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. 25.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, JUNE 21, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




NATURE ON THE ROOF.

BY RICHARD JEFFERIES,

AUTHOR OF THE ‘GAMEKEEPER AT HOME,’ ETC.


Increased activity on the housetop marks the approach of spring
and summer exactly as in the woods and hedges, for the roof has
its migrants, its semi-migrants, and its residents. When the first
dandelion is opening on a sheltered bank, and the pale-blue field
veronica flowers in the waste corner, the whistle of the starling comes
from his favourite ledge. Day by day it is heard more and more, till,
when the first green spray appears on the hawthorn, he visits the roof
continually. Besides the roof-tree and the chimney-top, he has his own
special place, sometimes under an eave, sometimes between two gables;
and as I sit writing, I can see a pair who have a ledge which slightly
projects from the wall between the eave and the highest window.
This was made by the builder for an ornament; but my two starlings
consider it their own particular possession. They alight with a sort of
half-scream half-whistle just over the window, flap their wings, and
whistle again, run along the ledge to a spot where there is a gable,
and with another note, rise up and enter an aperture between the slates
and the wall. There their nest will be in a little time, and busy
indeed they will be when the young require to be fed, to and fro the
fields and the gable the whole day through, the busiest and the most
useful of birds, for they destroy thousands upon thousands of insects,
and if farmers were wise, they would never have one shot, no matter how
the thatch was pulled about.

My pair of starlings were frequently at this ledge last autumn, very
late in autumn, and I suspect they had a winter brood there. The
starling does rear a brood sometimes in the midst of the winter,
contrary as that may seem to our general ideas of natural history. They
may be called roof-residents, as they visit it all the year round;
they nest in the roof, rearing two and sometimes three broods; and
use it as their club and place of meeting. Towards July, the young
starlings and those that have for the time at least finished nesting,
flock together, and pass the day in the fields, returning now and then
to their old home. These flocks gradually increase; the starling is
so prolific that the flocks become immense, till in the latter part
of the autumn in southern fields it is common to see a great elm-tree
black with them, from the highest bough downwards, and the noise of
their chattering can be heard a long distance. They roost in firs or
in osier-beds. But in the blackest days of winter, when frost binds
the ground hard as iron, the starlings return to the roof almost every
day; they do not whistle much, but have a peculiar chuckling whistle at
the instant of alighting. In very hard weather, especially snow, the
starlings find it difficult to obtain a living, and at such times will
come to the premises at the rear, and at farmhouses where cattle are in
the yards, search about among them for insects.

The whole history of the starling is interesting, but I must here
only mention it as a roof-bird. They are very handsome in their full
plumage, which gleams bronze and green among the darker shades; quick
in their motions and full of spirit; loaded to the muzzle with energy,
and never still. I hope none of those who are so good as to read what
I have written will ever keep a starling in a cage; the cruelty is
extreme. As for shooting pigeons at a trap, it is mercy in comparison.

Even before the starling whistles much, the sparrows begin to chirp;
in the dead of winter they are silent; but so soon as the warmer winds
blow, if only for a day, they begin to chirp. In January this year I
used to listen to the sparrows chirping, the starlings whistling, and
the chaffinches’ ‘chink, chink’ about eight o’clock, or earlier, in
the morning; the first two on the roof, the latter, which is not a
roof-bird, in some garden shrubs. As the spring advances, the sparrows
sing—it is a short song, it is true, but still it is singing—perched at
the edge of a sunny wall. There is not a place about the house where
they will not build—under the eaves, on the roof, anywhere where there
is a projection or shelter, deep in the thatch, under the tiles, in
old eave-swallows’ nests. The last place I noticed as a favourite one
in towns is on the half-bricks left projecting in perpendicular rows
at the sides of unfinished houses. Half-a-dozen nests may be counted
at the side of a house on these bricks; and like the starlings, they
rear several broods, and some are nesting late in the autumn. By
degrees as the summer advances they leave the houses for the corn, and
gather in vast flocks, rivalling those of the starlings. At this time
they desert the roofs, except those who still have nesting duties. In
winter and in the beginning of the new year, they gradually return;
migration thus goes on under the eyes of those who care to notice it.
In London, some who fed sparrows on the roof found that rooks also
came for the crumbs placed out. I sometimes see a sparrow chasing a
rook, as if angry, and trying to drive it away over the roofs where I
live. The thief does not retaliate, but, like a thief, flees from the
scene of his guilt. This is not only in the breeding season, when the
rook steals eggs, but in winter. Town residents are apt to despise
the sparrow, seeing him always black; but in the country the sparrows
are as clean as a pink; and in themselves they are the most animated,
clever little creatures. They are easily tamed. The Parisians are fond
of taming them. At a certain hour in the Tuileries Gardens, you may see
a man perfectly surrounded with a crowd of sparrows—some perching on
his shoulder; some fluttering in the air immediately before his face;
some on the ground like a tribe of followers; and others on the marble
seats. He jerks a crumb of bread into the air—a sparrow dexterously
seizes it as he would a flying insect; he puts a crumb between his
lips—a sparrow takes it out and feeds from his mouth. Meantime they
keep up a constant chirping; those that are satisfied still stay by
and adjust their feathers. He walks on, giving a little chirp with his
mouth, and they follow him along the path—a cloud about his shoulders,
and the rest flying from shrub to shrub, perching, and then following
again. They are all perfectly clean—a contrast to the London sparrow. I
came across one of these sparrow-tamers by chance, and was much amused
at the scene, which, to any one not acquainted with birds, appears
marvellous; but it is really as simple as possible, and you can repeat
it for yourself if you have patience, for they are so sharp they soon
understand you. They seem to play at nest-making before they really
begin; taking up straws in their beaks, and carrying them half-way to
the roof, then letting the straws float away; and the same with stray
feathers. Neither of these, starlings nor sparrows, seem to like the
dark. Under the roof, between it and the first ceiling, there is a
large open space; if the slates or tiles are kept in good order, very
little light enters, and this space is nearly dark in daylight. Even if
chinks admit a beam of light, they do not like it; they seldom enter or
fly about there, though quite accessible to them. But if the roof is in
bad order, and this space light, they enter freely. Though nesting in
holes, yet they like light. The swallows could easily go in and make
nests upon the beams, but they will not, unless the place is well lit.
They do not like darkness in the daytime.

The swallows bring us the sunbeams on their wings from Africa to fill
the fields with flowers. From the time of the arrival of the first
swallow the flowers take heart; the few and scanty plants that had
braved the earlier cold are succeeded by a constantly enlarging list,
till the banks and lanes are full of them. The chimney-swallow is
usually the forerunner of the three house-swallows; and perhaps no fact
in natural history has been so much studied as the migration of these
tender birds. The commonest things are always the most interesting.
In summer there is no bird so common everywhere as the swallow, and
for that reason, many overlook it, though they rush to see a ‘white’
elephant. But the deepest thinkers have spent hours and hours in
considering the problem of the swallow—its migrations, its flight,
its habits; great poets have loved it; great artists and art-writers
have curiously studied it. The idea that it is necessary to seek
the wilderness or the thickest woods for nature is a total mistake;
nature is at home, on the roof, close to every one. Eave-swallows,
or house-martins (easily distinguished by the white bar across the
tail), build sometimes in the shelter of the porches of old houses. As
you go in or out, the swallows visiting or leaving their nests fly so
closely as almost to brush the face. Swallow means porch-bird, and for
centuries and centuries their nests have been placed in the closest
proximity to man. They might be called man’s birds, so attached are
they to the human race. I think the greatest ornament a house can
have is the nest of an eave-swallow under the eaves—far superior to
the most elaborate carving, colouring, or arrangement the architect
can devise. There is no ornament like the swallow’s nest; the home
of a messenger between man and the blue heavens, between us and the
sunlight, and all the promise of the sky. The joy of life, the highest
and tenderest feelings, thoughts that soar on the swallow’s wings, come
to the round nest under the roof. Not only to-day, not only the hopes
of future years, but all the past dwells there. Year after year the
generations and descent of the swallow have been associated with our
homes, and all the events of successive lives have taken place under
their guardianship. The swallow is the genius of good to a house. Let
its nest, then, stay; to me it seems the extremity of barbarism, or
rather stupidity, to knock it down. I wish I could induce them to build
under the eaves of this house; I would if I could discover some means
of communicating with them. It is a peculiarity of the swallow that
you cannot make it afraid of you; just the reverse of other birds. The
swallow does not understand being repulsed, but comes back again. Even
knocking the nest down will not drive it away, until the stupid process
has been repeated several years. The robin must be coaxed; the sparrow
is suspicious, and though easy to tame, quick to notice the least
alarming movement. The swallow will not be driven away. He has not the
slightest fear of man; he flies to his nest close to the window, under
the low eave, or on the beams in the outhouses, no matter if you are
looking on or not. Bold as the starlings are, they will seldom do this.
But in the swallow, the instinct of suspicion is reversed; an instinct
of confidence occupies its place. In addition to the eave-swallow, to
which I have chiefly alluded, and the chimney-swallow, there is the
swift, also a roof-bird, and making its nest in the slates of houses in
the midst of towns. These three are migrants, in the fullest sense, and
come to our houses over thousands of miles of land and sea.

Robins frequently visit the roof for insects, especially when it is
thatched; so do wrens; and the latter, after they have peered along,
have a habit of perching at the extreme angle of a gable, or the
extreme edge of a corner, and uttering their song. Finches occasionally
fly up to the roofs of country-houses if shrubberies are near, also in
pursuit of insects; but they are not truly roof-birds. Wagtails perch
on roofs; they often have their nests in the ivy, or creepers trained
against walls; they are quite at home, and are frequently seen on the
ridges of farmhouses. Tits of several species, particularly the great
titmouse and the blue tit, come to thatch for insects both in summer
and winter. In some districts where they are common, it is not unusual
to see a goatsucker or fern-owl hawk along close to the eaves in the
dusk of the evening for moths. The white owl is a roof-bird (though not
often of the house), building inside the roof, and sitting there all
day in some shaded corner. They do sometimes take up their residence in
the roofs of outhouses attached to dwellings, but not often nowadays,
though still residing in the roofs of old castles. Jackdaws, again,
are roof-birds, building in the roofs of towers. Bats live in roofs,
and hang there wrapped up in their membraneous wings till the evening
calls them forth. They are residents in the full sense, remaining all
the year round, though principally seen in the warmer months; but they
are there in the colder, hidden away, and if the temperature rises,
will venture out and hawk to and fro in the midst of the winter. Tame
pigeons and doves hardly come into this paper, but still it is their
habit to use roofs as tree-tops. Rats and mice creep through the
crevices of roofs, and in old country-houses hold a sort of nightly
carnival, racing to and fro under the roof. Weasels sometimes follow
them indoors and up to their roof strongholds.

