1884 ***




[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 51.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, DECEMBER 20, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]




CYPRUS LOCUSTS.

BY A DWELLER IN THE EAST.


Everybody who has read anything about the East must be acquainted with
the plague of locusts. I distinctly remember that when a small boy I
was more impressed by the accounts of the enormous extent of their
flocks than with anything else my books could tell me. There was to me
something appalling, and at the same time attractive, in the swarms
stretching for miles, which obscured the sun, and devoured everything
green wherever they settled. It is difficult, if not impossible, for
any one brought up in our temperate regions to realise such a state
of things. We hear, to be sure, of damage done to crops at home; just
now, it is sparrows; not very long since it was game; next year it may
be something else; but in all these cases it is simply damage—perhaps
one per cent., or five per cent., or ten per cent. But with locusts
it means not damage, but destruction, or, better still, annihilation
of the crop. Fancy an English farmer turning out after breakfast and
admiring his six-acre field of wheat, deliciously green, about two feet
high. Fancy him, too, coming home to dinner at noon and seeing this
same field as bare as his hand. This is no exaggeration, but a plain
matter-of-fact illustration of what may be seen any spring where these
abominable insects abound. Once seen, it can never be forgotten.

I have had my recollection of these creatures and their ways revived by
a parliamentary paper entitled, ‘Report of the Locust Campaign of 1884,
by Mr S. Brown, Government Engineer, Cyprus.’ It gives the results of
the measures employed to stay the plague to which the island has for
ages been subject; and so far it is satisfactory enough. The locusts
have been put down, and for most people that is the chief point. I
notice that the _Times_ has devoted about half a column to the paper,
but has contented itself with simply copying the salient points, the
writer evidently knowing nothing of the subject. The paper itself
presupposes a knowledge of a certain nature, which no one except those
who are acquainted with the district can be expected to possess. I
venture, therefore, to supply the information necessary to a thorough
understanding of the subject.

Speaking as a dweller in the East, I may say that we have had the
locusts with us always. In the old old days, they were sent by the
gods; in less remote times, they were a dispensation of Providence.
They came and went, leaving lamentable traces of their progress. But
it was in the nature of things that it should be so, and nobody ever
thought of trying if something could not be done to stop their ravages.
Under Turkish rule, of course this feeling was intensified by the
fatalism peculiar to their faith. The locusts came of their own accord,
and went off in the same way; it was _kismet_, and there was nothing
to be done. But even Mohammedans in time cannot escape altogether the
influence of Western ideas, and some thirty years ago it occurred to
Osman Pasha, then governor of Cyprus, to try and make head against
the scourge which devastated the island. He was earnest in the cause,
but unfortunately died before measures could possibly have had any
effect. His successors, as a rule, talked a great deal, but, after the
manner of their race, did nothing. A tax was imposed on the peasants,
which was to be devoted to the purchase and destruction of locusts’
eggs. This was all very well; but as the officials helped themselves
to from fifty to ninety per cent. of the money collected, very little
impression was made on the swarms. And then, again, as three parts sand
and one part eggs did duty as eggs, it is not to be wondered at that
the insects were as plentiful as ever.

So things went on till about fifteen years ago, when Said Pasha
became governor. He kept on the system of buying eggs, but with this
important difference, that when he paid for eggs he saw that he got
them. He put some Europeans on the Commission of superintendence, had
the eggs stored, and authorised their destruction only after his
personal inspection. The proceedings were open to the light of day, and
everything was done to prevent imposition. The result was admirable; in
three years, locusts’ eggs were as valuable as those of the silkworm;
and in 1870, it was officially reported that the insect had ceased to
exist in Cyprus. This, however, proved to be an exaggeration. No doubt,
a great impression had been made; swarms were no longer to be met with
by the ordinary traveller; but it is plain that a good many did remain
in out-of-the-way and difficult districts.

In 1872 it was reported that locusts were reappearing. This was
pronounced to be a calumny, and the observers were referred to the
official Report, showing that the locust had ceased to exist in
Cyprus—which, of course, was conclusive! In 1875, however, denial
was no longer possible; no one with eyes in his head could doubt
the existence of countless myriads of plundering insects. Said
Pasha by this time had left the island, and his successor was of a
different character, and did nothing to stop their increase, which
accordingly went on unchecked till the British occupation in 1878. As
may be imagined, the question very soon engaged the attention of the
authorities, and a determined set was made against the creatures. In
the autumn of 1879, thirty-seven and a half tons of eggs were collected
and destroyed, and in the spring of that year an enormous number of
insects were trapped. In 1880 larger swarms than ever appeared, a
great many of which were trapped, and two hundred and thirty-six tons
of their eggs collected. In 1881 the locusts came in still greater
numbers, and in the autumn and winter, thirteen hundred and thirty
tons of eggs were destroyed. It was evident that what had been done
was a trifle; exceptional measures were declared to be necessary,
and preparations were accordingly made on a very large scale for the
campaign of 1882. It was shown that egg-collecting alone was not to
be depended upon. One may think that this affords the easiest means
of destruction, and so it does, if you can be sure of getting at all
the eggs. But the breeding-grounds are situated in remote and rugged
districts, to patrol which properly means a very large supply of
labour, and even then it becomes a mere question of eyesight, which
often fails. Up to a certain stage in its existence the insect creeps
but cannot fly, and it is then that it must be taken. Trapping the
non-flying insects is therefore the feature which forms the salient
matter of Mr Brown’s Report, but which will not be understood by the
public without explanation.

The Report opens with a statement of the material employed. This
consisted of two thousand canvas screens, each fifty yards long; one
hundred thousand five hundred square yards of canvas for screens;
twelve thousand six hundred and eleven square yards oilcloth; twenty
tons zinc for traps; and seventy-six thousand one hundred and
eighty-three stakes for the screens, besides cordage and other minor
articles. As the reports from the breeding districts came in, it was
thought this supply would prove insufficient, and Mr Brown therefore
caused one thousand additional screens to be made up, and three
thousand seven hundred and eighty traps of a new type to be cut out of
the zinc received from England. The total apparatus, therefore, when
operations began, amounted to eleven thousand and eighty-three screens,
each fifty yards long; and thirteen thousand and eight traps; with the
necessary complement of stakes, tools, and tents for labourers. To
give an idea of the total length of the screens, it may be mentioned,
that if stretched continuously they would form a line three hundred
and fifteen miles long, almost enough to encircle the whole island. In
order to work all this material, labour was necessary, and accordingly
contracts were made to a maximum of thirteen hundred and ninety-eight
labourers.

This is all very interesting; but what is the meaning of it? What are
screens? What is canvas wanted for? What do they do with oilcloth? And
what sort of traps do they make out of zinc? This is what Mr Brown does
not tell us, and this is exactly the information which I propose to
supply. The first step in the process is to begin with a little natural
history.

The female locust is provided with a sort of sword-like appendage, with
which she makes a hole in the ground, in which she deposits her eggs.
Over these she exudes a glutinous matter, which hardens by exposure, in
time forming a case impervious to wet, cold, or even fire, the whole
resembling a small silk cocoon. The number of eggs in each of these is
variously estimated; some say a hundred, others eighty; but Mr Brown by
actual experiment finds that the average may be taken at thirty-two,
and that the sexes are produced in about equal proportion. It is not
difficult, therefore, to calculate the rate of increase, allowing
fifty per cent. to be lost through the operation of natural causes,
birds, caterpillars, &c. A couple of locusts will thus produce sixteen
individuals or eight couples the first year; next year, the product
will be a hundred and twenty-eight, or sixty-four couples; the third
year, eight times that; and so on—a calculation which may be carried on
to any length you like, and which will explain the countless myriads
which everybody has heard of.

The female having performed her duty in reproducing her species, is of
no further use, and both she and her partner disappear—that is to say,
they both die. It is a popular belief in Cyprus that the male eats the
female and dies of the consequent indigestion. But a more scientific
explanation of the fact is, that as by the end of July—beyond which
locusts are never seen—everything green is burnt up by the sun, their
food fails, and they die of starvation. There is no mistake about their
death; every open pool of water is full of them, and the stench is
abominable, and one may walk along the coast for miles amongst their
dead bodies, washed up by the sea. The eggs remain in the ground till
hatched by the warmth of the spring sun, which brings them out early in
March. If the season should be cold or wet, the only effect is to delay
the hatching; the eggs never appear to get addled. At the beginning
of April this year the swarms were on the march, and operations
began, and were continued till the 13th of May, when all that were
left were on the wing. It is by taking advantage of the habits of the
creature that the greatest success in its destruction is achieved. The
young locusts as soon as they can crawl go in search of green food.
Impelled by this instinct, they go straight on, turning neither to
the right nor to the left. They are remarkably short of sense; they
can do nothing but follow their nose, and have not an idea of turning
a corner. If a locust on the march were to meet with a lamp-post, he
would never think of going round it, but would climb up to the top and
come down on the other side. It is by taking advantage of this steady
plodding perseverance that the arch-inventor Man makes the creature
work its own destruction. Some twenty years ago, Mr Richard Mattei, an
Italian gentleman, and large landed proprietor in Cyprus, made various
experiments, which have resulted in the employment of the screens and
traps which are mentioned in Mr Brown’s Report. The manner of operation
is as follows.

In early spring, it was reported to headquarters that one hundred and
thirty-three breeding-grounds had been discovered. Each of these was
therefore screened off by a ring-fence. The screens are formed of
canvas about two feet high, on the top of which are sewn about four
inches of oilcloth. These are arranged so as to form a zigzag with
angles of about one hundred and thirty-five degrees. At intervals,
pits are dug of a regulation size—a cubic yard—so as to facilitate
computation. The locusts on the march come up to the screen, climb up
the canvas, get on to the oilcloth, and straightway slip down. Nothing
daunted, they try again, again, and again, each time edging a little
nearer to the angle. Arriving here at last, they find a pit, into
which they fall or jump. Naturally, they climb up again; but find at
the top a framework of wood, lined on the inside with sheet-zinc, on
which they cannot walk, and consequently they fall back into the pit.
Imagine thousands of the creatures all doing this at the same time,
and the result will be, of course, that one-half smothers the other
half, and in its turn gets smothered by a few spadefuls of earth,
which the labourer, always on the watch, takes care to apply at the
proper moment. The pit is then full, and is counted as such in the
daily report. Mr Brown gives full details. The ‘full’ pits contained
a depth of eighteen inches of locusts; pits three-quarters, one-half,
one-quarter, and one-eighth full were returned as such, and when
reduced to ‘full’ pits, the total number amounted to fifteen thousand
nine hundred and nineteen. The whole number, however, of pits in which
locusts were trapped was twenty-six thousand and sixteen, and the total
number of pits dug far exceeded this.

