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. 33.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, AUGUST 16, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




CAVE-CHAPELS.


In the biographies of the saints of the early Celtic Church it is
frequently recorded that towards the close of their lives they left
their monasteries and sought the seclusion of some lonely island or
mountain solitude, in order to pass the evening of their days in
undisturbed devotion and freedom from worldly cares. Joceline in his
_Life of St Kentigern_ also records that it was his custom to retire
to a cave during Lent, so that, ‘removed from the strife of tongues
and the tumults of this world, he might hide himself in God.’ Such
retreats, whether they were used for periodical and temporary seclusion
or for permanent retirement, were called in the ecclesiastical language
of the day _Deserta_; and the frequent occurrence of this term in
the topography of Scotland and Ireland—in its modern form of Dysart
or Disert—shows how common the custom must once have been. Sometimes
the recluse erected a habitation for himself of stones and turf, as
St Cuthbert did in the island of Farne; but frequently he chose the
shelter of a natural cavern or crevice in the rocks, as St Cuthbert
is also said to have done at Weem in Perthshire. As the veneration
for the memory of the saint increased with lapse of time, the sites
of such hermitages naturally became places of pilgrimage, and troops
of devotees were drawn to visit them by rumours of special benefits
accruing to pilgrims of weak health, or peace of mind procured by
the performance of special vows. In consequence of the peculiar
prevalence of this mode of retirement in the primitive Celtic Church,
cave-hermitages must have been exceedingly numerous in Scotland. But
the thoroughness of the breach which the Church of the Reformation made
with the traditions and especially with the superstitious practices of
the past, has obliterated most of the traces of this early devotion;
and it is only in a few isolated and exceptional cases that any of its
associations have survived to our day.

St Ninian’s Cave, near Physgill, in the parish of Glasserton,
Wigtownshire, is situated a little to the west of the wooded valley
which terminates in the creek known as Portcastle. It is simply a
triangular fissure in the rock, some ten or twelve feet wide at the
entrance, and about fifteen feet in height, narrowing inwards until,
at a distance of about twenty-five feet from the entrance, the sides
of the fissure come gradually together. A rudely-built wall has been
constructed across the mouth of the cave, of which the lower part
still remains. On the occasion of a visit to the cave by the late
Dean Stanley of Westminster, a small cross was discovered carved on a
projecting part of the rock, and three others were subsequently made
visible by the partial removal of the debris from the face of the
rock. The form of these crosses is peculiar. They are equal-limbed
crosses, formed by four arcs of circles intersecting the circumference
of a circumscribing circle. Similar equal-limbed crosses, but bearing
the hook-like curve at the right-hand corner of the upper limb, which
constitutes the _chrisma_ or monogram—the combined _Chi_ and _rho_ of
the Greek word _Christos_—are found upon early Christian monuments
at Kirkmadrine and Whithorn in the same county, but nowhere else in
Scotland. These monuments bear inscriptions commemorative of certain
‘holy and distinguished priests’—Viventius, Mavorius, and Florentius.
Their names are so different from those of the priesthood of the
Columban Church, that they may be regarded as followers if not as
contemporaries of St Ninian. But none of the crosses in Ninian’s Cave
present this peculiarly ancient characteristic of the _chrisma_, and
these crosses may therefore be of a much later date than Ninian’s time.
They are not confined to the rock-face, but have also been carved upon
several of the loose stones found on the floor of the cave.

In the month of June last the cave was thoroughly explored for the
Ayrshire and Wigtownshire Archæological Association, under the
superintendence of Sir Herbert Maxwell, M.P., and Mr Cochran-Patrick,
M.P., Secretary of the Association and of the Society of Antiquaries
of Scotland. They found that the whole floor of the cave had been
regularly paved; and close to the entrance, but outside the external
wall which converted the cave into a chapel, there was a large stone
basin placed under a natural drip from the rock, which may have
served as a holy-water vessel. A number of additional crosses were
also discovered. On a stone which had been placed as one of the steps
leading down to the paved floor there were four crosses in a line.
On one of the stones of the pavement was an inscription in Roman
letters, of which the word SANCTI could only be deciphered. Underneath
the pavement and throughout the debris of the cave-floor there was a
considerable accumulation of shells, consisting chiefly of limpets and
periwinkles, mingled with splintered bones, evidently the refuse of the
food of some earlier occupants. At a considerable depth immediately
outside the wall of the chapel, the decayed remnants of a human
skeleton were disentombed. Whether these were the bones of a hermit of
the chapel who had chosen to be buried in the spot where he had ended
his solitary life, or the remains of some victim of violence placed
there for concealment, will probably remain unknown.

St Ninian, to whom the cave was dedicated, was the first who preached
Christianity among the southern Picts. His life and labours are briefly
related by the Venerable Bede, and more fully by Ailred, a Cistercian
monk of Rievaux, in Yorkshire. Ailred, whose _Life of St Ninian_ was
written in the second half of the twelfth century, states that he
derived his materials from a certain barbarously written manuscript,
presumably of much earlier date. He informs us that Ninian was born
at Whithorn—then called Rosnat—and that he was the son of a Christian
Prince. Having received his education under the care of St Martin
of Tours, he subsequently went to Rome, where he remained till he
was made a bishop and sent to evangelise the people of his native
province. From St Martin he obtained masons to build a stone church in
Galloway after the Roman fashion. As this was the first stone church
erected in Scotland, the fame of Ninian’s _Candida Casa_ or White
House has been perpetuated in the Saxon form of Whitherne or Whithorn.
The date of its erection is fixed by the fact that St Martin died in
397 A.D.; and St Ninian, having heard of his death while the church
was being built, resolved to dedicate the finished edifice to his
memory. Ninian himself, after a life full of labours, was buried in
the church of St Martin which he had built; and Ailred mentions the
stone sarcophagus which contained his remains as still existing in his
day, and much venerated in consequence of the many miraculous cures
said to be wrought upon those who devoutly frequented it. Pilgrimages
continued to be made to the shrine of St Ninian down to the period of
the Reformation. In a letter of King James V. of Scotland to the Pope,
the king states that pilgrims from England, Ireland, the Isles, and
adjoining countries came yearly in flocks to St Ninian’s shrine at
Whithorn. That notable pilgrim King James IV. made special pilgrimages
to this famous shrine, and his Treasurer has preserved an account
of his disbursements on these occasions. From it we learn that the
king made offerings in money ‘at the Rude Altar; at the fertir (or
shrine) in the outer kirk; at the reliques at the Hie Altair; at the
Lady Altar; and in the chapel on the hill—at ilk place xiiis. 4d.’
And in 1505 he offered also ‘ane relique of the king’s awn silver’ of
considerable weight and value.

The number of dedications to St Ninian, scattered over the whole
country from the remotest Northern and Western Isles to the Mull of
Galloway, bear testimony to the widespread devotion to his memory which
once pervaded the Scottish Church. The removal of a portion of the wall
of the choir of the old church of St Congan at Turriff in 1861 brought
to light a fresco-painting of St Ninian, robed as a bishop, with mitre
and pastoral staff—the only relic of pre-Reformation work of the kind
that has been discovered in Scotland. Neither in his _Life_ nor in any
ancient document has any reference been found to the occupation of
the cave at Physgill by St Ninian; but Sulpicius Severus, who wrote a
Life of St Martin of Tours, mentions that he had a little cell in the
rock at Marmoutier to which he was accustomed to retire for prayer
and meditation, and that many of his disciples also dug cells in the
rock and took up their abodes in them. St Ninian being a disciple of
St Martin, there is reason to conclude that in this respect he would
follow the example of his master. But apart from this consideration,
it is certain that from a very early period this cave has been
traditionally associated with his name, and that this association was
the reason for converting it into a chapel, where services would be
held on the saint’s anniversaries, pilgrimages performed, vows paid,
and offerings presented. It is not unlikely that in its earlier days
the chapel may have been ministered to by a resident recluse, as was
often the custom in similar circumstances. For instance, we are told by
Bower, the continuator of Fordun’s _Chronicle_, that in crossing the
Firth of Forth in the year 1123, King Alexander I. was driven by stress
of weather to land on the island of Inchcolm, ‘where at that time lived
an island hermit, who, belonging to the service of St Columba, devoted
himself sedulously to his duties at a little chapel there, content
with such poor food as the milk of one cow, and the shells and small
sea-fishes he could collect.’ It is suggestive, too, that one of the
copies of the _Scotichronicon_—that which belonged to the Abbey of
Coupar-Angus—connects the island of Inchcolm with St Columba by saying
that he lived in it for a certain time during his ministry among the
Picts and Scots, just as the cave at Physgill is connected with St
Ninian.

There is another cave-chapel on the Wigtownshire coast, which had a
reputation scarcely less famous than that of St Ninian. St Medan’s
Cave, still locally known as ‘The Chapel Co’,’ is an irregular rent
in the cliff between Maryport and East Tarbert, about four miles from
Drumore. In front of it are the remains of a wall about four feet
thick, of rough stones and lime, still showing traces of the doorway,
and one deeply splayed window. About twelve feet farther in is the
back wall of the chapel, reaching to the roof of the cave, but giving
access, by a square-headed doorway four feet high and two and a half
feet wide, to the small natural cell in which the cave terminates. Near
the external entrance there are three pools or rock basins, within the
tide-mark, and usually full of sea-water. The largest, which is about
four feet in diameter, is known as ‘the Body Pool,’ and was used for
the cure of internal and wasting disorders, being specially efficacious
in cases of ‘back-gane bairns’. The second pool, of an irregularly
triangular shape, and about two feet long, was known as ‘the Knee
Pool,’ and was considered effectual for the cure of diseases of the
lower limbs. The third pool, a circular basin about six inches diameter
and the same in depth, was used for sore eyes. The cave and its pools
were largely frequented for curative purposes down almost to the
commencement of the present century, and continued to be occasionally
visited to a much later period. There are persons yet living who
remember large gatherings at St Medan’s Chapel, especially on the
first Sunday of May, old style. St Medan, who is commemorated in the
dedication of the church of Kirkmaiden, was one of the ‘devout women’
of the early Celtic Church of whom there is no distinct biographic
record. The _Breviary of Aberdeen_ states that she came from Ireland
to Galloway, and ended her days near the blessed St Ninian. Mr Skene
identifies her with Modwena, whose original name was Darerca, a convert
of St Patrick, who died on St Columba’s birthday, July 6, 519 A.D.