When the first warm rays of spring sunshine strike against the southern
side of the chimney, sparrows perch there and enjoy it; and again in
autumn, when the general warmth of the atmosphere is declining, they
still find a little pleasant heat there. They make use of the radiation
of heat, as the gardener does who trains his fruit-trees to a wall.
Before the autumn has thinned the leaves, the swallows gather on the
highest ridge of the roof in a row and twitter to each other; they know
the time is approaching when they must depart for another climate. In
winter, many birds seek the thatched roofs to roost. Wrens, tits, and
even blackbirds roost in the holes left by sparrows or starlings.

Every crevice is the home of insects, or used by them for the deposit
of their eggs—under the tiles or slates, where mortar has dropped out
between the bricks, in the holes of thatch, and on the straws. The
number of insects that frequent a large roof must be very great—all
the robins, wrens, bats, and so on, can scarcely affect them; nor the
spiders, though these, too, are numerous. Then there are the moths,
and those creeping creatures that work out of sight, boring their way
through the rafters and beams. Sometimes a sparrow may be seen clinging
to the bare wall of the house; tits do the same thing—it is surprising
how they manage to hold on—they are taking insects from the apertures
of the mortar. Where the slates slope to the south, the sunshine
soon heats them, and passing butterflies alight on the warm surface,
and spread out their wings, as if hovering over the heat. Flies are
attracted in crowds sometimes to heated slates and tiles, and wasps
will occasionally pause there. Wasps are addicted to haunting houses,
and in the autumn, feed on the flies. Floating germs carried by the
air must necessarily lodge in numbers against roofs; so do dust and
invisible particles; and together, these make the rain-water collected
in water-butts after a storm turbid and dark; and it soon becomes full
of living organisms.

Lichen and moss grow on the mortar wherever it has become slightly
disintegrated; and if any mould, however minute, by any means
accumulates between the slates, there, too, they spring up, and
even on the slates themselves. Tiles are often coloured yellow by
such growths. On some old roofs, which have decayed, and upon which
detritus has accumulated, wallflowers may be found; and the house-leek
takes capricious root where it fancies. The stonecrop is the finest
of roof-plants, sometimes forming a broad patch of brilliant yellow.
Birds carry up seeds and grains, and these germinate in moist thatch.
Groundsel, for instance, and stray stalks of wheat, thin and drooping
for lack of soil, are sometimes seen there, besides grasses. Ivy is
familiar as a roof-creeper. Some ferns and the pennywort will grow
on the wall close to the roof. Where will not ferns grow? We saw one
attached to the under-side of a glass coal-hole cover; its green could
be seen through the thick glass on which people stepped daily.

Recently, much attention has been paid to the dust which is found on
roofs and ledges at great heights. This meteoric dust, as it is called,
consists of minute particles of iron, which are thought to fall from
the highest part of the atmosphere, or possibly to be attracted to the
earth from space. Lightning usually strikes the roof. The whole subject
of lightning-conductors has been re-opened of late years, there being
reason to think that mistakes have been made in the manner of their
erection. The reason English roofs are high-pitched is not only because
of the rain, that it may shoot off quickly, but on account of snow.
Once now and then there comes a snow-year, and those who live in houses
with flat surfaces anywhere on the roof soon discover how inconvenient
they are. The snow is sure to find its way through, damaging ceilings,
and doing other mischief. Sometimes, in fine summer weather, people
remark how pleasant it would be if the roof were flat, so that it could
be used as a terrace, as it is in warmer climates. But the fact is
the English roof, although now merely copied and repeated without a
thought of the reason of its shape, grew up from experience of severe
winters. Of old, great care and ingenuity—what we should now call
artistic skill—were employed in constructing the roof. It was not only
pleasant to the eye with its gables, but the woodwork was wonderfully
well done. Such roofs may still be seen on ancient mansions, having
endured for centuries. They are splendid pieces of workmanship, and
seen from afar among foliage, are admired by every one who has the
least taste. Draughtsmen and painters value them highly. No matter
whether reproduced on a large canvas or in a little woodcut, their
proportions please. The roof is much neglected in modern houses; it is
either conventional, or it is full indeed of gables, but gables that
do not agree, as it were, with each other—that are obviously put there
on purpose to look artistic, and fail altogether. Now, the ancient
roofs were true works of art, consistent, and yet each varied to its
particular circumstances, and each impressed with the individuality of
the place and of the designer. The finest old roofs were built of oak
or chestnut; the beams are black with age, and in that condition, oak
is scarcely distinguishable from chestnut.

So the roof has its natural history, its science, and art; it has
its seasons, its migrants and residents, of whom a housetop calendar
might be made. The fine old roofs which have just been mentioned are
often associated with historic events and the rise of families; and
the roof-tree, like the hearth, has a range of proverbs or sayings and
ancient lore to itself. More than one great monarch has been slain by
a tile thrown from the housetop, and numerous other incidents have
occurred in connection with it. The most interesting is the story of
the Grecian mother, who with her infant was on the roof, when, in a
moment of inattention, the child crept to the edge, and was balanced
on the very verge. To call to it, to touch it, would have insured its
destruction; but the mother, without a second’s thought, bared her
breast, and the child eagerly turning to it, was saved!




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER XXXIV.—JUDGE ME.

Mr Beecham had spoken the words, ‘You must know it all,’ as if they
contained a threat, but impulse directed tone and words. He became
instantly conscious of his excitement, when he saw the startled
expression with which Madge regarded him. His emotion was checked.
Mechanically, he gripped the bridle of his passion, and held it down as
a strong man restrains a restive horse.

‘Shall I go on?’ he said with almost perfect self-control, although his
voice had not yet quite regained its usual softness. ‘I know that you
will be pained. I do not like that, and so you see me hesitating, and
weakly trying to shift the responsibility from my own shoulders. Shall
I go on?’

‘I am not afraid of pain,’ she answered quietly, but with a distant
tremor in her voice; ‘and if you think that I should hear what you have
to say, say it.’

‘Then I will speak as gently as it is in my power to do; but this
subject always stirs the most evil passions that are in me. I want
to win your confidence, and that impels me to tell you why I doubt
Philip—it is because I know his father to be false.’

‘Oh, you are mistaken!’ she exclaimed, rising at once to the defence of
a friend; ‘you do not know how much good he has done!’

‘No; but I do know some of the harm he has done.’ There was a sort
of grim humour in voice and look, as if he were trying to subdue his
bitterness of heart by smiling at the girl’s innocent trustfulness.

‘Harm!—Mr Hadleigh harm anybody! You judge him wrongly: he may look
hard and—and unpleasant; but he has a kind nature, and suffers a great
deal.’

‘He should suffer’ (this more gently now—more like himself, and as if
he spoke in sorrow rather than in anger). ‘But, all the same he has
done harm—cruel, wicked harm.’

‘To whom—to whom?’

‘To me and to your mother.’ A long pause, as if he were drawing breath
for the words which at length he uttered in a faltering whisper: ‘_His_
lies separated us.’

Madge stood mute and pale. She remembered what Aunt Hessy had told her:
how there had come the rumour first, and then the confident assertion
of the treachery of the absent lover—no one able to tell who brought
the news which the loss of his letter in the wreck, and consequently
apparent silence, seemed to confirm. Then all the sad days of hoping—of
faith in the absent, whilst the heart was sickening and growing faint,
as the weeks, the months passed, and the unbroken silence of the loved
one slowly forced the horrible conviction upon her that the news _must_
be true. He—Austin, whom she had prayed not to go away—had gone without
answering that pathetic cry, and had broken his troth.

Poor mother, poor mother! Oh, the agony of it all! Madge could see
it—feel it. She could see the woman in her great sorrow dumbly looking
across the sea, hoping, still hoping that he would come back, until
despair became her master. And now to know that all this misery had
been brought about by a Lie! ... and the speaker of the lie had been
Philip’s father! Two lives wrecked, two hearts broken by a lie. Was it
not the cruelest kind of murder?—the two lives lingering along their
weary way, each believing the other faithless.

She sprang into the present again—it was too horrible. She would not
believe that any man could be so wicked, and least of all Philip’s
father.

‘I will not believe it!’ she exclaimed with a sudden movement of the
hands, as if sweeping the sad visions away from her.

Beecham’s brows lowered, but not frowningly, as he looked long at her
flushed face, and saw that the bright eyes had become brighter still in
the excitement of her indignant repudiation of the charge he made.

‘Do you like the man?’ he asked in a low tone.

The question had never occurred to her before, and in the quick
self-survey which it provoked, she was not prepared to say ‘Yes’ or
‘No.’ In the moment, too, she remembered Uncle Dick’s unexplained
quarrel with Mr Hadleigh on the market-day, and also that Uncle Dick,
who wore his heart upon his sleeve, never much favoured the Master of
Ringsford.

‘He is Philip’s father,’ she answered simply; and in giving the
answer, she felt that it was enough for her. She _must_ like everybody
who belonged to Philip.

‘Is that all?’

‘It is enough,’ she said impatiently.

‘Do not be angry with me; but try to see a little with my eyes. You
will do so when you learn how guilty he is.’

‘I will not hear it!’ and she moved.

‘For Philip’s sake,’ he said softly but firmly, ‘if not for that of
another, who would tell you it was right that you should hear me.’

Madge stood still, her face towards the wall, so that he could not see
her agitation. The bright fire cast the shadow of his profile on the
same wall, and the silhouette, grotesquely exaggerated as the outlines
were, still suggested suffering rather than anger.

‘Do you know that Hadleigh has good reason for enmity towards me?’

‘No; I never knew or thought that he could have reason for enmity
towards any one.’

‘He had towards me.’

‘I believe you are wrong. I am sure of it;’ and she thought that here
might be her opportunity to further Philip’s desire to reconcile them.

‘Should you desire to test what I am about to tell you, say to Hadleigh
that you have been told George Laurence was a friend of Philip’s
mother. He was my friend too. My poor sister was passionate and, like
all passionate people, weak. Hadleigh took her from my friend _for her
money_—a pitiful few hundred pounds. I never liked the man; but I hated
him then, and hated him still more when Laurence, becoming reckless
alike of fortune and life, ruined himself and ... killed himself. But
the crime was Hadleigh’s, and it lies heavy on his soul.’

