20, 1884 ***





[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

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POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 38.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




VACCINATION.


On the western side of Trafalgar Square, beneath the shadow of the
great sea-lion Admiral Lord Nelson, might have been seen, until
recently, the statue of a pensive-looking almost beardless man seated
in a chair. But a new location in Kensington Gardens has been selected
for this statue, which is that of Dr Jenner, the discoverer of
vaccination.

Edward Jenner was born at Berkeley, in Gloucestershire, in 1749, his
father being vicar of that place. He was apprenticed to a doctor at
Sudbury, and afterwards came to London, where for a time he served
under John Hunter. After taking his diploma, he returned to his native
place, and it was here that he practised his profession, and also made
that great discovery which has proved such an inestimable benefit to
mankind. When he had become famous, and universal appreciation bespoke
him a great man, he received many tempting offers and solicitations to
take up his abode in the metropolis; but nothing succeeded in enticing
him from the rural scenes amidst which his medical triumphs had been
conceived. His life sped tranquilly on amidst the rustics he loved so
well until the year 1823, when death somewhat suddenly terminated his
earthly career.

As the village and neighbourhood in which Jenner served his
apprenticeship was mostly a grazing country, he was thrown much amongst
farmers and their servants. At a time when smallpox was raging among
them, his attention was attracted by hearing a milkmaid say that she
had once caught cowpox from the cows, and therefore smallpox wouldn’t
hurt her. He was much struck with this remark; and on making inquiries,
he found it was a common belief about there, that whoever caught
this disease from the cows was not liable to take smallpox. It is
rather curious that just about the time that Jenner was making these
inquiries, the same fact had been noted in Sweden, and some inquiries
were also set on foot there to investigate the matter.

With that talent for close observation and investigation which
distinguished him, he pondered much over this remark of the milkmaid’s,
and made many inquiries of the medical men of the district. From them
he obtained but little encouragement; they had often heard the tale,
but had not much faith in it. The subject seems to have impressed
itself greatly on his mind; for we find him, some three years later,
when he was in London with John Hunter, mentioning it to him; and that
distinguished man appears to have been struck with Jenner’s earnestness
in the matter, and gave him good advice: ‘Don’t think, but try; be
patient; be accurate.’ This advice he perseveringly followed on his
return to his native place; and by careful experiments elaborated the
great life-saving truth, that cowpox might be disseminated from one
human being to another to the almost total extinction of smallpox.

The eastern practice of inoculation was first made known in this
country by Lady Wortley Montagu, who was the wife of our ambassador
at Constantinople, where she had seen it tried with good effect.
Inoculation consisted in transferring the matter of the _smallpox_
pustule from the body of one suffering from the disease to that of
one not as yet affected by the disease. It is a fact that the form
of smallpox thus communicated through the skin was less severe, and
consequently less fatal, than when taken naturally, as was abundantly
proved in this country. But, unfortunately, inoculated smallpox was
as _infectious_ as the natural smallpox—this fact forming the great
distinction between inoculation and vaccination. The inoculated person
became a centre of infection, and communicated it to many others. It
was found after the introduction of inoculation that the mortality from
smallpox increased from seventy-four to ninety-five in one thousand;
and many of those that recovered, lost the sight of one or both eyes,
or were otherwise disfigured. It is not to be wondered at, with such
a state of things as this existing, and the whole medical profession
at their wits’ end for a remedy, that Jenner should be looked upon, as
soon as vaccination became established, as a saviour of his race.

It was while the ravages of smallpox were being felt and deplored
over the whole country, that Jenner was quietly investigating and
experimenting in his native village; and gradually little facts and
incidents relating to cowpox were collected, until in his own mind an
opinion was firmly rooted that this disease communicated by the cow was
a safeguard against smallpox. About the time when he had formed this
opinion, an accidental case of cowpox occurred in his neighbourhood,
and he caused drawings of the pustules to be made, and took them with
him to London. He showed them to some of the most eminent surgeons
and physicians of the day, and explained his views; but from none of
them did he receive any encouragement, and from some, nothing but
ridicule. Fortunately, however, he was not a man to be easily turned
aside from a purpose, or disabused of an opinion that he saw good cause
for entertaining. On returning home, he was still as full of the idea
as ever, and determined to persevere in his efforts; although he saw
he must have proofs before he could get his professional brethren to
listen to his theories.

It was on the 14th May 1796—a day which is still commemorated in
Berlin as a festival—that a boy was vaccinated with matter taken
from the hands of a milkmaid. The disease was thus communicated to
the boy, and he passed through it satisfactorily. But now came the
anxious and critical trial for Jenner. The same boy on the 1st of
July following was inoculated with the smallpox virus, but he did not
take the disease. In 1798 Jenner published his first pamphlet _On
the Causes and Effects of Variola Vaccine_; and later, in the first
year of the present century, he wrote that it was ‘too manifest to
admit of controversy, that the annihilation of the smallpox, the most
dreadful scourge of the human species, must be the final result of this
practice.’ Soon after this, a parliamentary Committee investigated
and reported on the new discovery in terms of the most emphatic
approbation; and a declaration was signed by seventy of the chief
physicians and surgeons in London expressing their confidence in it.
The Royal Jennerian Society was formed, with Jenner as President; and
thirteen stations for the vaccination of the public were opened in
London, in the hope of exterminating smallpox.

Jenner’s essay which explained his discovery had in the meantime been
translated into several foreign languages, and had also found its way
to America, where President Jefferson vaccinated, by the help of his
sons-in-law, about two hundred of his friends and neighbours. From this
time forward, vaccination may be said to have taken a firm hold of the
civilised world.

That vaccination has not done all that was claimed that it would do
by Jenner, is true, as the occasionally recurring epidemics of the
disease only too fatally testify. But the gain from the time when
cities were depopulated and a large percentage of the whole human race
was scarred and disfigured by it, to a time when no such suffering
is now experienced, is a gain indeed, although it be but an imperfect
one. It is, however, almost beyond a doubt that had more attention
been primarily paid to vaccination, and had it not been performed in
the perfunctory manner in which it often was by medical men, we should
now be in a better position with regard to smallpox than we are at the
present moment. For it is a melancholy fact that although the first to
give vaccination to the world, England has not made such good use of
it as most other nations. Feeling secure in the relief which it gave
to the vast amount of mortality, we have in a measure let pretty well
alone, while other nations have meanwhile enormously profited by the
discovery.

It was Mr Simon, the late medical officer of the Privy Council, who
published three admirable Reports on the subject, and probably brought
together more practical truths on vaccination than had ever before been
collected, that gave an impetus some few years ago to further inquiry.
It was stated at that time, and with every appearance of truth, that
the vaccine lymph becomes enfeebled in its protective power by a long
course of transmissions from arm to arm. It was therefore proposed
that means should be taken for establishing a well-devised system of
renewal, which would be likely to give greater certainty of results
and afford more permanent protection. Various attempts and suggestions
were made in this country to introduce vaccine matter from its original
source, the cow, or, better still, from the calf; and Mr Ceeley, a
medical gentleman, who, like Jenner, worked hard at the subject amidst
the worries and anxieties of a private practice, made many experiments,
and did much to popularise the idea.

Early in 1882, the local government Board set up a small establishment
in London for the purpose of affording facilities for vaccination
directly from the animal. Some time previously, a case of spontaneous
cowpox was accidentally discovered at Bordeaux, and from this case our
government procured the virus which they are now imparting to a regular
succession of healthy calves, each of which, before undergoing the
ordeal, is carefully examined by a Privy-council veterinary officer,
to insure its being in perfect health. The animal is then weighed,
and led away for a few days to a comfortable stall, and fed on sweet
hay, new milk, and oil-cake. An animal taken in on Monday would on
Thursday be led into the vaccinating-room, and securely strapped to
the top of a table which is ingeniously constructed to tip down into
a vertical position. The top of the table is then thrown over and
secured horizontally, the calf lying upon its side, and presenting
the under surface of its body conveniently for the surgical part of
the proceeding. The hair is first shaved off, and then some slight
incisions about an inch long are made in the skin, and the virus
introduced. This operation is performed in one part of a large room
divided by a wooden partition. To the other part of the room, parents
will in a few days bring their children, and have them vaccinated
directly from the animal thus prepared, and may thus escape whatever
evils, real or imaginary, pertain to the practice of arm-to-arm
vaccination. The calf having done its involuntary service to humanity,
is, before dismissal, again weighed, and is usually found to have
increased considerably—not, it may be presumed, in consequence of
vaccination, but from the good feeding it has received.

The practical results of vaccination from the animal direct, are in
some respects somewhat dubious. Belgium and Holland have long been
familiar with it; but still there appears to be a lack of trustworthy
records as to the efficacy of the process as compared with the
arm-to-arm system. Whether the animal lymph is as potent a protector
from smallpox as that which has been passed through the human system,
cannot as yet be determined, though there would seem to be no ground
for any reasonable doubt upon the subject. That the humanising
process does in some way, at present quite inscrutable, affect it,
seems evident from the fact that the vaccine from the calf loses its
efficacy somewhat sooner than that from the human subject. It cannot
be stored for so long a time as the humanised lymph, and this renders
its distribution somewhat difficult. The best authorities, however,
are now inclined to the opinion that the difference in this respect is
not after all so great as was at first supposed. The two scientific
men in charge of this station are, however, enthusiasts in this
department of medical investigation, and it may be hoped that with the
enlarged sphere of operations which government is understood to be
contemplating, and aided by a well-appointed laboratory in connection
with this establishment, an important advance may soon be made in their
knowledge of the subject.

Compulsory vaccination has done much in other countries to free them
for long periods from this loathsome disease. Sweden and Denmark
enjoyed absolute immunity for twenty years; and in Austria, where very
stringent measures of compulsion are resorted to, they succeeded in
extirpating smallpox for long periods.

It was in 1853 that compulsion was first established in this country,
and as at first nearly every one obeyed the law, it was attended with
very beneficial results. At the registration of a birth, the registrar
has to give notice of the necessity of having the child vaccinated
within four months, and the penalty for neglect. From the registrar’s
return, it is seen at the local government Board if a medical
certificate attesting the vaccination as duly performed, has been
returned. Assuming that every child is registered, this system no doubt
would answer well; but there is much reason to fear that many children
in London escape being registered, and these do not come within the
cognisance of the local government Board. It is a question whether some
return should not be required from medical men of every child born
alive, with the address of its parents.