St Kieran’s Cave is situated in the precipitous cliffs of Achinhoan
Head, about three miles south of the site of the church dedicated to
him at Kilkerran, in Kintyre, Argyllshire. It is one of many fissures
occurring in the limestone rock on this coast, irregularly triangular
in shape, spacious and lofty. A substantially built wall three feet
thick has been constructed across the entrance. Immediately within the
entrance is a rough boulder with an oval basin scooped in its upper
surface, which is placed beneath a drip of water from the roof of the
cave, and thus forms a reservoir, which may have answered the purposes
of a hermit’s well, a holy-water vessel for the pilgrims’ chapel, and a
curative or holy well for the superstitious uses of later times. Close
by it is another boulder about two feet in diameter, the upper surface
of which is prettily carved with a circular border of fretwork, such
as is frequently seen on the early sculptured monuments of Scotland
and Ireland, inclosing a hexafoil with its points connected by arcs of
circles. A writer in the old _Statistical Account of Scotland_ also
speaks of the cross which St Kieran had cut upon the rock; but this
is no longer visible. Kieran Macantsaor, or the ‘carpenter’s son,’
was Abbot of Clonmacnois. In his youth he was a disciple of St Finan
of Clonard; and in proof of the sanctity of his life, it is told of
him that ‘he never looked upon a woman, and never told a lie.’ He was
held in great esteem by St Columba, who is said to have written a hymn
in praise of Kieran. He died at the age of thirty-three, and ‘was
likened to Christ, both on account of his age and that his father was a
carpenter like Joseph Muire.’

A cave on the western shore of Loch Caolisport, also in Argyllshire,
is associated with the name of the great evangelist of Scotland, St
Columba. Like most other cave-chapels, it has the remains of a wall,
with a doorway, constructed across the entrance. On a kind of rocky
shelf close by the doorway is a rude circular basin, which probably
served as the holy-water vessel of the chapel. Against the rock forming
the east side of the cave is the altar platform, roughly but solidly
built, and still standing—or at least till quite recently—to nearly
its full height. On the smooth face of the rock above the centre of
the altar platform is a cross carved in relief, of the Latin form, but
with its arms and summit slightly expanding towards the extremities.
This cross is placed a little to one side of the centre; but more
nearly in a central position over the altar there are discernible
the almost obliterated outlines of a much older cross which has been
incised in the rock. At a little distance from the cave are the ruins
of an ancient chapel dedicated to St Columba. It is a small plain
edifice about forty feet by twenty-two, with one east window, and the
remains of a window in each of the side-walls near the eastern end.
The tradition is that St Columba, landing here on his way to Iona,
established the chapel in the cave, which was ever afterwards held
sacred to his memory, and that the chapel near it was subsequently
founded in his honour. The cave was cleared out about two years ago
by the proprietor; but no record of what might have been a most
interesting scientific investigation appears to have been preserved.
It is said that a great many burials were found in the floor of the
cave—as many as sixteen or eighteen different skeletons are supposed
to have been found—and underneath them the traces of a more ancient
occupation of the cavern, probably in pagan times.

The cave of St Molio in the Island of Lamlash, or Holy Island, on the
east side of Arran, is a natural cavity in the sandstone rock, about
twenty-five feet above the present tide-mark. Traces of a rudely-built
wall across its entrance are still visible. A shelf of rock within
the cave is known as ‘the Saint’s Bed;’ a large flat-topped rock
close by with several step-like recesses cut in its circumference is
called ‘the Saint’s Chair;’ and a fine spring of pure water, which is
known as ‘the Saint’s Well,’ was formerly much resorted to for the
healing virtues of its water. The Island of Lamlash appears in ancient
documents as Helant-in-laysche or Almeslach, and this form of the name
identifies it with St Molaissi or Laisren of Leighlin, a nephew of St
Blane of Kingarth in Bute. His mother was a daughter of Aedhan, king of
the Scots of Dalriada; and it is told of him, that in order to avoid
being made king, he retired to an island in the sea between Alban and
Britain—between the country of the Scots and that of the Britons of
Strathclyde. This answers precisely to the situation of the Holy Island
which is still associated with his name. There was a relic either of
St Molaissi or of St Moluag of Lismore preserved in Arran down to the
time of Martin’s visit to the island in the beginning of the last
century. This was the _Baul Muluy_, a ‘green stone, like a globe in
figure, about the bigness of a goose-egg,’ which was much used by the
islanders for curing diseases and ‘for swearing decisive oaths upon
it.’ It seems to have been in the hereditary custody of a family of
Mackintoshes, and had also the reputation of having been anciently a
_vexillum_ or battle-ensign of the Macdonalds of the Isles, carried
with their host in their conflicts, in the belief that its presence
would secure to them victory over their enemies. The cave of St Molio
has several Runic inscriptions cut upon its interior—mere _graffiti_
of occasional visitors at the time when the galleys of the Northmen
frequented the western seas. Amudar, Ontur, and Sea-elk, who have left
their names there, may have been pagans; but Nicolas of Haen, who
carved the longest inscription, bears a good Christian name.

St Serf’s Cave at Dysart, in Fife, derived its sanctity—as the town
of Dysart has derived its name—from its having been the _desertum_
or place of retirement of the saint during his seasons of meditation
and prayer. The _Aberdeen Breviary_ states that ‘once upon a time the
devil tempted the blessed St Serf with divers questions in the cave at
Dysart; but confounded by the divine virtue, he went away; and from
that day the said demon has appeared to no one in that cave, although
the place is still held famous in honour of St Serf.’ Andrew of
Wyntoun, prior of St Serf’s monastery in Lochleven, as in duty bound,
gives, in his _Cronykill of Scotland_, a circumstantial account of this
disputation with the Evil One:

    Quhill Saynt Serf in till a stede
    Lay eftir Maytynis in hys bede,
    The devil came in full intent
    For til fand him with argument;

proposing to the saint many of the questions of high theological
speculation which presented themselves to the cultivated minds of
the fifteenth century, and receiving orthodox, and consequently
unanswerable replies to them all:

    Thane sawe the devil that he coud nocht,
    With all the wylis that he socht,
    Ourecum Saynt Serf; he sayd than
    He kend hym for a wys man;

and the saint becoming impatient of his flattery, commanded him to
begone from his cave, and never more to annoy any one in it. This
prohibition apparently obtained for the cave a reputation as of a place
for ever freed from the temptations of the Evil One, and it continued
in consequence to be used as a chapel, and largely frequented by
pilgrims down almost to the Reformation.

St Adrian’s Cave at Caiplie, also on the north shore of the Firth of
Forth, consists of a cluster of contiguous cavities formed by the sea
washing out the softer parts of the rock. The principal cavity bears
obvious marks of artificial adaptation. It is somewhat irregular in
shape, but large and lofty; and the foundation courses of a wall
constructed across its entrance are still visible. Near the mouth
of the cave, a kind of platform or seat is shaped in the rock, and
a door cut through the rock communicates with a smaller cell on the
south side. On the west side, a series of steps led up to a smaller
cell, in the inner part of which was a kind of bench cut in the
rock, which is said to have been the hermit’s bed. In front of the
cave, five human skeletons were found, four of which were regularly
buried east and west, the heads to the west, but without coffins. A
considerable quantity of bones of oxen, sheep, and swine, and portions
of deer-horns, were found mixed with the debris in front of the cave,
evidently the refuse of the food of its occupants at some remote
period. On the interior of the rocky walls of the cave, many pilgrim
crosses are carved, some of the equal-armed form and surrounded with a
border, but mostly of the Latin form. St Adrian, whose true name was
probably Odran, is represented as having settled and laboured among the
Pictish people of the east parts of Scotland. His settlement in the
Firth of Forth is thus described by Wyntoun:

    Adriane wyth hys cumpany
    Togydder cam tyl Caplawchy,
    Thare sum in to the Ile off May
    Chesyd to byde to thare enday.
    And some off thame chesyd be northe
    In steddis sere the Wattyr off Forth.

At Pittenweem, St Monance, and other places along the coast as far
as Fifeness, there are several caves which have pilgrim crosses and
other symbols of archaic character carved upon their rocky walls. All
of these seem at one time to have been occupied as places of retreat
and devotion by saints or recluses of the early Celtic Church, and
doubtless are the _steddis sere_ (that is, the ‘several places’)
referred to in Wyntoun’s narrative. At Fifeness is the cave of
Constantine, king of the Scots, who, after a reign of forty years,
exchanged the sceptre for the pilgrim’s staff, and ‘died in the house
of the Apostle;’ that is, of St Andrew. At St Andrews itself is the
cave of St Rule, or rather what remains of it, for it has been much
destroyed within the last half-century. Sir Walter Scott describes the
palmer in _Marmion_ as bound to fair St Andrews:

    Within the ocean cave to pray,
    Where good St Rule his holy lay,
    From midnight to the dawn of day,
      Sang to the billows’ sound;

and mentions that on one side of the cave there still remained a sort
of stone altar. The _Aberdeen Breviary_ states that St Gernadius, who
settled at Kennedor, in Moray, lived in a cell partly natural, but
artificially adapted for a habitation, in which he was wont to repose
his wearied limbs on a bed of stone. His cave in the neighbourhood of
Lossiemouth is distinguished by the holy well close beside it, which
had a local reputation until quite recently, and is still known as St
Gerardine’s Well. St Baldred of the Bass, who sat upon the rock in
Aldhame Bay, and caused it to transport itself out of the fairway, had
his cave also in the cliff opposite this rock; and traces have been
found both upon the rock itself and in the cave of a long-continued
occupation at a remote period.

Although the materials for the illustration of this long-forgotten
phase of ecclesiastical life are so few and fragmentary, they suffice
to reveal the presence in these early ages of a passionate fervour
of devotion and a child-like simplicity of faith to which we are
altogether strangers in these times. The systems and institutions by
which they were created and fostered ‘are productions of old ages,
not to be repeated in the new: they presuppose a certain rudeness of
conception, which the progress of mere scientific knowledge puts an end
to.’