‘Oh, why should you speak so bitterly of what he could neither foresee
nor prevent.’

‘I charged him with the murder,’ Beecham continued, without heeding the
interruption, ‘and he could not answer me like a man. He spoke soft
words, as if I were a boy in a passion; he even attempted to condole
with me for the loss of my friend, until I fled from him, lest my hands
should obey my wish and not my will. But he had his revenge. He made
my sister’s life a torture. She tried to hide it in her letters to me;
but I could read her misery in every line. And then, when he discovered
that I had gone into the wilds of Africa, without any likelihood of
being able to send a message home for many months, he told the lie
which destroyed our hopes.’

‘How do you know that it was he who told it?’ she asked, without moving
and with some fear of the answer.

‘The man he employed to spread the false report confessed to me what
had been done and by whom.’

Madge’s head drooped; there seemed to be no refutation of this proof of
Mr Hadleigh’s guilt possible.

Beecham partly understood that slight movement of the head, and his
voice had become soft again when he resumed:

‘I did not seek to retaliate. She was lost to me, and it did not
much matter what evil influence came between us. I am not seeking to
retaliate now. I would have forgotten the man and the evil he had
wrought, if it had not been for the cry my sister sent to me from her
deathbed. She asked me for some sign that in the future I would try to
help and guide her favourite child, Philip. I gave the pledge, and she
was only able to answer that I had made her happy. I am here to fulfil
that pledge, and it might have been easily done, but for you.’

‘For me!’—Startled, but not looking at him yet.

‘Ay, for you, because I wish to be sure that you will be safe in his
keeping; and to be sure of that, I wish him to prove that he has none
of his father’s nature in him.’

‘Do you still hate his father so much?’ she said distressfully.

‘I have long ceased to feel hatred; but I still distrust him and all
that belongs to him. Now that you know why I stand aside to watch how
Philip bears himself, do you still ask me to release you from your
promise?’

‘I will not betray your confidence,’ she answered mechanically; ‘but
what I ought to do I will do.’

‘I would not desire you to do anything else, my child,’ and all his
gentleness of manner had returned. ‘I will not ask you to say at this
moment whether or not you think I am acting rightly. I ask only that
you will remember whose child you are, and what she was to me, as you
have learned what I was to her. Then you will understand and judge me.’

‘I cannot judge, but I will try to understand.’

Then she turned towards him, and he saw that although she had been
speaking so quietly, her pain had been great.

‘Forgive me, my poor child, for bringing this sorrow to you; but it may
be the means of saving you from a life of misery, or of leading you to
one of happiness.’

There was a subdued element of solemnity in this—it was so calm, so
earnest, that she remained silent. He imagined that he understood; but
he was mistaken. She did not herself yet understand the complicated
emotions which had been stirred within her. She had tried to put away
those sad visions, but could not: the sorrowful face of the mother
was always looking wistfully at her out of the mists. She ought to
have been filled with bitterness by the account of the crime—for crime
it surely was—which had wrought so much mischief, and the proof of
which appeared to be so strong. Instead of that, she felt sorry for Mr
Hadleigh. Here was the reason for the gloom in which he lived—remorse
lay heavily upon him. Here, too, was the reason for all his kindliness
to her, when he was so cold to others. She was sorry for him.

Hope came to her relief, dim at first, but growing brighter as she
reflected. Might there not be some error in the counts against him?
She saw that in thinking of the misfortunes of his friend Laurence,
passion had caused Austin Shield to exaggerate the share Mr Hadleigh
had in bringing them about. Might it not be that in a similar way he
had exaggerated and misapprehended what he had been told by the man
who denounced Mr Hadleigh as the person who had employed him to spread
the fatal lie? Whether or not this should prove to be the case, it was
clear that until Mr Shield’s mind was disabused of the belief that
Philip’s father had been the cause of his sorrow and her mother’s,
there was no possibility of effecting a reconciliation between the two
men. But if all his charges were well founded—what then?... She was
afraid to think of what might be to come after.

Still holding her hand, he made a movement towards the door. Then she
spoke:

‘I want you to say again that whilst I keep your secret, you leave me
free to speak to Mr Hadleigh about ... about the things you have told
me.’

‘Yes, if you still doubt me.’

‘I will speak,’ she said deliberately, ‘not because I doubt you, but
because I believe you are mistaken.’

Again that long look of reverent admiration of her trustfulness, and
then:

‘Act as your own heart tells you will be wisest and kindest.’

       *       *       *       *       *

As he passed down the frozen gravel-path, he met Philip. He was in
no mood for conversation, and saying only ‘Good-evening,’ passed on.
Philip was surprised; although, being wearied himself, he was not sorry
to escape a conversation with one who was a comparative stranger.

‘What is the matter with Mr Beecham?’ he inquired carelessly, when he
entered the oak parlour and, to his delight, found Madge alone.

‘He is distressed about some family affairs,’ she answered after a
little hesitation.

Philip observed the hesitation and, slight as it was, the confusion of
her manner.

‘Oh, something more about that affair in which you are his confidant,
I suppose, and came to you for comfort. Well, I come upon the same
errand—fagged and worried to death. Will you give me a glass of
wine?—Stay, I should prefer a little brandy-and-water.—Thank you.’

He had dropped into an armchair, as if physically tired out. She seated
herself beside him and rested a hand on his shoulder.

‘You have been disturbed again at the works,’ she said soothingly.

‘Disturbed!—driven to my wits’ end would be more like my present state.
Everything is going wrong. The capital has nearly all disappeared,
without any sign of a return for it, so that it looks as if I should
speedily have to ask Uncle Shield for more.—What has frightened you?’

‘Nothing—it was only a chill—don’t mind it. Have you seen—him?’

‘Came straight from him here. He was rather out of humour, I thought;
and as usual, referred me to his lawyers on almost every point. As to
more capital, he said there would be no difficulty about that, if he
was satisfied that the first money had been prudently invested.’

‘I understood that he was pleased with what you were attempting.’

‘So did I; but it seems to me now as if he was anything but satisfied.
However, he would give me no definite answer or advice. He would think
about it—he would make inquiries, and then see what was to be done. He
is right, of course; and queer as his ways are, he has been kind and
generous. But if he pulls up now, the whole thing will go to smash,
and—to fail, Madge, to fail, when it only requires another strong
effort to make a success!’

‘But you are not to fail, Philip.’

‘At present, things look rather like it. Oh, it will be rare fun for
them all!’ he added bitterly.

‘All?’

‘Yes, everybody who predicted that my scheme was a piece of madness and
must come to grief. That does not matter so much, though, as finding
myself to be a fool. I wish uncle would talk over the matter quietly
with me. I am sure he could help me.... Why, you are shivering. Come
nearer to the fire.’

She moved her chair as he suggested.

‘But how is it that the money is all gone?’

‘It is not exactly gone, but sunk in the buildings and the machinery;
and the disputes with the men have caused a lot of waste. The men are
the real trouble; they can’t get the idea into their heads, somehow;
and even Caleb is turning rusty now. But that is because he is bothered
about Pansy.... Ah, Madge’ (his whole manner changing suddenly as he
grasped her hand and gazed fondly into her eyes); ‘although it will be
a bitter pill to swallow if this scheme falls through—I was so proud of
it, so hopeful of it at the start, and saw such a bright future for it,
and believed it would be such a mighty social lever—although that would
be bitter, I should get over it. I could never get over any trouble
about you, such as that poor chap is in about Pansy.... But that can
never be,’ he concluded impulsively.

For the next few minutes he forgot all about the works, the men, and
the peril in which his Utopia stood, threatening every day to tumble
all to pieces. Madge was glad that his thoughts should be withdrawn for
a space from his worry, and was glad to be able to breathe more freely
herself in thinking only of their love, for those references to his
Uncle Shield troubled her.

‘You are not losing courage altogether, then?’ she said smiling.

‘I shall never lose it altogether so long as you are beside me,
although I may halt at times,’ he answered. ‘There; I am better now.
Don’t let us talk any more to-night about disagreeable things—they
don’t seem half so disagreeable to me as they did when I came in.’

So, as they were not to talk about disagreeable things, they talked
about themselves. They did remember Caleb and Pansy, however; and Madge
promised to see the latter soon, and endeavour to persuade her to be
kind to her swain.




A NORMAN SEASCAPE.


It was on our way from Paris to the sea that we found out Dives; a
little town, forgotten now, but once, long ago, holding for four short
weeks an urgent place in the foreground of the world’s history. It is a
day’s journey distant from Paris, a long summer day’s journey through
fair France, fairest of all when one reaches green Normandy, rich in
sober old farmhouses, quaint churches, orchards laden with russet fruit
ripening to fill the cider-barrels.

The little station near Dives is set in a desert of sand; one white
road leads this way, another that. Of the modest town itself you
see nothing. Your eye is caught for a moment as you look round you
by the gentle undulation of the hills that rise behind it. On these
slopes, a nameless battle was once fought and won; but the story of
that struggle belongs to the past, and it is the present you have to
do with. At this moment your most urgent need is to secure a seat in
omnibus or supplement; all the world is going seawards, and even French
politeness yields a little before the pressure of necessity; for the
crowd is great and the carriages are small. There is infection in
the gaiety of our fellow holiday-seekers, whose costumes are devised
to hint delicately or more broadly their destination. Their pleasure
is expressed with all the _naïveté_ of childhood; so we too, easily
enough, catch something of their spirit, and watch eagerly for the
first hint of blue on the horizon, for the first crisp, salt breath in
the air. Dives, after its spasmodic revival, falls back into silence,
and is forgotten. We forget it too, and for the next few days the
problem of life at Beuzeval-Houlgate occupies us wholly.