Absolute care in vaccination and its universal adoption, combined
with a compulsory re-vaccination on arriving at the age of puberty,
would without doubt have by this time fulfilled Jenner’s most sanguine
expectations, and smallpox would have become extinct. At the same
time, if the government make vaccination compulsory, they have a most
important duty to the public to perform. In the first place, they
should undoubtedly ascertain that every known precaution is taken by
all public vaccinators to protect from harm, or disease likely to arise
from vaccination, those whom they compel to undergo the operation.
Secondly, none but properly certified practitioners should be appointed
to the stations. It is not alone sufficient that they be skilful
vaccinators, they should also be able to take lymph skilfully from the
vesicles without the admixture of the minutest particle of blood. An
ignorant or careless vaccinator may do more harm than it is possible
to trace. Thirdly, no lymph whatever should be used but that which is
microscopically examined by one who thoroughly understands his work,
and the public should be permitted to have a choice of either the
humanised lymph or lymph direct from the calf. If these precautions
were conscientiously carried out, we should soon have less objection to
compulsion, and we should be in a fair way to seeing smallpox stamped
out.

In America, according to the _Asclepiad_, the subject has received
careful attention. The Report of Dr Joseph Jones, President of the
Board of Health, of the State of Louisiana, extends to four hundred
pages, and embraces everything connected with smallpox, vaccination,
and spurious vaccination; while drawings are freely interspersed to
illustrate, from point to point, the author’s histories, views, or
conclusions. Amongst the general conclusions which the author draws
at the close of his treatise, the following are some of the most
important: (_a_) Vaccination, when carefully performed on Jenner’s
method, is as complete a protection from smallpox now as it was in the
early part of the century; (_b_) Without vaccination, the application
of steam and navigation and land travel would have, during the past
fifty years, scattered smallpox in every part of the habitable globe;
(_c_) Vaccination has not impaired the strength and vigour of the human
race, but has added vastly to the sum of human life, happiness, and
health; (_d_) Inoculation for smallpox, which preceded vaccination,
induced a comparatively mild and protective disease, but multiplied the
foci of contagion, kept smallpox perpetually alive, and increased its
fatal ravages among mankind.




BY MEAD AND STREAM.


CHAPTER XLVII.—UNDER-CURRENTS.

Shield had not been so perfectly frank with Philip as the latter
believed him to be. For instance, he had not mentioned that when Coutts
came to him with affected concern on account of the position in which
his brother might be placed by the forged bill, he had not admitted to
him that the signature was a forgery.

What he said to Coutts was: ‘Looks queer—but don’t know. Accustomed to
sign things that come through regular channel without looking close
into them. Will see what Hawkins and Jackson have to say about it and
let you know.’

Then Coutts took from his pocket a note which had been written to his
brother by Austin Shield and placed the two signatures side by side.

‘I do not think that any one looking at these would hesitate to say
that they were not written by the same hand.’

‘Don’t know. My hand shakes at times. Don’t always sign in exactly the
same way. Not always sure of my own signature—when it comes back to me.
Will inquire and let you know.’

‘I am positive that the writing is not yours, Mr Shield; and I should
never have touched the paper if there had been any signature of
yours beside me at the time. Although the amount may not be of much
consequence to you, it will be a heavy loss to me. But I could have no
suspicion of there being anything wrong, when I saw Philip’s name to
the bill.’

‘All right. Will inquire.—Good-day.’

When Coutts left the room, this big bearish man growled fiercely and
the growl ended in this note—‘Skunk.’ He immediately telegraphed for
his friend Mr Beecham; and that was why Beecham had so suddenly quitted
Kingshope.

On the day on which Madge made her memorable visit to London, Mr
Beecham’s conjuring friend, Bob Tuppit, called at Wrentham’s cottage
and asked for Mrs Wrentham. She could not be seen for half an hour; but
Tuppit was ready to wait an hour or more, if Mrs Wrentham’s convenience
should require it. He was accordingly shown into the dining-room—the
place where Wrentham spent the greater part of his evenings at home,
smoking and concocting schemes for the realisation of that grand vision
of his life—a comfortable income and a home somewhere in the sunny
south.

Tuppit was a quick-eyed little man, or he could not have earned his
living as a conjurer; and when he had turned himself round about
twice, he had the character and position of every bit of furniture
photographed on his mind’s eye. He looked longest at a heavy mahogany
desk which was bound with unusually massive brass clasps.

‘What a duffer!’ he said under his breath. ‘He has got something in
there that will do for him; and he puts on those big clasps like
labels, every one saying as plain as plain can be: “Look here, if you
want to find out my little game.” Well, having gone in for this sort
of thing, he might have taken the trouble to learn the ABC of his
business.’

Tuppit’s nimble fingers went round the desk and tried its fastenings.

‘Spring lock, too. So much the worse for him. Dier will pitch on it at
once.’

The door burst open, and little Ada Wrentham bounced in, her pretty
cheeks healthfully flushed, the hoop in her hand indicating how she had
been engaged.

‘O dear!’ she exclaimed, drawing back when she saw that there was a
stranger in the room.

‘Don’t go away—I’m a friend of yours,’ said Tuppit quickly.—‘Don’t you
remember me? I saw you watching me when I was performing on the green
in the summer-time, and you were with your nurse, and you sent me a
penny.’

The child stopped, stared, then advanced a few paces timidly till she
came to a sunbeam which crossed the room, dividing it in two. Then she
put out her pretty hands, moving them to and fro as if laving them in
the sunshine, whilst her eyes were full of wonder.

‘Was it you did all those funny things with the cards and the pigeons
and the pennies, and the orange and the glass of water?’

‘That was me, Ada—you see I know your name—and if you like, I will show
you some more funny things just now whilst I am waiting for your mamma.’

‘I’ll go and bring mamma. She would like to see them too.’

‘No, no; don’t go for her. She will be here as soon as she is ready.
Besides, this is a trick I want to show you all to yourself. You are
not afraid of the magician—are you?’

Little Ada peered at him through the sunbeam. He was such a little man;
and although his cheeks were somewhat hollow and his complexion rather
sallow, there was an expression of frank gentleness in his eyes which
at once inspired confidence. A child might trust him, and a child is
quick to detect untrustworthy persons.

‘I’m not afraid—why should I?’ said Ada laughing.

‘Because you do not know me—at least you do not know me enough to be
quite sure that I am not the wicked magician who tried so hard to kill
Aladdin because he got hold of the wonderful lamp.’

‘But that was a long time ago,’ she said with an air of thoughtfulness;
‘and papa says there are no magicians—no real magicians—and no ghosts
now, and that anybody who pretends to tell fortunes or to do magic
things is’——

The child instinctively paused and turned her face away.

‘Is an impostor, and ought to be taken up by the policeman,’ said
Tuppit, cheerfully completing the sentence for her; ‘and he is quite
right so far. All the same, Ada, there are great magicians always
close by us. There is the Good Magician, Love, who makes you fond of
your father and mother and ready to do kindly things for other people.
Then there are the wicked magicians Anger and Envy, who make you hate
everybody and everybody hate you. But you know I don’t pretend to be
like them; I only make-believe—that is, I perform tricks and tell you
how they are done.’

‘Is that all?’ she said, disappointed, allowing her hands to drop, and
passing through the sunbeam, which had hitherto formed a golden bar
between them.

‘That is all; but you have to work a great deal before you can do so
much.—Now, here is this big desk—your papa opens it by magic; but do
you know how it is done?’

‘O yes; he takes out a nail and pushes something in—but that’s telling.
Could you do it? I have seen papa do it often, and he did not mind me;
but he doesn’t like anybody else to see him, for he was angry one day
when nurse Susan came in without knocking just as he was going to open
it.’

Tuppit was already busy examining the brass screws. He found one the
notch of which indicated that it was more frequently used than the
others. A penknife served his purpose; he took out the screw, thrust a
thin pencil into the hole; pressed it, and the desk opened.

‘Oh, how clever!—That was just the way papa used to do it, only he had
a brass thing for sticking into the hole,’ said the child admiringly.
‘I’ve tried to do it.’

There was nothing in the desk; and Tuppit, with a long-drawn breath of
relief, closed it, replacing the screw as before. But he had kept on
chattering to the child all the time, and muttering parenthetically
observations to himself.

‘You must show your papa that you know how it is done, Ada.... Nothing
in it may tell for or against him.... And he will think it so funny
that we should find it out.... It’s a sign that he knows the game is
up and is making ready to bolt.... But you must tell him that it was
only a little bit of Tuppit’s conjuring, and that he was glad to find
nothing.’

Ada drew back towards the door, a little frightened by the change in
his manner, which betrayed excitement in spite of his self-control.

‘I think—I am beginning to be afraid of you now. You are not like the
good magician any more.’

‘That’s true, Ada,’ he said humbly, as he wiped his brow with that
wonderful silk handkerchief which was of so much use to him in his
professional exploits. Cold as the weather was, he seemed to be
perspiring. ‘But you know the change is only one of my tricks. Now, I
will come back. Hey, Presto, change.... There, am I not smiling the
same as before?’

‘No; you are not. You are looking ugly.’

‘Ah, let me hide my head.’

He bent down with a would-be comical manner of astonishment and
chagrin. The child laughed in a hesitating way, as if not quite
reassured that it was all fun. As he stooped, his eye fell on a
waste-paper basket under the table. He snatched it out, and found in it
a ball of blotting-paper which had been crumpled into that shape by an
impatient hand. This he smoothed out on the table and then held up so
that the sunbeam fell full upon it.

‘This is the thing. Thank heaven, it is in my hands.’ He carefully
folded the paper and put it in his pocket. Then with real heartiness
he turned to the wondering child. ‘Now, Ada, I can laugh again; and if
there was time enough, I would show you some beautiful things. Look
here, for instance. Open your hand; I place that penny in it.—Close
your hand. You are sure you have the penny?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘Presto, change. The penny is gone.’

‘No, it isn’t!’ cried the child, laughing, and opening her hand,
displayed the penny lying on the palm.