Every pains was taken to arrive at a correct account of the number
of locusts thus destroyed, and the number for this year is set down
at the enormous total of fifty-six thousand one hundred and sixteen
millions. Last year the number was computed approximately at one
hundred and ninety-five thousand millions. With such a destruction,
it was believed that this year the swarms would be less; and this
anticipation was fully realised, less than one-third appearing of what
was visible in 1883. This is extremely satisfactory, when we find that
the swarms of 1883 were as numerous as those of 1882, which in their
turn greatly exceeded those of 1881. In fact, up to 1883 the locusts
had been gaining ground; now they are losing it; and it only needs
care and watchfulness on our part to thoroughly exterminate them,
or at anyrate to render them practically harmless. For if the locust
can only find food, it will not travel; they march simply in order to
get wherewith to support existence; and if they can find enough near
their birthplace, they will stop there. But of course this cannot be
allowed, when we think of their multiplication next year and the years
after. No; it is a question of war to the ‘pit.’ Efforts must not be
relaxed; the system of reports from the breeding districts will still
be continued; and the supply of screens and traps must always be ready
for use.

This year, the large supply of material was used in a much more
careful and methodical way than in any previous year. Some idea of the
extent of the operations may be gathered from the fact that in one
district—that of Tchingerli—there was a continuous line of screens
without a break for twenty-seven miles in length, arranged in three
great loops connected by a common centre. Another breeding-ground
was surrounded by screens sixteen miles long; and there were many
other similar cases. With screens thus fixed, with plenty of pits,
and with careful supervision, the destruction should be complete.
Accidents, however, will occur, some of which are preventable, whilst
others are not. Heavy rains and floods, for instance, swept away
some of the screens; and there were also cloudy and windy days, when
the locusts will not march, and of course will not fill the pits. No
doubt, occasion was taken on such days to help in the destruction by
manual labour; every little helps; and it is not difficult to slay
one’s thousands and tens of thousands when the victims are all close
together. It is not unusual to meet the creatures in a body a mile
wide and a mile deep. They are about an inch and a quarter long, and a
quarter of an inch wide, and march with an interval of about an inch,
progressing some half-mile a day.

One would think that the importance of information to headquarters
would be patent to everybody in the island; yet such is the apathy,
not to say stupidity, of some of the islanders, that Mr Brown was
surprised and disgusted to hear that whilst operations were at the
height, locusts had been discovered at the extreme east point of the
island, which had been reported free. Not only so, but no locusts had
existed within thirty-five miles, nor had any been seen flying in that
direction. Material was at once forwarded, but unfortunately too late,
as the insects had almost arrived at the flying stage, when nothing
can be done. One might as well try to reduce midges by squashing them
between the hands. The district was found to be only a small one—less
than half a mile in diameter. It may safely be left next year to Mr
Brown’s tender care.

What is the result of all this time, trouble, and expense? You could
traverse the locust area and see very few; whereas in May and June
of previous years you might ride through flights some of which would
cover an area of several square miles. The small number that are left
are thinly scattered over a comparatively small area, and as they find
sufficient food in the natural grasses, they do not migrate. This
year, up to August not a single flight has been seen, and best of all,
nothing has been heard of damage to the crops. It is calculated that
the survivors of this year do not amount to more than one per cent. of
those of last year. The problem, therefore, appears to be solved; all
that is necessary is a small annual expenditure to keep the material
and labour in working order.




ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.


CHAPTER XIV.

It was but a few minutes past seven o’clock when Jules tapped at the
door of Madame De Vigne’s boudoir. The summons was responded to by
Nanette. ‘Monsieur De Miravel’s compliments to Madame De Vigne, and
would she grant monsieur the honour of an interview for a few minutes?’

The answer came at once: ‘Madame De Vigne was ready to receive Monsieur
De Miravel.’

Daylight was waning, and although the Venetians were drawn half-way
up the windows, the room was in twilight. To De Miravel it seemed
almost in darkness as he went in; but in a few moments his eyes became
more accustomed to the semi-obscurity, and he then perceived his wife
standing in the middle of the floor—a tall, black-robed figure, crowned
by a face whose extreme pallor, seen by that half-light, would have
seemed like that of a dead woman, but for the two large, intensely
glowing eyes which lighted it up.

After his first momentary hesitation, De Miravel advanced a few steps
and made one of his elaborate bows. Madame De Vigne responded by a
grave inclination of her head, and motioning her visitor to a chair,
sat down herself on an ottoman some distance away. In the silence, not
yet broken by either of them, they heard the low, far-away muttering of
thunder among the hills.

De Miravel was the first to speak. ‘I am desolated, madame, to have
been under the necessity of seeking this interview,’ he said. ‘But I
have been waiting, waiting, waiting till I have grown tired. I am tired
of being here alone in this great hotel, where I know no one. It is
now two days since I spoke to you. You know my proposition. _Eh bien!_
I choose to wait no longer; I am here for your answer.’ He spoke the
last words with a kind of snarl, which for the moment brought his long,
white, wolfish-looking teeth prominently into view.

‘As you say, I am fully acquainted with your proposition,’ answered
Mora in cold, quiet, unfaltering tones. ‘But you know well how hateful
to me are the conditions which you wish to impose. I think I made that
point clear to you on Wednesday.’

‘You were in a passion on Wednesday. I heeded not what you said.’

‘But I meant every word that I said. In view of that fact, and knowing
what you know—may I ask whether in the interim you have not seen some
way by which those conditions may be modified—some way by which,
without injury to what you conceive to be your interests, they may be
made less objectionable to me?’

He shook his head impatiently. ‘You are only wasting my time and
yours,’ he said. ‘When I have said a thing, I mean it. As the
conditions were on Wednesday, even so they are now—altered in nothing.
If you cannot comply with them, tell me so at once, and at once I will
seek out Sir William. Ah ha! Mademoiselle Clarice had better wait
awhile before she orders the robe for her wedding!’

She heard him apparently unmoved. There was not a flash, not as much
as a flicker to be seen of the passion which had so possessed her on
Wednesday. Her quietude surprised him, and rendered him vaguely uneasy.

‘Consider, Laroche—before it is too late.’

‘Too late?’ he muttered under his breath. ‘_Peste!_ What can she mean?’

‘You know how utterly impossible it is that I should live with you
for one day, or even one hour, as your wife,’ continued Mora. ‘You
know that I would sooner seek a refuge in the dark waters of yonder
lake. Why, then, strive to make a desperate woman more desperate? And
my sister!—she has never harmed you, she does not even know of your
existence. Why try to wreck the happiness of her life, as you wrecked
mine? Why try to shatter the fair future that lies before her? To do
so can in nowise benefit you. Consider—think again before you finally
decide. Have pity on this child, even though you have none on me. Ah,
Laroche, you never had a sister, or you would know something of that
which I feel!’

‘This is child’s play,’ he exclaimed with a sneer. ‘We are wasting
time. A strong man makes use of others to effect his ends. I make use
of you and your sister. I have said.’ He was convinced by this time
that her quietude was merely that of despair—the quietude of a criminal
who submits to the hands of the executioner.

‘Listen, Laroche!’ she continued in the same icy, impassive tones.
‘Although I am not what the world calls rich, I am not without means,
as you are aware. Give me your promise to leave England, and never to
seek out or in any way annoy either my sister or me, and half of all
I am possessed of shall be settled upon you. It will be an income for
life which nothing can rob you of.’

An eager, greedy light leaped into his eyes. ‘What do you call an
income, dear madame?’ he said. ‘How many thousand francs a year would
you be prepared to settle on your brave Hector?’

‘Six thousand francs a year would be about half my income.’

‘Six thousand francs! And my wife’s sister married to the son of one of
the richest _milords_ in England! _Chut!_ Do you take your Hector for
an imbecile?’ He rose, crossed to the pier-glass over the chimneypiece,
adjusted his scarf in front of it, and then went back to his chair.
‘Do you know what is now the great ambition of your Hector’s life?’ he
asked, gazing fixedly at her out of his half-shut eyes. ‘But no—how
should you? Listen, then, and I will tell you. It is to be introduced
to two, three, or more of the great London clubs where they occupy
themselves with what you English call “high play.” Sir William or his
son shall introduce me—when I am of their family. Six thousand francs a
year! _Parbleu!_ when once I have the _entrée_ to two or three of the
_cercles_ I speak of, my income will be nearer sixty than six thousand
francs a year.’

‘If such are your views, if this is the course you are determined to
pursue, I am afraid that any further appeal by me would be utterly
thrown away.’

‘Utterly thrown away, _ma belle_, an absolute waste of time, as I said
before.’

‘I felt convinced from the first that it would be so.’

‘Ah! Then why amuse yourself at my expense in the way you have?’

‘It was not by way of amusing myself that I appealed to you, but for
the ease of my conscience in the days yet to come.’

He stared at her suspiciously for a moment or two, then he said with a
shrug: ‘I do not comprehend you.’

She rose and pushed back her chair. ‘There is nothing more to be said.
I need not detain you further.’

He too rose, but for once he was evidently nonplussed. ‘Nothing more to
be said?’ he remarked after a pause. ‘It seems to me that there is much
more to be said. I have not yet had your answer to the proposition I
laid before you on Wednesday last.’

‘I thought you understood. But if you want my answer in a few plain
words, you shall have it.’

In the twilight he could see her clear shining eyes gazing steadily and
fearlessly into his. Craven fears began to flutter round his heart.