He who first invented Beuzeval must have had a vivid imagination, a
creative genius. What possibilities did he see in that sad reach of
endless sand, in that sadder expanse of sea, as we first saw it under
a gray summer sky? Yet here, almost with the wave of an Aladdin’s
wand, a gay little town sprung into existence—fantastic houses,
pseudo-Swiss châlets, very un-English ‘Cottages Anglais;’ ‘Beach’
hotels, ‘Sea’ hotels, ‘Beautiful Sojourn’ hotels lined the shore,
and Paris came down and took possession. Houlgate and we are really
one, though some barrier, undefinable and not to be grasped by us,
divides us. But Houlgate holds itself proudly aloof from us; Houlgate
leads the fashions; it is dominated by ‘that ogre, gentility;’ its
houses are more fantastic, its costumes more magnificent, its ways
more mysterious. At Beuzeval, one is not genteel, one is natural; it
is a family-life of simplicity and tranquillity, as the guide-book
sets forth in glowing terms. We live in a little house that faces,
and is indeed set low upon the beach. There is a strip of garden
which produces a gay crop of marigolds and sunflowers growing in a
sandy waste—gold against gold. We belong to Mère Jeanne, an ancient
lady, who wears a white cotton night-cap of the tasselled order, and
who is oftenest seen drawing water at the well. Her vessel is of an
antique shape; and she, too, is old. Tradition whispers that she has
seen ninety winters come and go, yet her cheeks are rosy as one of
her Normandy apples. One feels that life moves slowly and death comes
tardily to this sea-village, where the outer world intrudes but once a
year, and then but for one brief autumn month alone.

Bathing is the chief occupation of the day, and it is undertaken with
a seriousness that is less French than British. Nothing can be funnier
than to watch this matter of taking _le bain_. From early morning till
noon, all the world is on the beach. Rows of chairs are brought down
from the bath-house—all gay at this hour with wind-tossed flags—and
are planted firmly in the soft loose sand; here those of us who are
spectators sit and watch the show. A paternal government arranges
everything for its children. Here one goes by rule. So many hours of
the morning and so many hours of the evening must alone be devoted
to the salt bath; such and such a space of the wide beach, carefully
marked off with fluttering standards, must alone be occupied. Thus
bathing is a very social affair; the strip of blue water is for the
moment converted into a _salon_, where all the courtesies of life are
duly observed. On the other side of the silver streak, business of
the same nature is no doubt going on; but French imagination alone
could evolve, French genius devise, the strange and wonderful costumes
appropriate to the occasion.

Here is a lady habited in scarlet, dainty shoes and stockings to match,
and a bewitching cap (none of your hideous oilskin) with falling
lace and telling little bows of ribbon. Here another, clad in pale
blue, with a becoming hat tied under her chin, and many bangles on
her wrists. The shoes alone are a marvel. How do all these intricate
knots and lacings, these glancing buckles, survive the rough and
sportive usage of the waves? Who but our Gallic sisters could imagine
those delicate blendings of dark blue and silver, crimson and brown,
those strange stripes and æsthetic olives and drabs? The costume of
the gentlemen is necessarily less varied, though here and there one
notices an eccentric harlequin, easily distinguishable among the
crowd; and again, what Englishman would dream of taking his morning
dip with a ruff round his neck, a silken girdle, and a hat to save his
complexion from the sun? Two amiable persons dressed in imitation of
the British tar, obligingly spend the greater part of the day in the
sea. Their business it is to conduct timid ladies from the beach and to
assist them in their bath. The braver spirits allow themselves to be
plunged under the brine, the more fearful are content to be sprinkled
delicately from a tin basin. There is also a rower, whose little boat,
furnished with life-saving appliances, plies up and down among the
crowd, lest one more venturesome than his neighbours should pass beyond
his depth; an almost impossible event, as one might say, seeing with
what fondness even the boldest swimmer clings to the shore.

Danger on these summer waters seems a remote contingency. Here is
neither ‘bar that thunders’ nor ‘shale that rings.’ It is for the
most part a lazy sea, infinitely blue, that comes softly, almost
caressingly, shorewards. At first, one is struck with the absence
of life which it presents—the human element uncounted. There is no
pier, and boating as a pastime is unknown. Occasionally, a fleet of
brown-sheeted fishing-smacks rides out from the little port of Dives,
each sail slowly unfurled, making a spot of warm colour when the sun
shines on the canvas; now and then there is a gleam of white wings
on the far horizon. But the glory of the place is its limitless,
uninterrupted sea, shore, and sky—endless reaches of golden sand,
endless plains of blue water. With so liberal a space of heaven and
of ocean, you have naturally room for many subtle effects, countless
shades and blendings of colour, most evanescent coming and going of
light and shadow. To the left, gay little Cabourg, all big hotels
and Parisian finery, runs out to meet the sea; farther still, Luc is
outlined against the sky. To the right are the cliffs at Havre, pink
at sunset; their position marked when dusk has fallen by the glow of
the revolving light. Beyond, _là bas_—that ‘indifferent, supercilious’
French _là bas_—an ‘elsewhere’ of little importance, lies unseen
England. When the sun has set, dipping its fireball in haste to cool
itself in the waters, there comes sometimes an illusive effect as
of land, dim, far off, indistinct; but it is cloud-land, not our
sea-island.

The sunsets are a thing to marvel at, never two nights alike. ‘C’est
adorable!’ as our old Norman waiting-woman said, with a fervent
pressure of the hands, as she looked with us on ‘the crimson splendour
when the day had waned.’ Sometimes it is a lingering glory, the
rose-light on the pools fading slowly, as if loath to go; sometimes the
spectacle is more quickly over, and almost ‘with one stride comes the
dark;’ then swiftly in their appointed order the familiar stars. Now
and again, it is a great storm—a blue-black sea and an inky sky, rent
too frequently by the zigzags of the lightning. There is always the
charm of change and novelty; the piquancy of the unexpected.

After the serious business of the bath is over, the lunch-hour has
arrived. Being as it were one family, we all take our meals at
the same time. Later in the afternoon, Houlgate rides and drives,
elegant landaus, carriages with linen umbrellas suspended over them,
donkey-carts driven by beautiful young ladies in beautiful Paris gowns.
Beuzeval braves the dust, and looks on respectfully at the show; but
Beuzeval does not drive much. It takes its little folks to the beach
and helps them to build sand-castles. It goes off in bands armed with
forks to the exciting chase of the _équilles_. These little fish of
the eel tribe, which are savoury eating, burrow in the sand at low
tide, and it requires some skill to capture them. Whole families go
out shrimping too, looking not unpicturesque as, set against the light
on the far sea-margin, they push their nets before them. One afternoon
we watched two bearded men amuse themselves for hours with flying a
pink kite. Their gesticulations were lively, and their excitement
great, when at last it sailed bravely before the breeze. We are very
easily amused here; for the most part, we are content to look about us,
hospitable to all stray impressions. At such times, one is tempted to
the idlest speculations. Why, for instance, are all the draught-horses
white? Is it that the blue sheep-skin collar may have the advantage
of contrast? Why, in a land of green pastures, where kine abound, is
milk at a ransom price, and butter not always eatable? Why, again, in
spite of our simplicity, our _vie de famille_, is it necessary to one’s
well-being here to have an inexhaustible Fortunatus’s purse? But these
things are mysteries; let us cease to meddle with them, and follow
Houlgate wider afield, on foot, if you will, to little Dives, too long
neglected—Dives, which sends its placid river to swell the sea, but
lingers inland itself, hardly on the roughest day within sound of the
waves.

It was at Dives that Duke William of Normandy and his host waited for
the south wind, that fair wind that was to carry them to England. The
harbour, choked now with the shifting sand, and sheltering nothing
larger than a fishing-smack—held the fleet which some have numbered
in thousands; gallant ships for which Normandy’s noblest forest trees
were sacrificed during that long summer of preparation. Finest of them
all, riding most proudly on the waves, was William’s own _Mora_, the
gift of his Matilda. At its prow there was carved in gold the image
of a boy ‘blowing on an ivory horn pointing towards England.’ ‘Stark’
Duke William thus symbolised his conquest before ever he set foot on
that alien shore. On the gentle slopes above the little town, where the
cattle feed, the great army encamped itself, waiting for that fair wind
that never came. Four weeks they lingered, long enough to associate
the seaport inseparably with the Conqueror’s name; and brave stories
are chronicled of the order he kept among his fierce Gauls, and how
the worthy people of Dives learned to look on the strangers without
distrust—almost with indifference; to till their fields, to tend their
flocks, to gather in the harvest, as if no nation’s fate hung on the
caprice of a breeze. Four weeks of this, and then that great company
melted away almost with the suddenness of a certain Assyrian host of
old—a west wind blew gently—not the longed-for south; but the ships,
weary of inaction, spread their wings, and flew away to St Valery,
where a narrower band of blue separated them from the desired English
haven. And the village folks were left once more to the vast quietude
of their country life.

There is an old church, rebuilt since English Edward destroyed it, a
noble specimen of Norman architecture, and there they keep recorded on
marble the names of the knights who sailed on that famous expedition
from the port hard by. The church has its legend, too, of a wondrous
effigy of our Lord found by the fishermen who launched their nets in
these waters. It bore the print of nails in the hands and feet; but
the cross to which it had been fastened was awanting. The village
folks gave it reverent sanctuary, and devout hands busied themselves
in fashioning a crucifix; but no crucifix—let the workman be ever so
skilful—could be made to fit the carven Christ. This one was too short,
that too long. Clearly the miracle had been but half wrought; the cross
must be sought where the image had already been found. In faith, the
fishermen cast their nets again and again into the deep. At last, after
long patience on their part, the sea gave up what it had previously
denied. The long-lost cross was found; and with the figure nailed to it
once more, the sacred symbol was borne to its resting-place. A great
feast-day that, for Dives; but only the memory of it lingers. The
treasure has vanished, and nothing save a curious picture representing
the miracle remains to witness to the event. It hangs in the transept,
and there are many who linger to look at it. The outside of this grand
building pleased us well; it stands secure and free, with open spaces
about it, green woods behind, and the blue sky of France above. A
stone’s-throw off there is the market, which is nothing but a wide and
deep overhanging roof, supported on pillars of carved wood. Here the
sturdy peasants of this white-cotton-night-cap country sell the cheeses
that smell so evilly and taste so well.

But the chief interest of Dives centres itself in the Hôtellerie de
Guillaume le Conquérant. Heart could not desire a quainter, more
out-of-the-world spot in which to pass a summer day. One may take a
hundred or two of years from the reputed date—they boast that Duke
William was housed here, and they show you the chain by which the
_Mora_ was fastened to the shore!—and yet leave the place ancient
enough. The famous reception-rooms may have been, and have been,
redecorated and renewed after an old pattern; but they contain
treasures that can boast a very respectable past. Such black carved oak
is seldom to be seen; and there are tattered hangings, brasses, bits of
china enough to fill a virtuoso’s heart with envy; a wonderful medley
of all tastes and periods.