‘Keep it, keep it, my child; you deserve it; and take this shilling to
keep it company,’ said poor Bob Tuppit, who in his agitation had failed
in one of the simplest tricks of the prestidigitator, as his brethren
in the craft delight to call themselves. At another time, the failure
would have been humiliating to the last degree; but at present the
conjurer was too much occupied with matters of grave importance to feel
his discomfiture.

Mrs Wrentham entered.

‘I understand you bring a message from my husband, sir,’ she said in
her timid way.

‘Not exactly, ma’am; but I want to speak to you about him. I am a
friend of his, or I should not be here.’

He glanced towards Ada as he spoke, suggesting by the look that the
child should be sent out of the room. But Mrs Wrentham was too simple
to understand the hint, and Tuppit was obliged to take the matter into
his own hand.

‘I’ll tell you what, Ada; you might be a good magician now, if you
like. You could run out to the garden and pluck me a sprig of holly for
my little girl. She is very fond of shrubs and flowers; will you send
her some?’

‘O yes. There is such a nice sprig of holly up at the summer-house that
I was keeping for Christmas; but your little girl shall have it.—Is she
as old as me?’

‘Just about the same age; and now I look at you, she is rather like
you.’

Ada flew out at the door; and Tuppit turned eagerly to Mrs Wrentham,
his little form seeming to enlarge with the earnestness of his speech.

‘You are astonished, ma’am, at the liberty I am taking; but the fact is
your husband has got into ... well, got into a scrape.—Please, don’t
alarm yourself. I hope we shall pull him through all right. I only came
to warn you, knowing that he might have forgotten it.’

‘Warn me about what?’ exclaimed the lady, trembling without knowing why.

‘That a gentleman will call here to-day and make inquiries about your
husband. Answer him frankly, and, if you can manage it, do not look
as if you were afraid of him. He is a good-natured chap, and will not
press you very hard. But you must try to be quite calm and say nothing
about my visit.’

The poor lady became pale immediately; and the first dreadful thought
which occurred to her was that Wrentham had met with a serious
accident of some sort—she had never approved of his horse-racing and
horse-dealing proclivities. This good-natured friend was no doubt
trying to break the horrible truth to her as gently as possible.

‘Oh, please tell me the worst at once. Is he much hurt—is he killed?’

Bob Tuppit stared; but quickly comprehended the mistake which the wife
had made.

‘He is neither hurt nor killed, and is likely to live for a good many
years to come,’ he said reassuringly. ‘He has got into a bother about
some money matters. That is all.’

Tuppit felt ashamed of himself as he uttered the last words. What
would a broken leg or arm, or even a broken neck, have been compared
with the risk and disgrace of penal servitude? But Mrs Wrentham had no
suspicion of such a danger, and was relieved as soon as she heard that
her husband was physically unharmed. As for a difficulty about money,
she was confident that he would easily arrange that; so she promised
that she would answer any questions the gentleman who was coming might
have to ask; for she knew nothing about her husband’s money affairs,
and therefore had nothing to tell.

Bob Tuppit looked at her wistfully, as if inclined to tell her more of
the real position; but just then Ada came bounding in with the holly
and ivy—looking so happy and glad, that the man was unable to reveal
the worst.

‘They’ll know soon enough,’ he said to himself, as he thankfully took
the bundle of shrubs and went his way.




OLD PROVINCIAL FAIRS.


As a survival of one of the earliest institutions of this country, the
provincial fair is of special interest. Although it no longer retains
the functions for which it was originally founded, yet its existence
amongst us points back to a distant period in our history, when it not
only served as an important rendezvous for the furtherance of trade,
but was a centre whence the legislative enactments of the country were
proclaimed. Originally, it would seem the fair was generally held
during the period of a saint’s feast within the precincts of the church
or abbey, when worshippers and pilgrims assembled from all parts.
As the sacred building, too, was frequently in the open country, or
near some village too small to provide adequate accommodation for the
vast throng assembled on this annual festival, tents were pitched and
stalls for provisions set up in the churchyard, to supply the wants of
the visitors. This practice soon induced country pedlars and traders
to come and offer their wares; and hence in course of time it led to
the establishment of the commercial trade-marts known as ‘fairs.’ It
was not long, however, before abuses crept up, unseemly diversions
and excessive drinking causing no small offence. For instance, in
the fourteenth year of Henry III.’s reign, the archdeacon within the
diocese of Lincoln made inquiries into the custom of holding fairs
in churchyards; the result being that they were shortly afterwards
discontinued in this diocese. In the thirteenth year of Edward II.’s
reign, a statute was passed prohibiting the keeping of a fair in any
churchyard. But this law was in a great measure inoperative, for
markets seem to have been held in several Yorkshire churchyards in the
fourteenth and fifteenth centuries; and two hundred years later, the
same customs occurred in Germany.

Whatever the exact origin of our provincial fairs may be, they are
undoubtedly of great antiquity, although, singular to say, their
charters are comparatively of modern date; the first recorded grant
in this country apparently being that of William the Conqueror to
the Bishop of Winchester for leave to hold an annual ‘free fair at
St Giles’s Hill.’ Respecting this old fair, we are told how, on St
Giles’s eve, the mayor, bailiffs, and citizens of Winchester gave up
to the bishop’s officers the keys of the four city gates; and that,
while it lasted, the church appointed its own mayor, bailiff, and
coroner. The rules, too, for its regulation seem to have been very
stringent; officers being stationed on roads and bridges to take toll
upon all merchandise travelling in the direction of Winchester. A
tent of justice known as the Pavilion was held in the centre of the
fair, in which offences of various kinds were tried by the bishop’s
officers. Every precaution, too, was taken that all packages of goods
entering the city gates paid toll to the bishop, who likewise received
the forfeit of any wares that might be sold out of the fair within
a radius of seven miles. ‘Foreign merchants,’ says Mr Morley, ‘came
to this fair and paid its tolls. Monasteries had also shops or houses
in its drapery, pottery, or spicery streets, used only at fair-time,
and held often by lease from the bishop.’ This fair, therefore, apart
from its historical value, is interesting in so far as it was in many
respects the model upon which succeeding ones in other places were
instituted.

Fairs were occasionally granted to towns as a means for enabling them
to recover from the effects of war and other disasters; and also as a
mark of favour from the Crown. Thus, Edward III. founded a fair in the
town of Burnley in Lancashire. An amusing origin is given of ‘Fools’
Fair,’ kept in the Broad Gate at Lincoln on the 14th of September,
for the sale of cattle. It is recorded how King William and his queen
‘having visited Lincoln, made the citizens an offer to serve them in
any way they liked best. They asked for a fair, though it was harvest,
when few people could attend it, and though the town had no trade nor
any manufacture.’ Stourbridge fair, once perhaps the largest in the
world, was specially granted by King John for the maintenance of a
hospital for lepers. Among other origins assigned to fairs, may be
mentioned ‘Pack-Monday fair,’ which was in days gone by celebrated at
Sherborne, on the first Monday after the 10th October. It was ushered
in by the ringing of the great bell at a very early hour, and by the
young people perambulating the streets with cows’ horns. Tradition
asserts that this fair originated at the completion of the building of
the church—at the completion of which the workmen held a fair in the
churchyard, blowing cows’ horns in their rejoicings. There can be no
doubt, however, that in many cases where the true origin of many of our
old fairs has in the course of years been forgotten, another has been
invented in its place, and handed down with every mark apparently of
plausibility.

Perhaps one of the most curious features of our provincial fairs is
to be found in the odd customs associated with them, these possessing
an additional interest, as they help to illustrate the social life of
our forefathers. Thus, from time immemorial, it has been customary
at several of our large fairs—such as those kept up at Portsmouth,
Southampton, Chester, and Macclesfield—to announce their opening by
hoisting a glove of unusual size in some conspicuous place. This, it
has been suggested, is the earliest form of royal charter, denoting
the king’s glove—the custom being thus explained in the _Speculum
Saxonicum_: ‘No one is allowed to set up a market or a mint without the
consent of the ordinary and judge of that place; the king ought also to
send a glove, as a sign of his consent to the same.’ The charter for
Lammas fair at Exeter was formerly perpetuated by a huge glove, stuffed
and carried through the city on a long pole, which was eventually
placed on the top of the Guildhall, where, so long as it remained,
it indicated that the fair was still open. A variation of this usage
prevailed at Liverpool, where, ten days before and after each fair-day,
a hand was exhibited in front of the town-hall—a sign which denoted
that ‘no person coming to or going from the town on business connected
with the fair can be arrested for debt within its liberty.’ Englefield,
in his _Walk through Southampton_ (1805), describing the fair held on
Trinity Monday at Southampton, says it was dissolved by the glove being
taken down, ‘which was at one time performed by the young men of the
town, who fired at it till it was destroyed, or they were tired of the
sport.’ Without enumerating further instances of this practice, there
can be no doubt that, as Mr Leadam has shown in the _Antiquary_ (1880),
the glove is the original ‘sign-manual.’

One of the quaint features of Charlton fair, formerly held on St Luke’s
Day, was the elaborate display of horns; the booths not only being
decorated with them, but most of the articles offered for sale having
representations of this emblem. For a long time, antiquaries were much
divided as to what connection there could be between horns and Charlton
fair, and many conjectures were started without any satisfactory
result. At last, however, light was thrown on this much-disputed
question by an antiquary, who pointed out that a horned ox is the old
medieval symbol of St Luke, the patron of the fair. In support of this
explanation, it was further added, that although most of the painted
glass in Charlton church was destroyed in the troublous times of the
reign of Charles I., yet fragments remained of St Luke’s ox ‘with
wings on his back, and goodly horns on his head.’ As an additional
illustration on this point, we may quote the following extract from
Aubrey’s _Remains of Gentilisme and Judaisme_: ‘At Stoke-Verdon, in the
parish of Broad Chalke, Wilts, was a chapel dedicated to St Luke, who
is the patron saint of the horn-beasts and those that have to do with
them; wherefore the keepers and foresters of the New Forest come hither
at St Luke’s tide with their offerings to St Luke, that they might be
fortunate in their game, the deer, and other cattle.’ Many of those,
also, who visited Charlton fair wore a pair of horns on their heads,
and the men were attired in women’s clothes; a mode of masquerading
thus described by a writer of the last century: ‘I remember being there
upon Horn fair-day; I was dressed in my landlady’s best gown, and other
women’s attire.’ Referring to St Luke’s Day, Drake tells us in his
_Eboracum_ that a fair was annually kept up at York for all sorts of
small-wares, and was popularly known as ‘Dish-fair,’ from the large
quantity of wooden dishes exposed for sale. It was also characterised
by an old custom of ‘bearing a wooden ladle in a sling on two stangs
about it, carried by four sturdy labourers; this being, no doubt, in
ridicule of the meanness of the wares brought to the fair.’ At Paignton
fair, Exeter, it was customary, says a correspondent of _Notes and
Queries_, to draw through the town a plum-pudding of immense size, and
afterwards to distribute it to the crowd. The ingredients which on one
occasion composed this pudding were as follows: four hundred pounds of
flour, one hundred and seventy pounds of beef-suet, one hundred and
forty pounds of raisins, and two hundred and forty eggs. It was kept
constantly boiling in a brewer’s copper from the Saturday morning to
the Tuesday following, when it was placed on a car profusely decorated
and drawn along the streets by eight oxen.