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER XLII.—A LAND SHIPWRECK.

To be unhappy and alone at night in chambers is to have an opportunity
of realising the sense of desolation in its bitterest degree. The
double doors and double windows which secure the stillness that is
of so much importance for working purposes, seem now to shut you off
doubly from the world; from help if you are dying, and from sympathy if
you live. The rumble of the heaviest wagon reaches the ears as a faint
sound from afar off; no footstep is heard at all; and the adjacent
chambers are silent as the tenements of the dead. You welcome the plash
of rain against the window-panes—dull as that is—as if it were a friend
come to speak to you in your solitude.

That is the time for thoughts of suicide to haunt a man if his mind is
disturbed; and that is the time for cynical broodings on the vanity
of life, the falsehood of friendship, and the fickleness of love. He
sees in what miserable failure his most earnest efforts have resulted;
he misinterprets the most trivial word and look of his friend, and he
loses grip altogether of that faith which in healthier state enables
him to find consolation in love. He recalls all the bitter things that
have been written about women, and for the time-being believes them.

How was it, Philip asked himself, that he had fallen into this
desperate position? He had laboured with all his might for others
rather than for himself; his object was a noble one, and quite
feasible, he was still convinced. Yet the social revolution he
had dreamed of was as far off as ever, and he suddenly found that
he was face to face with absolute ruin. Evidently his blunder lay
in his miscalculation of the power of his capital. There had been
disappointments with his fellow-workers, who, shrewdly counting the
cost of material and the market value of the manufactured article,
saw that the latter would barely realise enough to give them a fair
ordinary wage in the best of times, to say nothing of the share of
profits promised them. The cost of material was too high; and it was
natural that they should conclude the cost was so fixed by arrangement
with their chief in order to deprive them of what they now called their
rights.

Philip saw the force of their argument, and began to inquire about the
items of expenditure. Hitherto, he had been so deeply occupied in the
organisation of his scheme, that he had left financial matters almost
entirely in Wrentham’s hands. Hints were given him that the prices he
was charged were not the prices paid for materials, but that a large
proportion went in secret commissions. As soon as he began to look
into the question closely, he was met by the astounding fact, that he
had reached the end of his capital, and had heavy liabilities to meet
almost immediately, as well as heavy current expenses to provide for.
How to do this without applying to Mr Shield, he had been trying for
weeks to find out; and the more harassed he became, the more impossible
it appeared to work through the mess without assistance.

Then had come the last humiliation: he must submit to the immediate
and entire overthrow of all he had been working for, and in which he
had sunk the considerable fortune placed at his disposal, or he must
seek the help which only a short time ago had appeared to him as an
impossible necessity. He was bewildered, and could not understand how
it came about. It should not have been so. He yielded to the necessity,
however; but determined that when his course became clear again, his
first task should be to institute a thorough investigation into the
causes of his failure.

Through all this agitated survey of his position, how was it that the
figure of Beecham continually obtruded itself? What could Wrentham
have had in his head, when he urged him so strongly to find out from
Madge all that she knew of the man’s history and possible friendship
with Mr Shield? He had not felt very keenly impressed by the suggestion
during Wrentham’s presence; but now, in the silence and alone with
his chagrin, he became infected with Wrentham’s suspicion. It had not
occurred to him until now that there was something most incongruous
and altogether incomprehensible in a girl consenting to accept from
an acquaintance of only a few weeks a confidence which she could not
disclose to her guardians or the man who was soon to be her husband.

If Beecham had been a younger man than he was, there would have been
a ready and most bitter explanation of the mystery; but it was not
available in the present case. And yet (so outrageously morbid had he
become that he was capable of the thought!) women were such strange
creatures, that there was no telling who might win their favour or by
what charm it might be done.

Pah!—What madness was this?

He went to the front room and opened a window overlooking Gray’s Inn
Road. The stillness of the chambers had become intolerable. This was
better; much better. There was more air; he could hear the rattle of
cabs, and catch glimpses of hurrying foot-passengers on the opposite
side of the way.

Why should he remain indoors, to be haunted by these horrible phantoms
of doubt and suspicion? He knew they were phantoms, and yet he could
not drive them from his brain. Sleep was impossible, and he was afraid
to take more drugs, for he was conscious that they had already impaired
his power of self-control. When would the morning come? The active
duties he had to discharge would relieve him. He looked at his watch.
Very little past midnight. Why, it seemed as if two nights had passed
since Wrentham went away!

Well, he would try Dr Joy’s specific, and endeavour to work, or walk
off this nervous frenzy. First he tried the work. There was much need
that he should master the accounts and compare prices paid with prices
quoted in the markets. But the figures performed such strange antics
before his eyes, that after an hour of vain endeavour to master their
meaning, he impatiently closed the book and rose no wiser, or rather
less wise, than he had been before he sat down.

He took himself to task. It was of the utmost importance that in the
morning he should be cool and clear-headed; but he could not hope to be
so unless he obtained sleep. Well, he would try the second remedy.

He put on his hat and overcoat and went out. It was not of any
consequence to him in which direction he should walk, his sole object
being to exhaust himself by the physical exercise, in order to induce
healthy sleep. To distract his mind from its troublous ruminations, he
turned instinctively towards those quarters where he was most likely to
encounter signs of life.

He strode along Oxford Street and down Regent Street. But he was
walking in a dream. The lights of the lamps were dim in his eyes, the
figures which flitted by him were like shadows, and he could not have
told whether they were men or women. The voices of those who passed
him seemed to be muffled, and he scarcely distinguished any sounds. A
hansom cab came rattling at full speed towards him: the horse slipped,
staggered, fell. There was a commotion, and although, a minute before,
the street seemed to be deserted, figures sprang out of the darkness,
and there was a crowd at the scene of disaster.

He passed on, with that insensibility to the fate of others which
characterises people when in dreamland. His feelings were numbed as
his eyes were dimmed. The sense of humiliation at the utter failure of
what he had believed to be so certain of success produced the one pain
of which he was conscious, and which no drugs, fatigue, or reason had
power to subdue.

If the money had been his own, he could have borne with comparative
calmness the overthrow of his hopes and the ridicule of those who had
from the first called his project folly.

But despite the assurances of Mr Shield and of Mr Shield’s solicitors,
Philip had never regarded the money otherwise than as held in trust;
and the loss of it was as bitter as the destruction of the beautiful
palace he had built in air.

The only bit of ballast left him was the dogged conviction that the
principle which he had endeavoured to carry into practical effect was
a right one, and would be turned to good account by some one more
fortunate or more careful than he had been.

He set his teeth together and marched on. He began to realise how
strangely numbed his sensations were, and how vague everything appeared
to him. The rain had ceased, and the tiny pools in the roadway
glistening in the lamplight seemed like great white eyes staring at
him in pity. He passed down the Haymarket, nor did he slacken his pace
until he reached the Embankment. There he halted and leaned over the
parapet. He was not fatigued: the rapid walk seemed to have instilled
new strength into him and had partially cleared the cobwebs from his
brain. He was attracted by the lights gleaming in the dark fast-flowing
river. Out there, were black islets of barges, and on the opposite
shore the fantastic outlines of buildings, showing like irregular
ramparts against the dull gray sky. He was thinking of Madge, and the
pain she would suffer on his account, when the worst was made known to
her in the morning, perhaps, or next day.

‘Got a copper to spare a poor cove as hasn’t had a crust for two days?’
said a husky voice close to him.

Philip started up. He was aware of the evil reputation of the
Embankment and the character of the roughs who infest it after
nightfall. A lamp close by showed him a miserable-looking wretch,
ragged and hungry-eyed. He did seem to need help, poor fellow. Philip
gave him a shilling, and was about to pass on. But a huge hulk of a
fellow stood in his way.

‘We want som’at more nor that, guv’nor. So tip us’——

The man went down as if he had been shot. Philip was in the mood for
mischief, and he had not forgotten his practice with the gloves. So
the first words of the ruffian plainly intimating his purpose, a
well-delivered blow straight from the shoulder finished the sentence
for him. Philip knew that it would have been madness to have given
the man time to attack him, and as it was, the other man was already
attempting to rifle his pockets. This one belonged to the sneak tribe,
and finding his throat suddenly gripped by fingers that seemed to
possess the strength of a vice, his hands went up to loosen them.
He was hurled aside; and Philip hurried away with a sort of savage
pleasure in having punished the brace of scoundrels, as well as
disappointed them of their expected prize.

Near Blackfriars Bridge he met a policeman, to whom he briefly reported
the incident. The man listened with stolid indifference.

‘They are a bad lot about here, at nights, sir,’ he said composedly;
‘and it ain’t a place for decent people at this hour.’

The constable’s idea evidently was that decent people should keep out
of the way of the roughs, not that it was his duty to keep the roughs
from molesting the decent people who might be compelled to use the
thoroughfare.

Philip entered his dreary chambers again. He felt better, but still he
could not sleep.




LONDON HOSPITALS AND DISPENSARIES.


From the day when Rahere the troubador, in the year 1123 A.D., founded
the hospital of St Bartholomew, the number of hospitals, dispensaries,
infirmaries, and other institutions for the cure and medical treatment
of the sick poor, has gone on increasing, till now it stands at
considerably over one hundred and fifty for London and its district
alone. This is altogether exclusive of the workhouse infirmaries.
Besides hospitals and dispensaries, there are included in the above
number institutions for the supply of surgical instruments, &c.,
either free, or at such reduced prices as bring them within the reach
even of the very poor. Twelve of the London hospitals have medical
schools attached to them, amongst which is one for the education of
lady-doctors. Differences of opinion of course exist as to the medical
woman, some no doubt regarding her as a great acquisition, and one of
the glories of the nineteenth century; whilst others would speak of her
as an institution naturally to be expected in the dark ages, but quite
an anomaly in a civilised age. Which of the views may be the correct
one, we will not pretend to say. However this may be, in Henrietta
Street stands the medical school for women, which is in connection with
the Royal Free Hospital, Gray’s Inn Road.