Of deepest interest to some of us is the Louis XIV. chair with gilded
arms and seat of faded, silken brocade, from which the most brilliant
correspondent of her day wrote some of the letters that are models
yet of what letters ought to be. Madame de Sévigné came here once and
again on her way to Les Rochers. Once, at least, she came with ‘an
immense retinue,’ that must have taxed the resources of the modest
inn, smaller then than now. The ‘good and amiable’ Duchess de Chaulnes
is of the company. Madame de Carmen makes the third in the trio. The
ladies travel ‘in the best carriage’ with ‘the best horses,’ and that
large following behind them. Madame de Chaulnes, who is all activity,
is up with the dawn. ‘You remember how, in going to Bourbon, I found it
easier to accommodate myself to her ways than to try and mend them.’
They make quite a royal progress, halting here and there. At Chaulnes
the good duchess is taken ill, seized with sore throat. The kindest
lady in the world nurses her friend and undertakes the cure. ‘At
Paris she would have been bled; but here she was only rubbed for some
time with our famous balsam, which produced quite a miracle. Will you
believe, my dearest, that in one night this precious balsam completely
cured her?’ While the patient slept, the kind nurse wandered in the
noble alleys and the neglected gardens. ‘I call this rehearsing for
Les Rochers,’ she writes gaily; but there is little heat, ‘not one
nightingale to be heard—it is winter on the 17th of April.’

Soon, however, the southern warmth floods the land, and they set off,
a gay trio, and one of them at least with eyes for every quick-passing
beauty as they drive through green Normandy. From Caen she writes: ‘We
were three days upon the road from Rouen to this place. We met with no
adventures; but fine weather and spring in all its charm accompanied
us. We ate the best things in the world, went to bed early, and did
not suffer any inconvenience. We were on the sea-coast at Dives, where
we slept.’ (She loves the sea, and elsewhere tells how she sat at her
chamber window and looked out on it.) ‘The country is beautiful.’
Later, she exclaims: ‘I have seen the most beautiful country in the
world. I did not know Normandy at all; I had seen it when too young.
Alas! perhaps not one of those I saw here before is left alive—that is
sad!’ This is the shadow in the bright picture; she, too, is growing
old, and her spring will not return. It is the last journey she is
making to the well-loved country home.

Somehow, as we turn away from the quaint hostelry, it is this gracious
and beautiful lady who goes with us, and not ‘stark’ hero William. At
Beuzeval, as we reach it, the sun is already dipping towards the sea,
and all the bathers—a fantastic crowd set against the red light—are
hurrying homewards across the sands.




ARE OUR COINS WEARING AWAY?


After the recent speech by the Chancellor of the Exchequer in which he
showed that our gold coins are much lighter than they ought to be, we
shall have to answer the above question in the affirmative. Our coins
_are_ wearing away, and although not at any very alarming rate, yet
at a perceptible one. Every sovereign, half-sovereign, half-crown,
florin, shilling, or sixpence, &c., which has been out of the Mint any
length of time, weighs less now than it did when brand new. Indeed,
in some old coins this is quite evident upon a casual inspection, for
the image may be worn flat and unrecognisable, and the superscription
may be illegible. Now, the difference in value between this old coin
and the same coin when turned out new may be very trifling; but when
we consider that there are probably millions in circulation which
have similarly suffered depreciation to a greater or less extent, and
that this loss will at some time or other have to be made good, this
question of the wear of our coins becomes of sufficient importance for
a Chancellor of the Exchequer to seek to cope with it. We shall here
only offer a few observations on the mechanical aspects of the subject.

The office youth fetching a bag of gold from the bank to pay wages
with—the workman putting his small share into his pocket after the lot
has been shot on to a desk and his money has been duly apportioned
to him—the shopman banging it on his counter to see whether it is
sound when it is tendered in payment for groceries, &c., are all
participators in a gigantic system of unintentional ‘sweating.’
Under this usage—quite inseparable, by the way, from the functions
the coinage has to subserve—it would appear that in the United
Kingdom alone there is something like seven hundred and ten thousand
pounds-worth of gold-dust floating about, widely distributed, and in
microscopic particles, lost to the nation—dust which has been abraded
from the gold coins now in circulation. There are similarly thousands
of pounds-worth of silver particles from our silver coinage worn off in
the same way.

It has been estimated from exact data that a hundred-year-old sovereign
has lost weight equivalent to a depreciation of eightpence; in other
words, that such a sovereign is only of the intrinsic value of nineteen
shillings and fourpence. There has been a hundred years of wear for
eightpence—as cheap, one would think, as one could possibly get so much
use out of a coin for; but as we shall now see, we have, comparatively
speaking, to pay more for the use of other coins. Thus, for a hundred
years of use of a half-sovereign we pay a small fraction under
eightpence; in other words, the half-sovereign has lost nearly as much
weight as the sovereign; and considering its value, it has therefore
cost the nation nearly twice as much for its use, two half-sovereigns
costing us nearly one shilling and fourpence. It appears from Mr
Childers’s statement that at the present time, taking old and new
coins, there are in the United Kingdom ninety million sovereigns in
circulation; and of these, fifty millions are on the average worth
nineteen shillings and ninepence-halfpenny each. Of the forty million
half-sovereigns in circulation, some twenty-two millions are of the
intrinsic value of nine shillings and ninepence three-farthings each.
Hence the proposal of the Chancellor of the Exchequer to issue, instead
of half-sovereigns, ten-shilling pieces, or tokens, containing only
nine shillings-worth of gold, with the idea of making up for the loss
by waste of the gold coins now in circulation.

Now, if we inquire into the reason why the half-sovereign wastes so
much faster than the sovereign, we can only come to the conclusion
that, being of half the value, it is a more convenient coin than the
sovereign, and consequently has a much busier life. This applies
with greater force still to coins like the half-crown, shilling, and
sixpence, which are only one-eighth, one-twentieth, and one-fortieth
respectively of the value of a sovereign. And we find upon examination,
what one would naturally expect, that the silver coinage is even more
costly than the gold coinage. The depreciation of the half-crown,
reckoned in terms of itself, is more than double that of the
half-sovereign; that is, if a half-sovereign wastes in the course of
a century to the extent of one-fifteenth of its value, the half-crown
will waste more than two-fifteenths of its value. The depreciation
of shilling-pieces is not far off three times as much as that of
half-crowns; and sixpences waste faster than shillings, though by no
means twice so fast. There is thus an immense waste of our silver
coinage taking place, and it proceeds at such a rate in the case of
sixpences, that the intrinsic value of one a hundred years old would be
only threepence, a century of use having worn away half the silver.

It is evident from these facts that the relative amounts of wear of
coins are _not_ so much owing to the nature of the metal they are
made of as to the activity of the life they have to lead. The less
the value of the coin, the greater is the use to which it is put; and
consequently, the greater is the depreciation in its value from wear
in a given time. The sovereign being of greatest value, is used least,
and depreciates the least—a circumstance quite in accordance with the
fitness of things when we reflect that it is ‘really an international
coin, largely used in exchange operations, known to the whole
commercial world,’ and that any heavy depreciation of it would lead to
much embarrassment.




SILAS MONK.

A TALE OF LONDON OLD CITY.


IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER III.

Unless Rachel had reflected, in the midst of her alarm at the
absence of her grandfather, that Walter Tiltcroft would be at the
counting-house of Armytage and Company at an early hour, there is
no saying what steps she might have taken with the hope of gaining
some tidings of the old man. If anything had happened, Walter must be
the first to bear the news to her. Towards nine o’clock, therefore,
her anxiety began to take a different form; she ceased to expect her
grandfather’s return, and dreaded the appearance of her lover.

The house was soon put in order; everything about the poor home of
Silas Monk looked as neat and clean as usual. Rachel was on the point
of taking up her needlework, when a quick step on the pavement under
the window attracted her attention. It was Walter Tiltcroft. He
followed her into the sitting-room. He was somewhat out of breath; and
when Rachel caught sight of his face, she thought she had never seen it
so pale. ‘Sit down, Walter,’ said the girl, placing a chair. ‘You have
come to tell me something. You have come to tell me’—and here her voice
almost failed her—‘you have come to tell me that he is dead.’

‘No. I thought that I should find your grandfather here.’

‘Why, he has not been here the whole night long!’

The young man passed his hand confusedly across his brow. ‘What did I
tell you I saw at the office last night?’

‘You told me,’ answered Rachel, ‘that you saw grandfather, through a
hole in the shutter, counting handfuls of sovereigns on his desk.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Walter, ‘then I cannot have dreamt it. I was the first
to enter the office this morning. His room was empty. His ledgers were
lying on his desk; the key was in the lock of the large safe, and the
door of the safe stood open. But there were no signs of Silas Monk.’

The girl looked at the young man with a scared face. ‘What shall we do,
if he is lost?’

Walter rose quickly from his seat. ‘Wait!’ cried he. ‘We shall find
him. Mr Armytage has sent for a detective—one, as they say, who can see
through a stone wall.’

‘Oh!’ cried the girl, ‘they cannot suspect my grandfather! I shall not
rest until you bring him back to me, here, in our old home.’

The young man promised, with earnest looks and words, to do his best;
and then hurried away with all possible despatch.

The commotion at the office, which had been going on ever since nine
o’clock that morning, was showing no signs of abatement when Walter
walked in. The entrance was guarded by two stalwart police-officers,
who assisted the young clerk to make his way through a gaping crowd.
Rumours had already spread about the city: Silas Monk had ‘gone off,’
some said, with the contents of the great iron safe in the strong-room
of Armytage and Company; and the value of the documents which he had
purloined was estimated at sums varying from one to ten thousand
pounds. Other reports went even further, and declared that Silas, when
entering as a clerk into the firm of Armytage and Company, years and
years ago, had sold himself to the Evil One; that last night, while the
old city clocks were striking twelve, he had received a visit—as did
Faust from Mephistopheles—and had been whisked away in the dark.

Walter Tiltcroft found another constable near the stairs. ‘You’re
wanted,’ said the officer in a snappish manner. ‘This way.’ The man
conducted Walter to the private office of Mr Armytage, the senior
partner. Here he left him.

Walter stepped into the room boldly, but with a fast-beating heart. A
gentleman with a head as white as snow and with a very stiff manner,
was standing on the rug before the fire, as he entered. ‘Do you want
me, Mr Armytage?’