Again, among the numerous other customs which were attached to many of
our fairs may be mentioned that popularly designated as ‘Walking the
Fair.’ Thus, at Wolverhampton, on the eve of the great fair which took
place on the 9th of July, a procession of men in antique armour paraded
the town, preceded by the local authorities. According to tradition,
this ceremony took its rise when Wolverhampton was a great emporium
for wool and resorted to by merchants from all parts of England. These
processions, however, were in all probability the remains of the Corpus
Christi pageantry, which was frequently celebrated at the yearly fairs.
At Avingham fair, held about twelve miles from Newcastle, an amusing
ceremony was celebrated called ‘Riding the Fair.’ Early in the morning
a procession moved from the principal alehouse in the village, headed
by two pipers, known as the ‘Duke of Northumberland’s pipers,’ who,
fancifully dressed up for the occasion, were mounted on horses gaily
caparisoned, and specially borrowed for the day. These pipers, followed
by the Duke of Northumberland’s agent, bailiff, and a numerous escort,
rode through the fair; and after proclaiming it opened, they ‘walked
the boundary of all that was, or had been, common or waste land.’
Riding the boundaries is still annually practised in many provincial
parishes.

We must not omit to mention the ‘Procession of Lady Godiva’—one of the
grandest of these shows, and which has been the distinguishing feature
of Coventry Show Fair, for many years one of the chief marts in the
kingdom. This celebrated fair has generally commenced upon Friday in
Trinity-week, the charter for it having been granted, it is said, by
Henry III. in the year 1218, at the instigation of Randle, Earl of
Chester. It is noteworthy, however, that the tradition of Lady Godiva
is not confined to Coventry fair, a similar one having been handed down
in the neighbourhood of St Briavel’s, Gloucestershire. Thus Rudder, in
his History of this county (1779), tells us how, formerly, after divine
service on Whitsunday, pieces of bread and cheese were distributed to
the congregation at church. To defray the expenses, every householder
in the parish paid a penny to the churchwardens, and this was said to
be for the liberty of cutting and taking wood in Hudnalls. Tradition
affirms that ‘this privilege was obtained of some Earl of Hereford,
then lord of the Forest of Dean, at the instance of his lady, upon
the same hard terms that Lady Godiva obtained the privileges for the
citizens of Coventry.’

Again, at the Whitsuntide fair held at Hinckley in Leicestershire,
one of the principal attractions was the procession of the millers,
who, having assembled from all the neighbouring villages, marched in
grand array with the ‘king of the millers’ at their head. From the
various accounts recorded of this ceremony, it appears that the dresses
were generally most elaborate; and one writer, in 1787, describing
these shows, says: ‘The framework knitters, wool-combers, butchers,
carpenters, &c., had each their plays, and rode in companies bearing
allusions to their different trades.’ Then there was the well-known
practice of ‘Crying the Fair.’ Thus, in connection with Stourbridge
fair we read how in the year 1548 a proclamation was issued by the
university of Cambridge in ‘crying the fair,’ in which it was directed,
among other clauses, that ‘no brewer sell into the fayer a barrell of
ale above two shillings; no longe ale, no red ale, no ropye ale, but
good and holsome for man’s body, under the penaltie of forfeyture.’

Ravenglass fair, celebrated annually at Muncaster in Cumberland, was
the scene of a peculiar ceremony, which is thus described in Lyson’s
_Magna Britannia_: ‘The lord’s steward was attended by the sergeant of
the borough of Egremont with the insignia called the bow of Egremont,
the foresters with their bows and horns, and all the tenantry of the
forest of Copeland, whose special service was to attend to the lord
and his representatives at Ravenglass fair, and remain there during
its continuance.’ In order, also, to attract visitors, various modes
of diversion were contrived; these generally succeeding in bringing
together large concourses of people from outlying districts. Thus,
occasionally, a mock-mayor was appointed, whose duty it was to try
any unfortunate person who on some trumped-up charge might be brought
before him. It has been suggested that these mock-trials may have
originated in the courts which were granted at fairs ‘to take notice
of all manner of causes and disorders committed upon the place, called
pie-powder, because justice was done to any injured person before the
dust of the fair was off his feet.’ A notable instance of this custom
was kept up at Bodmin Riding in Cornwall, on St Thomas à Becket’s
Day. A mock-court having been summoned, presided over by a Lord of
Misrule, any unpopular individual so unlucky as to be captured was
dragged to answer a charge of felony; the imputed crime being such as
his appearance might suggest—a negligence in his attire or a breach
of manners. With ludicrous gravity, we are told in the _Parochial
History of Cornwall_, ‘a mock-trial was then commenced, and judgment
was gravely pronounced, when the culprit was hurried off to receive
his punishment. In this, his apparel was generally a greater sufferer
than his person, as it commonly terminated in his being thrown into the
water or the mire’—‘Take him before the Mayor of Halgaver;’ ‘Present
him in Halgaver Court,’ being old Cornish proverbs.

A similar institution has existed from time immemorial at the little
town of Penryn in Cornwall, at the annual festival of Nutting, when
the ‘Mayor of Mylor’ is chosen. According to popular opinion, says Mr
Hunt, in his _Romances of the West of England_, ‘there is a clause in
the borough charter compelling the legitimate mayor to surrender his
power to the “Mayor of Mylor” on the day in question, and to lend the
town-sergeant’s paraphernalia to the gentlemen of the shears.’ At the
yearly fair, too, held in the village of Tarleton, a mock-mayor was
until a very few years ago elected, this ceremony forming part of the
after-dinner proceedings. ‘Three persons,’ says a correspondent of
_Notes and Queries_, ‘were nominated, and it was the rule that each
candidate on receiving a vote should drink a glass of wine—a “bumper”
to the health of the voter—so that the one elected was not very steady
on his feet when all the company had polled and the newly elected
mayor had to be installed.’

Lastly, referring to the days on which fairs were formerly held, it
appears from _The Book of Fairs_ that they were kept up on Good-Friday
at St Austell, Cornwall; Droitwich, Worcestershire; Grinton,
Yorkshire; High-Budleigh, Devonshire; and at Wimborne, Dorsetshire. A
correspondent of _Notes and Queries_ says that he saw a ‘brisk fair
going on in the little village of Perran’s Porth, Cornwall, not far
from the curious oratory of St Piran, on Good-Friday in 1878.’ In
some places, too, Sunday seems to have been selected; for in Benson’s
_Vindication of the Methodists_ we find the following paragraph, with
special reference to Lincolnshire: ‘Wakes, feasts, and dancing begin in
many parishes on the Lord’s Day, on which also some fairs and annual
markets are held.’




THE LAST OF THE STUARTS.

A MODERN ROMANCE.


I.—THE DISINHERITED PRINCE.

It was the proud boast of the late Mr Charles James Stuart, of
Balquhalloch, N.B., that he was the direct representative and lawful
heir of the unfortunate royal family of Scotland. I do not quite know
how he derived his descent, or from whom; but I feel sure that, had
he lived at the beginning of the eighteenth instead of the nineteenth
century, he would, with considerable confidence, have contested the
right of Queen Anne and the earlier Georges to reign over the northern,
if not also the southern portion of Great Britain. He was not born,
however, until 1796; and at that time there were in the Highlands but
few people who still chafed under Hanoverian rule. When, therefore, as
a young man, he first went to London, instead of plotting rebellion
against the authority of King George III., he fell in love with an
English girl named Eleanor Tudor, who also claimed, and, I think, not
without justice, to be lineally descended from royal ancestors. A
portrait of this lady was until quite recently in the possession of her
daughter, Miss Stuart. She was not beautiful; and I strongly suspect
that Mr Stuart would not have wooed her, had she borne any other name
than Tudor; but the prospect of once more uniting the old kingly stocks
of England and Scotland proved too seductive to be resisted; and in the
summer of 1817, the laird married Miss Tudor at St James’s, Piccadilly,
and at once carried her off to his northern home. In the following
year, Mrs Stuart gave birth to the above-mentioned daughter, who in due
course received the name of Henrietta Maria; and when in 1820 a son was
also born at Balquhalloch, he was, with equal fittingness, baptised
Charles Augustus.

The old laird died in 1861; but in the meantime his son had grown up
and married a pretty but penniless governess; and in 1857 a son, who
was named Charles Edward, had been born to him. Mr Charles Augustus
Stuart, who, I regret to say, had more respect for whisky than for
his magnificent ancestry, was seized with apoplexy in 1878, shortly
afterwards departing this life; and in 1880, when the events which
I am about to narrate began, the only living representatives of the
old laird were his daughter Henrietta Maria, an eccentric lady of
sixty-two; and his grandson Charles Edward, a lively and, I may add,
rather unscrupulous fellow of three-and-twenty.

Miss Stuart was a tall and very dignified person. Twenty years
ago, the thirsty cravings of Charles Augustus had dragged him into
pecuniary difficulties, from which he only extricated himself by
selling Balquhalloch and all its contents to his sister; and from that
time, Miss Stuart was mistress of the fine old house, and maintained
herself there in a style almost worthy of the descendant of a hundred
kings. She was rich, her mother’s relations having at different
times bequeathed to her sums amounting in the aggregate to nearly
three-quarters of a million; and she was generous, as all the poor
of her neighbourhood would gladly testify; but, as I have already
said, she was eccentric. She regarded herself as a British princess;
she insisted upon her servants treating her as such; she lived in
considerable state, and had a large household; and whenever she had
occasion to sign her name, she signed it magnificently, ‘Henrietta
Maria, P.’