The hospitals with medical schools attached undertake the treatment of
almost every form of disease both surgical and medical. Still, there
are some diseases which it is necessary should be treated apart in
special hospitals, and the chief of these is that terrible scourge of
past times, smallpox. Not only smallpox but scarlet fever and other
infectious diseases have to be excluded from some of the hospitals
of which we are speaking, inasmuch as they are not all provided with
wards set apart for infectious cases. To get an idea, however, of
the great variety of work undertaken by the largest hospitals, it
may be well to glance at the various departments of medicine and
surgery represented at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, the oldest of
these London institutions. In addition to the out-patients’ rooms,
and wards devoted to the treatment of ordinary medical and surgical
diseases and accidents, there are the following special departments: A
department for skin diseases; for diseases of the eye, ear, and throat;
an orthopædic department; a dental department; a department for the
special diseases of women; a maternity department; and lastly, in the
case of this hospital, a ward for the treatment of cases of infectious
disease. The average number of in-patients is estimated at over six
thousand annually, and the out-patients at more than one hundred and
fifty thousand. It will readily be believed that the work of the
physicians and surgeons, both visiting and resident, connected with
such an institution is by no means light. There are many other general
hospitals in various parts of London, besides those having medical
schools attached to them, but we cannot speak of them here. The nature
of their work is much the same as that of the others, though of course
the extent of it is more limited.

Coming next to the dispensaries—their name is legion. Almost every
parish in London has one or more, and they are very abundant in the
immediate suburbs also. Some of these dispensaries are free, others are
to a greater or less extent self-supporting. It is, we hope, needless
to say that the public dispensaries of which we are speaking are not
to be confounded with the private dispensaries set up by medical
men, quite legitimately, for their own benefit, but which are not
unfrequently conducted upon the lowest of commercial principles. The
public dispensaries of London, with their committees of management
and staffs of physicians and surgeons—who in the case of the free
dispensaries are almost invariably honorary—do excellent work, and are
worthy of all, and more than all, the support which they obtain. Unlike
the majority of hospitals, they undertake the treatment of disease
at the patients’ own homes; and by calling in the aid of the nursing
institutions, they are able to supply not only medical attendance and
medicine, but also trained nurses. Recently, an effort has been made
to increase the number of provident dispensaries; and this indeed
appears to be one of the best ways of meeting the difficulty of
supplying good medical treatment to the poor cheaply, without demanding
of medical men more unpaid work. It has been estimated that the
medical profession does more work without payment than the rest of the
professions put together.

We will now say a few words concerning the special hospitals and
dispensaries. And first, it is to be remembered that all are not of the
same merit. Many of them may be said to be above praise; but some, it
is to be feared, are almost beneath contempt. Indeed, the opinion of
those in the medical profession best able to judge of the matter is, we
believe, strongly opposed to the multiplication of special hospitals,
except of course for those diseases which cannot be advantageously
treated in the general hospitals. Enumerating now the special hospitals
and dispensaries in their alphabetical order, first of all come those
for the treatment of cancer, of which there are two. Then there are
eight hospitals for children. A visit to the hospital in Great Ormond
Street is calculated to make most persons enthusiastic on the subject
of well-managed children’s hospitals; and many readers will remember
the glowing description given by Charles Dickens of the East London
Hospital for Children. Of hospitals for diseases of the chest there are
five. The physicians of the general hospitals do not, if they can avoid
it, admit patients suffering from consumption. The air of a hospital in
which wounds and diseases of almost every kind are being treated is ill
fitted to give any good chance of recovery to a case of consumption,
which requires almost more than anything else fresh air and plenty of
it; and if such a patient gets no good, he only occupies uselessly
the place of some one who might benefit greatly by admission. Chest
diseases require, too, arrangements for the securing of appropriate
temperature, and this it would not be easy to do in a general hospital.
It is well, therefore, that there should be special hospitals for
diseases of the chest, and it is to be regretted the number is at
present quite insufficient. Still, these chest hospitals contrive to
treat a very large number of patients in the course of the year, the
average being estimated at considerably over thirty-two thousand.

There are six hospitals and infirmaries for the throat and ear; and
three for diseases of the nervous system. Next we come to the fever
hospitals—four in number. It is almost impossible to overrate the value
of these hospitals. They not only tend to prevent the occurrence of
epidemics, by removing the fever-stricken from the healthy, but they
also save many from the untimely death that might have befallen them in
their own ill-ventilated homes, and with the intermittent nursing which
alone they could have secured. And further; even when the danger of
death is past, the continuous care which can be given to patients in a
hospital may restore many more to sound health, who in their own homes
would only have escaped death to remain for the rest of their days
miserable invalids.

The hospitals to be next mentioned are one for fistula and one for
diseases of the hip. Then there are three buildings for the reception
of cases of incurable disease; two hospitals for lunatics; six
lying-in hospitals; six for diseases of the eye; three orthopædic
hospitals; one specially for accidents; six for skin diseases; four for
smallpox—to which the remarks made on the fever hospitals of course
apply; one for stone; three for women; and four for women and children.

We have said nothing concerning the convalescent hospitals. Most of
them are of course situated in the country; but those anywhere near
London are largely supplied with patients from the metropolis. Their
value is immense, for they restore many patients to complete health,
who, had they gone back to their work immediately after severe illness,
and the bad hygienic conditions pertaining to their homes, might have
sunk into a state of permanent ill-health.

There are a few other hospitals which may be alluded to, for, though
they are not special as regards the diseases treated in them, yet they
are special in other ways. Thus, there is the hospital at Greenwich for
seamen; the French hospital for all foreigners who speak the French
language; and the German hospital ‘for natives of Germany, others
speaking the German language and English, in cases of accident;’ and
lastly, there are a temperance hospital, a medical mission hospital,
and one medical mission dispensary.

And now it might perhaps seem that London has hospitals enough; but
those who have had some experience of the matter are not wont to say
so. They freely admit that numbers of persons seek and obtain the help
of hospitals who have from their circumstances no right to it, and
these they would gladly see excluded; but they cannot admit that even
then there would be hospital accommodation enough for the legitimate
claimants. Nay, they may go further, and declare that there is, through
the length and breadth of that ‘great province of houses’ which men
call London, an urgent and increasing demand for more. An attempt to
meet this demand so far was made a few years ago, when Pay-hospitals
were opened in Fitzroy Square and elsewhere (as described in this
_Journal_ for October 13, 1880). This class of institutions might well
be extended, as there are many patients both able and willing to pay
for the treatment they require; and the still further development of
such hospitals would greatly relieve the pressure presently felt by the
purely charitable institutions.




IN A FLASH.


When first I remember my aunt Barbara, she was over forty years of
age; but she could never have been accounted a handsome woman. She was
very tall and very angular, with a long thin face, the most remarkable
feature of which was a Roman nose of commanding proportions. But as she
had one of the kindest hearts in the world, her paucity of good looks
seemed a matter of trifling moment to those who had the privilege of
knowing her well. It was at my request that, some two or three years
before her death, she wrote out the following narrative of an actual
occurrence in her early life. I put the manuscript away at the time,
and did not come across it again till the other day. On looking over
it once more, it seemed to me not unworthy of being transcribed for a
wider circle of readers than that comprised by the writer’s immediate
friends and acquaintances.

       *       *       *       *       *

You ask me to go back in memory (begins my aunt) to what seems to me
now like a period of remote antiquity, when I, Barbara Waldron, was
twenty-four years of age, and my sister Bessie five years younger, and
endeavour to put down in writing the little story I told you by word of
mouth a few days ago.

You must know, then, that in those far-off days, my sister and I
were keeping house for our brother John, who at that time filled the
position of steward and land-agent to Lord Dorrington. The house we
lived in was a pleasant but somewhat lonely residence, about half a
mile from the little country town of Levensfield. The house suited us
for several reasons. In the first place, the rent was low; in the next,
a large walled garden was attached to it, in which Bessie and I spent
many happy hours; and in the third place, there was a side-entrance
to Dorrington Park, by which my brother could take a short-cut to
the Hall whenever he had business with his lordship, or his lordship
had business with him. Our household was a small one, and besides
ourselves, comprised only Mary Gibbs, a middle-aged woman, and her
niece, a girl of sixteen. John’s horse and gig were looked after by
a young man named Reuben Gates, who did not, however, sleep on the
premises. An important part of John’s duties was to receive and pay
into the Levensfield bank the rents due from the farmers and other
tenants of property held under Lord Dorrington. One such tenant was a
certain Mr Shillito, a corn and seed merchant, who was noted for his
eccentricities. It was only in keeping with Mr Shillito’s aggravating
way of doing business that he should never pay his rent at the time
other people paid theirs; that he should always pay it in gold and
notes, instead of giving a cheque for the amount, as he was quite in
a position to have done; and that he should make a point of bringing
it himself, instead of naming a time when my brother might have called
upon him; and finally, that he seldom arrived with the money till after
banking-hours.

We come now to a certain autumn evening. Kitty had just brought in the
tea-tray. It was growing dusk, almost too dusk to see clearly without
the lamp; but Bessie and I liked to economise the daylight as much as
possible, especially now that the long winter nights were so close upon
us. John had come in for a cup of tea. This evening, he was going to
drive over to Nethercroft, some ten miles away, dine there with some
friends, and stay all night. After dinner, there was to be a dance;
and I was not without my suspicions as to the nature of the attraction
which was taking him so far from home, although he laughingly
pooh-poohed the soft impeachment, when I challenged him with it. John
was in the act of putting down his cup and saucer, when we heard a
noise of wheels outside, which presently came to a stand opposite the
house. He crossed the room and peered through the window.

‘It’s old Shillito, come to pay his rent,’ he remarked a moment later.
‘Two hours after banking-time, as usual. What a nuisance he is!’ He
went down-stairs; and about ten minutes later we heard Mr Shillito’s
trap start off. Presently John came back. ‘Ninety pounds, all in gold
and notes,’ he said. ‘I’ve had to lock it up in my desk till morning.’

I may here remark that iron safes for the custody of money and other
valuables were by no means so common in those days, especially in
out-of-the-way country-places, as they appear to have since become.

‘But the money will be quite safe in your desk, won’t it, John?’ asked
Bessie.