The senior partner turned his eyes upon the clerk. ‘Yes, Tiltcroft; I
want you.’

Looking round, Walter noticed for the first time that they were not
alone. Seated at a table, with his back to the window, so that his face
was in shade, was a gentleman, writing quickly with a quill-pen. This
gentleman had jet-black hair, cut somewhat short; and there was a tuft
of black whisker on a level with each ear. His hat was on the table,
and beside the hat was lying a thick oaken stick.

Walter had made this observation in a rapid glance, when Mr Armytage
added: ‘What news have you brought from Silas Monk’s house?—Has Silas
been there?’

‘No, sir; not for twenty-four hours.’

‘Ah! Now, tell me, were you not the last to leave the office yesterday?’

When Mr Armytage put this question, the noise of the pen suddenly
ceased. Was the gentleman with the jet-black hair listening? Walter
could not look round, because the senior partner’s eyes were fixed upon
him. But he felt inclined to think that the gentleman was listening
very attentively, being anxious to record the answer. ‘I was the last,
sir, except Silas Monk,’ was Walter’s reply.

The pen gave a short scratch, and stopped.

‘Except Silas, of course,’ said Mr Armytage. ‘Did you, after leaving
Silas, go straight home?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Tell me where you did go, will you?’

‘First of all, under the scaffold outside, where I called out, in order
to ascertain if the workmen had gone. As I found no one there, I closed
the front-door. Then I came back, and sat down in a dark place on the
staircase.’

Scratch, scratch, scratch from the quill.

‘On the staircase!’ exclaimed Mr Armytage, with surprise.

‘I wanted to know why Silas Monk never went home when the rest did,
because his granddaughter was uneasy about him,’ continued Walter. ‘She
told me that it was often close upon midnight before he got home.’

‘Well?’

‘I found out what kept him at the office.’

The senior partner raised his chin, and said encouragingly: ‘Tell us
all about it.’

Walter remained silent for a moment, as though collecting his thoughts;
then he said: ‘What happened that night at the office, Mr Armytage,
is simply this. I had hardly sat down on the staircase when, to my
surprise, a workman came out of the yard from his work on the scaffold.
I stopped him and questioned him. He told me that he had remained to
finish some repairs on the roof, and had not heard me call. I let the
man out, and then returned to my place.’

The scratching of the quill began and finished while Walter was
speaking. He was about to resume, when the gentleman at the table held
up the pen to enforce silence.

‘Mr Armytage,’ said the stranger, ‘ask your clerk if he can tell us,
from previous knowledge, anything about this workman.’

The senior partner looked inquiringly at Walter.

‘I’ve known him for years,’ said the young clerk. ‘When a man is wanted
to repair anything in the office, we always send for Joe Grimrood.’
While the quill was scratching, the head gave a nod, and the voice
exclaimed: ‘Go on!’

Walter then mentioned briefly by what accident he had discovered Silas
Monk at his desk with the pile of sovereigns before him; and how, not
daring to disturb him, he had gone away convinced that the head-cashier
was nothing better than an ‘old miser,’ as he expressed it.

As soon as Walter Tiltcroft had finished his recital, the pen gave
a final scratch; then the stranger rose from the table, folded some
papers together, placed them in his breast-pocket, and taking up his
hat and stick, went out.

When he was gone, the senior partner, still standing on the rug,
turned to Walter, and said: ‘Go back to your desk. Do not quit the
counting-house to-day; you may be wanted at any moment.’

All day long, Walter sat at his desk waiting, with his eyes constantly
bent upon the iron-bound door of the strong-room. Within it, he
pictured to himself Silas Monk wrapped in a white shroud lying
stretched in death, with his hands crossed, and his head raised upon
huge antique ledgers. Presently, Walter even fancied that he heard
the sovereigns chinking as they dropped out of the old man’s hands,
followed by the sound of shuffling feet; and once, while he was
listening, there seemed to issue from this chamber a stifled cry, which
filled him with such terror and dismay, that he found it no easy matter
to hide his agitation from his fellow-clerks, who would have laughed at
him, if they had had the slightest suspicion that he was occupying his
time in such an unprofitable manner, while they were as busily engaged
with the affairs of Armytage and Company as if Silas Monk had never
been born.

       *       *       *       *       *

While these fancies were still troubling Walter Tiltcroft’s brain, he
was sent for by the senior partner. ‘Read that,’ said Mr Armytage,
pointing to a paper on his table as the young man entered the room. ‘It
is a telegram from Fenwick the detective.’ It ran as follows:

‘_Send Tiltcroft alone to Limehouse Police Station._’

Walter looked at the senior partner for instructions. ‘Go!’ cried Mr
Armytage with promptness—‘go, without a moment’s delay!’

The young man started off as quickly as his legs would carry him for
the railway terminus near Fenchurch Street. What an inexpressible
relief to escape from his ghostly fantasy regarding the old
strong-room, and to feel that he was at last beginning to take an
active and important part in the search for Silas Monk!

The train presently arrived at Limehouse. Walter leaped out and made
his way with all speed to the police station. He inquired for the
detective of the first constable he saw, standing, as though on guard,
at the open doorway.

‘What name?’

‘Tiltcroft.’

The constable gave a short comprehensive nod; then he looked into the
office, and jerked his head significantly at another constable who was
seated at a desk. This man quickly disappeared into an inner room.

‘Walk in,’ said the custodian at the doorway, ‘and wait.’

Walter walked in, and waited for what seemed an interminable time. But
Fenwick made his appearance at last, walking briskly up to the young
clerk and touching him on the shoulder with the knob of his stick.
‘It’s a matter of identification,’ said he mysteriously; ‘come along.’
He settled his hat on with the brim touching his black eyebrows, and
led the way into the street. Walter followed. They walked along through
well-lighted thoroughfares, up narrow passages and down dark lanes,
until they came suddenly upon a timber-yard with the river flowing
beyond. At this point the detective stopped and gave a low whistle.
This signal was immediately followed by the sound of oars; and the
dark outline of a boat gliding forward, grew dimly visible out of the
obscurity, below the spot where Fenwick and the young clerk stood. Some
one in the boat directed the rays of a lantern mainly upon their feet,
revealing steep wooden steps.

‘Follow me!’ cried the detective.

As they went down step by step to the water’s edge, the rays of the
lantern descended, dropping always a few inches in advance to guide
them, until they were safely shipped, when the lantern was suddenly
suppressed, and the boat was jerked cautiously out into the river by a
figure near the bow, handling shadowy oars.

Towards what seemed the centre of the stream there was a light shining
so high above them that it appeared, until they drew nearer, like a
solitary star in the dark sky. But the black bulk of a ship’s stern
presently coming in sight, it was apparent that the light belonged to
a large vessel lying at anchor in the river. Under the shadow of this
vessel—if further shadow were possible in this deep darkness—the boat
pulled up, and the lantern was again produced. ‘I’ll go first, my lad,’
said Fenwick, touching Walter on the shoulder again with his stick.
‘Keep close.’

This time the rays from the lantern ascended, rising on a level with
the men’s heads as they went up the ship’s side. As soon as they
reached the deck, the rays again vanished.

‘We will now proceed to business,’ said the detective.

‘Ay, ay, sir,’ cried a sailor who had stepped forward to receive the
visitors. ‘Your men are waiting below.’

‘Then lead the way.’

Walter, wondering what this mystification meant, followed close upon
the heels of Fenwick and the sailor. A few steps brought them to what
was obviously the entrance to the steerage, for it had the dingy
appearance common to that part of a passenger-ship.

‘Are the emigrants below?’ asked the detective.

‘Ay, ay,’ replied the sailor—‘fast asleep.’

‘So much the better,’ remarked Fenwick. Then he added, with a glance at
Walter: ‘Now for the identification.’

The sailor led the way down to heaps of human beings lying huddled
together not unlike sheep, with their heads against boxes, or upon
canvas bags, or packages covered with tarpaulin. The air was warm
and oppressive; and the men, women, and children who were packed in
this place had a uniform expression of weariness on their faces, as
though they were resigned to all the perils and dangers that could be
encountered upon a long voyage.

‘When do you weigh anchor?’ asked the detective.

‘At daybreak,’ answered the sailor.

‘Ah! a little sea-air won’t be amiss,’ remarked Fenwick, looking about
him thoughtfully.—‘Now, let me see.’ He peered into the faces with his
quick keen eyes, leaning his chin the while upon the knob of his stick.
Presently he cocked an eye at Tiltcroft, and said: ‘See any one you
recognise?’

Walter threw a swift glance around him. Most of the faces were thin and
pale, and there were several eyes staring at him and his companion; but
many eyes were closed in sleep; among these he saw a half-hidden face
which he seemed to know, yet for the moment could not recall; but the
recollection quickly flashed upon him.

The detective, watching his expression, saw the change; and following
the direction in which Walter was staring in blank surprise, perceived
that the object in which he appeared to take such a sudden interest
was a large, muscular person, wrapped in a thick pea-jacket, with his
head upon his arm, and his arm resting upon a sea-chest, which was
corded with a thick rope. The man was fast asleep, and on his head was
a mangy-looking skin-cap, pulled down to his eyebrows.

‘Well,’ said the detective, glancing from this man into Walter’s face;
‘who is he?’

‘Joe Grimrood!’ cried Walter.

It would seem as though the man had heard the mention of his name;
for, as Walter pronounced it, he frowned, and opening his eyes slowly,
looked up askance, like an angry dog.

‘Get up!’ said the detective, giving the man a playful thrust in the
ribs; ‘you’re wanted.’

Joe Grimrood showed his teeth, and started, as though about to spring
upon Fenwick. But on reflection, he appeared to think better of it, and
simply growled.

Fenwick turned to the sailor, and said, pointing to the chest against
which Joe Grimrood still leaned, ‘Uncord that box. And if,’ he
added—‘if that man moves or utters a word, bind him down hands and feet
with the rope. Do you understand?’

‘Ay, ay, sir,’ cried the sailor, with a grin on his honest-looking
face. With all the dexterity of a practised ‘tar,’ the sailor removed
the cord from the chest; then he glanced at the detective for further
instructions.

‘Open it!’ cried Fenwick.

At these words, Joe Grimrood, who sat with his back against the iron
pillar and his arms crossed defiantly, showed signs of rebellion in his
small glittering eyes. But a glance from Fenwick quelled him.

When the chest was opened, a quantity of old clothes was discovered.
‘Make a careful search,’ said the detective. ‘If you find nothing more
valuable than old clothes in that box, I shall be greatly surprised.’