‘Hector Laroche, you have lost much time and put yourself to much
trouble and expense in hunting down a woman whose life, years ago, you
made a burden almost too bitter for her to bear—and all to no purpose.
You have found me; what then? You have made a proposition to me so
utterly vile as altogether to defeat your own ends. From this hour I
know you not. I will never see or speak to you again. It will be at
your peril to attempt to molest me. I have friends who will see that I
suffer no harm at your hands. There is the door. Begone!’

‘Ho, ho!’ he cried with an hyena-like snarl. ‘You bid me begone, do
you? _Eh bien!_ I must not disobey a lady’s commands. I will go—but it
shall be in search of Sir William.’

‘Your search need not take you far; Sir William Ridsdale is here, under
this roof.’

Laroche could not repress a start of surprise. He was still staring
at Mora like a man at an utter loss what to say next, when a tap was
heard at the door, which was followed a moment later by the entrance of
Nanette: ‘Sir William Ridsdale has sent word to say that he should like
to see Monsieur De Miravel as soon as that gentleman is at liberty to
wait upon him.’

‘Monsieur De Miravel is at liberty to wait upon Sir William at once,’
said Madame De Vigne in clear, staccato tones.—‘Nanette, conduct
monsieur to Sir William’s apartment.’

Laroche scowled at her for a moment. Then he said in a low voice: ‘Do
you set me at defiance? Is it really that I am to tell Sir William
everything?’

‘Yes; I set you at defiance. Tell Sir William all that you know.
_Scélerat!_ do your worst.’

The scowl on his face deepened; his lips twitched, but no sound came
from them. Madame De Vigne’s finger pointed to the open door at which
Nanette was standing. Laroche turned on his heel and walked out of the
room with the air of a whipped cur.

       *       *       *       *       *

By this time it was nearly dark; the evening was close and sultry;
distant thunder reverberated among the hills; there was the menace of a
storm in the air. The grounds of the hotel were deserted, and just at
present the house was as quiet as though it were some lonely country
mansion, instead of a huge hostelry overflowing with guests. It was
the hour consecrated to one of the most solemn duties of existence,
and, with few exceptions, the flock of more or less hungry birds of
passage were engaged in the pleasing process of striving to recuperate
exhausted nature by means of five courses and a dessert.

Nanette, after conducting Laroche to Sir William’s room, was on her way
back to light the lamp in her mistress’s boudoir, when, as she turned a
corner of the corridor, she was suddenly confronted by Jules, between
whom and herself, as being of the same nationality, a pleasant little
flirtation was already in full swing. The meeting was so sudden and the
corridor so dusky, that the girl started, and a low cry broke from her
lips.

‘Hist! do not make a noise, I beg of you, ma’amselle,’ whispered Jules;
‘but tell me, is madame in her room and alone?’ His face looked very
pale in the twilight, and Nanette could see that he was strangely moved.

‘Madame is in her room, but she is indisposed, and cannot see any one
this evening—unless,’ she added archly, a moment after, ‘the business
of monsieur with her is of very, very great importance.’

‘Ah, believe me, dear ma’amselle, it is of the very greatest
importance. Do not delay, I beg of you! Any moment I may be missed from
the _salle_ and asked for. Tell madame that the affair I want to see
her upon is one of life and death.’

The girl stared at him for a moment, and then went.

He stole noiselessly after her and waited outside the door. Presently
the door opened, and Nanette beckoned to him to enter. He went in, and
found himself alone with Madame De Vigne.

‘Pardon the question, madame,’ said Jules; ‘but may I ask whether the
gentleman—Monsieur De Miravel he calls himself—who left this room a few
minutes ago is a friend of madame?’

Madame became suddenly interested. ‘I have been acquainted with the
person you name for a great number of years,’ she replied after a
moment’s hesitation.

‘Madame would not like any harm to happen to Monsieur De Miravel?’

‘Harm? No; certainly not. I should not like harm to happen to any one.
But your question is a strange one. Tell me why you ask it.’

‘I ask it, because Monsieur De Miravel is in danger of his life.’

‘Ah!’ Her heart gave a great leap; she turned suddenly dizzy, and had
to support herself against the table.

‘I have told this to madame in order that she may warn Monsieur De
Miravel, should she think well to do so. If he wishes to save his
life, he must leave here at once—to-night; to-morrow may be too late.’

Mora was thoroughly bewildered. What she had just been told had the
effect of a stunning blow upon her; it had come so suddenly that for a
little while her mind failed to realise the full meaning of the words.

‘What you have just told me is so strange and terrible,’ she said at
last, ‘that you cannot wonder if I ask you for further particulars. You
assert that M. De Miravel’s life is in danger. What is it that he has
done? What crime has he committed, that nothing less than his death can
expiate?’

Jules slowly drew in his breath with an inspiration that sounded like a
sigh. What he was about to tell must be told in a whisper. ‘Throughout
Europe, as madame may be aware, there are certain secret Societies and
propaganda, which, although known by various designations, have nearly
all one great end in view. Of one such Society Monsieur De Miravel is,
and has been for the last dozen years, an affiliated member. Nearly a
year ago, several brothers of the Society were arrested, tried, and
sentenced to long terms of imprisonment. Certain features of the trial
proved conclusively that the arrests were the result of information
given by a spy. There was a traitor in the camp; but who was he? That
question has at length been answered. It has been proved beyond a doubt
that the traitor is the man who calls himself Monsieur De Miravel. The
sentence on all traitors is death. De Miravel has been condemned to
die.’

‘This is horrible,’ murmured Mora.

‘It is simple justice, madame.’

‘Has Monsieur De Miravel any knowledge or suspicion of the terrible
fate to which he has been condemned?’

‘None. How should he have, madame?’

Mora remained lost in thought for a few moments; then she said: ‘It
seems strange that you, in the position you occupy, should know all
that you have told me, and yet Monsieur De Miravel himself should know
nothing.’

Jules lifted his shoulders almost imperceptibly. ‘It may seem strange
to madame; but it is not so in reality. I, Jules Decroze, the poor
_garçon_, am a humble brother of that Society which has condemned the
traitor De Miravel to die. I, too, am affiliated to the sacred cause.’

‘You! Oh!’ Involuntarily she moved a step or two farther away.

Jules spread out his hands with a little gesture of deprecation.

‘I hope you don’t run any risk yourself in telling me what you have
told me this evening?’ said Mora after a few seconds of silence.

‘If it were known that I had broken my oath, as I have broken it but
now, I should be sentenced to the same fate as De Miravel. But that
matters not. I have long owed madame a debt of gratitude; to-night I
have endeavoured to pay it.’

‘You have more, far more than paid it. You may have broken your oath,
as you say, but you have done all that lay in your power to save a
fellow-creature’s life.’

‘For your sake, madame—not for his, the traitor!’ muttered Jules.

If Mora heard, she took no notice. ‘You must not remain here another
moment,’ she said. ‘You have run too much risk already. Perhaps I may
be able to have a few words with you in private to-morrow. You say that
Monsieur De Miravel must go away at once—to-night?’

‘At once. If he lingers here over to-morrow’—— He ended with one of his
expressive shrugs.

Mora shuddered. ‘Suppose he refuses to believe what I tell him, and
puts it down as an invention for the purpose of frightening him away?’

‘If madame will say these words to him, “_The right hand of the Czar is
frozen_,” Monsieur De Miravel will know that she speaks the truth.’

A moment later the door opened and closed noiselessly, and Mora was
alone.


CHAPTER XV.

When Hector Laroche was ushered into Sir William Ridsdale’s room, his
eyes blinked involuntarily. The change from the dusky twilight outside
to the brilliantly lighted apartment in which he now found himself
fairly dazzled him for the first few seconds.

There were but two people in the room. At a large square table, covered
with papers and documents written and printed, sat the baronet. At a
smaller table, a little distance away, and busily writing, sat Colonel
Woodruffe—‘the man of the portrait,’ as Laroche muttered to himself the
moment his eyes lighted on him. Was it possible that this other man,
this white-haired gentleman, whose gaze was bent so keenly on him from
under his bushy brows, was the great Sir William himself? He remembered
to have seen this person on more than one occasion walking about the
grounds in the company of Miss Loraine, but he had never troubled
himself to inquire whom he might be. If he were really Sir William,
then had he been at the hotel for two or three days, and he, Laroche,
had never discovered that fact. What a blunder!

The Frenchman placed his right hand over his heart and bowed
obsequiously; then he advanced with slow, cat-like movements towards
the table, but came to a stand while he was yet some three or four
paces away. The keen eyes of the white-haired gentleman, fixed so
persistently on him, made him feel dreadfully uncomfortable. He had a
great dislike to being stared at in that way.

‘You are Hector Laroche, _ex-déporté_ No. 897; and I am Sir William
Ridsdale.’

For once his start of surprise was thoroughly genuine. ‘How! Monsieur
knows’——

‘Everything. Madame De Vigne has disclosed to me the whole dreadful
story of her married life. Her I pity from the bottom of my heart; but
for you, scoundrel, I have no feeling save one of utter loathing and
contempt!’

‘Monsieur’—— whined Laroche with an indescribable writhing of his long
lean body.

‘Silence, fellow!’ said Sir William sternly. ‘It is for you to listen,
and not to speak.’ He rose and crossed to Colonel Woodruffe and spoke
to him in a low voice.

The baronet returned to his seat. ‘It is not my intention to say a
great deal to you, Monsieur Laroche,’ resumed Sir William; ‘I wish to
rid myself of your presence as soon as may be; and what I have to say
will be very much to the purpose.’

Laroche writhed again, but did not speak. Events had taken a turn so
utterly unexpected by him, the ground had been so completely cut from
under his feet, that he seemed to have nothing left to say.