Young Charles Edward, on the other hand, inherited no fortune worth
speaking of. His father had squandered his means in dissipation; and
dying, left a paltry five thousand pounds, upon the interest of which
the son, until 1880, lived in chambers in the Inner Temple. Up to that
time he had no direct communication with his magnificent aunt, who,
after purchasing Balquhalloch, had quarrelled with his father. In the
spring of the year, however, Charles Edward happened to be breakfasting
with his friend Tom Checkstone, who called his attention to the
following advertisement in the _Morning Post_:

‘A Personage of rank requires the services of a private secretary.
Applicant must be energetic, well educated, of good address, and
willing to spend the greater part of his time in the country.—Send full
particulars to the Steward of the Household, Balquhalloch, N.B.’

‘Balquhalloch is your aunt’s place; is it not? I wonder who has taken
it?’ asked Tom.

‘No one has taken it. My aunt always lives there; and, what is more,
she is the Personage of rank.’

‘Your aunt! Have they been making her a peeress, then?’ demanded Tom
incredulously.

‘She’s a little weak in her head, you know, on the subject of our
supposed royal descent,’ returned Charles Edward; ‘and she insists upon
regarding herself as a princess.’

‘And if she is a princess, what are you, Charlie?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t troubled myself to go deeply into the
matter; but I suppose that in her estimation I am the legitimate king
of England, or rather, of Great Britain. My grandfather claimed to be
the representative of the House of Stuart; so, of course, as the only
son of his only son, I inherit that great but somewhat barren honour.’

‘Well, I have made up my mind to write to your eccentric aunt’s Steward
of the Household,’ said Tom. ‘I have little to do, and, what is far
more serious, little to live upon; and if the Princess will give me
five hundred a year, Her Royal Highness shall have my services.—Is she
rich?’

‘O yes. I believe that she has a good twenty thousand a year, if not
more.’

‘And yet she lets you live here on two hundred and fifty! I can’t
say much for her princely liberality.—Do you know any one who will
recommend me? And who is this Steward of hers?’

‘He is a Scotchman, named M‘Dum—Donald M‘Dum. He used to be merely a
kind of farm-bailiff; but he falls in with all my aunt’s whims, and I
rather fancy he is making a good thing out of his place.’

‘Not what you would call a very upright man?’ hazarded Tom.

‘By no means. From what I have heard, I should take him to be a regular
money-grubber. George Fegan, of Figblossom Buildings, who was in
Scotland last autumn, met him several times, and told me all about him.’

‘Ah, I shall go and see Fegan. Don’t you mention the matter. But
remember one thing: if I get the appointment, I’ll guarantee that the
old lady shall take you into immediate favour. I have an idea, a grand
one. At present, never mind what it is. If this M‘Dum is as mercenary
as you make out, we must raise money to bribe him to use his influence
on my behalf; and the question is, how can we raise it? All my modest
expectations are centred upon the death of my uncle Blighter, who, as
you know, is already bedridden. When he dies, I shall come into a few
thousands.—Will you lend me a thousand, if I want it?’

Checkstone and Stuart were old school-chums, and although not
altogether prompt in satisfying the demands of their tailors, trusted
one another completely.

‘I could realise my small investments,’ said Charlie; ‘but by doing so
I should reduce my income by fifty pounds a year; so I hope that the
favours from my aunt won’t be long in coming.’

‘Then you shall realise; and I’ll give you my promissory-note for the
amount. But first I must see Fegan and make inquiries. I won’t do
anything risky; trust me for that. While I benefit myself, I shall
doubly benefit you. When I have called on Fegan, I shall at once, if
necessary, go down to Balquhalloch and see the great M‘Dum. When I wire
to you, you can realise; and I can draw upon you for any sum up to a
thousand, eh?’

‘So be it,’ assented Charlie. ‘And I hope you will get the appointment
and help me out of my difficulties. Why, if only my aunt would do the
proper thing, I could marry. She might easily spare, say, a thousand
a year; and with that addition to my income, Kate and I could do very
well.’

‘That marrying craze of yours is like a millstone tied to your neck.
You ought to look out for a girl with money. Kate Smith is an orphan,
and has no expectations; and in any case, you might—if you will forgive
my saying so—do better than marry a governess.’

‘My father married a governess!’ exclaimed Charlie warmly.

‘So much the worse. The race will be ruined! However, we won’t talk
about that now. While you are a bachelor, there is still hope; and
you shall have your thousand a year very soon, unless I am vastly
mistaken.—Now I am off to see Fegan; so good-bye. If I go to Scotland
to-night, you shall hear from me to-morrow. All depends upon Fegan’s
report of the great M‘Dum.’


II.—THE ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY.

Fegan’s report must have been at least to some extent favourable, if
not actually encouraging, for that evening Tom Checkstone left town
by the limited mail for Scotland. For reasons that will presently
appear, he took with him half-a-dozen boxes of very fine cigars and a
considerable quantity of personal luggage; and, contrary to his usual
habit, he travelled first-class.

Early on the morning of the next day but one, after having spent a
portion of the previous night at the _Bagpipes Inn_, Aberdumble,
he hired the best conveyance in the town, and was driven over to
Balquhalloch.

Balquhalloch Castle, as all Scotchmen and most Englishmen are no doubt
aware, is a straggling building that dates back to the beginning of the
fifteenth century. It occupies an isolated position, and consists of
a grim gray keep, surrounded by a circle of stables, store-rooms, and
servants’ quarters.

It was to this ancient abode that Mr Tom Checkstone was driven. The
carriage passed through the frowning gateway of the castle into a large
courtyard, in which several servants in livery stood ready to receive
it. Tom alighted, and, acting upon instructions which he had obtained
from George Fegan, asked to see Mr M‘Dum. His card was carried to that
functionary, who at once professed his readiness to see his visitor in
his private room. Thither, therefore, Tom was conducted; and scarcely
had he taken a seat ere the Steward of the Household entered.

Mr M‘Dum was a short, stout, red-faced man of about fifty years of age.
He was negligently dressed in a brown velvet shooting-suit, and he was
smoking a very large cigar.

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked bluntly.

‘I have come down,’ said Tom, ‘with an introduction from Mr George
Fegan of Figblossom Buildings, London.’

‘Yes; I know him,’ ejaculated M‘Dum abruptly.

‘And I wish,’ continued Tom, ‘to apply for a secretaryship which, as I
see by an advertisement in the _Morning Post_, is vacant.’

‘Well, sit down,’ said M‘Dum, as he threw himself into the most
comfortable chair in the room; ‘and we will talk the matter over.’ And
he proceeded to help himself to a stiff glass of whisky from a decanter
that stood upon a table at his side.

‘I think that I possess all the necessary qualifications,’ began Tom;
‘but of that you must be the judge. Perhaps this letter from Mr Fegan
will give you as much information as I can,’ and he handed a sealed
missive to the Steward.

M‘Dum took it, and having opened it, read aloud:

    ‘MY DEAR MR M‘DUM—My friend Mr Checkstone has seen in the
    paper that a secretary is wanted at Balquhalloch. He is a
    young man of means, family, good education, and address; he
    is, moreover, a sociable companion; and you may in all matters
    rely upon his discretion. I therefore highly recommend him to
    you. I take advantage of his journey to Scotland to send to you
    half-a-dozen boxes of very prime cigars; and remain yours very
    faithfully,

            GEORGE FEGAN.’

‘And here are the cigars,’ added Tom, pointing to a package which he
had brought in with him.

Cigars were Mr M‘Dum’s second weakness. His first was good whisky. In
a moment his demeanour, which up to that point had been by no means
friendly, altered.

‘Good!’ he exclaimed. ‘The letter, so far as it goes, is perfectly
satisfactory, Mr Checkstone.—Now, let us look at the matter as men of
business. The fact is that Miss Stuart—the Princess Henrietta Maria
as we call her here—wants a well-educated amanuensis. I manage her
estates and her household, but—and I needn’t attempt to disguise it—my
education has been neglected. I am not good at letter-writing. Still,
I have worked my way gradually up into my present position, and I am
not disposed to imperil it. The man who comes here must be my ally. He
will be paid four hundred a year, and will keep his place as long as
he likes, provided that he gets on well with me. The Princess is not
exacting, although she is eccentric. I do not suppose, indeed, that the
work will be hard; and as there is plenty of good shooting and fishing
down here, the life is very pleasant. I may tell you that Mr Fegan has
already telegraphed to me announcing your visit, and that I am upon the
whole prepared to engage you.’

‘You are very good,’ returned Tom, who, however, did not add that he
knew the telegram in question had been sent, and that he was perfectly
aware of its contents. The words were: ‘I send down Checkstone for
secretary. Easy to manage. Perfectly innocent and harmless.’ Nor did
Tom explain that he, and not Fegan, was the real donor of the cigars.

‘Oh, it is merely a matter of business,’ rejoined M‘Dum. ‘I fancy
that we should get on together. But, since if you obtain the post you
will obtain it through my good offices, and since I naturally desire
to have some guarantee that the Princess’s confidence in you will
not be misplaced, you must excuse my asking whether you are prepared
to—well—to make some small—what shall we say—some small deposit, some
trifling payment as a security, you know?’

‘Nothing could be more reasonable, Mr M‘Dum,’ said Tom.

‘I imagine,’ continued the Steward, who was much encouraged by Tom’s
words, ‘that a premium, say, of two years’ salary would not, under
the circumstances, be excessive; for the post would practically be a
permanency. Two years’ salary would be eight hundred pounds.’

‘Yes; I think that eight hundred pounds would not be excessive,’ said
Tom. ‘I am ready to agree to pay that sum.’

‘That’s good! Then I will introduce you to the Princess.’ And placing
his unfinished cigar in an ash-tray upon the table, Mr M‘Dum arose, and
led the way through some long and cheerless stone passages into a more
pretentious and better furnished part of the huge building. Leaving Tom
in a panelled anteroom, he went forward to announce him; and returning,
conducted the new secretary into the presence.