Something far more valuable, sure enough, soon came to light. One after
another the sailor brought out fat little bags, which, being shaken,
gave forth a pleasant ring not unlike the chink of gold.

Fenwick presently, after opening one of these bags, held it up before
Joe Grimrood’s eyes, tauntingly. ‘You’re a nice emigrant, ain’t you?
Why, a man of your wealth ought to be a first-class passenger, not a
steerage. How did you manage to accumulate such a heap of gold?’

Joe Grimrood gave another growl, and replied: ‘Let me alone. I’m an
honest workman. Mr Tiltcroft there will tell you if I’m not; asking his
pardon.’

‘That’s no answer. How do you come by all this gold?’

‘By the sweat of my brow,’ answered the man, with the perspiration
rolling down his face. ‘So help me. By the sweat of my brow.’

‘That will do,’ continued the detective. ‘Take my advice, and don’t say
another word.—Come, Tiltcroft. The sooner we get back to the city the
better. There is work to be done there to-night.’ With these words,
Fenwick beckoned to two constables. These men, at a sign from the
detective, seized Joe Grimrood and handcuffed him before he had time to
suspect their intention. Meanwhile, the sailor had packed up the box,
gold and all, and had corded it down as quickly as he had uncorded it.

The constables went first, with Joe Grimrood between them. The man
showed no resistance. Behind him followed the sailor with the valuable
chest. The detective and Tiltcroft brought up the rear. The boat which
had brought Walter and his companions alongside the emigrant ship was
still waiting under the bow when they came on deck. In a few minutes,
without noise or confusion, they were once more in their places, with
the chest and Joe Grimrood—still between the two constables—by way of
additional freight. Once more the boat moved across the dark river and
carried them to the shore.

Having deposited Joe Grimrood and his luggage at the police station,
the detective turned to Walter and said: ‘Now, my lad, let us be off.
This business in the city is pressing. Every moment is precious; it’s a
matter of life and death.’




THE RATIONALE OF HAUNTED HOUSES.


That a very old house should gain the reputation of being haunted
is not surprising, especially if it has been neglected and allowed
to fall out of repair. The woodwork shrinks, the plaster crumbles
away; and through minute slits and chasms in window-frames and
door-cases there come weird and uncanny noises. The wind sighs and
whispers through unseen fissures, suggesting to the superstitious the
wailings of disembodied spirits. A whole household was thrown into
consternation, and had its repose disturbed, one stormy winter, by a
series of lamentable howls and shrieks that rang through the rooms.
The sounds were harrowing, and as they rose fitfully and at intervals,
breaking the silence of the night, the stoutest nerves among the
listeners were shaken. For a long time the visitation continued to
harass the family, recurring by day as well as night, and especially
in rough weather. When there was a storm, piercing yells and shrieks
would come, sudden and startling, changing anon into low melancholy
wails. It was unaccountable. At length the mystery was solved.
Complaints had been made of draughts through the house, and as a
remedy, strips of gutta-percha had at some former time been nailed
along the window-frames, while its owners were at the seaside. This,
for some reason explainable upon acoustic principles, had caused
the disturbance. Even after the gutta-percha had been torn away, a
sudden blast of wind striking near some spot to which a fragment still
adhered, would bring a shriek or moan, to remind the family of the
annoyance they had so long endured.

Meantime, the house got a bad reputation, and servants were shy of
engaging with its owners. A maid more strong-minded than the others,
and who had hitherto laughed at their fears, came fleeing to her
mistress on one occasion, saying she must leave instantly, and that
nothing would induce her to pass another night under the roof. There
was a long corridor at the top of the house, and the girl’s story was,
that in passing along it, she heard footsteps behind her. Stopping and
looking back, she saw no one; but as soon as she went on, the invisible
pursuer did so too, following close behind. Two or three times she
stood still suddenly, hoping the footsteps would pass on and give her
the go-by; instead of which, they pulled up when she did. And when
at last, wild with terror, she took to her heels and ran, they came
clattering along after her to the end of the passage!

The mistress suspected that some one was trying to frighten the girl,
and she urged her to come up-stairs and endeavour to find out the
trick. This the terrified damsel refused to do, so the lady went off
alone. On reaching the corridor and proceeding along it, she was
startled to find that, as the maid had described, some one seemed to be
following her. Tap, tap, clack, clack—as of one walking slipshod with
shoes down at heel—came the steps, keeping pace with her own; stopping
when she stopped, and moving on when she did. In vain the lady peered
around and beside her; nothing was to be seen. It could be no trick,
for there was nobody in that part of the house to play a practical joke.

Ere long the cause was discovered in the shape of a loose board in the
flooring of the corridor. The plank springing when pressed by the foot
in walking along, gave an echoing sound that had precisely the effect
of a step following; and this, in the supposed haunted house, was
sufficient to raise alarm.

It happened to us once to be a temporary dweller in a mansion that had
a ghostly reputation. We were on our way to Paris, travelling with an
invalid; and the latter becoming suddenly too ill to proceed on the
journey, we were forced to stop in the first town we came to. The hotel
being found too noisy, a house in a quiet street was engaged by the
week. It was a grand old mansion, that had once belonged to a magnate
of the land; fallen now from its high estate, and but indifferently
kept up. Wide stone staircases with balusters of carved oak led to
rooms lofty and spacious, whose walls and ceilings were decorated with
gilded enrichments and paintings in the style of Louis XIV. At the side
of the house was a covered-way leading to the stables and offices.
This was entered through a tall _porte cochère_; and at either side of
the great gates, fixed to the iron railings, were a couple of those
huge metal extinguishers—still sometimes to be seen in quaint old
houses—used in former times to put out the torches or links carried at
night by running footmen beside the carriages of the great. The stables
and offices of the place were now falling into decay, and the _porte
cochère_ generally stood open until nightfall, when the gates were
locked.

We had been in the house for some little time before we heard the
stories of supernatural sights and sounds connected with it—of figures
flitting through halls and passages—the ghosts of former occupants;
of strange whisperings and uncanny noises. There certainly were
curious sounds about the house, especially in the upper part, where
lumber-closets were locked and sealed up, through whose shrunken
and ill-fitting doors the wind howled with unearthly wails. In the
dining-hall was a row of old family pictures, faded and grim; and
the popular belief was that, at the ‘witching hour,’ these worthies
descended from their frames and held high festival in the scene of
former banquetings. No servant would go at night into this room alone
or in the dark.

We had with us a young footman called Carroll, the son of an Irish
tenant; devoted to his masters, under whom he had been brought up. He
was a fine young fellow, bold as a lion, and ready to face flesh and
blood in any shape; but a very craven as regarded spirits, fairies, and
supernatural beings, in whom he believed implicitly. One night, after
seeing the invalid settled to rest and committed to the care of the
appointed watcher, I came down to the drawing-room to write letters. It
was an immense saloon, with—doubling and prolonging its dimensions—wide
folding-doors of looking-glass at the end. I had been writing for some
time; far, indeed, into the ‘small-hours.’ The fire was nearly out;
and the candles, which at their best had only served to make darkness
visible in that great place, had burnt low. The room was getting
chilly, dark shadows gathering in the corners. Who has not known the
creepy, shivering feeling that will come over us at such times, when
in the dead silence of the sleeping house we alone are wakeful? The
furniture around begins to crack; the falling of a cinder with a clink
upon the hearth makes us start. And if at such a time the door should
slowly and solemnly open wide, as doors sometimes will, ‘spontaneous,’
we look up with quickening pulse, half expecting to see some ghastly
spectral shape glide in, admitted by invisible hands. Should sickness
be in the house, and the angel of death—who knows?—be brooding with
dark wing over our dwelling, the nerves, strained by anxiety, are
more than usually susceptible of impressions. I was gathering my
papers together and preparing to steal up-stairs past the sick-room,
glad to escape from the pervading chilliness and gloom, when the door
opened. Not, this time, of itself; for there—the picture of abject
terror—stood Carroll the footman. He was as pale as ashes, shaking all
over; his hair dishevelled, and clothes apparently thrown on in haste.
To my alarmed exclamation, ‘What _is_ the matter?’ he was unable, for
a minute, to make any reply, so violently his lips were trembling,
parched with fear. At last I made out, among half-articulate sounds,
the words ‘Ghost, groans.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘what nonsense! You have been having a bad dream. You
ought to know better, you who’——

My homily was cut short by a groan so fearful, so unlike anything I had
ever heard or imagined, that I was dumb with horror.

‘Ah-h-h!—there it is again!’ whispered Carroll, dropping on his knees
and crossing himself; while vehemently thumping his breast, he, as a
good Catholic, began to mumble with white lips the prayers for the
dead. Up the stairs through the open door the sounds had come; and
after a few minutes, they were repeated, this time more faintly than
before.

‘Let us go down and try to find out what it is,’ I said at last. And in
spite of poor Carroll’s misery and entreaties, making a strong effort,
I took the lamp from his trembling hands and began to descend the wide
staircase. Nothing was stirring. In the great dining-room, where I
went in, while the unhappy footman kept safely at the door, casting
frightened glances at the portraits on the walls, all was as usual.
As we went lower down, the groans grew louder and more appalling.
Hoarse, unnatural, long-drawn—such as could not be imagined to proceed
from human throat, they seemed to issue from the bowels of the earth,
and to be re-echoed by the walls of the great dark lofty kitchens.
Beyond these kitchens were long stone passages, leading to cellars
and pantries and servants’ halls, all unused and shut up since the
mansion’s palmy days; and into these we penetrated, led by the fearful
sounds.

All here was dust and desolation. The smell of age and mould was
everywhere; the air was chill; and the rusty hinges of the doors
shrieked as they were pushed open, scaring away the spiders, whose webs
hung in festoons across the passages, and brushed against our faces as
we went along. Doubtless, for years no foot had invaded this dank and
dreary region, given over to mildew and decay; or disturbed the rats,
which ran scampering off at our approach. The groans seemed very near
us now, and came more frequently. It was terrible, in that gruesome
place, to hearken to the unearthly sounds. I could hear my agonised
companion calling upon every saint in the calendar to take pity upon
the soul in pain. At length there came a groan more fearful than any
that had been before. It rooted us to the spot. And then was utter
silence!

After a long breathless pause, broken only by the gasps of poor Carroll
in his paroxysm of fear, we turned, and retraced our steps towards the
kitchens. The groans had ceased altogether.