‘Madame De Vigne is an Englishwoman, and as such is entitled to the
protection of the laws of her country. The first point I wish you
clearly to understand is, that her income is settled strictly upon
herself, and that you are not entitled to claim so much as a single
franc of her money. This time, at least, you will not be allowed to
rob her, as you did once before. The second point I wish you clearly
to understand is, that if you in any way harm, molest, or annoy Madame
De Vigne or her sister, you will very quickly find yourself within
the walls of an English prison, where you will be able to meditate on
your folly at your leisure. This is a matter which Madame De Vigne’s
friends will look to particularly, consequently I warn you in time.
And now, having proved all this to you, I am induced, by certain
considerations which in nowise affect you, to make you an offer which
you will probably see the wisdom of accepting. The conditions of my
offer are these: You shall at once quit England and never set foot in
it again; you shall neither write to Madame De Vigne nor seek to hold
any communication of any kind whatever with her or any one connected
with her. In return for your faithful obedience to these instructions,
you shall be paid an annuity of three thousand francs a year. The sum
shall be paid you in quarterly instalments by my Paris agent, to whom
you will present yourself in person once every three months. When you
cease to present yourself, it shall be considered either that you no
longer care to claim the annuity or that you are dead. Such is the
offer I have to make you, Monsieur Laroche; you can either accept it or
decline it at your own good pleasure; for my own part I care not which
you do.’

Three thousand francs a year! was Laroche’s first thought. Why,
scarcely half an hour ago, his wife had offered him just double the
amount on precisely the same terms, and he had laughed in her face.
Imbecile that he had been!

Coward though he was at heart, as nearly all braggarts are, if Laroche
just then had happened to possess a revolver, he would have felt
strongly tempted to make use of it and risk the consequences. How he
hated those two men!—one white-haired, smiling, benevolent-looking,
as he had seen him walking about the grounds, but with such a hand of
iron hidden in his velvet glove; the other stern, impassive, coldly
contemptuous, who had taken no more notice of him during the interview
than if he were a dog. Yes, he hated them both with the ferocious
hatred of a tiger balked of the prey in which its claws are already
fixed.

This other man he felt nearly sure was in love with his wife; and he
was just as certain that Mora De Vigne was in love with him. Even at a
time like that, it thrilled him with a malicious joy to think that so
long as he, Laroche, was alive they could never be more to each other
than they were now. Perhaps if he had not appeared on the scene till a
month or two later, they might have been married by that time. If he
had only known—if he had only had the slightest suspicion that such was
the state of affairs, he would have kept carefully in the background
till the newly wedded couple should have returned from their honeymoon,
and then have made himself known. That would have been a revenge worthy
of the name. But now——

Sir William’s voice recalled him to realities. ‘Perhaps you wish for a
little time before you make up your mind?’ he said.

Laroche shook his head. His nimble brain had already taken in the
altered state of affairs; he saw that the day had gone hopelessly
against him, that the battle was lost, and that the only thing left him
to do was to accept from the conquerors the best terms that he could
induce them to offer. If only he had not refused that six thousand
francs! But to a man in his position even three thousand francs a year
was better, infinitely better, than nothing. It would at least suffice
to find him in absinth and cigarettes, and would serve to blunt the
keen edge of chronic impecuniosity.

‘Three thousand francs a year, Sir William! It is a bagatelle—a mere
bagatelle.’

‘Take it or leave it.’

The Frenchman spread out his hands and drew his shoulders up nearly to
his ears. ‘_Ma foi!_ I have no choice. I must accept.’

‘In that case, nothing more need be said, except that you will leave
here by the first train to-morrow morning. Here is a bank-note with
which to defray the expenses of your journey; and here is the address
of my agent, on whom you will please call on Wednesday morning next,
by which time he will be in receipt of my instructions.’ Sir William
pushed the note and the address across the table in the direction of
Laroche as though the latter were some plague-stricken creature with
whom he was fearful of coming into closer contact.

The Frenchman advanced a step or two, picked up the papers, and put
them away slowly and carefully inside his pocket-book, looking the
baronet full in the eyes as he did so. His teeth were hard set, and
his breath came and went with a fuller rise and fall than usual, but
otherwise there was nothing to betray the tempest of passion at work
within him. When he had put his pocket-book away again, and still with
his eyes bent full on the baronet, he said in a low, deep voice: ‘It
is possible, Sir William, that we may some day meet again.’ Then with
a nod, that might mean much or that might have no meaning at all, he
turned and walked slowly out of the room.

The Frenchman found Nanette waiting for him in the corridor. ‘If
you please, monsieur, my mistress desires to see you in her room
immediately on a matter of much importance.’

‘Can it be that she is going to renew the offer of the six thousand
francs?’ was the first question that Laroche asked himself. Checkmated
at every turn though he had been, and though all his fine castles in
the air had come tumbling about his ears, he began to hope that more
might be saved from the wreck than had seemed probable only a few
minutes ago, and it was not without a certain revival of spirits and a
certain return to his old braggadocio manner that he followed Nanette
to Madame De Vigne’s room. Just as he was passing the staircase window,
the lightning’s lurid scroll unrolled itself for an instant against
the walls of blackness outside. Laroche shuddered, he knew not why. A
moment or two later he found himself once more in the presence of his
wife. In the interim, the lamp had been lighted and the curtains drawn.




A FEW NOTES ON PERSIAN ART.


The limner’s art in Persia has few patrons, and the professional
draughtsman of the present day in that country must needs be an
enthusiast, and an art-lover for art’s sake, as his remuneration is so
small as to be a mere pittance; and the man who can live by his brush
must be clever indeed. The Persians are an eminently practical people,
and buy nothing unless it be of actual utility; hence the artist has
generally to sink to the mere decorator; and as all, even the very
rich, expect a great deal for a little money, the work must be scamped
in order to produce a great effect for a paltry reward. The artists,
moreover, are all self-taught, or nearly so, pupilage merely consisting
of the drudgery of preparing the canvas, panel, or other material for
the master, mixing the colours, filling in backgrounds, varnishing,
&c. There are no schools of art, no lectures, no museums of old or
contemporary masters, no canons of taste, no drawing from nature or the
model, no graduated studies, or system of any kind. There is, however,
a certain custom of adhering to tradition and the conventional;
and most of the art-workmen of Iran, save the select few, are mere
reproducers of the ideas of their predecessors.

The system of perspective is erroneous; but neither example nor
argument can alter the views of a Persian artist on this subject.
Leaving aside the wonderful blending of colours in native carpets,
tapestries, and embroideries, all of which improve by the toning
influence of age, the modern Persian colourist is remarkable for his
skill in the constant use of numerous gaudy and incongruous colours,
yet making one harmonious and effective whole, which surprises us by
its daring, but compels our reluctant admiration.

Persian pictorial art is original, and it is cheap; the wages of a
clever artist are about one shilling and sixpence a day. In fact, he is
a mere day-labourer, and his terms are, so many days’ pay for a certain
picture. In this pernicious system of time-work lies the cause of the
scamping of many really ingenious pieces of work.

As a copyist the Persian is unrivalled; he has a more than Chinese
accuracy of reproduction; every copy is a fac-simile of its original,
the detail being scamped, or the reverse, according to the scale of
payment. In unoriginal work, such as the multiplication of some
popular design, a man will pass a lifetime, because he finds it pay
better to do this than to originate. This kind of unoriginal decoration
is most frequent in the painted mirror cases and book-covers, the
designs of which are ancient; and the painter merely reproduces the
successful and popular work of some old and forgotten master.

But where the Persian artist shines is in his readiness to undertake
any style or subject; geometrical patterns—and they are very clever
in originating these; scroll-work scenes from the poets; likenesses,
miniatures, paintings of flowers or birds; in any media, on any
substance, oils, water, or enamel, and painting on porcelain; all are
produced with rapidity, wonderful spirit, and striking originality. In
landscape, the Persian is very weak; and his attempts at presenting the
nude, of which he is particularly fond, are mostly beneath contempt. A
street scene will be painted in oils and varnished to order ‘in a week’
on a canvas a yard square, the details of the painting desired being
furnished in conversation. While the patron is speaking, the artist
rapidly makes an outline sketch in white paint; and any suggested
alterations are made in a few seconds by the facile hand of the _ustad
nakosh_ (master-painter), a term used to distinguish the artist from
the mere portrait-painter or _akkas_, a branch of the profession
much despised by the artists, a body of men who consider their art a
mechanical one, and their guild no more distinguished than those of
other handicraftsmen.

A Persian artist will always prefer to reproduce rather than originate,
because, as a copy will sell for the same price as an original, by
multiplication more money can be earned in a certain time, than by the
exercise of originality. Rarely, among the better class of artists,
is anything actually out of drawing; the perspective is of course
faulty, and resembles that of early specimens of Byzantine art. Such
monstrosities as the making the principal personages giants, and the
subsidiaries dwarfs, are common; while the beauties are represented as
much bejewelled; but this is done to please the buyer’s taste, and the
artist knows its absurdity. There is often considerable weakness as
to the rendering of the extremities; but as the Persian artist never
draws, save in portraiture, from the life, this is not to be wondered
at.

The writer has before him a fair instance of the native artist’s
rendering of the scene at the administration of the bastinado. This
picture is an original painting in oils, twenty-four inches by sixteen,
on _papier-mâché_. The details were given to the artist by the writer
in conversation, sketched by him in white paint on the _papier-mâché_
during the giving of the order, in the course of half an hour; and the
finished picture was completed, varnished, and delivered in a week. The
price paid for this original work in oils in 1880 was seven shillings
and sixpence. The costumes are quite accurate in the minutest detail;
the many and staring colours employed are such as are in actual use;
while the general _mise en scène_ is very correct.

Many similar oil-paintings were executed for the writer by Persian
artists, giving graphic renderings of the manners and customs of this
little-known country. They were always equally spirited, and minutely
correct as to costume and detail, at the same low price; a small
present for an extraordinarily successful performance gladdening the
heart of the artist beyond his expectations.