‘Safe enough without a doubt, seeing that no one but ourselves knows
of its presence there. Only, as a matter of business, I should prefer
to have had it in the coffers of the bank.’ Presently he added: ‘The
old fellow was half-seas over, as he generally is; and I have no doubt,
with so many houses of call by the way, that he will be soaked through
and through before he reaches home. I wonder whether he goes to bed
sober a night in his life?’

A few minutes later, John kissed us and bade us good-night. Bessie and
I went to the window to see him start; but by this time it was nearly
dark. He waved his whip at us as soon as he had settled himself in
his seat, then he gave the reins a little shake. Black Beryl’s heels
struck fire from the stones as she sprang forward, the gravel scrunched
beneath the wheels, and a moment later the shadows of evening had
swallowed up horse and gig and driver. My sister and I pulled down the
blinds and drew the curtains and rang for Kitty to bring in the lamp.

The evening passed after our usual quiet fashion. We worked a little
and read a little and played some half-dozen duets, and chatted
between times, till the clock pointed to half-past ten, at which hour
we generally retired for the night. My last duty every evening was
to go the round of the house and satisfy myself that all lights were
out, that the fires were safe, and that all the doors and windows were
properly secured. When this duty had been duly accomplished to-night,
the drawing-room lamp was extinguished, and then Bessie and I took our
bed candles and marched up-stairs, leaving darkness and solitude behind
us. Mary Gibbs and Kitty had retired long ago.

My sister’s room and mine adjoined each other, with a door of
communication between, which generally stood partly open at night, for
the sake of companionship. The windows of both rooms looked into the
garden, which ran in a wide strip along that side of the house, and
was shut in by a wall some seven or eight feet high, beyond which were
three or four meadows, and then the boundary-wall of Dorrington Park.

It was close on one o’clock—as I found out afterwards—when I woke
suddenly from a sound sleep. The instant I opened my eyes the room
was illumined by a vivid flash of lightning, and in all probability
it was a peal of thunder that had broken my slumbers. Another flash
followed after a brief interval, succeeded again by the deafening
accompaniment. My sleep was effectually broken. I arose, flung a shawl
over my shoulders, and crossing to the window, drew back the blind and
peered out. As long ago as I can remember, lightning has always had a
singular fascination for me. As a child, I loved to gaze upon its vivid
splendours, and in this respect at least years have left me unchanged.
A board creaked as I crossed the floor.

‘Is that you, Barbara?’ asked my sister from the other room.

‘Yes, dear. I am going to look out for a few minutes. Is not the
lightning beautiful?’

‘Very beautiful; only I wish it were anywhere rather than here,’
answered Bessie, who at such times was just as nervous as I was the
reverse.

The flashes followed each other at intervals of about a minute. I
had witnessed three or four when suddenly I gave a start, and an
exclamation broke involuntarily from my lips. The last flash had
revealed to me the figures of two men in the act of climbing over the
garden-wall. One of the men was a stranger to me; but in the other,
instantaneous as was the revelation, I recognised the somewhat peculiar
face and figure of a man named Dethel, whom my brother had employed
temporarily during the last week or two in the garden, our regular
man being laid up at the time with rheumatism. There was something in
the looks of the man in question which had set me against him from
the first; but if we were all to be judged by our looks alone, what
would become of us! For aught I knew to the contrary, Dethel might be
an honest, hard-working fellow, with a wife and children dependent on
him; but for all that, on the days he was working for us I carefully
refrained from going into the garden.

And now, here was this man, and another with him, effecting a
surreptitious entry of the premises at one o’clock in the morning! Such
a proceeding could have but one end in view. Two questions at once
put themselves to me. Firstly, were these men aware that my brother
was from home for the night, and that only three helpless women and a
girl were left in the house? Secondly, had they by some means become
cognisant of the fact that a few hours previously Mr Shillito had paid
my brother a considerable sum of money, which must necessarily still
be somewhere on the premises? In my mind there was little doubt that
both these facts were fully known to the men. My brother’s movements
were as open as the day, and Dethel had doubtless ascertained from
Reuben the groom that his master would be from home on this particular
night; while as for Mr Shillito, everybody knew how he talked in his
loud-voiced way about his most private affairs when he had taken more
to drink than was good for him. At the bar of more than one tavern that
evening, every one who might chance to be within hearing would not
fail to be informed that Mr Shillito had just paid John Waldron his
half-year’s rent.

These thoughts flashed through my mind almost as quickly as that flash
which revealed so much. Breathlessly I waited for the next flash. It
came, shattering the darkness for an instant, and then it, too, was
swallowed up. The men were no longer visible. Between the two flashes
they had had time to drop on the inner side of the wall, where the
thick clumps of evergreens which clothed that part of the grounds
would effectually screen them from view. At that very moment they were
doubtless making their way stealthily towards the house. What was to
be done? Never had I realised so fully as at that moment how helpless
a creature a woman is. Drawing my shawl more closely round me and
putting on a pair of list slippers which I wore about the house in
cold weather, I crept noiselessly out of the room. At the top of the
stairs I halted and listened; but all was silence the most profound.
The corridor out of which the bedroom opened was lighted at the
opposite end by a high narrow window which looked into the garden. To
this window I now made my way, and there, with one ear pressed to the
cold glass, I stood and listened. Presently I heard the faint sound
of footsteps, and then the subdued voices of two people talking to
each other. Directly under the place where I was standing was the back
drawing-room, which opened on the garden by means of a French-window;
and although this window was secured at night by shutters, I had an
idea that the security in question was more fancied than real, and
was of a kind that would be laughed to scorn by any burglar who was
acquainted with his business. If the men had made up their minds
to break into the house—and with what other object could they be
there?—the probability was that they would make the attempt by way of
the French-window. Even while this thought was passing through my mind,
the voices of the men sank to a whisper, and a low peculiar grating
sound made itself heard. Evidently they had already begun to force the
fastenings of the window. I crept back to my room, feeling utterly
dazed and helpless.

‘Is that you, Barbara? Where have you been?’ asked my sister.

Going into her room, I sat down on the side of the bed and told her
everything in as few words as possible. She was of a somewhat timid and
nervous disposition, and my news visibly affected her. She sat up in
bed, trembling and clinging to my arm.

‘Perhaps,’ she whispered, ‘if we lock our bedroom doors and keep very
quiet, they will go away without coming near us.’

‘Why, you goose, it’s not us they have come after, but Mr Shillito’s
ninety pounds,’ I answered.

‘And there’s poor mamma’s silver tea-service down-stairs; I hope they
won’t find that,’ said Bessie.

I hoped so too; but there was no judging how much Dethel had contrived
to ascertain respecting us and our affairs. I went to the corridor
window again and listened. The noise made by the men was now plainly
distinguishable. It seemed as if they were trying to file or cut their
way through some obstruction. After listening for a few moments, I went
back to my room and began almost mechanically to put on a few articles
of clothing, asking myself again and again as I did so whether it was
not possible to do something—though what that something ought to be I
knew no more than the man in the moon. The nearest house was a quarter
of a mile away; and even if I could have stolen out unnoticed by way
of the front-door, before I could have reached the farm and brought
back help, the burglars would have effected their purpose and decamped.
Our pecuniary means at that time were very straitened. For some time
back John had been paying off some old family debts; and the loss of
the ninety pounds—which, as a matter of course, he would feel bound to
make good—would be a great blow to him. If I could only have got at the
money, and have hidden it where the burglars would not be likely to
find it, I felt that I should have accomplished something. But the bag
was locked up in John’s strong mahogany desk, and was as utterly beyond
my reach as if it had been in the coffers of the Bank of England, while
yet it could hardly have been placed more conveniently ready to the
hands of the thieves. To them the strong mahogany desk would seem a
trifling obstacle indeed.

All this time, metaphorically speaking, I was wringing my hands,
knowing full well how precious were the fast-fleeting moments, but only
feeling my helplessness the more, the more I strove to discern some
loophole of escape. Oh, the wretchedness of such a feeling! I hope
never to experience it again in the same degree as I experienced it
that night.

The lightning, if not quite so vivid as it had been a little while
previously, still came in as frequent flashes, and by its light my
sister and I made a hurried toilet. Our house stood a little way back
from the high-road, from which it was divided by a tiny lawn and a low
screen of evergreens. Once or twice in the course of the night one of
the mounted constabulary would ride slowly past as he went his rounds;
but I was without any knowledge as to the particular time when he might
be expected, or whether, in fact, the time at which he might be looked
for at any specified point did not vary from night to night. Still,
there was just a possibility that he might put in an appearance at any
moment; so I stationed Bessie at the window to keep a lookout for him,
and be in readiness to raise an alarm the moment she heard the tramp of
his horse’s hoofs. For once in a way the lightning was something to be
thankful for; each flash lighted up the high-road for a considerable
distance on both sides of the house.

When this was done, it seemed as if everything possible had been done;
and yet it was next to nothing. With both hands pressed to my eyes, I
stood thinking as I seemed never to have thought before. Then it was
that—as sudden, swift, and startling as one of those flashes which
were momently illumining the outer world—an idea shot through my brain,
which for an instant or two seemed to cause my heart to stand still.
And yet at the first blush it was an idea that had about it something
so preposterous, so ludicrous, even, that had the need been at all less
imminent, I should have discarded it at once as little better than the
inspiration of a mad woman. But preposterous as the idea might seem,
for the life of me I could think of no other, and every minute now was
invaluable. There was no time for hesitation. I must discard it or
adopt it, and that without a moment’s delay. ‘I will try it; it can but
fail,’ I said to myself with an inward groan.

On the toilet-table was a jar of white tooth-powder, which had been
replenished the previous day. I shook out a quantity of this powder,
shut my eyes, and proceeded to rub it thickly over my face, arms, and
hands. That done, I drew the white coverlet off the bed, and draped
myself with it loosely from head to foot; then I unbound my hair, which
in those days was ebon black and reached below my waist, and shook it
round my face and over my shoulders in ‘most admired disorder.’ I was
now ready for the rôle I had made up my mind to enact.