‘It is over now, whatever it was,’ I said. ‘All is quiet; you had
better go to bed.’

He staggered off to his room; while, chilled to the marrow, I crept
up-stairs, not a little shaken, I must confess, by the night’s doings.

Next day was bright and fine. My bedroom looked to the street; and soon
after rising, I threw open the window, to admit the fresh morning air.
There was a little stir outside. The _porte cochère_ gates were wide
open, and a large cart was drawn up before them. Men with ropes in
their hands were bustling about, talking and gesticulating; passers-by
stopped to look; and boys were peering down the archway at something
going on within. Soon the object of their curiosity was brought to
light. A dead horse was dragged up the passage, and after much tugging
and pulling, was hauled up on the cart and driven away.

It appeared that at nightfall of the previous day the wretched animal
was being driven to the knacker’s; and straying down into our archway,
while the man who had him in charge was talking to a friend, he fell
over some machinery that stood inside, breaking a limb, and otherwise
frightfully injuring himself. Instead of putting the poor animal out
of pain at once, his inhuman owner left him to die a lingering death
in agonies; and his miserable groans, magnified by the reverberation
of the hollow archway and echoing kitchens, had been the cause of our
nocturnal alarm.

Carroll shook his head and looked incredulous at this solution of the
mystery, refusing, with the love of his class for the supernatural, to
accept it. Though years have since then passed over his head, tinging
his locks with gray, and developing the brisk, agile footman into the
portly, white-chokered, pompous butler, he will still cleave to his
first belief, and stoutly affirm that flesh and blood had nought to do
with the disturbance that night in the haunted house.




UMPIRES AT CRICKET.


Cricket has undergone many changes during its history, but, as far as
we can tell, one thing has remained unaltered—the umpires are sole
judges of fair and unfair play. The laws of 1774, which are the oldest
in existence, say: ‘They (the umpires) are the sole judges of fair and
unfair play, and all disputes shall be determined by them.’ Various
directions have been given to them from time to time, but nothing has
been done to lessen their responsibility or destroy their authority.
An umpire must not bet on the match at which he is employed, and only
for a breach of that law can he be changed without the consent of both
parties. It is probable that the reason why an ordinary side in a
cricket-match consists of eleven players is that originally a ‘round
dozen’ took part in it, and that one on each side was told off to be
umpire. An old writer on cricket says that in his district the players
were umpires in turn; so, though there might be twelve of them present,
only eleven were actually playing at once. This may have been a remnant
of a universal custom; and it would explain why the peculiar number
eleven is taken to designate a side in a cricket-match.

It is not always possible for an umpire to give satisfaction to both
parties in a dispute, and very hard things have sometimes been said by
those against whom a decision has been given. Mobbing an umpire is not
so common in cricket as in football, but it is not unknown. Nervous
men have sometimes been influenced by the outcries of spectators, and
have given decisions contrary to their judgment. But occasionally the
opposite effect has been produced by interference. A bowler who has
been unpopular has been clamoured against when bowling fairly; and the
umpire has not interfered even when he has bowled unfairly, lest it
should look as if he was being coerced by the mob.

For some years there has been a growing demand for what may be called
umpire reform. It has been said that in county matches umpires favoured
their own sides. A few years ago, a Manchester paper commenced an
account of a match between Lancashire and Yorkshire with these words:
‘The weather was hot, the players were hotter, but the umpiring was
hottest of all.’ This kind of danger was sought to be obviated last
year by the appointment of neutral umpires. The Marylebone Cricket Club
appointed the umpires in all county matches; but this did not remove
the dissatisfaction which had previously existed, as it was said that
the umpires were afraid to enforce the strict laws of the game.

Some people who think there will not be fair-play as long as
professional umpires are employed, would have amateurs in this
position, and they predict that with the alteration there would be
an end to all unfairness and dispute. But Lord Harris, who is the
chief advocate for greater strictness on the part of umpires, says he
believes they would never be successful in first-class matches; he has
seen a good many amateur umpires in Australia, and, without impugning
their integrity, he would be sorry to find umpires in England acting
with so little experience and knowledge of the game.

Dr W. G. Grace has told two anecdotes of umpires whom he met in
Australia. He says: ‘In an up-country match, our wicket-keeper stumped
a man; but much to our astonishment the umpire gave him not out, and
excused himself in the following terms: “Ah, ah! I was just watching
you, Mr Bush; you had the tip of your nose just over the wicket.” In
a match at Warrnambool, a man snicked a ball, and was caught by the
wicket-keeper. The umpire at the bowler’s wicket being asked for a
decision, replied: “This is a case where I can consult my colleague.”
But of course the other umpire could not see a catch at the wicket
such as this, and said so; whereupon our friend, being pressed for a
decision, remarked: “Well, I suppose he is not out.”’

The Australians have frequently said that English professional umpires
are afraid of giving gentlemen out, but this cannot be said of those
who are chosen to stand in the chief matches. A well-known cricketer
tells about a country match in which he was playing. A friend of his
was tempting the fieldsmen to throw at his wicket, until at length
one did throw, and hit it. ‘Not out,’ cried the umpire; and coming up
to the batsman, said: ‘You really must be more careful, sir; you were
clean out that time.’ This reminds us of the umpire who, in answer
to an appeal, said: ‘Not out; but if he does it again, he will be.’
Caldecourt was a famous umpire—‘Honest Will Caldecourt,’ as he was
called. The author of _Cricketana_ had a high opinion of him, and said
he could give a reason for everything. That is a great virtue in an
umpire. Some men in that position will give decisions readily enough,
but they either cannot or will not explain on what grounds their
decisions are formed.

John Lillywhite was a very honest umpire. It was his opinion that
bowling was being tolerated which was contrary to the laws of cricket
as they were then framed. In a match at Kennington Oval in 1862, he
acted according to his opinion, for he was umpire. Lillywhite would not
give way, and another umpire was employed in his place on the third day
of the match. Lillywhite was right, and it was unfortunate that he was
superseded. That was not the way to make umpires conscientious.

When the old All England Eleven were in their prime, and were playing
matches in country places against eighteens and twenty-twos, the
players did not always pay that deference to umpires which was
customary on the best grounds, and advantage was sometimes taken of an
umpire’s nervousness and inexperience. It seemed to be an axiom with
some players, ‘To appeal is always safe.’ If several famous cricketers
cried ‘How’s that?’ it is not to be wondered at that an umpire would
occasionally say ‘Out’ on the spur of the moment, without knowing
why. But a very fair retort was once made to a player who was fond of
making appeals, on the chance of getting a lucky decision. ‘How’s that,
umpire?’ he cried. The reply was: ‘Sir, you know it is not out; so why
ask me, if you mean fair-play?’

The umpire has not an easy post to fill, even if he have all the
assistance which can be rendered by the players. Points are constantly
arising which are not provided for in the laws, and he must be guided
by the practice of his predecessors in the best matches. There is such
a thing as common law in cricket, as well as what may be called statute
law. It is undecided whether the umpire should be considered part of
the earth or part of the air. If a ball hit him, and be caught before
it touch the ground, is the batsman out? Some umpires say Yes, and
others say No. Severe accidents have sometimes happened to umpires who
have been struck with the ball, and there is on record that at least
one has met his death in this way.

When matches were played for money, and when cricket was subject to
open gambling, it was more difficult for umpires to give satisfactory
decisions than it is now. In the account of a match played about sixty
years ago between Sheffield and Nottingham, the Sheffield scorer wrote,
that every time a straight ball was bowled by a Sheffield bowler the
Nottingham umpire called: ‘No ball.’ Many stories arose at that time
about umpires who were supposed to favour their sides. One town was
said to possess a champion umpire, and with his help the Club was
prepared to meet all comers. Only twenty years ago, the following
statement appeared in a respectable magazine: ‘Far north, there is an
idea that a Yorkshire Eleven should have an umpire of their own, as a
kind of Old Bailey witness to swear for Yorkshire through thick and
thin.’

But Yorkshiremen themselves have told some racy stories about some of
their umpires. One was appealed to for a catch, and he replied: ‘Not
out; and I’ll bet you two to one you will not win.’ Another at the
close of a match threw up his hat, and exclaimed: ‘Hurrah! I have won
five shillings.’

It is well known that when Dr E. M. Grace made his first appearance at
Canterbury, Fuller Pilch was umpire. The doctor was out immediately,
but the umpire gave him in. When he was afterwards expostulated with,
he said he wanted to see if that Mr Grace could bat; so, to satisfy his
curiosity, he inflicted an injustice on his own side. If the same thing
had been done in favour of his own county, it would not have offended
a gentleman whom Mr Bolland refers to in his book on Cricket. This
gentleman, referring to an umpire’s decision on one occasion, said: ‘He
must be either drunk or a fool, to give one of his own side out in that
manner.’

At Ecclesall, near Sheffield, there was formerly a parish clerk called
Lingard, who was also a notable umpire. One hot Sunday he was asleep
in his desk, and was dreaming about a match to be played the next day.
After the sermon, when the time came for him to utter his customary
‘Amen,’ he surprised the preacher, and delighted the rustics who were
present, by shouting in a loud voice the word ‘Over.’




PARTED.


    Farewell, farewell—a sadder strain
      No other English word can give;
      But we are parted though we live,
    And ne’er may meet on earth again.

    My life is void without thy love—
      A harp with half its strings destroyed;
      And thoughts of pleasures once enjoyed,
    Can naught of consolation prove.

    We live apart—the ocean’s flow
      Divides thy sunny home from mine;
      And, musing on the shore’s decline,
    I watch the waters come and go.

    I trace thy image in the sand;
      I call thy name—I call in vain:
      The breeze is blowing from the main,
    And mocks me waiting on the strand.

    I see the mighty rivers roll
      To plunge, tumultuous, in the sea;
      So all my thoughts flow on to thee,
    And merge together in their goal.

    But thou hast uttered ‘Fare thee well;’
      And I must bid a last adieu,
      Nor let the aching heart pursue
    The longings that no tongue can tell.

       *       *       *       *       *

    And now, the slow returning tide
      No longer murmurs of the sea;
      The breeze has changed; it flies to thee
    And breathes my message at thy side.

    The tide shall ebb and flow for aye,
      The fickle breeze may wander free;
      But all my thoughts shall flow to thee,
    Till life and longing pass away.

            FRANCIS ERNEST BRADLEY.

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and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

       *       *       *       *       *

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