As to original work by Persian artists in water-colour, remuneration
is the same—so much per diem. A series of water-colours giving minute
details of Persian life were wished; and a clever artist was found as
anxious to proceed as the writer was eager to obtain the sketches. The
commission was given, and the subjects desired carefully indicated
to the artist, who, by a rapid outline sketch in pencil, showed his
intelligence and grasp of the subject. The writer, delighted at the
thought of securing a correct and permanent record of the manners and
customs of a little-known people, congratulated himself. But, alas!
he counted his chickens before hatching; for the artist, on coming
with his next water-colour, demanded, and received, a double wage.
A similar result followed the finishing of each drawing; and though
the first only cost three shillings, and the second six, the writer
was reluctantly compelled to stop his commissions, after paying four
times the price of the first for his third water-colour, on the artist
demanding twenty-four shillings for a fourth—not that the work was
more, but as he found himself appreciated, the wily painter kept
to arithmetical progression as his scale of charge; a very simple
principle, which all artists must devoutly wish they could insist on.

For a reduced copy of a rather celebrated painting, of which the
figures were life-size, of what might be called, comparatively
speaking, a Persian old master—for this reduction, in oils, fourteen
inches by eight, and fairly well done, the charge was a sovereign.
The piece was painted on a panel. The subject is a royal banqueting
scene in Ispahan—the date a century and a half ago. The dresses are
those of the time—the ancient court costume of Persia. The king in a
brocaded robe is represented seated on a carpet at the head of a room,
his drinking-cup in his hand; while his courtiers are squatted in two
rows at the sides of the room, and are also carousing. Minstrels and
singers occupy the foreground of the picture; and a row of handsome
dancing-girls form the central group. All the figures are portraits of
historical personages; and in the copy, the likenesses are faithfully
retained.

The palaces of Ispahan are decorated with large oil-paintings by the
most eminent Persian artists of their day. All are life-size, and none
are devoid of merit. Some are very clever, particularly the likenesses
of Futteh Ali Shah and his sons, several of whom were strikingly
like their father. As Futteh Ali Shah had an acknowledged family of
seventy-two, this latter fact is curious. These paintings are without
frames, spaces having been made in the walls to receive them. The
Virgin Mary is frequently represented in these mural paintings; also
a Mr Strachey, a young diplomate who accompanied the English mission
to Persia in the reign of our Queen Elizabeth, is still admired as
a type of adolescent beauty. He is represented with auburn hair in
the correct costume of the period; and copies of his portrait are
still often painted on the pen-cases of amateurs. These pen-cases, or
_kalamdans_, are the principal occupation of the miniature-painter.
As one-fourth of the male population of Persia can write, and as each
man has one or more pen-cases, the artist finds a constant market for
his wares in their adornment. The pen-case is a box of _papier-mâché_
eight inches long, an inch and a half broad, and the same deep. Some of
them, painted by artists of renown, are of great value, forty pounds
being a common price to pay for such a work of art by a rich amateur.
Several fine specimens may be seen in the Persian Collection at the
South Kensington Museum. It is possible to spend a year’s hard work
on the miniatures painted on a pen-case. These are very minute and
beautiful. The writer possesses a pen-case painted during the lifetime
of Futteh Ali Shah, a king of Persia who reigned long and well. All the
faces—none more than a quarter of an inch in diameter—are likenesses;
and the long black beard of the king reaching to his waist, is not
exaggerated, for such beards are common in Persia.

Bookbinding in Persia is an art, and not a trade; and here the flower
and bird painter finds his employment. Bright bindings of boards with a
leather back are decorated by the artist, principally with presentments
of birds and flowers, both being a strange mixture of nature and
imagination; for if a Persian artist in this branch thinks that he can
improve on nature in the matter of colour, he attempts it. The most
startling productions are the result; his nightingales being birds of
gorgeous plumage, and the colours of some of his flowers saying much
for his imagination. This method of ‘painting the lily’ is common in
Persia; for the narcissus—bouquets of which form the constant ornament
in spring of even the poorest homes—is usually ‘improved’ by rings of
coloured paper, silk, or velvet being introduced over the inner ring
of petals. Startling floral novelties are the result; and the European
seeing them for the first time, is invariably deceived, and cheated
into admiration of what turns out afterwards to be a transparent trick.
Of course, this system of binding each book in an original cover of its
own, among a nation so literary as the Persians, gives a continuous and
healthy impetus to the art of the flower-painter.

Enamelling in Persia is a dying art. The best enamels are done on
gold, and often surrounded by a ring or frame of transparent enamel,
grass-green in colour. This green enamel, or rather transparent paste,
is supposed to be peculiar to the Persian artist. At times, the gold is
hammered into depressions, which are filled with designs in enamel on a
white paste, the spaces between the depressions being burnished gold.
Large _plaques_ are frequently enamelled on gold for the rich; and
often the golden water-pipes are decorated with enamels, either alone,
or in combination with incrusted gems.

Yet another field remains to the Persian artist—that of engraving
on gold, silver, brass, copper, and iron. Here the work is usually
artistically good, and always original, no two pieces being alike.

Something must be said about the artist and his studio. Abject poverty
is the almost universal lot of the Persian artist. He is, however, an
educated man, and generally well read. His marvellous memory helps him
to retain the traditional attributes of certain well-known figures:
the black-bearded Rūstum (the Persian Hercules), and his opponent
the Deev Suffid or White Demon; Leila and Mujnūn, the latter of whom
retired to the wilderness for love of the beautiful Leila; and in a
painfully attenuated state, all his ribs being very apparent, is always
represented as conversing with the wild beasts, who sit around him
in various attitudes of respectful attention. Dr Tanner could never
hope to reach the stage of interesting emaciation to which the Persian
artists represent Mujnūn to have attained. Another popular subject is
that of Solomon in all his glory.

These legends are portrayed with varying art but unquestionable
spirit, and often much humour; while the poetical legends of the
mythical history of ancient Persia, full of strange imagery, find apt
illustrators in the Persian artist. The palmy days of book-illustration
have departed; the cheap reprints of Bombay have taken away the
_raison d’être_ of the caligraphist and book-illustrators, and the few
really great artists who remain are employed by the present Shah in
illustrating his great copy of the _Arabian Nights_ by miniatures which
emulate the beauty and detail of the best specimens of ancient monkish
art, or in making bad copies of European lithographs to ‘adorn’ the
walls of the royal palaces.

As for the painter’s studio, it is usually a bare but light apartment,
open to the winds, in a corner of which, on a scrap of matting, the
artist kneels, sitting on his heels. (It tires an oriental to sit
in a chair.) A tiny table a foot high holds all his materials; his
paints are mixed on a tile; and his palette is usually a bit of
broken crockery. His brushes he makes himself. Water-pipe in mouth—a
luxury that even an artist can afford, in a country where tobacco
is fourpence a pound—his work held on his knee in his left hand,
without a mahl-stick or the assistance of a colour-man, the artist
squats contentedly at his work. He is ambitious, proud of his powers,
and loves his art for art’s sake. Generally, he does two classes of
work—the one the traditional copies of the popular scenes before
described, or the painting on pen-cases—by this he lives; the other
purely ideal, in which he deals with art from a higher point of view,
and practises the particular branch which he affects.

As a painter of likenesses, the Persian seldom succeeds in flattering.
The likeness is assuredly obtained; but the sitter is usually ‘guyed,’
and a caricature is generally the result. This is not the case in the
portraits of females, and in the ideal heads of women and children. The
large dreamy eye and long lashes, the full red lips, and naturally high
colour, the jetty or dark auburn locks (a colour caused by the use of
henna, a dye) of the Persian women in their natural luxuriance, lend
themselves to the successful production of the peculiarly felicitous
representation of female beauty in which the Persian artist delights.
Accuracy in costume is highly prized, and the minutiæ of dress are
indicated with much aptness, the varied pattern of a shawl or scarf
being rendered with almost Chinese detail. Beauty of the brunette
type is the special choice of the artist and amateur, and ‘salt’—as a
high-coloured complexion is termed—is much admired.

Like the ancient Byzantine artist, the Persian makes a free use of gold
and silver in his work. When wishing to represent the precious metals,
he first gilds or silvers the desired portion of the canvas or panel,
and then with a fine brush puts in shadows, &c. In this way a strangely
magnificent effect is produced. The presentments of mailed warriors
are done in this way; and the jewelled chairs, thrones, and goblets
in which the oriental mind delights. Gilt backgrounds, too, are not
uncommon, and their effect is far from displeasing.

The painting of portraits of Mohammed, Ali, Houssein, and Hassan—the
last three, relatives of the Prophet, and the principal martyred
saints in the Persian calendar, is almost a trade in itself, though
the representation of the human form is contrary to the Mohammedan
religion, and the saints are generally represented as veiled and
faceless figures. Yet in these particular cases, custom has over-ridden
religious law, and the _Schamayūl_ (or portrait of Ali) is common.
He is represented as a portly personage of swarthy hue; his dark and
scanty beard, which is typical of the family of Mohammed, crisply
curled; his hand is grasping his sword; and he is usually depicted as
wearing a green robe and turban (the holy colour of the _Seyyuds_ or
descendants of the Prophet). A nimbus surrounds his head; and he is
seated on an antelope’s skin, for the Persians say that skins were used
in Arabia before the luxury of carpets was known there.

Humble as is the lot of the Persian artist, he expects to be treated by
the educated with consideration, and would be terribly hurt at any want
of civility. One well-known man, Agha Abdullah of Shiraz, generally
insisted on regaling the writer with coffee, which he prepared himself
when his studio was visited. To have declined this would have been
to give mortal offence. On one of these visits, his little brasier
of charcoal was nearly extinguished, and the host had recourse to a
curious kind of fire-igniter, reviver, or rather steam-blast, that
as yet is probably undescribed in books. It was of hammered copper,
and had a date on it that made it three hundred years old. It was
fairly well modelled; and this curious domestic implement was in the
similitude of a small duck preening its breast; consequently, the open
beak, having a spout similar to that of a tea-kettle, was directed
downwards. The Persian poured an ounce or so of water into the copper
bird, and placed it on the expiring embers. Certainly the result
was surprising. In a few minutes the small quantity of water boiled
fiercely; a jet of steam was emitted from the open bill, and very
shortly the charcoal was burning brightly. The water having all boiled
away, the Persian triumphantly removed this scientific bellows with his
tongs, and prepared coffee.