In a large armchair in a long low drawing-room sat the Princess
Henrietta Maria. Tom bowed low as soon as he saw her, and then—acting
upon directions which had been supplied to him by Mr Fegan—advanced and
respectfully kissed the tips of her outstretched fingers.

‘Mr M‘Dum tells me,’ said the Princess, ‘that you are in all respects
competent to act as our private secretary. We particularly need the
services of an amanuensis just now, because we are drawing up some
memoirs of our family. The documents are here in the castle; but our
health does not permit of sufficient progress with the work. Are you
prepared to undertake the duties?’

‘I am, your Royal Highness,’ assented Tom meekly, as he stood before
the majestic old lady.

‘That is well. And when can you begin those duties, Mr Checkstone?’

‘I am at any moment at your Royal Highness’s disposal,’ said Tom. ‘I
can even take up my residence here to-day, should your Royal Highness
wish it.’

‘Let it be so, then, Mr Checkstone. Mr M‘Dum shall conduct you to your
apartments; and I myself will take an early opportunity of visiting
them and of satisfying myself that you will be comfortable.’

The Princess signified that the audience was over; and Tom and the
Steward backed out of the room, bowing low as they went.

‘You should not have said that you would come in to-day,’ said M‘Dum,
as soon as the door was shut. ‘And besides, how can you do so? Where is
your luggage?’

‘It is at the inn at Aberdumble,’ answered Tom. ‘I thought, under any
circumstances, of staying in Scotland for a few weeks; and so I came
prepared.’

‘Humph!’ ejaculated M‘Dum, who was somewhat annoyed at his protégé’s
precipitancy.—‘Now, if you don’t mind, we will go back to my little
office and complete our business arrangements.’

Ten minutes later, Mr M‘Dum was the richer by a promissory-note for
eight hundred pounds, and Tom was formally installed as private
secretary to the Princess Henrietta Maria. At the earliest possible
moment he sent back the conveyance to Aberdumble, instructing the
coachman to forward his luggage to the castle, and intrusting the man
with two telegrams, worded in French, one being addressed to George
Fegan, and the other to Charles Edward Stuart.

Later in the day, the Princess requested him to attend her in the
library; and there, without many preliminaries, he began, under her
supervision, to transcribe the contents of numerous musty documents
in English, and to translate those of others that were written in
French and Latin. He worked for only a couple of hours; and then the
Princess, bidding him lay aside his pen, sat and talked to him about
London, about politics, and about books. In the evening he played
chess and smoked with Mr M‘Dum; and after the toddy had been done full
justice to, he retired, well satisfied, to his own snug rooms on the
second floor of the ancient keep.

Thus did he spend his time for a week and more, until one afternoon the
Princess fell to talking about the sad fate of her family.

‘The principle of divine right,’ she said, ‘cannot be altered by
popular clamour. It is a reality. She who at present sits upon the
throne of these kingdoms is no more the Queen than you are. Excellent
woman though she is, she is but the representative of usurpers. True
kings cannot be made by vulgar acclamation, neither can wrong become
right by lapse of time. But the blood of our race has been tainted. Our
royal brother of sacred memory—though, to be sure, he never recognised
his exalted position—married a commoner; and how can I expect that the
child of that union should be worthy of his splendid ancestry? Ah, that
child! What possibilities are his, if only he had the energy to seize
them! But he cares nothing. He is content to live obscure. He will not
accept his destiny.’

‘Nay!’ suggested Tom; ‘perhaps he lives obscure because he is poor.
Perhaps he is too proud to let it be known that he who exists upon a
miserable two hundred and fifty pounds a year is the king of Great
Britain. Your Royal Highness must not be unjust.’

‘Would that what you say were true!’ ejaculated the Princess. ‘But if
he only made some sign of his desire to win his own, heaven knows that
I would aid him with my fortune, and even, if need were, with my life.’

‘Your Royal Highness’s sentiments are worthy of her great lineage,’
said Tom courteously. ‘I happen to know that the facts are as I have
hinted; for, although I have not yet mentioned it, I have the honour of
your Royal Highness’s august nephew’s acquaintance. Indeed, I may say
the king deigns to honour me with his friendship.’

‘The king!’ exclaimed the Princess, with beaming eyes—‘the king! You
have heard His Majesty speak, have seen His Majesty walk, and you have
not told me! Oh, Mr Checkstone, I cannot tell you how it rejoices me
to have one of the king’s friends in my service!—What is His Majesty’s
will? What are His Majesty’s plans? You may trust me. I am devoted
wholly and entirely to his interests. How I have longed to learn of his
intention to take his rightful position!’

Thus encouraged, Tom Checkstone related to the Princess a very
plausible and interesting story, the main points of which he did not
forget to communicate by letter to his friend in London. He assured the
Princess that poverty alone prevented the king from taking action; that
His Majesty chafed grievously in his enforced seclusion; and that the
legitimate sovereign of Great Britain, in spite of the plebeian origin
of his mother, was in all respects a worthy descendant of the Jameses.

‘Then His Majesty must come hither,’ said the Princess. ‘But I am
greatly in doubt whether I can place implicit confidence in Mr M‘Dum.
He is an excellent servant, but I fear he is not too loyal; and we must
risk nothing.’

‘Mr M‘Dum,’ said Tom, ‘has very well taken care of himself hitherto.
Your Royal Highness is perhaps not aware that he accepted a bribe from
me when I applied for my present position in your Royal Highness’s
household. I have his receipt for eight hundred pounds.’

‘Then, we shall certainly dismiss him,’ remarked the Princess with
signs of rising anger. ‘But, as I say, he is withal an excellent
servant, and it would not become us to act towards him in anger. I will
pension him; and when he has left the castle, we may receive the king
without any risk; for all my other servants have from their childhood
been devoted to the royal cause.’

The result of this conversation—all the details of which were
faithfully reported to Charlie Stuart—was that Mr M‘Dum, after a
somewhat stormy scene with the Princess, quitted Balquhalloch, with
an eye to an eligible public-house in Glasgow; and on the day of his
departure, the Princess wrote a loyal and affectionate letter to her
nephew, and despatched it to him by the hands of her chaplain, the Rev.
Octavius M‘Fillan, a priest who, although he possessed no remarkable
degree of intelligence, was of unimpeachable devotion to the Princess,
and of great simplicity and kindness of heart. ‘Our castle,’ the letter
concluded, ‘is held at your Majesty’s disposal; and all within it is at
your Royal service.’

Father M‘Fillan, with much ceremony, delivered the missive to Charlie
at his chambers in the Inner Temple; and ‘the king’ was pleased to
say in reply that he would at his earliest convenience visit his
well-beloved aunt in the north.

Two or three days afterwards, the second column of the _Times_
contained an announcement to the effect that Catharine Smith, daughter
of the late John Smith of Manchester, intended thenceforth to assume
the surname of Plantagenet, and upon all future occasions to style
herself, and be known as, Catharine Plantagenet. Fortunately, the
_Times_ was not studied at Balquhalloch, the Princess reading only the
_Edinburgh Courant_, because it was a thorough-going Tory journal, and
the London _Morning Post_, because it was of eminently aristocratic
tone.

A week later, Charlie, who had meantime received some long letters from
Tom, went down to Scotland.




INDIAN JUGGLERS.

BY AN ANGLO-INDIAN.


The exhibition of feats of legerdemain is at all times entertaining;
and those who have had the pleasure of witnessing the performances of
such accomplished professors of the art of magic as the late Wizard of
the North, or Messrs Maskelyne and Cooke of the Egyptian Hall, London,
are not likely soon to forget the same. In Britain, however, it is
only now and again that a magician of the first class, who is likewise
a native of the British Isles, appears. Eminent British jugglers are
few and far between. But in the ancient East, magic is, and has from
time immemorial been, much more generally cultivated. India, as every
one who has resided in our great tropical dependency knows, counts its
jugglers by thousands. Indeed, magic is there a recognised calling or
business; it descends from father to son; and an Indian juggler, be
he Mussulman or Hindu, would not dream of teaching his son any other
business than his own—that of magic. And so it comes about that the
supply of Indian jugglers is both large and continuous. The Indian
juggler is a very humble individual; he does not appear before his
audience in the glory of evening dress; his only costume is a cloth
bound round his loins. And thus, if coat-sleeves or pockets at all
assist in magic, the Indian juggler is at a decided disadvantage, for
both his arms and legs are bare. He is a thin, an unnaturally thin,
wiry-looking individual—the Indian juggler. I do not know why he should
be thin, but I do not recollect ever having seen a fat Indian juggler.
Fat natives of India there are in plenty, as those who have travelled
on Indian railways know to the detriment of their olfactory nerves;
but I cannot recall a single fat Indian magician. Again, the Indian
juggler does not appear before his audience with the swagger of the
man who knows his power to command the applause of crowded houses. On
the contrary, he appears meekly before you at the foot of your veranda
steps, obsequiously salaaming, quite prepared to be turned away with
rough words, but hoping to be invited up the steps to perform; for he
knows that if he once reaches the top of the veranda steps, he will, an
hour thereafter, be one rupee, perhaps two rupees, richer, and he will
thus have earned his living for a week. Not a very liberal remuneration
this, you may think; and yet it is a fact that a juggler whose receipts
amounted to ten rupees—say eighteen shillings in one month—would
consider himself a fortunate man.

His performance is a remarkable one, though, perhaps, not more
remarkable than a first-class exhibition of magic in Britain. But
between the British and the Indian juggler there is one great
and important difference. The former has all the usual elaborate
paraphernalia of home magical entertainments—a prepared stage, back
curtains, tables, chairs, boxes, &c.; the latter has nothing of the
sort: all his appliances are contained in a cotton bag which he carries
about with him; he is nearly naked; and his stage is the ground or the
stone floor of a veranda. Very often two or three jugglers combine and
pay visits to the bungalows, thus giving variety to the performance—for
each juggler has his own tricks. Recently, I had a visit from an
amalgamated troupe consisting of seven members—five men, one woman, and
a boy. Probably the seven had conjoined their entertainments for that
particular day only, and next day they might be performing separately
again. If I give a description of what this party of seven did, you
will have a fair idea of a juggling entertainment in India.

