
twelve; and after all these public and open works, he did far more
in private. There was not an acre on the property which he had not
personally visited. The farmhouses and farm-buildings were all known
to him. He rode from tenancy to tenancy, he visited the men at plough
and stood among the reapers. Neither the summer heat nor the winds of
March prevented him from seeing with his own eyes. The latest movement
was the silo-system, the burying of grass under pressure, instead of
making it into hay. By these means, the clouds are to be defied, and
a plentiful supply of fodder secured. Time alone can show whether
this, the latest invention, is any more powerful than steam-plough or
guano to uphold agriculture against the shocks of fortune. But James
Thardover would have tried any plan that had been suggested to him. It
was thus that he laid hold on his lands with the strongest of titles,
the work of his own hands. Yet still the tenants were unable to pay the
former rent; some had failed or left, and their farms were vacant; and
nothing could be more discouraging than the condition of affairs upon
the property.




AN ORDER OF MERCY.


It has from time to time fallen to our lot to point out efforts, both
good and bad, for the relief of suffering; and whilst we never shrink
from deprecating the so-called charity which enfeebles and harms its
recipients, it is with genuine pleasure that we draw attention to
schemes of real utility and helpfulness. Of the last-named order, we
can confidently affirm, is the St John Ambulance Association, the
working of which it is the object of the present paper to explain. The
Association was founded in England in 1877, under the auspices of the
Order of St John of Jerusalem, and has for its object the spread of
such elementary knowledge as may tend to decrease avoidable suffering
in cases of accident or injury. Many have known by sad experience the
helplessness of bystanders, say in an ordinary street-accident, and
have seen how, with the best will in the world, the power to aid the
sufferer was utterly wanting, and he has had to be left to his fate
till medical help could be procured. Alas! it not seldom happens that
by the time help arrives, there is no longer scope for the doctor’s
skill, and so many a life has been lost for want of the knowledge of
how to administer prompt measures for relief.

As an instance of successful unprofessional help, take the following
case of a man who was seen by a policeman to fall against an iron
railing with such force as to completely sever an artery. The
policeman, a pupil of one of the St John Ambulance classes, so cleverly
extemporised a compress and bandages that the bleeding was entirely
arrested. On the temporary appliance being removed at one of the London
hospitals, the hemorrhage returned with so much violence, that the
surgeon in attendance declared that nothing but the prompt aid rendered
by the policeman could have averted speedy death.

But even when the accident is not so serious as to involve the question
of life or death, much needless suffering is often caused by the
roughness or carelessness of unskilled handling, and recovery is in
consequence greatly retarded. The following instance, both of this and
of the advantages of skilled assistance, is taken from the Register of
the Association. It is the case of a carter who had his leg broken by a
fall whilst at work and at a distance from medical help. Two successful
candidates of an ambulance class extemporised splints, bandages, and
a stretcher, and conveyed the wounded man to a doctor’s house. As a
consequence of the injured limb having been properly supported, the
patient was able to get out of bed in three weeks’ time, and in less
than two months was walking about with ease. Five years previously he
had met with a similar accident under corresponding circumstances: but
no skilled help being at hand, he was conveyed home somewhat roughly, a
proceeding which revenged itself by sixteen weeks of helplessness and
suffering.

Such cases are of daily, almost hourly occurrence in our large towns,
whilst in mining or manufacturing districts, the risks to life and
limb are even more serious and frequent; so that any agency which
provides the needed help to such sufferers cannot but be looked upon
as a boon to humanity. Now, it is just this first prompt aid that
the Association seeks, through its pupils, to place within the reach
of all those who are overtaken by sudden accident or injury; and in
order to disseminate the necessary knowledge, classes for instruction
are held wherever the requisite number—twenty to thirty—of pupils are
found willing to prepare themselves to be in readiness to give help
in case of need. The course of instruction is limited to a series of
five lectures, according to a syllabus drawn up by a Committee of
medical men of eminence. It consists of a general slight outline of the
structure and functions of the human body, including particular notice
of the principal arteries and of the different forms of hemorrhage,
with the various extemporary means for its arrest, including the
use of bandages. Fractured bones also receive a considerable share
of attention. The fourth lecture is devoted to the consideration of
insensible patients, the treatment of the apparently drowned, and of
the victims to burns, scalds, and various smaller ills. So far, the
instruction is the same for male and female pupils; but in the last
lecture the lines diverge; and whilst women receive some hints on
home-nursing, men are instructed as to the best methods of lifting and
carrying the sick and injured, with or without stretchers. The last
half-hour of each lesson is devoted to practice by the pupils of such
arts as the application of splints and bandages, and the conveying from
place to place of patients _pro tem_.

For ladies’ classes, a small boy is hired as dummy, and is put through
such a series of possible accidents as ought to sober the most reckless
of mortals into a cautious habit of life. The sight of a group of eager
watchers for a vacant limb is decidedly entertaining; and it is curious
to notice the contrast between the utter want of comprehension of some
aspirants, and the quickness with which other deft fingers carry out an
idea once grasped.

Pupils who pass an examination, partly written and partly practical,
which is held at the end of each course of lectures, are presented with
certificates of proficiency; and for women only, there is a second
course of instruction in the elements of hygiene and home-nursing.