No mention has been made of the curious bazaar pictures, sold for a few
pence. These cost little, but are very clever, and give free scope for
originality, which is the great characteristic of the Persian artist.
They consist of studies of town-life, ideal pictures of dancing-girls,
and such-like. All are bold, ingenious, and original. But bazaar
pictures would take a chapter to themselves, and occupy more space than
can be spared.




COLONEL REDGRAVE’S LEGACY.


IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CONCLUSION.

We must ask the reader to accompany us to Bury Street, St James’s,
and learn how Miss Jones has borne the calamity of her lodger’s
good fortune; for calamity Martha considered the munificent legacy
of Colonel Redgrave, so far as her own matrimonial prospects were
concerned. If these prospects were dubious prior to his death, they
were now nearly hopeless. This was a fact the housekeeper was unable
to conceal from herself, in spite of her efforts to take a sanguine
view of affairs. The letters of Septimus were more business-like than
ever; and Miss Jones agreed with her mother that if Septimus chose to
contract a matrimonial alliance, they would be powerless to interpose
the smallest obstacle to prevent it. About this time, Mr Bradbury, the
second occupant of apartments in Bury Street, returned from Monaco,
where he had been spending his annual vacation. Mr Bradbury was a
lawyer and a bachelor, and about sixty-five years of age. He was in
no respect a favourite with Miss Jones, who in the course of a long
residence had learned some of the faults and failings of her legal
tenant. The most important of these was a love of gambling. At times,
the mental depression of the lawyer was so excessive, that Martha
entertained fears that he would be guilty of some rash act which
would render notorious the hitherto quiet house in Bury Street. But a
sudden turn in Fortune’s wheel would disperse the mental clouds of the
gambler, and he would resume his usual cheerful manner and speech. On
the evening of his arrival from Monaco, he dined in a more than usual
_recherché_ manner, and when the dessert had been placed on the table,
he requested the presence of Miss Jones for a brief space, to discuss
a very important matter of business. Mr Bradbury was a thin, spare
man, with keen restless gray eyes, which took in the surroundings at a
glance. He sat in his luxurious armchair, with his feet crossed on a
footstool, and as he held up a glass of ’47 port to the light of the
chandelier, he looked the picture of comfort and happy enjoyment. Yet
was the mind of that man racked with consuming cares, for he had had a
bad time of it at Monaco, and he had not only lost his own cash, but
a considerable sum belonging to other people, in the shape of trust
moneys, &c. He requested Miss Jones to be seated, also to take a glass
of wine. Miss Jones complied with the first request, but declined the
second.

‘I have only learned the death of Colonel Redgrave at Shanklin since
my return to London. I must have accidentally omitted at Monaco
reading that portion of the _Times_ which contained the announcement.
On a memorable occasion I transacted some legal business for him. My
fellow-lodger Mr Redgrave appears to have tumbled into a good thing in
the shape of a very handsome legacy.’ Mr Bradbury paused a moment; but
Miss Jones made no response, but sat with her large black eyes fixed on
the twitching features of the lawyer, who was now evidently under the
influence of strong excitement. ‘I have not lived all these years under
your comfortable roof, Miss Jones, without becoming acquainted with the
special relations which exist between Mr Redgrave and yourself.’ Again
the lawyer paused, in expectation of Miss Jones making some reply. ‘I
mean that I have ever considered Miss Jones as the certain and future
Mrs Redgrave.’

‘You can hardly expect me, Mr Bradbury, to answer such a statement,’
replied Martha in a somewhat severe tone.

‘I cannot. But it is necessary that I should assume such to be the
case. You do not deny it? Now, I can put twenty thousand pounds into
the scale which contains your right to become Mrs Redgrave, and I can
deprive him of that amount, if he declines to make you his wife. I do
not wish to speak against your future husband, but he is selfish and
avaricious, and I think he will succumb to the temptation I have it in
my power to lay before him. A short time before I started for Monaco,
Colonel Redgrave called on me at my office. I had known him many years
ago in India. He desired me to draw up a will, in which he revoked the
bequest to Mr Septimus Redgrave _in toto_. He had not been prepossessed
with his cousin latterly; in fact, he had conceived the most intense
dislike for him. He preferred that I should execute the will, instead
of employing Mr Lockwood, the son of the late family lawyer, for what
reason I know not.’ Mr Bradbury rose from his chair, and unlocking a
small cabinet, produced a folded parchment suitably indorsed. ‘Here is
the veritable last will and testament of the late COLONEL REDGRAVE,
in which the date and purport of the previous will are specially
mentioned, duly signed and properly witnessed, I need scarcely say.
If I were to put it in yonder fire, nothing could disturb Mr Redgrave
in the enjoyment of his legacy. Now, I am going to place implicit
confidence in your honour, Miss Jones. I shall require ten per cent.,
or two thousand pounds. You shall require the hand in marriage of Mr
Septimus Redgrave. Should he refuse these terms, this will shall be
enforced, and Mr Redgrave loses twenty thousand pounds, and a lady who,
I am convinced, would make him an excellent wife. You will naturally
say: “Why should Mr Bradbury run the risk of penal servitude for such a
sum as two thousand pounds?” In reply, I deny that I run any risk, and
that sum of money will stave off heavier consequences than I care to
name.’

It would be difficult to describe the whirlwind of mental emotion
which agitated the bosom of Martha as she listened to the harangue
of the lawyer. On the one hand she saw the possibility of realising
her life-long ambition, of becoming the wife of a man with an income
of nearly two thousand a year, not to speak of the social position
attending it. Martha remembered reading a novel by one of the most
popular authors of our time, wherein the heroine committed a far more
heinous offence with respect to a will than its mere suppression,
and yet the delinquent preserved not only the love and esteem of all
the characters of the tale, but even the good opinion of the readers
thereof.

The lawyer watched the flushed cheek of his listener with feelings of
hope, and plied poor Martha with such specious arguments as to the
nullity of risk and the immense gain to be derived from the prosecution
of his plan, that she at length consented to proceed to Shanklin by an
early train on the following morning and seek a private interview with
Mr Redgrave. As she rose to depart, Martha inquired of the lawyer the
name of the fortunate recipient of the legacy. ‘Miss Blanche Fraser,’
was the reply.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr Redgrave was considerably astonished on the morning following the
interview we have described when Miss Jones was announced. He pulled
out his watch, and finding it wanted an hour to luncheon, decided to
see her at once. He found Martha in the library. She was pale and
excited. ‘Well, Martha, I hope nothing is the matter? All well in Bury
Street?’

‘Yes, Mr Redgrave. I wish to speak to you in private.’

‘Well, speak away, Martha,’ retorted Septimus, somewhat testily.

‘Pardon me; walls have ears. Can we not go into the grounds?’

Septimus paused a moment, surprised at the request, but presently
assented. He led the way through the hall, and finally stopped in a
small orchard adjoining the garden. ‘Now, Martha, you can speak with as
much security as if you were in the middle of Salisbury Plain.’

‘I am the bearer of ill news.’

Septimus turned pale as he beheld the unaccustomed expression of the
features of the speaker.

‘But it is in my power to ward off the blow, or, I should say, in
_your_ power. I will come to the point at once. The late Colonel
Redgrave employed Mr Bradbury to make a subsequent will, in which he
annulled the will by which you inherit your legacy.’

Septimus felt his knees tremble beneath him, his teeth chattered, and
he staggered towards a garden-seat which was close at hand.

Martha beheld with satisfaction the effect of the communication upon
her auditor.

He gasped forth: ‘And who is the legatee?’

‘Miss Blanche Fraser.’

‘Gracious powers! The lady to whom I proposed!’ These words were not
lost on Martha. They gave her increased determination to proceed with
her dangerous mission.

‘You can still retain the fortune, if you will perform an act of tardy
justice.’

‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Septimus, with a lurking suspicion of the
nature of the act required.

‘Listen patiently for a few moments. For twenty-five years you have
been a resident under my mother’s roof; during fifteen years of that
time you have treated me as something more than a housekeeper; you have
treated me as a friend. In return, I have been to you as a sister. I
have watched over your comforts in health, have nursed you in sickness,
and wasted all my young days in waiting for the moment when you would
reward my life-long devotion by making me your wife.’

‘My wife!’ retorted Septimus angrily. ‘Ridiculous!’

‘Unless you do so,’ pursued Martha, ‘the second will will be put in
force.’

‘And how do you propose to set aside that will, if you become my wife?’
exclaimed Septimus.

‘By simply putting it into the fire,’ replied Martha in a calm decided
tone.

Now, it was almost instantaneously apparent to Martha that both she
and Mr Bradbury had displayed a deplorable lack of judgment, when they
unanimously came to the conclusion that Septimus Redgrave would eagerly
seize the bait held out to him by the destruction of the second will.
Selfish and avaricious he might be, but not sufficiently so to induce
him to stain his conscience with the commission of so great a crime as
that suggested to him by a man in dire extremity, and a woman who hoped
to realise her life-long ambition by one grand _coup_.

‘You cannot mean what you say, Miss Jones, at least I hope not,’
exclaimed Septimus in a severe tone. ‘You have been led into this by
that man Bradbury, whom I have always considered a great scoundrel.’

‘You refuse my offer then?’ said Martha in a voice pregnant with
despair.

‘I will not condescend to answer you,’ said Septimus. ‘You had better
return at once to London. I cannot offer you any hospitality. In the
first place, my sisters have a strong prejudice against you, which I
must say is not without warrant; and in the second place, I am engaged
to be married to the mother of the fortunate legatee. So, if I do
not become the possessor of the wealth of the late Colonel Redgrave,
my wife’s daughter will inherit; so the money will still be in the
family.—Good-morning.’

Septimus bowed, and would have left the unhappy Martha without further
speech; but the housekeeper caught him by the arm, as she cried in
hoarse accents: ‘At least you will promise never to mention to any
human being the scheme I proposed for your benefit?’

‘I promise,’ curtly replied Septimus, and left the orchard without
more ado, the wretched Martha gazing after his retreating figure with
features on which despair in its acutest phase was deeply written.