Bessie has told me since that she thought I had taken leave of my
senses. Just at the moment my toilet was completed, and as I turned
and advanced towards her, another long, quivering flash lighted up the
room. A low shriek burst involuntarily from my sister’s lips, and she
shrank away from me as though I were something altogether uncanny.

‘O Barbara, dear, what is the matter?’ she cried. ‘Why do you frighten
me so?’

‘It is not you I want to frighten, but the men down-stairs,’ I replied.
Then, in a few hurried words, I told her my plan.

She would have tried to dissuade me; but there was no time to listen.
Leaving her there watching by the window, ready to raise an alarm in
case the mounted constable should pass on his round, I stole swiftly
and noiselessly down the carpeted staircase, and only paused when I
reached the corridor below. I could hear a subdued murmur of voices,
and a moment later I was startled by a noise of falling glass. The
burglars had succeeded in effecting an entrance. They and I were
separated only by the drawing-room door, which, although locked, was
an obstacle that very few minutes would suffice to overcome. With an
indrawing of my breath I sped quickly past the door along the length
of the corridor until I reached the opposite end, where there were two
more doors, one of them being that of my brother’s office, which also
was locked, and from the lock of which I now withdrew the key. I have
omitted to state that the window of John’s office was secured by two
stout bars, which was probably one reason why the thieves had chosen to
effect an entrance at a point more readily adapted for their purpose.
The second door at the end of the corridor shut off a short passage
leading to the kitchen. This door I succeeded in opening without noise.
I had decided to take my stand a little way on the inner side of it,
and there await the course of events. By this time the men were busily
at work forcing the lock of the drawing-room door. A thin thread of
light which shone from under showed that although the lightning was
still as frequent as before, they did not find it sufficient for their
purpose.

Scarcely breathing, I waited. I was too excited, too wrought up, the
tension of my nerves was too extreme, to allow of any personal fear.
It was all terribly real, yet with a strange, vague sense of unreality
underlying it. I felt as if I should not have been surprised had I woke
up and found the whole affair resolve itself into a dream; while yet
fully assured in my mind that it was nothing of the kind. Suddenly the
noise at the door ceased; the lock had been forced. The thread of light
disappeared; for a few moments all was silence the most profound. Then
a faint creaking, which at any other time would have been inaudible,
told me that the drawing-room door was being opened and that the
crucial moment had come. I pressed one hand over my heart, and for a
few brief seconds an almost overpowering longing seized me to get back
to my room at any cost and lock myself within. But it was too late; by
this time the men were in the corridor. I knew it, although I could not
see them.

‘Where’s the door we want?’ I heard one whisper to the other.

‘On the right—the first door we come to.’

As they advanced a step, I did the same.

‘What noise was that?’ asked one of them quickly.

‘Don’t be a fool. There was no noise.’

‘I tell you there was.—Where’s the glim?’

But the lightning was quicker than the bull’s-eye. It came, smiting the
darkness, and flooding the corridor with the blinding intensity of its
glare. Then I saw the men, and the men saw me, but darkness had hidden
us from each other again before they had time to make sure that their
eyes had not deceived them.

One of them gave a gasp and whispered to his mate: ‘What was that tall,
white thing at the end of the passage? Seemed to me like a ghost.’

‘Ghost be dashed! There ain’t no such things.—Here’s the glim. We’ll
soon see what it is.’ As he spoke, the light of his bull’s-eye lantern
was turned full upon me.

I advanced a couple of paces, and the men fell back in speechless
surprise and terror. I have often tried since to picture to myself the
appearance I must have presented when seen at such a moment and by that
uncertain light, with my ghastly, death-like face, my dilated eyes,
my black, snake-like locks, my tall figure all in white, and with one
extended arm and finger pointed direct at the men. I cannot wonder at
their fright.

At this juncture came another flash, and a terrible peal of thunder
startled the air and shook the house. At the very instant, impelled
thereto by something within me that I was powerless to control, I burst
into a wild peal of maniacal, blood-curdling laughter. One step nearer
I advanced; but that was enough. With a loud yell of terror, the men
turned and fled by the way they had come. I heard a crash of shattered
glass; and after that, I remember nothing more till I came to my
senses, to find Bessie supporting my head on her lap and pressing her
smelling-salts to my nose.

But John’s ninety pounds were saved, and it is hardly necessary to add
that Dethel the ex-gardener was never seen in those parts again.




SPIDER-SILK.


It may not be inopportune to recall to the minds of our readers a
somewhat neglected silk-source, which may perhaps at some future
period form a profitable commercial undertaking. It is unnecessary to
expatiate upon the beauty of the gossamer spun by the _Aranea diadema_,
or common Garden spider, as the fairy-like tracery must be familiar to
every one who has wandered through the woods in autumn, when the gauzy
films festooned between and over the bushes were rendered prominent
through saturation with dew or a sprinkling of hoar-frost. The thread
produced by this little creature is estimated to be many times finer
than the most attenuated filament of the well-known silkworm of Europe,
the _Bombyx mori_; consequently, as may be imagined, the difficulty
of obtaining such silk is so great that, except for land-surveying
purposes, the web of spiders as a class has not been permanently
utilised. For the latter object, the plan adopted by our surveying
instrument makers[1] in order to secure small supplies of spider’s
line, is remarkably simple, and affords an illustration of how
closely instinct in the lower creation sometimes approaches reasoning
intelligence in the higher. Having caught the selected spider, it is
immediately tossed backwards and forwards from hand to hand of the
operator, until the impulse of self-preservation induces the emission
of its thread. Meanwhile, a wire, bent double like a hairpin—the
distance between the prongs being slightly greater than the diameter of
the telescope to be fitted—is at hand to receive the silk. As soon as
the filament appears, the end is attached to the wire and the spider
dropped, when it immediately emits its thread with great rapidity, in
the hope of reaching the ground and escaping. This is frustrated by
a dexterous revolution of the extemporised reel, which winds up the
line as fast as it is produced, until the spider’s store of silk is
exhausted. It is then allowed its liberty; and a touch of gum on each
prong secures the silk in convenient lengths for future use.

Rather more than fifty years ago, it seemed as if a new and important
trade was about to be inaugurated by the rearing of spiders for their
silk, which the Society of Arts marked with their approval by awarding
a medal to a Mr Rolt for his success in obtaining an appreciable
quantity from the Garden spider. This gentleman accomplished his
purpose by connecting a reel with a steam-engine, setting it revolving
at the rate of one hundred and fifty feet per minute; when, after two
hours’ patience, he wound off eighteen thousand feet of beautiful
white line of a metallic lustre from twenty-four spiders. Subsequent
examination proved this thread to be only the thirty-thousandth part of
an inch in diameter, so that a single pound-weight was estimated to be
sufficient to encircle the globe. Although this gentleman appears not
to have pushed his interesting experiments much further, a Frenchman of
Languedoc afterwards established a factory for producing and weaving
spider-silk into articles of utility. He manufactured gloves and
stockings which were much admired; but the difficulty of rearing a
sufficiently numerous family of spinners within a reasonable space, on
account of their extreme pugnacity, soon interfered with this budding
industry, and led to its abandonment. No difficulty was experienced
by M. Reaumur in collecting some five thousand spiders and immuring
them in fifty separate cells; but unfortunately, on one occasion there
occurred a scarcity of flies; a food-panic ensued, and the hungry
and infuriated prisoners, escaping during the night, fell upon one
another with such deadly ferocity, that when the anxious proprietor
paid his usual morning visit, only a few gorged and bloated specimens
survived. It seemed, indeed, so vain to expect European spiders to
exist peacefully within sight and reach of each other without their
usual employment conducted after their own fashion, that the hope of
rendering them useful for commercial purposes gradually died away, and
has for many years been almost wholly relinquished.

Certain species of foreign spiders, however, when examined with a view
to their silk, offer a field of very considerable encouragement. In the
island of Ceylon there is one described by Sir Samuel Baker as being
two inches long, with a large yellow spot upon its back, which spins a
beautiful yellow web two and a half feet in diameter, so strong that an
ordinary walking-stick thrown in is entangled, and retained among the
meshes. As might be expected, the filament, which is said to exhibit a
more silky appearance than common spider’s web, is easily wound by hand
on a card, without any special care being exercised in the operation.
A spider of even more formidable dimensions is alluded to in the
fascinating work, _The Gardens of the Sun_, by Mr F. W. Burbidge. It is
a large, black, yellow-spotted creature, measuring six or eight inches
across its extended legs, and it spins a web strained on lines as stout
as fine sewing-cotton.

The prince of the species, however, seems to be the _Aranea maculata_
of Brazil, vouched for by Dr Walsh as having been seen and examined by
him during his travels in that country. In this huge, ungainly, yet
harmless and domesticated creature, we evidently possess a treasure
of a silk-spinner, with which the non-nervous and practical among our
colonial ladies, situated in moderately warm localities like Northern
New Zealand, Queensland, and the Cape of Good Hope, might spend many
a profitable hour when they became mutually acquainted. It is not
only free from the vices of the European spider in not devouring its
kind, but it actually exists in little harmonious communities of
over one hundred individuals of different ages and sizes occupying
the same web. Like the last-mentioned spider, this one is of similar
colossal dimensions, and it spins a beautiful yellow network ten or
twelve feet in diameter quite as strong as the silk of commerce.
Regarding the toughness of this filament, the doctor says: ‘In passing
through an opening between some trees, I felt my head entangled in
some obstruction, and on withdrawing it, my light straw-hat remained
behind. When I looked up, I saw it suspended in the air, entangled in
the meshes of an immense cobweb, which was drawn like a veil of thick
gauze across the opening, and was expanded from branch to branch of the
opposite trees as large as a sheet, ten or twelve feet in diameter.’
Another traveller, Lieutenant Herndon of the United States navy,
confirms Dr Walsh’s account of this enormous spider, with the addition
that he saw a single web which nearly covered a lemon tree; and he
estimated its diameter at ten yards!

Probably the latest addition to our knowledge of spider-silk has
recently come from the Paris ‘Ecole pratique d’Acclimation,’ a member
of which has discovered an African species which spins a strong
yellow web, so like the product of the silkworm as to be scarcely
distinguishable from it. So promising a material as a fibre of commerce
does this seem to be, that, after close investigation, a syndicate of
Lyons silk-merchants has reported in its favour; the more so as there
is said to be no difficulty in acclimatising the spider in France.