Two of the seven—one man and the woman—performed a single trick only,
namely, the famous basket trick. The man took an oblong basket about
two feet long, one foot broad, and, say, a foot and a half high. The
woman was bound hand and foot with ropes, and put into a net made of
rope, which was securely tied, so that she was practically in a sack of
network. She was then lifted and placed into the basket on her knees.
But a two-year-old child would have filled the basket, and the result
was that the whole of the woman’s person, from the loins upwards, was
above the basket. The woman bent her head; the juggler placed the
lid of the basket on her shoulders, and then threw a sheet over the
whole—hiding both woman and basket from view. In about a minute he
pulled away the sheet, folding it up in his hands, and behold, the lid
was in its proper place, and the woman was gone! The juggler now took a
sword about five feet long, and with it he pierced the basket through
and through in all directions, horizontally, diagonally, upwards, and
downwards; but there was no sign of any one inside. He even removed the
lid, jumped into the basket with his feet, and danced in it, until one
came to the conclusion that, wherever the woman had gone to, she was
not inside. The juggler again took the sheet, and after we had examined
it, he spread it over the basket, holding it tent-shaped, the apex
where his hand was being about three feet from the ground. In a minute
he withdrew the sheet once more, and behold the woman was back in her
old position on her knees in the basket; but the ropes and net had
disappeared, and she was now unbound. This trick has a few variations,
one of which is that after the woman disappears, the basket is handed
round to show its emptiness, and some other trick is exhibited, in the
middle of which the female performer reappears before the audience ere
any one can notice where she comes from.

A third juggler now made his salaam, and began by performing the
beautiful mango-tree trick. He took an earthenware pot, filled it
with earth moistened with a little water, and placed among the earth
a mango-seed which we had examined beforehand. This done, he threw a
sheet over the pot, and almost immediately removed it again, when we
beheld, to our astonishment, that the seed had in the space of, say,
half a minute become a young mango-tree. Again the sheet was thrown
over the pot, and on being a second time removed, the mango-tree had
doubled in size. The same process was repeated a third time, and now
the tree was covered with small unripe mangoes. This time the juggler
plucked the tree up out of the earth, displaying the roots and the
remains of the original mango-stone from which the tree was supposed to
have sprung.

The snake trick, which was the next item in the entertainment, is one
which has a peculiar fascination for native onlookers, for the fatal
ravages of poisonous serpents in India for centuries have produced
a horror of such reptiles among natives. Our juggler showed us a
parched skin which had once belonged to a large cobra. We examined it
carefully, and were quite sure it was a serpent’s skin and nothing
more. He placed this skin in a circular straw basket about six inches
deep. The basket was likewise examined, and we found no double bottom
or any other peculiarity about it. When he put the lid upon the basket,
it contained nothing but the empty skin—that we were equally well
assured of. The wonderful sheet before mentioned was again brought
into requisition, and was spread over the basket containing the dry
skin. After the performance of some mystic manœuvres in the air with a
little wooden doll, the sheet was withdrawn, the lid removed, and out
of the basket arose a huge hissing cobra, his hood spread in anger,
and his forked tongue darting in and out of his mouth. Some native
servants who were looking on fled precipitately in all directions; but
the juggler quickly took out an Indian musical instrument—not unlike
a miniature set of bagpipes—and began to play. A change came over the
spirit of the cobra’s spleen; his anger died away; he stood up with
half of his body in a perpendicular attitude, and presently began to
sway to and fro in a sort of serpent dance to the music. In a word, he
was charmed—for snake-charming is a reality, and not a fiction, strange
as it may seem to the people of Britain.

The government of India offers a money reward for every poisonous snake
killed in the country; and the result is that there exists in India at
the present day a class of men, called snake-charmers, who earn their
living by going about in search of serpents. They play on the peculiar
instrument before mentioned, and if any serpent is within hearing
distance, it is irresistibly attracted to the musician. Serpents will
leave the roots of hedges, holes in walls, come down trees, or forsake
paddy-fields, if they hear this strange music. They erect themselves
vertically before the player, who at once seizes them by the throat,
and puts them in a large basket or bag he carries with him for the
reception of unwise serpents.[1] What became of the dry snake skin, we
could not tell; we never saw it again.

The next performer was an elderly patriarchal-looking man, who
exhibited two trained tropical birds, the names of which I forget.
These birds did some really astonishing things, and their master
the patriarch must be a man of infinite patience. For instance, one
actually loaded a small brass cannon set on a miniature gun-carriage,
pushed the charge home with a small ramrod, and fired the piece off
by applying a lighted match, held in its beak, to the touchhole,
displaying not the slightest fear at the noise caused by the firing.
The other bird would, if its master threw any small object into the
air, seize the object in mid-air and bring it to the bird-trainer.

Numbers five and six—man and boy—of the troupe were circus-wallahs, and
gave a native gymnastic entertainment, which, as it did not materially
differ from a British performance in the same line, need not be
detailed.

Number seven was a juggler of divers accomplishments. He swallowed
swords, and put an iron hook into his nostril, bringing it out of his
mouth. Neither of these feats, however, though undoubtedly genuine, is
pleasant to look at. He blew fire and flames out of his mouth without
revealing the origin or cause of the fire, and apparently without
burning himself. He took about half-a-dozen stones of the size of, say,
a hen’s egg out of his mouth; how they got there, or how his mouth
contained them after they got there, was a mystery. He was talking
just before he began; but on being asked a question in the middle of
this stone performance, he could not speak. After discharging the big
stones, he wound up by disgorging about a handful of old nails and
miscellaneous rubbish!

A much more pleasant trick to look at was the one which followed. He
took a cocoa-nut shell with one end cut off, and filled it with water.
In the water he placed a little piece of cork, having a bent pin on one
side, and two straight pins on the other side, so that the cork as it
floated roughly resembled a lilliputian duck. The cork lay dead in the
water, and it was difficult to think what magic could possibly be got
out of it. Presently the juggler, sitting about two yards off, took out
a musical instrument and began to play a lively tune. Instantly the
imitation duck commenced to dance violently in the water, suiting its
motions to the music. The dancing continued till the tune was ended;
then the juggler ordered the duck to salaam; and he was at once obeyed.
He even requested the buoyant cork to dive to the bottom of the water;
and his request was immediately complied with. While the performance
was going on, the cocoa-nut shell was standing almost at our feet, and
the performer was not only sitting beyond reach, but both his hands
were employed in playing the instrument.

One more trick will finish my list. Our juggler told a native servant,
whom he did not know, to stretch out his arm palm upwards. Into the
outstretched palm he placed a silver two-anna piece, and—holding out
his own bony hand to show us that it was empty—he lifted the coin from
the servant’s hand, shut his own fist, reopened it in the twinkling of
an eye, and an enormous black scorpion dropped into the servant’s palm.
The latter fled shrieking with terror, for, next to the serpent, the
particular aversion of the Hindu is the scorpion.

This finished the performance. In the foregoing, I have given as fair a
description as I can of an Indian juggling entertainment; and probably
you will agree with me in thinking that the feats of the poor Indian
juggler are quite as wonderful as those of a first-class British
magician, while the former suffers from numerous disadvantages which
the latter is entirely free from.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] With regard to the theory of snake-charming, opinions differ. It is
an undoubted fact that snakes will frequently emerge from hiding-places
at the sound of the ‘charmer’s’ pipe; but shrewd observers have reason
to suspect that a single snake can be made to do duty for many, having
been taught to obey the summons of its master’s music(!) Thus, the wily
Hindu will unobserved place his scaly pupil in some hole or crevice in
the neighbourhood of a bungalow, or in the bungalow itself, whence he
will lure it on a fitting occasion before an unsuspecting audience,
who, deeming themselves well rid of an obnoxious intruder, applaud,
and remunerate the charmer for having secured and carried away his own
property!—ED.




A WORD ON WOMAN’S WORK.

BY A LADY.


While education is doing much to relieve the question of the employment
of women of some of the difficulties by which it has been surrounded,
there is still great need of further effort ere the three million of
women who are compelled to earn their daily bread shall be enabled
to do so with anything approaching ease and comfort. Among the newer
occupations for the ‘many’—few being as yet able to attain to the
height of the professions—are china and card painting; but this market
has become overstocked; and it is almost unnecessary to add that only
those who are artists in every sense of the word can hope for success,
originality of design being as necessary as correct drawing and good
finish. Many women are now employed as clerks in insurance and other
offices, and the movement has met with a large amount of success. It
is to be hoped that this will stimulate others to follow the good
example of finding employment for those who earnestly seek it, and
such employment as they have proved themselves to be most fitted for.
Numbers are employed in the Post-office; but competition is very severe
in this branch of industry, and it may be asked: ‘What will become of
the already overcrowded ranks of male clerks, if a fresh contingent be
admitted?’ The reply, I think, should be: ‘The man has many fields open
to him; the woman, few.’

Shorthand writing may yet give employment to many women; the
sewing-machine and the knitting-machine are also media for occupations
more or less lucrative, but the main object of this article is to draw
attention to an invention lately brought to our notice in various ways,
‘the Scientific Dress-cutting’—of American origin—which is being so
eagerly taken up by our countrywomen, hundreds flocking to the offices
in London to learn the ‘system’—some for the use of themselves and
families; others, as a matter of business, intending as they do to
become certificated teachers and agents. If any one is anxious or even
desirous of seeing earnest workers, let him go to the rooms of the
Association and he will be gratified indeed. Perhaps a few words from
one who has just spent some days there may not be unwelcome, as many
are inquiring about Scientific Dress-cutting.

Arrived at 272 Regent Circus, we are directed up-stairs; and at the
top of the first flight we are directed to ascend a little higher,
and then we are shown into a small room, where sits a gentleman,
who answers questions, receives fees, writes receipts, and finally,
courteously conducts us into classroom No. 1. There order reigns
supreme. On the walls are the ‘drafts’ to be copied by the pupils,
each and all correctly drawn by mathematical square measurement,
the calculations being made upon a ‘chart.’ We take a seat, and are
soon lost in the mysteries of arriving at the due proportions of a
lady’s figure. One pupil looks up with a smile and says, ‘Is it not
a fascinating employment?’ another remarks in an under-tone, ‘Well,
this _is_ a study;’ while another declares it to be ‘simplicity
itself;’ and so the work goes on. The teacher—whose patience is sorely
tried sometimes—always seems ready and willing to render the needful
assistance, and is kind and considerate alike to all. To our query,
‘How long does it take to learn this system?’ the reply is, ‘Some learn
in a few lessons, and some take longer.’ One lady had attended the
classes ‘on and off’ for a month, and attributed her prolonged study
to the lack of consecutive lessons. But this is not always practicable
when ladies live at a distance and have home duties which keep them
away for days together.