We have but little to add respecting the personages who have figured
in our tale. Mrs Fraser was, as the reader will readily imagine,
inexpressibly mortified at so suddenly losing the legacy bequeathed by
the late Colonel Redgrave. But if anything could soften the blow, it
was the fact that the fortunate recipient was her only child, her dear
Blanche, who was shortly afterwards married to Mr Frank Lockwood. On
the same day Mrs Fraser changed her name for that of Redgrave.

Septimus never entered the house in Bury Street again, employing an
agent for the removal of his household gods and the numerous curios he
had accumulated during his long residence as the tenant of Mrs Jones.

Immediately after the failure of his nefarious plot, Mr Bradbury posted
the second will to Miss Blanche Fraser, and immediately thereafter
disappeared from Bury Street and Lincoln’s Inn. Several unfortunate
individuals suffered severely in consequence, as it was found that
large sums intrusted to him by confiding clients had disappeared,
‘leaving not a wrack behind.’

Mr Lockwood is now one of the most rising solicitors in London; his
undeniable abilities, by a singular coincidence, being universally
recognised immediately after the inheritance by his wife of Colonel
Redgrave’s legacy.




WHAT’S IN A NAME?


When we are told that ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,’
the fact appears to be self-evident. Yet there was a time when there
was something in a name. We have abundant evidence from the history of
the ancients, and from observations of savage tribes, to show that they
believed in some inseparable and mysterious connection between a name
and the object bearing it, which has given rise to a remarkable series
of superstitions, some of which have left traces even amongst ourselves.

The Jews believed that the name of a child would have a great influence
in shaping its career; and we have a remarkable instance of this sort
of superstition in quite a different quarter of the world. Catlin, the
historian of the Canadian Indians, tells us that when he was among
the Mohawks, an old chief, by way of paying him a great compliment,
insisted on conferring upon him his own name, _Cayendorongue_. ‘He had
been,’ Catlin explains, ‘a noted warrior; and told me that now I had
a right to assume to myself all the acts of valour he had performed,
and that now my name would echo from hill to hill over all the Five
Nations.’

The generosity of the Mohawk chief will doubtless be more appreciated
when we observe that it is seldom the superstition takes the form of
giving one’s name away as in his case; on the contrary, most savages
are very much opposed to mentioning their names. A well-known writer
points out that the Indians of British Columbia have a strange
prejudice against telling their own names, and his observation is
confirmed by travellers all over the world. In many tribes, if the
indiscreet question is asked them, they will nudge their neighbour
and get him to answer for them. The mention of a name by the unwary
has sometimes been followed by unpleasant results. We are told, for
instance, by Mr Blackhouse, of a native lady of Van Diemen’s Land who
stoned an English gentleman for having, in his ignorance of Tasmanian
etiquette, casually mentioned the name of one of her sons. Nothing
will induce a Hindu woman to mention the name of her husband; in
alluding to him she uses a variety of descriptive epithets, such as
‘the master,’ &c., but avoids his proper name with as scrupulous care
as members of the House of Commons when speaking of each other in the
course of debate. Traces of this may be seen even in Scotland; one
may often come across women in rural districts who are in the habit
of speaking of their husbands by no other name than ‘he.’ To such an
extent is this superstition carried among some savage tribes, that the
real names of children are concealed from their birth upwards, and they
are known by fictitious names until their death.

The fear of witchcraft probably is the explanation of all those
superstitions. If a name gets known to a sorcerer, he can use it as a
handle wherewith to work his spells upon the bearer. When the Romans
laid siege to a town, they set about at once to discover the name of
its tutelary deity, so that they might coax the god into surrendering
his charge. In order to prevent their receiving the same treatment at
the hands of their enemies, they carefully concealed the name of the
tutelary deity of Rome, and are said to have killed Valerius Soranus
for divulging it. We have several examples in our nursery tales of the
concealment of a name being connected with a spell. It is made use of
by Wagner in the plot of his opera of _Lohengrin_, where the hero,
yielding to the curiosity of his lady-love, divulges the secret of his
name, and has in consequence to leave her and return to a state of
enchantment. In Grimm’s tale of _The Gold Spinner_, again, we have an
instance of a spell being broken by the discovery of the sorcerer’s
name.

Reluctance to mention names reaches its height in the case of dangerous
or mysterious agencies. In Borneo, the natives avoid naming the
smallpox. In Germany, the hare must not be named, or the rye-crop will
be destroyed; and to mention the name of this innocent animal at sea,
is, or was, reckoned by the Aberdeenshire fishermen an act of impiety,
the punishment of which to be averted only by some mysterious charm.
The Laplanders never mention the name of the bear, but prefer to speak
of him as ‘the old man with the fur-coat.’ The motive here appears to
be a fear that by naming the dreaded object his actual presence will
be evoked; and this idea is preserved in one of our commonest sayings.
Even if the object of terror does not actually appear, he will at
least listen when he hears his name; and if anything unpleasant is
said of him he is likely to resent it. Hence, in order to avoid even
the semblance of reproach, his very name is made flattering. This
phenomenon, generally termed euphemism, is of very common occurrence.
The Greeks, for example, called the Furies the ‘Well-disposed ones;’
and the wicked fairy Puck was christened ‘Robin Goodfellow’ by the
English peasantry. The modern Greeks euphemise the name of vinegar into
‘the sweet one.’ Were its real name to be mentioned, all the wine in
the house would turn sour. We have an example of the converse of the
principle of euphemism at work in the case of mothers among the savage
tribes of Tonquin giving their children hideous names in order to
frighten away evil spirits from molesting them.

It is, however, in the case of the most dreaded and most mysterious
of all our enemies—Death—that the superstition becomes most apparent.
‘The very name of Death,’ says Montaigne, ‘strikes terror into people,
and makes them cross themselves.’ Even the unsuperstitious have a
vague reluctance to mentioning this dreaded name. Rather than say, ‘If
Mr So-and-so should _die_,’ we say, ‘If anything should happen to Mr
So-and-so.’ The Romans preferred the expression ‘He has lived’ to ‘He
is dead.’ ‘M. Thiers _a vécu_’ was the form in which that statesman’s
death was announced; not ‘M. Thiers _est mort_.’

The same reluctance is noticeable in mentioning the names of persons
who are dead. A writer on the Shetland Isles tells us that no
persuasion will induce a widow to mention her dead husband’s name.
When we do happen to allude to a deceased friend by name, we often add
some such expression as ‘Rest his soul!’ by way of antidote to our
rashness; and this expression seems to have been used by the Romans in
the same way. As might be expected, we find this carried to a great
extreme among savages. In some tribes, when a man dies who bore the
name of some common object—‘fire,’ for instance—the name for fire
must be altered in consequence; and as proper names among savages are
almost invariably the names of common objects, the rapid change that
takes place in the language and the inconvenience resulting therefrom
may be imagined. Civilisation has indeed made enormous progress from
this cumbersome superstition to our own philosophy, which can ask with
haughty indifference, ‘What’s in a name?’




THE HAUNTED BRIDGE.

A TALE OF THE HIGHLANDS.


There are probably few readers who are not familiar, to a greater or
lesser extent, with the well-ventilated subject of superstition in the
Highlands of Scotland. There are few mountain countries throughout
the world that are not rich in lore and legend relating to the
supernatural: their very configuration suggests that agencies more
than ordinary have been employed in shaping out their features. It is
curious to notice how very largely the demoniac theory enters into the
calculations of the peasantry. For one Fairy glen or knowe there are a
dozen Devil’s mills, bridges, caldrons, or punchbowls; in fact, it is
almost always the beings that are supposed to be baleful and inimical
to the human race that have had their personality perpetuated in these
legends. This certainly seems a little incongruous; but as this is not
a treatise on demonology, we are content to leave it so.

Superstition is part of the being of the mountaineer. Brave even to
rashness, he will face the natural dangers that beset his life—in the
torrent, on the peak, or in the forest; he fears no odds when he meets
his foes. And yet this man, who can tread the dizzy ledge on the face
of a precipice, who can hurl himself on levelled steel, is more timid
and frightened than a child, when he conceives that forces other than
earthly are being brought to bear on him. It is partly to the style
and manner of his life that he owes this. He is brought more into the
presence of nature than his neighbour of the plains; he becomes imbued
with the spirit of his surroundings; the deep dark gloom of the woods,
the lonesomeness of the mountain solitudes, the voices of the storm and
of the torrent, and of their reproductions in the echoes, appeal to
him; and a poetical imagination begotten of such an existence finishes
the process. Thus the roar of a waterfall in its dark chasm becomes to
him the howlings of some demon prisoned among the rocks; the sighing
of the wind through the forest trees is caused by the passage of
spirits; the mists that furl around the mountain peaks and are wafted
so silently across crest and corrie are disembodied ghosts; and the
sounds that break the stillness of the night are the shrieks and yells
of fiends and their victims.

This brings me to my story. I fancy that most of my readers are
acquainted more or less with the scenery of the Highlands; but in the
case of by far the larger number of them, I venture to say that such
acquaintance extends only to the Highlands in their summer or their
autumn dress. If so, they only half know them. Brave is the tourist who
ventures amid the bens and glens when rude King Boreas lords it over
them; when winter’s wind roars adown the gorges of the hill, staggering
the stalwart pines, mingling the withered leaves and the snowflakes in
the desolate woods. When icicles hang from the hoary rocks, and the
deep drift chokes up the ravines, mantles the slopes of the corries,
and bends in cornices over the threatening cliffs; when the river roars
through the plain—brown and swollen—and its parent torrents are leaping
and raving among the boulders; when the mountain hare and the ptarmigan
are white as the snow that harbours them; and the deer, driven from the
hills by stress of weather, roam in herds through the low-lying woods;
and the mountain fox leaves his cairn and prowls around the farm and
the sheepfold—_then_, if you would enter into the spirit of loneliness
and solitude, take your way to the Highlands. Do not imagine, however,
that such is their condition during the whole of winter; on the
contrary, I have painted a particularly black picture, and it was in
very much better weather that, two or three years ago, I went north, in
December, on a visit to some friends in Inverness-shire. The particular
part of the county I stayed in does not materially affect my adventure,
so I shall not disclose it.