In those gigantic spiders there is evidently the nucleus of an
important industry of the future, which colonists might perhaps easily
ingraft upon their ordinary sericultural or other occupations. If
the period has scarcely yet arrived for the profitable utilisation
of ordinary spider’s web, surely something might be evolved from the
less attenuated filaments just alluded to, which are strong enough to
whisk a man’s hat from his head and retain his walking-stick dangling
in the air. There are countless difficulties to be surmounted, such
as the feeling of repulsion, or even disgust, at being brought into
proximity with monstrous spiders like Dr Walsh’s pets; but as this
species, unlike the _Lycosa tarantula_ and other poisonous and dreaded
kinds, is harmless to human beings, and as their silk would evidently
become a valuable addition to the resources of the loom as well as the
boudoir, any such feelings and other obstacles would probably soon be
overcome. The French—always in the van in such matters, notwithstanding
their comparatively limited colonial opportunities—are not likely to
allow this curious and interesting occupation to go begging for want of
experiment and patience. But Britain—with her numerous dependencies and
myriads of active, scheming, inventive brains scattered all over the
globe—occupies a peculiarly favourable position to test and localise
such an industry.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] In theodolites and other similar instruments for taking
observations, lines of spider-silk cross the centre of the glass at
right angles for certain purposes of observation.




THIEVES AND THIEVING.


The days when Border moss-troopers made a raid on the well-stocked
farmyards of Northumberland, or when Highland caterans swooped down
from Rob Roy’s country to levy ‘blackmail’ or ‘toom a fauld’ in the
Lennox or in the Carse of Stirling, and departed, leaving burning byres
or weeping widows behind, are for ever gone. Gone, too, are those later
days when bold highwaymen of the Dick Turpin type—all well mounted
and equipped, if we are to credit the legends that have come down
to us—stopped the mailcoach or the travelling postchaise, and made
the terrified passengers hand over their valuables. The traveller of
to-day, whether cyclist or pedestrian, may roam from John o’ Groat’s
to Land’s End without interruption from highwayman or footpad. The
thieving profession has changed its character; and as now unfolded in
courts of justice, it appears vulgar, prosaic, and mean. Indeed, we are
doubtful if it was not always so. The pen of the novelist has thrown
a glamour of romance around that as well as other features of former
times, which we love to read about, but should not care to experience.
But while this is so, the study of thieves as a class is far from being
uninteresting. It has been our lot to see much of them and to learn
more, from sources whose reliability is unquestionable.

There are many grades of intellect and ability among these
Ishmaelites—from the low type of thief that lies in wait in our
large towns for children going messages, and, beguiling them into a
dark close, strips them of clothing and money—to the well-dressed,
well-bred man of the world, who floats a swindling Company, has his
office in a good locality, moves for a time in the best circles, and
then decamps, carrying with him the capital of the elderly annuitant,
or the hard-earned savings of the struggling tradesman. To her shame
be it said, the child-stripper is generally a woman. Far more to his
shame, the high-class swindler is generally a well-educated man, who
occupies a good position in society, and has often only his own folly
to blame for his having fallen to be a needy adventurer. They differ in
degree, but not in kind; and though the law may call their offences by
different names, the essence of the crime is the same in both cases.

It is sad to see mere children, charged with daring acts of
pocket-picking or purse-snatching, brought before a court; but
such is often their only chance of salvation from a life of crime.
Smutty-faced, ragged little urchins many of them are, dressed in
clothes and shoes a world too big for them; and yet, when the dirt is
washed from their faces, there is the glance of keen intelligence,
and often comely features, underneath. Brought up in the murky closes
that yet occupy the older parts of most of our cities, surrounded by
influences such as may be inhaled from drunken, swearing men, and
tawdry, coarse, and unkempt women, how could they grow up other than
they do? Perchance they are reared in low lodging-houses, where a
clever theft or an artful dodge is extolled as worthy of the highest
admiration, or where some old hand is assiduous in giving them training
lessons in crime. Industrial and Reformatory Schools are worthy of
all support, checking as they do the career of these young prodigals
while yet there is some hope. Apart altogether from considerations
of a higher nature, it is surely to the interest of the public that
children should be trained into useful wealth-producing members of
the community, instead of growing up to prey upon society when out of
prison, and burden the ratepayers when in.

A large number of thieves are merely skirmishers or auxiliaries, as
it were, on the flanks of the regular army. These auxiliaries do
not live wholly by crime, but have some ostensible occupation which
they follow. At the same time, they never lose a good opportunity of
stealing. In all large towns, the cinder-gatherer may be seen. Late
at night and early in the morning she goes through the streets and
lanes, probing with a long knife the depths and shallows of every
dust-heap, and rescuing therefrom every scrap that will sell. Papers,
rags, bones, cinders, and old boots are transferred with marvellous
celerity into the depths of the capacious bag which she carries.
Should a stray door-mat be lying handy, or an unsecured back-door
give access to a green where clothes lie bleaching, her ideas of
_meum_ and _tuum_ become straightway rather hazy, and the chances
are that a theft is reported next morning. A large number of thefts
of umbrellas and greatcoats from lobbies are the work of pedlars,
beggars, or old-clothesmen, who loaf around and watch their chance. A
smart ‘professional’ of our acquaintance, who is at present in penal
servitude, was an adept at stealing greatcoats. He had a piece of wire
with a sort of hook on one end, with which he could snatch them from
lobby-pegs without making his own appearance. Each ‘professional’
has his own particular style of thieving in which he has graduated.
These soon become known to the detectives, who, on learning the _modus
operandi_ of a theft, are often able to pounce on the person wanted,
even when no description can be supplied.

One class of theft was very prevalent in Glasgow and neighbourhood
some time ago. A man dressed like a tradesman called at a number of
houses where the owners happened to be absent. (Of course the operator
satisfied himself on that point first.) He represented that he had been
sent by some well-known firm of upholsterers to measure a room for a
new carpet, or by a joiner to repair the windows. In various instances,
he got into houses, and generally found an opportunity to steal.
Another thief well known in Dundee does the ‘pigeon’ trick. His method
is to look out for an open window, ring the bell, and say that a pigeon
has just flown away from him on the street and fluttered in at the
window. Would they kindly search for it, or permit him to do so? Once
in, ten to one but the clever thief manages to commit a theft before he
goes out lamenting the loss of his bird, which, of course, cannot be
found.

A decrepit youth used to go about the city in which the writer lives.
This lad’s legs were useless, so he had flat boards fastened with
straps below his knees, and, assisted by short crutches, he crept along
the pavement. He was a dexterous thief. If a lady stopped to look in
at a shop-window, he could just reach her handbag or pocket; and if
she was unwary, she was minus her purse in a few seconds, while the
insignificant appearance of the thief disarmed suspicion.

Thieves sometimes quarrel in their cups, and if a detective happens
to meet them before the heat of anger has passed off, spitefulness
often induces them to give him valuable information. Criminals are
almost always prodigal in spending their ill-gotten gains, and the
old proverb, ‘Lightly come, lightly go,’ seems specially applicable
to them. If in funds, they share freely with their needy brethren,
probably with an eye to receiving similar help when out at the knees
and elbows themselves.

Stolen property is often stowed away in very curious hiding-places. A
lame man was convicted at Leeds assizes last year of passing base coin.
When apprehended, it was found he had a receptacle in his wooden leg,
in which a considerable stock of the bad money was cunningly secreted.
We have sometimes seen a considerable pile of coins unearthed from the
voluminous folds of a ragged coat, trousers, or vest. Banknotes, for
obvious reasons, are capable of being stowed away in little space; and
thieves often hide them in the cracked joints of a dilapidated old
table, chair, or bed. Underneath a picture, or between the portrait
and the back, appears to be a favourite place of concealment. Articles
are often ‘planked’ in the chimney behind the grate; and a watch has
even been tossed into a glowing coal-fire, when pursuit was close,
although in at least one instance the latter device was unavailing.
Two detectives were once searching the house of a well-known thief
for some stolen jewellery. The scent was keen, and the examination
searching. High and low they rummaged, but without success. From the
air of the thief, the officers were satisfied the stolen property was
concealed in or about the room. One of them observed that the interest
of the ‘suspect’ got always most intense as they approached the window.
Taking this as his cue, the officer narrowly examined the shutters, and
even tore off the straps that kept in the window-sashes; but without
result. Suddenly, a thought struck him, and lifting the lower sash, he
scanned the outside of the wall closely. About three or four feet below
the window-sill he saw a stone in the wall that appeared to be loose.
Calling his comrade to hold him by the legs, he reached down, pulled
out a small square stone, thrust in his hand, and found a nice little
‘hide,’ containing not only the articles he was in search of, but also
other stolen property sufficient to connect the thief with several
‘jobs,’ and to procure him a long term of quiet contemplation.

A smart female thief once very nearly outwitted an officer by wrapping
a crumpled and dirty five-pound note round a candle, and stuffing
it into a candlestick, which she then obligingly handed to him. He
searched a considerable time before discovering that he had the object
of his search in his hand. Another detective, after in vain searching a
house for some trussed poultry that had been stolen, cast one parting
glance around, when his eye chanced to alight on a cradle in which a
woman was vainly trying to hush a squalling baby. A thought struck him.
He asked her to lift the child. The woman made some excuse, but the
officer insisted, and was immediately rewarded by finding a couple of
the stolen fowls.

A slight clue, sometimes discovered by the merest accident, often helps
to unravel not only one, but a whole series of thefts. A peculiar
button, a footmark, or a portion of dress, will spring a mine under
the feet of a rascal who thought he was off scot-free. Of late years,
thefts of money by young clerks or salesmen from their employers
have become increasingly common. There are several causes for this.
Beyond doubt the tastes and habits of the young men of to-day are
more expensive than those of their fathers. With small means, or no
means at all, they dress up as ‘mashers,’ and smoke choice cigars,
attend theatres, concerts, balls, and race-meetings. If often indulged
in, these are rather expensive luxuries; and as the supply of youths
anxious for genteel employment is always in excess of the demand,
the salaries given are in many cases low. Then firms are sometimes
very lax in the oversight of young men who have large sums of money
daily passing through their hands. It seems so easy to take the loan
of a small sum, which, of course, is to be put back again. After the
first false step, the descent is rapid; and many a young man fills a
felon’s cell, or has to fly the country, under circumstances due to his
master’s carelessness as well as his own folly.