A record, well worth studying, is kept by the Association of cases
successfully treated by its pupils; and a list is also kept of those
holding certificates who would be willing to join an ambulance train in
case of war.

It need scarcely be said that the work of the Association in no
sense seeks to supersede or interfere with the doctor’s help; and
it is pleasing to find that in no case has complaint been made of
over-officiousness or presumption on the part of any one pupil.
Indeed, the little knowledge so conveyed would be more likely to
have a contrary effect, and to make the amateur pause and consider,
before venturing to trifle with such a wonderful and intricate piece
of mechanism as the human body. Few of us are without at least one
‘friend’ who is ready at a moment’s notice to prescribe some quack
remedy, from the deadly poison of soothing sirup, to the comparatively
harmless ‘globule’ of the homeopathist, and to do so with an air of
profound conviction, even in cases where the doctor of learning and
experience hesitates to give an opinion.

Now, anything that would tend to foster ignorant presumption is
carefully avoided in the ambulance class, the instructor and examiner
of which are invariably medical men; and only that amount of knowledge
is imparted which will enable pupils to give help of the _right kind_,
until the doctor arrives. Pupils in a position to do so, pay a small
fee; but as the work of the Association increases rapidly amongst
miners, colliers, railway-porters, policemen, and others, who cannot
afford to contribute towards the necessary working expenses, whilst
they constitute just the class to whom instruction is most valuable,
increased support from those who have it in their power to give is very
greatly needed; and as the work is undertaken, in great part, as a
labour of love, donors may have the satisfaction of feeling that their
gifts go directly towards the formation of new centres of usefulness.

In order to complete the work of the Association, a varied stock
of _matériel_ has been prepared and widely distributed by means of
the Store Department. Of the first Handbook prepared for the use of
classes, no fewer than fifty thousand copies have been issued, as well
as a large number of special Manuals for the advanced or nursing class.
It was also found necessary to supply the classes with diagrams for the
use of lecturers, and with an assortment of such articles as bandages,
splints, &c. The Association has also prepared a small portable hamper
in a waterproof case, fitted with those ‘First Aid’ appliances, the
use of which is taught in the classes. Much time and thought has
been expended on the production of a stretcher at once light, easily
managed, and comfortable; the result has been a small vehicle known
as the ‘Ashford’ litter, consisting of a covered stretcher moving on
two wheels, which can in ordinary cases be managed by one person. Such
a hamper and litter have, during the past year, been placed in two
lodges of Hyde Park; and it needs little prophetic insight to predict
that in a short time our public buildings will boast a supply of the
wherewithal for dealing with cases of accident or emergency.

The latest idea, which awaits full organisation, is the formation of
Ambulance Corps for the transport of sick (non-infectious cases) and
injured in large towns, where the distance is of necessity great. In
London, there are no proper arrangements for the removal of the infirm,
the few vehicles to be had being unsuitable for the purpose and costly
to hire; facts which show the need of help, such as an organised
Ambulance Corps would be able to give at a moment’s notice.

Some idea may be formed of the spread of the Association’s work by
the fact that during the past year twenty-five thousand men and women
have received instruction in London and the provinces. Of these,
eight thousand have successfully passed examinations and have received
certificates of proficiency. There are at present ten centres of work
in London, and about one hundred and forty in the country; and in
addition, the idea has taken root and is spreading in the principal
countries of Europe and in all our colonies. But cheering as has been
the progress, the promoters of this scheme look forward to still better
things in the future, and hopefully anticipate the time when avoidable
suffering shall be reduced to a minimum, through a widespread knowledge
of the elements of helpfulness.

Any further information respecting the working of the Association and
the formation of new classes can be obtained on application to the
chief secretary, Captain Perrott, St John’s Gate, Clerkenwell, London.




TWO SONNETS.


LOVE’S WATCH.

    Fair falls the dawn upon thy face, O sea!
      And from thy furrows, crested white with foam,
      The gray mist brightens, and the hollow dome
    Of pearly cloud slow-reddens over thee:
    The glee of birds with snowy sun-kissed wings
      Cheerily wakes along thy tremulous waves,
      And blent with echoes of far distant caves,
    Thine own wild voice a deep-toned matin sings.

    Eastward, the line of jagged reefs is bright
      With sunshine and white dashings of thy spray;
    And laughing blithely in the golden light,
      The fretted surf runs rippling up the bay;
    Westward, from night—O bear it safe, fair sea!—
    Slow sails the ship with freighted love to me.


LOVE’S TRANSFIGURATION.

    O strange sweet loveliness! O tender grace,
      That in the light of passion’s day-spring threw
    Soft splendour on a fair familiar face,
      Changing it, yet unchanged, and old, yet new!
    Perfect the portrait in my heart, and true,
      Which traced the smile about that flower-like mouth,
    And those gray eyes with just a doubt of blue,
      Yet darkened with the passion of the South,
    And the white arch of thoughtful forehead, crowned
    With meeting waves of hair:—but still I found
    Some undreamt light of tenderness that fell
      From the new dawn, and made more fair to see
    What was so fair, that now no song can tell
      How lovely seemed thy heart-lit face to me.

            GEORGE LOGAN MOORE, A.B.

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