My time sped by very pleasantly, although the district did not afford
many neighbours at short distances; but this was a circumstance
that always procured me an extra hearty welcome when I ventured far
enough from home to call upon any people. On one of these expeditions
I had ridden to a house about eight miles away, and the late hour
of my arrival brought about an invitation to stay for dinner and
spend the evening. My friends pushed their hospitality to such an
extent, that they had almost prevailed upon me to stay the night as
well, when a good-natured challenge changed my wavering plans into
a firm determination to be off. Our conversation after dinner had
not unnaturally turned upon ghost-stories, as the district was an
out-of-the-way one, and the country-folk were fully persuaded of the
existence of kelpies and warlocks of various kinds. What now happened
was that some of the young people fancied they had found the reason
why I was willing to stay all night, and boldly told me that I was
frightened to cross a certain bridge on my way home that had the
reputation of being haunted. I knew the spot well, though I had never
found out its exact story; and when I had assured the country-people
that I had no fears of the experiment, they solemnly shook their heads,
and averred that not for sums untold would they cross the bridge after
nightfall. On the present occasion, as I had been foremost among the
sceptics during the story-telling, I felt my reputation at stake; and
declaring I would on no account remain, I gave orders to have my pony
brought round. The whole party came to the door to see me start—the
elders inveighing against my foolishness in setting off at that time
of night; the young people plying me with horrors, and telling me to
be sure to come round next morning—if alive—and give an account of my
adventures. To all I gave a merry reply, and lighting my pipe, swinging
myself into the saddle, and shouting ‘Good-night,’ I cantered off down
the avenue.

For a couple of miles the road led me down a deep wooded glen. On
both sides the mountains towered aloft to a height of more than two
thousand feet, their lower slopes thickly clad with pine and birch,
their shoulders and summits white from a recent heavy snowfall. The
river poured along tumultuously, close beneath the road, swirling past
frowning cliffs of rock, brawling and battling with heaps of boulders,
shooting in sheets of glancing foam over cascade and rapid. By daylight
the scene was sufficiently grand and impressive; illumined as it now
was by a faint moonlight, it was much more so. The night was calm and
slightly frosty; but overhead, a strong breeze was blowing, and from
time to time the moon was obscured by the flying clouds. The play
of light and shade brought about by this was very beautiful; at one
moment the shaggy hillsides and deep pools of the river were plunged
in deepest shadow; in the next a flood of pale glory poured over them,
painting the rushing stream with silver, shooting shafts of light
among the tall trees, tracing mosaics on the dark surface of the road.
Each clump of ferns, each bush and stump, took uncommon shape, and it
required no great stretch of imagination to convert the boulders and
reefs of rock out in the stream into waterbulls and kelpies. The rush
and roar of the river drowned all other sounds; but with the exception
of the echoing tread of my pony and the occasional bark of a fox from
the hill, there was nothing else to be heard. On my way down the glen I
passed a few scattered cottages, but their occupants were long ago in
bed, although it was not much past ten o’clock.

The wilder part of the glen ended in a fine pass, where the hills
towered almost straight up from the river, and the pines threw so deep
a shadow, that for a few yards it was impossible to see the road.
Just beyond, the mountains retreated to right and left, and through a
short and level tract of meadow-land, road and stream made their way
down to the shores of the loch. Ahead of me I could see its broad bosom
glancing in the moonlight, and the great snow-clad mountains beyond
it. As the improved condition of the road now made rapid progression
easier, I gave the pony his head, and he went along in a style that
promised soon to land me at my destination.

There was only one thing that troubled me—the haunted bridge. Once
past it, and I should thoroughly enjoy my moonlight ride. I do not
know whether it was the thought of the ghost-stories with which we
had beguiled the hours after dinner, and which now kept recurring to
my mind in spite of all effort to the contrary, or whether it was
the solemn and impressive scenery I had passed through in the glen,
that had unstrung me; but the nearer I drew to the bridge the more
uncomfortable I felt regarding it. It was not exactly fear, but a vague
presentiment of evil—the Highland blood asserting itself. I could not
get rid of the sensation. I tried to hum and to whistle, but the forced
merriment soon died a natural death. I was now on the loneliest part of
the road. From the bottom of the glen as far as the bridge—about three
miles—there was not a single cottage; and more than a mile on the other
side of it lay a scattered hamlet. The moon, too, which had hitherto
befriended me, now threatened to withdraw its light; and where clumps
of trees overhung the road the darkness was deep. The pony carried me
along bravely—he knew he was going home; and in a short time a turn in
the road showed me, some distance ahead, a ribbon of white high upon
the dark hillside. It was the stream that ran beneath the fatal bridge.

Better get out of this as soon as possible, I thought; and with voice
and stick I encouraged the pony to increased speed. On we went! The
roar of the haunted stream was loud and near now; the gloom increased
as we plunged deeper into the wood that filled its basin; in another
minute the bridge would be far behind, when, without the least warning,
the pony shied to one side and then stood stock still, quivering all
over. The shock all but sent me flying over its head; but by an effort
I kept my seat. I had not far to look for the cause of the beast’s
fright. Not a dozen yards away were the dimly seen parapets of the
bridge; and on one of them crouched an object that froze me with
terror. There are some moments in which the events of a lifetime pass
in review; there are some glances in which an infinity of detail can
be taken in quicker than eye can close. This was one of them. I do not
suppose that my eye rested on the object of my terror for more than a
second; but in that brief space I saw what seemed like the upper part
of a distorted human body, hunchbacked and without legs, with a face
that glowed with the red light of fire! I can laugh now, when I think
of my fright; but at the moment, I remember getting the pony into
motion somehow with stick, bridle, and voice, and speeding across the
bridge like a thunderbolt, crouching down, Tam o’ Shanter-like, and
momentarily expecting to feel the grip of a clammy hand on my neck!
Hard, hard we galloped through the hamlet I have mentioned; nor did I
slacken the pace until the lights of my abode had gleamed through the
plantation, and we were safe and sound in the stable-yard.

       *       *       *       *       *

To make a really good ghost-story, my narrative should go no further;
but the sequel has still to be told. I invented an excuse to appease
the curiosity of my friends, who naturally were anxious to know what
had sent us home in such a fashion—the pony in a lather, and myself
with a scared, unintelligible expression. I did not want to tell the
real story until I had made some effort to unravel it. With this end in
view, I started on foot soon after breakfast for the house I had dined
at, intending to make a thorough examination of the bridge and the
course of the stream on my way, and to question some of the cottagers
in the hamlet. I was saved the trouble, however. I had not gone much
more than a mile, when I perceived coming along the road towards me a
sturdy pedlar, with a fur cap on his head, and a pack of very large
dimensions fastened on his broad shoulders. Such fellows are very
commonly met with in the outlying districts of the Highlands, where
they do a roaring trade in ribbons, sham jewellery, and smallwares,
besides carrying a fund of gossip from place to place. In the specimen
of the class now before me I was not long in recognising the ghost of
the haunted bridge, and in hailing him I was soon in possession of the
whole story. ‘Yes; he was the man that was sitting on the brig about
eleven o’clock; and was I the gentleman that rode past as if all the
witches in the countryside were at his heels? Faith, it was a proper
fright I had given him.’

‘But tell me,’ I asked, ‘what on earth were you doing there at such a
time of night?’

‘Weel, sir, I was very late of gettin’ across the ferry; and it was
a langer step than I had thocht doon to the village; and I had had a
guid walk the day already, and was tired-like. The brig was kind o’
handy for a rest; so I just sat doon on the dike and had a bit smoke
o’ the pipe. Losh, sir, when ye cam scourin’ past, I thocht it was the
deil himsel’; but then I just thocht that it was mysel’ sitting in the
shadow that had frighted your beastie, and it had run awa’ wi’ you
like. And when I cam the length o’ the village, I just had to creep
into a bit shed; and wi’ my pack and some straw I soon made a bed.’

So here was the whole story. The deep shadow on the bridge had
prevented me from seeing the sitter’s legs; the heavy knapsack had
given him a humpback; the fur cap and the glow of the pipe accounted
for the fiery countenance. With mutual explanations we parted—he to
push his sales in the villages beyond; I, to hurry on to the house in
the glen, whose inmates at first evinced the liveliest interest in the
over-night episode—an interest, however, which waned to disappointment
as I proceeded to explain how the ghost was laid. I may mention that
I omitted the ‘scourin’ past’ portion of the adventure. How they will
chaff me when they read this!




FAIRYLAND IN MIDSUMMER.


    Shall I tell you how one day
      Into Fairyland we went?
    Fairy folk were all about,
      Filling us with glad content;
    For we came as worshippers
      Into Nature’s temple grand,
    And the fairies welcome such
      With the freedom of the land.

    Through the green-roofed aisles we went,
      Passing with a careful tread,
    For beside our happy feet
      Purple orchis raised its head;
    And behind, the blue-bells hung,
      Fading now like ghosts at morn,
    Here and there a white one bent,
      Like a ‘maiden all forlorn.’

    From the bank across our way
      Ragged Robin flaunted red,
    And athwart a narrow trench
      Feathery ferns their shadows spread.
    Fair white campion from the hedge
      Raised its starry petals chaste,
    And the fragile speedwell blue
      Bade us on our journey haste.

    Haste? For why? We sought the pool
      Where the water-lilies bloom,
    And we found it ere the night,
      Hidden in a leafy gloom;
    All around like sentinels
      Yellow iris stood on guard,
    Keeping o’er the virgin queens
      Ever faithful watch and ward.

    Like pale queens the lilies white
      On their leafy couches lay,
    Where no wanton hand could reach,
      No disloyal foot could stray.
    Lovingly we bade adieu
      To each golden-hearted queen,
    And stepped out to where the heath
      Laughed to heaven in robe of green.

    Here we gathered treasure-trove—
      Eyebright, milkwort, cuckoo-shoes—
    Till our baskets, overfull,
      Many a precious bud must lose;
    Till the sunset glory fell
      On the blossoms in our hand,
    And, with lingering glances, we
      Bade farewell to Fairyland.

            FLORENCE TYLEE.

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