The plea of kleptomania is now put forward in defence of thieves
much oftener than it used to be. Of course there are some cases in
which kleptomania is indisputable, as, for instance, when we hear
of a nobleman having to be watched by his valet to prevent him from
pocketing his own silver spoons. We know a respectable bookseller
who had for a considerable time, at intervals, been missing books
from his shop. He was satisfied some of his customers were helping
themselves, but he could not say which. At last his suspicions rested
on a reverend gentleman of great abilities, but rather eccentric
character. He watched him narrowly, and one day caught him in the act
of surreptitiously carrying off a volume. The divine tried to explain
it away; but the bookseller, after listening gravely, called a cab, and
insisted on accompanying him home and examining his library. He hinted
that otherwise he would be under the painful necessity of calling in
the police. The clergyman made no further objection. They went to his
house; and the bookseller brought back a number of valuable books, some
of which he had not before missed, and said no more about the matter.
The thief was a wealthy man, and had a large library; but he was a
bibliomaniac.

Some thefts, however, are of a different character, and in these the
plea of kleptomania, like that of insanity in cases of murder, is
sometimes pushed rather far. Without attempting to argue the matter on
scientific principles, it seems rather strange that kleptomania appears
only to affect those who are rich enough to pay an able advocate, and
that the morbid desire to steal something—instead of moving them to
carry it off openly—appears to be accompanied by an equally morbid
desire to secrete the article stolen.

We shall conclude this paper by one or two instances which show that
thieving has also its comic side.

A fire was raging fiercely in a grocery store, and the owner,
accompanied by an active staff of assistants, was trying to rescue some
of the goods by removing them to one side. Immense cheeses and hams
were lying about in tempting profusion. A keen-eyed thief had just
secured a large Gouda, and was marching off with it, when he found
himself face to face with a policeman. The rogue grasped the situation
instantly. ‘Here, policeman!’ cried he, planting the cheese in X’s arms
before that officer knew what he was about; ‘you had better take charge
of that, or somebody’ll be carrying it off;’ and in an instant the
nimble rascal disappeared in the crowd.

One morning, a merchant who had come by rail from his country residence
was hurrying along the street to his counting-house in a pouring rain.
He had forgotten his umbrella; but spying, as he thought, a friend with
a large one a little before him, he hastened up, and seizing the handle
of the umbrella, jocularly observed: ‘Hillo! is this mine you’ve got?’
He had just had time to observe that the man was a complete stranger to
him, and was about to apologise in some embarrassment, when the unknown
saved him the trouble, by saying coolly: ‘Oh, it’s yours, is it?
Pardon me; I did not know.’ And he hurried off, leaving the astonished
merchant in full possession.

About two years ago, a constable in a business part of London found
a horse and van, about midnight, standing at the door of a grocer’s
shop. He approached, and saw several men in aprons, apparently carrying
chests of tea into the shop. Remarking that they were late at work,
one of the men replied: ‘O yes; we’re preparing for Christmas;’ and
the constable, thinking all was right, walked on. Next morning it was
found the shop had been entered by thieves, who had carried off what
they evidently took to be twenty-two half-chests of tea, most of which
had been standing in the shop-window. The rogues had gone leisurely
to work, and being caught by the constable, had employed themselves
in carrying _in_ some of the boxes, till he should pass. The reader
may judge the surprise and disgust of the thieves, when they found
that only one of the chests contained tea, and a second tea-dust, the
remaining twenty boxes being merely ‘dummies’ filled with sawdust, with
a sprinkling of tea on the top!

Nothing tends more to root out and lessen the number of nests of
thieves than the exercise of the power vested in corporations to pull
down old houses, which, densely populated with the poorer classes,
become at last the abodes of filth, disease, and crime. The former
inmates cannot stand the new sanitary and social atmosphere introduced
by wider streets and purer air. They gradually betake themselves to
other and more honest modes of employment, or seek for ‘fresh woods and
pastures new.’ On the other hand, the exercise of a little prudence and
common-sense by the general public would prevent an opportunity being
given for the commission of a large number of petty but often very
annoying thefts.




ST JOHN’S GATE.


A short distance from the very heart of London, stands—for it has not
yet been swept away by the builder’s hand—one of the finest remaining
relics of the ancient city. It is a heavy fortified gate, built of
large blocks of freestone, and flanked by bastions. It has a fine
groined Norman arch; and though it is now old and decayed, it is still
strong, and shows us what its strength and stability have been in days
gone by. It was built by, and belonged to, at one time, that famous
order of chivalry, ‘The Knights Hospitallers,’ or ‘Knights of St John
of Jerusalem,’ the great rivals of the Templars, and who did such
good service in the Holy Land in the time of the crusades; and when
Palestine was hopelessly lost, kept up their incessant war against the
Infidel in Rhodes, and when driven from that island by the Turks—in
Malta.

This order had at one time many religious houses scattered over Europe;
and their London priory, that of St John of Clerkenwell, has quite
a history of its own to tell. It was founded in the year 1100 by a
devout baron named Jordan Briset, this being the time that the first
crusade, led by Godfrey of Bouillon, was going on. For a considerable
time after this, we know little of the priory, save that the knights
were growing in riches and arrogance, and thus were making themselves
obnoxious to the people, although some of the old chroniclers tell us
that ‘they tended the sick and the needy.’ In fact, they got to be so
disliked by the common people, that in the riots which took place in
the reign of Richard II.—in which Wat Tyler, Jack Straw, and John Ball
took so prominent a part, the last-named being a clergyman, who, in his
harangues to the multitude, took for his text the rhyme,

    When Adam delved and Eve span,
    Who was then a gentleman?

and made the people think that all the property of the rich was really
theirs—the rebels made the Priory of St John a special mark of their
fury, and after destroying houses and much property belonging to the
knights, they attacked the place itself and burnt it to the ground; and
capturing the prior soon after, they executed him upon the spot.

For many years after, the knights were engaged in building a new
priory; but the work went slowly on, owing to the troubled state of the
order at what was then their great stronghold, Rhodes, and the large
numbers of men and sums of money required there to assist in keeping
back the conquering Turks, who were fighting with great zeal under the
victorious Sultan Solyman. Gradually, a fine church, whose bell is
related to have had an exceedingly fine tone, was added to the priory;
and soon after the church was finished, Thomas Dockwra, who was then
prior, built the gate; this being in or about the year 1504, in the
latter part of the reign of Henry VII., the first of the famous dynasty
of Tudor sovereigns.

About the year 1540, Henry VIII. suppressed all the larger monasteries
and private religious houses in England, and the venerable priory
fell with the others. This was a severe blow to the prosperity of the
order, and is said to have broken the heart of the valiant old L’isle
Adam, the grandmaster, who held Rhodes till he could hold it no longer,
and then, obtaining honourable terms from the Sultan Solyman, removed
to the island of Malta, where the knights continued to be a powerful
enemy to the Turks until 1798, when, ‘through the treachery of the
Maltese, and the cowardice of D’Hompesch the grandmaster, the island
was surrendered to the French;’ and soon after this, most of the
property still belonging to the order in many parts of Europe was
confiscated by the various governments. Since then, the order, which
had been gradually degenerating, has not had any political importance.

The priory, however, was not destroyed, like most of its kindred
buildings, at the Reformation, for even the bluff, matter-of-fact
King Henry had some respect for the venerable old building; and so,
instead of destroying it, we are told that he used it for a military
storehouse. In Edward VI.’s reign, however, a more ruthless and
sweeping hand came to deal with it. The proud and ambitious Seymour,
Duke of Somerset, at that time Lord Protector, had no kindly feeling
for such places; and the church and all the rest of the priory, with
the exception of the gate, were blown up with gunpowder. The large
blocks of stone were used to build Somerset’s palace in the Strand in
1549. It remained till the year 1776, when it gave place to the present
one, a building erected after the Palladian style, from the designs of
Sir William Chambers.

We hear nothing more of the gate till the reign of James I., when
that monarch bestowed the building on Sir Roger Wilbraham, who lived
there for many years. Long after this, Cave the printer rented the old
gate for a small sum, and here was first printed and published the
_Gentleman’s Magazine_. This was one of the first places to which Dr
Johnson, then poor, and almost unknown, came, when he settled in the
great city. Here he made his first literary efforts by helping Cave
in his publication. Here also Garrick the actor first played, some of
Cave’s interested workmen taking the other parts of the pieces.

The old gate is now turned into a tavern, called _Old Jerusalem
Tavern_, and inside may still be seen some interesting relics of
the former days of the gate, when it was the chief entrance to the
priory of one of the most powerful religious bodies in Europe. Who
can look upon such a relic without being reminded of the great spirit
of chivalry, that strange compound of barbarity and courtesy; of the
crusades, and the great changes which have taken place since the time
of the prosperous days of the old priory? and we cannot but feel
thankful that we live in a happier, less troubled, and more enlightened
age; and as we gaze upon the grim old gate, think of the words of
Shakspeare: ‘To what base uses may we return.’




’TWIXT DAYBREAK AND DAYLIGHT.


    The glint and glimmer of the daybreak shows
    In the fast-reddening east; the sable clouds
    With roseate streaks and golden threads are lined;
    And the first early cock, awakening, rings
    His shrill clear challenge on the breaking morn!

    A voiceless stir of many murmurings,
    From woodland, hill, and dale, and meadow, tells
    The flight of slumber: now the cricket chirps
    Amid the barley, and the skylark plumes
    His wing for early rising; passes by
    The milkmaid to the pasture; and the farm
    Grows noisy with the many-varied sounds
    Of rustic labour, telling that hath fled
    The drowsy sweet forgetfulness of night!

    Shadows of dreamland pass from earth away
    Into the mystic world of things unseen;
    The stern necessities of daily life
    Again their round commence, as, one by one,
    Toilers awaken to the coming day!

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

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._