Before leaving, we are introduced to the secretary, who, like the rest
of the inmates of the establishment, until now has been a stranger to
us; and as we are introduced, and she raises her bright, cheerful,
honest English face, we feel that with her we shall meet with a
friend able and willing to advise. When we leave the first classroom,
we ascend more stairs, and are ushered into a room where skirts
are to be discoursed upon—the ‘short’ to the ‘trained’ skirt being
included in the lesson. Here we recognise faces we have seen in the
room below; and, as in the other room, we find here also all classes
represented—from the young girl who is learning to save the tedium of
apprenticeship, to the first-rate dressmaker; and among the ladies,
those of small means, who hope by the aid of the system to be better
able to make both ends meet at the close of another year; to the lady
of ample means, who has come partly out of curiosity, and partly to
ascertain whether it is worth while to send her maid to take lessons,
that her homemade dresses may in future be sure to fit well. Neither
is she the only lady nor the representative of the only class who make
at least some dresses at home, for there is scarcely a household where
this is not necessary now.

In this room we are measured; and a curious and amusing performance it
is, quite different in some respects from the way we should imagine
it to be best accomplished; and here we may say that this feat is one
of the most important in the whole process. Next to it perhaps stands
the treatment of the shoulder. Instruction, as to this is given in the
‘Hints on Dressmaking,’ with other valuable advice, as also on the
‘chart,’ which is part of the machinery sent by post with printed rules
for the sum of twenty-two shillings, including the delicately made
‘tracing-wheel.’ But to attend a class for instruction is an advantage
scarcely to be estimated by those who have not first tried to master
the difficulties by themselves, and then placed themselves in the hands
of a competent teacher; and the extra pound charged for the course of
lessons is well laid out. There is no hurry; you can stay as long as
you please, and will be kindly received; and you will pass on from
stage to stage of the study until you are perfectly acquainted with the
whole, each ‘draft’ being made separately and in its proper place in
the course of lessons. Cutting and fitting are certainly women’s work,
and those who have taken up this new branch of industry benefit not
only themselves but others.

The advantages of this system over the old plan may be summed up in one
word—economy; for it saves time, trouble, labour, and material—time,
by its exactitude; trouble, by not requiring fitting or ‘trying-on;’
labour, in the same way, and by having the turnings cut and the
stitching-line marked, which serves for a guide for tacking and
stitching; and of material, by its method of dividing and cutting. In
this way the study soon repays any one for her trouble and outlay;
added to which, it is an interesting employment; and many who have not
yet left the darkness of the old guesswork method will be surprised
that they held aloof so long, when they see how great an advantage it
is to work scientifically instead of by ‘rule of thumb.’

There are so many to whom economy is of vital importance, that we
can conceive of none to whom this new system does not come as a boon
indeed. Even those whose circumstances remove them from the necessity
of exercising it themselves, cannot tell what is in the future for
their daughters, especially should they leave the old country and go
to sojourn in distant lands. Many a father pays what he considers
an exorbitant sum per annum in dressmaking. One lady told us it was
the case with her, and that was her reason for ‘going in for the new
method,’ as she had six daughters; and hers is not an isolated case.

As agents are being appointed in the towns and cities in England and
other countries, ladies will in future be saved the journey to London,
as they will be able to attend classes in their own neighbourhood,
as they do their cookery class. As an agency, the Society has found
employment for numbers of women, who, as far as we are aware, are
satisfied with the results.




THE STENO-TELEGRAPH.


A new instrument, as we announced last month, has recently been devised
by Signor Michela, which, if successful, is likely to supersede
altogether the present system of telegraphy. By its aid, the inventor
states that it is possible to transmit from one hundred and seventy
to two hundred words a minute—or about the rate at which the majority
of speeches are delivered—in any language with which the operator is
familiar. This is certainly a great and valuable achievement; and the
instrument has this advantage over the more easily worked telephone,
that it leaves a record of the message behind.

The following brief description will assist the reader in comprehending
the method by which the instrument is worked. It is simply a
printing-machine with two rows of ten keys each—six white and four
black; the keys press on twenty studs, which by means of levers are
connected with twenty styles carrying the signs or characters used for
printing. The printed characters represent twenty phonetic sounds,
which the inventor, by combining the signs and skilfully grouping
the sounds in series, claims to be sufficient to represent all the
phonetic sounds in any language. The system of stenography which he
employs has for three years been practically tested in the Italian
Senate; and it is now for the first time employed for the electrical
transmission of words. The person who transmits the message listens to
the words as they drop from the lips of the speaker; he subjects them
to a process of mental analysis, arranges every syllable phonetically,
touches the corresponding key on his instrument, and there appears on
narrow slips of paper, as if by magic, a phonetic representation of the
speech to which he is listening—not only on the materials before him,
but on corresponding materials at the distant station with which his
instrument is connected. He keeps his slips of paper as a record; while
the slips at the receiving station are handed to persons, initiated
in the mysteries of this system of shorthand, for translation. Nor
are its mysteries of an extraordinary character, for it is said that
any intelligent person can translate this telegraphic shorthand after
fifteen days. To transmit messages with facility, a study and practice
of six months are necessary; and it is said that an expert hand can
transmit as many as two hundred words in a minute.

The aim of the inventor is to telegraph by means of a keyboard
instrument any speech, no matter in what European language, as fast as
it is spoken. His invention may also be used for the ordinary purposes
of telegraphy, with a great saving of time and labour. The instrument
has been tried in the Italian Senate; and it may be seen at work every
day at certain hours at No. 1 Rue Rossini, Paris.

The inventor claims that his instrument will be of especial value in
the transmission of parliamentary speeches in the exact words in which
they are delivered, to the different newspaper offices throughout the
city and country. It is not, however, the practice in this country—with
perhaps very rare exceptions—to reproduce verbatim reports of
parliamentary speeches; but it is possible that those who are expert
in the use of the instrument may be able to condense the reports and
at the same time transmit them to the distant station. For country
newspapers it would be absolutely necessary to send condensed reports;
and this practice would be accompanied with disadvantages—trivial
in some cases, important in others. No record would be kept in such
cases of the exact words used by the speaker, and such records are
occasionally of great moment. Where speeches are transmitted in their
entirety to be afterwards translated, or if necessary condensed,
the system would possess many advantages. Several persons could be
employed in translating from the printed slips, and the copy handed
direct to the compositors. It would, however, be attended with these
disadvantages, that the transcription would not be made by the person
who hears the speech, and consequently, any errors in manipulation
would probably pass uncorrected to the press; while in condensing, the
telling points of a speech may not receive, at the hands of any one who
has not had the advantage of listening to the speaker, that prominence
which they were intended to occupy.

The telephone has been used by the London press for a like purpose;
but although in London the distances are short, it has not been found
successful in practice, owing perhaps to the fact that it leaves no
record behind, and that if it were used, it would be necessary to
employ shorthand writers at the offices instead of in the House, as at
present. The telephone is used, however, to communicate to the writers
of leading articles what is passing in the House, so as to enable them
to compose their work in the newspaper office.

There can be no doubt, whatever the future of Michela’s instrument may
be, that it is an improvement on the present system of telegraphy, in
which each letter of a word is represented by a series of dots and
dashes; and on this account, and because it points out the direction in
which improvements in our system may be effected, we should give the
invention our encouragement and support.




MAN AND NATURE.


_The American Naturalist_ draws attention to the well-known fact, that
the larger game of the Far West has been long diminishing in numbers.
This, it goes on to say, is especially true of the bison, an animal
which is unable to escape from its pursuers, and which can hardly be
called a game animal. The once huge southern herd has been reduced to
a few individuals in North-western Texas. The Dakota herd numbers only
some seventy-five thousand head, a number which will soon be reduced
to zero if the present rate of extermination continues. The Montana
herd is now the object of relentless slaughter, and will soon follow
the course of the other two herds. When scattered individuals represent
these herds, a few hunters will one day pick them off, and the species
will be extinct.

Let the government place a small herd in each of the national parks,
and let the number be maintained at a definite figure. Let the excess
escape into the surrounding country, so as to preserve the species for
the hunters. Let herds of moose, elk, bighorn, black and white-tailed
deer, and antelope, be maintained in the same way. Let the Carnivora
roam at will; and in a word, protect nature from the destructive
outlawry of men whose prehistoric instincts are not yet dead. Let
the newer instinct of admiration for nature’s wonders have scope.
Let the desire for knowledge of nature’s greatest mystery—life—have
some opportunity. Let there be kept a source of supply for zoological
societies and museums, so that science may ever have material for
its investigations. By securing the preservation of these noblest of
nature’s works, Congress will be but extending the work it has so
grandly sustained in the past, in the support of scientific research
and the education of the people.




MICHAELMAS.


    The brief September days are waning fast,
    And a soft mellow fragrance fills the air
    With Autumn’s sweetest incense; now the leaves
    Begin to colour, and the varied hues
    Of scarlet, amber, russet, crimson, dun,
    Hang over wood and forest.
                                The bright stars
    Of the chrysanthemums dot everywhere
    The cottage gardens; the sweet mignonette
    Still sheds her perfume ’neath the fuchsia-bells;
    Scarlet geraniums and lobelias
    Are in their fullest glory; here and there
    A rose late-lingering shows her crimson cup,
    Though gone her beauteous fellows; and aloft
    The dahlia holds high her queenly head,
    The sovereign absolute of all the band.

    The swallows, gathering for departure, twit
    Their shrill farewell; the dormouse and the bat
    Go into winter-quarters; short the days,
    And chill the lengthening nights:
                                      For comes apace
    Mellow October, last of the three months
    That own the Autumn’s reign; then fogs and wet,
    And snow and ice and wind-storms close the scene.

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

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_All Rights Reserved._